Two Lines

by Melissa Marr

  Then Muriel added, “But the next time you go to the club, I’m coming, too.”

  Before Eavan could object, Muriel raised the hand not holding the bottle. Perfectly tinted nails and understated rings flashed through the air. “No invitation, no help. Either you hunt or you don’t, Evvie. Either you persist at this I-want-to-be-mortal nonsense or you accept your heritage. This half-assed thing is going to stop.”

  “But—”

  “Tell me you aren’t right there at the edge with Brennan?” Muriel’s sweet exterior was gone. This was the vampire that had gone toe-to-toe with Nyx and survived. Her doll-pretty exterior was a façade; her coquettish charm was a ruse. Muriel was every breath the monster Nyx was. “Tell me, Evvie, and we’ll discuss it further.”

  Eavan wanted to argue, but there wasn’t anything that she could say without lying. “No more club trips without you.”

  “I’ll stand by you if you want to be mortal. I’ll help you if you want to be glaistig.” Muriel’s more familiar, kinder expression returned. She widened her blue eyes in a pleading way. “I just don’t want to see you regret whichever it is because you were being foolish.”

  If I stop, what happens to the next Chastity? Eavan didn’t bother saying that though; Muriel wouldn’t be swayed by that concern any more than Nyx would. Family first. That was how the Others thought, and mortals weren’t family.

  3

  Cillian walked toward Dorothea Dix Hospital on his nightly mind-clearing stroll. He’d spent the past several hours going over his file, but still had no clue how to get closer to Brennan or how he got the unknown powder he cut his coke with. Whatever the silvery talcumlike material was, it wasn’t matching anything on the periodic table or the existing databases at the Crypto Drug Administration.

  The drug was appearing in other areas around the country, and Brennan was the closest thing to a source that the C.D.A. had found. The I-85 and I-40 intersection tended, like many such interstate crossings, to be a drug-heavy region. Durham had a definite heroin business. Volumes of marijuana and cocaine slid through, but those weren’t issues for the C.D.A. Crypto Drugs dealt exclusively in the chemicals that utilized or targeted the Others that hid in mortal society. Brennan’s powder was an anomaly even in an organization established around coping with the unusual. The C.D.A. didn’t like anomalies.

  Or lack of results.

  No one in Brennan’s immediate circle seemed approachable. None of the victims was around long enough to be of use. The only one who seemed like a potential in was one woman Brennan kept circling, but she seemed to be stalking the drug dealer when he wasn’t stalking her.

  So I stalk the stalkers.

  Cillian thought about the dark-haired girl. Eve. He’d stared at her picture frequently enough that he’d begun to feel like a perv. He wanted her not to be a victim or a criminal, but he couldn’t find any evidence to suggest which she was or any logical way she wasn’t one of the two. Nice girls don’t flirt with drug dealers. Nice girls don’t spend inordinate amounts of time at strip clubs. He was pretty sure of that—except everything else he could find on Eavan made her seem like a nice girl. She worked at her jobs for short periods, but her employment records were all flattering. She was average: modest clothes, nondescript reading habits, no odd purchases, not a single unexplained trip; in sum, there wasn’t anything at all that would flag her as criminal.

  Still thinking about Eve, he let himself into the apartment he’d rented.

  Just inside the door, he stopped. A cream-colored envelope sat propped up against a book on his kitchen table. No one knew he lived here other than his supervisors, and they weren’t the sort of people to leave notes with calligraphic lettering on his table.

  A quick search of the tiny apartment revealed that he was alone. After donning a pair of gloves, he carefully opened the letter. Mr. Owens, If you’d like to resolve the D.B. problem you’re having, contact me. Nyx. Under it was an address in the historic district and a meeting time that was just late enough to be private.

  Several hours later, Cillian parked up the block from the address on the note; he glanced again at the sheet of lilac paper sealed in the bag on his passenger seat as he cut off the engine. The paper, the calligraphic writing, the lavender scent on the paper—it wasn’t covert. It didn’t seem apropos of intrigue.

