All Your Wishes (8 page)

Bruno had put so much of himself into those knives that they were practically a part of him. He could sense when they needed a recharge without even looking at them.

The blades were beautiful and dangerous—just like the man.

I missed him. I was worried about him. A big part of me wished I'd insisted on going to New Jersey along with him. If I had, I'd know how he was taking things and I wouldn't be here, dealing with a case that was an obvious hairball. But when I'd offered, he'd turned me down. If I was being really honest with myself, I'd admit that had hurt more than a little. We were engaged, weren't we? No, I wasn't wearing a ring, but we'd been seriously talking marriage for a while now. Didn't that count? Didn't it make me part of the family?

I thought again about calling him. Of course, if he was at the hospital he'd have shut off his phone. And I didn't want to talk to his voice mail if I didn't have to.

Oh, hell. I hoped he was okay. Well, as okay as he could be, under the circumstances.

Life is awfully hard sometimes.

I closed my eyes, taking a second to send my thoughts in his direction. My grandfather had siren bloodlines and my great-aunt Lopaka was their high queen. I inherited not only my looks, but the siren “call,” a type of telepathic ability. I'm not good at it, but I've been practicing, and my cousin gave me a ring that has given me better strength and range.

As I expected, he was at the hospital, at his mother's bedside, sitting vigil along with Matty and most of their other brothers. I carefully pulled my mind from his without interrupting.

So voice mail it was. I whipped out my cell phone, waited for the beep, and said, “Hi. It's me. I wound up taking a job and am going to be out of town for a few days. I'll try to stay in touch. Tell the family ‘hi' for me. Love you. Call when you get a chance and let me know how your mom's doing, okay?”

It was kind of a lame message, but I didn't really know what to say. I was worried about him and his mom. I was even more worried about our relationship. I couldn't really apologize—I didn't think I'd done anything wrong. Then again, neither did he. I just wished … oh, hell, I wasn't sure what I wished. But it would have been good to talk to him, just to hear his voice. Corny as that sounds, it was the truth. But I knew I really didn't have time to chat—that might get me, or my client, killed.

I slid my phone back into my jacket pocket as Rahim, finished sealing the plane away, came up beside me. Hefting his duffel onto one shoulder, he took his magical bag in the other hand and led me toward the office. I stayed about half a pace behind, keeping my eyes open, checking out the surroundings, looking for anything or anyone that seemed out of place. There was nothing unusual going on. The private plane area wasn't heavily populated at the moment and everybody seemed to be busy going about mundane business. Still, I kept an eye out as we passed through the automatic doors and into the building.

At the desk, Rahim filed his paperwork, then pulled a credit card out of his wallet to pay. I debated telling him to use cash. Credit cards are so easy to trace. But what was the point? We'd logged a flight plan and we were visiting a man the villains would be expecting us to see.

Ever since 9/11 and the big threat of terrorism, it's hard for a law-abiding person to go anywhere or do anything without leaving tracks. I suppose that makes life harder for the crooks, too, but I've never been sure it's worth the loss of civil liberties to the rest of us.

“What are you thinking?” Rahim asked.

“Nothing important.” I replied. For a second I thought he'd argue with me, demand that I answer. I was getting the impression he was way too used to getting his own way. Unfortunately, that's not an uncommon situation among the type of folks who wind up needing my services. I gave him the polite, shiny, and utterly meaningless smile I use to settle clients down. As a result, while he compressed his lips in displeasure, he didn't argue, silently taking his receipt from the attendant before leading me out a different set of doors.

The rain had stopped, which was nice. But the wind was still gusty, tugging at my jacket, pulling it open. I didn't want to flash my weapons at every passerby, so I took a moment to button up, reminding myself that it would cost me an extra couple of seconds on the draw.

My client seemed to have spotted his ride and was striding purposefully toward the passenger pickup area. Looking ahead, I saw a man waiting there who looked much like Rahim would should he be lucky enough to live another fifty or so years. The older man's hair had gone silver; his skin was leathered and worn with time. Wearing jeans and a lightweight canvas windbreaker, he stood next to a huge vintage Cadillac, a classic metal behemoth, complete with tail fins.

