Dead Witch Walking (24 page)

“You really live in a church?” he asked.

My gaze followed his, roving over the clearly institutional kitchen. “Yeah. Ivy and I moved in a few days ago. Don’t mind the bodies buried in the backyard.”

He smiled a charming half smile. God save me, but it made him look like a little lost boy. Ivy, at the sink again, snickered under her breath.

“Honey,” Jenks’s tiny voice moaned from the ceiling, jerking my attention upward. He peered down from the ladle, his wings blurring to nothing when he noticed Nick. Flying unsteadily, he almost fell to the table. I cringed, but Nick smiled.

“Jenks, right?” Nick asked.

“Baron,” Jenks said, stumbling as he tried to take his best Peter Pan pose. “Glad you can do something other than squeak. Gives me a headache. Squeak, squeak, squeak. That ultrasonic stuff goes right through my head.”

“It’s Nick. Nick Sparagmos.”

“So, Nick,” he said, “Rachel wants to know what it was like having balls as big as your head that drag on the floor.”

“Jenks!” I shouted.
Oh, God help me.
Head shaking violently in denial, I looked at Nick, but he seemed to have taken it in stride, his eyes glinting as his long face grinned.

Jenks took a hasty breath, darting out of the way as I made a snatch for him. He was rapidly regaining his balance. “Hey, that’s one bad-ass scar on your wrist,” he said quickly. “My wife—she’s a sweet girl—patches me up. She’s a wonder with her stitching.”

“Do you want something to put on your neck?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“No. It’s all right,” Nick said. He stretched out slowly, as if he were stiff, abruptly straightening when there was a soft touch on my slippered foot. I tried not to be too obvious as I looked him over. Jenks was a lot more blunt.

“Nick,” Jenks said, landing next to him on the table. “Have you ever seen a scar like this?” Jenks pushed his sleeve up to show a puckered zigzag from his wrist to his elbow. Jenks always wore a long-sleeved silk shirt and matching pants. I hadn’t known he had scars.

Nick whistled appreciably, and Jenks beamed. “I got that from a fairy,” Jenks said. “He was shadowing the same take my runner was. A few seconds at the ceiling with the butterfly-winged pansy, and he took his runner somewhere else.”

“No kidding.” Nick seemed impressed as he leaned forward. He smelled good: manly without dipping into Were, and no hint of blood at all. His eyes were brown. Nice. I liked human eyes. You could look at them and never see anything but what you might expect.

“What about that one?” Nick pointed to a round scar on Jenks’s collarbone.

“Bee sting,” Jenks said. “Had me in bed for three days with the shivers and jerks, but we kept our claim on the southside flower boxes. How did you get that one?” he asked, taking to the air to point at the softly welted scar ringing Nick’s wrist.

Nick glanced at me and away. “A big rat named Hugo.”

“Looks like he nearly took your hand off.”

“He tried.”

“Lookie here.” Jenks tugged at his boot, yanking it off along with a nearly transparent sock to show a misshapen foot. “A vamp pulped my foot when I didn’t dodge fast enough.”

Nick winced, and I felt ill. It must be hard to be four inches in a six-foot world. Parting the upper part of his robe, he showed his shoulder and a hint of a curve of muscle. I leaned forward to get a better look. The light crisscrossing of scars appeared to be nail gouges, and I tried to see how far down they might go. I decided Ivy was wrong. He wasn’t a geek. Geeks don’t have washboard stomachs. “A rat named Pan Peril gave me these,” Nick said.

“How about this?” Jenks let his shirt fall completely about his waist. I felt my amusement fade as Jenks’s scarred and battered body came to light. “See here?” he said, pointing to a concave, round scar. “Look. It goes right through to the other side.” He turned to show a smaller scar on his lower back. “Fairy sword. It probably would have killed me, but I had just married Matalina. She kept me alive until the toxins worked their way out.”

Nick shook his head slowly. “You win,” he said. “I can’t beat that.”

Jenks rose several inches in pride. I didn’t know what to say. My stomach rumbled, and in the obvious silence afterward I murmured, “Nick, can I make you a sandwich or something?”

His brown eyes meeting mine were warm. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

I rose and shuffled in my pink fuzzy slippers to the fridge. “No trouble at all. I was going to make myself something to eat anyway.”

