The Outlaw Demon Wails th-6

by Ким Харрисон

  The scent of Queen Anne's lace came to me when I wrestled the box open. Fingers searching through the cool fabric, my slight headache eased and the smell of growing things and sunshine rose high. Jenks smelled good, and it hadn't washed out.

  "Here you go," I said when I found the sweats and extended them to him.

  His brown eyes sheepish, David carefully took them in his mouth before padding to the dim hallway, the oak floorboards glowing with morning sun reflecting in from the living room and kitchen. Shuffling to the bathroom, I decided he had probably locked himself out of his car and change of clothes—which left me curious as to where the ladies were. David didn't seem to be distressed, and I knew he would be if either one of them had a problem.

  Wondering how David knew I didn't have a coffee date when I hadn't even told him I had one to begin with, I shuffled into the bathroom and quietly shut the door to keep everyone who was sleeping, sleeping. It was nearing the golden hour of noon when the church went silent—Ivy and me asleep and the pixies just settling down for their four-hour nap.

  Hanging on the back of the door, my costume thumped, and I quieted it, listening for the hum of pixy wings. I fingered the supple leather in the silence, hoping I would get a chance to wear it. I was pretty much church-bound after dark until I nailed whoever was sending Al after me. And Halloween wasn't a holiday to be missed.

  Since the Turn—the nightmarish three years following the supernatural species coming out of the closet—the holiday had been gaining strength until now it was celebrated for an entire week, becoming the unofficial celebration for the Turn itself.

  The Turn actually began in the late summer of sixty-six when humanity began dying of a virus carried by a bioengineered tomato that was supposed to feed the growing populations of the third-world countries, but it was on Halloween that we celebrated it. That was the day Inderland had decided to come out of the closet before humanity found us by way of the "why aren't these people dying?" question. It had been thought that Halloween might ease the panic, and it had. Most of the surviving human population thought it was a joke, easing the chaos for a day or two until they realized that we hadn't eaten them yesterday, so why would we today?

  They still threw a bloody-hell tantrum, but at least it had been aimed at the bioengineers who designed the accidentally lethal fruit instead of us. No one had been so tactless as to make the holiday official, but everyone took the week off. Human bosses didn't say, er, boo when their Inderland employees called in sick, and no one even mentioned the Turn. We did throw tomatoes instead of eggs, though, put peeled ones in bowls and called them eyeballs, stacked them up on our porches along with carved pumpkins, and generally tried to gross-out the human population that wouldn't touch the no-longer-lethal red fruit.

  If I was stuck in my church for the night, I was going to be ticked.

  By the time I finished a quick morning prep and was headed for the kitchen, David was changed and at the table, with coffee brewing and two empty mugs waiting. The hat he had forgotten yesterday was beside him, and he looked good sitting there with a thick black stubble heavy on him and his long black hair loose and flowing. I'd never seen him so casual before, and it was nice.

  "'Morning," I said around a yawn, and he turned to acknowledge me. "Did you and the ladies have a good run?"

  He was smiling, his brown eyes showing his pleasure. "Mmmm. They headed home from here on paws, confident enough without me. That's why I'm here, actually."

  I sat at my spot at the table, the bright sun and the scent of coffee making my head hurt. There was a stack of late-night newspapers opened to the obituaries that I'd gone through before bed. There had been nothing obvious, but Glenn, my FIB contact, was running the three young witches I'd found there through their database to see if they were known acquaintances. One had died of a heart attack at age thirty, another of a brain aneurism, and the third of sudden appendicitis—which had once been a common, pre-Turn expression for a magic misfire. Soon as I got this morning's edition, I'd pass any more likely candidates on to Glenn. He was working Halloween since he was a human and didn't celebrate it; he policed it.

  "I thought you'd locked yourself out of your car," I said, and he chuckled.

  "No. I would have just run the rest of the way home if I had. I wanted to ask you about a pack tattoo."

  My eyebrows rose. "Oh?" Most Were packs had a registered tattoo, but I hadn't seen the need, and David was used to standing alone.

