by Ким Харрисон
"Uh, Rache? What's up? Is Ceri okay?"
"Ceri is ju-u-u-ust fine," I muttered, slamming the latch to the chain-link fence down and chipping a nail. "She's always fine. She's working for Al."
"She's summoning him out of confinement!" Jenks squeaked.
"No, she's making appearance curses for him to get the smut off her soul."
I paced across the street, and at his continued silence, I looked up. His tiny face was pinched and he seemed torn. "You don't see a problem in that?" I said in disbelief.
"Well…," he hedged.
I did not believe this. "That's how it starts, Jenks," I said, recalling my days as an I.S. runner bringing in witches who had gone wrong. "Then it's one black curse that he promises to use for a good reason, and he offers so much in return that you can't resist, then another, then another, and then you're his familiar for real. Well, if she wants to throw her life away again, that's not my problem."
Jenks flew beside me silently, then spoke. "Ceri knows what she's doing."
My feet found the wide, worn steps of the church, and I stopped. Storming in like this with me out of control was asking for trouble. Ivy's blood lust was triggered by high emotions, and I knew better. Turning, I looked across the street at Keasley's house. A red film enveloped the oak tree, making it look like it was on fire. People were coming out of their houses to gape at the phantom flames as Ceri raged, but I knew she wouldn't hurt the tree.
"I hope so, Jenks. I really hope so."
Nine
"Hush. Quiet," one of Jenks's kids said in a loud whisper. "You're scaring her."
A chorus of denials rose, and I smiled at the eager little pixy girl standing on my knee, her wings blurring for balance and her pale green silk dress drifting about her ankles. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the couch in the sanctuary, covered in pixy kids. Colorful fabric billowed in the breeze kicked up by their dragonfly-like wings, and their dust was making me glow in the late-hour dusk. Rex was under Ivy's piano, and she didn't look scared. She looked predatory.
The small orange cat was crouched by a polished leg, her tail twitching, her ears pricked, and her eyes black in a classic pre-stalking posture. Matalina had relented in her stand, having admitted herself that even their smallest child could outfly a cat's pounce, and after Jenks pointed out that Rex wintering indoors wouldn't allow them to become lazy sentries, the cat's place inside was assured.
The theory now was that if the pixy kids, whom Rex loved, could get her to come to them while they were with me, Rex might start to like me, too. Nice thought, but it wasn't working. Rex hadn't liked me since I used a demon curse to go wolf. I had returned back to myself with pristine skin and no fillings, but I'd rather have freckles than the demon smut that had come along with the unexpected makeover. Not to mention Rex might willingly let me touch her. I think she was waiting for me to change into a wolf again.
"This isn't working," I said, turning to Jenks and Matalina, who had perched on my desk in the heat of the lamp to watch the drama unfold. The sun had set, and I was surprised Jenks hadn't moved everyone out to the stump, but maybe it was too cold tonight. It was either that or he didn't want his kids outside when that gargoyle was lurking about. I didn't know why Jenks was so upset. The thing was only a foot tall. I thought he looked kind of cute on the edge of the roof, and if I could go outside, I'd try to coax him down—now that he was probably awake.
"I told you that wouldn't work," Jenks said snarkily. "You'd better utilize your time coming up to the belfry and talking to that hunk of rock."
Better utilize my time? It was the gargoyle. "I'm not going to lean out the belfry window and shout at him," I muttered when the pixies squealed. "I'll talk to him when he comes down. You're just mad that you can't make him leave."
"She's coming. Rex is coming!" one shrilled loudly enough to make me wince, but the cat was only stretching, settling in for a good long stare session. That's all she did—stare at me.
"Here, kitty, kitty, stupid kitty," I coaxed. "How's my little chicken-ass feline today?" I crooned, holding out a hand as I sat on the floor. One of Jenks's daughters walked down the plane of my arm, her own hand outstretched. "I'm not going to hurt you, you sweet little bundle of asinine, orange-furred, Were-toy of a cat."
Okay, maybe that was harsh, but she couldn't understand me, and I was tired of trying to get her to like me.
Jenks laughed. I would have been embarrassed by my word choices, but his kids had heard worse from their dad. And in fact, the pixies ranging about me had taken up my crooning, singing insults heavy on the earthy vulgarity.
