For a Few Demons More (15 page)

“David…” I started, but his face abruptly lost its expression, and he rose.

“I have to go,” he stammered. “I have to call Serena and Kally.”

“A moment, Mr. Hue,” Glenn said firmly, and I gave him a dirty look.

David's face was white, and his small but powerful build was tense. “I have to call Serena and Kally!” he exclaimed, and Iceman peeked in past the door.

My hands out in placation, I insinuated myself between Glenn and the distressed Were. “David,” I soothed, gently resting my hand on his arm, “they'll be okay. It's a week before the full moon.” I turned to Glenn, my voice hardening. “And I told you to back off.”

His eyes narrowed at my harsh tone, but though he was the FIB's Inderland specialist, I was an Inderlander. “Back off!” I insisted, then lowered my voice lest I wake someone up. “This is my friend, and you will cut him some slack, or so help me, Glenn, I'll show you what a
mean, mad witch is capable of.”

Glenn clenched his jaw. I glared right back at him. I'd never pulled my magic on him before, but we had come down here to answer the question of whether the focus was turning humans into Weres, not submit to a homicide charge.

“David,” I said, eyes on Glenn, “sit down. Detective Glenn has a few questions.”
God, I hope I have some answers.

Both men relaxed, and after Iceman let the door shut behind him, I sat as well and crossed my legs as if I were the hostess of this nice little party. David resumed his seat, but Glenn continued to stand and glower down at me. Fine. They were his wrinkles.

Then I started thinking. Crap, I wasn't smart enough to come up with a convincing lie. I'd have to tell him the truth. I hated that. Wincing, I pulled my gaze to Glenn's. “Hey…uh,” I stammered. “Can you keep a secret?” I thought of the sleeping vamps, glad the drawers were soundproof. Too bad they weren't smellproof.

Glenn exhaled as if deflating, his attitude changing from that of an aggressive, stymied FIB officer to the neighborhood cop on the corner. “Since it's you, Rachel, I'll listen. For a while.”

Okay, that was fair, since I had threatened to bop him with my magic. I glanced at David, and seeing him leaving it all to me, I clasped my hands in my lap. “The reason you can't find those women in the database is because they aren't in the Inderland files.”

Glenn's eyebrows rose.

“They're in the human files,” I said, almost able to hear the bolts sliding—my life shifting to a new, probably shorter, path.

The fabric of Glenn's suit made a soft sound as he turned. “Human? But—”

“They came in as Weres, yes,” I finished. I pulled my shoulder bag to my front to sit on my lap, but I wasn't going to tell him I had the focus. He'd probably insist on taking it, and when I refused, he'd get all testosterone-laden and then I'd get all witchy. Best to avoid it. I liked Glenn, and every time I flexed my magic, I usually lost a friend.

From beside me came David's emotionless voice. “I turned them. I didn't mean to.” His head came back up. “Believe me, I didn't want this to happen. I didn't think it
could
happen.”

“It can't,” Glenn said, anger coloring his confusion. “If this is your
idea of a joke—”

He didn't believe me. “Don't you think I could come up with a better story if I was jerking your chain?” I said. “I have rent to make, and I'm not going to waste my day down here in the morgue.” I glanced over the sterile surroundings. “As nice as it is down here.”

The large man frowned. “Humans can't be turned into Weres. It's a fact.”

“And forty years ago humans believed it was a fact that there were no vampires or pixies. What about fairy tales?” I said. “In the old ones, a bite could make a Were. Well, they're true, and the proof is that you will find those women in the human database.”

But Glenn's face said he wasn't buying it.

Head drooping, I said to the floor, “See, there's this demon-cursed statue.”
God, it sounds so lame.
“I gave it to David to hold for me because he's a Were and Jenks said it was giving him a headache. It's bad magic, Glenn. Whoever has it has the ability to turn a human into a Were. The Weres want it, and the vamps will kill anyone to destroy it to maintain the balance of Inderland power.” I brought my gaze up, and though he was listening, I could tell he wasn't ready to give up his secure belief. “I had assumed there was some sort of additional ritual needed to turn a human.” Feeling guilty, I touched David's arm. “Apparently not.”

“You bit them?” Glenn accused.

“I slept with them.” David's voice had a defensive edge. “I have to go. I have to call Serena and Kally.”

Glenn's hand fell to rest on the butt of his weapon. I would have taken offense, but I didn't think he realized it.

