Dark Descendant (19 page)

oppressive, and my fears were too overwhelming.

Jamaal had threatened to hurt me only if I double-crossed Anderson, but it was obvious

he’d be looking for the slightest excuse to condemn me. What if I couldn’t find Emma? After all,

I had as yet found no evidence of any supernatural hunting ability, and with Emma I didn’t even

know how to start. Would Jamaal take my lack of progress as evidence of betrayal?

I shoved the covers away and got out of bed, turning on the light. Sleep was an

impossibility, no matter how much I might prefer to escape my situation by slipping into

dreamland.

It was almost five in the morning, so at least I’d gotten a few solid hours of sleep before

Jamaal had awakened me. I tended to be an early riser anyway, so I tried to tell myself I wasn’t

really getting up in the middle of the night, even though my body cried out for more rest.

A part of me was beginning to suspect I should cut my losses and run. Earlier, I’d talked

myself out of disappearing because of all the things I didn’t want to give up. Unfortunately, I

seemed to be giving up a lot of those things anyway. I hadn’t spent the night in my own home

since the accident, and I’d put so little thought into my job that I hadn’t even checked phone

messages. I put referring my current clients to other investigators on my day’s to-do list. It was

easier to face than figuring out what to do with the rest of my life.

I decided I needed a serious coffee infusion before I made any life-altering decisions. If

I’d really felt like I
lived
in the mansion, I wouldn’t have hesitated to go downstairs in my

nightshirt. But no matter what my supposed status, I felt more like a reluctant guest at an

oversized B&B, which meant I wasn’t going anywhere until I was showered and dressed.

I only made two wrong turns before I found my way to the kitchen.

The coffee didn’t magically make all my problems go away, but it was warm, delicious,

and caffeinated. That was all that mattered.

I spent the remainder of the wee hours of the morning doing some basic Internet research

on Emma Poindexter of Arlington, Virginia. I assumed most of what I learned was pure fiction.

Depending on how old she was, she could have dozens of different assumed identities. None of

which would have much to do with who she really was. Still, it was a start.

At around eight there was a knock on my door. I answered cautiously, hoping it would be

Maggie, because so far she was the only one of the
Liberi
I could actually say I liked. Instead, it turned out to be Blake, probably my least favorite of Anderson’s
Liberi
. Jamaal was hostility

personified, but at least I understood where he was coming from. Blake just seemed slimy.

I probably made a face, but if so, Blake ignored it, holding up a manila envelope.

“Anderson sent me to give you this,” he said. “I believe the subtext was ‘kiss and make

up.’”

This time I was
sure
I made a face. “I’d rather kiss a copperhead.” I grabbed the envelope

from his hand.

He laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t worry. It was only a figure of

speech.”

He didn’t seem particularly perturbed that I’d shot him yesterday, but I didn’t believe

he’d gotten over it that easily.

“How’s your boo-boo?” I asked. I don’t know if I was trying to rile him, or trying to

remind him I wasn’t someone he wanted to mess with.

He touched his chest, presumably where the bullet had hit him. “Still a little sore, but not

too bad. I’m touched by your concern.”

He said it with a self-deprecating smile, as if there were no hard feelings, but I still didn’t

believe it. I’d seen too much malice in him to think he’d let me off the hook that easily. Even so,

I couldn’t help feeling guilty about what I’d done, and I couldn’t force myself to be as indifferent

as I wanted to be.

“I really am sorry about that,” I found myself saying, though it made me feel like a wuss.

Blake waved off my apology. “As Anderson pointed out, I had it coming. If I’d left my

attitude in the car, I probably could have persuaded you to come with me without the strong-arm

tactics.”

I was momentarily at a loss for words. This was not the reaction I’d expected from him.

“Alexis brings out the worst in me,” Blake continued. “When I saw him sitting there with

you, I started to wonder if Jamaal was right and you were a plant.”

It wasn’t quite an apology, but it was close. “And now you’ve changed your mind about

me?”

“I don’t know what to make of you,” he said with refreshing honesty. “But if there’s a

chance you’re telling the truth and can find Emma, then I’m willing to give you the benefit of the

doubt.”

“Sounds like you’re as anxious to get her back as Anderson is.” I belatedly realized that

sounded accusatory, like I thought he and Emma were lovers, when all I’d really meant to do

was fish for information.

He hesitated a beat, but didn’t respond to my unintentional implication. “Anderson hasn’t

come close to getting over her yet. And the longer she’s been gone, the more saintly she’s

become in his memory.”

“Meaning she wasn’t that saintly in real life?”

“Let’s just say she was a bit high-maintenance. And it had been a long, long time since

she and Anderson were happy together. By the end, they weren’t even sharing a bed anymore.

But you know what they say—absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

He pointed at the manila envelope, which I hadn’t bothered to open yet. “There’s a full

dossier on Emma’s current identity in there. There’s also an outline of Anderson’s security plan

for your sister. He’s hired a private security firm we’ve worked with in the past, and the rest of

us are going to help out as time permits. She’ll be as safe as we can possibly make her, and she’ll

never even know her guardian angels are there.”

“Angels, huh?” I asked with a lift of my brow. That wasn’t a term I’d associate with any

of the
Liberi
I’d met.

Blake just laughed.

Over the next couple of days, I spent countless hours
chained to my computer, looking

for something that might help. I figured that since my non-supernatural abilities to find people had stemmed largely from my computer skills, maybe my supernatural ones would as well.

I had Anderson compile a list of all the known Olympians and all the Descendants who

worked for them. The list was long and intimidating, but I started doing methodical searches on

each person. It was true that Konstantin could have buried Emma anywhere, including out in

some national park miles from civilization, but instinct told me he’d want to have easier access

to her. Which meant wherever she was, it was most likely on property owned by Konstantin or

one of his many toadies.

