Dead Witch Walking (20 page)

“Yes,” Trent said in his liquid voice. “Let’s talk about that for a moment. After reviewing your activities the past few days, one might question your loyalties—Mr. Percy.”

Francis crossed his arms. His breathing increased and he began to fidget. Jonathan took a menacing step closer, and Francis tossed his hair from his eyes again.

Trent went frighteningly intense. “Do you know how much it cost me to quiet the rumors when you ran from the I.S. records vault?”

He licked his lips. “Rachel said they’d think I was helping her. That I should run.”

“And so you ran.”

“She said—”

“And yesterday?” Trent interrupted. “You drove her to me.”

The tight anger in his voice pulled me out of my hut. Trent leaned forward, and I swear I heard Francis’s blood freeze. The businessman aura fell from Trent. What was left was domination. Natural, unequivocal domination.

I stared at the change. Trent’s mien was nothing like a vamp’s aura of power. It was like unsweetened chocolate: strong and bitter and oily, leaving an uncomfortable after-taste. Vamps used fear to command respect. Trent simply demanded it. And from what I could see, the thought never crossed his mind that it would be denied.

“She used you to get to me,” he whispered, his eyes unblinking. “That is inexcusable.”

Francis cowered in his chair, his thin face drawn and his eyes wide. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “It won’t happen again.”

Trent’s breath slipped into him in a slow gathering of will, and I watched in horrified fascination. The yellow fish in the tank splashed at the surface. The hair on my back pricked. My pulse raced. Something rose, as nebulous as a whiff of ozone. Trent’s face went empty and ageless. A haze seemed to edge him, and I wondered in a sudden shock if he were pulling on the ever-after. He’d have to be a witch or human to do that. And I would’ve sworn he was neither.

I tore my eyes from Trent. Jonathan’s thin lips were parted. He stood behind Francis, watching Trent with a slack mix of surprise and worry. This raw show of anger wasn’t expected, even by him. His hand rose in protest, hesitant and fearful.

As if in response, Trent’s eye twitched and his breath eased out. The fish hid behind the coral. My skin eerily rippled, settling my fur flat. Jonathan’s fingers trembled, and he made fists of them. Still not looking from Francis, Trent intoned, “I know it won’t.”

His voice was dust upon cold iron, the sounds sliding from one meaning to the next in a liquid grace that was mesmerizing. I felt out of breath. Shuddering, I crouched where I was. What the blazes had happened? Had almost happened?

“What do you plan on doing now?” Trent asked.

“Sir?” Francis said, his voice cracking as he blinked.

“That’s what I thought.” Trent’s fingertips quivered with his repressed anger. “Nothing. The I.S. is watching you too closely. Your usefulness is beginning to fade.”

Francis’s mouth opened. “Mr. Kalamack! Wait! Like you said, the I.S. is watching me. I can draw their attention. Keep them from the customs docks. Another Brimstone take will put me in the clear and distract them at the same time.” Francis shifted on the edge of his seat. “You can move your—things?” he finished weakly.

Things,
I thought. Why didn’t he just say biodrugs? My whiskers quivered. Francis distracted the I.S. with a token amount of Brimstone while Trent moved the real moneymaker. How long? I wondered. How long had Francis worked for him? Years?

“Mr. Kalamack?” Francis whispered.

Trent placed his fingertips together as if in careful thought. Behind him, Jonathan furrowed his thin eyebrows, the worry that had filled him almost gone.

“Tell me when?” Francis begged, edging closer on his chair.

Trent pushed Francis to the back of his chair with a three-second glance. “I don’t give chances, Percy. I take opportunities.” He pulled his datebook closer, paging a few days ahead. “I would like to schedule a shipment on Friday. Southwest. Last flight before midnight to L.A. You can find your usual take at the main bus station in a locker. Keep it anonymous. My name has been in the papers too often lately.”

Francis jumped to his feet in relief. He stepped forward as if to shake Trent’s hand, then glanced at Jonathan and backed up. “Thank you, Mr. Kalamack,” he gushed. “You won’t be sorry.”

“I can’t imagine I would.” Trent looked at Jonathan, then the door. “Enjoy your afternoon,” he said in dismissal.

“Yes sir. You, too.”

I felt as if I was going to be sick as Francis bounced out of the room. Jonathan hesitated in the threshold, watching Francis make obnoxious noises at the ladies he passed in the hall.

