Every Which Way But Dead (8 page)

I smiled. “You need another charm to tame it?” I said, reaching for my bag.

My breath caught in alarm. “Jenks!” I exclaimed, jerking the bag open.

Jenks came boiling out. “About time you remembered me!” he snarled. “What the Turn is going on? I nearly snapped my wing falling onto your phone. You got M&M's all over your purse, and I'll be dammed before I pick them up. Where in Tink's garden are we?”

I smiled weakly at Takata. “Ah, Takata,” I started, “this is—”

Jenks caught sight of him. A burst of pixy dust exploded, lighting the car for an instant and making me jump. “Holy crap!” the pixy exclaimed. “You're Takata! I thought Rachel was pissing on my daisies about knowing you. Sweet mother of Tink! Wait until I tell Matalina! It's really you. Damn, it's really you!”

Takata reached over and adjusted a knob on an elaborate console, and heat poured out of the vents. “Yeah, it's really me. Do you want an autograph?”

“Hell, yes!” the pixy said. “No one will believe me.”

I smiled, settling myself farther into the seat, my fluster vanishing at Jenks's star fawning. Takata tugged a picture of him and his band standing before the Great Wall of China from a dog-eared folder. “Who do I make it out to?” he said, and Jenks froze.

“Uh…” he stammered, his hovering wings going still. I shot my hand out to catch him, and his featherlight weight hit my palm. “Um…” he stuttered, panicking.

“Make it out to Jenks,” I said, and Jenks made a tiny sound of relief.

“Yeah, Jenks,” the pixy said, finding the presence of mind to flit over to stand on the photo as Takata signed it with an illegible signature. “My name is Jenks.”

Takata handed me the picture to carry home for him. “Pleasure to meet you, Jenks.”

“Yeah,” Jenks squeaked. “Nice to meet you, too.” Making another impossibly high noise to get my eyelids aching, he darted from me to Takata like an insane firefly.

“Park it, Jenks,” I breathed, knowing the pixy could hear me even if Takata couldn't.

“My name is Jenks,” he said as he lit atop my shoulder, quivering when I carefully put the photo in my bag. His wings couldn't stay still, and the come-and-go draft felt good in the stifling air of the limo.

I returned my gaze to Takata, taken aback at the empty look on his face. “What?” I asked, thinking something was wrong.

Immediately he straightened. “Nothing,” he said. “I heard you quit the I.S. to go out on your own.” He blew his air out in a long exhalation. “That took guts.”

“It was stupid,” I admitted, thinking of the death threat my past employer had set on me in retaliation. “Though I wouldn't change a thing.”

He smiled, looking satisfied. “You like being on your own?”

“It's hard without a corporation backing you,” I said, “but I've got people to catch me if I fall. I trust them over the I.S. any day.”

Takata's head bobbed to make his long hair shift. “I'm with you on that.” His feet were spread wide against the car's motion, and I was starting to wonder why I was sitting in Takata's limo. Not that I was complaining. We were on the expressway, looping about the city, my convertible trailing three car lengths behind.

“As long as you're here,” he said suddenly, “I want your opinion on something.”

“Sure,” I said, thinking his mind jumped from topic to topic worse than Nick's. I loosened the tie on my coat. It was starting to get warm in there.

“Capital,” he said, flipping open the guitar case beside him and pulling a beautiful instrument from the crushed green velvet. My eyes widened. “I'm going to release a new track at the solstice concert.” He hesitated. “You did know I was playing at the Coliseum?”

“I've got tickets,” I said, my flash of excitement growing. Nick had bought them. I had been worried he was going to cancel on me and I'd end up going to Fountain Square for the solstice as I usually did, putting my name in the lottery to close the ceremonial circle there. The large, inlaid circle had a “permit only” use status except for the solstices and Halloween. But now I had a feeling we would be spending our solstice together.

“Great!” Takata said. “I was hoping you would. Well, I have this piece about a vampire pining after someone he can't have, and I don't know which chorus works the best. Ripley likes the darker one, but Arron says the other fits better.”

He sighed, showing an unusual bother. Ripley was his Were drummer, the only band member to have been with Takata for most of his career. It was said she was the reason everyone else only lasted a year or two before striking out on their own.

