“Celia … Oh my God.” Dawna’s eyes are large and doelike under normal circumstances. Now they were the size of plates. Her jaw dropped open. “What’s happened to you? I mean, Kevin said you’d been attacked last night, but ohmigod you have fangs and your skin … ” The words tumbled out in a breathless rush. She was swaying on her feet enough that Gibson rushed forward to help her into the nearest chair—the little rolling number behind the reception counter.
“I got attacked by bats. One of them was a master, and he started to turn me, but the cavalry arrived before he could finish the job. I’m not a bat. I’m not going to be a bat.”
“But you look—,” she was whispering.
“Like something that should be staked and beheaded.” It came out more bitter than I had intended it to, and she flinched, tears filling her eyes. Crap. “I’m sorry, Dawna. I didn’t mean—”
She shook her head. “It’s all right. Really. I mean, I can’t even imagine—” She stopped, evidently at a loss for words, which was so not Dawna. I love her like a sister, but she can and will talk your ear off given half a chance. Which we didn’t have time for right now.
“This is Detective Gibson.” Gibson turned from where he was examining the elegant impressionist print hanging above a fireplace framed by built-in bookcases on the far side of the room. I continued, “He’s investigating an incident from last night. He’s going to need copies of some of the phone records… .” The sentence trickled to a halt as she shook her head.
“Hello, Detective.” She rose, extending her hand as he approached, and I got a better look at her. She was wearing a classic silk suit in navy with a crimson blouse. The skirt was short enough to show an excellent pair of legs, made to look longer by a set of heels I wouldn’t have attempted. Still, she looked good. Then again, she always does, and without resorting to any magic. Just good genetics and an eye for how to make the most of her assets.
She rallied enough to put on her best professional demeanor, but I could tell she’d had quite a shock. I was sorry about that, and wished to hell I’d taken the time to call ahead. Then again, Kevin had warned her and that hadn’t done any good.
“I’m sorry Celia, I’d normally be happy to help the detective. But my computer crashed this morning. All the computer files; all the billing; everything … just gone.”
Oh, crap. Well, that sucked. Big-time. But while she obviously wasn’t happy, she wasn’t throwing a fit. Maybe seeing me put it into perspective.
“Oh, Lord. I hope you’ve backed up.”
She sighed. “The backups are wiped, too. Must have been some sort of freak electric surge.”
I cringed in sympathy. I keep hard copies of everything, in addition to my flash drive, but some of the others don’t. It was going to be a monumental task to re-create all of the records from scratch. At least I could give her one bit of good news. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve got all my stuff backed up onto a memory stick and my laptop is in my safe. It’ll save you having to re-create my stuff at least.”
“That’s something, I suppose.” She sighed and turned to face me, her expression worried. “Are you sure you’re okay? A pair of federal agents were in here earlier looking for you. They said you’d been hurt last night, made me check to make sure you weren’t unconscious in your office. That’s why I called Kevin. He usually knows where you are.”
Federal agents? I glanced at Gibson, but if he was surprised, he didn’t show it. He just continued to take in the decor with a seemingly innocent face. But what happened? I knew now, but I didn’t want to talk about it. The memories were still too raw. So I brushed it off by turning to Gibson. “That was awfully quick. Think your people called them?”
“Possible.” His voice held a trace of doubt, which I shared. The wheels of federal justice seldom roll that quickly. Thorough, yes. God, yes. But quick? Not so much. Then again, we were dealing with foreign royalty—the threat of a major diplomatic incident might have been just enough to light a fire under them. But who, before me, might have told them about the prince? That’s the only reason I could think the Feds would be involved, and if they’d heard about it from Alex, they would have known I was at the station. I turned back to Dawna. “Are they still here?”
“No, but you only missed them by a couple of minutes. They left a card. You’re supposed to call.” She arched an elegant eyebrow. “And Birchwoods left an urgent message. But if I were you I’d call Kevin first. He’s about to blow a gasket. Swear to God he’s called at least ten times.”I sighed. He’d said to call and I’d flat forgotten. He was probably pissed beyond measure. I was sort of surprised he wasn’t waiting in the next room. “Call him back. Tell him I’m helping the cops with their investigation and I’ll get back with him as soon as I break free.”
“He’s not going to like that.”
