Dates From Hell (9 page)

Exhaling, she got to her feet. Drawing her foot back, she kicked him. Hard. “Bastard,” she said, wiping his spit off her neck. Limping, she went to the stereo and clicked it off. She’d never be able to listen to “Skylark” again. She rummaged in her duffel bag, and upon finding her phone, headed for the stairs. Three steps from the top, and she had enough bars. She hit speed-dial one, struggling to listen and take off her disgusting shirt simultaneously.

“Ivy?” came Kisten’s voice, and she pinched the phone between her shoulder and her ear.

“He’s down. Bring her in,” she said.

Without waiting for an answer, she ended the call, adrenaline making her jumpy. Shaking, she stripped off her clothes and slipped into her leather pants and a stretch-knit shirt, wiping her neck free of Art’s scent with a disposable towelette that then went into the contractor garbage bag she shook out with the sharp crack of thick plastic. She considered the lacy shirt for an instant, then dropped it in, too. Her sandals went into her duffel bag.

Barefoot, she crouched by Art. Lifting his lips from his gums, she sucked up blood and saliva with a disposable eyedropper, putting a good quarter inch into the empty saltwater vial. Done, she opened the wine, sat on the raised hearth, and with the hissing flames warming her back, took a long pull. It was bitter, and she grimaced, taking another drink, smaller this time. Anything to get rid of the lingering taste of Art’s blood in her mouth.

Toes digging into the carpet, she looked at Art, out cold and helpless. Witch magic had done it. God, they could be a serious threat in Inderland politics if they put their mind to it.

The sound of feet upstairs brought her straight, and she set the bottle aside. It was Kisten, thumping down the stairs with a large cardboard box in his arms. Ivy looked, then looked again. He had changed into an institutional gray jumpsuit, but that wasn’t it.

“You’re wearing the charm,” she said, and he flushed from under his new blond bangs. He was shorter, too, and she didn’t like it.

“I always wanted to know what I’d look like blond,” he said. “And it will help with the repairman image.” Grunting, he set down the box with Sleeping Beauty in it. “God almighty,” he swore as he stretched his back and looked at Art with the amulet strapped to his palm. “It smells like a cheap hotel down here, all blood and bleach. Did he wing you?”

“No.” Ivy handed him the bottle, unwilling to admit how close Art had come.

Kisten’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank, and he exhaled loudly as he lowered the bottle. His eyes were bright and his smile was wide.
Just one big joke to Kisten,
Ivy thought, depressed. She had acted just in time. If she hadn’t dropped Art, she would have said yes to him—even when she hadn’t wanted to. Mia was right. She needed more practice.

“Where do you want to put her?” Kisten said cheerfully.

A shrug lifted her shoulders. “The bathtub?”

Clearly enjoying himself, he lifted the box and headed into the paneled hallway. “Holy Christ!” he shouted, faint from the wall between them. “Have you seen his bathroom?”

Tired, Ivy rose from the hearth, trying not to look at Art sprawled on the floor. “No.”

“I’m going to put her in the hot tub.”

“He’s got a hot tub?” That would explain the scent of chlorine, and Ivy went to see, her eyebrows rising at the small tub flush with the floor. Kisten had turned it on, and though it wasn’t warm yet, tiny bubbles swirled in the artificial current. Putting Sleeping Beauty in that was going to make a mess, but it would help remove any traces of Piscary and blur that she had been stuck in the refrigerator for a day. Not to mention a dripping wet corpse was harder to get rid of than a dry one. Art wasn’t smart enough to manage it before the I.S. knocked on his door.

Kisten had gone respectfully silent, and keeping the woman in the box, they worked at getting her out of the plastic and duct tape. Jaw clenched, Ivy worked her out of her clothes, handing them to Kisten one by one to be sprayed with the de-enzyme solution from the bar to remove Piscary’s scent. The bottle was heavy as it hit Ivy’s palm, and with Kisten’s help, they sprayed her down as well, taking extra care with the open wounds.

Disturbed, she met Kisten’s eyes in the silence, and together they slipped Sleeping Beauty into the water, wedging the corpse between an edge and the railing. While Kisten tidied, Ivy went back for the wine and a glass.

