Shaded Vision: An Otherworld Novel (15 page)

I pressed my lips together. There was no answer. None that Shamas hadn’t already given us. After a moment, I let out a short huff. “He was stupid. Impulsive. He probably didn’t think. I don’t think he meant to hurt you. I doubt that ever crossed his mind.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, I guess. At least it tells us something about one of the Tregarts we’re facing.”

I didn’t want to ask, but I had to. “Do you love Shamas?”

“What?” She jerked around, staring at me like I’d grown another head. “No. I mean…not now.” Flustered, she stumbled over her words. “Let me start again. Okay, yeah, I did. Many years ago, when we were younger, before I realized that Mother’s blood meant I’d never be able to marry him. And while I’m most comfortable with a poly relationship, when it comes to Court and Crown, mistresses take second place. And I
never
settle for second. But now?” She shook her head. “I care about him. I love him—as a cousin. But am I in love with him? No, that ship sailed and sank a long time ago.”

She gave me a slow smile. “Chase is worried about a familial connection that’s so long-stretched it’s barely existent. He would freak about the connections made back home. So, let’s talk about something else.”

“Good idea. I’m tired of blood and fighting. I want one evening when we can just have fun, let go, and not worry.” We reached the Scarlet Harlot—a block or so away from Camille’s bookstore—and I veered into an open parking spot. Every time she was in the car, Camille was able to conjure up a parking spot. I always considered her a good-luck charm when it came to shopping.

We hopped out of the Jeep and slammed the doors, heading into the shop. Tim was behind the counter. We hadn’t had a chance to really chat with him in ages, and he looked good. Tim had let his hair grow till it was shoulder length. It was
curly and gave him a pretty-boy look. He was wearing a black tank, black leather pants, and a silver belt. When he saw us, he put one hand on the counter and swung over the top.

“You’ve been working out, dude. Look at those abs. I can see them under the shirt.” Camille pressed her hand to his chest and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. I crowded in for a kiss, too.

“I’ve been putting in spare time at the gym as a personal trainer, as well as doing website work on the side. Jason’s shop hasn’t been doing as much business lately, so we can use the extra money.” He tousled my hair. “Still love the hair, girl.”

Winking at him, I hopped up on the counter to sit while Camille meandered around the shop. She spent a fortune here, on bustiers and lingerie. I’d bought a few bras and panties from them but felt out of place in lace and satin. But this time a leopard-print bra caught my eye. It was microfiber, which would be comfortable, with just a hint of black lace.

Tim grabbed it out of my hands and unfurled a measuring tape. “You need a bra fitting, my girl. I doubt if you’ve ever been properly fitted.”

I stared at him. “What’s to fit? You find one that holds your boobs and bingo…”

“No bingo. Now raise your arms, out to the side.” He measured me around the bra band and then around the breasts. “What size do you usually buy?”

Frowning, I tried to remember. “I think a thirty-six B.”

“You take a thirty-four C.” He flipped through the leopard-print bras and brought one out. “Go try this on. Meanwhile, I’ll get Iris’s present out of the back for you.”

I slipped back to the dressing room and tried on the bra. Damned if Tim wasn’t right. Suddenly my breasts looked more upright and curvy. And the bra fit a lot better. Heading back into the main room, I saw Camille holding up a gorgeous cornflower blue peignoir. It was perfect for Iris.

“That’s gorgeous,” I whispered. The lace was hand-stitched, and it was made of sheer silk. “Iris will love it. So will Bruce, for that matter.”

Tim nodded. “I’ll gift wrap it. Did that bra work out for you?”

“Yeah. In fact, I’ll take a few more in this size.” While he took the lingerie in back to wrap for the wedding, Camille showed me the garnet and black bustier she’d found for herself. She added it to my pile, along with four pair of black cotton panties. By the time Tim returned, I’d found four more bras and a jungle green chemise. I didn’t normally like sleeping in anything but sleep shirts, but it was too pretty to pass up.

“Are you and Jason coming to the wedding?”

Tim laughed as Camille pulled out her wallet to pay for everything. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world. We’ll be there with bells on. Or something equally appropriate.”

“During the reception, let’s try to carve out a few minutes to talk about when to hold the Supe Community meeting. I guess we’d better do so as soon as possible.”

“I was thinking about the evening of the seventeenth? And Vampires Anonymous has volunteered their meeting hall, with protection included. We can use the phone tree to let people know. What do you say about eight p.m.? I can start the wheels going this afternoon.”

