The Good, The Bad, And The Undead th-2 Page 4

  "Good," he said lightly, shocking me into taking a step back. Putting my canister on the sidewalk, he stuffed his FIB hat into his back pocket. "But from here on out, you are officially off the run."

  My mouth opened in understanding. I was officially not here. Taking a breath, I willed the adrenaline out of my system. Edden nodded as he saw my anger fizzle out. "I'd appreciate your discretion on this," he said. "Sending Glenn out to Pizza Piscary's alone isn't prudent."

  "Glenn!" Jenks shrilled, his voice scraping the inside of my skull, making my eyes water.

  "No," I said. "I already have my team. We don't need Detective Glenn."

  Jenks left me. "Yeah," he said as he flew between the FIB captain and me. His wings were red. "We don't play well with others."

  Edden frowned. "This is an FIB matter. You will have an FIB presence with you when at all possible, and Glenn is the only one qualified."

  "Qualified?" Jenks scoffed. "Why not admit he's the only one of your officers who can talk to a witch without pissing his pants?"

  "No," I said firmly. "We work alone."

  Edden stood beside my canister, his arms crossed to make his squat form look as immovable as a stone wall. "He's our new Inderland specialist. I know he's inexperienced—"

  "He's an ass!" Jenks snapped.

  A grin flashed over Edden. "I prefer rough around the edges, myself."

  My lips pursed. "Glenn is a cocky, self-assured…" I fumbled, looking for something suitably derogatory. "…FIB flunky who is going to get himself killed the first time he runs into an Inderlander who isn't as nice as I am."

  Jenks bobbed his head. "He needs to be taught a lesson."

  Edden smiled. "He's my son, and I couldn't agree more," he said.

  "He's what?" I exclaimed as an unmarked FIB car pulled up to the curb beside us. Edden reached for the handle of the back door and opened it. Edden was clearly from European decent, and Glenn…Glenn wasn't. My mouth worked as I tried to find something that couldn't be remotely construed as being racist. As a witch, I was sensitive to that kind of thing. "How come he doesn't have your last name?" I managed.

  "He's used his mother's maiden name since joining the FIB," Edden said softly. "He's not supposed to be under my direction, but no one else would take the job."

  My brow furrowed. Now I understood the cold reception in the FIB. It hadn't been all me. Glenn was new, taking a position everyone but his dad thought was a waste of time. "I'm not doing this," I said. "Find someone else to baby-sit your kid."

  Edden put my canister into the back. "Break him in gently."

  "You aren't listening," I said loudly, frustrated. "You gave me this run. My associates and I appreciate your offer to help, but you asked me here. Back off and let us work."

  "Great," Edden said as he slammed the car's back door shut. "Thanks for taking Detective Glenn with you out to Piscary's."

  A cry of disgust slipped from me. "Edden!" I exclaimed, earning looks from the passing people. "I said no. There is one sound coming past my lips. One sound. Two letters. One meaning. No!"

  Edden opened the front passenger door and gestured for me to get in. "Thanks bunches, Morgan." He glanced into the backseat. "Why were you running from those Weres, anyway?"

  My breath came in a slow, controlled sound. Damn.

  Edden chuckled, and I put myself in the car and slammed the door, trying to get his stubby fingers in it. Scowling, I looked at the driver. It was Glenn. He looked as happy as I felt. I had to say something. "You don't look anything like your dad," I said snidely.

  His gaze was fixed with a ramrod stiffness out the front window. "He adopted me when he married my mother," he said through clenched teeth.

  Jenks zipped in trailing a sunbeam of pixy dust. "You're Edden's son?"

  "You got a problem with that?" he said belligerently.

  The pixy landed on the dash with his hands on his hips. "Nah. All you humans look alike to me."

  Edden bent to put his beaming round face in the window. "Here's your class schedule," he said, handing me a yellow half page of paper with printer holes along the sides. "Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Glenn will buy any books you need."

  "Hold it!" I exclaimed, alarm washing through me as the yellow paper crackled in my fingers. "I thought I was just going to poke around the university. I don't want to take a class!"

  "It's the one Mr. Smather was taking. Be there, or you won't get paid."

