Dangerous Calling (The Shadowminds) (7 page)

“
Marco
,
what should a member of the public do if they encounter West?
”

“
Holly
,
authorities are asking anyone with knowledge of West’s whereabouts to contact police immediately.
Do not approach him or attempt to detain him.
Go to a safe location and call the hotline on your screen.
”

“
Thank you
,
Marco.
Marco Raine reporting live from Baton Rouge.
” Holly smiled at the camera. “
When we come back—a
new bill in the state senate could mean big changes for Louisiana’s hospitality industry.
Jenny Wu has more
,
after this.
”

Lionel switched off the television.

“Oh my God,” I said.

Shane said, “I knew there was something off about that bastard.”

“Susannah vouched for him. She said he wasn’t dangerous.” At this point, I wasn’t sure that was enough.

“Give him the benefit of the doubt,” Lionel said. “Innocent until proven guilty.” Shane raised one eyebrow at his uncle.

“Innocent or not, I’m going to talk to him.” I loaded a plate with yesterday’s muffins and headed up the stairs.

I knocked on the door of Ian’s room. There was no answer, so I knocked louder.

“Come in.” It was more of a grunt than actual words. I pushed the door open.

The bed was a mess. Even the fitted sheet had come loose and tangled with the blankets. The pillows were flat and lumpy, as though he’d used them as punching bags. Ian was pacing back and forth in the space between the door and the bed. He was shirtless, and his wings were completely visible. The muscles in his shoulders were tense. He rounded on me and stopped when he saw the tray.

“I brought you breakfast,” I said.

He nodded.

“I also just watched the news.” No point dancing around it.

He looked at me and didn’t smile. “I did it, in case you were wondering.” There was bitterness in his voice, and anger. Most of it seemed directed at himself.

I kept the tray from shaking, but it was hard. I walked in, set it down on the dresser and opened my mouth and closed it again.

“I had reason.”

I couldn’t judge him. He wasn’t the only person in the room who’d taken a life. But the why of it mattered. “What kind of reason?”

“They were sent to kill me. That enough for you?” He bit off the words, and I had to wonder if it was enough for him. He was losing control of his mental walls, and spikes of regret-soaked memory leaked through. Blood on his hands, tainted water in a bathtub, whisky in a glass, no ice. He ran his hand unconsciously over the tattoo of Emily’s name.

“Who was she?” I asked softly.

“Just a girl.” He looked away.

“I mean, who was she to you?”

He didn’t answer at first. He seemed to be searching for something to occupy his hands, and he finally settled on undoing the ties of his duffel bag and pulling out clothes. Jeans and dark T-shirts, athletic socks, a water bottle. “Doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” He stared at his socks as though they were priceless paintings.

“All right,” I said, and left him in peace. I guess everyone was allowed to have secrets.

* * *

Shane wasn’t as moved by Ian’s situation as I was.

“Territory or no territory, if he causes trouble here, I’m hauling his ass to Biloxi myself.”

“I hope Susannah has some kind of plan. I mean—he can’t stay here forever.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that
is
her plan.” Shane muttered. “We’ll deal with it later. I have an idea how to get Diana out.”

“Does it involve me hurting anyone?” I’d lain awake half the night thinking about what we’d seen. I didn’t see how we’d be able to get within ten yards of the house without triggering security.

“Right,” Shane said, watching my thoughts. “But what if we’re not storming the castle—what if we’re clients?”

“You saw that envelope he gave her.” Buddy must have passed over a good five grand in cash, if the thickness of the package was any indication. “We don’t have that kind of money.”

“Maybe not. But we know where to get it.”

Chapter Seven

“
How much is out there?
” Shane sent. It was easier to mindspeak than yell over the roar of the two-stroke motor and the rush of water against the sides of the little powerboat.

“
I
have no idea.
” The last time I’d been to the Tooleys’ fishing camp, I’d been fighting for my life, and once that was taken care of, the only thing I’d thought about was fighting for Shane’s. I hadn’t stopped to count Ryan Tooley’s dirty money.

