by Kim Harrison
Hearing the truth of it, I looked up and Quen lifted his drink in salute. Trent could plan his way out of a demon’s contract, but that wouldn’t keep him alive against a sniper spell, and that’s where the real danger was. My jaw clenched and I shoved the thought away. What did I care?
“I left the I.S. because I couldn’t stomach working for anyone. That hasn’t changed.”
“That’s not entirely true,” he said, and I frowned. “You work with Ivy and Jenks all the time.”
My eyebrows rose. “Yes. I work with Jenks and Ivy, not for them. They don’t always do what I think is best, but they always at least listen to me.” I didn’t do what they thought was best, either, so we got along tolerably well. Trent, though, he needed to listen. The businessman made more mistakes than . . . me.
“He’s doing much better,” Quen said, and I couldn’t stop my chuckle.
“Yeah?”
“He worked with Jenks,” Quen offered, but I could hear the doubt in his voice.
“Yes, he worked with Jenks,” I said, the wine bitter as it slipped down. “And Jenks said it was like pulling the wings off a fairy to get Trent to include him on even the smallest details. No.”
Quen’s worry line in his brow was deepening. “Quen, I understand your concern,” I said, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. It was tense, and I pulled back, feeling like I shouldn’t have touched him. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it.”
“Could you maybe just try?” he said, shocking me. “There’s an elven heritage exhibit at the museum next Friday. Trent has a few items on display and will be putting in an appearance. You’ll love it.”
“No.” I faced the mirror and watched myself take a drink.
“Free food,” he said, and I eyed him in disbelief through the reflection. I wasn’t that desperate. “Lots of contacts with people with too much money,” he added. “You need to get out and network. Let Cincy know you’re the same Rachel Morgan who captured a banshee and saved San Francisco, and not just the witch who’s really a demon.”
I flushed, setting the glass down and looking around for a clock. Jeez, had I only been here ten minutes?
“I expect you would pick up a few legit jobs,” he said, and I stiffened. I wasn’t out of money, but the only people who wanted to hire me wanted me because I could twist demon curses. I wasn’t that kind of a girl, even if I had the potential to be, and it bothered me that Quen knew who had been knocking on my door. Working a couple of easy chaperoning jobs for Cincinnati’s elite would do wonders for my esteem.
Isn’t that what Quen is offering me?
“There would be a clothing allowance,” Quen wheedled. My pulse quickened, not at the thought of a new pair of boots but at being dumb enough to consider this. “Rachel, I’m asking this as a personal favor,” he added, sensing me waver. “For me, and Ceri.”
Groaning, I dropped my head into my hand, and my dress pinched as I shifted to turn away from him. Ceri. Though she had agreed to maintaining a public image with Trent, she loved Quen. Quen loved her back with all the fierceness of someone who never expected to find anything beautiful in the world. Hell, if it was nothing more than being a security escort, I could stomach Trent for a few hours. How much trouble could the man get into out at the museum, anyway?
“You fight dirty,” I said sourly to his reflection, and he toasted me, smiling wickedly.
“It’s my nature. So will you do it?”
I rubbed the back of my neck as I turned to him, guilt and duty pulling at me. Avoiding him, I sent my eyes to the TV. It was showing the Cincy skyline, which was odd since it was a national station. The banner THIRD INFANT ABDUCTED flashed up, then vanished behind an insurance commercial. Act as Trent’s security? I thought, remembering Trent’s savage, protective expression under the city when he downed that man trying to abduct me. And then how he looked on my front steps when he found Wayde carting me out of the church over his shoulder. Trent had spun a charm to knock the Were out cold with the ease of picking a flower. True, it hadn’t been needed, but Trent hadn’t known that.
My fingers spinning the footing of my glass slowed as I recalled Trent opening up to me and telling me about the person he wanted to be. It was as if I was the only person who might really understand. And Quen wanted me to be the one to deny him that?
“No,” I whispered, knowing that Trent would count my presence as his failure. He didn’t deserve that. “I’m not going to be his babysitter.”