  He was smiling, enjoying this. "Edden!" I shouted as he backed up onto the sidewalk.

  "Glenn, take Ms. Morgan and Jenks to their office. Let me know what you find at Dan Smather's apartment."

  "Yes sir!" he barked. His knuckles gripping the wheel showed a fierce pressure. Pink patches of Ivy-Aid decorated his wrists and neck. I didn't that care that he had heard most of the conversation. He wasn't welcome, and the sooner he understood that, the better.

  Four

  "Right at the next corner," I said, resting my arm on the open window of the unmarked FIB car. Glenn ran his fingertips through his close-cropped hair as he scratched his scalp. He hadn't said a word the entire way, his jaw slowly unclenching as he realized I wasn't going to make him talk to me. There was no one behind us, but he signaled before turning onto my street.

  He had sunglasses on, taking in the residential neighborhood with its shady sidewalks and patchy lawns. We were well within the Hollows, the unofficial haven for most of Cincinnati's resident Inderlanders since the Turn, when every surviving human fled into the city and its false sense of security. There has always been some mingling, but for the most part humans work and live in Cincinnati since the Turn, and Inderlanders work and—uh—play in the Hollows.

  I think Glenn was surprised the suburb looked like everywhere else—until you noticed the runes scratched in the hop-scotch grid, and that the basketball hoop was a third again taller than NBA regulation. It was quiet, too. Peaceful. Some of that could be attributed to Inderland's schools not letting out until almost midnight, but most was self-preservation.

  Every Inderlander over the age of forty had spent their earliest years trying to hide that they weren't human, a tradition that is unraveling with the cautious fear of the hunted, vampires included. So the grass is mown by sullen teenagers on Friday, the cars are dutifully washed on Saturday, and the trash makes tidy piles at the curb on Wednesday. But the streetlights are shot out by gun or charm as soon as the city replaces them, and no one calls the Humane Society at the sight of a loose dog, as it might be the neighbor's kid skipping school.

  The dangerous reality of the Hollows remains carefully hidden. We know if we color too far out of humanity's self-imposed lines, old fears will resurface and they will strike out at us. They would lose—badly—and as a whole, Inderlanders like things balanced just as they are. Fewer humans would mean that witches and Weres would start taking the brunt of vampires' needs. And while the occasional witch "enjoyed" a vampiric lifestyle at his or her own discretion, we'd bind together to take them out if they tried to turn us into fodder. The older vampires know it, and so they make sure everyone plays by humanity's rules.

  Fortunately, the more savage side of Inderlanders naturally gravitates to the outskirts of the Hollows and away from our homes. The strip of nightclubs along both sides of the river is especially hazardous since swarming, high-spirited humans draw the more predatorial of us like fires on a cold night, promising warmth and reassurance of survival. Our homes are kept as human looking as possible. Those who strayed too far from the Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver veneer were encouraged in a rather unique neighborhood intervention party to blend in a little more…or move out to the country where they couldn't do as much damage. My gaze drifted over the tongue-in-cheek sign peeping out from a bed of foxgloves. day sleeper. solicitors will be eaten. For the most part, anyway.

  "You can park up there on the right," I said, pointing.

  Glenn's brow furrowed. "I thought we were going to your office."

  Jenks flitted from my earring to the re
arview mirror. "We are," he said snidely.

  Glenn scratched his jawline, his short beard making a rasping sound under his nail. "You run your agency out of a house?"

  I sighed at his patronizing lilt. "Sort of. Anywhere here is fine."

  He pulled to the curb at Keasley's house, the neighborhood's "wise old man" who had both the medical equipment and know-how of a small emergency room for those who could keep their mouths shut about it. Across the street was a small stone church, its steeple rising high above two gigantic oaks. It sat on an unreal four city lots and had come with its own graveyard.

  Renting out a defunct church hadn't been my idea but Ivy's. Seeing tombstones out the small stained-glass window of my bedroom had taken a while to get used to, but the kitchen it came with made up for having dead humans buried in the backyard.

