Every Which Way But Dead (36 page)

Quen's scarred face pinched. Eyes on my dress, his lips pressed together. “Excuse me,” he said, reaching forward. I froze, knowing he wouldn't touch me unless he had to. There was enough fabric to attach it, but he would have to put his fingers between that pin and me. I exhaled, collapsing my lungs to give him a smidgen more room.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

The back of his hand was cold, and I stifled a shiver. Trying not to fidget, I sent my attention to the ceiling. A faint smile crossed me, growing as he got the orchid fastened and stepped away with an exhalation of relief.

“Something funny, Morgan?” he said sourly.

I dropped my head, watching him from around my drooping bangs. “Not really. You reminded me of my dad—for a minute there.”

Quen adopted a look both disbelieving and questioning. Shaking my head, I grabbed my shoulder bag from the table and went to sit at the vanity against the screen. “See, we had this big seventh-grade dance, and I had a strapless dress,” I said as I brought out my makeup. “My dad wouldn't let my date pin the flower on, so he did it himself.” My focus blurred, and I crossed my legs. “He missed my prom.”

Quen remained standing. I couldn't help but notice he had put himself where he could see me and the door both. “Your father was a good man. He'd be proud of you tonight.”

Quick and painful, my breath caught. Slowly I let it out, my hands resuming their primping. I really wasn't surprised Quen had known him—they were the same age—but it hurt nonetheless. “You knew him?” I couldn't stop myself from asking.

The look he gave me through the mirror was unreadable. “He died well.”

Died well? God, what was it with these people?

Angry, I turned in my seat to see him directly. “He died in a cruddy little hospital room with dirt in the corners,” I said tightly. “He was supposed to stay alive, damn it.” My voice was even, but I knew it wouldn't stay that way. “He was supposed to be there when I got my first job, then lost it three days later after I slugged the boss's son when he tried to feel me up. He was supposed to be there when I graduated from high school and then college. He was supposed to be there to scare my dates into behaving so I wouldn't have to find my own way home from wherever the prick dumped me when he found I'd fight back. But he wasn't, was he? No. He died doing something with Trent's father, and no one has the balls to tell me what great thing it was that was worth screwing up my life for.”

My heart pounded, and I stared at Quen's quiet, poxscarred face. “You've had to be your own keeper for a long time,” he said.

“Yeah.” Lips pressed tight, I turned back to the mirror, my foot bobbing up and down.

“What doesn't kill you—”

“Hurts.” I watched his reflection. “It hurts. It hurts a lot.” My black eye throbbed under my higher blood pressure, and I reached to touch it. “I'm strong enough,” I said bitterly. “I don't want to be any stronger. Piscary is a bastard, and if he gets out of prison, he's going to die twice.” I thought of Skimmer, hoping she was as bad a lawyer as she was good a friend to Ivy.

Quen's feet shifted, but he didn't move. “Piscary?”

The question in his voice brought my gaze up. “He said he killed my dad. Did he lie to me?”
Need to know. Did I finally “need to know” according to Quen?

“Yes and no.” The elf's eyes flicked to the doorway.

I spun in the chair. He could tell me. I think he wanted to. “Well, which is it?”

Quen ducked his head and took a symbolic step back. “It's not my place.”

Heart pounding, I stood, my hands clenched into fists. “What happened?” I demanded.

Again Quen looked toward the bathroom. A light flicked on and a beam spilled into the room to diffuse into nothing. An effeminate man's voice chattered seemingly to itself, filling the air with a bright presence. Jonathan answered back, and I looked at Quen in a panic, knowing he wouldn't say anything in front of him.

“It was my fault,” Quen said softly. “They were working together. I should have been there, not your father. Piscary killed them as sure as if he had pulled the trigger.”

Feeling unreal, I stepped close enough to see the sweat on him. It was obvious he had overstepped his bounds telling me even this much. Jonathan came in trailing a man dressed in tight black and shiny boots. “Oh!” the small man ex claimed, hustling to the vanity with his fishing-tackle boxes. “It's red! I
adore
red hair. And it's natural, too. I can tell from here. Come sit, dove. The things I can do for you! You won't recognize yourself.”

I spun to Quen. Tired eyes haunted looking, he stepped away, leaving me breathless. I stood, staring, wanting more, knowing I wouldn't get it. Damn it, Quen's timing sucked, and I forced my hands to remain at my side instead of throttling him.