Carefully keeping her prints off it, Ivy pressed Sleeping Beauty’s hand around the glass several times before adding a few lip prints. She dribbled some wine into the woman’s mouth, then the glass, which she set at arm’s length. There wouldn’t be any in her stomach, and there wouldn’t be any of her blood in Art’s system either, but it was a game of perception, not absolutes. Besides, all she needed to do was eliminate any evidence of Piscary.

Kisten had the vial of Art’s spit, and crouching by the tub, she took a sterile swab and ran it through the woman’s open wounds. Finished, she stood, and together they looked down at her.

“She had a nice smile,” Kisten finally said, gaze flicking to Ivy. “You okay with this?”

“No, I’m not okay with this,” Ivy said, feeling empty. “But she’s dead, isn’t she. We can’t hurt her anymore.”

Kisten hesitated, then grabbed the box and maneuvered his way out. Ivy picked up the heavy-duty shears he had left and tucked them behind her waistband. Looking at the woman, she crouched to brush the long hair from the corpse’s closed eyes. An impulsive “thank you,” slipped from Ivy’s lips, and, flustered, she stood.

Sickened, she backed out of the room. This was ugly. She was ugly. The things she did were ugly, and she didn’t want to do them anymore. Her stomach was cramping when she found Kisten standing above Art, and she forced herself to look tall and unbothered. The broken-down box and plastic wrap were already in the trash bag, along with everything else. “You sure you don’t want me to move him upstairs?” he asked. “They might call it a suicide.”

Ivy shook her head, checking the bottom of the woman’s shoes and setting them by the stairway. “Everyone’s going to know what I did, but as long as there is no easy evidence, they’ll let it go as me thinking outside the box. No one likes him anyway. But if I kill him, they’ll have to do a more thorough investigation.”

It was perfect in so many ways. Art would be cited for Piscary’s homicide and end up in jail. She would get to write her own six-month review. No one would mess with her for a while, not wanting a dead body showing up in their bathroom. She was a force not to be taken lightly. The thought didn’t make her as happy as she thought it would.

Kisten seemed to notice, since he touched her arm to bring her eyes to his. She blinked at the color of his hair and the fact that he was shorter than she, even if it was an illusion. It was a damn good illusion. “You did all right,” he said. “Piscary will be impressed.”

She hid her face by leaning to scoop up the duct tape. That Piscary would be proud of her lacked the expected thrill, too. For a moment, only the sound of the tape being unwound and wrapped about Art’s wrists and ankles rose over the hiss of the propane fireplace. The tape wouldn’t stop him, but all they needed was to get to the stairs.

“Ready?” Ivy asked when she tossed the tape into her duffel bag and took out her boots.

Kisten turned from his last-minute wipe down of fingerprints. “All set.”

As she sat on the hearth and laced her boots, Ivy looked over the room. The scent of chlorine was growing stronger as the water warmed, hiding the odor of dead girl. She wanted a moment with Art. Why the hell not? She’d earned a little gloating. Let him know she caught him covering up a murder. “Wait for me in the van,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”

Kisten grinned, clearly not surprised. “Two minutes,” he said. “Any longer than that, and you’re playing with him.”

She snorted, giving him a swat on the ass as he started up the stairs with her duffel bag and the trash. His blond hair caught the light, and she watched until he vanished in a flash of morning sun. Still she waited until the faint sound of the van starting up met her before she turned Art’s hand palm up and cut the strip with the shears. Tucking them behind her waistband, she stepped back and teased the amulet off his hand and into its little bag.

For a panicked moment she thought she had killed him, but her fear must have scented the air since Art jerked, his eyes black when they focused on her. He tried to move, his attention going to the duct tape about his wrists and ankles. Chuckling, he wedged himself into an upright position against the couch, and Ivy’s face burned.

“Piscary thinks so much of you,” he said condescendingly. “He needs to wipe the sand from his eyes and see you as the little girl you are, playing with boys too big for her.”

He tensed his arms, and Ivy forced herself to stay relaxed. But the tape held and she bent at the waist to look him in the eyes. “You okay?”

“This isn’t winning you any friends, but yes, I’m okay.”

