The Hunter and the Hunted: Two Stories of the Otherworld (11 page)

Medina arrested Jaime, too, despite the fact that they had no evidence to suggest she was involved. That’s when I really knew this wasn’t kosher, especially when Holland seemed surprised by Medina’s decision. He didn’t argue. She was the senior partner. But when we got inside and someone yelled that there was trouble with a guy in the holding cell, Holland volunteered to help and got out of there fast.

Medina called over a second officer, a guy barely old enough to be shaving. He took charge of Jaime, who hadn’t said a word since we left the car. When I glanced at her now, she was blinking hard, eyes unfocused.

“Jaime?” I said.

She managed a weak smile. “I’m okay.”

She didn’t look okay. The officer had led her halfway down the hall when I heard a clatter and turned to see her doubled over, emptying her stomach onto the linoleum tiles.

“Oh, God,” she said. “I can’t believe I did that.” Her voice came out thick, words slurred.

“Partying a little early today, were you?” Medina said.

“Wh-what?” Jaime struggled to look up at her, eyes refusing to focus.

I tried to get to Jaime, but Medina yanked me back. “Your friend is fine. She just needs to lay off the booze.” She called to the young officer, “She’s one of those Hollywood types. Probably spent the night on Bourbon Street.”

“What?” I said. “No, we—”

“Should I send the mug shot to the tabloids?” the young officer asked with a grin.

“No, that’s exactly what these people want. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. I’ll handle the processing. Just stick her in the drunk tank.”

“Is that the charge then? Public drunkenness? For both of them?”

Medina nodded. I opened my mouth, but her look made me shut it.

She pushed me into the next open doorway and shut the door behind us as the other officer led Jaime to the cells.

“What the hell is going on?” I said, spinning on Medina. “First you question me about a bombing. Then you arrest me for it. Now you’ve switched to public drunkenness?”

“Would you rather the bomb charge?”

“There is no bomb charge. You—”

“There still might be.”

She cuffed me to a chair, then sat across from me and took out her cell phone. After a minute, I realized the beeps I heard weren’t from texting or e-mailing—she was playing a game.

I yanked on the chair. “You aren’t processing me.”

“Do you want me to?”

Part of me wanted to insist she charge me, just to see if she would, so I could confirm what I suspected was happening. But the rest of me said that was a very stupid idea.

So I seethed and writhed inside while she played her game.

“I want to make a phone call,” I finally said.

“You did.”

“That wasn’t my official call. You’re holding me, so I’m entitled to—”

“You’re entitled to a call if I charge you.”

I closed my eyes and concentrated. Find the core of stillness, then focus all my energy on casting—

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Medina said.

“Do what?”

“Whatever you’re doing.”

I leaned forward. “And what would that be?” I met her gaze.”Oh, wait . . . You know, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

Just as I suspected. “Who are you working for? The moronic liberation movement that bombed their own building?”

Her head jerked up. “Are you accusing me of being a terrorist, Ms. Levine?”

“Is that what you think they are? Good, then we’re on the same page. Either way, holding me is a very bad idea. I’d suggest you reconsider and let me cut you a deal with the Cortezes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

She leaped up and slammed me and my chair against the wall. As she shoved, she grabbed my shoulder, fingers digging in as she leaned down to my face.

“I don’t know who the hell these Cortezes are, but I can promise you that I’m not afraid of any gang. They can’t buy me and they can’t threaten me. Neither can you. I was giving you a break, Ms. Levine. Holding you on a lesser charge until I could consult with my superiors on the evidence we found in your back pocket. But if you want that charge—”

“No. I don’t. I—I made a mistake.”

“A very big mistake.” She shoved me again, the chair clattering against the wall. “And it’s not going to help your case. Since you don’t seem to like it here, let’s see if you prefer being in the drunk tank with your friend.”

Three

I found Jaime curled up, shivering and pale, in a corner of the holding cell. I tried to rouse her, but she wouldn’t open her eyes. When I said I was going to call a guard, she managed to murmur, “No. Don’t . . . cause more trouble. Just give . . . minute. Food . . . poisoning.”