Ivy finished putting the last of the glasses away and started cleaning the sink with scouring powder. I gave her a sour look. The sink didn’t need cleaning. She was just being nosy. Upon opening the fridge, I silently assessed the take-out bags from four different restaurants. Apparently Ivy had been grocery shopping. Shuffling about, I found the bologna and a head of browning lettuce. My eyes went to the tomato on the windowsill and I bit my lower lip, hoping Nick hadn’t seen it yet. I didn’t want to offend him. Most humans wouldn’t touch a tomato with a gloved hand. Shifting to block his view, I hid it behind the toaster.

“Still eating, are we?” Ivy murmured under her breath. “A moment on the lips…”

“I’m hungry,” I muttered back. “And I’m going to need all my strength tonight.” I stuck my head back in the fridge for the mayonnaise. “I could use your help if you have the time.”

“Help with what?” Jenks asked. “Getting tucked into bed?”

I turned with my hands full of sandwich stuff and elbowed the fridge shut. “I need your help bringing in Trent. And we only have until midnight to do it.”

Jenks’s flight bobbled. “What?” he said flatly, every drop of humor gone.

I pulled my weary gaze up to Ivy. I knew she wasn’t going to like this. If the truth be told, I’d been waiting until Nick was present, hoping that with a witness, she wouldn’t make a scene.

“Tonight?” Ivy put the back of her wrist on her leather hip huggers and stared. “You want to make a run for him tonight?” Her eyes went to Nick and back to me. Tossing her rag into the sink, she dried her hands on a dish towel. “Rachel, can I talk to you in the hallway?”

My brow furrowed at her implied insult that Nick couldn’t be trusted. But then heaving a sigh of exasperation, I dumped everything in my arms onto the counter. “Excuse me,” I said, giving Nick an apologetic grimace.

Peeved, I followed her out. I abruptly slowed at the sight of her standing halfway down to our rooms, her waspish outline looking dangerous in the dark hallway. The overpowering smell of incense in the close confines pulled me wire-tight. “What?” I said shortly.

“Letting Nick know about your little problem isn’t a good idea,” she said.

“He has been a rat for three months,” I said, backing up. “How on earth could he be an I.S. assassin? The poor man doesn’t even have any clothes, and you’re worried about him killing me?”

“No,” she protested, moving closer until I found my back against the wall. “But the less he knows about you, the safer you
both
will be.”

“Oh.” My face went cold. She was too close. Having lost her sense of personal space was not a good sign.

“And what are you going to accuse Trent of?” she demanded. “Keeping you as a mink? Putting you in the city’s fights? If you go whining to the I.S. for that, you’re dead.”

Her speech had slowed to a sultry drawl. I had to get out of this hallway. “After three days with him, I have more than that.”

From the kitchen came Nick’s voice. “The I.S.?” he said loudly. “Are they the ones that put you in the rat fights, Rachel? You aren’t a black witch, are you?”

Ivy jerked. Her eyes flashed to brown. Looking disconcerted, she backed up. “Sorry,” she said softly. Clearly not pleased, Ivy returned to the kitchen. Relieved, I followed, to find Jenks on Nick’s shoulder. I wondered if Nick had acute hearing or if Jenks had relayed everything to him. I was betting on the latter. And Nick’s question about black witchcraft had been disturbing in its casualness.

“Nah,” Jenks said, sounding smug. “Rachel’s witchcraft is whiter than her ass. She quit the I.S. and took Ivy with her. Ivy was their best. Denon, her boss, put a price on Rachel’s head for spite.”

“You
were
an I.S. runner,” Nick said. “I get it. But how did you end up in the rat fights?”

Still on edge, I looked to Ivy, who was industriously scrubbing the sink again, and she shrugged. So much for keeping rat boy in the dark. Shuffling back to the counter, I pulled out six pieces of bread. “Mr. Kalamack caught me in his office looking for evidence of him moving biodrugs,” I said. “He thought it would be more fun putting me in the rat fights than turning me in.”

“Kalamack?” Nick asked, his large eyes going wider. “You’re talking about Trent Kalamack? The councilman? He runs biodrugs?” Nick’s robe had parted about his knees, and I wished he’d turn ju-u-u-ust a little more.

Smug, I layered two slices of bologna each on three slices of bread. “Yup, but while I was trapped I found out Trent isn’t simply running biodrugs.” I hesitated dramatically. “He’s
making
them, too,” I finished.

Ivy turned. Rag hanging forgotten in her slack grip, she stared at me from across the kitchen. I could hear kids playing tag next door, it was so quiet. Enjoying her reaction, I picked at the lettuce until I got to the green parts.

