For a Few Demons More (38 page)

“No,” Glenn said, and relief made my breath tremble in my lungs. “It's a Were by the name of Brett Markson. He had your card in his wallet. Do you know him?”

My brief elation that David was okay shifted to numb shock. Brett? The Were from Mackinaw? I slid to the floor, my back against the sink cupboard, my knees scrunching up.

“Rachel?” came Glenn's voice from far away. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I breathed. “No,” I amended. “I'll come right down.”
Ceri.
I licked my lips and tried to swallow. “Can you give me about an hour?
Shower and eat.
“Maybe two?”

“Ah, damn it, Rachel, did you really know this guy?” Glenn said, his voice guilty now. “I'm sorry, I should have come over.”

I looked up, seeing Ivy's empty spot at the table. “No, I'm fine. He was…an acquaintance.” I took a breath, remembering the last time I
saw Brett, hanging at the outskirts of my life trying to ease his way into my pack, a powerful man looking for something to believe in.

“It's what? Seven-thirty?” Glen was saying. “I'll send a car at noon. Unless you have your license?”

I shook my head, though he couldn't see it. “A car would be nice.”

“Rachel? Are you okay?”

There was a demon loose in the city. A master vamp was out to get me. My church was unsanctified. And Brett was dead. “I'm fine,” I said, sounding wispy. “See you after noon.”

Numb, I hung up the phone before he could say anything more. It felt heavy in my hand, and I stared at my spell books, at eye level. Damn it, this wasn't right. I wiped my eyes and got to my feet, feeling like everything had changed.

Bare feet squeaking, I headed into the sanctuary. I came to a halt just past the top of the hallway. Trent was examining the stained-glass artwork, and his shiny shoes caught the light when he turned. Quen was six feet away, looking ready for anything.

“Trent, I'm sorry,” I said, thinking my face must be white when his eyebrows went high. “I can't do this right now. I don't think Ceri is going to come over anyway.”

“Why?” he asked, spinning on a heel to face me fully.

Oh, God, they had killed Brett.
“I shoved her down last night,” I said, “and she's probably still upset about it.” Brett was dead. He was military. How could someone kill him? He was damned good at staying alive.

Trent shook out the sleeves of his expensive suit and let out a disbelieving laugh. “You shoved her down? Do you know who she is?”

I took a quick breath, trying to hold myself together. Brett was dead. Because of me. “I know who she is, but when someone pushes me, I push back.”

Trent glanced at Quen, his face going tight. My jaw clenched, and I kept my breathing shallow. I looked to the rafters for Jenks, trying not to cry. Someone had killed Brett. He had been only one step away from me. I was so damned vulnerable. All it would take was a sniper, but I couldn't live in a cave. This was crap. Purple fairy crap with green sparkles on it.

I trailed my hand along the wall as I went to sit in Ivy's chair. The scent of vampire incense made me feel even worse. I had to stop living
my life as if it were a game. I had to start buying insurance, or I wouldn't live to hear my mother complain about the lack of grandchildren. Though it twisted my gut, I was going to give Piscary the focus to put into hiding, to bribe him into not killing me. Then I was going to rescue Lee to get Al back where he belonged and Trent off my case.
Might as well start there,
I thought, sitting up and taking a deep breath. Al, I could take care of later. After dark.

“Trent,” I said, closing my eyes in a long blink as I felt my sense of right and wrong take a hit, “I think I might have a way to get Lee free of Al. It won't cost you a dime, but I want you to leave me alone.” I looked at him, his face blank in wonder. “Think you can you do that?”

“You said you couldn't get a familiar free from a demon,” he said, his velveteen voice holding a rough edge.

I shrugged, staring past him at the door and unfolding myself so I didn't look so miserable. “Where do you think Ceri came from?”

His expression empty, Trent glanced at Quen. The dark elf blinked once with meaning. “I'm listening,” Trent said warily.

This was where it would get sticky. “I'm going to try to swing a deal with Piscary—”

“Careful,” he mocked. “Someone might think your black-and-white outlook is going gray.”

