Loose Changeling: A Changeling Wars Novel (28 page)

Next up, real life. Mortal life.

I sat at my computer and downloaded all the papers necessary to file for a divorce. To hell with trying to find a divorce lawyer. It hadn’t worked out so well for me the last time. Besides, all my animosity toward Owen had faded. Better to just do it myself and get it over with.

It took all morning and part of the afternoon to finish the paperwork. The carpet cleaner came and went. He was unable to remove the stains, but my carpet smelled nicer. Despite his protestations, I paid the full amount. He ventured to ask me what I’d spilled.

“Hobgoblin blood,” I replied. “Lots of it.”

I’ve never seen someone pack up a steam cleaner so quickly. But when he’d gone, my house was empty once more, the silence larger than music could fill. So I left, papers in hand.

It was a thirty-minute drive, across town, to Owen’s brother’s place. Michael answered the door. God, he looked so much like Owen—curly brown hair tangled, gray eyes perpetually surprised. “Hey,” he said. I wasn’t sure what Owen had told him, but he didn’t slam the door in my face, so that was a start.

“Is Owen here?” I asked.

He looked back into his apartment and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I think he went to the grocery store,” Michael said finally. “He’ll be back in twenty minutes or so, if you want to wait.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Yeah, that would be sort of weird, wouldn’t it?”

In the background, the TV blared. I handed over the papers before I could change my mind. “Can you just give him this? He needs to fill out his portion and sign it. Tell him to send them back when he’s finished.”

Michael took the papers. He must have seen, had to see, the checked box—dissolution of marriage. The words stood out to me, as if they were bolded, underlined, italicized, and in size thirty-six font. I turned to go before he could comment.

“Nicole,” he said. I pivoted, half against my will. “I’m real sorry about this. It sucks. You know, Owen loves you. He tries his best; he just screws up sometimes. You’ve always been cool with me.”

“Thanks,” I said, and found I meant it. “Don’t forget to give him those, okay?”

“Yeah.” He closed the door.

I spent the rest of the day in front of the television, searching for normalcy. The shows I used to think were funny didn’t hold any appeal. Soap operas were a yawn. Dramas? Too dramatic.

I fell asleep on the couch and woke on Sunday to the sound of knocking. Groggily, I headed to my door. When I opened it, no one stood there, but an envelope covered my welcome mat. “For Nicole” it said in Owen’s handwriting. I picked it up with trembling fingers. Was this it then? People usually felt sad when they got divorced, right? Or relieved, or depressed, or something. I only felt empty.

I pulled out the papers. It was all there. But on the last page, above his signature, he’d affixed a Post-it.

“Are you sure?” it read. Beneath it, one box labeled yes, and another labeled no. So Owen had doubts about this whole thing. Did I? I wasn’t even sure. Beneath the divorce papers was one loose sheet.

It was a notarized letter, stating Owen’s intentions to sign the house over to me upon our divorce. He was giving me everything I’d asked for.

But I wasn’t happy.

Tomorrow would be Monday. I’d go back to work. Maybe that would make me happy, give me what I needed.

My house phone rang—the one I almost never used. Probably a telemarketer, but I answered it anyways.

Silence, and then, “Nicole? Is that you?”

It took me a moment to realize I hadn’t even said my customary “Hello.” It was my mother. I’d have to get another cell phone, and soon. “Yeah, it’s me, Mom.”

“Lainey called me and let me know what happened.”

“Lainey doesn’t know what happened.”

“Maybe you should tell her. Or tell me. She tried to call you.”

I sighed. I didn’t need this right now. The last thing I wanted was to revisit the Arena. “I wasn’t here. Mom, this isn’t a good time.”

“You’re going to tell me something, or by the Goddess, I’m coming over.”

Mom hadn’t lost her touch. My back straightened, my brow formed worry lines. “I’m just done with the Fae world for a while, okay?”

A pause, and then, “Sweetheart,” her voice soft. “There’s a part of you that’s always going to belong to the Sidhe, just as there’s a part of you that will always belong here. I’m sorry if that makes you feel divided. But if you try to deny one side of your nature, you’re always going to go through life in halves—never complete. You know I’d never want that for you, and—”

I hung up. I should have felt bad about it. She’d actually been saying something insightful, but I couldn’t hear it right now.

