Chasing Magic (26 page)

He didn’t try to convince her to stay in bed a little longer, though, either, which was generally code for staying
in bed
naked
for a while longer. He didn’t even hint at it. She tried not to be worried by that.

And it wasn’t the time to worry about that, either, because they were in the Chevelle advancing up a long curved driveway that wound through some trees before it stopped in front of the Tudor-style mansion in Northside where Marietta Blake had lived. It was time to focus on other things. Like on how they probably wouldn’t get any information at all, and this would end up being a totally wasted trip.

But they had to make it, because they’d officially reached the grasping-at-straws part of the investigation, hadn’t they? They had a name: Razor. Who could be anyone from anywhere, and who could
be
anywhere. They had—she’d confirmed it only an hour or so ago when they stopped at her place—speed cut with ectoplasm and blood in walnuts that worked with the ectoplasm-cut speed to control the user.

And they had way too many dead people, and pretty good odds that more people would be joining them, and she really didn’t want one of those people to be her. Or him.

Terrible opened the car door for her, and they made their way across the manicured stretch of green lawn, striped by late-afternoon shadows, to the front door. The sound of blue jays in the trees sent an uncomfortable twinge through her body; jays weren’t the strongest of psychopomps, no, but they weren’t lucky birds, and it was difficult for her to hear any birds without being made nervous by them. Especially in situations where she very well might be in danger, like this one. Exclusive wealthy neighborhood or not, Marietta was or had been up to her neck in whatever was going on, and nothing said her family was innocent.

Yeah, being with Terrible meant she was safe if people were all they were dealing with, but there sure as fuck
wasn’t a guarantee, was there? Not with some crazy sorcerer wanting to see them all dead.

The door opened on her third knock to reveal a tall lean man in an impeccable gray suit, with thick glasses covering half his face. “Can I help you?”

Chess flashed her Church ID, sleazy as it felt to do so. “I’m looking for Kyle or Lindsay Blake? It’s about Marietta.”

He dipped his head, low enough that she saw light reflected in his bald spot. “One moment, please.”

He wandered off but left the door open, so … Chess and Terrible exchanged glances and entered, standing on the shiny dark-wood floor of what Chess thought the Blakes would call an entry hall. Pale high ceilings rose over their heads, with black beams crossing them; a wide staircase hugged the wall, leaving a bare expanse of gleaming floor to its side. Serious money, yes indeed. She hadn’t bothered to investigate the Blakes—aside from anything else, she’d need an Elder to pull their financial files—but who knew, maybe it would end up being worth doing.

The man returned after a few minutes. “Follow me.”

Something in his voice … bothered her. Or it sort of felt like it bothered her. The whole house sort of bothered her, though. For a second she wondered if maybe it was just too big, too ostentatious, but then she remembered Roger Pyle’s place. She’d never had any serious problems with that, so no, that wasn’t it.

The house felt so
cold
, though. There was something dark and watchful about it, something she didn’t like. It made her uncomfortable.

Terrible didn’t look any more relaxed than she felt as they entered some sort of living room off the hall. More ceiling beams, more dark wood. The place made Chess long to light up a smoke, do a few lines, and start making out with Terrible on the low leather sofa.

Of course, she pretty much always wanted to do that, but damn that house was stuffy.

She reached out to brush Terrible’s arm, mouthed, “Are you okay?”

He gave her a shrug and a nod. But the way he glanced around the room, checking all the entrances and exits, made it clear he noticed what was bothering her, too.

The man bowed again. “They’ll be with you in a moment.”

He left, closing the door behind him. Chess didn’t know whether she should be impressed or amused by the fact that he’d left a couple of strangers alone in a room full of expensive items—the candlesticks on the mantel had to be worth a few grand alone—but she had shown a Church ID. And not everyone mistrusted the Church.

