Angela’s candor surprised me. Maybe she’d said this as a trick to build empathy and get me to talk more freely. I gave a quick look around the interior to see if I was being recorded. A useless gesture, as any recording device would be well hidden.
I asked, “What about Inga Latrall?”
“She was a beautiful woman,” Angela replied. “An extraordinary were.”
“You think Bourbon killed her?”
“If he did, it was a big mistake and a bigger crime. Calhoun used the opportunity to rally the other clans to back him. If Bourbon had killed Latrall, assuming he did and we had proof, then even his own clan would turn against him.”
We got to the bridge over the Cooper River and Angela slowed down to an almost legal speed.
She adjusted her posture. The hem of her dress inched above her knees, which gave me a great view of her calves as she worked the floor pedals.
The highway merged onto the I-26. We took an exit east and wound up on King Street. She was driving toward the mortuary when I said, “Drop me off down the street.”
“Oh?”
“I have errands.”
“Do these errands involve someone?” Her voice sounded conspiratorial and teasing.
“You say that like you already know.”
“Wendy?”
These werewolves must be tapping my brain.
Angela grinned. “Calhoun told me.”
“You know her?”
“We’ve never met, but I know who she is.” Angela stopped at the corner of Hasell Street.
When I reached for the door handle, she put her hand on my shoulder. “We’ll see each other again?” My white lie about an errand and Wendy didn’t seem to bother her.
I smiled, said, “Hope so,” and got out. The Maserati pulled from the curb and turned west. I did mean that I hoped to see Angela again. I liked her, but she was a distant second place behind Wendy.
I went south a couple blocks to Market. Four touring carriages waited in line on State Street. None of the tour guides at the reins looked like Wendy.
The barn for Pirate Coast Tours sat at the closest corner. I went into the office. A woman in a white polo shirt with the company name and logo stood beside a desk. The phone on her desk was ringing and a row of red buttons flashed. She had a knee propped on a chair and spoke with forced restraint into the cordless receiver. She raised a finger to signal give me a minute while she responded to whoever was giving her an earful.
When there was a break in the conversation, she clutched the receiver to her chest. “Whattayawant?”
“Wendy Teagarden?”
She put the receiver back to her cheek and winged a thumb toward the stable.
I left the office and went to the stable. A man was waiting for a horse to finish drinking from a salvaged kitchen sink mounted to a post.
“Seen Wendy?” I asked.
The man nodded toward a big-ass pale gray horse—a Clydesdale or Percheron—that stood with its big ass aimed at us.
A short, stocky woman in the company uniform, white polo over khaki shorts, brushed the shoulder of the horse.
She had a freckled perky nose and soft features that made her face seem plump in contrast to Angela’s sharply angled face. A ponytail of red hair dangled from the back of her cap.
Wendy Teagraden.
Here. Alive. Safe.
My kundalini noir twitched in anticipation of holding her again. I fought to keep my smile from broadening too much. I wondered about taking out my contacts so I could witness how her aura would blaze upon seeing me. Her aura was green, as her psychic awareness resided at the fourth chakra, compassion.
My feet crunched through the straw spread over the floor.
Wendy held her brush still and looked over.
Her eyes, brilliant as emeralds, opened in shock. “What are you doing here?”
CHAPTER 17
Wendy stared at me, her expression one of cool, unpleasant surprise.
That coolness chilled my anticipation and my kundalini noir became still.
“It’s great to see you, too,” I said.
She recovered and gave a weak smile. “Felix, you look good.”
The horse sensed her discomfort and gave a nervous whinny. It shifted one hind leg. I backed away in case the horse was about to kick.
Wendy stroked the horse’s head and cooed. She grasped the bridle and led the horse into the closest stall. She removed the bridle and hung it from a nail on a post. The horse lifted its head, holding it in profile to me, and stared with one eye. A subtitle for its expression might have been: Back off. I don’t like you.
“What does your horse have against vampires?”
“Nothing. He loves everybody. Human or supernatural. Just not you.”
“What did I do to him?”
She said, “Maybe he’s reacting to a vibe.”
“Must be yours.”
Wendy didn’t reply. She made sure the stall was locked and turned briskly toward the office. “I gotta clock out. Wait for me outside.”
Her words sounded stale. I told myself, Don’t take it personally, maybe she’s had a crappy day. After not hearing from me for years, what did I expect? That she’d drop whatever was in her hands and jump my bones?
I stood at the corner. Wendy came out of the barn. She stamped her trail runners on the pavement to clean off the mud and horseshit.
I accompanied her across the street to a little Ford coupe parked on a dirt lot. The back of the car was covered with bumper stickers.
REUNITE GONDWANALAND.
WHY ARE DUMB ANIMALS SMARTER THAN MOST PEOPLE?
ALL WHO WANDER MAY BE TOO STONED TO MAKE IT HOME.
She unlocked the front passenger’s door. She repositioned a box stuffed with magazines and bags of birdseed from the front passenger’s seat to the back. The interior smelled like dirt, hay, and marijuana. “You carrying weed?”
