Kissed by Ice (20 page)

"No." Her voice was so faint I had to strain to hear it. "You are more. There is ice in your eyes."

I wasn't sure what that meant, but I wasn't here for a personal appraisal. "How did you get past the wards?" I demanded.

"It doesn't matter."

"Do you want to be free?"

She stared at me, eyes wide. "Yes."

"Then tell me."

She swallowed. "I can't."

Shit. Whoever her master was had given her an order she wouldn't be able to break. "Who is your master?"

She shook her head. "I can't tell you that, either."

"Give me something."

"There is nothing I can tell you. Except that none of this, none of it is by chance. I'm sorry."

"I don't—" But before I could finish the sentence, she twisted to the right. I knew the minute the shard hit her heart; between one breath and the next, she exploded in a cloud of dust and ash.

I stared at the small pile of ash for a moment, then turned and hurried to the boy. He was deathly pale, and his breathing was shallow. His pulse was weak and erratic. I had no idea how I was going explain this to anyone, but the kid needed a hospital fast.

I shrugged out of my jacket and yanked my T-shirt up over my head. I pulled my jacket back on, zipped up, and then pressed my T-shirt against the wound on the boy's neck to stem the flow of blood. With the other hand, I pulled my phone out of my jeans pocket and dialed 911. Then I settled down to wait and make up my story.

About a minute later, I heard the faint sound of sirens in the distance. The back door of the club swung open, and Axel stuck his head out. His eyes glowed eerily for a moment, and then the glow was gone.

"You need to get out of here before the cops arrive," he said.

"Can't." I shook my head. "If I take pressure off this wound, this kid is going to die." I could not let that happen. I'd seen far too many people die because of the vamps. This kid wasn't going to be one of them. Not if I could help it.

"Fine," he growled, stomping outside and letting the door swing shut behind him. He knelt beside me and placed his hand over mine. "I've got this," he said. "Go. I promise not to let him die. Bad for business, you know."

With a nod, I pulled my hand out from under his, letting him take over. He was right. He was used to dealing with the cops, and I couldn't get involved in this. There was too much at stake. With a last glance at the pale form huddled on the ground, I slipped into the night and let the shadows take me.

Chapter Twenty-one

I slumped into the guest chair across from Kabita's desk. Slouching down, I slung one leg over the arm and swung it back and forth. "Cordelia says we should scry for Alister," I said casually. I eyed her closely. She was wearing a cute little pair of black-rimmed cat's eye glasses. They suited her warm skin and exotic looks marvelously, but I'd never seen her wear glasses before. "When did you get those?"

"Well, good afternoon to you too," she said dryly as she shuffled through a stack of papers on her desk. "I'm fine, thanks. How are you?"

I rolled my eyes. "Fine, whatever. I'm great. How are you, Kabita? Good morning. Now, glasses?"

She studied the papers in front of her a little more intently than necessary. "The doctor says I need them for reading." She shrugged as if it was no big deal. "Now, can we get down to business? What's this about scrying?"

"Alister. Cordy thinks we should try scrying for him. Can you do it?"

"No."

I blinked. That was unexpected. "Excuse me?"

She sighed and leaned in her chair. The leather squeaked in protest. "I'm too close, Morgan. Whatever I may think of him, he is my father."

"So what? You can't scry for family?"

She shook her head. "It's not that exactly. But in this case, there's too much… emotion involved." She meant anger. Betrayal.

"Ah," I said, swinging my foot a little bit harder. "It's 'cause you're pissed as hell at him, right?"

She gave me a wry smile and slid her glasses off. "Something like that. Besides, we would need something personal of my father's in order to scry for his location. I don't have anything like that."

I cleared my throat. "I do," I reminded her.

Her eyes narrowed. "The letter opener?"

"He was playing with it at the pink house while we were talking. It's real silver, too, with his initials engraved on it. Pretty sure that counts as personal."

She sighed as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Okay. I guess it has to be done. I do know someone who might be able to help you."

I tried to raise one eyebrow, but both went up. Stupid, uncooperative eyebrows. "Someone from your coven?" I knew very well Kabita was a solitary witch. Covens weren't really her thing. Although she would visit one from time to time, she preferred to practice on her own.

