Doomsday Can Wait (15 page)

I glanced around. Not yet dawn, no one was in the parking lot, thank goodness. I didn't want to explain why I had a pet wolf.

Sure, I'd tell anyone who saw him that Sawyer was a dog, and maybe in this area—city, not country—people would believe me. But if I'd been in rural Wisconsin, Minnesota, Michigan, definitely Canada, not only would people laugh in my face, they'd probably shoot Sawyer before I even had the chance to lie.

Myself, I thought wolves were beautiful, or at least I had until I'd turned into one. Now I thought they were practical.

Wolves can run at speeds of up to forty miles an hour and can cover a hundred and twenty-five miles in a day. They've been known to follow prey at a run for five miles and then accelerate. They're good fighters, better killers, and in my new life, there were some situations where only a wolf would do.

However, folks in the northern reaches of civilization considered wolves varmints, and they shot them if they could get away with it. Sure, the species was endangered in some places, protected in others, but tell that to a farmer who'd lost several sheep or a calf. He'd blast the wolf into the next dimension, then bury the thing in the woods where no one would ever find it.

I remained at the open door in a towel, unwilling to take my eyes off the field where Sawyer had disappeared to do whatever wolves did in fields. What if a trucker with a rifle showed up?

Not that a bullet would have much effect on a skin-walker, or so I'd been led to believe. Though tales of Sawyer's indestructibility might have been greatly exaggerated just to keep me from blowing his brains out.

Still, that Jimmy hadn't ended him spoke volumes. I didn't need to be psychic to know that if Sanducci could have killed Sawyer, he would have and vice versa. Which was why Jimmy had gone looking for him in the first place. When he hadn't found him, Jimmy had moved on to Plan B.

While I waited for Sawyer, I retrieved my cell phone and hit speed dial for Megan. Anyone else, I'd be worried that I might wake her, but Megan was always up long before dawn. She said it was her only "alone time."

"You know, don't you?" Megan didn't bother with hello. Why waste words when you had caller ID?

I frowned. "Know what?"

"I was going to call you as soon as the sun came up."

Unlike Megan, I didn't need alone time, and getting up before the sun was considered cruel and unusual punishment. Or at least it had been before I'd gone on call twenty-four/seven for Nephilim disposal. Two months ago, if I didn't get out of bed, someone might have to wait for their beer; now people would die.

"Why were you going to call me?" I asked.

"There's been a murder."

"There are a lot of murders in Milwaukee."

The average person didn't know that Milwaukee was one of the top ten big cities on the murder hit parade, often coming in above Los Angeles in the ratings. Considering that Milwaukee was actually on the small side of big and L. A. was on the big side of large, that was just embarrassing.

"Not in Milwaukee," Megan clarified, "in Frieden-berg."

"Shit."

"At your place."

Was
double shit
a word?

"Who? How?"

"Do you know a woman named Jenny Voorhaven?"

The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place her. In my line of work that happened a lot. People introduced themselves at the bar; we became great pals for a night while I listened to their incredible sob story—I'd heard some doozies—then I never saw them again.

"Maybe," I said.

"She was found on your doorstep, or at least what was left of her. They've asked for help from the FBI."

"Who?"

"The locals. There hasn't been a murder in Frieden-berg in the past ten thousand years."

"You're exaggerating," I said. But not by much.

"Voorhaven was from Ohio, died in Wisconsin, and . . . well, they can't exactly figure out how she was killed."

"They're the FBI, and they can't figure it out?"

"It appears she was torn in two, and since everyone knows that's impossible . .." Megan's voice said that she knew differently.

So did I. I'd seen Jimmy tear
something
in two not two days ago.

Jimmy. Ah, crap.

My breathing increased to hyperventilation rate. Megan must have heard it because she said, "Liz?" and then she said it again, really loud. "Liz!"

"I'm here. Just let me think a minute."

And when I thought about it, I knew that Jimmy could not have traveled from the Ozarks to the Great Lakes, then back to Sawyer's, and on to southern New Mexico, stopping to tear apart someone on the way. He was damn quick, but he wasn't that damn quick.