“Mr. Percy has made himself more of a liability than an asset,” Trent breathed tiredly.

“Yes, Sa’han,” Jonathan agreed. “I strongly urge you to remove him from the payroll.”

My stomach clenched. Francis didn’t deserve to die just because he was stupid.

Trent rubbed his fingertips into his forehead. “No,” he finally said. “I’d rather keep him until I arrange for a replacement. And I may have other plans for Mr. Percy.”

“As you like, Sa’han,” Jonathan said, and softly closed the door.

“H
ere, Angel,” Sara Jane coaxed. A carrot wiggled through the bars of my cage. I stretched to take it before she could let it drop. Aspen chips didn’t season them at all.

“Thanks,” I chittered, knowing she couldn’t understand me, but needing to say something regardless. The woman smiled and cautiously extended her fingers through the cage. I grazed my whiskers across them because I knew she would like it.

“Sara Jane?” Trent questioned from his desk, and the petite woman turned with a guilty swiftness. “I employ you to manage my office affairs, not be a zookeeper.”

“Sorry sir. I was taking the opportunity to try and rid myself of my irrational fear of vermin.” She brushed at her knee-length cotton skirt. It wasn’t as crisp or professional as her interview suit, but still new. Just what I’d expect a farm girl would wear on her first day on the job.

I chewed ravenously on the carrot left over from Sara Jane’s lunch. I was starving, since I refused to eat those stale pellets.
What’s the matter, Trent?
I thought between chews.
Jealous?

Trent adjusted his glasses and returned his attention to his papers. “When you’re through ridding yourself of your irrational fears, I’d like you to go down to the library.”

“Yes sir.”

“The librarian has collated some information for me. But I want you to screen it for me. Bring up what you think is most pertinent.”

“Sir?”

Trent set down his pen. “Information regarding the sugar beet industry.” He smiled with a genuine warmth. I wondered if he had a patent on it. “I may be branching out in that direction, and need to learn enough to make an informed decision.”

Sara Jane beamed, tucking her fair hair behind an ear in pleased embarrassment. Obviously she guessed Trent might be buying the farm her family was serfed upon.
You’re a smart woman,
I thought darkly.
Follow it down. Trent will own your family. You’d be his, body and soul.

She turned back to my cage and dropped a last celery stick. Her smile faded. Worry creased her brow. It would have looked endearing on her childlike face, except the woman’s family was in real danger. She took a breath to say something, then closed her mouth. “Yes sir,” she said, her eyes distant. “I’ll bring the information up right away.”

Sara Jane closed the door as she left, her footsteps sounding slow in the hallway.

Trent gave his door a suspicious glance as he reached for his cup of tea: Earl Grey, no sugar or milk. If he followed yesterday’s pattern, it would be phone conversations and paperwork from three until seven, when the few people he kept late went home. I imagined it was easier to run illegal drugs from your office when no one was around to see you.

Trent had returned that afternoon from his three-hour lunch break with his wispy hair freshly combed and smelling of the outdoors. He had been decidedly refreshed. If I hadn’t known better, I would have assumed he spent his midday break napping in his back office.

Why not?
I thought as I stretched out on the hammock my cell had come with. He was wealthy enough to set his own hours.

I yawned, my eyes slipping shut. It was the second day of my captivity, and I was quite sure it wouldn’t be my last. I had spent last night thoroughly investigating my cage, only to find that it was Rachel proof. It had been designed for ferrets, and the two-story wire cage was surprisingly secure. My hours spent prying at the seams left me bone tired. It was pleasant to do nothing. My hope that Jenks or Ivy might rescue me was thin. I was on my own. And it might be a while before I managed to convey to Sara Jane that I was a person and get out of there.

I cracked an eyelid as Trent rose from his desk and strode restlessly to his music discs arranged in a recessed shelf beside the player. He cut a nice figure as he stood before them, so intent on his choice that he didn’t realize I was rating his backside: 9.5 out of 10. I took the .5 off for most of his physique being hidden behind a business suit that cost more than some cars.

I’d gotten another yummy look at him last night when he took off his jacket after everyone went home. The man had a very strong back. Why he kept it hidden behind that jacket was both a mystery and a crime. His tight stomach was even better. He had to work out, though I don’t know where he found the time. I would have given anything to see him in a bathing suit—or less. His legs had to be just as muscular, being the expert rider he was reputed to be. And if it sounded like I was a sex-starved nympho…Well, I didn’t have anything to do but watch him.