“Look,” I said, exasperated, “remember this May when the riots broke out in the mall between the vamps and the Weres?” Glenn nodded, and I scooted to the front of my chair, not liking his hand on his weapon. “Well, it was because three Were packs thought I
had
this Were artifact and they were trying to flush me out.”

His eyes widened. He was starting to believe.

“And if it gets out that it didn't go over the Mackinac Bridge but is in Cincinnati turning women into Weres, I'm going to be a dead witch walking.” I hesitated. “Again.”

The FIB officer exhaled long and slow, but I couldn't tell what he was thinking. “That's why Mr. Ray's secretary was murdered, isn't it?” he
said, gesturing behind him to the drawers.

“Probably,” I said in a small voice. “But David didn't do it.” Damn it. Denon was right. Her demise was sort of my fault. Miserable, I pulled my gaze from the drawer. It landed on David, slumped and struggling to come to grips with the deaths of three women. If this got out, we both were dead. My attention rose to Glenn.

“You're not going to tell anyone, right?” I asked. “You have to keep this quiet. Tell the next of kin they died in an accident.”

Glenn shook his head. “I'll keep it as quiet as I can,” he said, coming forward to stand in front of David. “But I'm going to get this on paper. Mr. Hue?” he said respectfully. “Would you come down with me to the office so we can fill out some paperwork?”

Crap.
I slumped into the cushy chair, making a puff of incense-scented air billow around me. “You aren't arresting him, are you?” I asked, and David went whiter.

“No. Just taking a statement. For his protection. If you've told me the
truth
”—he stressed it as if I hadn't—“you don't have anything to worry about. You or Mr. Hue.”

I'd told the truth, but somehow I wasn't reassured. I knew I wore a sour expression as I rose to stand beside David. “You want me to come with you?” I asked, wondering if I might trade my moving out of the church and away from Ivy for some pro bono lawyer work from Skimmer.

The Were nodded, looking shaken but okay in his suit and tie. “It's all right, Rachel. I know all about forms.” Grimacing with a tired acceptance, he looked to Glenn. “If we stop at my house, I can give you the names and addresses of everyone I've slept with since taking possession of that…thing.”

Thick lips pursed, Glenn ran a hand over his closely cut hair. “Just how many women have you had sex with in the last two months, Mr. Hue?”

David reddened. “Six, I think. I need my address book to be sure.”

Glenn made a small noise, and I could almost see him grant the attractive man more respect.
God, men are pigs.

“I'm going to take the bus home,” I said, wanting to be alone—not to mention avoid a trip to the FIB.
Jeez, and they were just starting to like me, too.

“It's no problem to drop you off,” Glenn offered. “I can take the arti
fact into custody, too. No reason for you to be in danger.”

My eyebrows rose, and I kept my eyes off my shoulder bag. “It's in the mail system,” I lied, not wanting to go into why I wasn't going to give it to him. “Soon as it hits my mailbox, I'll call you.”
Lie, lie, li-i-i-i-ie, lie lie.

Glenn's brown eyes narrowed, and I felt myself warm. David said nothing, knowing where it was and apparently agreeing with my decision. Gathering myself, I adjusted the strap to my shoulder bag and headed for the door. This hadn't gone well at all. Maybe I could sell it online and donate the proceeds to the war relief fund, 'cause there was going to be a war.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Hue,” Glenn was saying behind me. “I know this is hard, but the families of those women will be grateful to know what has happened.”

“Don't tell them I turned their daughters,” David whispered. “I'll do it. Give me that.”

I glanced behind me as I pushed open the swinging doors. Glenn was hunched in sympathy as he walked beside the smaller man. I searched my feelings and decided it wasn't an act. “I'll do the best I can,” Glenn said, his gaze rising to mine for a moment.

Yeah, I'd heard that before. What it meant was he'd do his best as long as it didn't mean bending his ruler-up-his-ass rules.

Stupid-ass, upright, uptight FIB detective,
I thought.
What hurt would it do to bury this from the public?
Then I blew out my frustration. I was starting to think like Trent. This was a potential Inderland power struggle, though, not an illegal genetic lab.
But women had died, and I wanted him to lie to their families about how and why.

We slowed when Glenn went to talk to Iceman, and David halted beside me. His few wrinkles were deepened by stress, and he looked terrible. “I'm so sorry, David,” I whispered.

“It's not your fault,” he said, but I felt like it was.