  At least not any sort I’m used to. Prior to this assignment, he’d worked in the research and clean-up divisions of the C.D.A.

  He closed the car door quietly and made his way up the flagstone path. A woman sat on the front porch. She looked to be in her thirties at most. She was stern, eyes too flat, smile too calculating; everything about her was predatory in the true sense of the word. Whispers of caution rose from that instinctual part of the mind: walk carefully, mind the escape routes.

  “Mr. Owens, so nice of you to visit.”

  “Nyx?” His voice was steadier than his emotions. He’d walked into altercations that resulted in hospital visits, but this beautiful, polite Southern woman in a semi-public location was setting off the same sort of alarms usually reserved for the truly unsavory.

  What is she?

  “Come.” Nyx patted the swing beside her. Then she reached over to a crystal decanter sitting on a side table. “Whiskey?”

  “No thanks.”

  “It’s not poisoned, dear.” She smiled a courtesan’s smile. “Poison isn’t a method I prefer. Too distant.”

  Cillian paused midstep and looked around the porch and azaleas that lined the front of it. There were no other people he could see, nothing that looked dangerous. Except Nyx. He’d learned before his first year with the C.D.A. that criminals didn’t all look dangerous. Usually, though, they weren’t this odd combination of ballsy, blunt, and beautiful. “Is there another method I should be watching for?”

  She laughed and poured herself a drink. “Sit down, Mr. Owens. The neighbors needn’t see you looking at me so cautiously. They’re used to my business, but discretion is always wise…especially in your business.”

  He sat next to her, but not so close that he couldn’t reach his gun. “I’m not sure what you think you know, Ms.—”

  “Nyx.” She sipped her drink and smiled. “It’s just Nyx.”

  If not for the fear he felt as he sat beside her, he’d find her attractive. She was all curves and muscles, and none of it hidden. Thick dark hair fell around her like a cloak. She was near-naked from the waist up, clad in a sheer top over bare skin; dark aureoles and pert nipples more than visible. Not an inch of flesh was bared below the waist. A long skirt and boots hid her legs.

  Why hide the rest of—

  “I see the temptation in your expression,” Nyx said softly. “Trust me, Mr. Owens; you’re much better off not following those thoughts to completion.”

  He was here on business. Ogling someone he might have to kill was bad form. He forced himself to hold her gaze.

  And Nyx smiled then. Her posture hadn’t changed. Her spine was arrow-straight, making her very not-sagging breasts—

  I’m not like this. He felt positively amoral. His libido was healthy enough, but he didn’t mix business and recreation. I’m not going to start, either. He caught and held her gaze. Like being held in the gaze of the snakes in the reptile house…without the safety of the glass.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  She handed him a picture. “This is Eavan.”

  Eve.

  Cillian kept his face blank. “And?”

  “The girl, my cousin Eavan, is getting mixed up with a man I’d rather she didn’t. You’re stalking him, so I thought we might help each other.” Nyx folded her legs up on the swing, angling her body so she was facing him. “I’d rather Daniel Brennan die. I find him…unpleasant, but Evvie would be cross with me if I killed him.”

  “Do you often murder people you find unpleasant?” The words were out before he could think better of them. Despite looking like an ingénue, Nyx spoke with a callousness that made Cillian certain that the
woman beside him was, indeed, capable of murder.

  Nyx laughed. “I think we’ll both be happier if you don’t ask too many questions like that, Cillian. I know who you are. I know about the C.D.A., and I know that Mr. Brennan is a person of interest to your organization.” She lifted a folder from the floor and extended it to him. “Here’s a list of others you might want to investigate.”

  She held it there while he reeled from how casually she listed top security clearance C.D.A. information.

  Cillian reached out and took the folder. “Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you’d be in? We’re talking about treason.”