“Sit your fanny down!” the stylist exclaimed when Quen inclined his head at me and walked out. “I only have half an hour!”

Frowning, I gave Jonathan's mocking expression a tired look, then sat down in the chair and tried to explain to the man that I liked it the way it was, and could he just give it a quick brush through? But he hissed and shushed me, pulling out bottle after bottle of spray and odd-looking instruments whose use I couldn't even guess. I knew it was a battle already lost.

I
settled into the seat of Trent's limo, crossing my legs and arranging one of the narrow panels of my skirt to cover my knee. The shawl I was using instead of a coat slid down my back, and I let it stay there. It smelled like Ellasbeth, and my subtler perfume couldn't compete.

The shoes were a half size too small, but the dress fit perfectly: the bustier tight but not confining, and the skirt riding high on my waist. My thigh holster was as subtle as dandelion fluff, completely unseen. Randy had styled my shorter hair up off my neck, binding it with thick gold wire and vintage beads into an elaborate coiffure that had taken the man twenty minutes of unending prattle to fix. But he was right. I felt completely unlike myself and
expe-e-e-e-ensive.

This was the second limo I'd been in that week. Maybe it was a trend. If so, I could handle that. Jittery, I glanced at Trent staring out at the huge trees as we approached the gatehouse, their black trunks standing out against the snow. He seemed a thousand miles away, not even aware I was sitting next to him. “Takata's car is nicer,” I said, breaking the silence.

Trent twitched, recovering smoothly. The reaction made him look as young as he was. “Mine's not a rental,” he said.

I shrugged, foot jiggling as I looked out the smoked window.

“Warm enough?” he asked.

“What? Oh. Yes, thank you.”

Jonathan drove us past the guardhouse without slowing, the rising bar reaching its apex the second we passed under it. It closed equally fast. I fidgeted, checking my clutch purse for my charms, feeling for the press of my splat gun, and touching my hair. Trent was looking out the window again, lost in his own world, which had nothing to do with me.

“Hey, sorry about the window,” I said, not liking the silence.

“I'll send you a bill if it can't be fixed.” He turned to me. “You look nice.”

“Thank you.” I sent my eyes over his silk-lined wool suit. He wasn't wearing an overcoat, and it was tailored to show off every inch of him. His boutonniere was a tiny black bud rose, and I wondered if he had grown it himself. “You wash up good yourself.”

He gave me one of his professional smiles, but there was a new glint to it, and I thought it might actually have a tinge of real warmth.

“The dress is beautiful,” I added, wondering how I was going to get through tonight without resorting to talk about the weather. I leaned to tug my nylons straight.

“That reminds me.” Trent twisted to dip a hand into a pocket. “These go with it.” He held out his hand, dropping a heavy set of earrings into my palm. “There's a necklace, too.”

“Thanks.” I tilted my head to take out my simple hoops, dropping them into my clutch purse and snapping it closed. Trent's earrings were a series of interlocking circles, and heavy enough to be real gold. I worked them into place, feeling their unfamiliar weight.

“And the necklace…” Trent held it up, and my eyes widened. It was gorgeous, made of interlaced rings the size of my thumbnail and matching the earrings. They made a delicate lace panel, and I would have labeled it goth but for its richness. A wooden pendant in the shape of the Celtic rune for protection hung from the nadir, and I hesitated in my reach. It was beautiful, but I suspected its peekaboo lace would make me a veritable vampire slut.

And Celtic magic gave me the willies. It was a specialized art, much of it depending upon one's belief, not if you did the spell right or not. More of a religion than magic. I didn't like mixing religion and magic—it made for terribly strong forces when something unmeasurable mixed its will with that of the practitioner's intent, making the results not necessarily in line with what was expected. It was wild magic, and I preferred mine nicely scientific. If you invoke the help of a higher being, you can't complain when things don't go to your plan, but to its.

“Turn around,” Trent said, and my eyes darted to his. “I'll put it on you. It has to be snug for it to look right.”

I was not about to show Trent I was squeamish, and as protection charms were fairly reliable, I took the simple fake gold cord from around my neck and dropped it into my clutch bag with my earrings. I wondered if Trent knew what wearing this was saying, deciding he probably did and thought it was a big joke.

