Confessions of a Vampire's Girlfriend (16 page)

There were also a lot more people in the big cities than in the towns. You'd think a lot of people would make for a good place to disappear in, but I'd found that even in a really busy square in Frankfurt or Cologne, surrounded by hundreds of people walking, laughing, talking, kissing . . . even plunked down in the middle of that, I still felt different. I wasn't one of them. I didn't blend in.

“Bullfrogs with big fat warts,” I swore as I kicked at the plastic crate behind Elvis's trailer, then went off to see if Imogen was up.

I tapped on the aluminum side of her door and stuck my head in. “You up?”

“Fran! Yes, I'm up. How are you feeling?”

I climbed up the couple of steps into the trailer and sat in the swivel chair across a small round table from her. She was drinking a latte and toying with the remains of a sticky roll.

“Fine.” I glanced at the closed door to her bedroom. “Mom wasn't up this morning, but Soren said Ben hauled me out of the main tent last night?”

She sipped at her latte, her face smooth and unreadable. “Yes, he did.”

I nodded. I thought the warm blackness that had cloaked me from everyone else had a Ben sort of feel to it. “Did you have fun last night? You looked like the glamour was working overtime on you.”

She sighed happily. “It was so wonderful, wasn't it? And Jan—he was the one with all the yummy muscles—was a delight. He has many fine qualities. We went to a club in town after the band ended.”

I couldn't help but grin at the wicked look in her eyes. “Sounds like you had even more fun than I imagined. I'm glad you and Jan had a good time. I kind of thought you would after he decked Elvis.”

She giggled. “Wasn't that terrible? I should feel sorry about that, but I couldn't help being delighted that Jan knocked him out. Elvis is such a pest about me seeing anyone else, and he's gotten so much worse in the last few weeks.”

“He's in looooove,” I drawled, making big love-struck cow eyes at her.

“Lust is more like it. I don't think he knows the meaning of the word ‘love.'” Imogen set her cup down and gave me an encouraging smile. “Enough about me. You want to tell me about what happened?”

“Last night?” I chewed on my lower lip, trying to think of a way to touch her without her realizing what I was doing, subsequently getting her undies in a bunch because she was officially on my list of suspects. “Um.”

She put her hand on my wrist and gave it a little friendly squeeze. “Fran, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Friends don't force their friends into divulging secrets.”

Friends also don't put their friends on the top of a list of suspected thieves. I squirmed in the chair.

“It's just that I'm worried. Benedikt was very concerned last night; he said you were in a fugue state, and that you'd had some sort of a psychic trauma. I just want you to know that I'm here for you if you need me. We both are. Benedikt cares for you very much, you know.”

“Yeah, well, he kind of has to, me being his Beloved and all,” I said, utterly and completely miserable. How could I possibly think the thief was Imogen? She was my friend! I liked her. I trusted her. I believed in her.

“Did last night have something to do with your investigation?”

I made another one of those moue faces. “I figured you'd hear about that.”

Her eyebrows raised slightly. “Of course I heard about that; I hear about everything. It is true that you agreed to find out who the thief is?”

I nodded, toying with the fingers of my gloves.

“And you're doing that by reading people's intentions when you touch them?”

“Some people,” I admitted to my fingers. I hated this, but my back was up against the wall. The only other person on my list was my mother, and I knew, I
knew
she wasn't a thief. Besides the fact that she'd never steal, she wanted the Faire to succeed too badly to do anything to endanger it.

“How many?”

“Seven. Seven people touched the safe.” I looked up, trying to dig out my courage from where it had crawled behind my stomach. “Seven people . . . including you.”

“Me?” Her eyebrows really went up at that. She looked completely surprised. “I can't imagine when I—Oh, yes. I asked Peter to put something in the safe for me a few weeks ago, and he had me do it.”

I blinked a couple of times. It sounded plausible, but at the same time, it sounded awfully darn convenient. “He did? What . . . uh . . . what was it . . . ?”