“Is that your grandfather?”

Rahim grinned, the expression taking a dozen years off his face. “Yes, it is.” He waved vigorously and the old man responded in kind.

I sighed inwardly. That car might as well have had concentric circles painted on it. Fire-engine red, with tail fins and an abundance of polished chrome, it was beautiful, unique, and
noticeable.
No doubt it was properly registered, with the address of our destination listed in the DMV database. Damn it anyway.

“You're unhappy.” Rahim spoke very softly, keeping a smile on his face as we strolled toward our ride.

“Even if they didn't anticipate us coming, it wouldn't take much to trace your plane from California to here, and the first thing they'll do is look at your relatives. Bad enough we're here. That car—”

“It's his pride and joy,” Rahim hissed. “It will be fine.”

I didn't believe that for a minute, and I was fairly sure he didn't either. Rahim could—possibly—afford to be more worried about the old man's feelings than his own safety. I couldn't.

“Trust me. The protections on the car are stellar.” He was trying to reassure me, which was nice, but I wasn't buying it. I could accept that he needed to meet with the old man. I would have preferred we do it somewhere neutral and discreet. This was neither. Still, like it or not, we were doing this. Better to get it done with as quickly and cleanly as possible. And then Rahim and I were going to have a long, serious talk about listening to me, planning ahead, and taking appropriate precautions. Judging from what I'd seen so far, he wouldn't like it. He didn't have to. He just had to do it.

I very deliberately moved ahead of Rahim, greeting his grandfather with a smile and a handshake, using the hand I'd discreetly sprayed with holy water from one of the One-Shot water pistols tucked into my jacket. If he was the real grandpa, he might be offended by a soggy shake—but if this was a demon spawn, wearing Grandpa Patel as a disguise, the holy water would give it away.

Grandpa passed the test, eyes widening, then narrowing as he dried his hand on his pant leg. He muttered something under his breath in a language I didn't recognize. I didn't think it was Hindi, but I wasn't linguist enough to guess what it might be.

“Grandfather, you know she had to check. It is her job, after all.” Rahim's voice was calm as he embraced the older man, but the look he gave me over his grandfather's shoulder was less than friendly.

When he stepped back, he said, “Grandfather, this is my bodyguard, Celia Graves. Celia, this is my grandfather, Pradeep Patel.”

I smiled. Pradeep didn't. He looked at me shrewdly and said, “You don't like my car.”

“It's a very beautiful car,” I countered, my tone professional and calm. “But it is also very noticeable, and probably properly registered to you. Rahim's enemies will be keeping an eye on you, since you are family and also an expert in matters related to the djinn,” I continued. “I had a very noticeable car once. My enemies used it to find me. Despite my having the best protections available, they captured and tortured me.”

Rahim winced. His grandfather didn't. There was a long moment of silence as the arrogant old man tried to stare me down. Finally, he said, “If you are right about this, I will eat my hat.” Such an old-fashioned expression could have been funny, but wasn't—his words were precise, his tone crisp and bitter.

Rahim opened his mouth to say something, but I waved him to silence.

I counted to ten, biting my tongue until it bled so that I wouldn't say any of the snarktastic things that sprang to mind. When I had control of myself, I said, “Sir, I am not a seer. I don't know what will happen. I have to plan for what
could.
My job is to advise your grandson of risks as well as protect him from them.”

He made a disgruntled
hmpf
sound, then grabbed my bags and put them in the trunk. Rahim joined him to stow his own bags. I stepped back until I had a better angle … and watched the two of them have a brief, discreet argument about me before getting into the car.

Rahim took the backseat, which left me riding next to Gramps. Oh freaking goody. I kept my expression neutral and reached for the door handle. The instant my fingers touched the metal, I got a jolt of pure magic like a hot icepick rammed through my hand.

Wow, the car really had
stellar
protections. Ow.