Satisfied she hadn’t hurt him, she rose and plucked up the wine bottle and gave it another pull, the heat of the fire warming her legs. “You’ve been a bad boy, Art,” she said, hip cocked.

He ran his eyes over her, going still when he realized she was wearing her usual leather and spandex. His face abruptly lost its emotion. “Why is my hot tub going? What day is this? Who was here?”

Again he pulled against the tape, starting a rip. Ivy set the bottle down and moved closer, sending her wine breath over him to shift his silky black curls. It didn’t matter if her presence was placed here. The entire I.S. tower knew where she was this morning. “I’m not happy,” she said. “I came over here to make good on our arrangement, and I find another girl down here?”

Art shifted his shoulders, arms bulging. “What the hell did you do, Ivy?”

Smiling, she leaned over him. “It’s not what I did, Artie. It’s what I found. You need to be more careful with your cookies. You’re leaving crumbs all over your house.”

“This isn’t funny,” he snarled, and Ivy moved to the stairway.

“No, it isn’t,” she said, knowing that the tape would last as long as his ignorance. “You have a dead girl in your hot tub, Artie, and I’m out of here. The deal is off. I don’t need your approval to move into the Arcane Division. You’re going to jail.” Adrenaline struck through her when she turned her back and her foot touched the lowest stair. The door was open and ambient sunlight was leaking in. He couldn’t put one foot on them without risking death. She almost hoped he would.

“Ivy!” Art exclaimed, and she turned at the sound of ripping tape.

Pulse pounding, she hesitated. She was safe. It was done. “You made one mistake, Art,” she said, taking in his anger. “You shouldn’t have tried to use me to cover up that witch’s murder,” she said, and the color drained from him. “That pissed me off.” Giving him a bunny-eared “kiss-kiss” she turned and took the stairs with a slow, taunting pace.

“This isn’t going to work, Ivy!” he shouted, and her pulse leaped at the sound of the tape ripping, but she had reached the top and it was
far
too late. She smiled as she emerged into his kitchen. He was stuck down there with that corpse until the sun went down. If he called in help to get it out, it would damn him faster. An anonymous tip from a concerned neighbor was going to bring someone knocking on his door within thirty minutes. “No hard feelings, Art,” she said. “Strictly business.” She went to shut the door so he wouldn’t get light sick, hesitating. “Really,” she added, closing the door on his scream of outrage.

Scooping up her duffel bag from where Kisten had left it, she sauntered out the front door and down the steep walk to the street. Kisten was waiting, and she slipped into the passenger-side seat, throwing her bag into the back. She imagined the fury belowground, glad she could walk away. It didn’t matter if anyone saw her leave. She was supposed to be here.

“Two minutes on the nose,” Kisten said, leaning over to give her a kiss. He was still wearing her disguise amulet, and she caught him looking at himself and his hair. “Are you okay, love?” he asked, hitting his new accent hard and fussing with his bangs.

Rolling down the window, she put her arm on the sill as he drove away and the sun hit her. The memory of being unable to say no to Art resounded in her, and the lure of the bloodlust. Saying no had been impossible, but she had stopped him—and herself. It had been hard, but she felt good in a melancholy way. It wasn’t the glorious shock of ecstasy, but more like a sunbeam, unnoticed when you first find it, but its warmth growing until you felt…good.

“I’m all right,” she said, squinting from the morning sun. “I like who I am today.”

6

I
vy dropped the empty box on her desk and sat
before it, swiveling her chair back and forth until someone walked past her open door. Adopting a more businesslike mien, she looked over her office. Her eyebrows rose, and she plucked her favorite pen from the cup and then tossed the empty box into the hall. The thump silenced the gossip, and she smirked. They could have everything. All she wanted was her favorite pen. Well, and a pair of thicker leather pants. And an updated map of the city. A computer would be helpful, but they wouldn’t let her take the one she’d been using. Some really comfortable boots. Sunglasses—mirror sunglasses.

A soft knuckle-knock at her open door brought her head around, and she smiled without showing her teeth. “Rat,” she said companionably. “Come to see me off?”

The large officer eased into her office, a manila folder in his hand. “I won the pool,” he said, ducking his head. “I’ve got your, ah, transfer papers. How you doing?”