I glanced around. The cell looked like . . . well, a cell. About eight by eight feet. A typical spot in a small station for holding people awaiting charges or the onset of sobriety. From the looks of it, more cells were needed. This one now had five occupants. Like Jaime, two were lying on the floor. Drunk, I guessed. At least they were quiet.

There was one bed, currently occupied by a chick with the kind of tattoos that scream “I got this once when I was really drunk.” Except that, judging by the quantity, it was more than once. A lot more, which might suggest it was complete lack of taste rather than serial-drunken stupidity. Her blond hair was frizzled at the ends, as if she’d overused her straightening iron. She wore cutoffs with several rolls of pitted cellulite hanging out below. Her upper half hung too, tank top screaming for a bra.

In short, she was not the sort of person I was in the mood to deal with nicely. Still I tried.

“Hey,” I said. “My friend’s really sick. Do you think she could take the bunk?”

“Go to hell, you skinny-assed bitch.”

All the frustration of the last hour flared and when I grabbed her, my hands glowed white.

The woman shrieked. “You’re burning me. You bitch, you’re—”

I pushed her off the bed and she landed on the floor, half on top of an elderly homeless woman. I apologized to the old woman, but she seemed beyond hearing me.

The biker chick scrambled up and charged. I raised my fists. She put out her claws, scratching and spitting and yowling. A blow to the stomach stopped her before I got my hair pulled. When she staggered back, I downed her with a kick.

“You’re going to regret this,” she whined from the floor. “I know people.”

“Men, you mean. Big, ugly men who ride big, ugly bikes.” I loomed above her. “Word of advice? If you’re going to trash-talk, get your ass off the bitch seat and learn to fight for yourself.”

She whined and hissed a little more, then shut up. Beside her, the old woman straightened.

“Did someone call a lawyer?” she asked.

I turned to the bars. No one was there.

“Is that your lawyer?” she said. “Can he help me? I need to get out of here.”

I followed the old woman’s gaze to the middle of the room. Still no one.

Jaime moaned. I hurried over and helped her to the cot. Before she lay down, she glanced at it.

“I’m not sure I want to touch that,” she said.

“You’re washable,” I said. “But on second thought . . .”

I pulled off my jacket and wadded it up for a pillow, so her hair wouldn’t connect with whatever critters might be living on the mattress.

“Thanks,” she said. “How much trouble are we in?”

I crouched beside her. “We haven’t been charged with the bombing but . . . something’s fishy. That powder and note weren’t mine, obviously. Neither of us were processed. Neither of us have been charged. But we’re locked up.”

“Medina works for someone,” Jaime said, her words coming slow, as if it hurt to speak. “The movement or a Cabal.”

“I thought so, too. I called her on it, and now she’s convinced I tried to threaten her with a gang called the Cortezes.”

“Maybe, but—”

She stopped and cocked her head. A frown. Then she peered around the cell and at the empty hall beyond.

“Ghost?” I said.

“I’m . . . not sure. I thought I heard . . .” She trailed off, shook her head, then paled, as if the movement made her stomach churn. “Oh, God. What did I eat?”

“Just a pastry and a coffee hours ago.”

“A latte. Must have been the milk. I feel like—”

“Did someone call a lawyer?” the old woman warbled again.

I turned to see her staring at an empty spot with a look I recognized from all my years hanging around Jaime. She was seeing a ghost. It happened sometimes with the mentally ill.

“Is it my father?” I said to Jaime. “Is that who you think you heard?”

She nodded, eyes still closed.

“Can you look? See if he’s here?”

A faint, pained smile. “If it was your dad, I’d hear him loud and clear. Kristof Nast does not allow himself to be ignored. He took off to hunt for you after the explosion.” She frowned and opened her eyes. “I didn’t hear back from him—”

She blinked, then stared at the same empty spot as the old woman.

“Oh,” she said.

“He’s there?”

“Yes, but . . . faint. Something’s wrong.” She pushed up and struggled to listen. Then another, “Oh.”

“What’s he saying?” I asked.

“He’s barely coming through. Maybe because I’m sick.”

Jaime tried her best to communicate, with no success. When she started getting frustrated, I stopped her and said, “You rest. I may have a second avenue of contact today.”

I nodded at the old woman, who’d been following our efforts placidly.