Trent had worked long after sunset yesterday, seemingly alone in the silent building. The only light had been from that fake window. It slowly paled as the sun went down, mirroring the natural light outside until he clicked on the desk lamp. I had caught myself drowsing several times, waking up when he turned a page or the printer hummed to life. He hadn’t quit until Jonathan came by to remind him to eat. I guess he earned his money, same as I did. ’Course, he had two jobs, being a reputable businessman and drug lord both. Probably filled up one’s day right nicely.

My hammock swayed as I watched Trent choose a disc. It spun up, and the soft cadence of drums drifted into existence. Eyeing me, Trent adjusted his gray linen suit and smoothed his wispy hair as if daring me to say anything. I gave him a sleepy thumbs-up, and his frown deepened. It wasn’t the stuff I liked, but it was okay. This was older, carrying a forgotten sound of bound intensity, of lost sorrow chained to stir the soul. It wasn’t half bad.

I could get used to this,
I mused as I carefully stretched my healing body. I hadn’t slept this well since I quit the I.S. It was ironic that here, in a cage in a drug lord’s office, I was safe from my I.S. death threat.

Trent settled himself back at his work, his pen occasionally accompanying the drums as he paused in thought. Obviously this was one of his favorites. I slipped in and out of sleep as the afternoon wore on, soothed by the rumble of drums and whisper of music. The occasional phone call sent Trent’s mellow voice to rise and fall in a soothing sound, and I found myself eagerly waiting for the next interruption just so I could hear it.

It was a commotion in the hall that jerked me from sleep. “I know where his office is,” boomed an overly confident voice, reminding me of one of my more arrogant professors.

There was a half-heard scolding from Sara Jane, and Trent met my inquiring gaze.

“Turn it all to hell,” he muttered, the corners of his expressive eyes crinkling. “I told him to send one of his assistants.” He dug about in a drawer with unusual haste, the clatter bringing me fully awake. I blinked the sleep from me as he pointed a remote at the player. The pipes and drums ceased. He tossed the remote back into the drawer with a resigned air. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that Trent liked having someone to share his day with, someone he didn’t have to pretend to be anything but what he was—
whatever
he was. His anger at Francis had set my creepy meter off the scale.

Sara Jane knocked and came in. “Mr. Faris is here to see you, Mr. Kalamack?”

Trent took a slow breath. He didn’t look happy. “Send him in.”

“Yes sir.” She left the door open and her heels clicked away. They soon returned as she escorted in a heavyset man wearing a dark gray lab coat. The man looked huge standing beside the small woman. Sara Jane left, her eyes pinched in a lingering worry.

“Can’t say I like your new secretary,” Faris grumbled as the door closed. “Sara, is it?”

Trent rose to his feet and extended his hand, his distaste hidden behind his sincere-looking smile. “Faris. Thanks for coming on such short notice. It’s only a small matter. One of your assistants would have been fine. I trust I haven’t interrupted your research too badly?”

“Not at all. I’m always glad to get up into the sun,” he puffed as if winded.

Faris squeezed the bites I had given Trent yesterday, and Trent’s smile froze. The heavy man wedged himself into the chair across from Trent’s desk as if he owned it. He propped an ankle up on one knee, sending his lab coat to fall open to show dress slacks and shiny shoes. A dark stain spotted his lapel, and the smell of disinfectant flowed from him, almost hiding the scent of redwood. Old pocketmarked scars were scattered across his cheeks and the skin visible on his beefy hands.

Trent returned to behind his desk and leaned back, hiding his bandaged hand under the other one. There was a moment of silence.

“So, what do you want?” Faris demanded, his voice rumbling.

I thought I saw a flash of annoyance cross Trent. “Direct as usual,” he said. “Tell me what you can about this?”

He had pointed to me, and my breath caught. Disregarding my lingering stiffness, I lurched into my hut. Faris levered himself to his feet with a groan, and the sharp scent of redwood crashed over me as he came close. “Well well,” he said. “Aren’t you the stupid one.”

Annoyed, I looked up at his dark eyes, almost lost among the folds of skin. Trent had come around to the front of his desk, sitting against it. “Recognize her?” he asked.

“Personally? No.” He gave the bars of my cage a soft thunk with a thick finger.

“Hey!” I shouted from my hut. “I’m really getting tired of that.”

