Every Which Way But Dead (34 page)

Confused, I stood to find Ceri sitting at the table with her head in her hands and her bare feet tucked under her. The fluorescent light was off, and a single white candle sent a soft glow into the gloom of a cloudy dawn. I stared at the window.
The sun was up? I must have passed out.
“Where is he?” I breathed, blanching when I saw it was almost eight.

She pulled her head up, shocking me with how weary she seemed. “You don't remember?”

My stomach rumbled, and there was an uneasy lightness to it. “No. He's gone?”

She turned to face me squarely. “He took back his aura. You took back yours. You broke the bond with him. You cried and called him a son of a bitch and told him to leave. He did—after he struck you so hard you lost consciousness.”

I felt my jaw, then the back of my head. It felt about the same: really, really bad. I was damp and cold, and I got up, clasping my arms around me. “Okay.” I felt my ribs, deciding nothing was broken. “Anything else I ought to know?”

“You drank an entire carafe of coffee in about twenty minutes.”

That might explain the shakes. It had to be that. Outsmarting demons was becoming old hat. I sat beside Ceri, exhaling in a long breath. Ivy would be home soon. “You like lasagna?”

A smile blossomed over her. “Oh, yes, please.”

M
y sneakers were silent on the flat carpet of Trent's back hallways. Both Quen and Jonathan were with me, leaving me trying to decide if they were escort or prison guard. We had already woven through the Sunday-silent public areas of his offices and conference rooms that Trent hid his illegal activities behind. Publicly, Trent controlled a good portion of the transportation that ran through Cincinnati, coming in from all directions and leaving the same: railways, roadways, and even a small municipal airport.

Privately, Trent ran a good deal more, using those same transportation systems to get his illegal genetic products out and expanding his Brimstone distribution. That Saladan was cutting into his business in his hometown probably cheesed the man off to no end. It was a finger in the air if anything was. And tonight ought to be an education as Trent either broke that finger off and jammed it into one of Saladan's convenient orifices or took a hit. I didn't like Trent, but I'd keep him alive if it was the latter.

Though I don't know why,
I thought as I followed Quen. It was barren down here, lacking even the institutional holiday decorations that graced the front. The man was slime. He had hunted me down like an animal the time he caught me stealing evidence from his secondary office, and my face warmed when I realized we were in the hallway that led to that very room.

A half step ahead of me, Quen was tense, dressed in his vaguely uniformlike black body stocking. He had a snug black and green jacket on over it today, making him look like Scotty might beam him up at any moment. My hair brushed my neck, and I purposely shifted my head to feel the tips tickle my shoulders. I had gotten it cut that afternoon to match the chunk Al had taken out, and the cream rinse the stylist had used wasn't doing much to tame it.

My garment bag with the outfit Kisten had picked out for me was over my shoulder, back from the cleaners. I had even remembered the jewelry and boots. I wasn't going to put them on until I knew I was taking this run. I suspected Trent might have other ideas—and my jeans and sweatshirt with the Howlers' logo looked out of place beside Jonathan's tailored elegance.

The distasteful man hung an irritating three steps behind us. He had met us at the steps of Trent's main building and remained a silent, accusing, professionally cold presence since. The man was six-ten if he was a foot, his features pointy and sharp. An aristocratic, hawklike nose gave him an air of smelling something offensive. His eyes were a cold blue, and his carefully styled black hair was graying. I hated him, and I was trying really hard to overlook that he had tormented me when I was a mink trapped in Trent's office for three unreal days.

Warming at the memory, I took off my coat as we walked, struggling, as neither man offered to take my garment bag. There was a definite moistness to the air the farther back we went. Faint to the point of being almost subliminal was the sound of running water, piped in from who knew where. My steps slowed when I recognized the doorway to Trent's secondary office. Behind me, Jonathan stopped. Quen continued without pause, and I hurried to catch up.

Jonathan clearly wasn't pleased. “Where are you taking her?” he asked belligerently.

Quen's steps grew stiff. “To Trenton.” He never turned around or changed his pace.

“Quen…” Jonathan's voice was thick in warning. I glanced mockingly back, pleased to see his long wrinkled face showing worry rather than his perpetual stuck-up sneer. Brow furrowed, Jonathan hastened forward as we halted before the arched wooden door at the end of the hall. The overly tall man pushed in front, placing a hand atop the heavy metal latch as Quen reached for it. “You aren't taking her in there,” Jonathan warned.