I didn't gasp, or swear, but it wasn't easy to just climb in and act like that hadn't hurt, and part of me was really annoyed at Grandpa Pradeep's smirk: annoyed enough that I began to notice the pulse point at the base of his neck, just a thin bit of skin, stretched tight over the arteries that held warm, salty blood.

Shit. “I need to eat. Now. Where's the nearest grocery?” I tore my gaze away from the old man's neck, resolutely looking out through the windshield. My jaw was clamped shut so tight that my words sounded odd.

The old man stared at me for a long moment. When he spoke, there was none of the previous hostility in his tone. “I can get you there in ten minutes. Will that be fast enough?”

“Do it.” Rahim said, adding “please” as an afterthought.

Just as well. I wasn't sure I trusted myself to talk.

 

8

I
was hungry
enough to be blood-lusting. It had only been a bit over four hours since my last meal, but I had screwed up my mental calculations. I hadn't taken the time change into account. We'd headed east and I'd lost two hours in the air. That put us close to sundown.

Worse, I'd used my vamp powers for healing earlier in the day, and hitting the wards on Pradeep's car had pushed at my inner bat. Damn it. I should have anticipated at least some of all that. I felt stupid, embarrassed, and more than a little angry at myself. I was also unhappy with Grandpa Pradeep. Those protections of his had given the bat inside me a big shove and it wanted so badly to shove back. Still, I knew I could control myself long enough to get some food, provided it didn't take much longer than Pradeep's promised ten minutes.

The tension in the vehicle was palpable. We rode in silence.

We'd been driving for four or five minutes and had made it onto Central Avenue, the Treasure Island Causeway, when I spotted them. They were very good, or I'd have caught sight of them sooner. There were three cars, working a tight pattern.

“We have a tail. It's a three-car team: the navy Buick, the silver Taurus, and the black SUV.” I concentrated as I spoke, focusing to bring my vampire abilities to the fore. It was easy—too easy. My vision shifted, becoming more acute; I was able to see clearly into the blue sedan even though it was in the far lane and one car ahead. The rain had slowed to a mist, but the wind was heavy enough that I could hear it whistling around the car; it was keeping the mist from obscuring visibility.

The woman in the sedan's passenger seat wasn't pretty, but she was striking. More to the point, she held herself like an athlete or a fighter, and while I couldn't see most of the bulk of her body, I noticed where her jacket bulged under her seatbelt, probably bending around a weapon. Her dark hair was pulled back from a sharp-featured face with alert, hazel eyes. She was looking at us; a flicker of frustrated annoyance played across her features before she turned to say something to the driver.

“Are you sure?” Rahim's voice, behind me, was tense. He leaned forward, putting his head between his grandfather's and mine.

“Yes.”

“I haven't noticed anything.” Pradeep wasn't exactly arguing, more reserving judgment.

The cars were closing in. “We need to get off this road before we're forced onto the bridge.”

There wasn't a lot of time to react. People were driving carefully on the wet roads. Traffic was heavy and we were in the left lane. There was a little grass island to our left, but it was filled with trees and street lamps placed at just the wrong intervals. Even if Pradeep jumped the curb, he wouldn't be able to run that obstacle course in this boat of a car. That meant turning right. The next section of Causeway Bridge was in sight, two blocks ahead.

Pradeep began to swear as the trio of vehicles closed in. I couldn't understand the words, but the tone was unmistakable. I guessed he believed me now. Our enemies knew they'd been spotted, so all pretense was gone. They were trying to surround us.

The older Patel hauled the big old Caddy into a hard right, forcing an opening, to the accompaniment of slamming brakes and blaring horns. Braking hard, Pradeep tried to cut onto the 80th Street exit, but the SUV beat us to the punch, positing itself diagonally across the lanes.

The Buick was right beside us on the left with its passenger-side window down. I shoved Rahim back behind the seat and down with my left hand as I fought the damned button of my jacket with my right, trying to draw my Colt.

Pradeep was no fool. He ducked, out of my line of fire, keeping his head only high enough to peek through the gap between the steering wheel and dash as he shouted, “No, don't! The protections will keep the bullet inside the car.”