Companions (9 page)

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Maybe he — or she — wasn't telling the truth. Maybe DesertDog was boasting about who his vampire was, or he was lying about a dead vampire in Denver. There were lots of maybes and plenty of reasons to hide facts in their tightly guarded little world. Their world. Not hers. Just because she didn't want to be a vampire and was ignored by her master didn't mean she didn't want to know what was going on.

Curiosity made her a good detective.

And killed cats.

I'm a dog person,
she told herself, remembering the time Steve had turned into a wolf, or at least made her think he'd turned into one. Selena typed, I'm not sure what mine is.

How can a companion not be sure?

Long story.

I bet.

Lef s return to the sloppily killed vampire. You know details?

Head and heart cut out. Method was sound, but other stuff was stupid.

Method?

The critter was killed in a way I would have done it, but I didn't. I wouldn't have left the body out for anybody to find.

Think some mortal's trying to expose the underneath world?

Maybe.

Or maybe it's one of them.

Maybe.

What do you think? Selena asked.

Why do you want to know?

She was glad he'd denied involvement in the crime — Was killing a vampire a crime? — before she asked. She didn't question his claim, not just yet. Should she tell DesertDog about the dead one she'd delivered to Ariel? Should she make an attempt to spread the word around the vampire community through the companions? It was Ariel's business, right? It was not a companion's place to —

While she continued to debate in her head, her fingers typed, There's a headless, heartless vampire in Chicago.

Good. The fewer bloodsuckers we're going to have to nail when our time comes, the better.

You really believe that? Bring on the revolution? That things will be different when we take over?

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Don't you?

I'm asking the questions.

You sound like a cop.

I take that as a compliment.

Selena knew, even as she sent the words, that they were a mistake, but she couldn't call them back once the Enter key was pressed. DesertDog was off-line the moment he read the message. Apparently he didn't like cops. She swore and turned off the computer. She'd been stupid, but at least she had some information from the other companion. What was she going to do with it? Merely asking the question gave her a headache.

She took aspirin, poured herself a tall glass of iced coffee, put some CDs in the stereo carousel, picked up a yellow legal pad and pen, and did what she always did when a case was giving her trouble: She let her mind wander and began to doodle. It was one of those
Trust the Force
things she'd learned to do when she accepted the fact that she really was psychic.

The last thing she expected to see when she came out of her trancelike state was that she'd written her Aunt Catie's phone number over and over and over. She didn't know what it meant, but she supposed it was better than drawing little hearts with her and Steve's names in them.

"Let's have a look."

The Enforcer of the City sneered. He did it very well, Istvan thought, especially after being grabbed by the hair and dragged down here from his lover's bed. "You have no right to — "

Istvan slammed him back against the basement wall with a casual swat. The impact left a spiderweb pattern of cracks in the brick foundation of the Victorian-era building that Ariel's companion ran as a trendy northside restaurant. "I'm not here to steal your lunch, fairy boy."

"Elf," Ariel corrected, with a toss of his pretty white hair.

"Whatever." Istvan rather liked Ariel, he respected his abilities, but it was Istvan's policy never to cut any of the undead any slack. He didn't blame Chicago's Enforcer for resenting the wicked
dhamphir's
walking into his private storage crib and making arrogant demands.
If I were anyone but me, I'd hate
me, too.
He grinned and made it an insult by showing mating fangs like a total alpha jerk. He pointed toward the row of meat lockers. "You want to pay for the repairs when I rip the doors off?"

Ariel ignored his smile and didn't bother answering Istvan's question. He went to a door and worked the combination lock. A moment after Ariel opened the locker, Istvan grabbed him by the back of the neck and took the Enforcer inside it. It was very cold within the shallow walk-in freezer, with barely enough room for two living vampires to stand side by side and look upon the remains of the dead one. The corpse did not look as though a Nighthawk had been at it. One sniff told Istvan that the corpse was fairly fresh, two nights old at most. So, the mortal killer
was
here. It was nice to see that his guess that there was something rotten in the county of Cook had paid off. He almost wished he hadn't turned around somewhere in the middle of Iowa and headed back, but if you didn't trust your instincts, what was the use of having them?