Camille gave me a long look. I inclined my head. “The vampires to the rescue. Sounds good. Go ahead. Meanwhile, we have a couple more stops to make, so we’d better get going.”

As we left the shop, Tim was already deep into calling the leaders of our phone tree. There would be a lot of buzzing lines this afternoon.

Second stop: a little out-of-the-way boutique that sold the most gorgeous crystal I’d ever seen. We’d ordered a set of cut cobalt crystal dinnerware, for when Bruce and Iris had their own house. Once we were sure it was all intact, we waited while the shopkeeper wrapped the boxes in gorgeous linen paper with an elegant ribbon. After we carried them out to our car, we were off to pick up Iris’s wedding cake.

As we pulled into a corner parking spot three shops down
from the Ambrosia Bakery, I had a sixth sense—an uneasy feeling. I paused, getting out of the car, to look around.

A glance up and down the street showed nothing out of the ordinary. Groups of passersby shopping, huddling against the chill of the rain and damp as they hurried by. A cluster of guys in tight jeans and thick jackets loitered on the corner against one of the poles that stretched over the road, holding the streetlights. But the looks they gave us were the same we got anywhere. We had quit masking our glamour most of the time, now that people were used to us, and Camille’s outfits and my height always drew notice.

Camille looked at me, questioningly. I shook my head. “Must just be my nerves.” I motioned to her and we hustled past the Thai restaurant on the corner, then past a small consignment shop to the bakery next door.

As we pushed through the door, a bell rang and the clerk waved. We’d come in with Iris when she put in the order, after she and Bruce had discussed what they wanted.

They had opted for a three-tiered wonder in white, with elegant roses of blue and silver cascading down the sides. The bottom and top layers were chocolate, with the middle layer vanilla. The frosting was a smooth fondant over vanilla butter cream, and the filling between layers was a chocolate framboise ganache. The smell that filled the bakery set my stomach to rumbling.

“We’re parked three spots down; I’m not sure I trust myself with carrying that to the car,” I said.

“No problem,” Mariah said. “Let me get Jorge to help you—we’ve got a cart and can make certain you get it to your car intact.”

Jorge came out. He was about twenty, muscled and buff, and looked altogether adorable in his Ambrosia Bakery apron. He grinned at us as Mariah loaded the cake onto the wheeled cart.

“Hold on,” I said. “Give us six of those cupcakes, please.” I glanced at Camille. “Chocolate?”

“Yeah, with the thick frosting.” Her gaze was glued to the window of the case. “They should last us till we get home.”

As Mariah boxed up the cupcakes—each with a thick topping of icing and multicolored sprinkles—Camille handed her the credit card. Once she signed the receipt, Jorge followed us out the door, back to the car, cautiously pushing the cart with the boxed cake inside.

As we neared my Jeep, I slowed. The guys on the street corner were staring at us, as if they were waiting. They made no move, though, so I tried to shake off the feeling that something was about to go down. But as we neared the side of the car, I stopped, a sick sense of shame sweeping over me. Camille let out a little gasp.

Across the passenger’s door, bright red graffiti spelled out
Go Home, Faerie Sluts!
A wash of embarrassment swept over me—the same shame I’d felt when I was a child and we’d been tormented because of our half-human heritage—but then I slammed it down. I wasn’t that little girl anymore. And I wasn’t taking this lying down.

The smell of the paint was fresh. I glanced at the men on the corner again. One of them gave me a snide grin, and I knew—I knew sure as I knew my own name—that he and his posse were responsible.

Camille followed my gaze. “What should we do? Kick a little ass?” She stood ready to take my lead.

“No, but I am calling Chase. I’m not going to wait here, though. I don’t want a confrontation. Not today. Just avoid brushing against the paint. Jorge, can you please transfer the cake into the back of my Jeep?”

“Those motherfuckers do this to your car?” Jorge sputtered, his expression angry as he loaded the cake and cupcakes into the back of the car.

“Leave it alone, Jorge. I don’t want you hurt.” I didn’t want him involved—didn’t want the Ambrosia Bakery to be a target—so keeping an eye on the men, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Chase’s number.

“It’s not right, miss. Not right at all.”

“No, it isn’t, but right now, the most important thing to me is getting Iris’s cake home safe and sound. So please,
Jorge, go back in the bakery. The cops may come to talk to you, but I don’t want you out here. Please?”