Tension tightened my shoulders as I gathered strands of hair that Randy had pulled for effect. The necklace settled about my neck in a heavy feeling of security, still warm from his pocket.

Trent's fingers touched me, and I yelped in surprise as a surge of ley line energy rose through me and into him. The car swerved and Trent's fingers jerked away. The necklace hit the carpeted floor with a tinkle of metal. Hand to my throat, I stared at him.

He had put himself into the corner. The amber light from the ceiling glinted to make shadows on him. Eyeing me with a look of annoyance, he scooted forward and scooped the necklace from the floor, jiggling it until it hung properly across one hand.

“Sorry,” I said, heart pounding and my hand still covering my neck.

Trent frowned, meeting Jonathan's gaze in the rearview mirror before gesturing for me to turn back around. I did, very conscious of him behind me. “Quen said you've been working on your ley line skills,” Trent said while he draped the metal over me again. “It took me a week to learn how to keep my familiar's energy from trying to equalize when I touched another practitioner. Of course I was three at the time, so I had an excuse.”

His hands fell from me, and I settled into the supple cushions. His expression was smug, his usual professionalism gone. It wasn't any of his business that this was the first time I had tried to spindle line energy in me as a matter of convenience. I was ready to bag it. My feet hurt, and thanks to Quen, I wanted to go home, eat a carton of ice cream, and remember my dad.

“Quen knew my dad,” I said sullenly.

“So I hear.” He looked not at me but the passing view as we made our way into the city.

My breath came faster, and I shifted in my seat. “Piscary said he killed my dad. Quen implied there was more to it than that.”

Trent crossed his legs and unbuttoned his suit coat. “Quen talks too much.”

Tension pulled my stomach tight. “Our fathers were working together?” I prompted. “Doing what?”

His lip twitched, and he ran a hand across his hair to make sure it was lying flat. From the driver's seat, Jonathan coughed in warning.
Right. Like his threats meant anything to me?

Trent shifted in the seat to look at me, his face holding a shade of interest. “Ready to work with me?”

I cocked an eyebrow at him.
Work
with
me. Last time it was work
for
me.

“No.” I smiled though I wanted to step on his foot. “Quen seems to blame himself for my dad's death. I find that fascinating. Especially when Piscary claimed responsibility.”

A sigh came from Trent. His hand went out to steady himself when we eased onto the interstate. “Piscary killed my father outright,” he said. “Your father was bitten while trying to help him. Quen was supposed to be there, not your father. That's why Quen went to help you subdue Piscary. He felt he needed to take your father's place, seeing as he believes it was his fault your father wasn't there to help you himself.”

My face went cold, and I pushed myself back into the leather seat. I had thought Trent had sent Quen to help me; Trent had nothing to do with it. But a niggling thought surfaced through my confusion. “But my father didn't die of a vampire bite.”

“No,” Trent said carefully, his eyes on the growing skyline. “He didn't.”

“He died when his red blood cells started attacking his soft tissues,” I prompted, waiting for more, but Trent's posture went closed. “That's all I'm getting, isn't it?” I said flatly, and the man gave me half a smile, charming and sly.

“My offer of employment is ever open, Ms. Morgan.”

It was hard, but I managed to keep a somewhat pleasant expression on my face as I slumped in the seat. I suddenly felt like I was being lulled, lured into places that I once vowed I'd never go: places like working for Trent, sex with a vampire, crossing the street without looking. All of them you could get away with, but eventually you were going to get blasted by a bus.
What in hell was I doing in a limo with Trent?

We had passed into the Hollows, and I sat up, taking more interest. The holiday lights were thick, primarily green, white, and gold. The silence stretched. “So-o-o, who is Ellasbeth?”

Trent shot me a poisonous look, and I smiled sweetly. “Not my idea,” he said.

How very interesting,
I thought.
I found a nerve. Wouldn't it be fun to stomp on it?
“Old girlfriend?” I guessed brightly. “Live-in? Ugly sister you hide in the basement?”

Trent's expression had returned to its professional emptiness, but his restless fingers were ever-moving. “I like your jewelry,” he said. “Maybe I should have had Jonathan put it into the house safe while we were gone.”

I put a hand to his necklace, feeling it warm from my body. “I was wearing crap, and you know it.” Damn it, I had enough of his gold on me to make a set of false teeth for a horse.

