by Jenna Black
Anderson raised his mug to me in a silent salute, and I nodded. Then I began the ritual of making coffee, hyperaware that Anderson was nearby. I kept sneaking glances at him, and what I saw almost made me forget the whole god-of-death-and-vengeance thing.
He looked … sad. Almost lost. And I took a wild guess about just what the cause might be.
I doctored a cup of coffee, trying to talk myself out of starting a conversation with Anderson. Whatever was wrong was none of my business. Especially if it had something to do with Emma. Anderson wasn’t my friend, not in any real sense of the word, so I had no moral obligation to try to make him feel better.
Logical arguments had no effect, and once my coffee was ready, I found myself walking toward the kitchen table instead of heading back to my suite and my work. I sat across from Anderson but didn’t quite know what to say.
“Making any progress on the case?” he asked, then took a sip of his tea.
I shrugged. “Not a whole lot. The best lead I’ve got is that the murders seem to be happening close to cemeteries.”
“I’ll wager that’s more than the police have.”
He was no doubt right. Normal people wouldn’t pick up on the proximity to cemeteries because they’d never dream it was significant. At least, not now—a few more murders with the same pattern might change that.
“It’s more than nothing,” I agreed, “but not as much as I’d hoped for.”
Anderson nodded. “And how did you and Jamaal get along?”
Okay. I’d sat down to talk to Anderson because he looked like he needed a little human contact, but that didn’t mean I wanted to have a deep, personal conversation, especially about myself. Or about Jamaal, for that matter. I remembered how Jamaal had almost lost it when those gang-bangers had challenged him, and I knew that Anderson would expect me to tell him what had happened. That didn’t mean I was about to do it.
“We’re both still alive, and no body parts are missing,” I said with a hint of a grin. Maybe if I kept it light, we’d quickly move on to another subject, and I’d stop feeling uncomfortable. “It’s an improvement.”
I decided that only a moron would ask Anderson probing questions; I then decided that sometimes I was a moron, like right now. As a bonus, it would be a handy change of subject.
“Did you and Emma have a fight?” I asked. I was pretty sure I already knew the answer, because only Emma seemed able to put that particular shade of misery on his face. Blake had once described Emma as “high-maintenance.” From what I’d seen, that was a charitable assessment.
Anderson smiled faintly. “Is it that obvious?”
I didn’t bother to answer. “Are you okay?” I asked instead.
He shrugged. “We’re going through a rough patch. It’s not the first time. And I can hardly blame her after what she’s been through.”
Thanks to Konstantin, Emma had spent the better part of ten years chained at the bottom of a pond, unable to free herself but also unable to escape through death. If that wasn’t an ordeal that would warp a person beyond recognition, I didn’t know what was.
“Give her some time,” I said, though I didn’t for a moment think time was going to fix whatever was going on between the two of them. “She’s doing a lot better now than she was when we first brought her home.”
Being a raging bitch was better than being catatonic, right?
Anderson nodded. “She’s doing better, but the scars …” His voice trailed off, and he looked haunted. “She’s always been volatile, but she’s a powder keg right now. One wrong word, and …”
Yeah, that about summed it up. But from what I’d gathered from the rest of the Liberi, that wasn’t anything new for her.
“Maybe you need to learn not to speak,” I suggested.
Anderson’s smile was faint but nice to see.
The smile disappeared moments later, when Emma bulled into the room. Her eyes scanned the kitchen—obviously looking for Anderson—but when she saw me sitting there, she did a double take, like it was a total shock that the two of them might not be alone in the room. Maybe she forgot there were eight people living in the mansion besides herself.
Emma was disgustingly beautiful, with glossy black hair that would have done a shampoo-commercial actress proud and the figure and face to go with it. She was kind of like Steph, in that she instantly brought out my inner insecurities, making me feel plain and dowdy in comparison.
The look she gave me was anything but friendly as she stalked over to the coffee pot and helped herself to a cup, her movements jerky with anger. Apparently, she was eager to resume her fight with Anderson, and I was in the way.
I wanted to get up and flee the room, but the pleading look Anderson shot me kept me rooted to my chair. I knew without being told that he was hoping my presence would curb Emma’s enthusiasm for their fight, but I also knew it wasn’t going to work. Emma had never shown any sign that it bothered her to fight in front of the rest of us.
Why did I stay anyway? I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.
Emma brought her cup of coffee to the table, fixing me with a glare that made me shiver inside. There was a spark of madness in her gaze, and I really didn’t want it to remain fixed on me.
“I see you’re consoling my dear husband after our little quarrel,” Emma said with a curl of her lip. “How kind of you.”
Yikes. Guess I should have run when I had the chance. I held up my cup of coffee and tried to look nonchalant.
“I’m just drinking a cup of coffee. My laptop and I needed a little time apart.” I decided that it wasn’t too late to get out from between the happy couple, so I pushed my chair back from the table.
Emma was still staring daggers at me. Her expression reminded me a little too much of how Jamaal had looked when he’d lost his mind in rage, and I wondered exactly how unstable she was. I’d thought of her as annoying ever since she’d started talking again, but I’d never considered her dangerous.
