Grave Dance (11 page)

Chapter 10

R
oy waited for me just outside the door to the VIP room.

“What time is it?” I asked as I signed out on the ledger. I didn’t ask what
day
, though that was what I real y wanted to know.

“No worries, lass,” the little bouncer said from his stool.

“No more ’an five minutes have passed on this side.”

I blinked at him and then glanced at Roy for confirmation.

Logical y I knew the bouncer wasn’t lying—that he
couldn’t
lie—but I’d had multiple conversations and taken a trek through part of Faerie. Hours had passed for me. It seemed impossible that only a few minutes had passed in the mortal realm.

Roy shoved his glasses higher up on his nose and shrugged. “That sounds about right.”

Okay, then.

I shoved open the main door. The sun stil hung in the same place as when I’d walked through the door earlier.

Five minutes.
I could use extra hours once in a while—

imagine how much more I could accomplish. Of course, from what Rianna had said, if I was more mortal than fae, then time would catch up with me every sunrise and sunset.

I wouldn’t want to waste away years in Faerie and end up old before my birth certificate said I should be.

“Is something wrong with your hands?” Roy asked as we walked toward my car.

“What?” I glanced down and realized I was stil wearing the gloves Rianna had given me. “Oh, uh . . .” Would the blood stil be there? Now that I’d gone to Faerie, would I blood stil be there? Now that I’d gone to Faerie, would I always see it on my hands? I peeled off one glove, almost afraid of what I’d find. My skin was spotless underneath. No blood. “No, nothing,” I said, dropping the gloves in my purse and holding up my hands to show Roy my clean palms.

The ghost lifted both his eyebrows, but it wasn’t a look of shock and disgust, just his you’re-acting-odd look. I received it occasional y, and right now I didn’t care. I clenched my fists and then opened them again, staring at my palms. Once I got home and didn’t have to worry about driving close to dusk, I would open my senses and look at my hands with my grave-sight.

“Uh, Alex, are you listening?” Roy said, and I realized he must have said something before that.

I dropped my hands to my sides and glanced at him.

“Yeah?”

“‘Yeah,’ we’re being fol owed or ‘yeah,’ you’re final y listening?”

Followed?

I turned. A dark limo crawled down the street, keeping pace with me. Or it was keeping pace, until I spotted it.

Then it sped up, stopping just ahead of me. The back door opened and a man stepped out onto the sidewalk. Dark shades masked his eyes, and his hand moved into the front of his jacket—exactly where a shoulder harness would be—

as he straightened and turned toward me.

“How much you want to bet the appearance of a TIDS is bad news?” Roy asked as I ground to a halt.

“TIDS?”

“Thug In Dark Suit.”

“Wel , I certainly wouldn’t bet against it,” I said, glancing back the way we’d come. There was a second TIDS, as Roy put it, behind us.
Oh, this is great.

I ducked into the nearest doorway, but this close to the Bloom most of the shops were geared toward tourists and norms. Another street over and the shops and businesses would be like any other except with a magical twist, but would be like any other except with a magical twist, but here they were ful of gaudy, overpriced wares and operated only on nights and weekends.

The CLOSED sign hung prominently in the glass doorway.

I jerked the door handle anyway, just in case. It shook on the hinges, but didn’t open.

“I might be able to open it,” Roy said, stepping through the door.

Through the glass, I saw his face scrunch in concentration as he focused on the lock. But there wasn’t time, and we both knew it.

I whirled around as the first man rounded the corner of the shopfront. The second joined him a moment later. They both had severe haircuts, tailored suits, and dark wraparound sunglasses that screamed “high-class thug” or

“muscle-for-hire.”

“Miss Craft?” Thug One asked as he stepped forward.

“Who’s asking?”

The thugs shared a glance that said they’d been working together long enough to have their nonverbals down. In the short alcove I was completely cornered and they knew it. I could go for the dagger in my boot, but I had no il usion that I’d be able to draw it before the thugs closed in on me. I glanced back at Roy. He was stil working on the lock.

I shouldn’t have glanced away.