Disheartened, I let my arm fall and sent my eyes past the hanging paper bats to the stained-glass windows, the colors muted from the late hour. Marshal had called to tell me that he was still stuck in interview hell and wouldn't be able to have coffee. That had been hours ago. The sun was down now, and I couldn't safely leave the church lest I become demon bait.
My jaw tightened. Maybe someone was trying to tell me it was too soon. I'm sorry, Kisten. I wish you were here, but you're not.
The buzzing of my vibrating phone cut through the pixy chatter, and they all flew up and away when I stretched to reach my bag on the nearby couch. As I lay almost flat, my fingers brushed my bag and I yanked it down. I sat up with an exhalation, flipping my hair back and digging out my phone. The number was unfamiliar. Marshal's landline, maybe?
"Hi," I said casually, seeing as it was my cell and not the business phone. Realizing I was covered in pixy dust, I slapped at my jeans to get it off.
"Rachel," came Marshal's apologetic voice, and the pixies clustered by the desk hushed themselves so they could hear. Rex stretched and padded over to them, now that they weren't sitting on me, and I frowned at her. Stupid cat.
"Hey, I'm sorry." Marshal continued to fill the silence. "I don't know why they're taking so long, but it looks like I'm not going to get out of here for a few hours more."
"You're still there?" I asked, glancing at the dark stained-glass windows and thinking that what time his interviews ended didn't matter anymore.
"It's down to me and one other guy," Marshal rushed to say. "They want to make a decision today, so I'm stuck trying to impress the hell out of these people over pasta and sparkling water."
Resigned to another evening alone with the pixies, I picked at the edge of my chipped nail and wondered if I had a file in my bag. Rex was on her back, the pixies hovering just out of her playful, lethal reach. "No problem. We'll do it some other day," I said as I rummaged for the file, disappointed even as I was sort of relieved.
"I must have met with six people already," he complained. "Honest, they told me it was going to be a two-hour interview when I came down here."
My fingertips brushed the rough surface of a file, and I tugged it out. Three quick swipes, and the damage was smoothed out. If only it were that easy for everything else.
"I've got to be done by midnight," he continued at my silence. "You want to go out to The Warehouse for a beer? The guy I'm interviewing against says they let you in free this week if you come in costume."
My gaze slid to the dark windows as I slipped the file away. "Marshal, I can't."
"Why—" he started, then went silent. "Oh," he continued, and I could hear him kicking himself. "I forgot. Um, I'm sorry, Rachel."
"Don't worry about it," I said. Feeling guilty about my relief, then determined to get past it, I took a slow breath, steadying myself. "You want to come over when you're done? I've got some reports to go over, but we can play pool or something." I hesitated, then added, "It's not The Warehouse, but…" God, I felt like a coward, hiding in this church.
"Yes," he said, his warm voice making me feel a little better. "Yeah, I'd like that. I'll bring dinner. You like Chinese?"
"Mmmm, yes," I said, feeling the first hints of enthusiasm. "No onions?"
"No onions," he acknowledged, and I heard someone in the background call his name with authority. "I hate to keep saying thi
s, but I'll call you when I'm done."
"Marshal, I said don't worry about it. It's not like it's a date," I said, remembering Kisten's calm acceptance of my breaking our arrangements because of last-minute runs. He had never gotten upset, maintaining the belief that when he had to do the same, I'd respond in kind. It had worked, and now I could take a lot of last-minute cancellations before I let it get to me. Marshal had called. He couldn't make it. Case closed. Besides, it wasn't like we were…anything.
"Thanks, Rachel," he said, sounding relieved. "You're something else."
I blinked fast, remembering Kisten saying the same thing. "Okay, um, I'll see you later then. 'Bye, Marshal," I said, making sure my voice didn't betray me. Unclenching my fingers from the top of my right arm, I hit the "end" button and closed the phone, torn between feeling good at Marshal's last words and depressed at the reminder of Kisten.
Knock it off, Rachel, I thought, taking a cleansing breath and tossing my hair.
"'By-y-y-y-y-ye, Marshal," Jenks mocked from the safety of my desk, and I turned—just in time to see Matalina backhand him on the shoulder.
"Jenks," I said wearily as I lurched to a stand. "Shut up."