He’d gotten it from the flock of faithful people he’d deceived into thinking he was working miracles. Offerings. The church he’d used had been abandoned a long time ago, and we’d run his business partner and front man out of the state. There was no way to track the original owners of all this cash, no way to make it right.

“
I
guess it’s technically Janine’s
,
now.
” Shane thought of her cramped, dirty apartment.

Regret swamped me. I knew how difficult her finances were—this money could have helped. “
When this is over
,” I said, “
we’ll find a way to get it to her.
” It was too late to save her house, but maybe it wasn’t too late to save her.

Shane eased the boat into a turn in the Amite River. We’d just left Lake Maurepas behind, and the way was still wide. It was a gorgeous day for a ride, all blue sky and glass-smooth water. The banks were lush and green with palmetto plants and blackberry bushes, cypress and tupelo. We passed a group of kids out waterskiing and had to slow down for a fisherman taking advantage of a fallen log against the bank. Shane waved to him in apology for the wake, and he waved back and returned to his line.

The first camps showed up at the turn to Blue Sand River, only a few of them, some long abandoned to rot. Of the ones that were still in good repair, only one had a boat tied to the dock.

“
After the next bend
,
I
think.
” I’d only been to the Tooleys’ camp a handful of times, and half of them, I’d teleported. I began to fear I wouldn’t be able to find it, but we went through the next turn and I saw it. A weathered white camp on tall stilts, surrounded by swampland in a turn of the river.

“
There.
”

It had never been in good repair, but the past months of neglect had sent it over the edge. One of the planks that formed the low dock had broken, and at least half of the paint had curled off, leaving the exposed wood open to wet and rot. I stopped worrying about whether the cash was still there and started worrying whether the building would support us while we looked for it.

Shane bumped the throttle down to idle and took the boat around back. As we approached what remained of the dock, I caught sight of the swamp stretching out behind the camp and went still.

“What—?” Shane began, picking up on my distress, but when he looked up he went quiet.

For fifty yards around the camp, everything was dead.

We were smack in the middle of a sweltering Louisiana summer. The trees farther from the camp were bright green and lush, thick with leaves and the bright signs of wildlife I could pick up with my powers. Closer to the camp, the trees were gray and brittle. Not only that—the underbrush was nonexistent. The lack of overhead foliage should’ve encouraged a swarm of smaller plants taking advantage of the unfiltered subtropical sun. Some grasses and smaller plants had taken root at the edges of the dead zone, but the center was barren.

I’d scorched the marshy earth when I’d teleported from this spot months ago. I’d pulled from my surroundings to avoid killing Ryan. Here was the cost.

Shane was quiet while he tied the boat off to one of the remaining pylons. We climbed the rickety ladder to the porch without speaking, and I held my breath while I waited to see if the planks would take our weight. A few of them bowed under my feet, but they didn’t break.

“You okay?” Shane asked.

I didn’t answer him. I stared at the wall of the camp, the one that formed the back of the porch. The pattern of peeled paint was odd, as though the destruction had grown from some central point like an organic thing, a starburst pattern with feathery arms. I walked forward and put my hand to the center, remembering. This was the point from which the ice my gift created had crept over the building.

“Cass?”

“I’m fine.”

“Should we go in?” His voice was careful and I hated it.

“Yeah.” I walked past Shane into the camp’s austere bedroom. The door was still open; bills still littered the floor.

“Jesus.” He hit his knees and began gathering them up. “How much is here?”

“Like I said, no clue. I was more worried about getting back to you.” I went to the trap door and opened it.

It was full of cash. Packed. Nestled among the bills was an open metal box I knew once contained Ryan’s gun. A box of ammo was tucked to one side.

“How much do we need?”

I looked up. Shane stood over me, his hands full of cash. There had to be thousands of dollars, here. Tens of thousands. The bills had gotten moldy in the months of damp. We were going to have to literally launder this money.

I looked at the pile and the slivers of muddy water visible through the cracks in the floorboards. “All of it.”