She smiled. “It was my will.”

“Your what?”

“My will. A dispensation of my worldly goods.”

“I know what a will is, but geez, Imogen, you're immortal! You're not going to die.”

“I can be killed,” she said, the faint smile that had been lingering around her lips fading as she traced a finger around the edge of the big latte cup.

“You mean someone wants to kill you, too?”

Okay, the words slipped out without my thinking about them, but as soon as I said them, a weight lifted off my shoulders. Thus far everyone who knew about my curse—Ben, Mom, Imogen, and Soren—thought I had gone back into the main tent last night to find the thief, but the truth was, I had gone specifically to find the person who wanted Ben dead. It was just a hunch that the two people were one and the same.

“Too? What do you mean, ‘too'?”

I glanced at the closed door behind her. She froze, her eyes going dark. “Benedikt,” she whispered.

“Yeah. That's what I was doing last night. Earlier, when Ben and I were dancing, I felt someone. Someone who was thinking about how much he or she was going to enjoy staking him. Someone really bad.”

“Who?” she asked, her voice deep and rough. Her eyes had gone absolutely black now, a shiny, flat black.

“I don't know,” I answered, peeling off one set of my gloves. “I wish I knew, I really do, because whoever it is is one sick person.”

She looked at the discarded glove on her table, then raised her eyes to mine. The pain in hers was so great, it tainted the air between us. “You wish to touch me. You believe I am guilty.”

“Not in wanting Ben dead, no. And not as the thief; it's just that . . . Oh, bullfrogs! I don't know what's what anymore, Imogen. As far as I can tell, no one has stolen the money, but I believe Absinthe and Peter—they don't have it. Which means someone has taken it, either the way a normal thief would, or by . . .”

“Psychic means,” she finished, closing her eyes for a moment. She held out her hand. “I understand. You must do this, if only for your own satisfaction.”

“I'm really sorry,” I said, hating to eavesdrop on her thoughts. “I'll be quick.”

My fingers rested on the pulse point of her wrist. Instantly I was swamped with fear—fear for Ben, fear that the old horrors had started again, fear that she would have to make yet another new life for herself, fear that she would be left alone. Mingled into that was worry about me not accepting who I was, and the role I had to play in Ben's life.

I pulled my fingers back, more than a little shaken by the peek inside her head. “I'm sorry,” I said again.

She gave me a smile, a real smile, one filled with understanding and forgiveness, so bright it made the inside of the trailer light up. “It is forgotten. Now, tell me everything about this person you touched. Don't leave anything out.”

I didn't. I spilled my guts for a good half hour, telling her everything, from Absinthe's trying to break into my mind, to everyone I had touched, to the dance with Ben . . . It was like she used one of those truth drugs on me, only I
wanted
to tell her everything.

“That's it,” I said, wrapping everything up with my few minutes spent with Karl. “That's everyone on my list. I've touched them all, and none of them is the thief. If I can't even find one lousy thief, how am I supposed to find a potential murderer?”

“You didn't touch everyone on the list,” Imogen said, her eyes firm on mine. They were back to their original blue, just as blue as the sky outside. “There is one you have not read.”

“My mom? I did touch her; I touched her a couple of days ago to find her keys. I would know if she was thinking about taking money—”

“Not your mother . . . Absinthe.”

I made a face. “Yeah, well, I eliminated her because it doesn't make any sense for her to make a stink about the money missing. Peter doesn't do the accounts; she does, so he would never have known it had gone missing if she hadn't said something. Besides, I don't think it would be a good idea to touch her. She almost got into my head. . . . If I were touching her while she tried that, I don't think I could keep her out.”

“There are ways,” she murmured.

“Really? Has she tried it with you?” I couldn't help but be curious. Imogen always seemed so in control, so strong, it was kind of a surprise to know that Absinthe had tried her party tricks on her as well.

“She tries at least once a month.” She laughed.

