Siren Song

by A

  his unease became.

  He stared at me for a long moment in silence, his dark eyes burning with intensity. The

  tension built until he could stand it no longer. He spoke in a quiet voice, but his entire body

  was quivering, as if it was costing him everything he had to maintain control. ―It doesn‘t

  bother you at all, does it? We were kidnapped . . . tortured. You killed people.‖

  He sounded so damned judgmental. I felt sorry for him, but I was also angry. I‘d saved his

  ass out there. They were going to kill us both. He knew it. He‘d seen it in the driver‘s mind.

  ―What the hell was I supposed to have done? It was a professional kidnapping. We could have

  died— would have if it hadn‘t been for Ivy‘s intervention and my fighting abilities. You want

  someone to blame? Fine. But it damned well better not be me, because it wasn‘t my fault.‖ I

  met Jeff‘s gaze without backing down. I was pissed. How dare he sit there acting all high-and-

  mighty?

  I continued. ―Of course it bothers me. And it scares the hell out of me. Because they were

  pros—pros with police connections. But it wasn‘t your fault. It wasn‘t mine, either. And if it‘s

  a choice between me and them, I choose me. I made up my mind about that a long time ago.‖

  ―It‘s not that simple.‖ He crumpled in the face of my anger. He was whispering and looking

  down at the palms of his hands in the classic ―Lady Macbeth‖ pose. He was suffering, really

  suffering. He needed professional help.

  ―Yeah, it is.‖ I spoke as gently as I could. ―Ultimately, it really is that simple. You don‘t

  need to feel guilty. You didn‘t kill anybody. And I only killed those who would have seen us

  dead.‖

  ―That doesn‘t make it any better.‖ He looked at me, his eyes haunted.

  ―It doesn‘t?‖

  ―No. You can‘t imagine what it felt like to have him inside my mind—slicing, cutting just to

  hurt me. . . . It was—‖ He swallowed hard. ―He laughed when I screamed and then did it

  again.‖ Dear lord, they‘d raped him, as surely as if it had been his body. He‘d been tortured.

  Just like I‘d been, with Ivy. ―I can‘t even close my eyes at night without seeing flashes of raw

  magic.‖

  Well, shit. Then I really didn‘t know how to help. I started to touch him and then realized it

  would be the wrong thing to do. Too personal. ―Look, Jeff, you need to talk to somebody. You

  really do. Post-traumatic stress can do terrible things to a person if they don‘t get help. You

  know that better than anyone. I know it from firsthand experience. You‘ve been tortured. Just

  because you don‘t have scars doesn‘t mean you don‘t have scars. ‖

  I watched him fight to pull himself back together, saw the pleasant mask slide into place. In

  a minute, two at the most, he looked like his old self. It was a good act. Anyone who hadn‘t

  seen him break down would never guess there was anything wrong.

  ―You can have the day pass. I‘ll take care of the paperwork. It‘ll be ready for you in a half

  hour.‖ He stood, the usual signal that it was time to go. I rose but didn‘t move toward the door.

  ―I meant what I said. You need to get help. I know you don‘t want anyone here to know, but

  if you go somewhere else—‖

  ―Word can still get around,‖ he said sourly. ―People talk. Oh, they don‘t use names. But it

  always gets around. It‘s too juicy not to.‖

  ―Not if you make them take binding oaths.‖ My voice was cold, hard.

  His eyebrows rose high enough to disappear beneath his hair. Obviously, I‘d surprised him.

  Maybe it was that I cared enough to suggest it. Or maybe it was the whole ―binding oath‖

  thing. Most people aren‘t willing to take a true binding. It impinges too much on their free will.

  And it‘s not an easy thing to do. Only a top-flight magical practitioner or a true-believer cleric

  can pull it off. But if you can get it done, they are completely reliable.

  ―I‘ll think about it.‖ I hoped he would. But I wasn‘t sure.

  He gestured toward the door with one hand. I was being dismissed.

