“Scarlett?” Jesse said, concerned.
“I’m fine.” But my voice came out as more of a squeak. “Just give me a second.”
“Sure.”
My arm hurt, but I also wanted to smack my head against the wall. Of course Molly had been pressed by a boundary witch. How had I not thought of that? I mean, I’d never actually seen Jesse’s friend Lex do her thing, but I’d heard somewhere that boundary witches could press vampires. I was an idiot.
This mental berating went on for a while. I was also very focused on getting the T-shirt over my stitches, so I didn’t realize Jesse had turned on the ancient mounted television until I heard a crisp, news-anchor voice say, “Thankfully, the fire was contained before it reached the buildings on either side.”
I whirled around with my arms still in the air, the shirt stuck on my elbows. The news team camera was fixed on the smoking ruins of the building I’d been in only a few hours earlier.
The fire department had managed to get the flames out before the whole place was cremated, but all that was left were some waist-high walls that ended in charred tips. “Fire department investigators have recovered the bodies of eight young women who were likely residents of the house,” the reporter announced.
Jesse and I looked at each other. I’d completely forgotten that my arm and one elbow were stuck in a shirt that was partially over my face. “Did she just say eight?” I demanded. “There were twelve. I counted.” My voice came out more defensive than I’d intended.
“Maybe they haven’t recovered the others yet,” Jesse suggested.
But the reporter went on. “There is no word yet about the other five women who were residents of this building, but Los Angeles Fire Department investigators have found accelerants which suggest those remains were completely incinerated.”
Like hell. Molly was one of the missing, but what the hell had happened to the other four?
Chapter 11
The news anchor droned on, but I didn’t hear her. My brain was whirring. “We gotta go,” I told Jesse.
He strode over to me, placed one hand very lightly over my wound to protect the stitches, and yanked the T-shirt down over my head.
“Thanks.” My boots were fine—the cops had even let me keep my knives, which were just small enough to be legal. I pulled on the boots, stuck a knife in each holster, and followed Jesse out the door. I didn’t even think about the long-suffering nurse until we had left the building. Poor Rochelle.
The second we were in the parking garage, I started dialing numbers in the disposable phone. “Who are you calling?” Jesse asked.
“Remember when the nova wolf was running around, and a couple of the werewolves betrayed the pack?” I asked, not waiting for him to answer. “We set up a couple of protocols after that. I’m activating one now.”
Before I could explain further, a female voice answered the phone. “This is Kirsten,” she said, her voice guarded. Right, she wouldn’t recognize my number.
“It’s me,” I replied. “I was wondering if you’re free for a drink at our usual place.”
There was a long pause, and then: “Really?”
“Yes. Thirty minutes?”
“See you there.”
We reached Jesse’s sedan, and a very excited bargest spent several minutes licking me and sniffing the stitches on my arm. I checked her ribs, but she seemed completely fine now, probably thanks to our hours-long separation. The bargest spell that had been performed on Shadow—a spell that required a goddamned human sacrifice, like something out of a fairy tale—was complex and layered. Being a null meant I affected the parts of it that required active magic: Shadow’s intense drive to hunt (and eventually kill) werewolves, for example, and her accelerated healing. If she was near me, she healed at normal canine speed, and her temperament was similar to that of any huge dog.
However, the spell also involved physiological changes that were too permanent to be nullified: her decelerated aging, her unnatural intelligence, and her armor-like skin. Those parts of the bargest spell were irreparable alterations to her very DNA, which meant magic was no longer actively involved.
I patted the furry parts of her back and told her she was a good dog-monster until she seemed pacified. Then I asked Jesse to head for Chinatown. While he drove, I called Dashiell and repeated the same phrase. He was obviously still upset with me, but we’d set up the protocols for a reason, and he couldn’t exactly refuse.
My last call was to Hair of the Dog, the bar owned by the alpha werewolf, Will. It was also the bar where Eli worked, which was why I had put it off until last. I still didn’t want to talk to Eli, but Will often left his cell in his desk drawer while he worked. Everyone worth talking to knew to call the bar’s landline.
I checked my watch. It was after closing, but Will would still be there. Probably Eli, too. I gritted my teeth and dialed.
Luck was with me—Will answered the phone himself. I gave him the same rehearsed line I’d given the others, got the exact same pause, followed by reluctant agreement. “You know,” he said before he hung up, “your boyfriend has been worried about you. He’s been texting you every five minutes.” There was just the slightest hint of irritation in his voice. Will was an understanding boss, but he had his limits.
“I lost my phone.” Not technically true, but learning that my phone had been exploded by a bullet wouldn’t exactly reassure Eli.
“Do you want to talk to him?”
Did I? Next to me, Jesse was studiously pretending he couldn’t hear what I was saying. This wasn’t really the time to get into a fight. “Could you just let him know that I’m fine? I’ll try to call him later.”
“Fine.”
There is a shitty little Ramada in Chinatown that serves as a surprisingly suitable meeting place for the Old World leaders. Security is lax, with zero video cameras, and most of the hotel guests are tourists who don’t speak English well enough to find a better place to stay. Best of all, no one in the Old World goes there, stays there, or works there. And there’s free coffee in the lobby 24/7.
Jesse handed me a cup as we wandered over to the grouping of chairs in the threadbare lobby. There were two couches and two armchairs, all made primarily of polyester, all grouped around a very large coffee table covered in stained Formica. The lights had been dimmed, and although we were technically in view of the front desk, there was no one actually manning it. If you listened hard, you could hear someone snoring from an adjacent room in the back.
I chose the chair at the head of the seating area, the one that faced the entrance. Jesse sat down to my right, and Shadow curled up over my feet. Before we got out of the car, I had dressed her in the little cape that identified her as a service dog, which got her access to all public spaces. In the US people aren’t legally allowed to ask me why I need a service animal, but just in case, I carry a signed affidavit from a neurologist, stating that I need Shadow for a seizure disorder. Dashiell had arranged it for me. It’s amazing what you can get away with when you have mind control abilities.
We waited quietly, sipping the stale coffee and watching the door. Kirsten was the first to arrive, giving both of us a tight nod before taking a seat, arms folded over her chest. A slender Swedish blonde in a long dress and denim jacket, Kirsten was looking stormy, and I couldn’t blame her. When you traffic in magic, promises are a powerful thing. The murder of a Friend of the Witches, especially by a member of the Old World, was the equivalent of Kirsten breaking a promise.
“Why is Jesse here?” Kirsten asked.
“Because I asked him to help,” I said simply. “And because he has a connection with a boundary witch in Wyoming.”
“Colorado,” Jesse corrected me. I waved a hand, conceding.
Kirsten’s eyes widened. “Allison Luther?”
Jesse nodded, but didn’t look surprised that Kirsten knew the name. Interesting. “After Jesse talked to her earlier, we’ve got a theory.”
“This better not be some sort of diversion while you break Molly out of my house,” Dashiell warned as he entered my radius and strode over to us. I hadn’t heard him approach, but then I wouldn’t. Will was standing right behind him, looking much more affable, his hands jammed in his pants pockets. “Beatrice has been practicing with her shotgun. I told her to shoot anyone who shows up.” I swallowed. Dashiell’s wife, Beatrice, was one of the few vampires who seemed to sort of like me, but I had no doubt that she’d shoot me if Dashiell told her it was necessary.