American Demon

by Kim Harrison

  “Apparently not,” Trent murmured, and my unease with Al began to unknot.

  “Its sap is poisonous, so you can use it to kill just about anything smaller than yourself,” Jenks said, his dust sparkling when we turned and the low sun hit it. “It’s sticky, so bam! Glue.”

  “The seed fluff can be mattress stuffing,” I said, and Jenks’s wings blurred to invisibility.

  “Yep,” he agreed. “But I want the fibrous stalk. Trent doesn’t have anything in his conservatory to make clothes out of, and those newlings of Jumoke and Izzy are going to need something disposable before they get back in the garden.”

  That made me feel good, and I smiled as Trent drove into Piscary’s old lot. The onetime tavern, now a private residence, looked peaceful in the cool fall morning. Quiet. Kisten’s boat at the quay looked even more alone, and I stifled a pang at the thought of being there by myself.

  “Darn kids aren’t thinking ahead far enough,” Jenks said, more to himself than to us. “A stalk of milkweed will save them a month of misery.”

  My smile deepened as Trent parked right at the boat, and as one, we all got out.

  “Trent, be a pal, will you?” Jenks said as he flew a back-and-forth arc between Trent and the boat, impatient with our slow pace in the chill air. “I can’t carry it all at once like you can.”

  I didn’t have a clue why Trent was allowed to help Jenks and I wasn’t, but I had a feeling that it was because pixy women generally didn’t do the heavy lifting. “Water is low. Watch your step,” I warned as I grabbed a pylon and made the awkward jump to the boat. The sixty-foot craft hardly moved under my weight, but I still took a moment to get my balance. Trent was quickly behind, and Jenks hummed impatiently as I dug my keys from my pocket and unlocked the sliding-glass door. It was a substantial lock for a boat, but Kisten had been all about safety.

  Not that it saved him in the end.

  Jenks flew in ahead, and I followed, Trent slow in the rear. He’d never actually been in Kisten’s boat before, and I watched his eyes take in the lightweight but expensive finishes in approval. “I can see why you want to stay here. This is nice,” he said, but all I heard was Why don’t you move in with me?

  “It is, isn’t it?” I paused in the low-ceilinged, multi-windowed living room so he could take in the plush furniture and expansive but outdated TV and sound system. It was nice, but it was cold, especially in the morning, and I was glad Jenks was leaving.

  “The kitchen is up here,” I said, my boots loud on the teak floorboards. My eyes slid from the framed chart that Kisten had on the wall, the heavy black line tracing down the Ohio River to the Mississippi, and finally out into the Gulf, where it continued all the way to the Caribbean. My gut hurt, and I turned away. Dreams Kisten knew were never possible kept him alive . . . until they didn’t.

  It was funny. I hadn’t thought about Kisten in weeks, but bringing Trent here made me feel as if I was betraying his memory. Kisten, though, would have told me to get over it and live my life.

  Jenks was fussing over his pill-bottle-size jar of pollen as I went into the small kitchen. It had a tiny oven that didn’t work well enough to use and a two-burner stove. The fridge was residential size, but the counter space was confining after living in the church’s expansive savanna. Jeez, it’s going to be quiet with Jenks gone.

  “This it?” Trent said as he picked the jar up, and Jenks’s wings dusted an affirmative silver.

  “Yep. Rache, you mind if I take some coffee since I’m here?”

  “I’ve got coffee,” Trent offered, but Jenks ignored him. Toting his groceries was one thing, adding to them was another.

  “Help yourself,” I said, but Jenks was already folding a forgotten receipt into a container. The curling tape had just the right give and strength to make a pixy-size origami box.

  “Great, thanks.” The scent of coffee rose in the small kitchen as Jenks took a teaspoon. It would last him a month. “Hey, watch it, shoemaker!” the pixy shrilled when Trent shook the jar of pollen in interest. “That’s two months in the garden there. It’s going to clump if you shake it.”

  Trent stopped, the tips of his pointy ears reddening to make him look boyishly charming. “Sorry. Um, will it be okay in the car?”

  “Sure. Put it in the cup holder so it doesn’t roll around,” Jenks said, and Trent held it as if it was a tube of C-4.