  Glenn cut the engine, and the new silence soaked in. I scanned the surrounding yards before I got out, a habit begun during my not-so-distant death threats, which I thought prudent to continue. Old man Keasley was on his porch as usual, rocking and keeping a sharp eye on the street. I gave him a wave and got a raised hand in answer. Satisfied he would have warned me if I had needed it, I got out and opened the back door for my canister of fish.

  "I'll get it, ma'am," Glenn said as his door thumped shut.

  I gave him a tired look over the car's roof. "Drop the ma'am, will you? I'm Rachel."

  His attention went over my shoulder and he visibly stiffened. I whipped around expecting the worst, relaxing as a cloud of pixy children descended in a high-pitched chorus of conversation too fast for me to follow. Papa Jenks had been missed—as usual. My sour mood evaporated as the darting swooping figures in pale green and gold swirled about their dad in a Disney nightmare. Glenn took his sunglasses off, his brown eyes wide and his lips parted.

  Jenks made a piercing whistle with his wings, and the horde broke enough for him to hover before me. "Hey, Rache," he said. "I'll be out back if you want me."

  "Sure." I glanced at Glenn and muttered, "Is Ivy here?"

  The pixy followed my gaze to the human and grinned, undoubtedly imagining what Ivy would do when meeting Captain Edden's son. Jax, Jenks's eldest child, joined his father. "No, Ms. Morgan," he said, pitching his preadolescent voice deeper than it normally fell. "She's doing errands. The grocery store, the post office, the bank. She said she'd be back before five."

  The bank, I thought, wincing. She was supposed to wait until I had the rest of my rent. Jax flew three circles about my head, making me dizzy. " 'Bye, Ms. Morgan," he called out, zipping off to join his siblings, who were escorting their dad to the back of the church and the oak stump Jenks had moved his very large family into.

  My breath puffed out as Glenn came around the back of the car, offering to carry my canister. I shook my head and hefted it; it wasn't that heavy. I was starting to feel guilty for having let Jenks pix him. But then I hadn't known I was going to have to baby-sit him at the time. "Come on in," I said as I started across the street to the wide stone steps.

  The sound of his hard-soled shoes on the street faltered. "You live in a church?"

  My eyes narrowed. "Yeah. But I don't sleep with voodoo dolls."

  "Huh?"

  "Never mind."

  Glenn muttered something, and my guilt deepened. "Thanks for driving me home," I said as I climbed the stone steps and pulled open the right side of the twin wooden doors for him. He said nothing, and I added, "Really. Thanks."

  Hesitating on the stoop, he stared at me. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. "You're welcome," he finally said, his voice giving me no clue, either.

  I led the way through the empty foyer into the even more empty sanctuary. Before we rented out the church, it had been used as a daycare. The pews and altar had been removed to make a large play area. Now all that remained were the stained-glass windows and a slightly raised stage. The shadow of a huge, long-gone cross spread across the wall in a poignant reminder. I glanced at the tall ceiling, seeing the familiar room in a new way as Glenn looked it over. It was quiet. I'd forgotten how peaceful it was.

  Ivy had spread tumbling mats over half of it, leaving a narrow walkway running from the foyer to the back rooms. At least once a week we'd spar to keep fresh, now that we were both independents and not on the streets every night. It invariably ended with me a sweating mass of bruises and her not even breathing hard. Ivy was a living vamp—as alive as I was and in possession of a soul, infected by the vamp virus by way of her, at the time, still-living mother.

  Not having to wait until she was dead before the virus began molding her, Ivy had been born possessing a little of both worlds, the living and dead, caught in the middle ground until she died and became a true undead. From the living she retained a soul, allowing her to walk under the sun, worship without pain, and live on holy ground if she wanted, which she did to tick her mother off. From the dead came her small but sharp canines, her ability to pull an aura and scare the crap out of me, and her power to hold spellbound those who allowed it. Her unearthly strength and speed were decidedly less than a true undead, but still far beyond mine. And though she didn't need blood to remain sane, as undead vampires did, she had an unsettling hunger for it, which she was continually fighting to suppress, since she was one of the few living vamps who had sworn off blood. I imagine Ivy must have had an interesting childhood, but I was afraid to ask.