When you watch TV shows featuring private investigators, the job always looks like it’s

exciting and full of action. The reality is somewhat different. Scouring databases looking for

properties that belong to one of about thirty people—many of whom had multiple names as they

changed identities over the years—was the antithesis of exciting.

The list of properties grew depressingly long, and though in theory I was making

progress, it felt more like I was running in place. Even if I identified the right property, how

would I find Emma once I got there? If I was a supernatural tracker, the power was taking its

own sweet time to manifest.

On Saturday afternoon, I decided to take a break and get out of the mansion for a while.

Actually, it wasn’t so much my decision, as Steph’s. Her charity auction was on

Wednesday night, and she called to remind me. Then she asked me what I would wear, and when

I didn’t answer fast enough, she declared we were going shopping.

I could have fought her on it. Although Steph has a steel backbone, I have a pretty good

streak of stubbornness in me, too. But one thing I’d learned over years of working as a P.I. was

that it really was possible to work too hard. The brain needs to take a break every once in a

while, or you start missing things that are right in front of your face. So I let myself be

persuaded.

Steph’s favorite store is the Saks out in Chevy Chase, but I didn’t make enough money

from my P.I. business to buy so much as a single shoe there. Trust me, if I was ever going to be

persuaded to tap into my trust fund, it wouldn’t be for the sake of designer clothes. In deference

to my budget concerns, we hit the shops and boutiques of Georgetown instead.

I enjoy shopping as much as the next girl, and I’d been on countless excursions with

Steph over the years, but there was nothing like watching my beautiful sister trying on clothes to

make me feel like an ugly duckling.

I know I’m not ugly. But I’m no Steph, either. Usually, I do a pretty good job of shoving

my jealousy into a back corner of my mind, where I can ignore it. But the stress of recent events,

and my relentless worries about the future, made it impossible to keep the green monster

completely under control. Especially when Steph came out of her dressing room wearing a

stunning, fire-engine red cocktail dress that clung perfectly to her curves without looking even

remotely slutty. I swear, if you’d teleported her to the red carpet before the Oscars, she wouldn’t

have looked out of place.

I had on a simple black number at the time, and I couldn’t help comparing our reflections

in the mirror. Steph, tall and blond and sophisticated, wearing a dress that would draw every eye

in the room. Me, short and average-looking, in a dress meant to blend in with the inevitable sea

of little black dresses. And then, of course, there was the glyph that only I could see. The glyph

that meant I had to give up even the semblance of a normal life that I had built.

We went out for coffee afterward. I kept trying to spot Anderson’s private security team,

but I hadn’t caught sight of anyone following us. Maybe they felt Steph was safe enough with

me. Or maybe they really were just really good at being inconspicuous. I knew the typical tricks of covert surveillance, but even knowing what to look for, I couldn’t spot anyone.

“So,” Steph said when we sat down in a cozy corner with our coffees, “what’s going on

with your stalker-client? I’m guessing since you’re still not at home and you’re in a crappy mood

that he’s still giving you trouble.”

I grimaced and took a sip of my coffee, burning my tongue. I thought I’d been hiding my

state of mind better than that. Probably if it had been anyone but Steph, they would have been

fooled.

“Yeah,” I admitted, because there was no reason not to. “The situation’s still

complicated.” I gave her a half smile. “And I still can’t talk about it.”

“You ever consider that talking about it might help?”

My half smile turned to a full one, though I doubted Steph would miss the strain behind

it. “No, I never considered that possibility.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whoever said ‘no man is an island’ obviously never met
you
.”

I bit back the urge to go defensive, but it was hard. If she’d been through what I’d been

through as a kid, she’d understand why I didn’t make a habit of blabbing out my problems. You

learn to talk about your problems when you have a sympathetic ear available. I hadn’t had any

truly awful foster parents. No one molested me or beat me, at least not beyond the occasional

spanking. But until I’d moved in with the Glasses at age eleven, there’d been no real warmth,

either. My fault, entirely. I was one hell of an angry little girl. But by the time I had something

like a warm, supportive family environment, I had already settled into the habit of keeping to

myself.

Steph reached over and put a hand on my arm, the touch light and brief. “Sorry. I didn’t

mean that to hurt. I was just teasing.”

I did my best to shake off the gloom. “I know. I’m just grumpy and not very good

company today.”

“Think it might cheer you up if I told you about this new guy I’m seeing?”

I’m sure my eyes lit up at the idea. For all my unworthy jealousy of Steph, I really, truly

loved her. I wanted to see her happy, and though so far she hadn’t shown the greatest taste in

men, I was always hoping she’d meet Mr. Right.

“Ooh yes, do tell!” I urged.

There was a twinkle in her eye as she smiled at me. She was proud of herself for chasing

away the little black thundercloud that had been hovering over my head.

“It’s all very preliminary,” she warned. “Maybe saying I’m ‘seeing’ him is a bit of an

exaggeration. I only met him a couple of days ago, and we’ve been on exactly one date.”

“I have a feeling I’ve just been conned,” I muttered, but I couldn’t go back to being as

surly as I’d been. I’d much rather talk about Steph’s love life than keep evading her questions

about my “stalker.”

“Where and how did you meet? Details, please.”

“You know that little bakery around the corner from my house?”

I nodded. It was the kind of place I didn’t dare set foot in for fear of surrendering to

I-want-one-of-everything syndrome.

“Well, I’ve gotten into the habit of going over there every morning. I take my laptop and

do a lot of my correspondence. It’s got a nice atmosphere, and it smells heavenly.”

And unlike me, Steph could smell the various pies, cakes, breads, and assorted goodies