  “You want anything else?” I asked, and Jenks rose up, hands on his hips.

  “Three more months of summer,” he muttered.

  “So we drop you at the church,” I said. “Then pick you up in a few hours. What’s it going to be, Trent?” I said as I twined my fingers in his and we headed up to the door. “Coffee at Carew Tower? A paddle down the Ohio River? Golf? There’re a couple of movies I’ve been wanting to see, or we could go for a drive out to Loveland Castle. The leaves are gone and you can see the creek.”

  “Mmmm.” Trent’s fingers slipped from mine as we went back outside; I needed both hands to get my keys from my bag and lock up. “You know what I’d really like to do?”

  I brought my eyes back from Jenks’s fading dust trail headed straight across the lot past Trent’s car and into Piscary’s. “What?”

  He pulled me close, and my breath caught. “I want to take a private tour of the elven heritage exhibit.” He hesitated. “If you want to.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Really?” I knew it had bothered him that they had postponed the opening after Ivy, Jenks, and I had stolen one of the artifacts. I’d feel bad about it, except I had needed the elven slaver rings to keep magic from dying out. Destroying them afterward had been a real pleasure. The tools the elves and demons had used in their war were ugly: no pity, no remorse, no mercy. I didn’t like that we still had to deal with them like unexploded mines in a farm field.

  “They’ll let you do that?” I asked as we went to the railing. True, Trent was sponsoring the exhibit, but that might not mean much anymore.

  He smiled, the sun catching his hair to turn it white as he made the long step to the quay. “With enough warning, sure.” He extended his hand, and he helped me up with a comfortable companionship. “If you want to.”

  “Absolutely,” I said as I rose into the sun. “I won’t be able to see any of it on opening night.” I let my shoulder fall into his as we headed for the car, loving that he was here with me and we had the entire two days to ourselves. “You want me to work it, right?”

  “If you’re available. I never get to see the exhibits on opening night, either.” His focus went into the distance, seeing the past. Or maybe the future. “I could really use the positive PR boost this will give me when it’s finally open. I’ve been getting too much hate mail lately.”

  I slumped, remembering Quen’s report, but he just shook his head and turned away when I searched his expression. Hate mail was the least of his worries. It was more like ongoing corporate-takeover attempts by elf-owned businesses, dragging, frivolous criminal-act lawsuits, and never-ending sabotage from small-minded employees bringing his legitimate farms and other endeavors to a slow grind.

  There was good reason I accompanied him to public events, and it wasn’t because I looked good in heels. The exhibit itself was more than a collection of elven artifacts. It was even more than a joyous public announcement that elves existed and had a rich cultural past. It was Trent reminding his people that it was his family who had risked persecution and death to develop the illegal genetic procedures that kept them alive until Trent himself risked his life and freedom to find an ancient elven DNA sample to break the demons’ curse entirely. It had put him on the demons’ auction block to be bought and sold by the very same demons who had once been owned by elves themselves. And I, being “Rachel-ly” as Jenks would say, couldn’t stomach it, even though Trent and I had barely tolerated each other at that point.

  He hadn’t thanked me for saving him for a lon
g time, grappling with the knowledge that I was a demon, one who survived infancy because his father, Kalamack Sr., had broken the demons’ curse. We still didn’t know if it was an accident or perhaps long-term planning on Trent’s dad’s part. Trent would have never survived the ever-after without a “demon’s” help.

  And if I thought the public outcry had been bad for admitting I was a demon, it was even worse when Trent openly acknowledged that he not only supported me, a demon, but that he loved me. And if he loved me, he could no longer blindly hate demons.

  It was when he had asked the elven population to do the same that things got toxic. That was when they turned on him, and now he was down to lavish shows of charity he could no longer afford and new museum elven wings across the U.S. that he had no money to pay for—the intent being to remind them they survived and thrived because of him.

  His downfall was 100 percent my fault. Without me, he’d again be the elven Sa’han, regaining all his old status and more as the savior of his species. I, too, would be accepted by my demon kin if I simply walked away. But to do so would break both of us. We were better together: Trent less ruthless and me less, well . . . Rachel-ly.