“Was. Smoked it all.” The tension returned to her voice. She pulled a garment bag from the floor between the front and backseats.
My eyes lingered on the bag.
Wendy said, “Change of clothes.” Her clipped tone told me not to press for an explanation.
I pushed aside thoughts of sex and romance. Long ago, Wendy had been kidnapped and tortured because of me, and she almost lost her life. I had been wounded during our escape and she had sliced her arm with a piece of glass to save me with an offering of her blood. Since learning she was here, I had recalled the sweetness of our past relationship, but I couldn’t ignore that much of what we had shared was also trial and trauma.
“Let’s talk. Come on.” She said this with a little more warmth and it gave me hope that we might hit it off again.
We returned to the barn across the street and approached a wooden stairway that rose to a second floor above the office. She led me up the steps.
When we reached the landing outside a door, I stood close as she pulled keys from her pocket. The weave of her many scents—perspiration, pheromones, perfumed soap, shampoo—brought back memories of lying next to her. I thought about putting my arms around her but knew better.
Wendy unlocked the door. We entered a studio apartment: one room in front, a small kitchen along the back, and a bathroom at the right rear corner.
The furniture—a sagging couch, a battered coffee table, and mismatched chairs—looked like thrift-store castoffs. Empty pizza cartons, paper cups, and bags of fast food overflowed from a trash can. Discarded computer equipment and boxes of file folders were heaped along one wall below a window.
I asked, “This your apartment?”
She laid the garment bag over an arm of the couch. “Not this dump. It’s a place to store crap for business and crash after work.” She plopped on the couch and untied her boots with jerky, agitated movements.
I said, “It’s been a while we haven’t seen each other.”
“I know.”
“I missed you.”
She slipped out of her boots and
peeled off her socks. “Yeah, I missed you, too. We missed each other so much we kinda forgot to stay in touch.”
She placed her feet on the coffee table, closed her eyes, and leaned against the back of the couch. Each moment of silence made the wall between us grow taller and thicker.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” I said, uncomfortable and awkward. “We could try again another time.”
“No, there are things we have to discuss. Have a seat.”
I took the chair closest to the coffee table. “You act like there’s a problem with me being here.”
Wendy stared at the ceiling. “It’s that you, of all vampires, shouldn’t be in Charleston.”
“Why not?”
“Let me tell you why I’m here.” Her eyes cut to me. “I’m a spy.”
CHAPTER 18
Spy? That revelation whipped through me like I’d taken a sharp turn, and it left me unsteady and dizzy.
“Working for who?”
“The Araneum.” Wendy kept her voice low.
Araneum. A clammy sensation trickled down the back of my neck like cold, runny mud. “Why am I not supposed to be here?”
“I’ve been told. About Carmen. About the girl from the San Luis Valley.”
The words were a knife dragged across my belly. I feared my anxieties and regrets would spill to the floor. Carmen was the vampire—make that friend, lover, confidante—that I’d let get captured by the aliens.
The girl from the San Luis Valley was Phaedra, and she had caused me much heartache, a major accomplishment given that I had no heart. Phaedra had honed her clairvoyant powers into a psychic weapon. She could scramble my brain with a blast of mental mojo. If that’s not freaky enough, then add zombies, the undead scum that collects in the drain trap of the supernatural world.
I’d gone to destroy the zombies, but their reanimator had kidnapped Phaedra in order to make her his immortal love slave. In the fight to rescue her, she’d almost gotten killed. I saved Phaedra by doing the very thing I swore I’d never do: turn her into a vampire. Now Phaedra is on the lam as a teenage undead bloodsucker, defying the Araneum, and biding her time until she causes who knows what new mayhem.
Yeah, I had two big black marks on my permanent record.
Wendy said, “I remember Carmen. Never thought you two would connect.”
The comment felt like a tug against a scab. “Why? I wasn’t her type?”
“You have a penis. That made you her type. I meant if she’s prime rib, you’re hamburger.”
“Thanks. I like to think that I was at least good hamburger.”
“On occasion.” Wendy let a smile trick across her lips before her expression turned somber. “Do you know where Carmen is?”
“So far away the Hubble Telescope couldn’t find her.”
“Are you getting her back?”
I replied, “Planning on it.”
“How?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“What about the girl? Phaedra?”
“Right now she’s not my problem.” The memories of Carmen and Phaedra curdled in my throat like a lump of bile. “What did the Araneum do? Hand over my file?”
“They know about our past relationship. I was told in case I ran into you, as a precaution. This is a dangerous time for the supernatural world.”
“As in werewolves?”
Wendy looked up at me, with beautiful eyes like discs of green glass, eyes that should be smoldering with passion instead of burdened with intrigue. “What do you know?”
“More than I’d like,” I said. “I’ve met the two rival clan alphas.”
Wendy nodded. She knew who I had meant.
“I was worried the Araneum wasn’t aware of the werewolf troubles and the danger to vampires. But since you’re here, the Araneum does know.” I tried to sound relieved.
