Harvest Hunting (12 page)

“Go into Menolly’s office, strip, and spray yourself with it from head to toe, including your hair. The smell should dissipate for the most part.” He waved me off, and I headed for Menolly’s office.

I pulled off my clothes and squirted myself silly with the stuff. Immediately, I noticed a difference for the better as the skunk smell faded. After a moment, I decided to spray down my clothes, too. Wonder of wonders, it worked, and a whole lot faster than I thought. I might still have a cool punk do, but at least I didn’t reek. I slipped back into my clothes, then stopped. On Menolly’s desk was a cream-colored envelope with a large crimson dagger printed on it and Menolly’s name written in large, sloping letters across the front.

Peeking out the door, I made sure Camille was busy with Luke, then slipped into Menolly’s chair and gingerly picked up the letter. It had already been opened, so all I had to do was slide the pages out and look at what it said. My conscience tweaked a little, but I figured hell, she’d do the same if she was worried about me. And the dagger on the front of that envelope worried me.

A note card slid out—the fancy ones invitations were sent on—and I held it by the edges and flipped it open. The card simply read:

What the fuck? Who was Roman? The name seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it, although I knew I’d heard it before. I slipped the note back in the envelope and replaced it on her desk. That she hadn’t told us about this made me wonder all the more.

“Delilah?” Luke’s voice echoed through the door. “You okay?”

Hastily, I zipped up my pants and tucked in my sweater and, grabbing the spray bottle, I opened the door.

“Yah, just did my clothes, too. Even if it fades them, it’s got to be better than the smell they were accumulating. You should market this stuff—it’s a miracle. Hey, did Camille ask you about a picture of Amber’s husband?”

He walked me to the front, frowning. “No, should she have?”

“Should she have what?” Camille asked. “And who’s
she
?”

“The picture—remember? We need a picture of Amber’s husband, if possible. I thought you asked Luke for one on the phone this morning when you called him.”

“Damn it, I forgot—”

Luke stopped her. “That’s okay. I happen to have a picture of the two of them together in my wallet. You can have it.” He pulled out his wallet and fished out the picture. “Here you go—that’s Rice, her husband. Fucking scumbag.”

“So you said,” I murmured, taking the picture. “Okay, we’re heading over to the hotel now.” Stopping as we headed for the door, I turned back to the werewolf. “Luke, have there been any . . . strange . . . vampires around the bar lately? Or other denizens that seem . . . out of place. Wealthy, maybe?”

He frowned, leaning on the bar, his biceps bulging through the shirt. Oh yeah, the man had muscles. “You know, someone came in the other night who I thought might be vampire, but I wasn’t sure. He delivered a note for your sister. That who you talking about?”

I shrugged, not wanting him to think it over so much that he mentioned my curiosity to Menolly. “Nah, probably not. But thanks just the same.”

Camille tugged on my arm, but I shook my head and led the way out of the bar. When we were outside, I pulled my jacket tighter against the gusting wind and led the way to my Jeep. We jumped in, and after fastening seat belts, Camille turned to me.

“So what was that all about?”

“Just this—I found a note on Menolly’s desk. It was an invitation . . . no—make that a demand—that she go to a vampire ball at the Clockwork Club with someone named Roman. Fancy paper, parchment, sloping calligraphy. If it was delivered by a man in a limousine, then he’s probably rich.”

She turned over the thought in her mind—I could almost see the wheels grinding away. Then she snapped her fingers. “Roman! I remember her mentioning him. He’s some ancient vampire that she went to see when we were investigating Sabele’s disappearance. I think she said he’s even older than Dredge was. Which means . . . he’s very powerful. What the fuck does he want with Menolly? I mean, I love her, but he’s like . . . what . . . a rock star among vampires?”

“I don’t know, but I have a very odd feeling about it, and I want to know what the hell’s going on. We can’t afford to keep secrets anymore.” I turned the ignition and pulled out of the parking spot as the rain hit again, and speeding along the glistening city streets, we were off for the hotel.