“Shut up!” I shouted at the billionaire, feeling the sting. “I'm not breaking the law. I have something he might want, and once he has it, I ought to be able to get rid of Al safely and in such a way that will free Lee. But I want your word that you'll leave me and the people I care about alone. And…” I took a deep breath, feeling like I was becoming one of them. “…I'll leave you and your business dealings alone.”

I wanted to survive. I wanted to live. I had been playing in a sandbox with murderers and casual killers, with the arrogant innocence of a snowflake in hell. The FIB couldn't protect me. The I.S. wouldn't. Trent could kill me, and I had to respect that even if I didn't respect him.
God, who am I becoming?

“You'd stop trying to tag me?” Trent said softly, and then went still an unvoiced thought. His lips parted, and he looked at Quen in wonder. “She has the focus,” he said to him, then turned to me, amused. “That's what you're going to give Piscary. You have the focus,” he said around his laugh. “I should have known it was you!”

My face went cold, and I felt my stomach drop.
Oh, shit.

I stood upright when Quen shifted to stand between us—maneuvering.

“Stop!” I said, my hand outstretched, and he did. Heart pounding, I held him off with my fingers splayed, trying to figure it out.
Trent was the one killing the Weres?

“You killed Brett?” I said, seeing him flush. “It was you!” I exclaimed, dropping my hand and warming in anger. Damn it, what had I almost done? What in hell was wrong with me? This couldn't be happening!

“I didn't kill him. He killed himself,” Trent said, his jaw clenched. “Before he could tell me you had it,” he finished, hands behind his back.

Quen was balanced with his weight on his toes, his arms loose at his side. As if in a dream, I said to him, “You killed Brett. And Mr. Ray's secretary. And Mrs. Sarong's aide.”

Quen's face darkened with guilt, and his muscles tensed.

“You sons of bitches,” I whispered, not wanting to believe it, cursing myself for wanting Trent to be better than he was, wanting both of them to be better than murderers and assassins. “I thought you had more honor than this, Quen.”

The older elf's jaw clenched.

“We didn't kill them,” Trent said, defending himself, and I snorted with derision. “They committed suicide,” he insisted, the devil in his perfect suit and perfect hair. “Every last one of them. None of them had to die. They could have told me.”

As if it made a difference. “They didn't know I had it!”

Trent took a step forward, finger pointing, and Quen pulled him back. “This is a war, Rachel,” the younger man said tightly, shaking off Quen's grip. “There will be casualties.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “This is not a war. This is you angling for more power. God, Trent, how much more do you need! Are you so insecure that you have to be king of the freaking world to feel safe?”

I thought of my church and my friends, and I lifted my chin. Yeah, they had killed people, but Ivy was trying to get out, and Jenks had to in order to ensure his and his children's survival. And seeing as I had pretty much sacrificed Lee in order to survive, I couldn't claim I was
pristine and pure either. But I'd never killed for money or power—and neither had my friends.

My words hit Trent, and he reddened in shame or guilt. “How much do you want for it?” he said softly.

Shocked, I gaped at him. “You want…to buy it?” I stammered.

Trent licked his lips. “I'm a businessman.”

“And a murderer by hobby?” I accused. “Or do you think the tenuous state of your species gives you the right to murder?”

Face showing his guilt and anger, Trent tugged his coat straight. If he had brought out a checkbook, I would have screamed. “Anything, Rachel. Enough to make you safe. You, your mother, Jenks, even Ivy. Enough to have anything you want.”

It sounded so easy. But I didn't want to deal with him anymore. Piscary killed people, but he didn't have the concept of pity or remorse. It would be like telling a shark he was a bad fish and to stop eating people. But Trent? He knew he was doing wrong, and he did it anyway.

Trent never dropped his eyes, waiting. I hated him. I hated him to the bottom of my soul. He was attractive and powerful, and I had almost let that cloud my sense of right and wrong. So he could kill me. So what? Did that make it right to cut deals with him to keep myself safe? Why in hell should I trust him to honor his word? It was like making a deal with a demon or using a demon curse. Both were the easy way out, the lazy way.

I wasn't going to use demon curses. I wasn't going to make deals with demons. I wasn't going to trust Trent to honor his word. He was a casual murderer who put his species above all others. Screw him.

Quen knew what I was thinking, and I saw him tense. Trent, though, wasn't so perceptive. He was a businessman, not a warrior. A slimy little businessman. “I'll give you a quarter million for it,” Trent said, disgusting me.

