High Stakes Trial

by Mindy Klasky

  And once he was gone?

  I ate. I ate a lot.

  I raided Chris’s kitchen, toasting three slices of the really good whole-grain bread he kept in the freezer. One got topped with thick slices of cheddar. Another provided a sturdy base for an open-face roast beef sandwich, the fresh deli slices rare the way I liked them. I transformed the third into dessert, slathering it with Nutella. I added an apple to my crowded plate and then I grabbed a banana for good measure.

  What? Communing with the goddess was hungry business. Plus, I was blessed with the metabolism of a sphinx.

  Or maybe—just maybe—I was trying to delay thinking about what I’d seen when I spoke with Mother Sekhmet.

  Sure, there was the interaction with the little boy, my realization that I had to protect all Turned vampires. There was the chilling charge to find the Seal, whatever that was.

  But there was more. More that I hadn’t felt comfortable sharing with Chris.

  And that alone gave me pause.

  Chris had said he loved me. He’d taken that risk, before I’d even imagined I could say the same.

  Moreover, he’d been one hundred percent supportive since I’d discovered my supernatural status. He’d taught me how to meditate. He’d made his library available to me, literally day and night. He’d answered my questions patiently, sometimes going over the same territory multiple times.

  But I still wasn’t comfortable telling him about the cavern in my dreams. I didn’t want to discuss Sheut. I didn’t want to talk about my father.

  It wasn’t the sex thing, the fact that Sekhmet and Sheut had clearly been engaging in…adult activities inside that jet-black cave. No child wanted to think about her parents doing the deed, but this was something more. Something deeper. Something at the core of me and who I was.

  The Pride had banished me precisely because of what had happened inside that cave. I wasn’t a sphinx, because my father was Sheut. That shadowy creature in the darkness—the source of that iridescent shimmer, that velvety unknown—was something other.

  I couldn’t share that with Chris. Hell, Sekhmet hadn’t wanted to share it with me. She’d put a finger to her lips, insisting on my silence. She’d disappeared into the darkness instead of summoning her lover into the light.

  Sekhmet was the bloody-jowled goddess of justice. She led her forces into battle without regard to arrows or lances or swords. She was bravery incarnate.

  But she wasn’t ready to introduce me to my birth father, and I resented her reluctance.

  Birth father. Ha. Just like a modern melodrama. Phrased that way, my problems seemed so mundane.

  Phrased that way, I knew someone who specialized in building the very bridge I needed, in making connections among reluctant, unwilling parents and their children.

  I took out my phone before I could lose my nerve.

  Of course Allison’s number was in my favorites. I tapped it with a heavy finger.

  Four rings.

  Voice mail.

  I wasn’t ready to speak to her recording. I hadn’t figured out what I wanted to say. I disconnected, before I could make everything worse.

  Who was I kidding? Things couldn’t get worse. I’d gone to her office and been given the heave-ho, as if I were a street hustler trying to con her out of a couple of bucks.

  In the past ten months, I’d lost so much. My relationship with James. My community at the Den. If I didn’t solve the mystery of the ransomed computer files, I’d lose my job.

  I couldn’t lose my best friend too. I couldn’t give her up.

  I touched Allison’s number again. The phone rang three times. I took a breath, ready to leave a message, to say something, anything, to beg her to call me back, just this once.

  And then she answered. “What do you want, Sarah?”

  There were better openings. But I was beyond caring about degrees. Allison had answered my call. We were closer to communicating than we’d been in nearly a year.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “It’s 7:35 on a weekday morning,” she said, her voice tight with annoyance, even through the speakerphone on her cell. “I’m driving Nora to day-care. I don’t have time to talk.”

  My heart tightened at the mention of my goddaughter. When Allison had split from her no-good, two-timing hound of a husband, I’d thought that I’d be the one helping out with child-care. I’d pictured myself as the easy-going auntie, the one who scooped up a tantruming toddler and made her smile just by making a goofy face, the one who showed up with pizza, wine, and a juice box, just because.

  I’d forfeited that.

  “I need to see you,” I said, hating how desperate I sounded. I didn’t mind needing my best friend. That wasn’t the problem. I didn’t even mind letting her know just how much I needed her. But I despised having let things get to this point.

  “I told you I’d call when I was ready to talk.”

  Allison’s resolution still knocked the air from my lungs. But at the same time, a sliver of my heart was proud of her. When Steve first left, she wouldn’t have advocated for herself so successfully. She wouldn’t have said what she needed and stuck to her guns until she won.

  “I know,” I said. “And I respect that. But this isn’t about us. It’s not about our being friends. I need to talk to you professionally. About adoption.”

  She was silent for almost a full minute. I could hear Nora singing in the background, nonsense syllables that rose and fell like wind chimes. I caught my breath, not wanting to ruin my chances by saying something stupid.

  “You cannot possibly be thinking of adopting a child,” Allison finally said.

  I’d say yes, if that meant we could talk face to face.

  Before I could lie, though, Allison said, “Because your job kept you from spending time with the friends you had. You’d be insane to add a child to the mix.”