 

 

Amber had checked in at the Jefferson Inn, a moderately priced hotel with a standard diner attached. Families on vacation stayed here, people dumped unwanted relatives here during holiday visits, and salesmen who weren’t making enough to afford the Hyatt scored rooms at the inn.

Luke had told us that Amber was paid up for several days, so we wandered over to the registration desk. Camille unmasked her glamour, and we leaned across the counter.

“Yes, may I help you?” The clerk turned around and blinked. Twice. His harried expression dropped away as Camille let out a brilliant smile.

“We need some information, and you’re just the man who can help us.” She winked, and he blushed. Yep, bottle her sex appeal, and we could rule the world. That, together with Luke’s deodorizer, were two of the best inventions since sliced bread.

“What do you want to know?” He leaned over the counter to meet her gaze, and his eyes grew big and dark and wide as he breathed in the pheromones coming off of my sister. He inhaled deeply and held his breath, closing his eyes for a moment.

“We need information on Amber Johansen, who checked into the hotel yesterday. Do you know who we’re talking about? She’s seven months pregnant.”

I held out the picture of Amber and her husband. “And have you seen the man who’s with her in this picture?”

The clerk stared at the photographs for a moment, then slowly nodded. “That’s her—I recognize her. I don’t know if
he’s
been around.”

“Can you give us a passkey and her room number? We need to check on Amber and make certain she’s okay. And of course, we know you’ll keep this our little secret.” Camille smiled again and licked her lips.

The clerk just about fell over himself coding another key card for the room. He handed it over and let out a long sigh.

“Room 422. Just bring it back when you’re done, please.” He cocked his head and looked expectantly at Camille. She languorously kissed her fingertips and blew the kiss to him. He let out a happy shudder, and I quickly looked away. Some men were so easy . . .

We headed for the elevator before anybody saw us. When we stepped out onto the fourth floor, room 422 was right around the corner. I listened at the door. No sound. After a moment, I stood back and nodded. Camille moved in, slid the card in the lock, and it clicked. As she opened the door, she pulled to the side, and I pushed through first, slamming my hand against the light switch.

Light flooded the room, but it was empty. Camille peeked in the bathroom, then relaxed and shut the door.

“Nobody here.”

“Maybe not now, but someone was.” I opened the dresser and checked the drawers. Scattered tops, a couple pregnancy skirts, some underwear . . . Amber had been here, all right. “Check the closet. Suitcase?”

Camille pushed open the flimsy folding door that covered the closet. “Suitcase, check, and two pairs of shoes. Also, one coat.”

I frowned. It was far too chilly for someone from Arizona to wander around Seattle without her coat in late October. Especially if she was pregnant. “Do you see her purse anywhere?”

“Here it is, behind the bed, near the wall. How odd,” Camille said. “No woman tosses her purse on the floor behind her bed.”

She handed it to me, and I sorted through it. “Her ID is here, her driver’s license, medication—she’s on something . . . probably for her pregnancy. Let me see . . . wallet is empty, but credit cards are still there.” I looked over at her where she sat on the bed and added, “This doesn’t look good.”

She paused, then cocked her head. “I get a really strange energy from this room, Kitten. All tingly with magic—but I can’t identify it.”

I couldn’t pick up energy the way my sister could, but I had the same feeling, and it stemmed purely from my gut. “Where’s it coming from?”

Camille closed her eyes and held out her hands. “The . . . minibar? How odd.” As she knelt to open the door to the miniature refrigerator, a loud pop sounded, and a cloud of
something
wafted through the room.

“What the fuck?” Camille jumped back, choking so hard I thought she was going to cough her lungs out. “I . . . dizzy . . .” She reached for the dresser to steady herself and then crumpled to the ground.

“Camille!” I hurried over to her side, but the minute I got near, my eyes began to water, and I couldn’t focus on what I was about to do.
Magic
. It had to be some sort of magic from whatever had come blowing out of that minibar.

I stumbled away and leaned on the bed, breathing deeply, shaking my head. After a moment, the fog began to dissipate, and I opened the window, trying to get it to disperse, then grabbed my cell phone.