  Seeing my reluctance, David shrugged. "It's time. Serena and Kally are confident enough to be on their own in fur, and if they don't have a sign of pack recognition, someone might think they're curs." He hesitated. "Serena especially is getting cocky. And there's nothing wrong with that. She has every right, but unless she has an obvious way to show her status and affiliation, someone will challenge her."

  The coffeemaker finished with a hiss. I got up, eager for the distraction. I'd never given it much thought, but the tattoos that Weres decorated themselves with had a real and significant purpose. They probably prevented hundreds of skirmishes and potential injuries, allowing the multitude of packs that lived in Cincy to get along with minimal friction.

  "Okay," I said slowly, pouring out the coffee into his mug first. "What were you thinking of?" I don't want a tattoo. The damn things hurt!

  Clearly pleased, David took a mug when I came back and offered it. "They've put their heads together and came up with something with you in mind."

  Images of broomsticks and crescent moons danced in my head, and I cringed.

  The Were leaned forward, the pleasant scent of musk giving away his eagerness. "A dandelion, but with black fluff instead of white."

  Oh, cool, I thought, and seeing my reaction, David smiled with one side of his mouth. "I take it that's okay, then?" he asked, blowing across his coffee.

  "I suppose I ought to get one, too?" I asked, worried.

  "Unless you want to be rude," he admonished gently. "They put a lot of thought into it. It would mean a lot to them if you would."

  A breath of guilt wafted through me, and I hid it behind a gulp of scalding coffee. I hadn't done much with Serena and Kally. Maybe we could get our tattoos together. Oh, God, I'm going to be a hundred and sixty with a flower on my ass.

  "You, ah, said I don't have a coffee date?" I said, changing the subject. "What do you know that I don't?"

  David nodded to a scrap of paper in the middle of the table, and I pulled it closer. "Jenks let me in before he headed off for his nap," he said. "Matalina…"

  His words drifted to nothing, and I looked up from Jenks's note. "What about her?"

  "She's fine," he said, easing my worry. "But she was going to bed early, and there was no need for him to stay up to man the door if I was here, so I told him to go."

  I nodded and turned my attention back to the note, uneasy about Matalina, but glad that Ivy and I had broken Jenks of answering the phone without taking a message. According to the note, Marshal's interview had been moved from tonight to this morning, and he wanted to know if we could get together at about three instead. Plenty of time to do something before Al started gunning for me after sundown. There was a number, and I couldn't help but smile. Below it was another number with the cryptic message JOB, and Jenks's reminder that rent was due on Thursday the first, not Friday the second or Monday the fifth.

  "I should get home," David said softly as he rose and took another gulp from his mug. Hat in hand, he said, "Thanks for the coffee. I'll let Serena and Kally know you like their idea."

  "Um, David," I said, and I saw his brow crease at the sound of Ivy moving about. "Do you think they'd mind if I went with them when they got their tattoos?"

  His sun-darkened face broke into a smile, the faint wrinkles about his eyes deepening in pleasure. "I think they'd like that. I'll ask them."

  "Thanks," I said, and he jumped at a bumping sound from Ivy's room. "You'd better get going unless you want to be here when she gets up."

  He was silen
t as his face reddened. "I'll lope in to work later and check out the recent claims for possible demon damage. There won't be anyone in two days before Halloween, so I won't have to explain myself."

  "This isn't illegal, is it?" I asked suddenly. "I've gotten you in enough trouble as it is."

  David's smile was easy and a bit devilish. "No," he said, shrugging with one shoulder. "But why draw attention to yourself? Don't worry about it. If someone in Cincy is summoning demons, any claims will be odd enough to be flagged for investigation. At least you'll know then if it's a local threat. Help you narrow your suspects."

  I drew my coffee closer and slumped into the hard chair. "Thanks, David. I appreciate it. If I can shut down the guy summoning Al, then I won't have to take Minias up on his offer." I didn't want a demon's summoning name, especially Al's. Unusable or not.

  A sliver of worry slipped between my thought and reason, and I forced my smile to be light, but David saw it. Coming closer, he put a small but powerful hand on my shoulder. "We'll get him. Don't do anything with that demon. Promise?"

