Blood Song (23 page)

“You can come in, Ms. Meadows,” red tie announced. “It’s clear.”

Cassandra strode into the office, taking the visitor’s chair opposite the desk. She crossed her legs with lazy grace, showing a long expanse of silk-stockinged limb. I suppose they were good legs—I’m no judge of such things. But Lloyd’s of London had insured them for some outrageous amount during her last picture. Whatever.

Creede gestured for me to precede him. It was a polite gesture, so I did it, but my shoulders were tight and twitchy until I was in my chair with a wall at my back. I could tell he knew it and was quietly amused.

“To what do I owe this visit?” I kept my voice pleasantly neutral. So far, things had gone pretty well. If I was lucky, we would politely detest each other for a few minutes, get whatever business done, and I could get on with my day.

She looked at me across the desk as if miles separated us rather than a few inches of polished wood. I stayed impassive as those amazing eyes took in the bloodstains and the injuries. I caught her staring at my legs and tried to convince myself she was looking at my tattoo. Unfortunately, it was far more likely she was staring at the very old, very nasty scars that I tried not to think about but knew were just visible beneath the hem of my boxer shorts.

I watched her search for the right words and not find them.

“Were you and my daughter lovers?” I could tell it wasn’t the question she’d intended to ask, but it was the one that made it past her lips.

I burst out laughing, which startled her. “No. We were just friends. She was seeing someone the past few months. It was starting to get serious.”

“Friends.” She shook her head. It was a gesture of unconscious grace that made her shining dark hair move like a living thing around her shoulders. Her eyes met mine and I saw them shining with unshed tears. “Do you know that in my entire adult life I have never had a female
friend
?”

I wasn’t surprised. Friendships are usually based on give-and-take between equals. Not many women would be secure enough to consider themselves her equal, and I wasn’t sure she’d accept it if they did. But saying that wouldn’t be polite, so I settled for something a little more neutral but no less sincere: “I’m sorry to hear that.”

She gave a rueful grimace. “I came here intending to raise hell—accuse you of seducing my daughter to get her money and not even giving enough of a damn about her to arrange for a decent cremation.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Because”—she looked around her—“because of this office. Because looking at you right now, I find that I
can’t
.” She sounded exasperated, frustrated. “My husband told me you weren’t using Vicki, that you never had. He said that you were the one who saved her from the fire, that you visited her several times a week at the hospital, that you
cared.
”

Unexpected sorrow lanced through me. “Yeah. I do … did.”

A single glittering tear tracked down her perfect cheek. She sat up straighter in the chair and uncrossed her legs. “I’m told that Vicki told you her wishes with regard to her funeral arrangements?”

I chuckled. I couldn’t help it. Yes, she’d told me—and Alex and Dawna, after we’d finished our second pitcher of margaritas at the little Mexican restaurant not a block from here. Fortunately, I still had the cocktail napkin I’d made Vicki write it all down on. Just a little square of paper covered in tiny, smudged handwriting. I’d filed it in the same folder with the receipt for my pre-paid arrangements because Vicki had made me promise not to lose it.

“What’s funny?”

“Just remembering.” It had been a good night, one of the best, with good friends, good food, and bad karaoke. I scooted the chair back from my desk and got up. It was the work of a moment to find the file. I pulled out the cocktail napkin.

Cassandra laughed, then gave a startled, guilty look as if it was too soon. She was grieving, and nothing should be funny.

“I’ll go downstairs and make you a copy.”

“You’re going to keep the original.” She stated it as a fact.

I nodded. She was right. It was silly and sentimental, but I’d do it. Because every time I ran across that little piece of paper it would remind me of that night and the fun we’d had. I wanted to be reminded. Because in the press of day-to-day life it was too easy to get caught up in the bad things, let the small joys slip away.

“You’re sentimental. I wouldn’t have expected that.”

I shrugged, my hand on the doorknob. “You don’t know me.”