“Rachel, you need to put your petty grudge aside and—”
“No!” I said louder, angry now, and his words cut off. “This isn’t about me. Trent can stand on his own. He’s better than you give him credit for. You asked me, I said no. Find someone else to spit in his eye.”
Quen pulled back from me, his face creased in anger. “That’s not what I’m doing,” he said, but there was a whisper of concern in his denial. “I simply don’t want him out there alone. There’s nothing wrong with someone having your back. He can stand on his own without having to be alone.”
Behind him, the TV was showing the front of Cincy’s hospital, lit up with lights and security vehicles. Have his back?
“I won’t bring it up again,” he said, shifting away from me, suddenly closed off. “I think our table is ready.”
Confused, I slid from the stool, shimmying until my dress fell right. If I was there, Trent wouldn’t see it as me watching his back. He’d say I was babysitting him. Quen had it wrong.
Didn’t he?
“After you,” Quen said sourly, gesturing for me to follow the man standing before us with two huge menus in his hand.
God save me from myself, maybe Quen was right. “Quen . . .”
But then my gaze jerked up to the TV over the bar as I caught a familiar phrase, and my thoughts of Trent vanished. With a sudden flash, I recognized the new Rosewood wing behind the newscaster on the scene. The Rosewood wing was simply a fancy name for the three comfortable houselike facilities they’d built for the terminally ill babies suffering from Rosewood syndrome. The cul-de-sac was damp from the earlier rain, and lights from the I.S. cruisers and news vans made everything shiny. The thought of THIRD ABDUCTION echoed through me, and I jerked to a halt. Behind me, Quen grunted in surprise.
“Turn it up!” I exclaimed, turning back to the bar and shoving past Quen to get closer.
“. . . apparently abducted by a kidnapper posing as a night nurse,” the woman was saying, and I felt myself pale. “I.S. officials are investigating, but so far they have no leads as to who is taking the failing infants, and why.”
“Turn it up!” I said again, and this time, the bartender heard me, aiming a remote and upping the volume. I felt myself pale as Quen rocked to a halt beside me, both of us looking up. A phone buzzed, and Quen jumped, his hand fumbling to a back pocket.
“Because of baby Benjamin’s miraculous progress in fighting the lethal disease, officials are not hopeful for a ransom demand—they fear that he was taken by unscrupulous biogenetic engineers trying to find and sell a cure.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered, fumbling in my clutch bag for my phone. They’d killed all the bioengineers during the Turn. It was a tradition both humans and Inderlanders alike gleefully continued to this day. That I was alive because of illegal tinkering didn’t make me feel any better.
“Let’s hope they find them soon,” the woman was saying, and then the headlines shifted to the latest Washington scandal.
Head down over my phone, I punched in Trent’s number. It would go right to his private quarters, bypassing the switchboard. I felt hot, then cold, my grip on my phone shaking. He wouldn’t have abducted the baby, but he’d have a short list of who might have. The Humans Against Paranormals Association, HAPA, maybe, now that they couldn’t have me. Trent had once promised that he’d give the demons the cure to their infertility, but after suffering through the chaos wrought by his father’s saving me, I couldn’t believe that Trent was looking to increase the number of surviv
ors just yet.
The busy signal shocked through me, and I glanced up at the shadow of a man standing too close: Quen, his brow furrowed as he looked at his phone’s screen. Blinking, I remembered where I was. Quen’s lips twitched, and he held out his phone. It was smaller and shinier than mine. “He’s on my line,” he said with a thin, distant voice. “You talk to him.”
Fingers shaking, I took the phone. “He’ll know we’re together, that we talked.” Oh God, I didn’t want Trent to know that Quen doubted him. He looked to him as his father despite the monthly stipend.
Quen shrugged. “He’ll find out anyway.”
Mouth suddenly dry, I answered the phone and put it to my ear. “Trent?”
The hesitation was telling, but he caught his balance quickly. “Rachel?” Trent said, clearly surprised. “I’m sorry. I must have hit the wrong button. I was trying to reach Quen.”
