Blood Song (25 page)

There was a tap on the door. We turned in unison to find Dawna standing in the doorway, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Celia, but you’re not going anywhere for a while. Detective Gibson is downstairs with a pair of men who keep scowling and muttering to each other in some foreign language. And the three of them are staring daggers across the coffee table at the FBI guys from yesterday. They all want to ask you questions. Now. In fact, they’re being pretty insistent about it.”

Crap.
“Well, doesn’t this just suck?”

“You shouldn’t talk to them without an attorney present,” Bruno advised.

“I’ve already met with Gibson. But you’re right about the Feds.” I doubted an attorney would help much with the other two. Unless I missed my guess, they’d probably been sent here by Rusland’s king. I was actually kind of glad they were here with the police. Otherwise I might just have been taken off somewhere for a very
private
interrogation. Maybe even one that involved a certain level of … unpleasantness and ultimately my untimely permanent disappearance. Lucky for me, I had absolutely nothing to hide. It was unlikely any of my visitors would believe that. But if I disappeared there’d be lots and lots of uncomfortable questions and bad publicity. Bruno would see to it, even if Gibson didn’t. The king didn’t need bad press, even if his retainers did have diplomatic immunity.

And of course I said I’d cooperate fully. Hell. Don’t think about it, Graves. At this point if they want to kill you, they’re going to have to take a number. Just get through the meeting.

I pasted a smile on my face that I hoped would fool Dawna. I couldn’t fool Bruno. He knew me too well. “Dawna, do me a favor, put them in the conference room and order us up some coffee and rolls. I’m going to call my lawyer.”

“Ron’s got the conference room.”

“Of course he does.” I felt my smile wilt around the edges but tried to sound unfazed. God, why did this feel like every other weekday? “Fine. Give them coffee and tell them it’ll be a few minutes, we’re waiting for my attorney. Then order rolls. We’ll meet here in my office once the attorney arrives.” I turned to Bruno and tried to keep the frustration in my voice to a minimum. After all, none of this was his fault. Mine either, if it came to that. “Looks like you’ll be taking a cab.”

“I’m not leaving.”

I started to protest, but he silenced me with a look. “Consider me your
supernatural
advisor. Federal law dictates you can have one when you’re not fully human.” There was no arguing with him when he was wearing that expression, so I didn’t bother to try. Mollified, he closed his laptop, put it in the case, then got up and moved to the other side of the desk, settling into a chair in the far corner.

Dawna was shaking her head in amusement as she ducked out the door. Let her laugh. She’d never tried to budge Bruno when he was in one of his moods. Besides, considering what he’d gone through to make those knives, I owed him.

“You realize they’re not going to let you stay.
Supernatural advisor
or not.”

He gave me a smile that was more a baring of teeth. “Unless they are very,
very
good, they’ll never even suspect I’m here.”

I blinked stupidly. “You can
do
that? I mean—I thought it wasn’t possible for people to disappear.” Then again, wasn’t that exactly what Jones had done?

“You’d be amazed at what I can do.” Bruno gave me a genuine smile this time. “But no, I’m not disappearing. It’s a kind of illusion spell. It makes me very, very, unnoticeable—a part of the furniture. Don’t get me wrong. There are telepaths who can use mental manipulation to make you and everyone in the area
think
they’re seeing someone else. But I’m not a telepath. So I make do with a little magic.”

More than a little magic, unless I missed my guess. But I wasn’t going to start an argument I couldn’t win. Besides, I was curious. I’d studied the paranormal for four years and
none
of this stuff had come up. “So you get a good enough telepath and they really could go up in front of the crowd and pretend to be the president and everybody would think it was him?”

“If he had enough oompf, yes.
But
he’d have to be damned careful. Because while folks with the gift can influence what people think, they
can’t
manipulate reality. So a mirror, window, whatever, is going to reflect what is actually there.”

I sat there for a few seconds, trying to absorb that. I mean, telepaths had always kind of scared me—they’re mind benders after all. And it’s one of the skills the government and the schools keep the tightest rein on. But Jones had done it. Had to have. I was just starting to ponder the implications of that when Bruno’s voice brought me back to the present.