The look in her eyes now said that had been a mistake.
“Nikki has every right to be here,” Anderson said quietly, and I tried not to wince. I was now officially stuck in the middle, and I wanted to kick myself for not getting out when the getting was good.
“I’m going to go back to work now,” I announced, eyeing the doorway longingly. Unfortunately, Emma had positioned herself in front of it, and considering the sparks in her eyes, I didn’t think getting close to her was a good idea.
“Oh, no,” Emma said with a hard smile. “Please don’t let me interrupt your little tête-à-tête. I know you and my husband get along famously.”
Double yikes. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn she sounded jealous. But why the hell would a woman like her be jealous of someone like me? It wasn’t like there was anything going on between Anderson and me. I liked him and all, but there was nothing romantic about it.
Anderson heaved a sigh. “Please, Emma. Don’t be childish.”
She snorted. “Says the man who runs away from conflict as if it might kill him.”
I took a couple of steps toward the door, hoping maybe Emma would move out of the way and let me go. She stood her ground, and I came to an indecisive stop.
“We’ve had a year’s worth of conflict in the past week alone,” Anderson countered, sounding tired. “Leave it be for a while, why don’t you?”
“Leave it be?” she cried, her voice rising. “How can you possibly ask me to leave it be? Especially when you run straight into the arms of your new girlfriend here.”
O-kay. Crazy as it seemed, I’d have to say that really was jealousy in Emma’s voice. Which made no sense.
“Listen,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as desperately uncomfortable as I was, “I’m going to get out of your hair. You two hash things out in private, okay?”
Neither one of them looked at me, locked in their own staring match. I’d had enough, so despite my reluctance to go anywhere near Emma when she looked like she was about to explode,
I walked toward the doorway, giving her as wide a berth as I could.
Just as I thought I was home free and that she would let me pass unmolested, Emma reached out and grabbed the top of my arm in a brutally tight grip, yanking me toward her so hard that half my coffee sloshed out of the mug onto the floor.
“You listen here,” she growled at me, baring her teeth.
“Emma!” Anderson said sharply, and I heard the sound of his chair scraping hastily back. “What are you doing?”
Emma gave me a little shake. “You stay away from my husband. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
Yeah, she was making it perfectly clear that she was insane. Why did the nut cases always seem to focus on me?
I fought the urge to wince at the tightness of her grip. Maybe humoring the crazy would have been my best move, but I didn’t think things through before I spoke.
“Your husband is my boss,” I said in what I thought was an admirably calm voice. “Are you really going to fly into a rage every time I speak to him? Because you have to know there’s nothing going on between us.”
Her grip on my arm became even tighter, which I hadn’t thought was possible, and this time, I couldn’t suppress a gasp of pain.
“Emma,” Anderson said. “Let go of her. Now. You can fight with me all you want, but leave my people out of it.”
I had a feeling he was only making things worse by sticking up for me, and the blackness I saw in Emma’s eyes confirmed it. I was beginning to wish we’d left her at the bottom of that pond, though I felt guilty for the thought the moment it crossed my mind.
“Stay away from him,” Emma repeated, then let go of my arm and shoved me out the door.
FIVE
Predictably, Emma’s and Anderson’s raised voices echoed down the hall as I made my escape. The whole incident had completely creeped me out.
Why the hell was Emma jealous of me? I could think of no logical reason, and no matter how closely I scrutinized my own actions, I couldn’t think of anything I’d done that could give Emma the impression I was after her husband.
But what really had me worried was that her hostility toward me seemed to be escalating. If I wasn’t doing anything to fan the flames—and I was sure I wasn’t—I worried that nothing I did do or say would calm them. I didn’t get the feeling that Anderson’s people were huge fans of Emma, but she was Anderson’s wife and had been with them way longer than I had. Life in the mansion could get very, very difficult for me if I couldn’t find some way to patch things up.
With those cheerful thoughts in mind, I retreated to my suite to work on the clearer, more manageable task of catching a serial killer. However, fatigue was making me loopy, and my brain seemed determined to obsess over the situation with Emma. I wasn’t getting anything useful done, so I forced myself to turn off the computer and crawl into bed.
Eventually, I drifted off to sleep. I slept late enough that there was no one in the kitchen when I cautiously poked my head in the next morning. Someone had cleaned up the coffee I’d spilled. I’d bet anything it wasn’t Emma. I hurried through making a fresh pot of coffee, wanting to get out of the kitchen quickly. This was one of those times when I really missed living in my condo. It was like the tension of the argument had soaked into the walls, and I was glad to escape back to my room. Maybe I should buy myself a coffee maker to keep in the suite.
When the caffeine hit my system and woke up my still-sluggish brain cells, I realized I’d really needed that sleep. It seemed my subconscious mind had been hard at work mulling over the issue of how to catch the killer while I was sleeping, and I now had the inklings of a plan. Maybe not the safest or sanest plan in the world but a plan nonetheless.
My first impulse was to go haring off on my own the moment I had some idea what to do. For most of my adult life, I’d been an independent operator, doing what I wanted, when I wanted. That was one of the big perks of starting my own business and not joining someone else’s P.I. firm.
