Dragon Call (5 page)

Classical music, with dark undertones to the
melodies, made the event more agreeable than the last heavy metal
affair. By the time Cora had circled the room twice, avoiding
darker corners and the fetish bloodletting going on in them, she
had picked up the pattern of clique clusters. Her eyes even
adjusted to the flicker and stretch of candlelight, allowing noses
and chins to come together into whole faces.

Cora wasn’t new to this kind of party. Her
childhood was filled with Samhain and Winter Solstice instead of
Halloween and Christmas, and as teenagers, she and Diane had both
wrapped themselves in velvet and lace and flocked to the goth
subculture. That ended, however, after Diane discovered that her
affinity for the goddess wasn’t merely a reflection of their home
life, and Cora decided that she simply had no affinity at all.

What she remembered most fondly about the
velvet-and-eyeliner set (the “fashionably witchy,” as she and Diane
referred to them) was the endless parade of beauty. Even people who
wouldn’t ordinarily be called anything close to pretty were
beautiful when they donned their nightlife costumes. The general
atmosphere, the mood of the crowd, was sexually charged.

Hovering on the outskirts of an intellectual
clique, wine in hand, Cora listened in on a conversation that
listed into a dissection of a Poppy Z. Brite novel she had heard
about but not read. She murmured an occasional vague response, but
the group was low pressure because nobody knew her and nobody
looked to her for an opinion. Invisibility suited Cora. She became
so comfortable with it that she nearly jumped out of her skin when
somebody brushed against her back. She turned her head slightly,
caught a vague male shape in her peripheral vision, and moved to
give him room. He followed her, though, pressing close and stopping
her retreat by gently claiming her elbow.

“We need to talk,” he said into her ear. Cora
quailed; a hundred responses tripped over one another in her head.
None of them penetrated the sudden shock brought on by his voice,
by the heat of his body against her bare back. She had no idea that
a mob boss would radiate so much heat. If anything, if she had to
guess the temperature of a criminal, she would have gone with ice
cold.

The book clique’s dialogue fumbled. First
one, then another bibliophile glanced her way. Within the span of a
dozen seconds, the discussion ceased entirely, and the clique
hurried away, leaving Cora alone with him. She still didn’t know
what to say.

She was acutely aware of his presence.
Everything else became faded colors and background noise. Fresh
male sweat and a hint of cologne that she didn’t recognize cut
through the twisting clouds of cigarette smoke and heavy perfumes.
She should have moved away, stepped aside to establish some space,
and bring him into her line of sight. She was rooted to the spot,
though. Something more powerful than gravity kept her pinned in the
close circle of his body space. It took everything she had to stop
herself from turning her head to lick his jaw so she could compare
flavor to fragrance. That she even entertained the idea of touching
him was a loud, clear warning that lack of sleep was going to kill
her.

He didn’t speak, but Cora knew he was
examining her. She fought the urge to squirm. Her earlobes tingled,
and she imagined him examining her ear, exposed by the thin red
ribbon that swept her hair off her flushing face. She held her
glass tightly to keep self-conscious fingers from reaching up to
pull her hair forward.

Eventually, he ducked his head, his cheek
touching hers, and said, “Somewhere private.” His breath warmed the
inside of her ear while his lips caressed her skin. “It’s crucial
to your wellbeing.”

For a long moment, the only solid thought she
could hold onto was that he smelled amazing. She took advantage of
his nearness to draw in a great breath of his scent, trying and
failing to dissect it. The scent of him appealed to her on a deep,
primitive level. She considered pheromones as the logical
explanation for her attraction, but upon second examination,
decided she didn’t believe biology could have this intense an
effect.

Thinking about biology helped her regain a
hold on her senses. She played his words over in her head and
almost laughed at his audacity, which was typically melodramatic
and well-suited to the crowd. She didn’t laugh, though, because she
remembered his eyes in Greg’s shop. He had looked at her as if she
were a threat to him. Cora did not want to be a threat to somebody
who very likely carried a lethal weapon.