  She waved away his remark with a flick of her wrist. “Your government isn’t a concern of mine. I know what I know, and you’ll not let anyone find out about me. Do you think that there aren’t people who would erase the entirety of your organization if they realized that your superiors know about…people that treasure privacy? History is filled with stories of strange groups of people, secret societies if you will, vanishing. Your sort exist only because we’ve yet to decide how much of a threat you might be. I believe you can be harnessed and made useful. I need my cousin looked after, and you are getting nowhere with Mr. Brennan. It’s a simple business exchange.” She ran a finger absently through the beads of sweat sliding down her glass and licked a droplet from her fingertip before adding, “I’m trusting you, Mr. Owens.”

  In seven years for the C.D.A., he’d never experienced anything quite as surreal as this meeting. Admitting that he understood that she was Other was a breach of several papers he’d signed under strictest security. She’s not human. She’s just admitted as much. That didn’t mean he could admit it though. He tucked away the questions he wanted answered and focused on the issues he could address: “A single phone call and you’ll be in jail or worse for the rest of your life. You can’t summon a government agent to your house and just…” He shook his head.

  “I trust you because if you expose me or reveal the other unusual things you learn by accepting my offer, I’ll kill you, your sister in Miami, your nephew in Chicago…and your dear sweet father in”—she paused and tilted her head—“where was it? Phoenix, I believe?”

  Cillian had his hand on his 9mm before she was halfway through the threat.

  “Lower your hand, boy.”

  He did, not by choice, but he lowered his hand as obediently as the women addicted to Brennan’s drugs. He couldn’t disobey. “Wha—? Who are you?”

  Nyx sighed. “The answers to that don’t matter to you today. What you need to know right now is that neither you—nor your loved ones—would stand a chance if I asked you to obey me…and no, you may not ask why just now. Put your hands out here where I can see them.”

  When he did so, she nodded placidly as if he’d hadn’t been seconds away from trying to shoot her—and he couldn’t force the questions of how and why from his lips.

  “I can be a great ally. You want to stop Brennan’s drugs. I have reasons to want you to succeed at that,” Nyx said.

  Cillian opened the folder and glanced at the sheets inside. Charts, account numbers, passwords, maps, key codes, names, aliases…it was far more information than he’d seen on Brennan after months of workups and considerably more detailed than anything he’d gathered in the six weeks he’d been in Raleigh.

  Nyx pinched it closed. “You mustn’t tell Evvie that you know me. I’m hiring you as her bodyguard as far as she knows…well, will know.” Nyx’s mouth curved in a wry expression. “Evvie will object. She’ll attempt to evade you. She’ll…be difficult.”

  “I’ll need to talk to my supervisors—”

  “Talk to them, so they can verify the value of that data…but I am an anonymous source.” She stood up and stretched her arms over her head, making her sheer top lift up and expose her bare stomach. This time, though, Cillian wasn’t even slightly tempted.

  “Or what?” he asked.

  She laughed, a husky bedroom sound that made him swallow hard despite his utter distaste. “Or I’ll slaughter everyone who sees this data.”

  He stood and faced her, still holding the folder. It was foolish, but he had to say it: “You’re not human.”

  She put her hand on the folder, pressing it against his chest, leaned in, and kissed his cheek. “If you’re interested in my help, take the folder and be here tomorrow at seven sharp to be introduced to my cousin as her new bodyguard. If not, leave the folder and walk away. I’ll give you an out this once.” She kept her hand on the folder, holding it between them as she invaded his space. “If you accept my offer, please do understand that I’m quite serious about the terms of our contract.”

  Then she turned and left.

  Cillian sat silently in the dark for several minutes, debating the consequences of both actions. If he took the folder, he’d have resources the C.D.A. needed, resources that would enable him to do his job better. If he left it behind, he assured his family’s safety; of course, they were only endangered if he couldn’t keep silent. That wasn’t an issue. The things Cillian had learned in his job weren’t things he shared with his family. This was no different. If Nyx was honest, he and his loved ones were endangered only by violating her privacy. If she wasn’t honest, they were already in danger. Either way, taking the folder didn’t change anything critical. All it really meant was that he was becoming personally involved in the world of the Others.

  Which has been inevitable since I took the damn job.