  Seeing Trent’s head down in thought, the wind gently moving his wispy almost white hair, I slipped my fingers in his and tugged his attention to me. My heart seemed to nearly burst when he smiled and visibly shelved his worry for later. We did better together than apart, and I couldn’t bear to lose him.

  “The museum sounds great,” I said, but I meant far more.

  “Good,” he said, mood brighter. “Let’s grab something to eat while I set it up.”

  Happy with the world, I leaned deeper into him, our steps striking the old pavement in perfect time. Eleven was early for me for breakfast, much less lunch, but I’d gotten up at six. God! No wonder elves have nearly gone extinct. “Where can we get a good hamburger with ketchup?”

  “Ketchup?” Trent grinned, clearly enjoying the chance to flaunt his Inderland status. “Ah, the Cincinnatian is close.”

  Everything was close in Cincinnati, but it would be nice to go downtown when the traffic was this light. “Sure,” I said, arm about his waist as we walked to the car. “They’ve got big, dripping hamburgers. And fries. Lots of fries.”

  Trent hesitated at the car, his eyes on Piscary’s. Jenks had gone in and hadn’t come out yet. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you like to eat.”

  I grinned, but my motion to lean against his car hesitated when the back door to Piscary’s loading dock banged open and Ivy came out, a sparkle of pixy dust on her shoulder.

  “She’s up late,” I said, and Trent turned. “And . . . angry?” I added, though angry was an understatement. She looked positively pissed, her eyes squinting at me and her arms swinging.

  “What did you say to Edden?” she shouted before she had gotten even halfway across the vacant parking lot, and my smile faded as I remembered walking out on him and why. “He left me a voice message yesterday, and I didn’t get it until this morning. I’ve never heard anyone sound that despondent and still be alive.”

  “Yeah?” I said as she halted before me, squinting in the bright cold. “I told him to shove his lame-ass run.”

  “He asked you for help and you dissed him?” Ivy said.

  My arms had gone around my middle, and annoyed with myself, I forced them down. “The only reason Edden brought me in was because the FIB’s working theory is that a demon is behind the murders, just for the hell of it. He asked me to snoop around in my ‘unique circles’ and ask which demon did it. Damn straight I walked out.” Chin high, I waited for someone to tell me I was being too sensitive so I could get in their face and tell them otherwise.

  But Ivy dropped back, glancing at Trent as her anger vanished. “Oh.” She hesitated. “Asking around isn’t so bad,” she offered.

  “Yeah, Rache,” Jenks said. “Asking around is how runners get things done.”

  Neither one of them was fully backing me, but Trent was at my side, and the memory of Al’s stoic anger told me I’d been right. “He didn’t ask me to ask around,” I said, proud I wasn’t shouting. See, I can learn. “He asked me to find out which demon was responsible. His entire department is assuming it’s a demon, to the point where they aren’t even looking anywhere else. We’ve been here for two months,” I said, including myself with my found kin. “And the first time the FIB runs into something they don’t recognize, they blame the demons.” I took a breath to slow my anger. What was it Trent did to defuse a situation? Oh, yeah. Agree with them using a qualifier.

  “Maybe I overreacted,” I said, but it sounded sullen, even to me.

  “No, you didn’t.” Ivy shot a look at Jenks when he opened his mouth to protest, adding, “Assuming a demographic is responsible for a crime because it’s easier than admitting you’re capable of it as well leads to worse corruption. Damn it, Rachel.” Ivy slumped. “I had no idea that’s why Edden agreed to let you interview Jack. I’m sure he didn’t realize . . .”

  Her words trailed off, her extended hand falling helplessly, and my own anger eased.

  “Yeah. Sure,” I said, but it felt as if I could’ve handled it differently now that I’d had time to cool off. “Look,” I said, squinting at Jenks, who clearly didn’t like Edden and me being on the outs no matter what the reason. “I’ll call him Monday, but I’ll be damned before I work in a department that thinks I’m there to drum up evidence on demons. I’d still like to talk to Jack’s wife.” I hesitated, glancing at Trent. “Whoever this is, I think they went after Al last night.”