“I don’t know anything,” she blurted upon
finding her voice. She moved away from him, trying to establish
some distance for her own sanity and, to borrow his word, her own
wellbeing. Being well meant not allowing herself to be overwhelmed
by either hormones or fear.

“Fortunately, I don’t need information.” He
let her go. “I do need to talk to you, though.”

Cora pulled the lace close around her
shoulders, visually skimming the crowd for somebody she could ask
for help. Every time she met somebody’s eyes, the potential rescuer
looked away. Cora realized everybody in the immediate vicinity was
watching her—watching her and the mobster—and a chill danced up her
spine. She didn’t want to be a New York City victim, assaulted in
plain view of dozens of people and left to die.

That wouldn’t happen here. Cora knew that and
cursed the thought for even coming to her head. She was frightening
herself unnecessarily. “We’ll talk here,” she said, quelling her
fears. “There’s a balcony, isn’t there?”

He nodded, took her hand, and pulled her away
from the spectators. Cora tried to make good use of the time it
took to get to the balcony, figuring she should have something to
say to discourage his interest or alleviate his worries that she
had overheard anything said between him and Greg. Her brain refused
to work, though; touching him sent tiny little shocks to her
sensory centers. Her body’s response to him was so intense, so
nerve-oriented, that she imagined a kinetic reaction taking place
when the grooves of her fingerprints slid against the grooves of
his fingerprints.

Two smokers had already taken up residence on
the balcony. They were using a large potted plant, leaves wilted
and dead on the soil mixture, as an ashtray. Cora wrinkled her nose
at the acrid odor of tobacco smoke. A moment of awkward silence
punctuated her arrival with the mob boss. One of the smokers
pitched his half-smoked cigarette over the balcony and ducked
inside immediately. The other managed one more drag, red tip
flaring, before he followed suit. Not a word was spoken. Cora
hugged herself against the cold, piercing at the thirteenth floor
level, and eyed her companion. “I suppose you have a reputation as
a badass,” she said.

“People know who I am.” He closed the door
behind the last smoker and turned to face her. “I brought you here
because the details of our conversation are less likely to make
their way into the gossip that’s already spreading like wildfire on
the other side of those doors. If you have a better suggestion, I’m
open to it.”

He leaned against the doors, and Cora leaned
against the balcony rail. She knew he was waiting for her better
suggestion, but she didn’t have one. She suspected he knew she
didn’t have one, too, and glowered at him. “What do you want?” she
asked.

“I want to know why you look familiar,” he
said. “I want to know what you’re doing with Cho.”

“I’m not doing anything with him. He’s not
even here tonight.” Cora was more annoyed than frightened of him
right now, and she didn’t bother hiding the irritation in her
voice. “Is there a way this can be wrapped up in the next few
minutes? I’m not interested in pneumonia.”

“Cora Phillips,” he said, holding up one
finger. “Sister Diane, mother Miranda, grandmother Helen,
great-grandmother Elizabeth, great-great grandmother Mary,
great-great-great grandmother Rebecca, great-great-great-great
grandmother Catherine. Margaret before Catherine and Marie before
Margaret. That’s ten.” He demonstrated with his fingers, holding up
both hands. “Ten women in the Lune tradition. You and your sister
are the first to be born two to the generation; historically, Lune
women are either only children or the only girl children born to
the generation.

“Your sister is an active presence in New
York’s supernatural community, but you have nothing to do with
it—well, haven’t for years. Instead, you work in the environmental
economics field and live in Hartford.”

Cora stared at him, open-mouthed. She didn’t
know what to say. Fear returned to override irritation. What could
he do with information like that? Why would he even want it? And
where had he gotten it, for that matter? She didn’t care that he
knew where she lived or what she studied in college. He knew her
mother’s—and her mother’s mothers’—heritage, and that mattered more
than anything else.

“Are you going to blackmail me like you do
Greg?” she asked, thoughts racing. What if he intended something
worse than blackmail?

“My name is Salim,” he said, ignoring the
question. “I realize it doesn’t make our awareness of one another
even, but perhaps you’ll take the name as a token of good
faith.”

“Blackmail or not?” Cora insisted.

“Is that what he told you, that I blackmail
him?”

