Disenchanted (10 page)

Surprise, surprise, across the street stands Mr. Alric Brand, cell pressed to his ear, his companion in giant four
–
legged form. The
dog
seems a little more than agitated as Frack shoves me into the back of their car.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The ride downtown is purgatory, on the way to my own personal hel. Frick and Frack speak too quietly for me to hear and all I can do is sit and shake, sweating like a pig despite the air conditioner.

My stomach feels like the time The Sisters let me eat practically a whole bottle of cucumber dressing on my salad then a box of root beer popsicles. Hey, I was five and learned my lesson by spending most of the night praying to the porcelain god. I only hope I don’t have a repeat all over their fancy leather interior.

I’m having one of those,
what did I do to deserve this,
moments. Whose hair did I screw up to make them mad enough to sic the NTF on me? Did they have a bad reaction to one of my cosmetics? Not that any of those would rate a visit from NTF; it’s more of an Iowa Department of Public Health issue.

We’d passed our last inspection with only a minor infraction of one stylist neglecting to sanitize his clippers between uses. As far as I know there haven’t been any complaints filed against us. All of our licenses are up to date.

A bucket of sweat drenches me. Had they somehow put two and two together and get three victims who visited my salon? Do they think I’m involved with the attacks? That they could think I’m The Collector is enough to make me snort. Frack turns around and glares at me, an educated guess, considering I can’t read his expression through the dark glasses, not that it matters. We’ve arrived.

***

All the mystery surrounding NTF headquarters is greatly diminished by their decorating choices. It’s like walking into a concrete bunker. No windows, no magazines on the small table in reception, not even annoying elevator music. The only attempt at warmth, a small plant on the front desk. Wilted and brown, but at least it’s a color besides grey. You literally feel your mood hit cloudy–day–depression mixed with a touch of claustrophobia.

I have the urge to raise my hand and shout,
jawohl
as the beefy receptionist scowls at me from behind mannishly–thick–framed glasses. Give me credit, I don’t, but I have to bite my lip to keep from giggling. I gently stroke the leaves of the wilted plant as I pass, bringing a look of horror to the receptionist’s face. Geez, it’s not like I could do any more harm to the poor thing.

One of my escorts opens the only door, besides the one I want to use, revealing what looks like an endless corridor. As I pass through the door, I give that poor browned plant one last look and stumble forward as Frack slams into me. I’m sure my expression mirrors the front desk Nazi’s shocked face. The plant isn’t brown any more. The leaves are green and tiny buds are appearing, but before I can bother questioning what happened Frack pushes me down the hall.

Guess what? More grey, this time cinderblock highlighted by flickering fluorescent tubes overhead. Every so often, we pass a steel door, of course, no windows to allow a peek. That claustrophobia thing presses in as my captors make a Keely sandwich coming to a stop in front of one of those nasty doors. Frick slips his passkey through the slot and a buzzer sounds as the door opens.

My stomach is twirling, my heart beating so loudly I’m sure they can hear it. This is it. It’s all over. I’ll go in that room and never come out. I try to take a step back. Frack gives me a little push and I stumble over the threshold.

The furnishings are even sparser than the entrance of the building. One chair on either side of a table, just like in the movies, but no swinging bare bulb, just the unflattering fluorescent lights. One of the boys grasps my arm, moves me to the chair farthest from the door and none too gently suggests I sit.

Okay, I can handle that. What I can’t handle are the manacles built into the tabletop. A numbing tingle races up the back of my calf as I bump the leg of the chair, discovering another set. God’s, I hope they aren’t going to use them.

The first real show of emotion from either of my guards is the grin on Frack’s face when he sees me eyeing them.

“I don’t think we will have to use those, Miss Fey,” says Frick, taking the chair across from me.

I nod in agreement, swallowing hard enough to make my throat hurt. I
feel
the spells, something to make a prisoner
behave
wrapped around another to drain, or contain any Talents.

Frick smiles and rests his forearms on the table, a feeble attempt at friendliness. Frack stands blocking the door, feet slightly apart, arms crossed. I do a bad job of preventing a shudder and his lips curl upward making me shiver even more. Maybe it’s my imagination working overtime, but I get the distinct feeling he’d love it if I tried to escape.

Frick’s questions all come out like the teacher in the
Charlie Brown
cartoons,
wah wah wahwah wah
. My biggest distraction is those stinking glasses! We’re inside, take the damn things off. I mean, rude, right? What are they trying to hide with them, or is it just another attempt at intimidation?

“Miss Fey?”

I give myself a mental shake as Frick leans toward me.

“Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

Biting my lower lip, I shake my head.

He sighs, removing the glasses and I’m wishing he’d left them on. I’ve been told the pale silver of my eyes is disconcerting, but they’re nothing like this. White eyes stare at me, not the milky, or cloudy look of cataracts, or the blind. I mean totally white, no iris, no pupil, just white. I’ve never been this close to a tracker before, never wanted to be. Those eyes just amp up the desire to be as far away from him as possible.

“Then let’s try this again. Do you know Eric Sampson?”

Again, I shake my head, looking at the tabletop, the far wall, even Frack, anything to keep from looking into those spooky eyes.

“The name doesn’t ring a bell, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been in the salon. We see a lot of people.”

“Maybe this will jog your memory.” He slides a photo across the table.

Wincing, I pull it closer. “It’s pretty hard to tell with all the bruises, but like I said he could have come into the salon.”

“So you’re saying you know the boy.”