I held the phone tighter, my pulse pounding. His voice was beautiful, and I felt glad for turning Quen down. “Ahh,” I said, glancing up at a stoic Quen. “You hit the right number.”
Again Trent hesitated. “Okay?”
“We were having dinner.” I explained nothing, and Quen’s face became even more bland. “Quen and I. You saw the news? Do you know who did it?”
My worry came rushing back, crowding out my brief flash of pleasure for having caught Trent off guard. It happened so seldom. The host was still waiting, and when Quen shook his head, he smiled ingratiatingly and walked away, dropping the menus on the bar.
“No, but I’m going out there right now.” Trent’s tone was tight, and my idea that he was fixing Rosewood babies died. “Since you’re with Quen, would you both meet me there?”
My lips parted, even as I heard the accusation in his tone. He wanted me there? With him?
“Rachel, are you there?” Trent asked, and I flushed, glancing at Quen before pushing the phone tighter to my ear.
“Yes. The hospital, right?” Where all the news vans were? Swell. I couldn’t help but wonder if his invitation was because he wanted my professional opinion or simply to find out what Quen and I were doing.
“Rosewood wing,” he said, his tone grim. “I doubt there will be any indication as to who took the infant, but I don’t want evidence to be buried if the I.S. doesn’t like what they find. If one of us is there, we will at least have the truth.”
I nodded as Quen exchanged a few words with the bartender and slipped him a bill. The I.S. was an offshoot of the original FBI and local police forces before the Turn, responsible for hiding Inderland crimes before humans could find evidence that witches, werewolves, and vampires existed. Covering up the uncomfortable or unprofitable was in their blood.
“Rachel, may I talk to Quen?” Trent asked, shaking me out of my thoughts.
“Um, sure. I’ll see you there.” My stomach was in knots, and I held the phone out. “He wants to talk to you.”
Quen looked at the phone, his expression never shifting as he reluctantly reached out. Turning sideways to me, he drew himself up. “Sa’han?” He hesitated. “Having dinner.” Another pause. “Of course Ceri knows. It was her idea.”
Ceri was in on this, too? Frowning, I forced my arms from my middle. Trent would be pissed. I knew I’d been when my mom and dad rented me a live-in personal security guy for a few months.
“No,” Quen said firmly, and then again, “No. I’ll see you there.”
I could hear Trent complaining as Quen closed the phone, cutting him off midprotest. That wasn’t going to go over very well, I decided, and when Quen gestured for me to head out before him, I meekly fell into place, my thoughts turning to the hospital.
Behind us people laughed and clinked glasses. Below, Cincinnati moved with her people, uncaring and unaware. It felt wrong now. Someone was stealing Rosewood babies. The “why” was ugly.
Quen was silent all the way to the elevator. He avoided my eyes as I handed him my ticket to give to the coat-check woman. I could have given it to her myself, but high society came with weird rules, and it was no skin off my nose. “You’re not going to tell him?” I said, hoping he wanted to use the time it would take to get to the hospital to come up with some story other than Quen’s asking me to babysit Trent.
Gaze distant in thought, Quen shook out my shawl and I turned around, my head lowered. “You might be right,” he said, and I shivered as the silk settled over my bare skin. “I may have acted without thought.”
It was an honest answer, but Quen might be right as well. Trent didn’t need a babysitter, but everyone needed someone to watch their back.
Chapter Two
Quen’s car was warm, the seats heated and my vents aimed at me, making the escaping strands of my braid tickle my neck as we slowly wove through the twisty hospital campus. Feeling ill, I leaned toward the dash and peered through the curved glass, both anxious to get there and uncertain as to what I was going to tell Trent. It was starting to mist, and everything had a surreal glow. The tall main building looked foreboding in the rain, lights gleaming on its slick walls. That was not our destination. People got better—mostly—at the hospital. Where we were headed, the only healing was emotional.