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Istvan picked up the head by its long, silky brown hair. "Who?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

Istvan felt how Ariel hated making the admission. "Local strig?"

"You're not the first one to ask that." Ariel took in a sharp breath, as though trying to draw the words back.

Istvan tasted raw fear as he turned a very fierce stare on Chicago's Enforcer. Ariel fought meeting his gaze and failed. Ariel's eyes became suddenly very dark and very wide, and his strongly shielded mind opened to Istvan like warm butter yielding to a knife.
Who brought you the body?

Did he really have to ask?

Flashes of a face appeared in Ariel's mind, though he tried to hide it. A conversation over an open car trunk spilled into Istvan's head. Ariel's thoughts managed at last to form into coherent words.
How did
you know?

It's a
dhamphir
thing,
was all he'd reply to the Enforcer. "Who is she?" he asked out loud, just to see what Ariel would answer.

"She's a Homicide detective." Ariel knew that wasn't what Istvan meant. Istvan had only to quirk an eyebrow to start Ariel babbling. "I don't know
who
she belongs to! All I know is that she's from a witch family. She knows every nest in the city but doesn't bother us."

"And you don't bother her?" Istvan smiled a thin, dangerous smile. "Why haven't you killed her, Enforcer of the City? What would the Council say?"

"I enforce the Laws! How can I kill her without knowing who her master is? She's not mine to punish or hunt. Strigoi are my rightful prey, not mortal property. When I find her master, I'll make him deal with her."

Good, honest answers. Points to Chicago's righteous, law-abiding Enforcer. Istvan noticed that his claws had grown quite a bit while he listened to Ariel, and hot rage bubbled very close to the surface at anyone daring to threaten
his
companion. He battled down the anger, reminding himself that it only stemmed from the link forged in blood and sex by the ridiculous reproductive drive that had finally caught him. The truth was, it would be better for him and Selena if someone did kill her. Only that someone wasn't going to be Ariel the Elf!

He retracted his claws and said quite calmly, "I'll deal with the woman."

"You mean you'll deal with her — "

"Did I say you could contradict me?" He looked deeply once more into Ariel's eyes and spoke to his soul,
you… you will forget you've ever heard of her, have ever seen her, ever thought of her.
He stepped back and bounced the dead vampire head from hand to hand while he gave Ariel a moment to come to himself. When the Enforcer was fully in control of himself once more, Istvan tossed him the head. "The case is mine," Istvan informed him. "You can keep the meat."

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Caetlyn Bailey was not the black sheep of the family, it was Selena's mother who was the despair of the Bailey clan, having rebelliously run off to become an accountant and marry a cop. The Baileys were, to put it mildly, eccentrics in the middle-class American landscape in which Selena's mom had tried to disappear for a while. She had settled into the prosaic world of the Crawford family and been happy to be wife, mother, and career woman for awhile. But by the time Selena was born, she'd mellowed to the point of taking the old broom and wand out of the closet and called Aunt Catie in to instruct her kid in at least
some
of the Baileys' way of life. There were a lot of things Mom had drawn the line at, and many things Dad was never going to know about Mom's side of the family. Not that he was Darren to Mom's Samantha, but, all in all, relations between the Crawfords and the Baileys were kindly and close.

Selena thought it was fortunate that Mom had reconciled with her past and her family, especially now that Selena was an adult, and Mom no longer tried to shield her from anything remotely weird. There were
lots
of things Mom didn't know and didn't want to know. "I'm with Mom on that," Selena muttered as she approached the door of Aunt Catie's shop. She didn't have a choice, of course, and that was what always pissed her off the most about all this magic, supernatural, paranormal crap.