“You’d better call that attorney. Your guests won’t wait forever.”

I looked up, intending to make a snappy comeback, and he wasn’t there. Oh, he was. And if I looked
really
hard, I could see him. But at first glance, hell, even
second
glance, I would’ve sworn he was a rubber tree. Except I don’t
own
a rubber tree.

“Show-off.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a spell, not psychic manipulation, so I can’t move and keep up the illusion. And don’t stare or they’ll know something’s up.”

Not staring was harder than it sounded. I tried to practice, looking everywhere
but
at the rubber tree in the corner as I dialed the number for my attorney.

It took a couple of minutes to get through but considerably less time than it should have. I found my attorneys through Vicki’s referral. To the esteemed professionals at Pratt, Arons, Ziegler, Santos, and Cortez I was just a teeny little fish in a great big pond. It’s a big firm, with specialists in various areas of law. They’re the best, but you pay for it. There was no doubt in my mind that the only reason they dealt with me at all was as a favor to Vicki. That I wasn’t left on hold for ten minutes with the answering service meant something. I just wasn’t sure what.

Roberto Santos is the senior attorney in criminal defense matters. If you haven’t heard of him, I assume you’ve been living in a Carmelite convent or hiding somewhere under a rock. He represents the famous and infamous—provided they pay their bills. He’s a bottom-line kind of guy. I can respect that. I’m the same way. I’ve never been a big enough client to merit an introduction. My stuff has always been handled by very, very junior associates. So the last thing I expected was for the man himself to pick up the line.

“Roberto Santos, Ms. Graves. I understand you have a problem?” His voice was smooth, cultured, flowing like molten chocolate down the line. Impressive as it was over the telephone, I could only imagine the reaction of a jury in person.

It took me a second to gather my wits, but I managed. As succinctly as I could, I caught him up to speed.

He let me talk. I could hear a pen scratching across paper as he took notes, but he didn’t interrupt once as I ran through the facts. Once I finished, however, he had questions. Probing, intelligent questions. He voiced them with brisk efficiency—and actually listened to the answers. The whole conversation took maybe twenty minutes.

“I can be at your office in a half hour. In the meantime, I want you to print hard copies and make a CD for me of everything you’ve got. We’ll probably not want to share it all, but it’ll save us all time and effort if you have it all ready when I get there.”

“Right. How much am I going to owe you for this?” I didn’t really want to know, but I needed to. I just hoped it wouldn’t bankrupt me.

I managed not to gasp at the amount he quoted. I kept the firm on retainer, but the hourly fees for actual work—well, I could afford it … barely. Provided, of course, that things didn’t drag on. “I’ll have a check ready for you when you arrive.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

I hung up the phone and started getting everything ready for him. There wasn’t much. Telephone messages, some hand-written notes. I scanned those into the computer, which thankfully Dawna had gotten working. The signed contract was already on file.

Not too many minutes later I heard footfalls on the stairs and smelled fresh coffee mingled with the sweet cinnamon aroma of baked goods. Thank the good lord for Cinnabon. My stomach rumbled audibly in response.

Dawna was chatting amiably with the deliveryman from the bakery and I could hear Roberto grumbling that with this kind of workout he wouldn’t need the StairMaster.
Good.
I’d rather we didn’t have to wait much longer. In fact, I wanted to get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.

I flipped open the laptop and was in the process of cabling it to the printer when the three of them walked in. Dawna and the deliveryman started bustling around in the corner, setting up the baked goods. Roberto moved one of the chairs over so that he was sitting next to the desk.

I shook Roberto’s hand before he sat down. He barely glanced at my fangs. Who knows? Maybe he’d seen worse. Dawna kept casting covert glances at the rubber tree, looking confused. But she didn’t say anything, just kept helping the deliveryman. When they’d finished with the food, she began rearranging the chairs, even bringing in the patio chairs from the balcony so there’d be enough seating for everybody. Only when she’d finished and left the room did Roberto speak.

“I told the people downstairs that I needed ten minutes alone with you before they came up. We’ve already lost nearly half of it. So we’d better hurry. Give me what you’ve got.”