“I had planned on singing it live the first time on the solstice,” Takata said. “But I want to release it to WVMP tonight to give Cincinnati a chance to hear it first.” He grinned, to look years younger. “It's more of a high when they sing along.”

He glanced at the guitar in his lap and strummed a chord. The vibration filled the car. My shoulders slumped, and Jenks made a choking gurgle. Takata looked up, his eyes wide in question. “You'll tell me which one you like better?” he asked, and I nodded. My own personal concert? Yeah, I could go for that. Jenks made that choking gurgle again.

“Okay. It's called ‘Red Ribbons.' ” Taking a breath, Takata slumped. Eyes vacant, he modified the chord he had been playing. His thin fingers shifted elegantly, and with his head bent over his music, he sang.

“Hear you sing through the curtain, see you smile through the glass. Wipe your tears in my thoughts, no amends for the past. Didn't know it would consume me, no one said the hurt would last.” His voice dropped and took on the tortured sound that had made him famous. “No one told me. No one told me,” he finished, almost whispering.

“Ooooh, nice,” I said, wondering if he really thought I was capable of making a judgment.

He flashed me a smile, throwing off his stage presence that quickly. “Okay,” he said, hunching over his guitar again. “This is the other one.” He played a darker chord, sounding almost wrong. A shudder rippled its way up my spine, and I stifled it. Takata's posture shifted, becoming fraught with pain. The vibrating strings seemed to echo through me, and I sank back into the leather seats, the humming of the engine carrying the music right to my core.

“You're mine,” he almost breathed, “in some small fashion. You're mine, though you know it not. You're mine, bond born of passion. You're mine, yet wholly you. By way of your will, by way of your will, by way of your will.”

His eyes were closed, and I didn't think he remembered I was sitting across from him. “Um…” I stammered, and his blue eyes flashed open, looking almost panicked. “I think the first one?” I offered as he regained his composure. The man was more flighty than a drawer full of geckos. “I like the second better, but the first fits with the vampire watching what she can't have.” I blinked. “What
he
can't have,” I amended, flushing.

God help me, I must look like a fool.
He probably knew I roomed with a vampire. That she and I weren't sharing blood probably hadn't made it into his report. The scar on my neck wasn't from her but from Big Al, and I tugged my scarf up to hide it.

He looked almost shaky as he put his guitar aside. “The first?” he questioned, seeming to want to say something else, and I nodded. “Okay,” he said, forcing a smile. “The first it is.”

There was another choked gurgle from Jenks. I wondered if he would recover enough to make more than that ugly sound.

Takata snapped the latches on his instrument case, and I knew the chitchat was over. “Ms. Morgan,” he said, the rich confines of the limo seeming sterile now that it was empty of his music. “I wish I could say I looked you up for your opinion on which chorus I should release, but I find myself in a tight spot, and you were recommended to me by a trusted associate. Mr. Felps said he has worked with you before and that you had the utmost discretion.”

“Call me Rachel,” I said. The man was twice my age. Making him call me Ms. Morgan was ridiculous.

“Rachel,” he said as Jenks choked again. Takata gave me an uncertain smile, and I returned it, not sure what was going on. It sounded like he had a run for me. Something that required the anonymity that the I.S. or the FIB couldn't provide.

As Jenks gurgled and pinched the rim of my ear, I straightened, crossed my knees, and pulled my little datebook out of my bag to try to look professional. Ivy had bought it for me two months ago in one of her attempts to bring order to my chaotic life. I only carried it to appease her, but setting up a run for a nationally renowned pop star might be the time to start using it. “A Mr. Felps recommended me to you?” I said, searching my memory and coming up blank.

Takata's thick expressive eyebrows were high in confusion. “He said he knew you. He seemed quite enamored, actually.”

A sound of understanding slipped past me. “Oh, is he a living vamp, by chance? Blond hair. Thinks he's God's gift to the living and the dead?” I asked, hoping I was wrong.

He grinned. “You do know him.” He glanced at Jenks, quivering and unable to open his mouth. “I thought he was pissing in my daisies.”