“We can talk about Nick, then.” Trent's soothing voice carried a derisive edge. “I'd much rather talk about Nick. It was Nick, wasn't it? Nick Sparagmos? He's moved out of the city, I hear, after you sent him into an epileptic seizure.” Hands clasped at his knee, he gave me a telling look, pale eyebrows high. “What
did
you do to him? I never could find that out.”

“Nick is fine.” I pulled my hands down before they could play with my hair. “I'm watching his apartment while he's away on business.” I looked out the window, reaching behind me to pull the shawl back up over my shoulders. He could sling mud better than the best rich-bitch at school. “We need to discuss what it is I'm supposed to be protecting you against.”

From the driver's seat came Jonathan's snort. Trent, too, chuckled. “I'm not in need of protection,” he said. “If I was, Quen would be here. You're a semifunctioning decoration.”

Semifunctioning…
“Yeah?” I shot back, wishing I could say I was surprised.

“Yeah,” he said right back, the word sounding odd coming from him. “So sit where you're put and keep your mouth shut.”

Face warming, I moved so that my knees almost touched his thigh. “Listen to me, Mr. Kalamack,” I said sharply. “Quen is paying me good money to keep your ass above the grass, so don't leave the room without me and don't get into my line of sight with the bad guys. Got it?”

Jonathan turned into a parking lot, and I had to brace myself when he applied the brakes too sharply. Trent glanced at him, and I watched their gazes lock through the rearview mirror. Still angry, I looked out to find ugly piles of snow a good six feet high. We were down by the riverfront, and my shoulders tensed at the gambling boat with its stacks steaming slightly. Saladan's gambling boat? Again?

My thoughts went back to my night with Kisten and the guy in a tux who had taught me craps.
Shit.
“Hey, uh, do you know what Saladan looks like?” I asked. “Is he a witch?”

The hesitancy in my tone was probably what caught Trent's attention, and while Jonathan parked in the long spot reserved for a car of this length, he eyed me. “He's a ley line witch. Black hair, dark eyes, my age. Why? Are you worried? You should be. He's better than you.”

“No.”
Crap. Or should I say craps?
Grabbing my clutch purse, I slumped back into the cushions when Jonathan opened the door and Trent got out with a grace that had to be practiced. A blast of cold air replaced him, making me wonder how Trent could stand there as if it was summer. I had a feeling I'd already met Saladan.
Idiot!
I berated myself. But showing Lee I wasn't afraid of him after his failed little black charm would be extremely satisfying.

Becoming eager for the encounter, I slid across the bench seat to the open door, jerking back when Jonathan slammed it in my face. “Hey!” I shouted, adrenaline making my head hurt.

The door opened, and Jonathan gave me a satisfied smirk. “Sorry, ma'am,” he said.

Past him was Trent, a tired look on his face. Holding my borrowed shawl close, I watched Jonathan as I slid out. “Why, thank you, Jon,” I said brightly, “you freaking bastard.”

Trent ducked his head, hiding a smile. I jerked the shawl higher, and making sure I kept my line energy where it was supposed to be, I took Trent's arm so he could help me up the icy ramp. He stiffened to pull away, and I grabbed his arm with my free hand, pinching my purse between us. It was cold, and I wanted to get inside. “I'm wearing heels for you,” I muttered. “The least you can do is make sure I don't fall on my can. Or are you afraid of me?”

Trent said nothing, his posture shifting into an uneasy acceptance as we went, step for step, across the parking lot. He turned to look over his shoulder at Jonathan, indicating that he should stay with the car, and I simpered at the tall un happy man, giving him Erica's crooked-bunny-ear kiss good-bye. It was fully dark now, and the wind blew bits of snow against my legs, bare but for my nylons. Why hadn't I insisted on borrowing a coat? I wondered. This shawl was worthless. And it stank like lilac. I hated lilac.

“Aren't you cold?” I questioned, seeing Trent seemingly as warm as if it was July.

“No,” he said, and I remembered Ceri walking in the snow with a similar tolerance.

“Must be an elf thing,” I muttered, and he chuckled.

“Yup,” he said, my eyes jerking to his at the casual word. They were bright with amusement, and I glanced at the beckoning ramp.

“Well, I'm frozen through,” I grumbled. “Can we move a little faster?”