The Problem with Promises (35 page)

He sat, then with a rough inhale, reached over to press record. “I want you to tell them your name. Your real one.”

“It’s Brenda.”

“Pritty,” he added, his gaze now fixed on the wood paneling. “And how do you know Knox?”

“He’s my boyfriend.”

His fist bunched on his knee. “Was your boyfriend,” he corrected. “Knox is dead. Is this his house?”

“No,” she said in small voice. “It’s mine.”

Biggs’s gaze finally swung her way. Though she flushed prettily, she was quick enough to add, “He said I needed a place to work from.” She sat up straighter. “I fill all the orders.”

“And do you take sun potion too?”

“I have to,” she whispered.

“Because you’re a halfling, right?” he asked with a certain measure of cruelty.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” she said in her Kewpie-doll voice.

“Well, you bloody well have to.” Cordelia spoke up from the kitchen. “Harry’s dead and someone is going to answer for it.”

The girl squirmed deeper into her chair, her pillow raised like a shield. With all the guile of a ten-year-old, she issued me a look of entreaty. Big eyes, trembling lip. In response, I gave her my best Starbucks smile then followed up with a warning glance toward Biggs.

Biggs said in a softer voice, “Brenda, do you have a wolf inside you?”

She nodded miserably.

“And the potion keeps it away?”

Another dip of her golden head. “Knox gave me the medicine to stop the pain.”

“Oh dear God,” muttered Cordelia. She grabbed a sponge, wet it, and started going at a stain on the kitchen counter.

I had to give Biggs credit. Without flinching, he walked Brenda through the key events. She talked about the day she’d met Knox, and the night he’d brought her to a remote forest to meet her first moon call. “It hurt so bad,” she said, her eyes dark.

They discussed her involvement with the business—the mailings, the location of the bank accounts. “He said that I was really good with the runaways,” she told us proudly.

But the pay-dirt moment—in terms of incriminating bad guys—was when he delicately probed Whitlock’s participation in the trade. Apparently, Knox had constantly grumbled about the uneven percentages. Whitlock had claimed seventy percent. “For doing nothing!” exclaimed Brenda, her eyes wide.

Biggs changed the subject. “Tell me where the money goes.”

Money was a subject that Brenda felt comfortable talking about. And so, while I privately anguished over my brother’s potentially black future (and mine), the inquisition carried on. The conversation was going swimmingly—details flowing about the location of bank accounts and the like—until Biggs asked her for the exact location of the Peach Pit’s portal. That’s when the blonde with lots of air between her ears turned totally uncooperative.

When Biggs sat back with a frustrated sigh, she lowered her eyes and returned to plucking at the pillow’s fringe.

“She must know where it is,” said Cordelia, tossing the sponge into the garbage. “She knows everything else.”

“Why don’t you get yourself a drink of water?” I told Biggs.

When he rose, I pushed a wheeled hassock closer to the couch with my foot. “You’re exhausted,” I observed, lowering my weight to the footstool.

Brenda sent me a sly glance from under her lashes, then added another knot to the length of twisted silk.

I ran my nail up and down the yellow stitching on the footstool’s seam line. Heavens, she was worse than a kitten—her attention immediately moved from the fringe to my finger.
Follow me, my little airhead.
“Brenda, why wouldn’t you tell Biggs about the portal? You know he’s worried that you won’t have enough medicine and will get sick.”

“He’s a wolf,” she said. “And wolves might close it if they knew where it was.”

“Brenda, I’m not following you. You’re part wolf. Biggs is a wolf. Why would you—”

“There are good wolves and bad ones,” she snapped.

“And you don’t think Biggs is a good wolf?”

That confused her. So I moved in, to disarm her. Casually tucked my hair behind my ears. “I’m not a full wolf either. See my ears?” Then, I extended my wrist. “I’m part Fae, just like the fairy who paints the pictures. Here, take a sniff. I don’t have a scent either.”

A yearling approaching a salt lick would have had less reservations than Brenda did taking that first important snort of scentless-me. A quick snort, then she shrank back, her golden brows pulled together in confusion.

While she was still rattled, I said in my softest voice, “Brenda, you’re going to need help opening the gates.”

She thought about it, chewing on that poor lower lip of hers. With one last anxious glance toward my Fae ears, she revealed, “It’s not too hard. Knox calls the fairy and the door opens.”