The day dragged, and I dragged with it.

And yet, despite my lazy day, by the time night came, I struggled to keep my eyes open, to think at all. I cracked open a bottle of red wine, drank half of it, and fell asleep.

My alarm woke me at six. I went through the motions—eating, drinking, showering, dressing.

I got to work ten minutes early, my customary time. As soon as I stepped off the elevator, I felt like someone had given me a roundhouse kick straight to the stomach. The receptionist desk was empty. I’d forgotten about Anne and what had happened to her.

Some things just wouldn’t be the same. I brushed past her desk and went to my cubicle. No one had arrived yet, not even Brent—the temperamental accountant. So I just sat at my desk for a while before powering up my computer. This was my home in a lot of ways. Or it had been—so much so that the grushound had honed in on it.

After a couple minutes, I started in on work, tackling the four hundred or so emails in my inbox first.

My other coworkers trickled in, one-by-one. A few came by and said “hi,” but most just ignored my presence, as if it were no big deal I’d disappeared for a week and then reappeared.

A shuffling sound from across my cubicle partition, and then a creak as Brent settled into his chair. “So,” he said from behind the wall, “did you go crazy for a little while or something? Work too hard? I heard it happens sometimes, especially to people who are a little too Type A.”

I’d dealt with too much to take this from Brent. What would he say if he’d known where I’d actually been? “Shut up, Brent,” I said instead, putting as much venom as I could manage into those three little words.

He swallowed and said nothing. Most people tiptoed around Brent’s moods. I wasn’t in the mood to tiptoe around a mood.

I opened the newest email at the top of my inbox. It was from Landon.

Nicole, you’re my best salesperson. You always close the accounts, and you usually sell more than I asked you to aim for
.

Uh-oh. An email that starts with flattery ends with obligation.

I know you just got back, but I need someone to go to Texas. Inkling Co., an intellectual property firm, wants to hear our pitch. They don’t seem very organized, so if you make a sale there, we’ll probably pick them up as a regular client. You’d leave in a couple of days. Short timeline, I know, but my backup is Jessica. Maybe when you get back, we can rethink that promotion we were talking about before things got weird.

Landon

Stick and the carrot—Landon sure knew how to use both. Jessica was a decent salesperson, but put her in front of too many people, and she couldn’t sell an umbrella in a thunderstorm. I tabbed away from my email to do a search on Inkling Co. Damn. Not a small company. There was a high possibility there’d be more than three people listening to her speak.

And the offer of a promotion was a tempting one. Take that away from me and what did I have? Thirty-two-year-old woman, freshly separated with an impending divorce, working a dead-end job. Oh, and secretly not actually human.

The patter of tiny feet and a giggle distracted me. A flash of movement caught the corner of my eye as I turned. Three brownies were teaming up to open one of my drawers. “Hey, stop that,” I said.

“Stop what?” Brent said.

“Not you,” I replied without thinking.

“Yep, definitely crazy,” Brent muttered. Furious typing ensued.

Just what I needed. Trying to regain normalcy, and I had brownies in my cubicle, apparently wrapping all my rubber bands around the binder clips to hold them open, making them nasty little booby traps.

“Quit it,” I hissed. They ignored me. I made a grab for one. It slipped away, faster than a dragonfly, giggling madly.

“You know, talking to yourself
isn’t
a sign of sanity,” came Brent’s dry voice.

I made another grab and was rewarded with a nip on my finger. “Ouch!” Fine. Stupid brownies wanted to play dirty? I slid back to my keyboard, pretending not to notice the way they unwound all my paperclips. Surreptitiously, I reached down and grabbed the edge of my trash can.

In one swift move, I turned it over and brought it down on top of the drawer. Brownies scattered, squeezing beneath cubicle partitions, dashing out the opening, and climbing the fabric walls.

I waited. The pattering of tiny footsteps came from beneath the garbage can. Hah. Got one. “Hey,” I whispered. “You want out? Tell me how you got here. Tell me where you crossed.” This wasn’t the first time I’d seen them here. A doorway had to have become unsealed nearby.

Silence, and then, “You must give me your word.” A tiny, tinny-sounding voice.

“I give my word I will let you go as soon as you tell me.”