Matalina rose, her wings a pale pink. "Jenks, dear," she said primly. "Can I see you in the desk for a moment?"
"What…," he complained, then yelped when she pinched his wing and jerked him through the crack of the roll-top desk. The kids cheered, and their eldest daughter grabbed the hand of the youngest, flying the toddler away from the desk and to some pixy distraction.
Smiling at the thought of a seasoned warrior being dragged about by his just-as-deadly wife, I straightened my legs, which ached from being motionless so long on the hardwood floor. I really needed to do some stretches to loosen up, and I wondered if Marshal liked to run. I'd be willing to get him an early-hours runner's pass for the zoo just for the company. No expectations, no hidden agendas, just someone to do something with. Kisten had never run with me. Maybe it would help if I did different things—for different reasons.
I scooped up my bag and headed to the kitchen and my reports, my mood changing to one of surprising anticipation as I planned out my night. Marshal could tell me all about his interviews, and I could tell him all about my demon death mark. Ought to make for interesting conversation over rice. And if that didn't scare him away, then he deserved everything he got.
Going sourly introspective, I slapped at the pixy dust on me again as I entered the hall. The dust glowed briefly from the friction as it sifted from me to light the darker space. I passed the old his-and-hers bathrooms converted on Ivy's side to a conventional bathroom, and to a bathroom/laundry room on my side. Our bedrooms had once been clergy offices, and what was now the kitchen and living room had been added on to provide the long-absent congregation with a place to prepare and serve church suppers.
I leaned into my room to throw my bag onto the bed, and my cell phone rang again. Digging it back out, I sat on my bed to take my boots off and flipped the top open. "Back already?" I said, letting my voice hint at my anticipation. Maybe Marshal was done.
"Sure, I only had to check three days of records," David's rich voice said, startling me.
"Oh! David!" I said, getting one lace undone and kicking my boot off. "I thought you were Marshal."
"Uh, no…," he drawled, the question clear in his voice.
Phone tucked between my shoulder and my ear, I swung my other foot up. "Just some guy I met up in Mackinaw," I said. "He's moving to Cincinnati and coming over for dinner so neither of us have to eat alone."
"Good. It's about time," he said with a small laugh, and when I cleared my throat in protest, he continued. "I've been through the recent filings. There's been a spate of interesting claims out at the smaller cemeteries."
As I worked the laces one-handedly, my fingers slowed. You could get just about all the parts you needed to do black magic from any charm shop, but the ingredients were regulated, and oftentimes people just collected their own. "Grave robbing?"
"Actually…" There was a rustling of papers. "I don't know. You'd have to go to the FIB or the I.S. for that, but there's been a statistically large increase in the amount of damage to small cemeteries, so you might want to keep a closer eye on yours. Only the active ones have been hit so far. Damage to monuments, broken gates, cut locks, ruts in the landscape. It could just be kids, but someone stole the equipment to dig up the comfortably dead. My guess is someone is setting themselves up for a long-term commitment, either to supply black witchcraft and demon summoners on a commercial basis, or just themselves. You should check with your FIB guy. I won't hear about grave robbing unless something's been damaged or stolen, seeing as we don't insure the truly dead."
"Thanks, David," I said. "I've been talking to Glenn already." My gaze slid to the four reports on my dresser, sandwiched between the perfume bottles. "I'll ask him if any bodies are being moved out. I appreciate you checking." I hesitated, kicking my second boot off. "You didn't get in trouble, did you?"
"For working before Halloween?" he said around a guffaw. "Not likely. I do have one thing before I let you go. I've got a minor-damage claim that came in from a woman just outside the Hollows. I'm not scheduled to be the field adjuster for it, but if I can trade, do you want to come with me and check it out? An entire basement wall is bowing out from water damage. It could be a typo, seeing as water bows walls in, not out, but even so, we haven't gotten much rain in months."
I leaned across the space to my dresser and brought my FIB reports over. "Where is it?"
There was a soft shuffling of paper. "Ah, hold on." There was another moment of silence. "Nine thirty-one Palladium Drive."
A quiver started in my belly as I snatched the reports off my dresser and the addresses leapt out at me. Bingo. "David, get that claim. I'm looking at the obituary of the guy who owned that house. And get this. He had a record of grave robbing while in college."