On the heels of those thoughts came another, and I strode across the floor, yanked Jimmy's list from the pocket of my discarded jeans, and found Jenny's name smack-dab in the middle. No wonder it had sounded familiar.

Jenny had been a seer from Cleveland; she'd no doubt missed the e-mail and phone call warning her to stay away. I had a bad feeling there might be others right behind her.

Most seers weren't like me, capable of defending themselves against supernatural bad guys by virtue of their own supernatural strength and speed, which was why only Ruthie had known the seers' identities once upon a time. Even so, they didn't usually go far without a DK to protect them; all of Jenny's must be history.

I could see what had happened clearly. Jenny in hiding, cut off from anyone she knew. Confused, lonely, scared, she'd waited as long as she could stand, then she'd come to me for help.

She'd arrived on my doorstep, rung the bell, then heard the whisper that announced a demon. She'd called for me, screamed, maybe cried, while the woman of smoke had smiled and torn her into pieces.

Sometimes this leader of the light job really, really sucked.

"Did that nai— Ne— Neph." Megan broke off with a growl of annoyance. "Did that freaky, disappearing bitch goddess do it?"

"Yeah." Either her or one of her minions. Didn't matter. Jenny was dead.

"Liz?" Megan murmured. "What's going on?"

"She was a seer, like me."

While I'd been thinking, I'd also been pulling out my laptop, waiting for it to boot up, then to connect with the Internet. I checked my e-mail. Three seers had replied, agreeing to stay put. They could guide their remaining DKs while in hiding, and according to them there was suddenly a lot to do. It appeared that the Nephilim had regrouped and were having a field day.

I sighed. Nothing to be done but keep trying to plug up the floodgates as best we could with what we had left.

I'd hoped for more responses—hell, I'd hoped for one hundred percent—but other than those three e-mails, all I'd gotten was spam.

"Megan," I said, "there might be more coming."

I wasn't sure how to stop them.

"Your building is wrapped in yellow crime-scene tape. A blind person could see it from the space shuttle. If I were a superpsychic seer hiding from the bad guys, I'd take one look and run like hell."

There was that. My mood lifted slightly, then plummeted.

"They might come to the bar. She probably has something watching the place."

I didn't think the Nephilim would bother with Megan, but then again, they did like to kill just for the hell of it.

"I don't want you hurt."

What I wanted was to send a DK to camp out on a barstool, but I didn't have any to spare.

"I'll be fine."

I didn't answer. Megan was tough, but she wasn't that tough.

"I'll get someone to help." Who, I had no idea.

"I said I'd be fine." Megan was getting testy. She hated it when anyone intimated that she couldn't take care of herself, her bar, her kids, or anything else she considered hers.

Like me.

"I'm sure you will be," I lied. "But if the Nephilim send a toady to watch the bar, I can send a DK to kill it and anyone else who comes along. It's just good business."

"Oh," Megan said slowly. "Well, that makes sense."

Now all I had to do was find one. It occurred to me that Summer should know a few DKs from her centuries of being one. Maybe she had a better way to contact them than I did. Who knew?

As soon as I hung up with Megan, I called Summer again. She didn't answer; I suspected that flying, even without a plane, took all of her attention, and she let any incoming calls go to voice mail.

Sawyer came into the room while I was leaving a message, his dark coat speckled with dry grass, pollen, and a few burrs. I should brush him before we got into the car.

I shook my head. I could not treat a wild animal like a pet. That was a good way to get bitten. Or worse.

"Summer," I said when her "leave a message" message ended. "Call me when you hear this. I—" I paused, not wanting to admit it, but unable to find another way to say what had to be said except, "I need your help."

Sawyer snorted. I glanced his way. He didn't know about Jenny, the dead seer, so I told him. It always felt bizarre, talking to a wolf, but I knew he could understand me. He just couldn't answer me. In words.

In actions, he got his point across fairly well. As soon as I was finished, he picked up my discarded jeans in his mouth, dragged them across the carpeting, and dropped them on my still bare feet. The message was clear.

Get dressed and move your ass.