My face twisted. “You don't get it, pixy dust,” I said. “It would start a war if it got out. I'm giving it to Piscary so he can put it back into hiding.”

“He'll kill you once he has it,” Trent said quickly, his beautiful voice thick with truth. “Don't be a fool this time. Give it to me. I'll keep you safe. I'm not going to start a war. Just bringing everything into balance.”

“Balance?” I stepped forward, stopping when Quen mirrored me.

“Maybe the rest of Inderland likes how things are balanced right now. Maybe it's time for the elves to die out. If they're all like you and Ellasbeth, scrabbling for money and power, maybe you've gone so far from your roots, so far from grace and moral standing, that you're already dead as a species. Dead and gone and good riddance,” I mocked while Trent reddened. “If you're the model of what you're going to build your species with, then we don't want you back.”

“We were not the ones who abandoned the ever-after to the demons!” Trent shouted, anger pouring from him honest and raw, the source of his drive flowing from him in a wave of frustration. “You left! You left us to fight alone! We made sacrifices while you turned tail and ran! If I'm ruthless, it's because you made me that way!”

Son of a bitch…
“You can't blame me for something my ancestors did!”

Trent grimaced. “Ten percent of my portfolio,” he said, seething.

Sick bastard.
“It's not for sale. Get out.”

“Fifteen percent. That's a third of a billion.”

“Get the
hell
out of my church!”

Trent gathered himself as if to speak, then looked at his watch. “I'm sorry you feel that way,” he said, his steps loud as he quickly retreated to the piano. Pocketing his gift for Ceri, he asked, “Is it on the premises?”—pretending it was just an idle question.

Damn.
I went wire-tight. “Jenks!” I shouted, finding my balance. “Jhan, get your dad!” But he was watching for blue jays, like I'd told him to.
Double damn.

Quen was waiting for direction, and sweat broke out over me. Trent brought his head up with what I hoped was regret in his eyes. “Quen,” he said softly, “secure Ms. Morgan. We'll talk to Ceri at a later date. Apparently she's not coming today. Do you have a memory potion?”

Oh, God.

“In the car, Sa'han.”

It was not a happy voice, and I glanced at Quen, knowing what was going to happen.

“Good.” Trent looked as unyielding as iron. “No memories means no loose ends. We'll leave her sleeping, and she'll wake when someone picks her up for her trip to the morgue.”

“Son of a bitch,” I whispered, then looked to the empty rafters. Damn
it, why had I told them to leave? “Jenks!” I shouted, but there was no clatter of wings. Quen pulled a splat gun from the small of his back, and I swore under my breath.

“What is it?” I asked, thinking of mine in the bucket by the back door. If I moved, he'd shoot.

“A little different being on the other end of the weapon, isn't it?” Trent mocked, and it was all I could do to keep from screaming at him.

“Trent…” I backed up a step with my hands raised in placation.

Quen handed the gun to Trent. “You want her like that, you shoot her yourself,” he said.

Trent hefted the gun, taking sight at me down its length. “I can do that,” he said, then pulled the trigger.

“Hey!” I yelped when it hit me, stinging and painful.
Damn it, twice in one day.
But I didn't collapse. It wasn't a sleepy-time charm. Trent didn't seem surprised when I didn't fall but simply stumbled back, my impulse to flee coming far too late.

Trent handed the weapon back to Quen. “Honor is expensive, Quen. I don't pay you enough.” Quen was not happy, and I stared at them, scared for what might happen next.

Voice cold, Trent enunciated clearly, “Rachel. Tell me where the focus is.”

“Go to hell.”

Trent's green eyes went wide. Quen looked me up and down in shock, then relaxed, almost laughing. “She's covered in salt water,” he said. “She said she pushed Ceri down. The woman obviously spelled her, and Rachel's still wet from breaking the charm.”

That wasn't quite what had happened, but I wasn't going to enlighten him. Standing in my bare feet, I started to get mad. From Trent's question I was forming the distinct impression that Trent had stocked his splat gun with subjugation charms. Illegal. Gray, seeing as you didn't need to kill anything to make it, but very, very illegal.