One of the thugs surged forward, his hand locking around my biceps. He jerked me forward with that viselike grip. I dug my heels into the ground, trying to pul back in the opposite direction, but the thug clearly spent way more time in the gym than I did. Thug Two snatched my other arm.

“Boss wants to talk with you,” he said, trying to steer me toward the limo stil idling on the side of the road.

“Wel , maybe I don’t want to talk to him, and I certainly don’t like the treatment,” I told him, but I stopped struggling.

It wasn’t getting me anywhere and I knew only one person who would want to talk to me and had a penchant for limos.

who would want to talk to me and had a penchant for limos.

My father.

The way I saw it, I had two choices. I could scream and kick and fight, and maybe cause enough of a ruckus that someone would cal the cops and they’d eventual y show up, or I could cooperate and get out of this quicker and without having to file a police report. I chose the second option. For one thing, it would be dusk soon and I needed this to be over quickly enough that I could stil legal y operate a vehicle and drive myself home, and for another, it was long past time for Daddy Dearest and me to have a little chat about my heritage. So when one of the thugs opened the limo door, I ducked inside without a fuss. Roy fol owed.

The man waiting inside wasn’t my father.

The stranger sat on the far side of the limo, taking up more than his fair share of the leather seat as he sprawled, knees wide apart and large meat hook–like hands balanced on his legs. He had no hair, so even behind the limo’s tinted windows, his scalp shone in the sunset. His pants and jacket were flawless white—a color I would never have worn in such quantities, as I was way too accident-prone—and his dress shirt was a bril iant sapphire. Years in my father’s house had taught me how much stock men of power put into their physical appearance, but he hardly needed to impress me—after al , his men had just abducted me off the street.

“Miss Craft, thank you for joining me. Would you care for a drink?” He lifted a wineglass already fil ed with deep red liquid.

“I think there’s been some mistake,” I said, trying to back out the door, but, of course, the thugs were there, blocking my way.

“No mistake. You are Alex Craft with Tongues for the Dead, yes?” He smiled, flashing teeth that had to have been paid for or heavily charmed to be that white and straight. “Please, sit down.”

straight. “Please, sit down.”

“Should I go for help?” Roy asked, fidgeting with the edge of his flannel shirt and pacing through the floorboard of the limo.

Go where? To whom?
I gave Roy a minute shake of my head and then considered the seat my “host” had offered.

It wasn’t like I had much of a choice with Thug One and Thug Two outside the door. I slid stiffly into the plush leather seat and crossed my legs. I stil had the charm to detect glamour in my pocket. Getting to it might be an issue, but the man looked only mildly interested when I dipped into my pocket and slid the smal disk out. I clipped it to my bracelet, but no sudden attack of hiccups hit, so what I saw was apparently what I got.

“And what would that charm be, my dear?” the man asked, his voice dispassionate but his eyes glinting with curiosity.

I ignored the question. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

Again he flashed that dazzling smile. “Of course. Forgive me. I must admit, I am not accustomed to not being recognized on sight. I am Maximil ian Bel the Third.”

“Of Spel s for the Rest of Us?” That meant not only was he human, but he was a norm. Spel s for the Rest of Us existed to teach norms who had extreme determination—

and loads of money—how to touch the edge of the Aetheric plane and draw magic. The slang word for such a norm was

“skimmer
.
” It was rude, but an accurate description, as they could only skim the smal est amount of raw energy. The problem with skimming was that norms weren’t meant to touch the Aetheric or to channel energy—it tended to burn them up from the inside out, typical y starting with their minds and driving them insane. There was legislation currently in the works to make skimming il egal, but the bil s kept getting delayed. People like Maximil ian Bel I I were likely the cause of the delays.

I opened my senses, letting my natural sensitivity to I opened my senses, letting my natural sensitivity to magic loose in the confined car. Bel wore more than a dozen charms on his person, everything from a dewrinkler charm to a charm meant to engender feelings of friendliness—which was borderline gray magic. None of the charms were particularly powerful, but al were at a decent level, some stronger than I could have cast, and nothing I expected to be in the possession of a skimmer. Of course, he could buy his charms. Or he could be a witch making easy money on norms. Despite his charisma charm, nothing about this situation added up to my feeling any overt goodwil toward him.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bel ?”