“No, at the risk of repeating myself, I said it was possible. Again, we see a lot of people in the salon.”

“Like these people?”

He slides more photos toward me, rambling off their names, but he doesn’t have to. I know all three of them.

“They were in your salon too, weren’t they?”

I nod, sniffling and wiping my eyes. Something a little more substantial than pictures clunks down on the table.

“What about these, do they look familiar? They were found at the scene of the last attack,” he says, one finger sliding it toward me.

I can see what they are, even through the plastic baggie. My name visible under the gore coating the blades.

My head reels as I picture myself in an orange jumpsuit, one of those formless ones that do nothing for the figure not to mention how unflattering it’d be with my coloring.

This could completely destroy my life, even if they get it through their thick skulls I have nothing to do with it. Look at the wrongly accused from the past, forever tainted by accusations of crimes never committed. Their lives and reputations are worth less than gum stuck to your shoe.

The picture of the boy shoved under my watery gaze, a finger punctuating every word against the table.

“Those scissors—”

“Shears, they’re called shears.” Stupid I know, but it comes out all the same.

“Those
shears
were used to snip off this child’s Talent.”

No. My mind says it and my lips form it, but it doesn’t come out. “What was his Talent?” I finally manage to whisper.

“He was an incubus, or would have been when his Talents came into their full power.”

The word snip is totally inappropriate considering how dull those shears are. I know from experience. It hurt like hel when I snipped my own fingers, while cutting with them. You don’t feel the pain of a cut with sharp shears. It takes seeing the blood, or possibly hanging skin to know you’ve cut yourself. That’s why they’d been retired.

That boy’s Talent was hacked off, an excruciatingly painful way to remove it. If you haven’t already guessed where an incubus’s Talent lies, use your imagination.

The poor thing hadn’t even reached puberty. Why someone would attack the child before his Talents had fully manifested I have no idea. It just goes to show you how perverse and twisted this asshole is, unless my fears are correct. If he’s collecting and using Talents this boy would have done him no good. That would make this a copycat. Doesn’t really matter if it’s The Collector, or a cheap imitation. They think it’s me.

We all look at the door as a buzzer sounds.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The door opens, revealing a slick–looking dude arguing with other MIBs in lawyerese about my release.

Frack in linebacker stance, is obviously spoiling for a fight and the others don’t seem too keen on letting me just walk out.

“Is Miss Fey charged with a crime?” Lawyer man moves past the guard at the door.

Who in hel sent a lawyer, especially one with a suit that costs more than a year’s profits?

Frick, slips his glasses back on, barely able to contain his distaste. Wonder if it’s lawyers in general, or this one specifically. “There is evidence that leads us to believe she knows something about The Collector. At least three of the victims were clients of her salon.”

Bonus points, I guess. He didn’t say they think I am The Collector, just that I know something. The keep–your–mouth–shut look the lawyer gives me isn’t necessary. The baggie laying there in front of me is motivation enough. If it wasn’t, then what the contents were used for sure is.

“Circumstantial,” he says, waving at their evidence. “Just because the victims came to her business establishment does not mean she knows their attacker.”

Frick picks up the baggy like it’s filled with doggy droppings. “And these?”

“Again, circumstantial, anyone could have purchased a pair of shears and engraved her name on them.”

“They are covered with her fingerprints.”

He shrugs. “Isn’t it possible they were taken from her workstation?”

“Hey, are you saying we took them?” asks Frack, so obviously the brawn and not the brains of the duo. That’s what happens to many of the berserkers hired by the NTF. They are forced to induce the rage so often their ability to reason is wiped out, similar to the side effects of steroids.

Frick sighs. I’m betting he’s wishing his partner would disappear, or at least keep his mouth shut as a slow smile creeps across lawyer man’s face.

“You have two choices, charge her, or let her go. Clearly, the shears and recent visits to her salon are not enough, or you would have her in those.” He motions to the manacles and I bite the inside of my cheek.

Lawyer man dismisses Frick and Frack, coming to my side of the table. He helps me up, gently wrapping his arm around my shoulders, leads me to the door. “You’ve been traumatized enough today, Miss Fey, let’s get you home.”

Home, yeah, that sounds good. I hunch my shoulders, feeling every eye on us as we walk through the door. A part of me waits for, don’t
leave town
, but it doesn’t come.

The bright sunlight is nowhere near as blinding as the cameras that flash the moment I step out of NTF headquarters.

The man with the expensive suit steps in front, a shield between the crowd of reporters and me, then two others join us. These two are similar in build to Frack, probably berserkers also. They make good bodyguards and excellent bulldozers as we mow our way through the crowd.

Someone pushes my head down and hustles me into the waiting limo. Yes, limo. For a moment, I feel like a celebrity, and then reality slaps me. These people think I’m a criminal. Not just any criminal, but The Collector. I can just imagine the headlines now,
Local Stylist Center of Collector Controversy
.

The nightly newscast will be even more humiliating when it reaches out beyond the greater Des Moines area and my family and Annya get to watch my
celebrity
. I can hear the disappointment in The Sisters’ voices already.
We didn’t bring you up that way.
Annya will try and make light of the situation.
Couldn’t you find a better way to get on TV?

Giggles build to hysterical laughter complete with tears streaming down my face. I bury my face in my hands; laughter mixed with sobbing wracks my body. There’s a reassuring pat on my shoulder. My new lawyer, I’m guessing. It only makes me laugh harder.

“I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”