“Over the pond?”

“That would be dumb,” she said.

Yeah, I always thought so.
I rubbed my nose and then pointed casually to the bedroom door. “So a door opens? Like one of those?”

“Nooooo.” She dragged out the word, managing to infuse oodles of scorn. “It’s a
magic
door.” Her eyes were very wide, and very blue.

She’s overdoing the damsel-in-distress act.
“With smoke and bells too?”

She frowned, patently perplexed.

Evidently, without the usual bells and whistles.
“Where does this door appear?”

“At the pie place,” she said slowly. Then damned if she didn’t give me that look—the one that implies that she was talking to someone a few marbles short of being a dimwit.

My stomach took that moment to growl. Cordelia was busy in the kitchen, examining the finger she’d run over the counter with a hideous grimace.

“Is there anything to eat in those cupboards?” I asked Cordelia. “I’m starved.”

“I’ll probably get flesh-eating disease,” she muttered, using a tea towel to grasp the cupboard knob. “This one’s empty.”

“You’re a wolf.”

“Salmonella then,” she said, moving to the next. “And don’t tell me I can’t get that. I spent a memorable afternoon poised over the porcelain after consuming a Caesar salad made by the now-deceased Lois Carmen Denominator.” She slammed the last cupboard. “They’re all empty. I’ll get you some water.”

Being hungry was low on the pyramid of doom facing us, I thought as the tap ran. Instead of thinking of fudge, I needed to group everything I’d learned about this portal into some sort of shape.

Important Fact #1: When Lou had dragged me from portal to portal, she’d always gone straight to the nearest water source. Ponds, streams, slow-moving rivers. But this portal didn’t materialize over water
. Interesting.

Important Fact #2: It didn’t come with bells and smoke.
A no-frills discount version? Come to visit earth for half the price and twice the bang!

Important Fact #3: This one didn’t come when called by the portal song.
A gate with an attitude? Spare me.

And finally, Important Fact #4—and perhaps the most fascinating deviation from things I knew about gates—this one came with a gatekeeper.

Hard not to think of
Ghostbusters.

Concentrate.

Who was this Fae? Everything I’d been taught about portals had been consistent on one point: the portal’s magic was keyed to recognize and reject those with wolf blood. Thus, tasking a Fae to guard the gate seemed a tad excessive.

And why would she answer a Were’s summons?

When the truth hit, it felt like a sucker punch.

All but
one
portal rejected Weres.

I stared at Brenda, and saw not her little heart-shaped face, but a woman with a face like a troll, waving good-bye to the pack of Weres streaming past her. Knox’s portal had to be the Safe Passage. What other gate would require a guide? More importantly, one who was receptive to wolves?

Darling Trowbridge, you were right. The Safe Passage is not a myth. And now we’re going to use the pie place portal to tra-la-la to Merenwyn, and once the evil mage is vanquished, we’re going to lead your Raha’ells to the land of freedom, fries, and—oh man, gird your loincloths—supposedly equal rights for women.

“Brenda,” I said, trying not to sound wonderfully gleeful, “how did Knox call the Gatekeeper? Does he have to sing to call for her?”

“That’s silly,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

There really is a point when your pity for someone sours. Usually after they turn out to be no nicer as a dumbass than they did as a smart cookie. I could tell. Brenda of the Big Eyes was once a mean girl. “Okeydokey.” I flashed some teeth. “If Knox didn’t sing a song, then how did he call the lady?”

“He has…” Her china-blue gaze swung to Biggs. “Did you bring it? I need it! The lady won’t come without the coin!”

Fragile, my ass.

Biggs hung his head.

“Hey!” I snapped my fingers to get her attention. “What coin?”

“The one on his necklace,” she said, her tone indignant.

The coin threaded through the strip of leather Knox wore around his neck opened the Safe Passage? Not an amulet, but a
coin.
Of course they wouldn’t let a wolf have an amulet.

Cordelia turned off the tap. “It was in the plastic bag with all of Knox’s other stuff. What happened to it?”

“Simon gave it to Whitlock.” I’d watched Whitlock remove everything from the bag except the bottle of sun potion. I’d seen him pitch the keys, pocket the wallet, and examine Knox’s cell phone.… There had been no necklace. “Son of a bitch,” I said slowly, “Knox’s coin wasn’t in the bag when Whitlock went through it.”

