To Dance With the Devil

“I’ll run Alyssa’s sketch through the system, see what comes up.” She sounded doubtful, and tired, but I knew she’d do it.

“Thanks, Alex.”

“You’re welcome.” She paused. “And Celia, seriously, be careful.”

Everyone seemed to be telling me that. You’d think I was disaster-prone or something. Still, it was good advice. “I plan to.”

After we hung up, I thought about what I’d just learned. I hadn’t liked Abigail Andrews, but I wouldn’t have wished a death like hers on my worst enemy.

Most of what she’d told me had been a lie. I knew that. But most really good liars base their tales on the truth. Alex would check the prisons as I suggested. But would she tell me if she found Hologram Guy? Maybe—then again, maybe not.

Twenty-two years. Abigail had said the man had been in prison for twenty-two years. She’d also said that he’d been the one who’d injured her in the first place.

Rising, I slathered on sunscreen and armed up. I debated whether or not to take along a pair of one-shots filled with holy water. Bats only come out at night and I didn’t think I’d be gone that long, but holy water is useful for a lot of things, like checking for demons, shattering illusions, and cleaning away corruption. Better to have it and not need it than the other way around. I slid the little squirt guns into their loops inside my jacket, grabbed my purse, sunglasses, and keys to the rental car. It was time to go to work.

* * *

The SUV was cherry red with tinted windows. It drove like a tank but I couldn’t fault the visibility. I felt like I was a mile above the ground and had the pleasure of looking down on just about every other vehicle on the road. It had a killer sound system, built-in GPS, and that chemical and leather new-car smell. I turned the radio to my favorite station, cranked up the sound and the AC, and was on my way.

Errands: they breed like rabbits, always take longer than you want them to, and are generally annoying as hell. Still, it was nice enough to be up and around that I didn’t feel too annoyed.

I started by picking up a phone—with Bluetooth. That way I could drive whatever new car I bought and use the phone hands-free. I didn’t need the earpiece for this beast—it had a built-in system. Good thing, too: I could understand now what Dawna meant when she said that driving the Hummer took her full concentration. Once I had the phone I began checking the rest of the items off my list.

I needed research done—more than Dawna could do in a limited amount of time—but I knew Anna wouldn’t let me into the university library in my current state. Been there. Done that. Wasn’t fun the first time. So I called her. She grumbled but agreed to look up the information I wanted and send it to me in an e-mail. Said to check my box in about two hours.

My next stop, Santa Maria de Luna PD’s property department.

Alex had said the police did not want to keep my knives or ring. That might be true, but they were not going to part with them easily, and not without lots and lots of paperwork: boring, tedious, meticulous paperwork.

That one stop killed most of my two hours of waiting time. I was so glad to get out of there with my little bag of goodies.

I was very tempted to just slip on the ring and strap on the knives. But I didn’t. They needed to be checked for trap spells, then cleaned, blessed, and generally made safe before I could use them again. I knew just the guy to do it, too.

I found myself smiling, I had a perfectly legitimate reason to go see Bruno. And hey, it was lunchtime. Maybe we could head over to La Cocina for a bite to eat. (Okay, in my case, not a bite, but at least a smoothie, which counts, right?)

The good news: I got to see him and he agreed to make sure my stuff was usable.

The bad news: he had a big faculty luncheon. He offered to ditch it, but I turned him down and gave him a good-bye/thank you kiss to remember.

As I was walking out the door he called out, “Celie, try to stay out of trouble.”

It was an exact echo of John’s words. I turned, intending to say something in response, then stopped. I am disaster-prone. I don’t look for trouble, but it finds me. Nothing I could say would change that.

15

There was a line of people waiting for tables at La Cocina. I settled down on the bench under the awning and used my new phone to call Dawna. I figured I could catch up on messages while I waited.

“Hello?” Dawna’s voice was pleasant but questioning, not exactly a surprise since she wouldn’t recognize this number on caller ID.

“It’s me. Sorry I didn’t call sooner. I had to get a new phone and run a couple of errands. What’s up?”

“That’s right, you lost your phone! I forgot.” Now she sounded like her bright and bubbly self. “You’ve got like a dozen e-mails and several messages. And we have a problem.”

What else is new? “What is it this time?”