Glancing over at Camille, who was still stretched out on the floor, comatose, I quickly punched in the number for the FH-CSI, then the extension for Sharah. She was on the line almost immediately—must be a slow day—and I told her what had happened and gave the address.

“Please keep breathing, please . . .” I could see the gentle rise and fall of my sister’s breast, reassuring me that at least she was alive. Whatever hit her seemed to be clearing out on the currents of fresh, cold air, but I didn’t dare chance getting near her again, of both of us hitting the deck.

Ten minutes later, a discreet knock on the door sounded. It was Sharah. She must have busted ass to get there.

“It’s Camille,” I said, pointing to her prone figure. “She opened the minibar, something went poof, and she went down. When I went in to get her, she was out like a light, and I started to get so disoriented I couldn’t stay near her.”

Sharah nodded and put on a simple gas mask, then crept over to Camille and pulled her out of the area, dragging her to the bed, where I helped lift her onto the sheets. Sharah checked her over quickly.

“She seems okay. If she doesn’t wake up by the time I’m done here, we’ll take her back to the hospital.” She headed over to the minibar. Gingerly, she peeked inside. “Magical trap, all right, timed to go off when the door opened.” She touched it gingerly with gloved hands. “Hard to tell what this is for. I think we’d better take Camille and go back to headquarters while I dissect this.”

While she finished detaching the trap from where it had been connected to the cabinet, I scoured the rest of the room but found nothing. While waiting for her to finish, I ran down what we were doing here.

“I’m wondering—werewolves don’t deal with magic much, so what the hell was Rice doing with a magical trap?”

Sharah nodded slowly. “You’re right. Lycanthropes, above all Weres, detest magic and don’t like being around it. If he’s like a typical werewolf, her husband wouldn’t use a magical trap unless he was forced. We’d better get this back to HQ and analyze it. And Camille seems no closer to coming around. That concerns me.” She flipped open her cell phone and quietly spoke into it for a moment. “Shamas will be here in a moment with a stretcher.”

For the first time since she’d passed out, I began to really worry. “You think she’ll come around, don’t you?”

“I’m sure she’ll be okay. We just have to find out what this crap is.”

“Hell.” I sank on the bed next to Camille and clasped one of her hands. She was cold—not death-cold, but cold. Silently, I gathered a blanket and spread it over her. After a moment, I looked up to find Sharah watching me.

“Chase told me you guys broke up last night. Are you okay?” She blushed. “I don’t mean to pry, but he was so quiet this morning that I was worried.”

Stung by the fact that she was the one getting to watch over him, I let out a short huff. “Yeah, I’m just dandy. I guess this is one of the perks of being a soldier on the front line. Life changes in an instant. And even when you save the day, you sometimes lose the battle. Save his life and lose him . . . don’t save his life and lose him. Either way,
I lose
.”

Sharah winced. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. He loves you, I know he does, but remember: His entire life has been thrown into a tailspin, and being mortal—”

“Not so mortal now, as he reminded me last night. Listen, I appreciate the pep talk, but right now it’s the last thing I need. I accept that he can’t handle a relationship, but I expect him to realize that he’s not the only one affected by this. We saved his life. He was going to go through the transformation anyway. Suddenly, he can’t wait to get away from me.”

She laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “The last I’ll say on the matter: It’s not just you he can’t wait to get away from. He’s trying to get away from his own thoughts. Just remember when you were a child and felt like you didn’t belong—”

I jumped up. “You leave my childhood out of this.” Sharah might be Queen Asteria’s niece, but that didn’t give her the right to intrude on my sorrow. At her bewildered look, I stopped, aware of my misplaced anger. I wasn’t mad at her. I was angry at the situation. “I’m so sorry, Sharah. I’m just a wreck right now. Where the fuck is Shamas?”

Blinking, she cleared her throat. “He’ll be here in a moment. Um . . . can I ask what happened to your hair? I like it.”

She meant it; that much I could tell. And she was trying to calm me down, which rankled, but I decided to take the high road: something I didn’t always do. I forced a smile to my lips. “Thanks, it was a gift from a skunk. Indirectly.”