  Please don’t be Hodin, I thought, my gaze rising to search for a bedraggled crow. But what would Hodin get from setting couples against one another? Notoriety he didn’t want?

  “No way!” Jenks rose up from Trent’s shoulder, and Ivy’s eyebrows lifted in interest. “Someone is trying to kill Al?”

  And maybe me? I wondered. Al said he’d been having nightmares. He’d also said that Hodin had been known to work through dreams.

  My hand dropped to my bag to feel my scrying mirror. Perhaps Hodin and I should chat now that my aura was back. “I’m working on it, just not with the FIB,” I said as I forced my hands from my bag. “Demons committing crimes are no longer considered tools anymore, are they?”

  Trent shook his head. It had been one of the first laws to go, mostly because of the damage Ku’Sox and I had wrought from one edge of the continent to the other. I still wasn’t allowed into San Francisco, which sucked because that’s where the witches’ yearly con was.

  Ivy hunched in the cold, her dark hair glistening in the bright sun and her thoughts visibly shifting behind her eyes. “We had another assault this morning. I don’t suppose you might want to come down this afternoon and interview her at the I.S., would you?”

  My breath caught, and then I collapsed in on myself. “Ah, Trent and I were about to go to lunch and then the museum,” I hedged.

  But Trent was smiling as he tugged me closer, making me shiver when he whispered, “This is more important.”

  “Everyone dead is downstairs,” Ivy insisted, ignoring Jenks pretending to barf sparkles. “If I’m going to sneak you in—and I’m going to have to sneak you in—now is the time. It would be easier with only Rachel and Jenks, but I can get you in there, too, Trent.”

  Trent shook his head, his smile holding more than a hint of pride. I knew he was disappointed that I was trashing our plans, the first weekend without the girls in two months, but he also knew that the three of us—Ivy, Jenks, and myself—might get this wrapped up in a week instead of it languishing for months with more deaths every day. “No, thank you,” he said, giving me another squeeze I could feel through my jacket. “I’ll wait somewhere and catch a few z’s. Or bail you out. Whatever comes first.”

  “You sure?” I said in gratitude. Not for bailing us out, but that he was taking it so well.

&nbs
p; He let go of me and dropped back. “I’ll use the time to arrange a private viewing. Maybe smooth out some of Landon’s lies.” He tilted his head to Jenks. “Harvest a stalk of milkweed?”

  “Two,” Jenks countered, “as thick as your thumb,” and my jaw dropped. He was going to let Trent harvest something for him? From the church? How come he never let me help him?

  Ivy turned to Piscary’s. “I’ll drive. Let me tell Nina where I’m going and grab my coat,” she said, and when I nodded, she spun, pacing fast to Piscary’s delivery entrance.

  “You’re the best,” I said to Trent, and Jenks groaned, dusting a heavy green as I gave Trent a long kiss and a hug, my love for him making me feel I was finally doing something right with my life. “Thanks for not wigging out.”

  “Yeah, thanks for picking up my grandkids’ poop bags,” Jenks said, ruining it as he hovered two inches from our faces, hands on his hips in his best Peter Pan pose.

  Sighing, Trent let go and dropped back to his car. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Call me when you’re done. Or if you need me.”

  “Will do,” I said, and with Jenks on my shoulder, I followed Ivy back into Piscary’s.

  CHAPTER

  11

  “Relax, Rache,” Jenks said from my shoulder as we walked through the back hallways of the I.S. tower. “Trent isn’t mad for you ditching him. Did you see his aura brighten up? He’s got stuff to do.”

  “Like what?” I grimaced, not liking that Ivy felt the need to sneak us in through the garage.

  “Like defusing that bomb you exploded yesterday on air in Cincinnati?” Jenks said, and I winced at Ivy’s chuckle. “He’s not napping,” he added confidently. “He’s testing the waters in the enclave.” Jenks’s wings tickled my neck. “Now that the truth is out.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” I said, arms swinging as I paced beside Ivy and tried to look as if I still belonged here. But my guilt didn’t ease, it only shifted focus. Jenks was right. Trent had things to do other than go to the museum—things that would further his standing and voice. He was neglecting his career to spend time with me. I was bringing him down.