Authors: Hannah Jayne

Under Attack (33 page)

BOOK: Under Attack

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Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Hannah Jayne's
next Sophia Lawson urban fantasy novel,
coming in May 2012!

You'd think by the time a guy had earned immortality, he'd tire of copying his butt on the office copy machine.

Not so.

I was pulling out the third paper jam of the morningâand tossing fistfuls of copies of a weird combination of butt cheek and hoofâwhen Nina poked her head in, scanned the room and asked, “Is she gone?”

I flopped back into the sea of crumpled paper and blew a few strands of my hair (done up in Clairol's Red Hot Rhythm) out of my eye. “Who?”

Nina shimmied into the copy room and straightened her vintage boat-necked Balenciaga dress. She had paired this little number with black and purple lace tights and those peek-a-boo booties that made me look like a poor lumberjack and supermodels (and vampires) look amazingly chic.

I guess living through two world wars and umpteen clothing revolutions would pique your fashion sense.

“What do you mean, who? Mrs. Henderson. This dress,” Nina did an elegant twirl, “is not only vintage, it's irreplaceable. I wore it when I nabbed a bite of John Lennon.” Nina batted her lashes and grinned, her small fangs pressing against her red lips.

I cocked an eyebrow and Nina blew out an exasperated sigh.

“Fine. It was Ringo. So, is she gone?”

Mrs. Hendersonâthe UDA's resident busybody dragon and all-around most obnoxious clientâand Nina have a bit of a history together. One that most often left Nina nicely singed from head to toe, her vintage couture du jour in ashes, and Mrs. Henderson hiccupping smoke rings and apologies.

I looked down at my watch. “Oh my gosh, I'm totally late. Thanks for reminding me.”

I thrust the last of the hoof-and-butt Xeroxes into Nina's hands and beelined to my deskâhopping over the burnt-hole remains of a wizard who blew himself up and averting my eyes when the fairies from receiving headed down the hall. Lorraineâresident witch and finance whizâtried to stop me by waving a folder full of invoices in front of my face, but I was able to dodge her, thanks in part to the seminar that HR held on “Respecting Your Co-Worker's Personal Space.”

I flopped into my ergonomically questionable chair and eyed the clock, blowing out a deep, comforting breath and lacing my fingers over Mrs. Henderson's files. In addition to being a fire-breathing, St. John's Knitâwearing dragon, Mrs. Henderson was a divorcÃ©e hell-bent on squeezing her cheating ex-husband for every last dime. As our agency detected all supernatural movement within our region, Mrs. Henderson dropped in monthly for updates and liked it especially when we were prepared for her with Mr. H.'s paycheck stubs and warm, fuzzy stories about his current financial woes.

Fifteen minutes later, Mr. H.'s statements were still safely tucked into my file folder and Mrs. Henderson was nowhere to be found.

I buzzed the reception desk and Kale answeredâI could hear the murmur of the iBud she kept continually tucked in her left ear. “Reception,” she said, “what can I do you for?”

“Hey, Kale, it's Sophie. Did Mrs. Henderson call in? She's almost twenty minutes late for her appointment.”

I heard Kale muss some papers on the other end of the phone and then the snap of her gum. “No, nothing. Are you sure she was scheduled today?”

“Positive. It's the fifteenth.”

“Ooh, alimony pick-up day. She's usually a half hour early.”

“That's what I was thinking.”

“'Kay. Oh!”

I rapped my fingers on my desk, suddenly impatient. “Yes?”

“Um,” Kale started to stutter and drift off and I could almost see her biting her lower lip, curling the telephone cord around her finger.

“What about Vlad?” I asked.

Vlad was Nina's nephewâcurrent UDA employee, leader of the San Francisco chapter of the Vampire Restoration and Empowerment Movement, and permanent fixture on our couch. He had the bright eyes, video game fetish and disdain for folding clothes that most sixteen-year-olds had.

Except that he was 116.

“Do you know if he's seeing anyone?”

Kale had been in love with Vlad since he first blew into the cityâmoody, restless, and dressed like Count Chocula. The Vampire Restoration and Empowerment Movement (VERM for short and for annoying Vlad incessantly) required that its adherents stick to the “classic” dress code of the fearsome vampires of yesteryear (more Bela Lugosi, less Edward Cullen) and also preached a staunch code against non-demon mixing. That left Kaleâa Gestault witch of the green orderâto pine relentlessly and call me on numerous occasions to ask about Vlad's dating status.

“No, Kale, I don't think so.”

She let out a loud whoosh of relief. “That's what his Facebook status said. I just wanted to make sure. Bye Sophie!”

The dial tone droned in my ear and I pulled up Mrs. Henderson's phone number. I was in mid-dial when Nina stalked in, slamming the door behind her. “So what did the big lizard have to say today? She need more money for crickets?”

I hung up the phone and rubbed my temples. “She's a dragon, not a lizard, and she still hasn't shown up. That's not like her.”

Nina whipped out a nail file and gave her perfectly manicured nails the once-over. “Maybe she lit herself on fire.” She snorted, her smile lingering. “One can only hope. I want to go shopping. What do you think: boutique in the Haight or mainstream on Market?”

I frowned. “I'm kind of worried about Mrs. Henderson.”

“So send her an edible arrangement. Don't they have one with staked mice or something? Anyway, boutique or mainstream?”

I pulled out my calendar and flipped back a few pages. “Last week I had two other missed appointments.”

Nina pouted. “Are you doubting your popularity at UDA now? You know everyone here adores you and we don't even consider your ... issue.”

I felt a blush rise to my cheeks.

