The Outlaw Demon Wails (9 page)

The muffled
thump, thump, thump
of the rubber seal of the revolving door overtook the street noise and turned into the echoing sound of sporadic voices as I entered Carew Tower. It had grown warm, so I'd left my coat in the car, deeming jeans and a sweater would be enough until the sun went down—and I'd be back in my church by then. Hoping I didn't lose my signal, I tried to catch what Marshal was saying as I held my phone to my ear and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light.

“I'm really sorry, Rachel,” Marshal said, sounding embarrassed. “They asked me to come in early when someone canceled, and it wasn't like I could say no.”

“No, it's okay,” I said, glad I was my own boss, even if my boss was an idiot sometimes. Stepping inside, I shifted out of the foot traffic and took my sunglasses off. “I had an errand come up, so this might work out better anyway. You want to grab a coffee at Fountain Square?”
Three is good. Not breakfast, not lunch. A nice, safe hour with no expectations attached.
“The only thing is I have to be back on hallowed ground by sunset,” I added, remembering. “I've got a demon gunning for me until I can figure out who's sending him to kill me and knock some sense into him or her.”

As soon as I said it, I couldn't help but wonder if I was trying to drive him away. But Marshal laughed, quickly sobering when he realized I was serious. “Uh, how are your interviews going?” I asked to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Ask me in a few hours.” He groaned softly. “I've got two more people to meet. I haven't kissed so much ass since I accidentally knocked a customer off the dock.”

I chuckled, my gaze rising across the busy lobby to the signs directing people to the elevators. My smile ended with a flash of guilt, then I got mad at myself. I could laugh, damn it. Laughing was not saying I had cared for Kisten less. He had loved to make me laugh.

“Maybe we should try tomorrow instead,” Marshal said softly, as if he knew why I was suddenly silent.

Tucking my shades into my bag, I headed for the express elevators. I was meeting a Mr. Doemoe at the observation deck. Some people just love the cloak and dagger. “There's a coffee cart at Fountain Square,” I suggested with a bitter resolve.
I can do this, damn it.
It was right next to a hot dog cart. Kisten had liked hot dogs. A memory hit me—an image of Kisten in his snappy pin-striped work suit, leaning casually next to me against the huge planters at Fountain Square, smiling as he caught a drop of mustard from the corner of his mouth, the wind ruffling his hair and him squinting from the sun. I felt my stomach cave.
God, I can't do this!

Marshal's voice intruded. “Sounds great. First one there buys. I take a grande with three sugars and a hint of cream.”

“Black, straight up,” I said, almost numb. Hiding in my church because of heartache was worse than hiding there because of a demon, and I didn't want to be that person.

“Fountain Square it is,” Marshal said. “I'll see you then.”

“You got it,” I replied as I passed the security desk. “And good luck!” I added, remembering what he was doing today.

“Thanks, Rachel. 'Bye.”

I waited until I heard the phone disconnect, then whispered, “'Bye,” before shutting the phone and tucking it away. This was harder than I had thought it would be.

My melancholy trailed behind me like a shadow as I went down the short hall, my thoughts slowly turning to the upcoming client meeting.
The roof
, I thought, rolling my eyes. Honestly, Mr. Doemoe had sounded like a mouse of a man when I called him earlier to set this up. He'd refused to come to the church, and I hadn't been able to tell by phone if he was nervous because he was a human asking a witch for help or if he was just worried that someone was out to get him. Whatever. The job couldn't be that bad. I had told Jenks to stay home since it was simply an interview. Besides, I was running errands, and dragging Jenks around when I went to the post office and FIB building was a major waste of his time.

My trip to the FIB had been productive, and I now had information on my original three witches plus an additional one from this morning's obituaries. Apparently two of the recently dead witches knew each other, seeing as they had joint prior arrests for the crime of grave robbing. I thought it interesting that the arresting I.S. officer had been Tom Bansen, the same nasty little twerp who had tried to arrest me yesterday.