  "Come on in to the kitchen," I said as I went through the archway at the back of the sanctuary. I took off my shades as I passed my bathroom. It had once been the men's bathroom, the traditional fixtures replaced with a washer and dryer, a small sink, and a shower. This one was mine. The women's bathroom across the hall had been converted into a more conventional bathroom with a tub. That one was Ivy's. Separate bathrooms made things a heck of a lot easier.

  Not liking the way Glenn was making silent judgments, I closed the doors to both Ivy's and my bedrooms as I passed them. They had once been clergy offices. He shuffled into the kitchen behind me, spending a moment or two taking it all in. Most people did.

  The kitchen was huge, and part of the reason I had agreed to live in a church with a vampire. It had two stoves, an institutional-size fridge, and a large center island overhung with a rack of gleaming utensils and pots. The stainless steel shone, and the counter space was expansive. With the exception of my Beta in the brandy snifter on the windowsill, and the massive antique wooden table Ivy used for a computer desk, it looked like the set of a cooking show. It was the last thing one would expect attached to the back of church—and I loved it.

  I set the canister of fish on the table. "Why don't you sit down," I said, wanting to call the Howlers. "I'll be right back." I hesitated as my manners clawed their way up to the forefront of my mind. "Do you want a drink…or something?" I asked.

  Glenn's brown eyes were unreadable. "No, ma'am." His voice was stiff, with more than a hint of sarcasm, making me want to smack him a good one and tell him to lighten up. I'd deal with his attitude later. Right now I had to call the Howlers.

  "Have a seat, then," I said, letting some of my own bother show. "I'll be right back."

  The living room was just off the kitchen on the other side of the hallway. As I searched for the coach's number in my bag, I hit the message button on the answering machine.

  "Hey, Ray-ray. It's me," came Nick's voice, sounding tinny through the recording. Shooting a glance at the hallway, I turned it down so Glenn couldn't hear. "I've got 'em. Third row back on the far right. Now you'll have to make good on your claim and get us backstage passes." There was a pause, then, "I still don't believe you've met him. Talk to you later."

  My breath came in anticipation as it clicked off. I had met Takata four years ago when he spotted me in the balcony at a solstice concert. I had thought I was going to be kicked out when a thick Were in a staff shirt escorted me backstage while the warm-up band played.

  Turned out Takata had seen my frizzy hair and wanted to know if it was spelled or natural, and if natu
ral, did I have a charm to get something that wild to lie flat? Starstuck and repeatedly embarrassing myself, I admitted it was natural, though I had encouraged it that night, then gave him one of the charms my mother and I spent my entire high school career perfecting to tame it. He laughed then, unwinding one of his blond dreadlocks to show me his hair was worse than mine, static making it float and stick to everything. I hadn't straightened my hair since.

  My friends and I had watched the show from backstage, and afterward, Takata and I led his bodyguards on a merry chase through Cincinnati the whole night. I was sure he would remember me, but I hadn't a clue as to how to get in touch with him. It wasn't as if I could call him up and say, "Remember me? We had coffee on the solstice four years ago and discussed how to straighten curls."

  A smile twitched the corner of my mouth as I fingered the answering machine. He was all right for an old guy. 'Course, anyone over the age of thirty had seemed old to me at the time.

  Nick's was the only message, and I found myself pacing as I picked up the phone and punched in the Howlers' number. I plucked at my shirt as the number rang. After running from those Weres, I had to take a shower.

  There was a click, and a low voice nearly growled, " 'Ello. Ya got the Howlers."

  "Coach!" I exclaimed, recognizing the Were's voice. "Good news."

  There was a slight pause. "Who is this?" he asked. "How did you get this number?"

  I started. "This is Rachel Morgan," I said slowly. "Of Vampiric Charms?"

  There was a half-heard shout directed off the phone, "Which one of you dogs called the escort service? You're athletes, for God's sake. Can't you pin your own bitches without having to buy them?"

  "Wait!" I said before he could hang up. "You hired me to find your mascot."

  "Oh!" There was a pause, and I heard several war whoops in the background. "Right."

  I briefly weighed the trouble of changing our name against the fuss Ivy would raise: a thousand glossy black business cards, the page ad in the phone book, the matched oversized mugs she had imprinted our name on in gold foil. It wasn't going to happen.