“I don’t want to leave you two out here alone.” He scuffed the ground. “You girls going to be okay?”

“We’ll be fine. I’m calling the cops. Now go.” As he headed back toward the store, cart in hand, Chase answered the phone.

“Chase, can you get a car down here to the corner of Vine and Wilder? Someone just tagged our car with hate speech—bright red spray paint. I’m going to send you a couple pictures of who I think did it. And of the Jeep.”

“Stay there—don’t engage them. I have a car on the way.” Chase’s voice took on a worry that I hadn’t heard in a while.

“We won’t, but we have to get home for Iris’s wedding, anyway. We’re running late. And I’m afraid if we stay, we may actually get into a rumble because frankly, if I have to stand here one more minute, I’m going to whale ass on these SOBs.”

I punched the End Call button and held up the phone, taking a clear shot of the jokers on the corner. They shuffled when they saw me taking their picture and began to head the other way. Like all bigots, they were cowards inside. That, and our reputation preceded us, apparently.

I then took pictures of the Jeep and sent all of them to Chase’s cell phone. Afterward, I motioned to Camille. “Get in. We’re leaving.”

But before we could pull out, Shamas came screeching into the spot in front of us. He leaped out of the car. By now, a small crowd had formed as several parties came out of the restaurant and stood around to gape.

Shamas took one look at the car, and his usually pale cheeks flared with color. I pointed out the receding figures who were now a block away.

“You take off, we’ll deal with them,” he said, motioning to the squad car where his partner, Thayus—a man with skin as dark as Trillian’s and hair just as silvery-blue—sat. “Go on. And drive safe.” He held the door open for Camille,
so she wouldn’t get tagged by the fresh paint. She gave him a faint smile.

I got behind the wheel, cupcakes all but forgotten, and started the car. “We’re not telling anybody at home yet. I’m not casting a pall over Iris’s day. I’ll just park so they won’t see the door of the Jeep and while everybody’s busy setting up for the wedding, I’ll come out and wash the paint off. If I can.”

Camille nodded. “Yeah, I think that’s best.”

We pulled out of the parking spot and headed for home.

On the way home, Camille unbuckled her seat belt and—just as I was about to yell at her for it—she turned to fumble around in the backseat. After a moment, she plunked herself back in her seat, box of cupcakes in hand, rebuckled the seat belt, and gave me a forlorn smile.

“I don’t want to share these at home. I’m sorry, but we’ve had one hell of a morning, and I want my cupcakes, damn it.”

I snickered. “Me, too. Hand me one, would you?”

“Pull off to the side up there, into the parking lot.” She pointed toward a small park along the way. Brentmeyer Park. It was one of those little neighborhood greenbelts, where there were a few swing sets, a jungle gym, scattered picnic tables, and a couple of grilling stations. The park wasn’t very big, but it had trees and grass and gave the neighborhood kids a place to play.

As I put the car into park and turned off the ignition, Camille opened the door. She swung out, onto the ground, and picked up the box of cupcakes, motioning for me to follow her.

“We need a break.” She led the way over to one of the nearest picnic tables and, brushing the raindrops off the bench, sat down. I followed suit, breathing the crisp scent of impending rain. The sky was dark, the ground wet, and I hoped that Iris’s tents would hold off the downpour. As we sat down at the table and opened the cupcake box, my gaze
flickered over to the side of my Jeep. The red lettering had dried, and now it just looked ugly and garish.

“Stop,” she said.

“Stop what?” I wanted to cry. I loved my Jeep and had bonded with it in the same way I had my laptop.

“Feeling sorry for yourself. The cretins who did this are scum. But it’s paint. We can clean it off—or we can get your Jeep repainted. What they did was moronic and rude, but it’s fixable.” She frowned. “Not like the Supe Community Hall—there’s nothing that can bring back the victims.”

“I know…but…it’s the energy behind it. Seattle was so nice to us when we first came here. Now what’s happening?”

“The haters are coming out of the woodwork. They were always there, though. First you hate the blacks and the Jews and Muslims and the gays and the women. When it no longer becomes acceptable to hate them, you find a new target. Anybody different, anybody who makes you realize you aren’t the center of the universe. Even Otherworld isn’t immune. Look at Father and how he reacted to Trillian. Look at the goblins—they hate just about everybody.”