  I felt bad, but I couldn‘t think of anything more I could do for him. So I left.

  6

  It took me an hour to leave Birchwoods. Thanks to Jeff‘s orders to the staff, I was able to get

  my keys, cell phone, and some of my personal belongings. I made a few calls, making

  arrangements, and decided to change into real clothes. I was almost deliriously happy not to be

  wearing gray. Stupid, I know, but still true.

  Most important, I needed to eat—or, rather, drink. Oooooh, baby. I was overdue and it was

  starting to show. Thus far I‘ve avoided actual uncooked blood, even animal. The longer I can

  keep it that way, the better, as far as I‘m concerned. I mean, ewwww. And even if I eventually

  have to do the animal blood thing for nutritional reasons, that‘s as far as it will go. I am never

  going to taste human blood. Period. End of story.

  Of course nobody else seems to believe that. They tell me that once I taste human blood, I‘ll

  turn into a full vampire. And everyone seems to believe that someday I‘ll ―succumb.‖ I refuse

  to. I am not a fucking bat and I have no intention of becoming one. Still, temptation is

  definitely something to be avoided.

  On the plus side, the chef here has taught me that it‘s possible to have shakes that actually

  taste like what they were in the solid stage. I asked him to put together some recipes. It‘ll be

  worth the money. We‘ve been experimenting with baby food in hopes that I can eventually

  work my way up to solids.

  For the moment, I asked for a repeat of the waffle shake, with an additional protein

  component of some kind to get my day started on the right nutritional footing. They said it

  would take a few minutes to put together, so I took my time picking what I wanted to wear

  from among the extremely limited choices available to me at the moment. In the end I decided

  on my favorite pair of faded blue jeans and a polo in a shade of blue. My hair is naturally silver

  blond and while my eyes are gray rather than blue, the shirt was in one of the few colors that

  didn‘t look odd with my new complexion I decided to bring along a long-sleeved denim jacket

  and hat for practical reasons. Slathering on heavy-duty sunscreen works for a while, but when

  it wears off I can wind up with second- and third-degree burns in no time. They don‘t scar, but

  they‘re painful as hell. So like it or loathe it, I cover as much skin as I can during daylight

  hours.

  I wished I had my weapons. Any weapons. But I hadn‘t brought any with me to the wake, so

  I didn‘t have any at Birchwoods. Unless Bruno had hidden a couple in my car when he‘d

  brought it over, I was going to have to do without.

  I took a couple extra minutes to do my makeup. My friend Dawna did some extensive online

  shopping in the short period between my being bitten and her becoming disabled trying to find

  colors that don‘t make me look like a clown. I ended up with a really minimalist palette that

  leans toward stark, cool colors. It‘s made me understand the whole ―vampires in black‖ thing.

  There just aren‘t many colors that look good when you‘re undead.

  By the time the food arrived I looked presentable. I even had a cute little purse to go with

  the outfit. When I‘m working, I ju
st slip my wallet and phone into the pockets of my jacket,

  but I was feeling girly today. Seeing Ren looking so flawless had pricked my vanity a little,

  much as I hated to admit it.

  I wolfed down the warm, buttery, maple-flavored slushy, suddenly sorry I hadn‘t asked for

  two. It seemed hard to believe there was actually nutrition in it. Even better, the ―meat protein‖

  the chef had chosen was a maplewood beef sausage that went perfectly with my ―waffle.‖ It

  tasted like real food and I‘d have paid money for it in any restaurant, even before the attack.

  I was ready to dive out the door when a nurse stopped by with a syringe and a tray of tubes.