“Please, cal me Max. I would like to hire your services.

Cigarette?” He held out a flat gold cigarette case and I shook my head. He took one of the thin cigarettes from the case and fished a matching gold lighter from an inner jacket pocket. “You don’t mind if I—?”

“Actual y, I do mind. There are channels to go through if you would like to hire me. You could cal my business line, use my Web site, or e-mail me.” I uncrossed my arms and leaned forward. “Having your goons pluck me off the street is not an appropriate channel, nor is it appreciated. Now, it’s time for me to get going. Good day.”

“Please, Miss Craft, I did not mean to offend. Your line appears to be turned off, your voice mail is ful , and e-mail is so
impersonal
for what I wish to discuss. I am wil ing to spend a tidy sum of money to retain your services.”

Money is always hard to turn down, especial y when working freelance. But hard to turn down doesn’t mean impossible. I showed some teeth. “Good day, sir.” I slid across the seat toward the door.

“You haven’t even listened to my request yet,” he said, and pressed a button beside him.

A click sounded as the doors locked.
Creep.
I reached for the handle anyway, hoping it would auto-unlock from the inside, but it didn’t and there were no controls for the lock inside, but it didn’t and there were no controls for the lock on my side of the limo. I turned toward Roy. I didn’t want to alert Bel to Roy’s presence, so I fixed Roy in my gaze and then cut my eyes toward the button near Bel ’s hand.

The ghost nodded and walked over to the button. I just hoped he had enough focus to push it—the TV bested him if he got even slightly distracted.

“I’m not inclined to work with anyone who holds me against my wil , so you better hope the deceased has some other relation who can go through the proper channels,” I said, leaning back in the seat but not moving away from the door.

“Deceased?” Bel scrunched thick, dark eyebrows, which I guessed were the same color as his hair would have been if he’d had any on his head. “I don’t want to hire you to raise the dead, Miss Craft. I want you to open the Aetheric for me and a select number of my fol owers.”

The world slowed for a moment at his words, and I felt the blood drain from my face as if al my strength slipped out of me and into the leather seat. “I think you were misinformed about what I do.”

“You didn’t open that hole just a dozen blocks away, right here in the Quarter?”

I wanted to say “no,” but that was a bald-faced lie, and my lips wouldn’t even form the word, let alone let me speak it.

Guess I’m more fae than I thought.
Scowling, I went for another tactic—misdirection. “Mr. Bel , have you ever heard of any witch, even a wyrd witch, who could do such a thing?

The news implied my involvement in that tear because it made a good story. Now, I think we’ve taken enough of each other’s time.”

As the last word left my mouth, a loud click sounded. Bel jumped, his head snapping toward the lock button—which he hadn’t pressed, but I was already moving. I shoved the door open and stumbled out of the limo in the same movement.

The thugs were directly outside, and they turned as I The thugs were directly outside, and they turned as I emerged.
Act casual or run like hell?
I didn’t have to decide. Bel yel ed, “Miss Craft!” from inside the limo, and the thugs tensed, prepared to pounce.

I ran.

The thugs started to give chase, but a resounding “Let her go” came from inside the limo. The sound of fol owing footsteps ceased, but I didn’t slow until I could touch the shiny blue paint of my car. Chest burning and my breath coming in heavy gasps, I dug through my purse, searching for my keys.

I didn’t give myself time to catch my breath until I was inside my car with the doors locked. Then I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headrest as I tried to convince my heart it wasn’t a world-class gymnast and my ribs that they weren’t its trampoline.

“You did great,” I told Roy once I could speak normal y.

He beamed and sat up straighter in his seat. “I did, didn’t I? He’l be trying to figure that one out for a while.”

Y
eah, poltergeist intervention probably isn’t high on
most people’s list of possibilities.
I cranked my car and threw her in gear, but then I had to slam on the brakes before I could pul out of the paral el parking spot. The limo pul ed to a stop beside me, and a window rol ed down in the back.