I told her I’d come to Charleston because Bourbon wanted to hire me to kill Calhoun. I explained that I had refused. I left out the vampire attack for now and went straight to my ride in Calhoun’s limousine and the ambush in Mount Pleasant. I added that I’d refused Calhoun’s offer to find proof that Bourbon had caused Latrall’s plane to crash.
Wendy said, “I’ve heard that rumor.”
“Which brings me to why I came looking for you,” I said. “I wanted to make sure you are okay.”
“Well, I am. Thanks for your belated concern. How did you know I was here?”
I gave her quick details about the vampire attack. I described the crab, and her lips curled with a twitch of humor. But when I mentioned finding her business card on one of the dead vampires, her mouth formed a cold, flat line.
I asked, “Did you know those vampires?”
“No.”
“What about one named Julius Paxton?”
Another “No.”
“That’s a good thing,” I said and related his story.
“Two vampires came after you?” Wendy asked. “Wasn’t one of them Paxton?”
“No. I found his name on the back of Bourbon’s card. After the attack, I went back to Bourbon’s office, but he claims he’s never heard of Paxton.”
She stared at the floor and, after a moment of contemplation, looked up. “I’ll ask the Araneum what they know about Paxton. See if he’s got anything to do with either Bourbon or Calhoun. I’ll get back in touch when I get information. Meanwhile, go back to Denver and wait.”
My kundalini noir tightened in defiance. “I’m not going anywhere until I find out who’s after me and why. Somebody wants to drop a crab on me, there’s a price.”
“Like that macho talk has saved your ass before.”
“What’s saved my ass is confronting my enemies, not hiding from them.” I stood from the chair. “I’m also staying because you might be in danger.”
Wendy snapped at me, “I don’t need you to protect me.”
“You don’t? Until I mentioned Paxton and his vampires, you had no idea they existed.”
“Okay, thanks. But we’ll all be better off if you left Charleston.”
“I’ll decide what’s best for me. Paxton has a score to settle. There’s a reason he waited until I came here. I need to find out why and finish this business between us.”
I expected a volley of spite, but Wendy’s face softened as she let the antagonism drain from her expression.
“God, you’re predictable.”
“If that means dealing with assholes who’re trying to kill me, then call me predictable. Now you tell me, since when are you a spy?”
“Since long before you became a vampire.”
From my time with Wendy, I’d pieced together an episodic history of her life and guessed she was three-hundred-plus years old. But I knew better than to ask her age. Even dryads have their vanity.
“What do you hope to accomplish?”
“Prevent a disaster,” she replied. “Stop a war between Bourbon and Calhoun. If I can’t do that, then help the Araneum make plans in case the situation between the werewolves explodes.”
She read her wristwatch and picked up the garment bag from the couch. “I need to get ready. Help yourself to the fridge.” She disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door.
I wasn’t thirsty, though a drink of type A-positive would’ve helped my mood. I checked the fridge and, as expected, there wasn’t any blood available.
The sound of water spraying in a tub came from the bathroom. At one time I would’ve taken off my clothes and surprised her. But not today.
The Araneum was keeping its distance from werewolves. Good. I needed to do the same thing, except I knew that somehow Paxton and Bourbon worked together. How had they met? If Paxton was after me to settle a score, what was in it for Bourbon?
Spigots in the bathroom squeaked and the water stopped splashing. I heard a blow-dryer. After several minutes, the door opened and Wendy emerged. She’d changed from her tour-guide clothes into a tight low-cut, knee-length dress, the quintessential little black number. The dark fab
ric of her skirt made her muscular legs look succulent. Her hair hung in luscious, tempting curls. She padded barefoot and carried the garment bag rolled under one arm. She bent behind the couch and came back up with a small red vinyl purse and a pair of heeled sandals.
“You look great,” I said without much enthusiasm. “What’s the occasion?” Obviously not me.
“I’m meeting my contact.”
“You changed into that dress to meet a contact?” I sounded whiny, and shut up. More questions lurched into my head, but I didn’t want to appear like I was prying. Dressed like she was, I knew how she gathered intel: pillow talk.
She fastened her sandals and stood straight to adjust her dress. I’d forgotten how alluring Wendy could be. This reminded me of times back when, watching her get ready for the day. Now she was preening for someone else and I felt like I was at the vet waiting to get neutered.
A cell phone chimed. She plucked a phone from her purse. She glanced at the screen and put the phone away.
I wanted to ask the obvious. Her date?
Why bother? It was over between us. Long over. I wasn’t even horny. There wasn’t even the slap of rejection. Let her go.
But it hurt.
Wendy motioned that we should leave. After she locked up, we descended the stairs to the curb and her heels clipped along the wooden steps.
“It was good to see you. Really.” She rose on tiptoes and gave my cheek a light pass of her lips.
We stood in the deepening twilight of the evening. Would’ve seemed magical, if not for the barn smell and the fact she was waiting for someone else. The manure stink seemed appropriate.
A car rounded the corner from East Bay Street and slowed as it approached. A black Mercedes. Identical to Calhoun’s limo.
CHAPTER 19
The limo stopped. Wendy trotted to the rear door. Jealousy singed me.
Werewolf Smackdown Page 8