I was oh so tempted to drive straight back to Milwaukee and protect Megan myself. But along with that temptation came the certainty that such a move would play right into the woman of smoke's hands.

I wasn't sure why she hadn't come after me again; it probably had something to do with Sawyer, or the turquoise, maybe both. If I allowed myself to be sidetracked, if I backtracked, disaster would follow.

Sawyer and I were on the road within half an hour. I stopped in at the desk, grabbed a complimentary Go-cup of coffee and a disgusting cellophane-sealed cheese Danish. I also took one for Sawyer, but he sneered at it, so I ate that one, too. I couldn't recall the last time I'd had any food.

I suspected Sawyer had made use of his time in the long grass to not only take care of business but chomp on a rabbit or a mouse. How a mouse could be more appetizing than a mushy Danish, I had no idea, but perhaps I'd feel differently if I had pointy ears and a tail.

"As soon as we send your mother to hell, we need to figure out a better way of contacting seers. Set up some kind of contingency plan for emergencies."

The one we had was pretty half-assed, but I'd discovered that a lot in this world was. Humans weren't perfect and neither were their plans.

Sawyer, who'd been hanging his head out the window, pulled it back in and waited for me to continue.

"I know, our whole life is one long emergency, but still, cell phones, even e-mail, probably aren't the best idea. I'm thinking the Nephilim, having lived longer than long, have bought some pretty impressive technology."

Cell phones could be traced. Monsters, with their abnormally good hearing, could listen in on conversations they had no business hearing. Hackers came in all shapes, sizes, and supernaturalities.

We rolled into Detroit before noon. Trulia Street was located in a somewhat seedy section, the house cozied up to all the others on the block with very little space in between. The gray bungalow was surrounded by a small patch of dried grass; the bright red shutters only served to emphasize the bars on the windows.

When we rang the bell, the snarl of a very large dog on the other side made Sawyer's hackles rise. He pushed himself between me and the door, crowding me backward until I nearly tumbled off the porch.

A sliding sound followed by a click revealed a tiny window at eye level. The inside of the house was so dark I couldn't get a good look at the eyes beyond a tiny sparkle as a murky cloud-covered sun traced across the glass.

Then the peephole slammed shut. I tensed, prepared to pound on the door and shout a while, but the locks were released, bolts were pulled back, the door swung open, and a voice murmured from the darkness,
"Ciao, bella.
Been waitin' for you."

CHAPTER 15

Though the door was wide open, I still couldn't see anyone in the long, dark tunnel of the front hall, but I could hear that dog growling. He sounded both monstrous and mean.

"Are you—" I paused. How was I supposed to ask if the woman who belonged to the haunting, melodious, somehow sexy voice was a witch? Was that considered polite? Or an open invitation for the dog to eat me?

Sawyer walked inside, legs stiff, hackles still raised. He lifted his head, sniffed the air, shook himself as if he were soaking wet, then glanced at me with an expression I could only label confused.

"Am I who,
bella?
Or perhaps you mean what?"

She laughed, the sound so rich and full of joy, I couldn't keep myself from smiling. I wanted to laugh with that much happiness, too, but I had a feeling I might never do so again.

"Since you mentioned it," I began.

"This is no place to have such a conversation. You on the porch, me in the dark, your poor wolf—"

"Dog," I blurted.

"Certainly," she answered without missing a beat. Her voice was not only beautiful, smooth and clear, like an aria soaring through a darkened opera house, but lightly accented. English was not her first language; however, she'd been speaking it for a very long time. "You must both come inside, then shut and lock that door behind you."

I hesitated. Locking myself inside with Lord knows what, and her dog, might be a very dumb move. I tried to avoid them.

"Elisabetta," she murmured, and I tensed, though my name wasn't a secret any longer, if it ever had been. "I am Carla Benandanti."

Well, that was convenient, although anyone could name themselves a good witch. Didn't mean that they were.

"You were sent to me by a woman who is both your friend and mine."

"Ruthie," I whispered.

"She told me you would come."

"You spoke to her?" I took an eager step forward. "Recently?"

"No. She's a bit dead, is she not?"