I shifted my garment bag in a sound of sliding nylon, my eyes going from one to the other as the political currents passed between them. Whatever was behind the door was good.

The smaller, more dangerous man narrowed his eyes, and the pox scars went white in his suddenly red face. “She is going to keep him alive tonight,” he said. “I'm not going to make her change and wait for him in a secondary office like a paid whore.”

Jonathan's blue eyes went even more determined. My pulse quickened, and I stepped out from between them. “Move,” Quen intoned, his surprisingly deep voice resonating through me.

Flustered, Jonathan stepped back. Quen pulled it open, the muscles in his back tensing. “Thank you,” he said insincerely as the door swung out, slow with inertia.

My lips parted; the door was a freaking six inches thick! The sound of running water chattered out, accompanied by the scent of wet snow. It wasn't cold, though, and I peered past Quen's narrow shoulders to see a soft mottled carpet and a wall paneled in a dark wood that had been oiled and rubbed until it glistened with golden depths.
This,
I thought as I followed Quen in,
had to be Trent's private quarters.

The short hallway immediately expanded into a second-story walkway. My feet stopped as I looked out over the large room below us. It was impressive, maybe 130 feet long, half as much wide, and twenty feet tall. We had come out on the second floor, which hugged the ceiling. Below, amid the rich carpet and woods, were casually placed seating arrangements of couches, chairs, and coffee tables. Everything was in soft earth tones, accented with maroon and black. A fireplace the size of a fire truck took up one wall, but what drew my attention was the floor-to-ceiling window that stretched the entirety of the wall across from me, letting in the dusky light of early evening.

Quen touched my elbow, and I started down the wide carpeted stairs. I kept one hand on the banister since I couldn't look away from the window, fascinated. Window, not windows, as it seemed to be one plate of glass. I didn't think glass that large was structurally sound, but there it was, looking as if it was only a few millimeters thick with no distortion. It was as if nothing was there.

“It's not plastic,” Quen said softly, his green eyes on the view. “It's ley line energy.”

My eyes jerked to his, reading the truth in his eyes. Seeing my wonder, a faint smile edged his Turn-scarred features. “It's everyone's first question,” he said, showing how he knew where my thoughts had been. “Sound and air are the only things to pass through.”

“It must have cost a fortune,” I said, wondering how they got the usual red haze of ever-after out of it. Beyond it was a stunning vista of Trent's private, snow-slumped gardens. A crag of stone rose almost as high as the roof, a waterfall cascading over it to leave thickening bands of ice to glint in the last of the day's light. The water pooled into a natural-looking basin that I would have bet wasn't, turning into a stream that meandered through the well-established evergreens and shrubs until it vanished.

A deck gray with age and swept clear of snow stretched between the window and the landscaping. As I slowly descended to the lower level, I decided the round disk of cedar flush with the deck and leaking steam was probably a hot tub. Nearby was a sunken area with seating for backyard parties. I had always thought Ivy's grill with its gleaming chrome and huge burners was over the top, but whatever Trent had was probably obscene.

My feet found the first floor, and my gaze dropped to my feet as it suddenly seemed I was walking on loam instead of carpet. “Nice,” I breathed, and Quen indicated that I should wait at the nearest gathering of chairs.

“I'll tell him,” the security officer said. He shot Jonathan what I thought was a warning look before he retraced his steps to the second floor to vanish into an unseen area of the house.

I laid my coat and garment bag on a leather couch and made a slow spin on my heel. Now that I was downstairs, the fireplace looked even bigger. It wasn't lit, and I thought I could probably stand up in the hearth without stooping. At the opposite end of the room was a low stage with built-in amps and a light display. A nice-sized dance floor spread before it, surrounded by cocktail tables.

Hidden and cozy under the shelter of the second-story overhang was a long bar, the well-oiled wood and chrome gleaming. There were more tables here, bigger and lower. Huge planters full of dark green foliage that could flourish in the dimmer light surrounded them to give a measure of privacy that the large open floor plan lacked.

The noise from the waterfall had quickly retreated into an unnoticed background babble, and the stillness of the room soaked into me. There were no attendants, no one moving through the room on other business, not even one holiday candle or dish of sweets. It was as if the room was caught under a storybook spell, waiting to be woken. I didn't think the room had been used for what it was designed for since Trent's father died. Eleven years was a long time to be silent.

Feeling peace in the quiet of the room, I took a slow breath and turned to find Jonathan eyeing me with obvious distaste. The faint tension in his jaw sent my eyes to where Quen had vanished. A faint smile quirked the corner of my mouth. “Trent doesn't know you two cooked this up, does he?” I said. “He thinks Quen is going with him tonight.”