“Really? But . . . you said she already knows about you. Why would she want to get into your head?”

“I have no idea, probably power. She knows who I am, yes, but with that comes the knowledge that should she anger me, I have the means to bring about her destruction.”

“You can do that?” I sat in openmouthed surprise. “Then why . . . why . . .”

“Why do I work for the Faire rather than living in a penthouse apartment surrounded by beautiful people and clothes and things, and lots of money?”

I nodded. If someone handed me life on a silver platter, I sure as shooting knew what I'd do with it.

“I've lived that life, Fran. It's amusing for about ten minutes; then the artificiality of it tarnishes everything. I find that real life, life among mortals, is the only thing that brings me satisfaction. It has brought me such friends as you, after all, and I wouldn't trade your friendship for the most expensive of lifestyles.”

“Geez, Imogen,” I said, frowning at my fingers, blinking really fast so she wouldn't see the tears. “Just make me cry, why don't you! And after I treated you like a suspect and all . . .”

“You did your job; don't kick yourself for that. Now come, let us put our heads together about this animal who wishes to see Benedikt dead. Tell me again about what you felt when you touched the person.”

We spent the next twenty minutes talking over everything I guessed about the person (not much) and everything I had felt in the brief moment of contact (even less). An idea was growing in the back of my mind, just a little niggle of an idea, but the more I tried to look at it, the more it slipped away from me. I gave up on it and turned my attention to stuff I could deal with. We discussed the problem of Absinthe, Imogen insisting that I was going to have to touch her, me swearing to high heaven that I'd rather die than let her know the truth about me.

“She can't hurt you if your mother and I stand behind you—”

“She can, too! Mom'll do anything to stay with the Faire, and that includes selling me into indentured bondage. I don't trust Absinthe one little bit—if she finds out about me, she'll have me doing Fran the Touch Freak acts so fast your head'll spin.”

Imogen stood up. “Let us go wake up Benedikt. He will have some ideas, and since you said you warned him about the attempt on his life, he might have discovered something last night that can help you.”

I stood up slowly, not wanting to follow her as she started closing the blinds on the windows. I couldn't deny that he had saved my butt when I was overwhelmed with everyone the night before, but I had my pride. I wasn't going to go running to him every time I had a sticky situation to work out.

“Fran?”

“You know, he probably needs his beauty sleep after last night. And speaking of that, I've got to run along. Since it's our last night here, Mom is holding a circle, and I'm supposed to help her set up for it. She's probably up by now.”

“But Fran—what about the investigation? What about Benedikt?”

I paused at the door. “I won't forget; don't worry. I like Ben; I don't want to see him staked. I think . . .” I bit off what I was going to say. There was no way I could put into words the thought bouncing around the back of my head when I couldn't even get a good look at it. “I'll think on it for a while, okay? You, too. If you come up with anything, let me know. I'll see you later.”

“You'll see me in an hour, or have you forgotten the children's show?”

“Poop on a stick,” I swore. I
had
forgotten. Peter made it a policy that at the end of every stint in towns with a hospital, some of the Faire folk spent a few hours doing magic and illusions for the sick children. He said it was a good way to promote goodwill and all that, but the truth was that Peter was an old softy, and he just liked cheering up sick kids. “Do you really need me? You can read palms by yourself—”

“You are my apprentice,” she pointed out. “That means you have to come with me. It will be for only a few hours, Fran, and we might learn something. Everyone on your list will be there.”

There was that. I'd never been on one of the hospital visits, since the thought of sick people gave me the willies, but Mom had gone every time. “Okay. I'll be ready. See you then.”

The next hour went pretty quickly. I helped my mother draw a circle on the floor in her tent, setting up the flowers and invocation candles, all while avoiding her questions about what happened last night. She didn't ask very many, which made me believe she and Ben had had a little talk about me while I was passed out, something that made me feel all hot and uncomfortable when I thought about it, so I didn't.