  I winced, and David sighed when I didn't say anything. There was a soft creak of a door opening, and David started like a deer. "I'll, uh, bring Jenks's sweats back later, okay?" he muttered, then grabbed his hat and almost ran for the back door, red faced, as I chuckled.

  Still smiling, I stretched for the phone and brought Jenks's note with the number for the potential job closer. I wasn't going to work until after Halloween, but it would be nice to have something lined up for the first of the month. Besides, I didn't have anything else to do this afternoon but surf the Net for local demon sightings and bug Glenn for his findings.

  And that, I thought as I reached for the phone, would only slow him down.

  Six

  The muffled thump, thump, thump of the rubber seal of the revolving door overtook the street noise and turned into the echoing sound of sporadic voices as I entered Carew Tower. It had grown warm, so I'd left my coat in the car, deeming jeans and a sweater would be enough until the sun went down—and I'd be back in my church by then. Hoping I didn't lose my signal, I tried to catch what Marshal was saying as I held my phone to my ear and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light.

  "I'm really sorry, Rachel," Marshal said, sounding embarrassed. "They asked me to come in early when someone canceled, and it wasn't like I could say no."

  "No, it's okay," I said, glad I was my own boss, even if my boss was an idiot sometimes. Stepping inside, I shifted out of the foot traffic and took my sunglasses off. "I had an errand come up, so this might work out better anyway. You want to grab a coffee at Fountain Square?" Three is good. Not breakfast, not lunch. A nice, safe hour with no expectations attached. "The only thing is I have to be back on hallowed ground by sunset," I added, remembering. "I've got a demon gunning for me until I can figure out who's sending him to kill me and knock some sense into him or her."

  As soon as I said it, I couldn't help but wonder if I was trying to drive him away. But Marshal laughed, quickly sobering when he realized I was serious. "Uh, how are your interviews going?" I asked to break the uncomfortable silence.

  "Ask me in a few hours." He groaned softly. "I've got two more people to meet. I haven't kissed so much ass since I accidentally knocked a customer off the dock."

  I chuckled, my gaze rising across the busy lobby to the signs directing people to the elevators. My smile ended with a flash of guilt, then I got mad at myself. I could laugh, damn it. Laughing was not saying I had cared for Kisten less. He had loved to make me laugh.

  "Maybe we should try tomorrow instead," Marshal said softly, as if he knew why I was suddenly silent.

  Tucking my shades into my bag, I headed for the express elevators. I was meeting a Mr. Doemoe at the observation deck. Some people just love the cloak and dagger. "There's a coffee cart at Fountain Square," I suggested with a bitter resolve. I can do this, damn it. It was right next to a hot dog cart. Kisten had liked hot dogs. A memory hit me—an image of Kisten in his snappy pin-striped work suit, leaning casually next to me against the huge planters at Fountain Square, smiling as he caught a drop of mustard from the corner of his mouth, the wind ruffling his hair and him squinting from the sun. I felt my stomach cave. God, I can't do this!

  Marshal's voice intruded. "Sounds great. First one there buys. I take a grande with three sugars and a hint of cream."

  "Black, straight up," I said, almost numb. Hiding in my church because of heartache was worse than hiding there because of a demon, and I didn't want to be that person.

  "Fountain Square it is," Marshal said. "I'll see you then."

  "You got it," I replied as I passed the security desk. "And good luck!" I added, remembering what he was doing today.

  "Thanks, Rachel. 'Bye."

  I waited until I heard the phone disconnect, then whispered, "'Bye," before shutting the phone and tucking it away. This was harder than I had thought it would be.

  My melancholy trailed behind me like a shadow as I went down the short hall, my thoughts slowly turning to the upcoming client meeting. The roof, I thought, rolling my eyes. Honestly, Mr. Doemoe had sounded like a mouse of a man when I called him earlier to set this up. He'd refused to come to the church, and I hadn't been able to tell by phone if he was nervous because he was a human asking a witch for help or if he was just worried that someone was out to get him. Whatever. The job couldn't be that bad. I had told Jenks to stay home since it was simply an interview. Besides, I was running errands, and dragging Jenks around when I went to the post office and FIB building was a major waste of his time.