My “issue” was my breath. Not that it was bad (at least I don't think it is); it is that I have some. The Underworld Detection Agency not only caters to the demon communityâproviding transfer papers, tracking paranormal activity in the city, detecting demon activity and protecting from demonic or human threatsâit is also staffed by demons.

Except for me.

Which is why there is currently a bologna and cheese sandwich wedged between two blood bags in the office fridge and why there is a constant
CAUTION: WET FLOOR
sign in front of the hobgoblin receiving line (hobgoblins are constantly slobbering). The Detection Agency has a severe non-discrimination policy so every centaur, vampire, werewolf, zombie or
other
applies for the cush jobs at the Agency. We boast great healthcare, excellent dental (especially since Dixon Andrade and his vampire cronies took over), and four weeks paid vacation (because apparently, if you're going to travel to Hell, you need to stay “at least three weeks” to make it worthwhile). So what's a pretty little breather like me doing in a place like this?

Besides the overwhelming need for good dental and the fact that with my English degree the only companies interested in me were Starbucks (as a barista) and the Kitty Kat Klub (don't even ask), a paper-pushing job at the UDA was a godsendâeven if I did run into the occasional amorous troll or disembodied zombie finger dropped in my morning coffee. Aside from that, my humanity was a bit tainted.

My grandmother was a seerâof the crystal balls, crazy scarves and playing mah-jongg with a pixie in the living room kind. She raised me after my mother passed awayâI was five, thenâand although I hated being linked to her as a brooding teenager, she was the closest thing to a family I had ever known. She died just after I'd graduated college and just after she had talked the then-president, Pete Sampson, to get me a job at the UDA. After my grandmother died, the members of the UDA became like a second family. Like a second family with fangs, hooves, and the occasional stinking odor of bleu cheese.

Hey, I never said we were the Waltons.

I missed my grandmother terribly after her death and the fact that she'd occasionally pop into half a cantaloupeâyes, after deathâto scold me didn't really make it any easier. Anyway, my mother was a seer as well, and my father ... well, there's a good chance he's Satan.

And that's a long story.

So, with a blood family tree that included a cantaloupe and the devil, you can see why I found comfort in a company that offered life insuranceâinsurance you collect should you come back to life.

But even with the strange fruit on the family tree, I am, pretty decidedly, normal. I'm five-foot-two if I stretch (and stand on a phone book) with a shock of hair so naturally red I could pass for Kathy Ireland (in her pre-Kmart days) or Carrot Top's kid sister. I'd love to call my eyes emerald or smoky jade but they're more accurately lime Jell-O green and if you ask me, a little bit too small. I can't see the futureâI'm lucky if I can set the DVRâor read minds. Though there is the very minor chance that I'll inherit the powers of Hell from dear old dad, there really is nothing else remarkable about me.

Oh, except for the Vessel thing.

I recently found out not only that angora comes from bunnies (bunnies!) but that I am a supernatural vessel that holds the souls of the recently departed before they make their way to the angelic planes. Also, I think I'm lactose intolerant.

I know, no ice cream.

As for the Vessel, it's within meâthe angels like to do this “hidden in plain sight” thing when it comes to big whopping things like the Vessel of Souls. Other than the fact that fallen angels and some general baddies have been seeking the Vessel forever and that the job comes with a wise-cracking, annoyingly lovable English guy as my guardian, the Vessel thing doesn't really have that much play in my daily lifeâexcept of course for throwing a serious curve in my dating lifeâyou know, if I had one. Oh, my other X-Man skill? I'm immune to magic.

I rolled my eyes. “I know no one cares about me being human. I've been working here forever. It's the missed appointments. No cancellations, no phone calls, nothing. I called the last two for follow-ups and couldn't reach anyone. No messages returned, nothing.”

Nina shrugged. “Who cares?”

“Where do you think they're going? It's not like there is another company out there protecting demons.”

“Like a demon Wal-Mart undercutting our fees?”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest and cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, Nina, I'm really worried that we're losing business to Wal-Mart.”

“Bring it up with Dixon.”

I gnawed my bottom lip. “I guess I could. We do have an all-staff meeting at four.”

Nina's coal black eyes went wide. “I had totally forgotten about that.”

“Cuts into your shopping time?”

“No,” she clapped a hand to her forehead and started a vigorous massage. “Do you know how awkward that's going to be? Me and him in the same room together after what happened!”

I leaned forward. “What happened?”

“Ohmigod. You're my best friendâand my roommate, Soph! Have you not paid any attention? Me and Dixon?” she annunciated, “The whole dating thing? It totally didn't end well.”

“Oh, right. That's probably because it was all in your head. Nina, he's our boss. It's expected that he'd call you. And asking you to collate his copies means just that. The man needs staples.”

Nina narrowed her eyes. “Oh, and I suppose you're going to tell me that him asking me to boot up his hard drive was completely innocent, too!”

I groaned.

Nina leaned over to gather her coat and enormously gaudy Betsey Johnson bag. “So, you never told me. Shopping on Market or Haight?”

“I don't know. Both. I can't make a decision.”

Nina raised an eyebrow and grinned salaciously. “Ain't that the truth?”

I pursed my lips and straightened the already-straight selection of Post-it notes and general office supplies on my desk. “Bite me.”

Nina dumped herself into my office chair again and lolled back; she kicked her Via Spiga booties up on my desk, crossing her ankles. “Hey, I'm not judging. If I had two hot otherworldly creatures ready to duke it out to save my afterlife,” and here she splayed a single pale hand against her chest, “I'd have done my best to keep them both around, too.”

She swung out the nail file again. “So, about that shopping trip ...”

I gathered a few files from my cabinet. “Give me a half hour and I promise to be your couture sherpa all the way through San Francisco. Deal?”

BOOK: Under Attack

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