  “I’m not adopting,” I hurried to say, even as her words stung like a fresh paper cut. “I just have some questions about how to approach things. About my…birth parents.”

  “You aren’t adopted,” Allison said.

  “I didn’t think I was.” That was true. Sort of. Sekhmet and my birth mother and Sheut and my unknown birth father… They were all tangled inside my head. Before I could be overwhelmed by what was truth and what was metaphor, I rushed to fill the silence. “My mother never told the full story.”

  An ambulance went by in the distance, its siren rising and falling while Allison debated.

  “I don’t want Nora seeing you,” she said at last. “She’s had too many people come and go in her life.”

  That hurt. But the turn of the knife inside my chest was justified. Nora had been too young to remember me the last time I saw her. But at two and a half, she would feel the loss if I dropped out of her life a second time.

  “We can meet anywhere,” I said. “Any time. You name it.”

  “I leave for Denver this afternoon,” Allison said. “I’m speaking at a conference.”

  This time it was my turn to wait. I didn’t want to frighten her into changing her mind.

  “Friday evening,” she finally said. “Before you go to work. I’ll be teleworking after my plane lands, and Steve will still have Nora. You can come by the house.”

  “Friday evening,” I echoed, and I was astonished to feel my throat closing over the words. I whispered, “Thank you.”

  We both sat there for a minute, holding our phones. I didn’t want to be the first one to hang up, and I hoped she felt the same way.

  Then there was an outraged squawk demanding access to a dropped toy or a handful of Cheerios, or something equally pressing in a toddler’s mind. “I have to go,” Allison said, and she ended the call before I could say anything else.

  I was pretty sure Allison’s throat had been as tight as mine. Her words were high-pitched, as if she could barely squeeze them out. But maybe, just maybe, she’d managed to smile after she hung up the phone. Because I had—thrilled at the thought of finally g
etting back my best friend.

  12

  Having made progress with Allison for the first time in months, I felt energized, ready to start hacking through the heap of problems that had piled up in the past few days.

  But I couldn’t do everything at once. I couldn’t figure out what the Seal was, at the same time that I searched for it, at the same time that I advanced Chris’s New Commission, at the same time that I tracked down James, at the same time that I got to the heart of Richardson’s holding the court files hostage, at the same time that I built a complete legal argument for my own pending criminal case. I was as likely to succeed at doing all of that simultaneously as I was to find a spare million dollars in my bank account.

  So, it was time to set priorities. And my first priority had to be finding James. He represented my most likely chance of breaking the grip of Richardson’s ransomware. And I had to find him before I could…mentor him in Chris’s new program. Those were two excellent reasons to put a priority on tracking James down. At least, that’s what I told myself, repeatedly.

  Alas, finding James was far, far easier said than done.

  And in the hours since I’d last slept, I’d researched my court case. I’d fought a vampire invader for my life. I’d watched the court files be locked down. I’d borne the brunt of my boss’s fury. I’d discovered that my former whatever-the-hell-he-was-I-wasn’t-even-sure-I-could-call-him-a-boyfriend seemed to be responsible for destroying every vestige of order in the imperial judicial system. I’d been taken to the very edge of agriotis by watching Chris’s videotaped attack on a vampire. I’d communed with an ancient Egyptian goddess. I’d made my first progress in months on making up with my best friend.

  No wonder I was exhausted.

  Grounding was one thing, anchoring my physical body with food and drink. But sleep was the only option that could truly calm my jangled nerves, rejuvenating both my body and my mind.

  I asked myself, “What would the Sun Lion do?”

  Without waiting for Chris to return from his run, I headed upstairs. I took off my clothes, taking care to fold them neatly, even though every last scrap needed to be laundered, courtesy of my fight with Richardson’s foot soldier. I pulled on the sleep shirt I kept in the bottom drawer of Chris’s dresser, and I climbed into bed—the bed that Chris had made when he changed into running clothes before leaving the house.

  The crisp sheets were a comfort as they settled over my body. The blanket’s perfect drape felt like a feather-soft anchor. I shifted my head on my pillow, thinking that maybe I’d wait up for Chris to get home. Before I could imagine how we might entertain ourselves, I fell asleep.

  I woke to the sound of the bells chiming at St. Agnes, the church across the street. A quick glance at the clock confirmed I’d been out for four hours. That certainly wasn’t sufficient for me to recover fully from the previous night’s demands, but it was enough for me to think clearly. For now. Especially after I showered and brushed my teeth.

  Chris was waiting when I returned to the bedroom, one towel wrapped around my body, another holding my freshly shampooed hair off my neck. The grin on his face indicated he approved of my wardrobe choice.

  “What?” I asked, a blush making my throat throb where Richardson’s man had done his best to strangle me. I’d already done my best to ignore the angry purple bruises in the bathroom mirror.

  “Come here,” Chris said, inviting me to join him on the bed.

  I wanted to. I always wanted whatever diversions Chris offered in the bedroom department. But at that precise moment, my desire was tamped down by the memory of my acid-green computer monitor, of the blood-red letters spelling out Richardson’s ransom note.

  “Can I get a raincheck?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  He almost hid his disappointment. And I almost gave in. But that would have meant pretending everything was normal. And Chris and I were both lousy actors.