  My trip to the FIB had been productive, and I now had information on my original three witches plus an additional one from this morning's obituaries. Apparently two of the recently dead witches knew each other, seeing as they had joint prior arrests for the crime of grave robbing. I thought it interesting that the arresting I.S. officer had been Tom Bansen, the same nasty little twerp who had tried to arrest me yesterday.

  This was looking easier all the time. Tom had all the motive he needed to call a demon to take me out—seeing as I'd told him to shove his little demon-summoning club last year. He also had the knowledge to do it, being high up in the I.S.'s Arcane Division. That in itself would make his demon-summoning hobby harder to trace and recruitment easy as he'd run into all sorts of black-art witches eager to make a deal. David was still checking recent claims for me, and if any of them pointed to Tom, the I.S. officer and I were going to have a chat. We might have a chat anyway.

  I really didn't think it was Nick sending Al after me. I mean, I had misjudged his character badly, but actively sending a demon to kill me? My gaze unfocused in the memory of our last conversation, and as I turned the corner, I saw one of the express elevator doors closing. Maybe I shouldn't have been so bitchy with him. He had sounded desperate.

  Jogging forward, I called out for whoever was in the elevator to hold it. A weathered, sturdy hand gripped the door at the last moment to wedge it open. I darted inside the otherwise empty lift, turning to the man to give him a breathless "Thanks." But my words caught in my throat and I froze.

  "Quen!" I snapped, seeing the plague-scarred elf standing in the corner. He smiled without showing his teeth, and at the hint of amusement in his eyes, it all fell into place.

  "Oh, hell no," I said, looking for the elevator panel for a button to push, but he was standing in front of it. "You're Mr. Doemoe? Forget it. I'm not working for Trent."

  The older man hit the highest button, adjusted his weight, and clasped his hands before him. "I wanted to talk to you. This was the easiest way."

  "You mean this is the only way, 'cause you know I'd tell Trent he can shove his problem up an orifice," I said.

  "As professional as always, Ms. Morgan."

  His gravelly voice was mocking, and knowing I was trapped here until we reached the upper floors, I slumped in the corner, not caring if I looked sullen for the cameras. I was sullen. I wasn't going to tap a line. You don't p
ull a gun unless you're going to use it—and you don't tap a line in front of a master of ley line magic unless you want to be slammed up against the wall.

  Quen's smile faded. He appeared innocuous in his long-sleeved shirt and matching black pants, which looked vaguely like a uniform. Yeah, he was innocuous. Like black mamba innocuous. The man stood only a few inches taller than me in his flat, soft-soled shoes, but he moved with a liquid grace that put me on edge, as if he was able to see me react before I actually did. I was trapped in a tiny metal box with an elf skilled in martial arts and black ley line magic. Maybe I should be nice. At least until the doors open.

  His complexion was marred by the scars a few Inderlanders had come away with from the Turn, and his roughened, dark skin only added to his presence. A vampire bite marked his neck, most of the white scar tissue hidden by his high black collar. Piscary had given the scar to him in anger, and I wondered how Quen was handling the new problem of having an unclaimed vampire bite, now that Piscary was truly dead. I had one, too, but Ivy would kill any vampire who broke my skin, and all of Cincy knew it. Quen didn't have any such protection. Perhaps the bite was why he wanted to talk to me—if this wasn't about a run for Trent.

  Quen was Trent Kalamack's eminently skilled security officer, one hundred percent deadly, though I'd trust him with my life if he said he'd watch my back. Trent was just as dangerous without having earned my trust, but he did his damage with words, not actions—a stinking politician at his best, a murderer at his worst. The financially successful, attractive, charismatic hunk of man flesh efficiently ran most of Cincinnati's underworld and the northern hemisphere's illegal Brimstone trade. But what Trent could go to jail for besides being a murdering bastard—for which I'd gotten him incarcerated for all of three hours a few months ago—was his worldwide trade in illegal biodrugs. What really stuck in my craw was that I was alive because of them.