Nick was ashen-faced. I didn’t blame him. Humans were terrified of genetic manipulation, for obvious reasons. And having Trent Kalamack dabbling in it was very worrisome. Especially when it wasn’t clear which side of the human/Inderlander fence he was on. “Not Mr. Kalamack,” the distraught man said. “I voted for him. Both times. Are you sure?”

Ivy, too, looked worried. “He’s a bioengineer?”

“Well, he funds them,” I said.
And kills them, and leaves them to rot on his office floor.
“He’s got a shipment going out on Southwest tonight. If we can intercept it and tie it to him, I can use it to pay off my contract. Jenks, you still have that page from his datebook?”

The pixy nodded. “It’s hidden in my stump.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then decided it wasn’t a bad spot. The sound of the knife was loud as I slathered mayonnaise on the bread and finished the sandwiches.

Nick pulled his head up from his hands. His long face was drawn and he looked pale. “Genetic engineering? Trent Kalamack has a biolab? The councilman?”

“You’re going to love this next part,” I said. “Francis is the one working the I.S. angle.”

Jenks yelped, zipping up to the ceiling and down again. “Francis? You sure you weren’t knocked on the head, Rache?”

“He works for Trent as sure as I just spent the last four days eating carrots. I saw him. You know those Brimstone takes Francis has been running? The promotion?
That car?
” I didn’t finish my thoughts, allowing Jenks and Ivy to figure it out.

“Son of a pup!” Jenks exclaimed. “The Brimstone runs are distractions!”

“Yup.” I cut the sandwiches in half. Pleased with myself, I put one on a plate for me and two on a plate for Nick; he was thin. “Trent keeps the I.S. and the FIB busy with Brimstone while the real moneymaker goes out on the other side of the city.”

Ivy’s motions were slow in thought as she washed her hands free of the scouring powder once more. “Francis isn’t that smart,” she said as she dried her fingers and set the dish towel aside again.

I went still. “No, he isn’t. He’s going to get himself tagged and bagged.”

Jenks landed beside me. “Denon’s gonna piss his pants when he hears this,” he said.

“Wait up.” Ivy’s attention sharpened. The ring of brown in her eyes was shrinking, but it was in excitement, not hunger. “Who’s to say Denon isn’t on Trent’s payroll, too? You’ll need proof before going to the I.S. They kill you before helping you tag him. And catching him is going to take more than us two and an afternoon of planning.”

My brow pinched in worry. “This is my only shot, Ivy,” I protested. “High risk or not.”

“Um.” Nick’s hand was shaking as he reached for a sandwich. “Why don’t you go to the FIB?”

Ivy and I turned in a poignant silence. Nick took a bite and swallowed. “The FIB would go into a Hollow slum at midnight on a tip concerning bioengineered drugs—especially if Mr. Kalamack was being implicated. If you have any proof at all, they’ll take a look.”

I turned to Ivy in disbelief. Her face looked as blank as mine felt.
The FIB?

My brow smoothed and I felt a smile come over me. Nick was right. The rivalry alone between the FIB and the I.S. would be enough to get them interested. “Trent will fry, my contract will be paid off, and the I.S. will look like a fool. I like it.” I took a bite of my sandwich, wiping the mayonnaise from the corner of my mouth as I met Nick’s eyes.

“Rachel,” Ivy said warily. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

I glanced at Nick, feeling my ire rise again. What did she want now? But she had already walked out. “Excuse me,” I said, lurching to my feet and nervously tightening the tie on my robe. “The princess of paranoia wants a word with me.” Ivy looked okay. It should be alright.

Nick brushed a crumb from his front, unperturbed. “You mind if I make some coffee? I’ve been dying for a cup the last three months.”

“Sure. Whatever,” I said, glad he wasn’t insulted by Ivy’s mistrust. I was. Here he came up with a great plan, and Ivy didn’t like it because she didn’t think of it first. “The coffee is in the fridge,” I added as I followed Ivy into the hallway.

“What is your problem?” I said even before I reached her. “He’s just some guy with sticky fingers. And he’s right. Convincing the FIB to go after Trent is a heck of a lot safer than trying to get the I.S. to help me.”

I couldn’t see the color of Ivy’s eyes in the dim light. It was getting dark outside, and the hallway was an uncomfortable black with her in it. “Rachel, this isn’t a raid on the local vamp hangout,” she said. “It’s an attempt to bring down one of the city’s most powerful citizens. One wrong word out of Nick and you’ll be dead.”

My gut clenched at the reminder. I took a breath, then slowly let it out. “Keep talking.”