My eyes closed as I gathered my strength. Kisten. Why didn't that surprise me? “Yeah, I know him,” I muttered as I opened my eyes, not sure if I should be angry or flattered that the living vampire had recommended me to Takata. “I didn't know his last name was Felps.”

Disgusted, I gave up on my attempt at being professional. Throwing my datebook back into my bag, I slouched in the corner, my movement less graceful than I hoped, as it was pushed along by the car's motion as we shifted lanes. “So what can I do for you?” I asked.

The older warlock straightened, tugging the soft orange of his slacks straight. I'd never known anyone who could look good in orange, but Takata managed it. “It's about the upcoming concert,” he said. “I wanted to see if your firm was available for security.”

“Oh.” I licked my lips, puzzled. “Sure. That's no problem, but don't you have people for that already?” I asked, remembering the tight security at the concert I'd met him at. Vamps had to cap their teeth, and no one got in with more than a makeup spell. 'Course, once past security, the caps came off and the amulets hidden in shoes were invoked….

He nodded. “Yes, and therein lies the problem.”

I waited as he leaned forward, sending the scent of redwood to me. Long musician hands laced, he eyed the floor. “I arranged security with Mr. Felps as usual before I got into town,” he said when his attention came back to me. “But a Mr. Saladan came to see me, claiming he's handling security in Cincinnati and that all monies owed to Piscary should be directed to him instead.”

My breath came out in understanding.
Protection. Oh. I got it.
Kisten was acting as Piscary's scion since very few people knew that Ivy had displaced him and now held the coveted title. Kisten continued to handle the undead vampire's affairs while Ivy refused to.
Thank God.

“You're paying for protection?” I said. “You want me to talk to Kisten and Mr. Saladan to get them to stop blackmailing you?”

Takata tilted his head back, his beautiful, tragic voice ringing out in laugher that was soaked up by the thick carpet and leather seats. “No,” he said. “Piscary does a damned-fine job of keeping the Inderlanders in line. My concern is with Mr. Saladan.”

Appalled, but not surprised, I tucked my red curls behind my ear, wishing I had done something with them that afternoon. Yeah, I used blackmail, but it was to keep myself alive, not make money. There was a difference. “It's blackmail,” I said, disgusted.

He went solemn. “It's a service, and I don't begrudge a dime of it.” Seeing my frown, Takata leaned forward to send his gold chains swinging, his blue eyes fixing on mine. “My show has an MPL, just like a traveling circus or fair. I wouldn't keep it one night if it wasn't for arranging protection at every city we play in. It's the cost of doing business.”

MPL was short for Mixed Population License. It guaranteed that there was security in place to prevent bloodletting on the premises, a necessity when Inderlanders and humans mixed. If too many vampires gathered and one succumbed to his or her blood lust, the rest were hard-pressed to not follow suit. I was never sure how a slip of paper was enough to keep hunger-driven vampires' mouths to themselves, but establishments worked hard to keep an A rating on their MPLs since humans and living Inderlanders would boycott any place that didn't have one. It was too easy to end up dead or mentally bound to a vampire you didn't even know. And personally, I'd rather be dead than be a vampire's toy, my living with a vampire aside.

“It's blackmail,” I said. We had just passed the bridge to cross the Ohio River. I wondered where we were going if it wasn't the Hollows.

Takata's thin shoulders moved. “When I'm touring, I'm at any one place for one night, maybe two. If someone starts trouble, we won't be around long enough to track them down, and every goth out there knows it. Where's the incentive for an excited vamp or Were to behave him- or herself? Piscary puts the word out that anyone causing trouble will answer to him.”

I looked up, not liking that it made beautiful, simplistic sense.

“I have an incident-free show,” Takata said, smiling, “and Piscary gets seven percent of the ticket sales. Everyone wins. Up to now, I've been very satisfied with Piscary's services. I didn't even mind he upped his cost to pay for his lawyer.”

Snorting, I dropped my eyes. “My fault,” I said.

“So I hear,” the lanky man said dryly. “Mr. Felps was very impressed. But Saladan?” Takata grew concerned, his expressive fingers drumming out a complicated rhythm as his gaze went to the passing buildings. “I can't afford to pay both of them. There would be nothing left to rebuild the city's shelters, and that's the entire point to the concert.”