* * *

I shoveled handfuls of bills into our giant, definitely not energy-efficient washing machine.

“Which cycle do we use? Delicate or permanent press?” There was too much for a single batch, so we counted the rest while we waited. It came to over forty thousand dollars in ones, fives and the occasional ten. I only found a dozen twenties. With what was in the washing machine, we had probably had close to a hundred grand in cash. We had plenty of time to bundle it into hundred-dollar stacks while the dryer tumbled. It took longer than I expected, but I figured Annette was used to after-hours clients.

I didn’t call ahead. I didn’t know what number I’d dial, anyway—Annette Perrin and her address didn’t have a phone number listed. I just walked right up to the front door and knocked as if I had every right in the world to pop by on a weekend well after dark.

It didn’t take long for the door to open. They’d probably been watching me walk up the drive. The guard looked me over. It was good to be short and small—it was hard to look threatening when you were barely over five feet tall.

“I’m here to see Annette,” I said, and gave him my most innocent smile.

He didn’t smile back. “You got an appointment?” White guy, tall and thick, not the same one who’d driven the SUV. I could drop him in half a second. Maybe I’d try the nice way first.

“I only need a few minutes of her time.” This had the advantage of being true. I took out the envelope of cash and showed it to him. “I came prepared.”

He frowned. “Name?”

Shit. I hadn’t prepared for this part. “Liz Taylor.” It was the first thing that popped into my head. I mentally cursed, but the guard clearly wasn’t a movie buff. Or a telepath. That, or he was used to people giving made-up names. He stepped aside and waved me in.

I stepped across the threshold and into a huge foyer. The outside of the house might’ve been bland, but the inside was designed to impress. The foyer was three stories tall with a chandelier at the top. The walls were painted dark red, and the light was low and yellow-hued, like candle flame. At the far end of the foyer, the dark wood of a massive, curving staircase gleamed in the low light.

“Stand there.” He pointed to a spot on an intricately patterned brown-and-gold rug and patted me down without so much as a warning. “Wait in the parlor,” he said when he was done. “First door on the left.”

The heels of my sandals clicked and echoed as I walked toward the door. It was dark-stained solid wood with an antique knob, and when I opened it and entered the room, I understood immediately why the guard called it the parlor. It was the only word I had for it too.

The room was huge—easily three times the size of an average living room. It contained at least a dozen old-fashioned chairs and love seats, most of them in the ornate Queen Anne style, oval backs with curling, carved wood armrests. The light was low and red-hued from a half-dozen small lamps with miniature shades. The room looked like some trendy hotel basement bar, complete with a low ceiling and fancy crown molding. After the vast upward reach of the foyer, the closeness of it was suffocating.

I didn’t sit down—it didn’t seem wise. I paced the rug in front of a green-and-yellow couch, my footsteps muffled by the thick fabric. I couldn’t quite make out the woven designs, but they were definitely animals. I thought I could see teeth and claws. The end tables nearest me held stacks of hardcover, clothbound books, delicate glass bowls with cut-out filigree patterns at their edges, and the perfectly reconstructed skeleton of a small animal, a rodent or maybe a cat. I couldn’t tell. It was posed upright, its spindly skeleton arms reaching out as if attacking, its tiny mouth bared.

“Miss Taylor?”

I jumped. It was lucky—if I hadn’t been surprised, I might not have responded to my fake name. Annette was standing in the doorway.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her smile said otherwise. Predatory and amused.

“That’s all right.” I faced her as she walked across the room with the kind of subtle, hip-swaying gait women learned young or not at all. She stopped in front of me and held out her hand. She was wearing all black again, long sleeves and slacks, high-heeled leather boots. No hat, though, and no sunglasses. Her eyes were so pale I could barely make out the color.

“Welcome to Shadow House.” She didn’t introduce herself. She seemed like the type who didn’t have to.

I took her hand. “Thank you.” Her grip was firm. Even her skin felt expensive. Smooth, cool and flawless.