Cordelia asked, “Liam?”

I focused hard, replaying what I’d seen. Liam had taken the plastic baggie out of the backpack at the shack, which he’d then rolled up and tucked into his waistband. We’d driven to the Peach Pit. When Whitlock had asked him for it, Liam had leaned back on one hip.…

Frowning, I shook my head. “No, Liam’s hand never went to his waistband until Whitlock asked for the cell phone.” I racked my brains. When was the last time I’d seen Knox’s necklace? Did we leave it in the kitchen in Creemore? No—I distinctly remembered Trowbridge putting it into the backpack before the witches arrived …

Then, with a sickening slide, my memory transported me back to the shack. To those sweet moments before Ferris burst into the room.… Trowbridge’s hands on my hips, his legs cradling me. Then past him, Biggs at the table, examining the plastic bag.

I turned to face my once-trusted friend. His eyes said everything I needed to know.

“You foolish boy,” murmured Cordelia.

My mouth dried. “You keep betraying us.”

“You didn’t ask me if I took the coin. You didn’t ask me anything about it!”

“The time to come clean was before. Not now. How many other things are you keeping from us?” I lifted my hand. “Don’t bother. I don’t believe you anymore. Answer one question: did you know why she needed the coin?”

“No,” he started. Then he corrected himself. “I didn’t know for sure, but it was the only thing of his she wanted. And…” He looked away.

“You’re ahead of us on the track. You’ve had more time to put things together. So somewhere along the line—probably just before Ferris fired on Harry—you knew. And you didn’t say anything.” His misery was telegraphed through his scent. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, and then swiped it twice on my thighs. He would not cling to me. Not in any way. “Where is it?”

Chapter Twenty

Biggs dug into his hip pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. The foreign one, with a hole in the middle of it, was slightly smaller than a loonie and much duller. He dropped it in my open palm.

“How does the coin work?” I asked Brenda.

She tensed—I hadn’t used my happy voice—and her own scent changed very slightly. “You feed it the wolves.”

I’ll admit it: I blinked.

“What wolves?” Cordelia asked sharply.

“The ones that are there,” she said, as if it was patently clear.

Enough.
“I know you’re a few bits short of all your wits, but do you understand the phrase ‘I’ve had a day’?” She gulped and nodded, so I gave her a smile etched with acid. “Answer Cordelia’s question. Right. Now.”

“The stone wolves inside the train tracks.”

The freakin’ statues. I’d stood right beside them talking to Whitlock and neither of us had recognized them as anything other than a visual demonstration of Karma’s twisted humor. “What happens after Knox feeds the statues his necklace?”

“The smoke comes and she walks through the door. We bring her to our place. He gives her some pieces of wood and she gives him the bottles. Then I watch the hourglass. When the sand—”

“You take her back.”

She nodded. “Can I have the coin now?”

“No. You can’t.”

She turned to appeal to Biggs. “Tell her to give it to me. I need it!”

Biggs lifted a trembling hand to cup her jaw. “Don’t worry, Becs. I’ll fix it.”

*   *   *

Merry climbed out of my cleavage. Her amber belly was dull, the usual warm glow of vivid light from her heart dimmed to a pinpoint of faded gold. “Hang in there,” I said.

She slowly rappelled down the end of her chain, then did just that. She hung, not limply because she was too heavy and ornate to ever achieve that. But somehow, the way she’d tucked each articulated leaf tip underneath a coil of her vine—as if their points were fragile—made me think she was hugging herself in exhaustion.

“Where’s Canada’s national tree when you need it?” I tucked her into my palm, trying to infuse my heat into her cool stone, and threaded, hipwise, through the brush that grew near the fence.

The tree selection was not going well. I’d made my way across the back field because I’d noted a small clump of trees near the single strand of barbed wire. What I’d hoped for was a sugar maple sapling. All I netted was a single weak pine, a spindly spruce, and a white birch. The latter was a multiple trunk specimen. Never ideal as a food choice, what with its papery bark. More work to eat than a pomegranate.

“Best I can do, Merry.” I went on my tiptoes, straining for one of the higher silvery branches. “You’ve got five minutes. Eat up.”