Glenn joined us and gestured David to walk out before us. The FIB officer took hold of my upper arm, keeping my steps slow until David was several paces ahead of us.

“Who did you get the statue from?” he asked as we started up the stairway.

I looked at his dark fingers encircling my arm, remembering that
thick folder he had given me listing Nick's crimes. Shaky, I reached for the filthy banister and gripped it as I rose. “Tell me you'll do your damnedest to keep this locked in a drawer,” I asked. “All of it.”

“Tell me, Rachel,” he threatened, not giving an inch.

Exhaling, I watched David's slumped back. “Nick,” I said, seeing no point in not telling him. The thief was playing dead, so there was no reason for Glenn to go looking for him.

His entire posture easing, Glenn nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Now I believe you.”

It was hot at the bus stop, and I stood breathing in air flavored by pavement, gas fumes, and the nearby Skyline Chili. It was probably the only chain restaurant serving a tomato-based food that had survived the Turn and the tomato boycott that half the world's surviving population had adopted. I was hungry and tempted to get myself a cardboard bowl to go, but I knew that the moment I left the stop, the bus would show and I'd be waiting another half hour.

So I stood there in my jeans and green T-shirt, sweating in the sun beating down and watching the heavy traffic. The tidy Were beside me smelled nice, and the two warlocks monopolizing the shade of a newly planted tree chatted about nothing. I could tell they were warlocks because their characteristic redwood scent was almost hidden beneath the overdone perfume that was making the Were's eyes tear.

The more magic you practiced, the stronger your scent, though usually only another Inderlander could pick it up. The same went for vampires, the ones who indulged themselves the most having a more obvious incense smell. Jenks said I reeked of magic and Ivy stank of vampire.
And we all lived together in a little stinky church,
I sang in my head.

Uneasy, I ran a finger between me and the strap of my bag. Warlock was a designation of skill, not sex, warlocks simply being witches who hadn't gone through the trouble of learning how to stir a spell by heart.
They could invoke them, all right, but stirring them safely was out of their skill level. And as soon as humanity got their head wrapped around that, the entire demographic slice of educated male witches could take the chip off their shoulder and relax.

I had a two-year degree plus enough life experience to get the license to use my charms in my work. It wasn't skill holding me back from getting the license to sell my charms, but capital. Which might explain the incongruity of my riding the bus with an artifact that could start an Inderland power struggle. With my luck, I'd get mugged on the way home.

A sigh shifted me, and I plucked at my T-shirt, wondering if I should take it off and wear the chemise I had on under it home. It would be fun to watch the guy next to me react when I started stripping. A private grin curled up the corners of my mouth. Maybe I'd take off my sneakers and go barefoot. Muggers usually left dirty people with no shoes alone.

The Were next to me made a long whistle of appreciation, and I lifted my gaze up from my nasty sneakers, blinking at the Gray Ghost limo edging out of traffic and into the bus pull-off. My first reaction of surprise melted into annoyance. It had to be Trent. And here I was waiting for the bus with filthy knees and sweating.
Just peachy damn keen.

I peered over my sunglasses when the tinted back window rolled down. Yup, it was Trent, the wealthy bastard looking good in his cream-colored linen suit and white shirt. His tan had deepened with summer, leading me to think he got out into his prizewinning gardens and nationally renowned stables more often than he let on. Smiling a confident, somewhat expectant smile, the elf in hiding arched his thin eyebrows at the dirt on my knees.

I didn't say a word, looking through his lowered window to the front seat to find Quen, his head of security, driving instead of his chief bootlicker, Jonathan. My pulse eased at the absence of the tall, sadistic man. I liked Quen, even if he occasionally tested my magic and martial-arts skills. He was honest, at least, unlike his employer.

Hand on my hip, I said snidely, “Where's Jon?” and the Were behind me had a conniption fit that I knew Trent well enough to be nasty to him. The two warlocks were busy taking photos with their phones, giggling and whispering. Maybe I ought to be nice lest I find my ugly scene plastered all over the Internet, and I relaxed my posture a smidgen.

Trent leaned to the window, green eyes squinting at the sun. His fair, neatly translucent hair moved in the breeze from the street, marring its carefully styled perfection. Much as I hated to admit it, his wind-mused hair pegged my attraction meter. Though his business prowess, expressed through his pristinely legal Kalamack Industries, was esteemed, his lean, well-proportioned body would look as good in a tight swimsuit perched on a lifeguard chair as it did in a suit in the boardroom. “Jonathan is occupied,” he said, his practiced voice catching my attention and the hint of annoyance in it taking nothing from its mesmerizing grace.