“Shut up, you,” he said disdainfully. “She’s a witch,” Faris continued, dismissing me as if I were nothing. “Just keep her out of your fish tank, and she won’t be able to change back. It’s a powerful spell. She must have the backing of a large organization, as only they could afford it. And she’s stupid.”

The last was directed at me, and I fought the urge to throw pellets at him.

“How so?” Trent went to rummage in his lower drawer, the chiming of lead crystal ringing out before he poured two shots of that forty-year-old whiskey.

“Transformation is a difficult art. You have to use potions rather than amulets, which means you stir an entire brew for only one occasion. The rest gets thrown away. Very expensive. You could pay your assistant librarian’s salary for what this stirring cost, and staff a small office for the liability insurance to sell it.”

“Difficult, you say?” Trent handed Faris a glass. “Could you make such a spell?”

“If I had the recipe,” he said, puffing up his substantial chest, his pride clearly affronted. “It’s old. Preindustry, perhaps? I don’t recognize who stirred this spell.” He leaned close, breathing deeply. “Lucky for him, or I might have to relieve the witch of his library.”

This
, I thought,
is becoming a very interesting conversation.

“So you don’t think she made it herself?” Trent asked. He was again sitting back against his desk, looking incredibly trim and fit next to Faris.

The heavyset man shook his head and sat back down. The shot glass was completely unseen, enfolded by his thick hands. “I’d stake my life on it. You can’t be smart enough to competently stir a spell like that and be dumb enough to be caught. Doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe she was impatient,” Trent said, and Faris exploded into laughter. I jumped, covering my ears with my paws.

“Oh, yes,” Faris said between guffaws. “Yes. She was impatient. I like that.”

I thought Trent’s usual polish was starting to look thin as he returned behind his desk and set his untasted drink aside.

“So who is she?” Faris asked, leaning forward like a mock conspirator. “An eager reporter trying for the story of her life?”

“Is there a spell that will allow me to understand her?” Trent asked, ignoring Faris’s question. “All she does is squeak.”

Faris grunted as he leaned to set his emptied glass on the desk in an unspoken request for more. “No. Rodents don’t have vocal cords. You plan on keeping her for any length of time?”

Trent spun his glass in his fingers. He was alarmingly silent.

Faris smiled wickedly. “What’s cooking in that nasty little head of yours, Trent?”

The creak of Trent’s chair as he leaned forward seemed very loud. “Faris, if I didn’t need your talents so badly, I would have you whipped in your own lab.”

The large man grinned, sending the folds in his face to fall into each other. “I know.”

Trent put the bottle away. “I may enter her in Friday’s tournament.”

Faris blinked. “The city’s tournaments?” he said softly. “I’ve seen one of those. The bouts don’t end until one is dead.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Fear pulled me to the wire mesh. “Whoa, wait a moment,” I chittered. “What do you mean, dead? Hey! Someone talk to the mink!”

I threw a pellet at Trent. It went about two feet before arching down to the carpet. I tried again, this time kicking it rather than throwing it. It hit the back of his desk with a plink. “The Turn take you, Trent!” I shouted. “Talk to me.”

Trent met my gaze, his eyebrows raised. “The rat fights, of course.”

My heart gave a thump. Chilled, I sank back on my haunches. The rat fights. Illegal. Backroom. Rumors. To the death. I was going to be in the ring—fighting a rat to the death.

I stood in confusion, my long, white-furred feet planted on the wire mesh of my cage. I felt betrayed, of all things. Faris looked ill. “You’re not serious,” he whispered, his fat cheeks turning white. “You’re really going to play her? You can’t!”

“Why ever not?”

Faris’s jowls dropped as he struggled for words. “She’s a person!” he exclaimed. “She won’t last three minutes. They’ll rip her to shreds.”

Trent shrugged with an indifference I knew wasn’t faked. “Surviving is her problem, not mine.” He put on his wire glasses and bent his head over his papers. “Good afternoon, Faris.”

“Kalamack, this is too far. Even you aren’t above the law.”

As soon as he said it, both Faris and I knew it was a mistake. Trent pulled his gaze up. Silent, he eyed Faris from over his lenses. He leaned forward, an elbow on his accumulated work. I waited breathlessly, the tension making my fur rise. “How is your youngest daughter, Faris?” Trent asked, his beautiful voice unable to hide the ugliness of his question.