Jonathan said nothing, the twitch in his eye telling me I was right. Smirking, I dropped my shoulder bag to the floor beside the couch. “I bet Trent could throw a hell of a party,” I prompted, hoping for something. Jonathan was silent, and I wove past a low coffee table to stand with my hands on my hips to look out the “window.”

My breath made the sheet of ever-after ripple. Unable to resist, I touched it. Gasping, I jerked my hand back. An odd, drawing sensation pulled through me, and I clutched my hand within the other as if I'd been burned. It was cold. The sheet of energy was so cold that it burned. I looked behind me to Jonathan, expecting to see him smirking, but he was staring at the window, his long face slack in surprise.

My gaze followed his, my stomach tightening as I realized the window wasn't clear anymore, but swirling with amber shades of gold. Damn. It had taken on the color of my aura. Clearly Jonathan hadn't expected this. My hand ran through my short hair. “Ah…Oops.”

“What did you do to the window?” he exclaimed.

“Nothing.” I took a guilty step back. “I just touched it, that's all. Sorry.”

Jonathan's hawklike features took on more ugliness. Steps long and jerky, he strode to me. “You hack. Look what you did to the window! I will not allow Quen to entrust Mr. Kalamack's safety to you tonight.”

My face warmed, and finding an easy outlet for my embarrassment, I let it turn to anger. “This wasn't my idea,” I snapped. “And I said I was sorry about the window. You should be lucky I'm not suing for pain and suffering.”

Jonathan took a loud breath. “If he comes to any harm because of you, I'll—”

Anger flashed through me, fed by the memory of three days in hell as he tormented me. “Shut up,” I hissed. Ticked that he was taller than me, I stepped up onto a nearby coffee table. “I'm not in a cage anymore,” I said, keeping enough presence of mind not to poke him in the chest with a finger. His face went startled, then choleric. “The only thing between your head and my foot becoming real close and personal right now is my questionable professionalism. And if you
ever
threaten me again, I'll slam you halfway across the room before you can say number-two pencil. Got it, you tall freak of nature?”

Frustrated, he clenched his long thin hands tight.

“Go ahead, elf-boy,” I seethed, feeling the line energy I had spindled in my head earlier almost spill over to fill my body. “Give me a reason.”

The sound of a closing door jerked our attentions to the second-story walkway. Jonathan visibly hid his anger and took a step back. Suddenly I felt really stupid on top of the table. Trent came to a startled halt above us in a dress shirt and pants, blinking. “Rachel Morgan?” he said softly to Quen, standing beside and a little behind him. “No. This isn't acceptable.”

Trying to scrape something from the situation, I threw one hand extravagantly into the air. Putting the other on my hip, I posed like a prop girl showing off a new car. “Ta-da!” I said brightly, very conscious of my jeans, sweatshirt, and the new haircut I wasn't particularly fond of. “Hi, Trent. I'm your baby-sitter tonight. Where do your folks hide the good booze?”

Trent's brow furrowed. “I don't want her there. Put on your suit. We leave in an hour.”

“No, Sa'han.”

Trent had turned to walk away, but he jerked to a stop. “Can I speak to you for a moment,” he said softly.

“Yes, Sa'han,” the smaller man murmured deferentially, not moving.

I hopped off the table. Did I know how to make a good first impression or what?

Trent frowned, his attention going from an unrepentant Quen to Jonathan's nervous stance. “You're both in on this,” he said.

Jonathan laced his hands behind his back, subtly shifting himself another step from me. “I trust Quen's judgment, Sa'han,” he said, his low voice rising clear in the empty room. “I do not, however, trust Ms. Morgan's.”

Affronted, I huffed at him. “Go suck on a dandelion, Jon.”

The man's lips twitched. I knew he hated the shortened name. Trent, too, wasn't happy. Glancing at Quen, he started down the stairway with a fast, even pace, half dressed in his dark designer suit and looking like a cover model for GQ. His wispy blond hair had been slicked back, and his shirt pulled slightly across his shoulders as he descended to the lower floor. The spring in his step and the glint in his eye told me more clearly than anything that elves were at their best the four hours around sunup and sundown. A deep green tie was draped casually across the back of his neck, not yet fastened into place. God help me, but he looked good, everything anything of the female persuasion could ever want: young, handsome, powerful, confident. I wasn't pleased that I liked the way he looked, but there it was.