“With
Ellasbeth
?” I mocked, and the Were beside me choked.
What, like I have to be nice to him because he supplied the East Coast's Brimstone trade and had half the world's leaders in his pocket through his illegal biomedicines?
After failing to buy my lifetime services, he had tried to scare me into it. It was a nice bit of blackmail that kept him off my back, but he refused to take the message that I wasn't going to work for him. 'Course, that might be my fault…since I seemed unable to say no when he waved enough money at me.

Trent sighed, visibly bothered at my admittedly childish behavior, but I was hot, damn it, and needed money, and therefore I was vulnerable to his bribes and his air-conditioned car.

“Get in,” he said, and then, smiling and waving to the two warlocks, he slid back from the door and into the shadows.

I glanced at the Were beside me, guessing Trent wanted to talk to me about the RSVP I hadn't RSVP'ed to. “Think I should?” I said, and the man nodded like a bobblehead doll.

Trent leaned into the light. “Get in, Ms. Morgan. I'll drop you wherever you want.”

I want to go to Vegas and win a car,
I thought, but I stepped forward. “Do you have the air on in that thing?” I asked, and he arched his eyebrows.
Okay, that was probably a dumb question.
“I could use a ride home,” I added.

Trent beckoned, and the two warlocks behind me almost swooned by the sound of it. “All I want is fifteen minutes,” he said, his perfectly political smile starting to look forced.

He slid himself over so I could get in, and in a surge of defiance I grabbed the handle of the front passenger-side door and yanked it
open. Quen jerked in surprise as I slipped in, slammed the door shut, and reached for the seat belt.

“Ah, Ms. Morgan…” Trent said from the backseat.

The air was on, but not nearly high enough, and after I put my shoulder bag at my feet, I started fiddling with the vent. “I'm not riding in the back,” I said, angling my half of the vents to me and opening them full bore. “God, Trent. I feel like a kid back there.”

“I know what you mean,” he muttered, and Quen behind the wheel smiled.

That our dads had been friends and worked together to resurrect Trent's species didn't mean pigeon spots to me. After they had died a week apart, Trent was raised in privilege and I learned how to fight off teenage scumbuckets who saw me as an easy mark—being raised by a mother so thrown by her husband's death she almost forgot about my brother and me. Maybe I was jealous, but I wasn't going to let him think I'd sit beside him as if we were friends.

From behind us an industrial-size horn blew: the city bus trying to get into the pull-off. We were breaking the law by standing here, but who was going to give Trent Kalamack a ticket?

At Trent's gesture, Quen accelerated into the empty lane of traffic caused by the stopped bus. I felt like I'd won a few points, and I took off my glasses before settling into the plush leather to enjoy the cool air shifting the sweat-heavy curls hanging in my eyes.
This is nice.

“The idea,” Trent drawled, speaking louder than he clearly liked, “was that we'd talk.”

“I want to talk to Quen.” I turned to the heavily scarred man and smiled. He looked as old as my father would be if he were still alive, his dark skin marked by the damage with which the Turn had left even some Inderlanders. Quen was an elf, too, which made four that I'd ever met. Not bad for a species that was playing extinct. He must have a portion of human genes in him, or the T4 Angel virus that had offed a sizable portion of humanity wouldn't have affected him at all.

Though small, Quen was wiry and powerful, both in ley line magic and martial arts. I'd seen him use a black ley line charm once, though Trent probably didn't know he knew it. Sometimes it was better not to know how the people protecting you did their job.

He was wearing black, his outfit suggesting a uniform, but its design
supple enough for ease of motion and comfort. He looked good, in a late-forties way, and if I ever needed a role model, Quen would do nicely. If he hadn't been working for Trent, that is.

“So how you doin'?” I asked Quen, and the usually stoic man let slip a glimmer of a smirk. Trent wouldn't be able to see it from his angle, and I wondered if Quen had a sense of humor I hadn't guessed at.

“I'm fine, Ms. Morgan,” he said calmly, his voice as rough as his pockmarked skin. “You're looking…” He hesitated, taking a long glance at me as he slowed in bridge traffic. “What
have
you done to yourself? You look…glowing with health.”