  ―What‘s this for?‖

  ―Your treating physician said we needed to test your blood to see if you were linked

  magically to anyone.‖

  We‘d talked about that in therapy. I was confident my vampire sire was dead. King Dahlmar

  had taken care of that as an advance payment for helping him with his son and the demon. I

  was grateful enough to have my sire dead that I‘d wrapped my body around the unconscious

  prince to protect him while a seriously ticked-off demon sliced and diced me. But there were

  still questions about other vamps and sirens and heaven only knows what. Yeah, I wanted to

  know who I was ―linked‖ to. ―Oh, right. Can you make it quick? I need to get going.‖

  ―Do my best.‖

  It probably only felt like he drew as much as the bloodmobile would. Still, I managed not to

  complain. I am trying very hard to be a cooperative patient . . . with limited success. But I am

  trying. Several tubes later I was able to grab the Wadjeti and dive out the door.

  As the gate to the facility swung closed behind the back bumper of my Miata I felt a surge

  of pure joy. Freedom! There‘s nothing like it. I hate feeling trapped, and a gilded cage is still a

  cage. So while I might only be out for a mere twelve hours, I was going to make the most of it.

  First stop—the university and a meeting with Warren Landingham. He was my favorite

  professor in college and had earned the affectionate nickname El Jefe. He‘s one of the top

  experts in the world on all things paranormal. And if he doesn‘t know the answers, he‘s bound

  to know someone who does. I couldn‘t wait to show him the Wadjeti and the curse mark and to

  find out what had been going on with my friends during my absence. As Kevin and Emma‘s

  father, he generally stays pretty well in the loop in our little circle of friends.

  I turned onto Ocean View, windows down so that I could feel the early-morning breeze

  blow through, hear the sounds and smell the scents of the ocean.

  It was going to be a busy day. There were a lot of things I needed to do and one or two

  others I wanted to. Top of the latter list was attending the reading of Vicki‘s Will. Jeff had

  actually suggested (strongly) I not go. If he‘d had his normal presence of mind, he would have

  remembered that the reading was today. I felt a little bad about not reminding him. But only a

  little.

  Vicki‘s mother is fairly ruthless and a little unscrupulous. I worried that if I didn‘t attend the

  reading, things could mysteriously . . . happen to the original Will. Yeah, it sucks to be that

  paranoid, but my own mom is no prize, so I have low expectations. Such were my none-too-

  pleasant musings when my cell phone rang. Swearing, I tried to keep my eyes on the road and

  the steering wheel steady with my left hand while I rummaged in my purse with my right.

  I managed to get my hands on the phone without doing anything unfortunate and flicked it

  open, hitting the buttons to answer and put it on speaker. ―Celia here.‖

  ―Oh good, I caught you.‖

  I recognized Warren‘s voice immediately. He wasn‘t the first person I‘d called about Ren‘s

  little gift. I‘d tried to ring Bruno the moment I was outside the facility‘s cell phone–jamming

  range, but he didn‘t answer. I really hoped to get his take on it. Even more important, I had a

  couple of questions about the death curse and the mark on my palm. Like why hadn‘t anyone

  noticed it before this and, oh, I dunno, maybe, how the hell can we get rid of it? But with the

  time difference on the East Coast, he was probably already at work, doing something where he

  couldn‘t take calls. I‘d left a voice mail. Even if he didn‘t get back to me today, I was pretty

  sure he‘d be at my hearing tomorrow. Then I‘d called Warren.

  Now, I couldn‘t help but smile. ―What‘s up?‖

  ―I called a friend of mine over at UCLA. If you can put off your visit to the campus until

  four, I‘ve arranged a videoconference call with her. She‘s very interested to see your Wadjeti.

  If it‘s as old and as powerful as you say, she‘d like to arrange to come up and see it in person.