I wasn’t an independent operator anymore. I was part of a team—a concept I was still getting used to—and I had a boss to answer to. I knew better than to think Anderson would be okay with me making unilateral plans of action. Not only that, but for once in my life, I had some serious backup available, which was a nice luxury. Nonetheless, it chafed a bit, because talking to Anderson before acting smacked of asking permission, something I’d never been too good at.
I found Anderson ensconced in his study, the one room in his wing of the mansion that the rest of us Liberi were actually allowed to enter without special dispensation. He was sitting at his desk, his brow furrowed as he stared at a piece of paper in front of him. I had a feeling he wasn’t really seeing that paper, that he was actually lost in thought, but he didn’t jump when I rapped on the door. He merely turned his chair toward me and raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
I made a show of looking up and down the hall before stepping cautiously into the room. “Is Emma around?” I asked. “Do I need to get us a chaperone?”
As attempts at humor go, it wasn’t my best. The corners of Anderson’s mouth tightened, and he dropped his gaze like he was embarrassed.
“I’m really sorry about that,” he said softly, and I wanted to kick myself for being a smartass. Marital troubles weren’t funny, not to the people involved. As a private investigator, I’d seen more than ample evidence of the fact.
I sighed and invited myself in, dropping into one of the chairs in front of Anderson’s desk like a good little employee.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I assured him. “I’m sorry about the dumb joke. Sometimes I joke when I’m uncomfortable.”
Anderson leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry that Emma and I have made you uncomfortable. What the Olympians did to her seems to have brought out every insecurity she’s ever had. She’s having a hard time coping, and I’m not making things any easier by fighting with her.”
I didn’t think Anderson had anything to apologize for. From what I could tell, he was acting perfectly reasonable. It was Emma who was the loose cannon, but even with my low relationship IQ, I knew better than to say that.
“She wants me to declare war on the Olympians,” Anderson said. “She can hardly think of anything but revenge.”
“To tell you the truth, I’ve been kind of expecting you to declare war myself. I thought the only reason you weren’t fighting them was that they had Emma.”
He shook his head. “That was just one reason. I hate Konstantin, and I hate the Olympians, and I hate everything they stand for.”
Was it my imagination, or were there literal sparks coming from his eyes?
“But there are a lot more of them than there are of us,” Anderson continued. “And with their stable of brainwashed Descendants, they have far more deadly weapons than we do. If I start a war, then it’s highly likely all my people will end up dead. It’s not a chance I’m willing to take. Now, if I could get Konstantin somewhere nice and private where there were no witnesses, that would be another matter altogether.”
His smile was fierce and chilling, and I was glad that menace was not directed at me. Then the smile faded and the menace with it. “I know Emma understands my reasons deep down, and I know she’ll come to her senses as her psyche heals. But for now, she’s not thinking straight.”
Personally, I didn’t think Emma was the one who wasn’t thinking straight. I’m no shrink, but I felt pretty convinced that her trauma had caused permanent damage, that she would never go back to being the wife Anderson remembered. Assuming that wife had ever existed in the first place.
“But you didn’t come here to talk about me and Emma,” Anderson said. “What can I do for you?”
“I have an idea for how we might—and I emphasize might—catch our killer.”
“I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
“You know how I told you last night the murders all occurred near cemeteries?”
He nodded.
“They’ve also all occurred o
n Friday nights.”
“Hmm,” Anderson said, his eyes narrowing. “I’m beginning to see where you might be going with this.” And based on the way he was looking at me, he didn’t like it.
Still, I forged on. “Seeing as this is Friday, I have a strong suspicion our killer will strike again tonight and that the attack will be somewhere near a cemetery.”
Anderson nodded. “Probably true. But do you know how many cemeteries there are in the area?”
“A shitload,” I agreed. “But when you look at a map, you can see that each attack occurred north of the attack before.” I had brought my big map of the D.C. area with me, and I unfolded it on Anderson’s desk, the sites of the three murders numbered and circled. They formed more of a triangle than a straight line, but I still felt there was a definite direction of movement. A pattern I could exploit.
“I’ve highlighted the cemeteries in yellow,” I pointed out, “and I think if his pattern holds true, he’ll hit near the Rock Creek Cemetery tonight.” I pointed helpfully at the cemetery in question.
Anderson looked skeptical. “That seems like an awful lot of conjecture.”
I couldn’t help grinning. “Conjecture seems to be a big part of my power.” My gut was telling me this wasn’t all in my head, that there really was a pattern to the murders. I couldn’t say I completely trusted my gut, but it had certainly steered me in the right direction many times before.
“Even if you’re right, Rock Creek is huge. And if you have to include anything within walking distance in your search, the chances of you running into the killer are really low.”
I grabbed the map and started wrestling it back into its tidy brochure size. “My chances are better if I go hang around the cemetery than if I sit here doing nothing. I checked the weather and the lunar calendar, and I should have plenty of moon action tonight.” My powers were stronger in the moonlight, though it was difficult to pinpoint exactly what effect the moonlight had. The best explanation I had was that it made my hunches stronger and more accurate.