Little nails scratched at the inside of the plastic can. “We came from the land of black tar, where rivers of white mark the ground.”

It took me a moment to puzzle it out.

“You gave your word,” the brownie said.

I lifted the can and it darted away. Black tar and rivers of white. The parking lot. There was an opened doorway in the Frank Gibbons, Inc. parking lot.

And one of our employees had been murdered just the week before.

I didn’t wait for my break to jump in the elevator and go back outside. Brent made a snide comment about me having taken up smoking while I was gone for a week, but I didn’t reply. I’d rather he thought I was smoking than scouring the parking lot for a doorway into another world.

This time of day, the parking lot was two-thirds full. My car was parked near the entrance. I started there.

Doorways didn’t seem to have a smell—no residue like most Fae magic left. But I remembered the way the air seemed to shimmer where they’d been drawn. I canvassed the parking lot, slipping in between cars and stopping to check the empty air. Once in a while, I swiped out a hand. I didn’t want to run into it, willy-nilly. What would my coworkers think if they looked out the window right now? They wouldn’t think I was taking a smoking break. They’d probably think I was drunk. Oh well.

I found the doorway near the alleyway, on a patch of weeds. The air near it shimmered, like heat waves from a bonfire. I pressed a hand along the opening. A shiver ran up my arm, goosebumps trickling down my spine. This was dangerous. It wasn't coincidence that Anne had disappeared here.

I closed my eyes, breathed in, and concentrated. The doorway couldn’t stay. I grasped for an emotion. Nothing.

Well, this could be problematic. Would surprise work? I tried it. The magic swirled about my brain uselessly. Apparently not.

I tried a few more times before giving up, dragging a cardboard box from the alleyway to block it and writing “WARNING: HAZARDOUS” on its surface. It would have to do for now.

When I returned to the office, everyone, including Landon, stood crowded by Brent’s cubicle. I strode over, apprehension settling into the spot at the base of my skull. Huh, maybe worry would have worked. I had an overabundance of it nowadays.

As I came closer, I heard a newscaster’s voice. “Hey.” I tapped Landon’s shoulder. “What’s going on?” A number of my other coworkers made shushing noises.

“They caught the guy,” Landon whispered, his glasses reflecting the scene playing on Brent’s monitor. “The guy who murdered those people. The guy who murdered Anne. It’s a live report.”

I shouldered Jennifer and rose onto my tiptoes to catch a glimpse. A woman in a business suit faced the camera, papers gathered in her hands. “…just this morning. We’ve not been told all the evidence, but there has been an arrest. Ian Shorvin has more.”

A young man appeared on screen, his face grim. “Yes, we’re getting information in increments. Some strange things going on in this case. They haven’t been able to find any identifying information on the perpetrator. No fingerprint records, no dental records, nothing. Apparently he was caught with another potential victim. We’re getting the mug shot, right now.”

A photo appeared on screen. A man with a strong jaw but sunken cheeks, dark eyes wide, black hair wild. His skin was tan, a five o’clock shadow contributing to his disheveled appearance. He would have been handsome if he’d cleaned up. There was something familiar about the face. Something indefinably close to my heart.

The apprehension at the base of my skull traveled, spreading over my shoulders and neck.

“He doesn’t look like a murderer,” Jennifer whispered. “So weird.”

Just then, my office phone rang, its chime overriding the newscaster’s chatter. My coworkers groaned. “Can someone get that?” Landon said.

I muttered a halfhearted apology and swung around to my cubicle. The phone rang again, to more groans. I snatched up the handset before it could ring a third time. “Hello?”

“Nicole.” That one word and my stomach flip-flopped. Kailen. “Have you seen the news?”

“My coworkers are playing it live, off the Internet,” I whispered. “Looks like they caught the murderer.”

“He didn’t do it,” Kailen said.

“What? And how would
you
know?” My stomach, which had flip-flopped before, now settled like a lead weight in my belly. If Kailen knew something about it, then it probably wasn’t only linked to mortal matters. This had to do with the Sidhe. The Sidhe and the doorway in the Frank Gibbons, Inc. parking lot.

“Because I know him. Because he wouldn’t harm a mortal, much less murder three of them.”

My heart dropped, joined my stomach. I knew why I recognized the man on the screen before Kailen said his next words.