“Please.” She gestured to the chair across from her. “Sit.”

Her accent was as soft and rich as I remembered. Butter and honey. If wealthy Southern families were still sending their daughters to finishing school, Annette would’ve been the valedictorian. She looked to be mid-forties, so maybe she’d been to whatever the modern equivalent was. She sat down in the center of a two-person sofa and crossed one ankle over the other, angling her legs. She watched me with her mouth curved up ever so slightly while I tried to figure out where to sit. I ended up on the edge of a red velvet chair opposite her, right next to the skeleton. I didn’t let myself shift away from it.

“So.” She steepled her fingers. “You’ve found us.” She pitched her voice low, and I had to lean forward to make sure I’d heard. Her pale hair seemed to glow in the lamplight.

I wasn’t entirely comfortable with that statement. “My—uh—friend assured me you could deliver results.”

“That depends entirely on the problem. What is it you need, Miss Taylor?”

“Your fortune-teller,” I said, and had to clear my throat.

Her eyes went cold. It didn’t seem possible for them to grow paler, but the irises looked almost white. “My ‘fortune-teller’ is not for sale.”

“I only want to rent her.” Jesus, what was I saying? “I mean, use her services.” Shit. “I mean, I just need her to figure something out for me.” My heart pounded. “It’ll only take, like, fifteen minutes.”

Annette seemed to relax. I hadn’t realized she’d leaned forward until she leaned back again and settled her hands on the armrests. “What is it you wish to know?”

This part, I’d prepared for. “I want to know who’s going to win the World Series.”

She laughed. It was rich and smooth, like her voice, and it almost sounded genuine. Almost. My palms went sweaty and I wiped them on my slacks. I couldn’t tell if she was genuinely amused, or if she was five seconds away from blowing my brains out with a concealed handgun. She stopped laughing. I held my breath.

“Eleven thousand dollars. No refunds if she’s wrong.”

“How could she be wrong?” I was genuinely curious. I also needed to stall while I came up with a plan. I only had five thousand in cash in my purse.

“Your question is more complicated than you know. Many things could change the course of the future.”

“Six thousand,” I said. “Three now, and three when she turns out to be right.”

Annette tipped her head to the side. “Ten thousand, upfront.”

“Five thousand upfront and five after the game.”

“Five thousand now and five after the reading.”

It would have to do. I wasn’t planning on being around after the reading. I took out the envelope and separated a chunk of the bills, hoping she couldn’t tell they were mostly ones. I tucked what remained in my pocket and set the envelope on the table between us, right next to a bell jar covering an ornate pocket watch on a brass stand.

Annette scooped up the envelope and tucked it away, her movement too fast for me to see where. So much for three grand, or whatever it turned out to be.

She stood and walked to a chest-high side table against the wall closest to the door. There was an old-fashioned rotary telephone there, the kind with a speaking bell hanging separately. She lifted it but didn’t dial, and after a moment she spoke in a low voice I couldn’t make out. She hung up and returned to her seat.

We stared at each other. She didn’t speak. I started to sweat even more, my back and underarms going damp. She barely moved. I wasn’t convinced she was breathing. I’d never wanted to make small talk about the weather so much in my life.

Thankfully, a moment later Diana walked in. She looked much better than when I’d seen her at the abandoned gas station. The bruise beneath her eye had faded to yellow-green, and she was wearing clothes that fit—jeans and a cotton blouse. Her skin was a rosy tan, as though she’d slept well after days of insomnia, but the color fled from her cheeks when she saw me.

“It’s all right, Dia. Come have a seat.”

Diana looked at me warily. I gave her the smallest nod I could manage, and she sat down next to Annette, angling toward her. She looked from Annette to me and back again, questioning. Annette put her hand over Diana’s and squeezed, gently. My brow furrowed.

Annette turned her body toward Diana, clearly addressing her alone. “Miss Taylor here would like to know who’s going to win the World Series this year.” She’d lowered her voice, as though she was speaking to a crying child. Diana seemed absorbed by her utterly.