“I asked you first.”

“I cannot tell you details of my relationship
with Cho,” he said. “They’re privileged.”

“And you’re pissed off because I know a
relationship exists at all. That’s what this is about, isn’t
it?”

“This is about you, not him.” He frowned.
“I’m going about this badly. My intention isn’t to frighten
you.”

“I’m not frightened,” she lied, “I’m angry
that you brought me out into the freezing cold to recite my
mother’s family tree and grill me on my choice in dinner
dates.”

“Don’t be flippant,” he advised. “It’s
important that you know you should be cautious with how you involve
yourself with Cho. I believe you have something he needs, and I
don’t believe he’ll refrain from taking it from you.”

“Great, thanks for the warning,” Cora said.
“I’m going back inside.” She reached past him to push at the door,
but he caught her up in his arms and pulled her away, deeper into
the recesses of the balcony. A shock of electric awareness shot
into her fingertips and toes the moment he touched her.

“Who do you think you are?” she demanded,
stiff in his embrace.

“Who I think I am isn’t important. Ask them,
inside, who
they
think I am.” His lips brushed her earlobe.
“You’re real enough to touch, which eliminates you from the ghostly
categories I’m familiar with. Tell me why you look familiar, if
you’re not a ghost I’ve seen.”

“You’re insane.” Cora squirmed and strained
against his hold, but his arms were like vices and he held her
immobile. Her heart pounded hard and fast; she couldn’t break
free.

“Maybe. I suppose it could have been a
dream,” he said, “but I think I’d have written that dream down to
remember it, and I never did.”

Desire lurched in her abdomen where their
bodies touched. For a brief moment, she couldn’t decide whether to
push him away or lean into him, which was ridiculous given that he
was assaulting her. Did the hostess have the means to infuse the
circulated air with a love/lust potion? Maybe it was the popular
party favor of the season. That would explain Greg’s attraction to
her, as well.

She didn’t want Salim to find her attractive
at all, though; she wanted him to let her go. “Look, blonde women
are a dime a dozen. I’m sure I’m not the same one you think I am.
Will you
please
let me go?”

Behind her, the balcony door burst open and a
cacophony of noise, music overtaken by voices, escaped the
building.

“We need to go,” Cora heard Diane say from
the door. “Emergency.”

Salim loosed his hold, and Cora turned to
Diane. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing yet. We’ll be gone before it does.”
Diane didn’t look directly at Salim, and Cora wondered about the
nature of his role in the live-action drama play that seemed to
dominate Diane’s life. She pushed her curiosity aside for a more
appropriate time and followed Diane inside.

Chapter Five

Heavenly warmth and a familiar face welcomed
Cora back to the party. Greg had arrived during her exchange with
Salim and he broke away from a mousey Jane Eyre look-alike to
intercept Cora and Diane. He started with a smile, which Cora
returned, but his gaze shifted behind her. His expression darkened
as she came closer. Cora frowned and glanced over her shoulder to
see Salim entering after her. Salim didn’t meet her eyes. He had
noticed Greg, and his attention focused entirely on the other
man.

“Don’t stop,” Diane said, taking Cora’s hand.
“We have to leave.”

“Why is everybody determined to drag and push
me around?” Cora asked, exasperated. She yanked her hand free of
Diane’s and turned back to Greg and Salim. Every other guest
appeared determined to watch the latest drama play itself out;
Cora, after freezing her butt off out on the balcony, had earned
the right to do so as well.

“It’s not safe,” Diane hissed and grabbed a
fistful of lace at Cora’s back. Cora shrugged the shawl away.

“What were you doing with her?” Greg
demanded.

Cora stared at him. His features had twisted
in fury during her small scuffle with Diane, rendering him almost
unrecognizable from the man she’d enjoyed casual dinner with so
recently. She glanced at Salim, whose own expression remained
neutral, and said to Greg, “He thought I looked familiar.”

Salim’s gaze flicked to her face and away. He
didn’t acknowledge her otherwise.

Greg didn’t acknowledge her at all. “You’re
not even supposed to be here. Did you come for her?”