Her eyes seemed to dim, the last of the humor draining away, leaving sorrow in its wake. “No. I don’t.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. She could’ve gotten to know me at any time over the past several years—if she’d cared enough to bother. She hadn’t. Any more than she’d bothered visiting her daughter at Birchwoods. Saying that, however, would be cruel. I try not to be cruel—unless I’m really,
seriously
provoked. “You’ll need to talk to her attorney about the funeral arrangements. He already has a copy of this and is probably getting started. I think she made him the executor.” That was so obviously a slap at both of her parents that all Cassandra could do was open her mouth in shock. I used the excuse of someone coming in the front door to duck out the door before she could say anything unfortunate.

I ran into Dawna in the hall. She was back from her errands. Her face was flushed with anger, her eyes flashing. She had several shopping bags hooked over her wrist. “If I throttle that bastard, will you help me to hide the body?”

“Dawna!”
Ron bellowed. I watched her eyes narrow, saw her take a deep breath as if to answer.

I took the packages from her hands. “I’ll deal with him,” I interrupted before she could say something she’d regret. Ron was being a jerk, but she needed the job. And if he pushed, he could probably get the others to agree to fire her even if I fought it. “Can you make me a couple of copies of this?”

She took the cocktail napkin curiously, opening it fully to make sure there was writing only on the one side. “No problema.” She went down a few steps and stopped. Turning to look over her shoulder, she grinned at me. “But if you kick his ass, I get to watch.”

I laughed and followed slowly behind her down as far as the second floor. My knee was still twinging. She peeled off toward the copy room. I continued down to the landing. Ron was taking a deep breath to shout again when I came down those last few steps. I stopped one step up from him. It was close enough to invade his personal space and high enough to put me at exactly eye level. I smiled and started speaking to him, keeping my voice, soft, gentle, and all the more scary for it.

“Ronald, what time is it?”

He didn’t bother to look at me. That’s not unusual for him. I sometimes think he doesn’t actually
see
anybody else. Ron’s world revolves around Ron. He stepped back, intending to walk around me. I stepped forward, taking back the space he’d just given himself. “I
asked,
‘What time is it?’”

He puffed himself up, taking in as much air as his chest would allow, trying to loom over me. He expected me to back down. Nearly everyone does. He’s not a small man, and he’s loud and obnoxious. Most people don’t want to antagonize him. They seem to sense that he lives to dominate others. But I’m not most people. I’d had a
really
rough couple of days. And I was well and truly tired of Ron’s bullshit.

“Eight fifteen. Why?” He spit the words at me like a curse, and started to lean around me, drawing in another huge lungful of air, preparatory to screaming.

I stepped directly in front of him. “Dawna’s hours are nine to five. It’s not nine. She’s not on duty.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but I silenced him with a look and a gesture upward, reminding him that we had important clients on site. “Bellowing like that does not make you look important, Ron. It makes you look like an ass. Hogging the facilities and the secretary’s time does not make you more important than the rest of the tenants, who pay just as much for the privilege as you do. It makes you a selfish, obnoxious prick.” I hadn’t raised my voice once. In fact, my tone was gentle enough to be conversational. But that didn’t fool him. Because I wasn’t backing down. My body language was aggressive. And my skin had, yet again, started to glow. He flinched, taking a half step back. This time I let him keep it.

“I have had two attempts made on my life in as many days. I am tired and out of patience. As a personal favor to me, Dawna went on her own time to the store so that I would not have to meet with potential clients looking like this. Unfortunately, the clients arrived early. But you will
not
berate her for not being here at your beck and call. You will not, in fact, berate her for anything.”

“Is that a threat?” he blustered, but I could smell the fear on him. Fortunately, I’d already eaten. My stomach didn’t even rumble.

“Ronald.” I smiled, making sure to flash plenty of fang. “If I decide to threaten you, you’ll know it. In the meantime let’s just call this a
friendly sssuggestion.
” The lisp was back, but oddly, I didn’t mind. Not even a little.

And
that
was when he finally took a good look at me. He backed away, his eyes huge at the sight of the fangs. But despite his obvious fear, he continued to bluster. “How
dare
you!”

I was saved a response. The front door opened and Bubba stepped in with my mother at his heels. Right behind them were Kevin Landingham and Bruno DeLuca.

For a full ten seconds the world stopped. I swear. Right on its axis. I stood there, staring at Bruno, the man I’d thought was the love of my life back in college.