This was looking easier all the time. Tom had all the motive he needed to call a demon to take me out—seeing as I'd told him to shove his little demon-summoning club last year. He also had the knowledge to do it, being high up in the I.S.'s Arcane Division. That in itself would make his demon-summoning hobby harder to trace and recruitment easy as he'd run into all sorts of black-art witches eager to make a deal. David was still checking recent claims for me, and if any of them pointed to Tom, the I.S. officer and I were going to have a chat. We might have a chat anyway.

I really didn't think it was Nick sending Al after me. I mean, I had misjudged his character badly, but actively sending a demon to kill me? My gaze unfocused in the memory of our last conversation, and as I turned the corner, I saw one of the express elevator doors closing.
Maybe I shouldn't have been so bitchy with him.
He had sounded desperate.

Jogging forward, I called out for whoever was in the elevator to hold it. A weathered, sturdy hand gripped the door at the last moment to wedge it open. I darted inside the otherwise empty lift, turning to the man to give him a breathless “Thanks.” But my words caught in my throat and I froze.

“Quen!” I snapped, seeing the plague-scarred elf standing in the corner. He smiled without showing his teeth, and at the hint of amusement in his eyes, it all fell into place.

“Oh, hell no,” I said, looking for the elevator panel for a button to push, but he was standing in front of it. “You're Mr. Doemoe? Forget it. I'm not working for Trent.”

The older man hit the highest button, adjusted his weight, and clasped his hands before him. “I wanted to talk to you. This was the easiest way.”

“You mean this is the only way, 'cause you know I'd tell Trent he can shove his problem up an orifice,” I said.

“As professional as always, Ms. Morgan.”

His gravelly voice was mocking, and knowing I was trapped here until we reached the upper floors, I slumped in the corner, not caring if I looked sullen for the cameras. I
was
sullen. I wasn't going to tap a line. You don't pull a gun unless you're going to use it—and you don't tap a line in front of a master of ley line magic unless you want to be slammed up against the wall.

Quen's smile faded. He appeared innocuous in his long-sleeved shirt and matching black pants, which looked vaguely like a uniform. Yeah, he was innocuous. Like black mamba innocuous. The man stood only a few inches taller than me in his flat, soft-soled shoes, but he moved with a liquid grace that put me on edge, as if he was able to see me react before I actually did. I was trapped in a tiny metal box with an elf skilled in martial arts and black ley line magic.
Maybe I should be nice. At least until the doors open.

His complexion was marred by the scars a few Inderlanders had come away with from the Turn, and his roughened, dark skin only added to his presence. A vampire bite marked his neck, most of the white scar tissue hidden by his high black collar. Piscary had given the scar to him in anger, and I wondered how Quen was handling the new problem of having an unclaimed vampire bite, now that Piscary was truly dead. I had one, too, but Ivy would kill any vampire who broke my skin, and all of Cincy knew it. Quen didn't have any such protection. Perhaps the bite was why he wanted to talk to me—if this wasn't about a run for Trent.

Quen was Trent Kalamack's eminently skilled security officer, one hundred percent deadly, though I'd trust him with my life if he said he'd watch my back. Trent was just as dangerous without having earned my trust, but he did his damage with words, not actions—a stinking politician at his best, a murderer at his worst. The financially successful, attractive, charismatic hunk of man flesh efficiently ran most of Cincinnati's underworld and the northern hemisphere's illegal Brimstone trade. But what Trent could go to jail for besides being a murdering bastard—for which I'd gotten him incarcerated for all of three hours a few months ago—was his worldwide trade in illegal biodrugs. What really stuck in my craw was that I was alive because of them.

I'd been born with a fairly common genetic defect among witches, Rosewood syndrome, where my mitochondria kicked out an enzyme my body determined was an invader, the result being that I should have died before the age of two. Because my dad had secretly been working closely with Trent's dad trying to save his species at the time, Trent's dad had tinkered with the genetic makeup of my mitochondria, modifying something just enough that the enzyme would be ignored. I truly believe that he hadn't known the enzyme was what allowed my blood to kindle demon magic, and I thanked God the only people who knew it were me and my friends. And Trent. And a few demons. And whatever demons they told. And whomever Trent told. And Lee, of course, the only other witch Trent's dad had fixed.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't that good a secret anymore.