  He’d expected his overt knowledge of the not-humans to come through official routes, but he’d still expected it from the beginning.

  What difference does it make?

  He took the folder and walked away. Now he just needed to figure out what to tell his supervisors—and protect a woman who was some sort of Other, and, if he was lucky, stop Daniel Brennan. All told, he was more excited about his job than he’d been in months.

  4

  Eavan hated family meetings with a passion she reserved for…actually, a passion she reserved for family meetings. She stood in the street, staring at her home and trying not to fall under the sway of the neighborhood. Oakwood was a little bit of heaven—houses that weren’t prefab monstrosities, people who sunk their roots into their city, a community whose collective energy made this part of the city something pure. Her family always lived in such areas. Unlike the subdivisions that cropped up everywhere, Oakwood and its neighboring Mordecai had personalities, histories, and dark whispers. More than a few of those whispers were tied to the women in Eavan’s family. Sometimes an unfaithful husband vanished. Once in a while, a wayward family member returned home meek and eager to be forgiven. Drug traffic never took hold in the several blocks surrounding their home. No one in their immediate area was ever robbed. Of course, no one would speak directly about the belief that Nyx’s influence was what kept them safe in home and family. Secrets were all the more poignant for the fact that they were openly known, but never spoken. It was enough to keep the neighbors from looking too closely at the family.

  If they truly knew, would they still look away?

  The neighbors might murmur about them being “fancy women” and the scandal of women owning strip clubs, but they didn’t pursue their talk beyond the occasional, and quickly silenced, remark. They didn’t speculate aloud at the family’s methods of keeping peace; there were no titillating rumors voiced about the beautiful murderesses who lived inside the modest house.

  Eavan’s family was a clan of true glaistigs: they devoured people. They were many men’s—and a fair number of women’s—darkest fantasy, but sometimes with a steep price. They didn’t kill many, but they did kill. Glaistigs swallowed the last breath of mortals or strangled them, preferably during sex.

  Monsters.

  She walked around to the back of the house. It was part of the routine she’d clung to in order to keep herself from believing the façade. Routines were her anchor, innumerable little tricks to keep from believing in illusions, to create her own illusion of normal
cy. Going through the front door, the door for guests, was walking into the illusion. The truth was what kept her from surrendering to the role her family wanted for her.

  This is not what I am.

  Steeling herself for the sensory shock, she pushed open the door.

  She wasn’t but a step inside the room, when Mother Chloe appeared in front of her. Uncharacteristically, her legs were hidden away. There must be guests. Even now, no one in her family seemed able to keep her chest, stomach, or arms covered. Given a choice, they’d roam in lingerie.

  Eavan straightened the sleeves of her suit jacket. I am not like them. She’d worked hard to cultivate a modest streak and had gone a bit overboard lately with being so close to the edge. No one else at the office dressed as conservatively as she did; even the senior marketing consultants looked at her oddly.

  She stood silently for her birthmother’s inspection. They were always like this, greeting her at the threshold and assessing her like a stray dog returned to the pack. Chloe glanced at Eavan’s stocking-covered calves approvingly. She smiled—until she looked up and saw Eavan’s tightly wound bun. “Well, that certainly sets a mood, doesn’t it?”

  “You asked me to let it grow again,” Eavan reminded. She sat her briefcase at the front door and slipped off her pumps.

  “I don’t understand you.” Chloe walked away, her boots striking the tile floor in a regular rhythm, sounding out the familiar cadence, bringing to mind memories of a lifetime of late night music sessions. Chloe insisted on wearing boots that would resonate on the floor as her own cloven feet would. She liked music, even that made of her own movement.

  Despite her irritation, Eavan smiled at the sound. For years when she’d lived in the house, she’d been happy. Things had made sense, but back then, she’d known little of what she’d one day become. It wasn’t until she was a teenager that she understood the parties, the musicians, and the strange cries. Her mother-family, glaistigs all, fed on acts of sex and death. It was essential that they feed; it kept them alive. Eavan understood it—but understanding didn’t equate to wanting to be like them.