My mouth went dry, my heart racing. For just a minute the rest of the world disappeared and it was just me and him.

Bruno had changed. He was still five feet, eleven inches, of pure Italian studliness. But there were touches of gray at his temples, and worry lines had appeared between his brows and at the corners of his mouth. A smile was twitching at his lips and there was laughter sparking in his dark brown eyes. Then again, there nearly always was, when he saw me.

It was my mother who broke the spell, drawing me back to the present with more speed than grace. “Celie?” My mother’s voice rose nearly an octave between the first and second syllables of my name. “Oh my
God,
honey, what’s
happened
to you? You look like
hell.
”

Everyone turned to stare—including Ron. He seemed to see past his anger, fear, and the fangs for the first time, looking me over from head to toe.

“She’s right, Graves. You look … terrible. Are those your
pajamas
?”

Oh, hell.
I decided to take charge of the situation before things got any worse. It didn’t seem likely and the mere thought was horrifying, but you never could tell. “Yes, Ron. I came here in my pj’s because the gas company wouldn’t let me back in the house.” I turned to my mother. “Hi, Mom. It’s been a rough couple of days. Come by the office when you’re done with Bubba and I’ll drive you home. Kevin, Bruno, why don’t you go join everybody else up in my office? It’s a regular party in there.” Okay, the sarcasm was a little overdone, but I couldn’t help myself.

I stepped aside so they could trudge past. Bruno gave my shoulder a quick squeeze on the way. It was a small gesture, but it really did make me feel better. When they were past the landing, I turned back to Ron. He was still staring, his eyes too wide. “Are you telling me the truth? Did somebody really try to kill you?”

“Yessss.” I pointed at my mouth “Notice the teeth? I didn’t have them last week.”

“Twice?”

“Yup.”

“Why?” He seemed truly puzzled. Apparently, he didn’t
not
like me enough to even consider elimination. That was sort of flattering.

I shrugged. “Damned if I know. But I intend to find out.”

I had
Dawna deliver the photocopy of the cocktail napkin to Cassandra and make my excuses to everyone. I needed a shower, and I wanted to put on some clothes fit for wearing in front of people. Selfish, probably. Chicken, definitely. But screw it. The fact that I’d gone downstairs for a confrontation with Ron showed me more clearly than any words that I was reaching the end of my rope.

So I locked the bathroom door, stripped, and turned the water on as hot as I could stand. I scrubbed until I was as clean as I was going to get, checking my injuries as I went. The knee was the worst. Joint injuries suck. Even with the boost to my healing, it was swollen and hurting. I’d been an idiot to go downstairs, and now I was paying for it.

If I’d had any sense I’d have put an Ace bandage on the list I’d given Dawna. But I hadn’t thought about it, which meant that I was probably going to be taking another trip to PharMart. I’d read enough of the research before I fell asleep to get a fair guess of how fast I could heal—roughly a day’s worth of healing each hour. At that rate, my knee would be a problem for a few more days—
if
I took proper care of it.

I climbed out of the shower and toweled myself off. I used a second towel to rub most of the moisture from my hair before combing it out. It’d have to air-dry. I hadn’t thought to bring a blow-dryer to the office. But that was all right. It was clean.
I
was clean. I opened the bag and found myself grinning. Leave it to Dawna. She’d bought me underclothes all right.
Lingerie-
type underclothes. Lacy and pretty, in silk. And the top wasn’t just an ordinary tee. Nope, she’d supplied me with a matching tank and overblouse in black, probably the only color that would actually look good with my new complexion. The jeans were black, too, and my favorite brand. She’d even sprung for jewelry—small hoop earrings and a delicate pendant. White gold, not silver. I hadn’t given her enough money to pay for half of this. But I was really, really glad she’d done it. Because Bruno was here and Kevin and … well, strangely, Creede. And in this outfit I wouldn’t have to feel completely outclassed by Cassandra.

The socks were just as pretty but were nylon rather than cotton. I detest nylon ones because they make me sweat, so I pulled the tennis shoes on over my bare feet. I left the denim jacket in the bag. It was too warm to wear it inside. It was
probably
too warm to wear it outside, too. But I had to cover as much skin as I could.