I passed over the copies and plugged a jump drive into one of the computer ports to transfer files for him as he was scanning the printed pages. It didn’t take him long.

“Is there anything you haven’t told me? Anything else I need to know?” He sounded suspicious. I suppose it’s only natural. He’s a criminal defense attorney. People lie to their attorneys all the time.

So I told him the
rest
of the information. Sadly, there was no way for Bruno not to overhear.

I have
a reasonably large office. But it was fairly crowded with everybody crammed in there. Gibson had taken a seat in the patio chair nearest the balcony doors. He was quiet, subdued, and acting very much as if we hadn’t spent a good chunk of yesterday together. So either he
had
told them already or he
hadn’t
and didn’t want to. Either way was fine with me.

The Feds were both alike and opposites. Their names were Erikson and Rizzoli. The former was very Nordic and handsome in the same way as the models in those Tommy Hilfiger ads. Rizzoli was about average height, built blocky, and as Italian as pasta, even more Italian looking than Bruno—something I wouldn’t have believed possible if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Both agents were dressed in identical conservative suits and carried themselves in a way that just
screamed
Fed. I don’t know what they do at the federal training center, but the men and women who make it through the program all wind up with a certain way of moving and dressing that is easy to spot once you’ve seen it.

The king’s retainers had long names that I couldn’t hope to pronounce. They were impeccably dressed, their suits hand tailored, top-of-the-line, and up-to-the-minute in European fashion. I could also feel a frisson of power that told me they’d been spelled, probably with the same concealing magics I’d had on my jacket. If I’d thought they’d answer I might even ask if theirs came with a garrote. But I decided against it. They didn’t look like they’d have a sense of humor about that sort of thing. In fact, despite the window dressing, they looked like they were just the sort of people to
use
that kind of weapon. They were big and intimidating looking, with heavily eastern European features. Maybe the plan had been to scare me into revealing all my secrets? Their English was almost perfect, except for a bit of stilted formality and the occasional odd turn of phrase. In my head I labeled them Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Dee was the senior; Dum, the more powerful.

They asked questions.

I answered.

The Feds asked questions.

I answered.

Then back to the retainers.

It grew tiresome. Then tedious. The time for breakfast passed. Then lunch. I knew I was supposed to drink something, but I didn’t think it wise to ask for a break. So I crossed my fingers and concentrated on answering the questions.

We’d all had coffee, but while the men apparently had cast-iron bladders, I didn’t. Maybe it was some sort of non-pissing pissing contest. Whatever. Eventually, I gave in and told everyone I needed a bathroom break. I’d planned to drink a shake when I got in there, but the box was missing. Were they in the refrigerator? It didn’t really matter, because I didn’t think my audience would appreciate me taking ten minutes to hobble downstairs to the kitchen to get one. When I came back, they were chatting amiably and munching down on the cinnamon rolls. The smell started to drive me crazy, so I decided to join them.

Bad mistake.

I took a bite. I chewed (which, by the way, is a seriously tricky proposition when you have fangs). And I choked. Badly.

I couldn’t swallow it.

I tried washing it down with coffee.

No luck.

A single small bite, well chewed, and it wouldn’t go down. It was stuck. Well and truly stuck, right in the middle of my neck. I coughed and hacked and even stuck a finger down my throat, hoping to push it down.

I sat at my desk, turning slightly blue, my guests looking more and more alarmed. Even the rubber tree was shaking.

Finally I just gave up and excused myself again, went into the bathroom, and stuck my finger fully down my throat until I threw up. Hauling out the toothbrush again, I brushed until my breath was minty fresh. I stared at my reflection in the mirror and cried. I had fangs. I couldn’t eat solid food. It was real. It was permanent. I wasn’t human anymore.

I didn’t cry long. Despite the past day or two, I’m not the weepy type. Besides, I had agents and an attorney waiting for me. So I grabbed a washcloth from the built-in linen cabinet and scrubbed down my face with cold water. Since I still looked a little blotchy, I reached for the small silk bag that held my makeup and started putting it on. A few drops of Visine helped with the eyes but not the face.