“Depends.” She leaned across her desk, biting her finger coyly. “What’s the word on the street?”

He laughed. “You’re bad. No one will be looking at you for a while.” Brow pinching, he came in another step. “You sure you don’t want to work Arcane? It’s not too late.”

Ivy’s pulse quickened at the lure of bloodlust she knew she couldn’t resist. “I don’t want to work in the Arcane anymore,” she said, eyes lowered. “I need to get out from underground. Spend some time in the sun.”

The officer slumped, the folder before him like a fig leaf. “You’re ticking them off with this rebellious shit. This isn’t Piscary’s camarilla, it’s a business. They had a late meeting about you this morning in the lowest floor.”

Fear slid through her, quickly stifled. “They can’t fire me. There was no evidence that I had anything to do with that girl in Art’s tub.”

“No. You’re clear. And remind me to stay on your good side.” He grinned, but it faded fast. “You did contaminate that crime scene, and they’re almost ignoring that. You should lay low for a while, do what they want you to do. You have your entire life and afterlife ahead of you. Don’t screw it up your first six months here.”

Ivy grimaced, flicking her attention past him to the outer offices. “They’re already blaming my demotion on my—lapse. They can’t punish me twice for the same thing.” The reality was she was being demoted because she refused to move up to the Arcane. That was fine by her.

“Publicly,” he said, making her agitated. “What happens behind closed doors is something else. You’re making a mistake,” he insisted. “They can use your talents down there.”

“Don’t you mean a new infusion?” Rat winced, and she held up a hand and leaned back into her chair, well aware it put her in a position of power with him standing. “Whatever. I won’t be manipulated, Rat. I’d rather take a pay cut and go where I don’t have to worry about it for a while.”

“If only it was that easy.” Rat dropped the folder on her desk as if it meant something. “Ah, I thought you’d like to see your new partner’s file.”

In a smooth, alarmed motion, Ivy sat up. “Whoa. Put your caps on. I agreed to move upstairs, but no one said anything about a partner.”

Rat shrugged, his wide shoulders bunching his uniform. “They can’t give you a pay cut, so you’re pulling double duty chaperoning a newbie for a year. Intern with two years of social science and three years pulling familiars out of trees. Management wants her under someone with a more, ah, textbook technique before they instate her as a runner, so she’s all yours, Ivy. Don’t let her get you killed. We like you ju-u-u-ust the way you are.”

The last was said with dripping sarcasm, and her face hot, Ivy pushed the folder away. “She’s not even a full runner? I’ve worked too hard for my degree to be a babysitter. No way.”

Rat chuckled and pushed it back with a single, thick-knuckled finger. “Yes way. Unless you want to move down to Arcane where you belong.”

Ivy almost growled. She hated her mother. She hated Piscary.
No, she hated their control over her.
Slowly she pulled the folder to her and opened it. “Oh my God,” she breathed as she looked at the picture, thinking it couldn’t get any worse. “A witch? They partnered me with a witch? Whose bright-ass idea was
that
?”

Rat laughed, pulling Ivy’s eyes from her “partner’s” picture. Slumping back, she tried not to frown. Though it was clearly meant to be a punishment, this might not be a bad thing. A witch wouldn’t be after her blood, and the relief of not having to fight that would be enough to compensate for the extra work that having such a weak partner would engender.
A witch? They were laughing at her. The entire tower was laughing at her.

“You said management doesn’t want her on her own. What’s wrong with her?” she asked and Rat took her shoulder in a thick hand and drew her reluctantly to her feet.

“Nothing,” he said, grinning. “She’s impulsive is all. It’s a match made in heaven, Ivy. You’ll be best friends before the week is out: going shopping, eating chocolate, catching chick-flicks after work. You’ll love it! Trust me.”

Ivy realized she was clenching her jaw, and she forced her teeth apart before she gave herself a headache. Her partner was a flake. She was partnered with a girly-girl flake who wanted to be a runner. This was going to be pure hell. Rat laughed, and seeing no other option, Ivy dragged the folder to her, tucked it under her arm, and headed for the door with Rat, leaving her old office and its comforting walls behind for an open office with pressboard walls and bad coffee.

It was only for a year. How bad could it be?