“Mmm, not sure that’s such a good idea,” Jaime said. “She’s crazy enough to see ghosts, but that also means she’s not exactly coherent.”

“Well, no offense, but you’re not doing so hot yourself. Rest and I’ll see what I can get.”

The biker chick scuttled away as I sat down beside the old woman.

“Are you going to get me out of here?” the old woman said, staring up at the blank space above us.

“You can see him, right?” I said.

She nodded.

“Good,” I said. “So now he’s going to talk and you’re going to tell me what he says.”

“I want out.”

“Which he’ll do, as soon as you’ve helped me talk to him.”

She turned her dark eyes to me. “So you can’t hear him?”

“No.”

She smiled. “Then I have him all to myself.” She looked up and said, “Get me out of here.”

My father managed to trick her into passing on a message, telling me to demand to call Lucas, but after that, she caught on. She whined at him that she wasn’t stupid and he was supposed to help her, with me. Then she started to wail.

“Ignore her,” Jaime croaked as I tried to calm the old woman. “I can hear him better now.”

I got up and went over to Jaime. My father must have followed, because the woman let out a scream of frustrated rage. She flung her hands out and shouted something I didn’t catch.

Then she smiled and lowered herself to the floor and started mumbling to herself.

“Shit,” Jaime muttered. “She’s not crazy. Or not only crazy. She’s a necromancer.”

“What?”

“She just banished your father.”

“Without vervain?”

“She used a nastier method. One I’ve never learned because I don’t want to be tempted to use it. It knocks a spirit through dimensions.”

“Shit!” I leaped to my feet and looked around.

“Don’t worry, Savannah. Your dad will find his way back. Or your mom will track him down.”

“Can you let her know?”

She shook her head. “Not now. When she’s on assignment, I can’t call.”

I wanted to argue that this was an emergency, but I trusted Jaime wouldn’t let my father suffer unnecessarily. Okay, she might, but only if my mother wouldn’t find out about it, which in this case, she eventually would.

“All right,” I said. “My father was telling me to go ahead and demand my phone call. I’m not sure I like the sounds of that, but . . .”

“He wouldn’t suggest that if it wasn’t safe. So go ahead. Try to flag someone down.”

The hall had been empty since I’d arrived. I walked over and leaned against the bars, but couldn’t see anything. I started casting a sensing spell, then stopped. I shouldn’t automatically reach for a magical solution when mundane methods would do the job. Now that I was the spell-powered equivalent of a twelve-year-old, I had to conserve all the juice I had. And, I suppose, it was a good rule in general.

So I called for a guard. When no one answered, I shouted. When still no one came, I started the sensing spell again. Stopped again. Walked over to Jaime.

“Do you have a mirror?” I asked.

“They took my purse and patted me down.”

I stood there, waiting, until she sighed and pulled a necklace from under her blouse. It was a locket. I popped it open. On one side was a tiny picture of Jeremy. On the other, a mirror.

I shook my head. “With some people, it’s hidden weapons. With you, mirrors.”

She pulled a face.

“Watch it,” I said. “Or I’ll make you look in it.”

“No, thank you,” she muttered, raking her fingers through her tangled hair.

I angled the mirror to look both ways down the hall.

“I see a desk,” I said. “But it’s empty. Looks like pages scattered on the floor.”

“Make a ruckus. You’re good at that.”

I yelled again for a guard. Then I grabbed Jaime’s shoes and clanged the bars like a B-movie convict.

I looked again at those dropped pages—someone had left in a hurry. I remembered the biker chick shrieking during our fight. Then the old woman screaming when my father ignored her. If no one had come for that, they sure as hell weren’t coming for my clanging.

I crouched and studied the lock.

“You gonna pick that with your hairpin, sweetheart?” the biker chick sneered.

“No, I’m going to pick it with hers.”

I walked over to Jaime and held out a hand. She plucked two from her hair.

“See, you do come ready for trouble,” I said. “Mirrors, stilettos, hairpins. I get the feeling you’ve been in jail before.”

She flipped me off as she lay back on the cot.

I hunkered down by the lock again. Of course, there is no way in hell you can escape a jail cell with a hairpin. But it made a good cover story while I worked at the door with an unlock spell.