“Well, I got a frantic call on the business line from a woman who said she was Abigail Andrews’s daughter, Michelle. She said that her mom was supposed to meet her at the airport and didn’t show up. Michelle got really scared and checked with the police, who told her that Abigail was dead and then asked her all kinds of what she said were ‘strange questions.’

“Apparently the cops also told Michelle that the last person to talk to Abigail was a local bodyguard. Evidently Michelle has been going through the phone book. She found us by process of elimination and is desperate to meet with you. She’s grieving and angry and really, seriously confused. I told her I couldn’t tell her anything and she just lost it. Started crying really hard and then hung up on me.”

“I don’t suppose she gave you a number at any point?”

“No, but I got it from caller ID. Do you want it?”

“E-mail it to me?”

“Sure. Are you going to call her?”

I thought about it. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea. For one thing, it was ethically squishy. Yes, Michelle’s mother hadn’t actually hired me, but confidentiality is important in my business. On the other hand, Abigail Andrews was dead and Michelle Andrews might be in danger. After all, Abigail had wanted to hire someone to protect her daughter, not herself. If something happened to Michelle because I wasn’t willing to talk with her, I’d blame myself. Decisions, decisions.

“Celia?” Apparently I was taking too long to answer.

“Just thinking. I’ll probably call. Not that I actually know anything.” That wasn’t quite true. I knew that the people we were dealing with were lethally dangerous and highly creative—masters of mayhem, as it were. I didn’t have a clue what they wanted or why, other than me out of the picture. Which meant that meeting with Michelle was a seriously bad idea.

“Well, be ready to get an earful,” Dawna warned.

“Like mother, like daughter,” I answered sourly.

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“Actually, it kind of is.” Dawna sighed. “I was the one who was supposed to meet with Abigail Andrews in the first place.”

“Yeah, well, it’s better you didn’t.” Painful as the burns had been, I’d survived. I’d healed. I could survive more damage than Dawna. I didn’t say that out loud, though. That would be too close to admitting Chris was right, that she wasn’t safe working with me.

“Still. Sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

We exchanged good-byes and ended the call. I was glad to see that I had nearly reached the front of the line, because I needed food. When I first got turned, several years earlier, I’d had to drink something nourishing every four hours without fail or risk all kinds of bloodlusty madness. If I really was back at square one on the bat control, I was past due.

None of the coeds looked like lunch, which was good. But I was getting grumpy, which was not. Finally it was my turn. Barbara greeted me with a huge hug. “You’re back! You’re okay!” She held me at arm’s length, looking me up and down, her eyes narrowing as she took in the hair and the drawn-on eyebrows that showed above my sunglasses. “You are okay, right? Did you get the flowers?”

“Getting there.” I smiled, to take any sting out of the words. “And yes, they’re gorgeous. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Are you by yourself or meeting someone?”

“By myself. I need to catch up on some reading, but I’m starving.”

“One Sunset Smoothie coming up. And, I assume, a margarita?” I nodded. Barbara knows me so well. She led me through the cheerfully noisy main dining area, asking over her shoulder where I’d like to sit. As we passed through the room, I overheard discussions about upcoming parties, past dates, work, and classes. I didn’t hear any comments about my appearance. Of course I wasn’t the most oddly dressed person in the restaurant, not by a long shot, even with the hair.

I chose a table in the corner near the patio doors. It was out of direct sunlight, but there was enough ambient light that I could read the screen of my phone without straining or resorting to vampire vision.

Setting the phone on the table, I opened my e-mail. Sure enough, Anna had come through, sending an e-mail with a large attached file. I settled in and started to read.

I’d managed to cover most of the basics when she entered.

There are people who can change the nature of a room just by walking into it. She was one of them. Every eye in the place turned to her when she stepped through the door—including mine. She was probably in her late teens or early twenties and an absolute knockout. Petite, her black hair hung in natural curls almost to her waist. Her eyes were large, dark, and doelike, framed by thick black lashes. She had the warm brown skin of a Latina and curves that weren’t concealed by the rather dowdy dress she wore. Conversations that had paused at her entrance stuttered back to life as she scanned the room, looking for someone.

An instant later she began striding purposefully toward my table, her face taking on lines of grim determination.

Oh, crap. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">