Her cousin Paloma was behind the counter in the public part of the shop. This was the part that sold the New Age books and gifts, jewelry, scented oils, and other innocuous stuff. The second floor was used for psychic readings and classes. Aunt Catie lived on the third floor. The basement was where every real magical practitioner in town came for their supplies. Aunt Catie actually had a catalog she sent out to these special customers. As far as Selena knew, her aunt didn't yet have a web site, but that was inevitable, wasn't it?

"Why don't people believe there are monsters under the bed?" was the first thing Selena said when she saw that Paloma was alone in the shop.

"Not to mention in the bed," Paloma answered with a twinkle in her eyes that was all too knowing. "If we're lucky."

Selena didn't blush; she knew Paloma wasn't talking about vampires. "You're still studying sex magic, aren't you?"

"Tantra." Paloma gestured toward the stairs and held a finger to her lips. "Aunt Catie does not approve.

Wait'll she sees the Hindu god I'm bringing to Karen's wedding."

For a moment, Selena considered asking if Paloma was being literal or metaphorical, then remembered that her cousin was dating a physician from Bangladesh, and left it alone.

"You have a date for the wedding yet?" Paloma asked. "Want me to set you up with someone?"

"No. No." Selena glanced at the stairs. "Aunt Catie working?"

Paloma nodded. She looked at her watch. "Late appointment. I'm getting ready to close up and go practice some Tantra."

"You go. I'll close."

Paloma grinned, grabbed her purse, and was out the door a moment later. Selena came around the
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counter and opened the cash register. All the Bailey cousins worked for Aunt Catie at one time or another. She knew the drill for closing up the shop. That included the warding spells that were the very last duty to be performed at the end of the business day. Aunt Catie was always very concerned about burglars.

Her concern was that anyone who broke in wouldn't have their soul sucked out by some grimoire or magical tool stored in the basement. When Selena had commended her for such compassion, Aunt Catie had replied that she didn't give a damn about any would-be thieves, she simply didn't want to spoil the spirits that dwelled in the basement. "Next thing you know, they'll be expecting human sacrifices, and
we
don't do that sort of thing."

Selena had been a teenager and a thorough nonbeliever when she and her aunt had that conversation.

She'd been shocked, amused, and certain her aunt was joking. Selena Crawford did as she was told, but to her, Caetlyn Bailey's profession was some sort of profitable scam. Working in the shop had been a fun part-time job, much better than slaving at a fast food place. How she wished now she'd paid more attention.

As if on cue, her aunt's client came downstairs as Selena finished all but the last part of the ritual. The woman was distracted and thoughtful. She didn't notice that Selena wasn't the same woman who'd been in the shop when she arrived. Selena gave her a bright smile, ushered her out, then waved a smoking stick of incense in the prescribed pattern, rushed through the ritual words, and headed upstairs, trailing a cloud of sandal-wood behind her.

The room at the end of the short hall where Aunt Catie did her readings did not have a particularly otherworldly look to it. It was comfortably furnished with a couch and chairs, bookcases, Tiffany-style lamps, and low tables. About the only thing that looked mystical was a beautifully done piece of calligraphy in an intricately carved frame on one blue-painted wall. The calligraphy read, in Gaelic,
"I see
dead people
—
all major credit cards accepted."
And, oh, yeah, there was an Irish harp in one corner, and an old photo of an Irish traveling cart on top of one of the bookcases. For Aunt Catie, these touches were to remind her of her roots and keep her honest.

Aunt Catie didn't glance up when Selena came in. Her head was bent over a tarot spread. She said, "Put that thing out, Selena."

Selena backed out of the room long enough to douse water over the incense stick in the second floor's small washroom, then strode back in to confront her aunt. "So," she said as her aunt scooped up the cards, "what am I doing here?"

Catie Bailey gave a dramatic little cough and waved a hand in front of her nose. "Stinking up my inner sane turn, for one thing." She stood. "I take it Paloma is off to practice sexual gymnastics." She smirked.