  She seemed astonished that you‘d have such a thing.‖

  ―Why?‖

  ―Apparently, while there are a number of imitation, mass-manufactured sets that have hit the

  market in the past few years, there are only two complete ancient Wadjeti on hand. One is on

  display in the Smithsonian. The other‘s in a museum in Cairo.‖

  Wow. All right then. Just to make sure we were actually talking about the same thing I said,

  ―Well, Ren called it a Wadjeti. Basically it‘s a carved box containing a bunch of thumb-sized

  scarabs of different colors with symbols carved onto the bottom of each.‖

  ―That‘s a Wadjeti all right. Used correctly they‘re extremely accurate tools for divination.‖

  Which meant it would be pretty much useless to me. ―As soon as your friend has had her

  look at it, I‘m locking it up in the safe. It‘s got enough juice that my hand‘s still tingling and it

  knocked Ren flat on her ass.‖ I continued, ―Did you have any luck on the curse?‖

  ―Possibly. Dr. Sloan agreed to come by the office and take a look at you while you‘re here.

  He seemed pretty skeptical. Said that if you‘d had it long and the curse was that strong, one of

  us surely would‘ve noticed it back when you were a student.‖

  ―Unless it got put on me after.‖ I checked the mirror and changed lanes. If I wasn‘t going

  straight to the university, I might as well stop by the office before the Will reading. I wanted to

  check on Dawna, my secretary and friend, and there were no doubt plenty of messages and

  other things to take care of. I‘d also be able to put Ren‘s gift behind wards until it was time to

  head for the university. Maybe I was being overly cautious, but better safe than sorry.

  ―Always a possibility.‖ Warren agreed. ―Aaron has class until four fifteen, but he said he‘d

  stop by my office right after.‖

  ―I really appreciate all of this, Warren.‖

  He laughed. ―I don‘t mind. In fact, I‘m rather looking forward to seeing the artifact. And

  curses are always fascinating.‖

  ―Particularly to the cursee.‖ My voice practically dripped sarcasm.

  Warren knows me too well to be offended. He laughed and said, ―Just be careful. I don‘t

  want anything to happen to you before you can get here.‖

  ―Your lips to God‘s ear.‖ I hit the end button on the phone.

  I felt better. Oh, I was still worried, but Warren was on the job. If there was a way out from

  under this, he‘d find it. In the meantime, it was a beautiful day in sunny Cali. I wasn‘t locked

  up. Things could definitely be worse.

&n
bsp; Even thinking something like that is tempting fate. But hey, no risk, no gain.

  After only a few minutes on the freeway I turned off and went tooling through the older

  section of the city. I felt the familiar sharp tingle as I passed over the wards around the parking

  lot of the building where I have my offices, pulled into my usual parking spot, and hopped out

  of the car.

  My offices are on the third floor of an old Queen Anne–style Victorian mansion. It‘s a

  beautiful building, perfectly tended. I took a deep breath, soaking in the scent of flowering

  shrubs and stately old palms. But I discovered the careful order was only surface deep.

  Because when I stepped through the door I learned a new definition of chaos.

  Anyone who is used to having their office life organized by a really efficient secretary

  knows the kind of hell that breaks loose when said secretary is out.

  It was instantly obvious to me that Dawna had not opened the office this morning—and that

  she probably hadn‘t been in for a couple of days at least. The phone was ringing off the hook,

  and as I raced to answer it I stumbled into a pile of UPS parcels behind the desk. The

  unmistakable smell of caramelized coffee was floating out of the kitchen, and somewhere in

  the middle distance I heard a cat yowling. A cat?

  ―What the hell?‖ Skirting the boxes, I managed to dive behind the desk. All four lines were

  ringing. I answered each and put them all on hold, then raced to the kitchen to take the

  coffeepot off the burner. I didn‘t feel like picking shards of glass out of my feet for a week if

  the carafe shattered from overcooking. With that crisis averted, I began wading through the

  rest of the mess. After about fifteen minutes and the third insulting and irate caller, I resolved

  that I never, ever, was going to be a secretary. I truly don‘t the temperament. Still, I managed

  to sort through things well enough that Ron, the attorney whose office is on the first floor,

  actually opened his door and looked out to see why the ruckus had stopped. Not that he had

  made any effort whatsoever to help stop the ruckus. But that was Ron, down to his probably

  pedicured toenails.

  I‘d noticed there were people in the waiting room, and while my higher brain function