I flushed. He had noticed I'd lost my freckles along with every imperfection my soon-to-be-twenty-five years of living had bestowed on me, an unexpected benefit of shifting forms by way of a demon curse. “It's a long story,” I said, not wanting to go into it.

“I'd be interested to hear,” he prompted, his rough voice taking on a hint of accusation.

From the back came Trent's calculated sigh. Thinking I'd pushed him enough—and not wanting to continue this conversation with Quen—I pulled a dirt-stained knee up and twisted around so I could see Trent. “Look, Trent,” I said dryly. “I know you want me to work security during your wedding, and the answer is no. I appreciate the ride home, but you're nuts if you think that's going to soften me up enough to get stupid. I'm not one of your fawning debutantes—”

“I never said you were,” he interrupted. It was a soft protest, as if he liked the fact.

“And I'm not going to be a freaking
bridesmaid
in your wedding. You couldn't
pay
me enough.” I hesitated, cursing my fate that he always seemed to show up when I needed large sums of money.
Is it luck, or does he wait until I'm short?
“Ah, it is a paying position, right? I mean, the dresses are generally god-awful, but you usually don't have to pay the bridesmaids to put them on.”

Trent reclined in the back of the limo, relaxed and sure of himself, knees crossed and looking like he was at the top of his game. “It would be if you took it.”

My jaw ached, and I worked to ease my tension as my thoughts returned to my church and the cost of resanctifying it. Trent had pock
ets so deep he wouldn't blink an eye. It wasn't fair to ask Ivy to shoulder so much of the financial burden when it had been my fault.

A smug smile, thoroughly irritating, came over Trent when he realized I wanted something badly enough to be tempted. This was one of the reasons I was in the front. The elf was a master at reading people, and we were enough alike that he had me down.

“I'm asking you to reconsider,” he said, and then, his face losing all its smugness, he said, “Please. I could really use your help on this.”

I blinked, scrambling to hide my shock.
Please? Since when does Trent say please?
Since I'd started treating him like a person? I mused, answering my own question. And why was that? Emotions sinking, I remembered not two months ago begging a suicidal vampire to consider drugs to ease his pain as an alternative to first-death, illegal drugs to which only Trent had access. God! It had been a mere twenty minutes ago that I'd asked Glenn to cover up how those women had died because it would make my life easier.

Ticked at myself, I started to see the reason behind Trent's murder and blackmail. I wasn't saying his methods were justified, just that I understood them. He was lazy like a wish, taking the easy way, not necessarily the lawful, harder way. But asking Glenn to hide information in order to prevent an Inderland power struggle wasn't on a par with killing your head geneticist to keep him from going to the authorities and turning you in. Was it?

Delaying my answer, I took off my T-shirt, the cool air hitting my flush hard as I shoved the soft cotton into my bag to help hide the focus. “Why?” I said flatly. “Quen's better than three of me.”

Angular face showing a hint of strain, Trent handed me a returned invitation. I glanced at it, seeing the
YES
checked and a handwritten note under that saying whoever it was was looking forward to being his best man. “Yeah? So?” I said, handing it back.

“Look at who it's from,” he said, extending it over the seats to me again.

Gut tightening, I glanced at the harmless, obscenely expensive linen paper between Trent's sun-darkened fingers. The rumble of going over a railroad track jarred me, and I took it, turning it over for an address. “Oh, crap,” I whispered.

“That's nearly what I said,” Trent muttered, his gaze on the small businesses and homes we were passing by.

Mouth dry, I looked from Trent to Quen, but they were silent, reading my reaction. Slowly I handed the invitation back. It was from Saladan, and it was dated four weeks ago.

“Lee can't be on this side of the ley lines,” I said, then turned the air down.

Trent's fear of demons was well hidden, but clear to me. “Apparently he is,” he said wryly.

My head moved back and forth. “He's Al's familiar. He can't be on this side of the lines.”

“It's his handwriting.” Trent tossed the invitation. With a soft hush, it landed on the rich leather where I would have been sitting.

Things started to click, and I stiffened. Okay, now I knew why Trent wanted me not only at the wedding but working up front, standing next to him every single stinking moment. “Oh, hell no,” I said loudly. “I'm not standing up at your wedding if there's the chance that Al is going to show up as Lee's guest. I do
not
deal with demons, I do not like demons, and I won't put myself in a position where I have to defend myself or anyone else against one. No. Absolutely not.”