"Not mine, a new one. The leader moved to Portland recently. But she's good. Real good. I'll text you her number."

I nodded and started to get up, but her next words stopped me.

"Have you been sleeping?"

"Why do you ask?"

She gave me a look as she slid her glasses back on. "You look tired."

"Gee, thanks," I said. "You really know how to make a girl feel special. I'm fine. Really." But it was a lie, and we both knew it.

# # #

"Thanks for picking me up."

"No problem." I glanced at Inigo out of the corner of my eye. He was finally back in Portland with me where he belonged, and yet nothing felt as it should. Although that cold, bitter Inigo I'd first seen at the castle was gone, things were still awkward between us. Like two kids on a first date who didn't quite speak the same language. I didn't know what I could do or say to make it better.

"Kabita hired someone to clean your place," I blurted. I wanted to smack myself in the head. Before…everything, Inigo and I had practically been living together. We'd spent almost every night at my place. Or rather, almost every day, since I tended to work nights. He still kept his apartment in the Northwest District near 23rd Ave, the place I was taking him now. With things the way they were, taking him back to my place, while I would've preferred it, felt wrong. I knew in my heart of hearts he wouldn't have gone for it so I didn't try. I guess I didn't want to face certain rejection.

"That's nice." It didn't sound like he thought it was nice. It sounded like he didn't give a shit. He certainly wasn't urging me to take him to my place instead. I'd admit it. That hurt.

"Don't want to lose you amidst all those dust bunnies." The joke fell flat, so I focused on driving. It was probably the safest option. Both for the car and for my heart. The rest of the trip passed in silence.

Fifteen painful minutes later, I pulled up in front of Inigo's apartment building. I started to get out of the car. "Let me help you with your bags," I said.

"No! I don't need your help. Stop babying me. I'm not some sort of invalid." The words snapped out in sharp, ugly blotches that lacerated my heart. I cringed away from them. From him.

"Sorry," I said. I shut the door and sat staring at the steering wheel. I didn't want to look at him and see that same harsh ugliness in his eyes, staining his soul. "I know you've been through a lot. I'll just give you some space."

He heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Morgan. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve any of this."

I almost protested, but then gave myself a mental head slap. He was right. I didn't deserve it. I wasn't the one who'd hurt him. I was the one who'd stood by and loved him.

"I agree," I said. "I think I deserve a little respect. I think I deserve to be treated like a human being instead of shit on the bottom of your shoe." I turned and looked him straight in the eye. "I deserve to be treated like someone you love. That is, if you still love me." When in doubt, rip the Band-Aid off and pray to the gods you don't bleed to death.

He swallowed. "Of course I love you," he said. "I just… I need…" He shook his head.

"Space," I finished for him.

He nodded. "Yeah. Sorry." I could tell from the tone of his voice even he thought that was lame.

"Okay, then," I said turning back to stare through the windshield. My gut was churning, and my heart had fallen to somewhere in the vicinity of my toes. "I've got a psychopath to find so I'll see you later, all right?"

Inigo nodded and climbed out of the car. Once both he and his duffel bag were on the sidewalk, I took off. The last thing I needed was to glance back in my rearview mirror, but I did it anyway. He was already gone.

# # #

I drove straight from Inigo's apartment to Sellwood, where Kabita's Witch friend lived. Although I tried not to, the entire drive, I thought of nothing but Inigo. Things were still totally messed up between us, but at least I had some hope.. And that was better than nothing. Right?

Kabita's friend lived in a grand old Victorian that would have made a fabulous Painted Lady, but had definitely seen better days. The shingles were weather-beaten, the porch sagged, the front yard was a mess of weeds, and climbing roses had overtaken the rusty cast-iron fence. It would not have been out of place in a horror film. If I could've picked out the quintessential place for a Witch to live, this would've been it. It was so stereotypical, it was ridiculous. Nothing like the clean lines of Kabita's ultramodern condo or even my cute little Craftsman.