Trent and I were currently at an impasse, with me trying to put him in jail and him trying to buy my services or kill me—depending on his mood—and while I could bring the house down on him if I went public about his illegal biodrugs, I'd probably end up in medical confinement in Siberia—or, worse yet, surrounded by salt water like Alcatraz—and he'd be back on the streets and campaigning for reelection in less time than it takes a pixy to sneeze. That's just the kind of personal power the man had.

And it is really irritating
, I thought, shifting my weight to my other foot as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

Immediately I got out and jabbed at the “down” button. No way was I going to go through the halls to the closet-size secondary elevator and up to the roof with Quen. I was impulsive, not stupid. Quen ghosted out as well, looking like a bodyguard as he stood in front of the elevator doors until they closed again.

My eyes went to the camera in the corner, its friendly red light blinking. I'd stay there until another car arrived. “Don't touch me,” I muttered. “There isn't enough money in the world for me to work for Trent again. He's a manipulative, power-hungry, spoiled only-child who thinks he's above the law. And he kills people like a homeless man opens a can of beans.”

Quen shrugged. “He's also loyal to those who have earned his trust, intelligent, and generous to those he cares about.”

“And those he doesn't care about don't matter.” Hip cocked, I silently waited, getting more annoyed.
Where in hell is the elevator?

“I wish you'd reconsider,” Quen said, and I jerked back when he pulled an amulet from his sleeve. After giving me a high-eyebrow look, he turned a slow circuit, attention lightly fixed on the redwood disk glowing a faint green. It was probably a detection amulet of some kind. I had one that would tell me if there were any deadly spells in my vicinity, but I'd quit wearing it when it kept triggering the anti-theft wards in the mall.

Apparently satisfied, Quen slid the amulet away. “I need you to go into the ever-after to retrieve an elven sample.”

I laughed at that, and anger flickered over the older man. “Trent just got Ceri's sample,” I said, pulling my shoulder bag tight to me. “I'd think that would keep him busy for a while. Besides, you couldn't pay me enough to go into the ever-after. Especially not for a chunk of two-thousand-year-old dead elf.”

One of the elevators behind me dinged, and I backed up to it, ready to make my escape.

“We know where a tissue sample is. We just need to get it,” Quen said, his gaze flicking behind me as the doors opened.

I backed into it, standing so he couldn't follow me. “How?” I said, feeling secure.

“Ceri,” he said simply, fear flashing in the back of his eyes.

The doors started to close, and I hit the “open” button. “Ceri?” I questioned, wondering if this was why I hadn't seen much of her lately. She knew I hated Trent, but she was an elf and he was an elf—and seeing as she had been born into royalty and he was a zillionaire, it would be foolish to think that they hadn't had some contact the last few months, whether they liked each other or not.

Seeing my interest, Quen took a more confident stance. “She and Trent have been having tea every Thursday,” he said softly, sneaking a guilty glance at the hallway. “You should thank her. He's absolutely obsessed with her even as her demon smut terrifies him. I think that's part of the attraction, actually. But he's starting to consider that demon smut might not equal a bad person. She saved my relationship with him. She is a very wise woman.”

She ought to be, seeing as she had over a thousand years of servitude to a demon. The doors started closing again, and I hit the button for a few more seconds. “Everything went to hell when Trent found out you use black magic to protect him, eh?”

Quen didn't shift, even maintaining his sedate breathing, but his very stillness told me I was right.

“So?” I said belligerently.

“So he's starting to entertain the thought that you might be trustworthy, too. Will you at least consider it? We need the sample.”

The reminder of my own demon-smut-laced soul bothered me, and I jabbed at the “close” button. No freaking way. “Get back to me later, Quen. Like a hundred years later.”

“We don't have a hundred years,” Quen said, desperation entering his voice. “We have eight months.”

Oh, shit.

I pushed myself into motion, my shoulder bag catching on the doors as I shoved my way past them. Quen had moved back. His lips were tightly pressed, as if he wished he hadn't had to say that to get me to listen. “What do you mean, eight months? As in one less than nine?”