David's laugh was low and eager. "Rachel, my boss ought to be paying you for all the money you're saving him. The damage was demon wrought?"
"Probably." Damn, this was coming together nicely. I deserved a night off. And if I stayed in my church, I'd live through it. Please, don't let this be Nick.
"Oka-a-a-a-ay," David said, his voice tight and eager. "Promise me you won't move tonight. I'll see about getting the claim, and we'll go from there. You need anything? Ice cream? Popcorn? I want you to stay in your church."
My head shook, though he couldn't see it. "I'm fine. Let me know when you're ready to go out. The sooner, the better."
His thoughts already on other matters, he growled a good-bye. I wasn't much better, mumbling something before I hung up and headed for the kitchen. I loved kicking ass, but the next best thing was making the spells that made kicking ass easier.
I was deep in anticipation when I found the hall, my mind already going over what I'd want to take to confront experienced demon summoners specializing in ley line manipulation. Heavy magic-detection charms…maybe a disguise amulet for that precious moment of distraction that could be the difference between falling down or staying upright…a couple of the zippy strips Glenn had traded me for ketchup that kept ley line witches from tapping a line and using ley line magic. I was going to have a busy night.
The hallway was dark, and I jerked to a halt just past my door, frowning. Ivy had put up a sign dangling by threads from the ceiling; clearly Jenks had assisted her. God help her, she had used a stencil, and I snatched at the yellow poster board, reading BEYOND THIS POINT, THERE BE DEMONS in bright red lettering. Crap on toast. I had forgotten about that.
When Jenks had bought the church from Piscary's estates, he had insisted I pay to get it resanctified, and though I had protested, I eventually agreed to keep the back end of the church unsanctified, as it had been originally. Not all of our clients were living, and Ivy said that interviewing the undead on the porch steps was unprofessional. The result was the kitchen and back living room weren't holy. In the past, A
l had always seemed to know when I stepped from secure ground, and after my wrist had flamed in agony before he showed up to trash Patricia's charm shop, I figured I knew how he did it. I have to get rid of this thing, I thought, gently rubbing the raised scar. As I hesitated in the dark, weighing my risk, the front doorbell rang.
Immediately I spun on my heel. "I got it!" I shouted before Jenks could leave the desk. He and Matalina got precious little time alone as it was. They may have gone into the desk arguing, but I knew they wouldn't end that way. The man had fifty-four kids.
Rex skittered past me when I burst into the sanctuary at an easy jog, the fluffy-tailed cat thinking I was going for her. It was too soon for Marshal, and if it was some early trick-or-treaters, I was going to mess with their minds. I hadn't even gotten my tomatoes yet.
I slapped Ivy's sign down upon her piano for her to find, then padded into the dark foyer in my stocking feet. I paused to let my eyes adjust to the close darkness of the narrow room between the sanctuary and the front door. One of these days, I was going to invest in a drill and peephole.
Ready to give whoever was begging early some grief, I pushed the heavy wooden door open, and the yellow glow of the light illuminating the sign above the door spilled in. A soft scuff of dress shoes drew my attention, and I crossed my arms over my middle as I saw who it was, whose Jag was idling at the curb.
"Well, well, well," I drawled, seeing Trent in full costume. "It's a little early for trick-or-treats, but I might have a few pennies to give you."
"Excuse me?" the spell-enhanced, rather imposing man said. His charmed-brown eyes widened, and he turned to his car in a rustle of silk and linen, taking off a smart-looking hat to show off his mid-length black hair, restyled to Rynn Cormel's latest photo. Man, he looked good, slightly older, taller, and somehow more sophisticated. Sort of like the reverse card of himself, dark where he was usually light and vice versa. Same build, though: trim and lean—nice. I liked tall.
The black overcoat he had on went down to his ankles and contrasted beautifully with his new pale complexion, as I'd known it would. He had taken my advice and picked up a charm to change his scent, and the delicious aroma of vampire eased over me, mixing with a hint of expensive cologne. He wasn't wearing the glasses, but they peeked out from the top of an exterior breast pocket of his coat. A gray cashmere scarf fluttered about his neck, and I noticed it matched his shoes, now a nice flat black instead of his usual shiny ones.