And it didn’t matter, anyway, because almost immediately the door opened again to admit a woman who had to be Marietta’s mother. Her face darkened when she saw them. “My daughter isn’t here. I don’t want you people—”

Out came the Church ID again. “Mrs. Blake? I’m Cesaria Putnam, from the Church. We wanted to ask you some questions about Marietta.”

Mrs. Blake looked her up and down suspiciously, and examined Terrible even more closely. She snatched Chess’s ID from her hand to inspect it.

“You can call the Church to verify it.” Not that Chess wanted Mrs. Blake to do that, but experience had taught her that making the offer usually meant the person wouldn’t bother.

“My daughter isn’t here,” the woman said finally, and handed the ID back.

“That’s fine. We just have a few questions.”

Mrs. Blake sniffed, but she stepped back and motioned for them to sit.

“Is Marietta’s father available?”

Mr. Blake entered at that point. He shook Chess’s hand in that firm businessman way, as if he’d had tons of practice, and she focused on that touch as he did. Did he feel like magic, like he had any talent at all?

No. Not a drop, really. He looked vaguely familiar, but then he looked a bit like Marietta, so why wouldn’t he?

He crossed the floor to sit in an overstuffed chair that creaked when he moved. He appeared to be part of a matched set with Mrs. Blake; oh-so-tasteful graying hair, casually expensive khaki trousers, and a tucked-in white shirt. Growing up in this house must have been tons of fun.

Of course, somehow Chess didn’t get the feeling that either Blake parent had been fucking Marietta or beating the shit out of her, so she had an advantage over Chess, but whatever. It still struck her as a horrible, stultifying place to live, not so much because of the old-money ooze or the dull furnishings but because of the coldness that permeated the entire house and seemed to emanate from the walls.

“Kyle, dear, these people want to talk about Marietta.”

Mr. Blake nodded. “Carmichael told me, of course. Marietta’s not here. Don’t know where she is.”

“Yes, so Mrs. Blake said.” Were they protesting a little too much? They didn’t seem like protect-the-kid types, but they did seem very much the what-would-the-neighbors-say types. And they seemed very much like they’d have the money to send Marietta somewhere far away to hide out until things blew over.

Also, Chess hadn’t yet said why she was there, other than “to talk about” Marietta. Which implied some sort of guilty knowledge on the Blakes’ behalf, didn’t it, even if it wasn’t the kind that was really “guilty.” So who knew where the conversation could go? “But I
was wondering if you could tell me anything about her? Her associates. What happened. How … how things started.”

Mrs. Blake gestured at the couch. “Sit down. Care for a drink?”

Chess and Terrible shook their heads and took seats on the cold squeaky leather. Mrs. Blake poured herself a hefty glassful of amber-colored liquid; Mr. Blake, Chess noticed, already had a smudgy glass half full of the same in front of him. Damn. Did these people just spend their days half drunk? She had to respect that—or at least understand it.

And, hey, maybe it would make them more inclined to slip up and say something worthwhile.

“Marietta was always … difficult. She wasn’t a happy child.” Mrs. Blake took a mammoth swallow of whatever it was in her glass—bourbon or scotch, Chess wasn’t sure—and settled into the other armchair. “She didn’t fit in with the other kids. When she was fourteen she disappeared. She was gone for three days before we found her in the community center. She’d been sleeping in the laundry bins.”

Mr. Blake grunted.

“The last few years, ever since we bought her a car, she’d be gone for days. We never knew where she was. She took up with those people.… Miss Jessel would talk to her—”

“Miss Jessel?”

“Miss Jessel is—was—the nanny, but she stayed in touch after she left us when Marietta turned sixteen. She’d talk to Marietta, and Marietta would insist she was fine, and Miss Jessel would let it go. But I don’t think she was fine. I never thought she was fine.”

“Could I get in touch with Miss Jessel?” Not that she’d need to, but it fit the ruse to ask.

Mrs. Blake paused long enough to drain her glass. “I
suppose I could find Miss Jessel’s number for you—she hasn’t called in six months or so. Stopped right around the time Marietta got involved with that man, that Ben person.”