Of course he wasn’t. But he’d have to live with it, because I needed to cooperate with the police to get the police to cooperate with me.
“Do you want me to call the agents, tell them you’re here?”
I glanced over at Gibson, who was shaking his head no. I didn’t blame him. A jurisdictional pissing contest would do nothing but slow him down. I’d give them whatever information they wanted. But I liked Gibson, so he’d get first dibs.
“Not yet. Let me finish with the detective first.”
“All right. Is there anything I can get the two of you? I can start a fresh pot of coffee if you like.”
“No need to go to any trouble.” Gibson gave her a charming smile. “I don’t intend to stay that long.”
“Oh, it’s no bother.” She blushed. It looked good on her. Until that instant it hadn’t occurred to me that she and Gibson had been eyeing each other. Leave it to Dawna. My world was going to hell, the office was in shambles, and yet somehow she’d managed to find an eligible man. I swear she’s got radar. Or maybe her grandmother did some ancient Vietnamese magic on her that drew them like flies to honey. Whatever. As soon as Gibson was out of earshot I’d warn her off. He was dying. Getting involved with him would be an invitation to heartbreak.
I started up the stairs. Gibson followed. The staircase isn’t wide and it’s steep, with narrow treads. Most folks get breathless by the first-floor landing. By the time they reach my digs on the third floor, they’re usually gasping and irritable. If the building hadn’t been designated a historic landmark, we’d probably have been forced to install an elevator and make the whole thing handicapped accessible. Instead, we have a ramp leading up to the back porch and a shared, accessible conference room on the first floor.
The staircase ended in an open area on the third floor. It’s a sunny space, lit by large east-facing windows. I usually like it, but today I hurried down the hall, past the door to Freedom Bail Bonds, to unlock the door to my office.
In some ways my office is very feminine. The walls are painted a deep, warm peach. The trim is painted off-white, as is the elegantly patterned tin ceiling. Heavy drapes printed with cabbage roses in white, peach, and russet cover the various windows. All of that femininity is nicely contrasted by the dark wood office furniture, black metal filing cabinets, and big, glossy black gun safe bolted to the floor. It’s large enough to hold an arsenal. We had to reinforce the floor so it didn’t crash down into the second-floor bathroom, which didn’t make the landmark people very happy. I scrounged around old houses for nearly a month to find enough hardwood rafters from the right time period so we’d qualify for the brass plaque.
The safe is top-of-the-line, with not only heavy-duty locks but also level-eight magical wards protecting it. Anybody who tries to mess with it will wind up on their ass at least, and probably in the hospital for an extended stay. I’d have made the protections lethal—but the police frown on that sort of thing.
My mother whines to Gran about how I make so much money, where could I possibly spend it all? I was looking at a chunk of it. A lot goes into savings and investments, of course. No matter how good you are, you’re going to get hurt in this job—if you don’t get killed. Insurance companies won’t give bodyguards a disability policy. So you have to prepare for the worst on your own. I have a tidy little nest egg, and anybody who signs my contract has to guarantee a lump sum payment of a quarter mil in case of death or permanent disability. I charge a rate that is significant enough to allow me to live quite nicely. What’s left over gets either invested or spent on things like the safe and weapons.
And art. A couple of small high-quality framed prints are hung on the outer walls. The cherry frames match the wood of the coffee table and the arms of the visitors’ chairs. The paintings were created by a magician several centuries before. I swear there’s more to them than pretty seascapes. I just haven’t figured out what yet.
The inside wall is all business—a large-scale, detailed map of the city and surrounding areas. It’s been laminated and mounted on cork and takes up most of the wall. I use it to plan transport and emergency evacuation routes, among other things. I’ve marked ongoing construction projects and detours. Because if a map like that isn’t accurate it’s worthless.
Gibson wandered around the room, taking it all in. I stepped behind the desk and over to the safe. I stated my name very clearly, and a panel slid out. I set my left hand on it, palm downward, holding still as a soft blue light scanned from left to right, then top to bottom. Two of the lights on the display panel switched to green. The third, however, remained a sullen red.
“What the hell?” I glared at the machine. The technology part of the security was working just fine: My voice had passed, my palm and fingerprints accepted. But the magical wards, the ones keyed to my DNA, didn’t accept my identity. I couldn’t open the safe.