  I made short work of pulling my clothes from his closet. Freshly pressed black trousers, clipped neatly to a hanger. A white cotton shirt, cut with enough room for me to employ my hard-won fighting techniques if necessary. I plucked clean underwear from the dresser—a business-like bra and panties that reminded both of us that we had work to do.

  When I was dressed, I folded my towel, creasing it in perfect thirds so I could return it to the rack in the bathroom. Only then did I meet Chris’s inscrutable gaze. “Are we doing this thing?” I asked.

  “Finding James?” One of us had to be brave enough to say things out loud.

  I nodded.

  “Where have you already looked?” he asked.

  There. More bravery from Chris. Of course I’d looked for James in the past ten months. I’d tried every place I could think of—although that was a laughably short list. “He hasn’t been back to his sanctum,” I said.

  Chris nodded. He knew that, of course. He’d met me there the day before.

  “And no one’s seen him at the courthouse.”

  Another nod.

  “I’ve searched the Imperial’s online records, and they don’t mention any other address for him. I went through legal databases, too, Lexis and Westlaw. Nothing.”

  And that was it. I didn’t have a clue where else to search for James Morton. As far as I knew, he didn’t have any family, certainly no one who’d known him before he Turned, in 1872. He didn’t have friends, at least not at the office. I’d never heard him mention a favorite restaurant or bar, a place to hang out and nurse a beer, to watch ball games on TV.

  I couldn’t imagine James Morton nursing a beer or watching ball games on TV.

  But for the first time in ten months, I had a clue about where James was actually spending his time. I didn’t want to believe it. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the rogue vampire’s hands around my throat. I could smell his foul sweat. I could hear him gasp out James’s name in a last-ditch effort to keep me from breaking his arm.

  “Richardson’s house,” I said. “We have to start there.”

  Chris nodded grimly. We’d been there before—two times, actually. Both visits had ended with dramatic fights against punishing odds. My stomach completed a queasy somersault as I thought about the cage in the basement of that house, the tarnished silver bars that had once seared James’s flesh.

  If anyone had asked me before today, I would have sworn he’d never go back to that hellhole.

  But if anyone had asked me before today, I would have said that James Morton would never help sabotage the computers of the court he’d been hired to protect. He’d never send a vampire to choke me half to death. He’d never let his name be uttered in the same sentence as Maurice Richardson’s.

  “Foxhall Road,” I said, as if there could be any doubt which house I meant.

  Chris’s dark blue Corolla was parked half a block down the street. He opened my door for me and waited until I was settled before closing it and walking around to take his seat behind the wheel.

  The DC streets were filled with the usual weekday frenzy—double-parked delivery vans, scooters zipping in and out of traffic, pedestrians with death wishes crossing against every light.

  Slowly, though, with apparent patience, Chris made his way across town. As he drove, I filled him in on the chaos at the courthouse, the locked down computers, my fight with Richardson’s drone. I couldn’t tell how much he’d already heard from other imperials.

  Traffic cleared as we began the climb up Reservoir Road. Here, the lots were larger, and individual houses sprawled across well-maintained lawns. Most of the properties were protected with wrought-iron fences.

  Of course Chris remembered where Maurice Richardson had lived. Neither of us would ever forget.

  The iron gates to the property were open. No one was parked on the circular drive. Chris turned off the car’s engine, but neither of us was in a hurry to get out. Instead, we studied the home before us.

  The mansion was a classic colonial, perfect in its red-brick symmetry. Each double-
hung window was framed by glossy black shutters. Three steps led up to the deep porch. Columns framed the space, their capitals crowned in graceful Ionic curves. A teak swing hung on the right, its wooden slats covered with a chintz cushion.

  The house was abandoned.

  I couldn’t say how I knew. Sure, someone had cleaned out the window boxes. The flower beds were covered in weed-deterring mulch. No newspapers yellowed on the front porch.

  But anyone could hire a gardener. A housekeeper too.

  The mansion didn’t have a doorbell, but a gleaming brass knocker hung in the middle of the shiny black door. I raised and lowered it three times. When no one answered, I tried again, taking care to hit the strike plate as hard as I could.

  Nothing.

  Chris mustered the nerve to peer into the windows before I did. He cupped his hands around his eyes to keep out the glare of the spring sunshine behind us. He only took a moment to say, “The place is cleaned out.”

  I stepped up to his side and made my own inspection. My memories were perfectly clear. We should be looking into a library, a room lined with full bookcases.

  Instead, we were spying on empty white shelves. The hardwood floor sported a couple of gouges, the ordinary wear and tear of a hundred-year-old house. Not a stick of furniture was in sight.

  I crossed the porch and checked another window. The parlor, I knew, complete with overstuffed furniture. Except this parlor was bare.

  “He could be living upstairs,” I said. A vampire’s needs weren’t very extensive.

  In reply, Chris walked down the steps and past his car. He was halfway to the iron fence before he turned around. I came and joined him as he craned his neck to look up.

  “Curtains,” he said. I took his meaning immediately. Each window on the upper floor was framed with straight falls of white satin. No shades blocked daylight from the interior.