Slamming the door of the Mustang, I let myself through the gate, which squealed like a dying pig, and picked my way up the cracked walkway. The sun had nearly set, making the path treacherous in the gloomy twilight. The front steps had recently been replaced, and the fresh wood gleamed softly under the afternoon sun. At least something in this place wouldn't kill me. Unfortunately, I couldn't say the same about the front porch. The floorboards creaked ominously under my boots. I was sure that at any moment, I would go plunging through to my death. Or at least to a broken leg. The front door swung open before I'd even raised my hand to knock.

"Morgan Bailey! So lovely to see you again."

I blinked in surprise. It was Eddie's friend from the ship. "Emory Chastain?"

"Indeed." She smiled widely, showing off perfect white teeth. Her parents must have spent a fortune at the orthodontist.

She was round and soft in all the right places, the kind of figure that would have looked at home in a painting by Rubens. Her strawberry blonde hair had been twisted up into a sloppy bun. Tendrils fell around her face, teasing her cheeks. It was all very Bohemian. Her eyes were bright turquoise blue. I'd never seen eyes that color in real life. Surely they must be contacts.

"Come on in." She turned and padded down the hall, her voluminous purple skirt swirling in her wake.

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. It stuck slightly, so I had to give it a good shove which rattled the windows. I winced. I so did not need to be busting up this woman's place. I needed her help.

I hurried after her as she led me past several open doors and into the kitchen. It looked like something straight out of the 1970s, complete with an avocado green refrigerator and mustard yellow wallpaper. The linoleum was old and scuffed and matched the fridge. The electric stove was missing a burner. The place needed a serious makeover.

"Kabita told me you need some scrying done. Tea?" She snagged a cobalt blue kettle off the stove and carried it to the sink.

I blinked at the subject change. "Sure. And yes, I do."

"Excellent. Have a seat." She waved in the general direction of the table with the kettle before turning to fill it.

I took a seat as she put the kettle on to boil. The chairs were straight out of the '70s with black metal legs and vinyl-covered seats in avocado green. At least they matched the appliances. Emory scrounged in the cupboards, coming up with a couple of mismatched mugs and a banged up blue and white tea tin.

"Paris tea," she said, waggling the tin at me. "Have you had it? It's delicious."

"Um, no. Not that I recall. I mostly drink coffee."

"Oh, you'll love this. It's my favorite," she assured me. She popped the lid of the tea tin and sniffed, drawing in a deep breath. A look of bliss crossed her face that was just this side of orgasmic. Girl really loved her tea.

She tossed a teabag into each cup. They were funny looking teabags. Pyramid-shaped and made out of some gauzy material instead of the cheap squares of paper most teabags were made from. She dumped in raw sugar from a bowl on the counter, then joined me at the table to wait for the kettle.

"So," she said, folding her hands on the tabletop, "who are we scrying for?"

I took a deep breath, wondering how much Kabita had told her. "Alister Jones."

Her eyes widened slightly, and a small smile curved her glossy pink lips. I wondered vaguely if it would be rude to ask her what kind of lipstick she used so I could get some. "Really?" she said. "How very interesting."

Chapter Twenty-two

A sharp whistling interrupted whatever Emory was going to say next.

"What do you mean, 'interesting?'" I asked as she got up to rescue the tea kettle.

"Don't you find it odd that Kabita, who is one of the strongest Witches I know, won't scry for her own father?" she asked, slopping boiling water into the waiting mugs.

"She said it was because it was too close. I mean, he was too close."

"Yes." She stared at the ceiling making a humming sound. "Yes, very interesting, don't you think?"

I didn't, but I didn't want to say so. If I'd been Kabita, I doubt I would have been able to remain calm enough to scry for Alister, either. Still, I didn't know enough about these things to offer a valid opinion. I figured I should let the Witches sort their own shit out. I just needed answers.

"I'll be right back." Emory disappeared out the kitchen door and down the hall. She reemerged a couple minutes later and laid an iPad flat on the table.

Before I could ask what it was for, she'd drifted over to the counter to remove the teabags from the mugs. "Cream?" she asked a little vaguely. She wasn't looking straight at me, but sort of off into the distance. "Please."