The tires hissed on the wet pavement as we took a tight corner into a cul-de-sac. Three modest structures, identical apart from their color, were before us, I.S. cruisers and black Crown Vics parked in the drives and at the curbs. My lips curled in disgust at the news vans, bright lights spilling out along with heavy wires like grotesque umbilical cords running into one of the houses. It must have made their night to have their local story picked up nationwide.
The three two-story homes looked out of place in the otherwise institutional hospital setting. They were relatively new, the landscaping bushes still small and inadequate. It was Cincinnati’s Rosewood wing where Rosewood babies were moved to, sometimes born here, but always dying here, never surviving. A lot of parents elected to take their baby home for his or her last days, but not all, and the homey atmosphere was a boon. Counselors were more prevalent than nursing staff. They hadn’t had such a place when I’d been born, and as Quen parked his two-seater into a space too small for the official cars, I felt odd and melancholy.
Quen put the car in park, making no move to get out. I, too, leaned back into the plush seat, afraid almost. Blowing his breath out noisily, Quen turned to me. “I’m going to tell him we had dinner and talked about his security,” he finally said, his eyes holding a hint of pleading. “I’m also going to tell him that I was asking your opinion if he was secure on his own merits, and that you said he was, but that if the situation changed that you would . . .”
My heart thumped as he let his words trail off into expectation, waiting for me to finish his sentence and tell him I’d watch Trent when he couldn’t. That wasn’t even mentioning the little white lie. I didn’t know how I felt about that, and I searched Quen’s expression. The shadow-light coming from the lit-up building made him look older, his worry clear. Damn it all to hell. “That if the situation changed that I’d be able to assist in keeping the girls safe,” I said firmly, and Quen’s expression became stoic.
“Very well, Tal Sa’han,” he grumbled, and my eyebrows rose. Tal Sa’han? That was a new one. I would have asked him what it meant, but his voice had been mocking.
“Then let’s go,” I said, reaching for my bag. The little clutch bag felt too small as I got out, and my clothes were totally inappropriate for a crime scene. The cool mist touched my face, and the thump of Quen’s door surprised me. Dropping my eyes to the damp pavement, I shut my door as well.
I took a deep breath and lifted my chin, starting for the door, already propped open for the sporadic flow of people in and out. I couldn’t help but notice the opening was almost twice as wide as usual. I hated oversize doors—or rather, I hated the wheelchairs they alluded to. A sudden wish to be anywhere but here struck me. I had escaped dying from Rosewood syndrome. It had taken almost all my early life to do it and it shaped me in ways I was only now f
iguring out, but the reminder was bittersweet.
Quen met me stride for stride. “Are you okay?”
We had gained the paved walk, which artistically meandered to give the appearance of distance and interest. It just looked fake to me. “Fine,” I said, my mood growing worse. I didn’t want to be here—didn’t like the memories being stirred up. Someone was stealing Rosewood babies, and what followed from there was enough to make my nights sleepless.
Head down, I stepped over the news van’s cords, walking sideways to get through the door and flashing my ID to the I.S. guy. I think it was more Quen’s and my fancy dress that got us in than my ID. The officer clearly didn’t recognize me, but only someone who needed to be here would come dressed in formalwear. I’d have to remember that.
The cool night mist vanished, and I hesitated just inside the wide entryway, feeling Quen’s silent, solid presence behind me. A set of stairs led up, probably to the nurses’ quarters; the kitchen was behind the stairway, down a short hallway. There were two living rooms, one to either side of the door. Both of them were full of people standing around talking, but only one had the lights of the news crews. It was warm, even for me, and I didn’t like the excited tone of the newswoman asking the distraught mother how she felt now that her baby—thriving against all odds—had been stolen.
“What a slime,” I whispered with a surge of anger, and Quen cleared his throat. Someone had pieced together that the Rosewood syndrome was actually an expression of too much demon enzyme and was “harvesting” demon blood while the babies still lived. I’d be dead, too, if Trent’s father hadn’t modified my mitochondria to supply the enzyme that blocked the lethal action of the first enzyme that actually invoked demon magic. It was a mouthful that basically meant he’d enabled me to survive being born a demon.