Sharp-eye Ben? “That started six months ago? Do you know anything more about him?”

Mr. Blake cut in. “Only that he was scum.”

“Kyle!” It wasn’t shock in Mrs. Blake’s voice; it was a warning, and Chess’s face grew hot when she realized why: Mrs. Blake was warning him to watch what he said because of Terrible. Because of how Terrible looked. Bitch.

Mr. Blake didn’t seem to have any of the same compunction, though. “He is scum. Living in that filthy ghetto, involved with those people, if you can even call them people. That whole Downside slum should be razed to the ground. It’s an eyesore. It’s disgusting.”

This was her job, Chess reminded herself. Wasn’t even actually her job; she’d misrepresented her reason for being there, which meant confronting Blake on his shitty views and shitty words and general shittiness was not a good idea. It was not something she could do.

Mrs. Blake stood up into the silence. “Would anyone care for another drink?”

“Well, that was basically a waste of time, huh?” Chess said as the Chevelle nosed back onto the street.

“Were guessin it would be though, aye?”

“Yeah, it just … I still hoped, you know? Like that we could walk in and the Blakes would give us a list of names and dates or something.”

His eyebrow quirked in amusement. “That kinda shit ever happen for you?”

“Well, no, but I can still hope.”

“Aye.” His hand landed on her thigh and gave it a rub. “Aye, you do that, Chessiebomb.”

She slid her hand over his. “So … what are we doing now?”

“Ain’t know. Figured on you maybe bein tired, headin back yours let you rest. I gotta head over Bump’s, dig, give him what’s on.”

Oh. The smile left her face. Kind of silly of her, really; of course he needed to talk to Bump, and it wasn’t as if he’d think taking her with him would be some kind of treat for her. Yay, hanging out with Bump, her favorite thing.

But she’d hoped … well, she’d hoped he’d want to spend some time with her now that she wasn’t sweaty and puking, with a chunk of plastic hanging out of her nose. Some
alone
time. So much was going on, so many things that frankly terrified her, and she wanted to forget them, even if it was only for a little while.

She gave his hand a squeeze. “You don’t have to go to Bump’s right away, though, right? You could come up to mine for a bit first.”

“Aye.” He squeezed back, sending shivers of excitement and happiness through her. “Needin make sure you get to sleep all right, aye? An nothin happen or whatany.”

“I definitely think that’s a good idea.”

They rode on in comfortable silence, hands still clasped, until he slid the Chevelle up to the curb across the street from her building. The sun was setting, leaving that peculiar fuzzy dusk-light where nothing looked clear or real. But then, very little of the last few days felt real. Horrible magic and destroyed bodies and Lex and Elder Griffin turning his back on her—it all felt like some kind of bizarre Dream hallucination, and she wished it would end.

“C’mon.” Terrible opened his door, came around to open hers, and she stepped out, glad for the break in her thoughts, glad to be focusing elsewhere.

Warm breeze, faintly scented of garbage and exhaust but still pleasant, shifted her hair and sent a few strands of it to tickle her cheeks. She tucked it behind her ear as they crossed the street, heading for the wide front steps of her building together. Not close enough to touch even accidentally, but close enough that they almost could. Close enough that she could peek at him sideways and watch the way he held his head, the way his shoulders moved when he walked.

The steps to the front doors started about halfway from the curb, with wide ledges along each side. Sometimes people sat on them, climbing the steps part of the way up so they could access the ledges, which were too high to reach at the street end. They were like thick walls along the edges, with scrub grass, gravel, and pale dry dirt forming a border around them.

A black-clad shape—a man—ran out from behind the one on the left and headed straight for them, a knife glinting in his upraised hand.

Terrible’s hand almost knocked the wind out of her, shoving her back and behind him before she’d even really registered what was happening. She stumbled and almost fell to the rough concrete. Damn her heavy bag, if she’d had a second to brace herself it wouldn’t have knocked her off balance like that.