Honeymoon of the Dead (4 page)

As if on cue, Special Agent Queen of the Faeries asked me in a tone full of ice and suspicion, “How long have you known your husband, Mrs. Von Traum?”

Long enough to know I’m going to fail this quiz, I thought but didn’t say. Instead, I replied, “A couple of years. And it’s Lacey. Garnet Lacey.”

“Is he an American citizen?” Dominguez asked.

“If he wasn’t before, he is now,” I pointed out, feeling rather smug. When they both shared a long look and then gave me that patented steely-eyed cop stare, I faltered a bit. “He is, isn’t he? I mean, marriage makes Sebastian a U.S. citizen, right? I thought that’s what that movie
Green Card
was all about. Did you see that one? It had that French guy in it . . . uh, what’s his name? I think it started with a D. He was really popular for a while, like, in the eighties. It was a sweet story that movie, I mean. But, wait, that’s not why Sebastian married me, of course.”

Now they really looked at me like I was up to something sinister.

Maybe I should shut up now. I wasn’t sure I was helping Sebastian’s case.

In the end, they had to let me go. Other than being
married to a foreign national, I really hadn’t done anything wrong or associated with anyone who could be considered an ice-wielding terrorist.

“I guess you
are
just lucky, Mrs. Von Traum,” Dominguez said as he showed me the way back to the ticketing area.

“I still say I was
psychic
,” I teased him. “And, really, can’t you call me Garnet? I’ve been married all of a week. I’m not used to sounding like I’m someone’s mom.” Even if I was Mátyás’s now, kind of.

Weird.

Dominguez gave a little chuckle. Instantly he covered it with a cough and cast a guilty backward glance at his partner.

“It’s not that I’m not happily married, mind you,” I said quickly.

“Sure,” Dominguez said softly, leaning close to my ear as we walked along the back corridors of the airport. “Being married to a bloodsucker must be all fun and games.”

“Hey!” The walls were barren and steely and suddenly far too close. “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?”

Dominguez seemed unfazed by my admonishment. “Speaking of which, I should tell you that Daniel Parrish is back.”

“Back from where?” I asked. I mean, I’d last seen Parrish in my living room. I hadn’t known he’d left for anywhere.

“The dead,” Dominguez said in a hushed, but firm tone. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder. But Peterson held back a short distance, like she knew Dominguez had some private business with me, and made small talk with the armed guard.

I nodded to Dominguez. I mean, yeah. No surprise to me. Daniel Parrish was an ex-boyfriend of mine who also happened to be a vampire. He was always kind of back from the dead. It was sort of his raison d’être.

And, anyway, I’d seen Parrish only last night because he was currently zombie-sitting Sebastian’s kind of dead ex-wife. It was a long story, and not one I thought I should get into with Dominguez, so I tried to act surprised when I murmured, “Really?”

“The only reason I didn’t prosecute you for the murders of those priests is because Parrish took the fall. I thought we had an agreement that he’d stay dead and buried.”

Oh. We had? I’d kind of forgotten the arrangement that Parrish stay “dead” thanks to the ex-wife resurfacing. Literally.

“Uh, right,” I said, and wondered exactly when my life had gotten so unmanageably weird. “But what are you going to say to the home office even if he is back? ‘I thought I caught the guy but it turns out he’s a vampire’?”

Dominguez stopped short of a door. His face flushed red. “Look, if he . . .” Dominguez trailed off with a snarl. Then, after composing himself, he added, “Listen, it’s like this: I’m not explaining to headquarters that I closed a case I shouldn’t have because of a vampire who wouldn’t stay dead and his . . . witch ex-girlfriend.”

“I suppose the FBI doesn’t believe in witches and vampires either, eh?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“No, they don’t.”

I knew that was a bit of a lie, but I let it go. After all, when he was on my case, Dominguez had let slip that the government knew more than it was telling about the Order of Eustace and their operations in the United States. The order was a rogue offshoot of the Inquisition that took far too seriously the admonishment in Leviticus that one shouldn’t suffer a witch to live. They tended to leave a lot of bodies in their wake. Hard for law enforcement not to notice, really.

“Well,” I said, “for your sake, I wish they did.” After all, it must be hard for Dominguez to be psychic and have to deny it to keep his job. Not to mention carrying the secret that vampires, witches, and a hidden order of witch hunters existed. “Still,” I added, “I’m not sure what you expect me to do about Parrish.”

“Figure something out.” Dominguez just shook his head in warning and, without further ado, propelled me out into the fluorescent brightness of the cavernous main terminal. Sebastian, who had been waiting in one of the orange plastic chairs, stood up, his arms open.

Gratefully, I collapsed into his hug.

To make up for all the hassle, Sebastian booked us
the Ordway Room at the posh Saint Paul Hotel. Apparently, this was the place visiting dignitaries stayed when they were in Minneapolis/Saint Paul. It wasn’t just one room, it was a series of interconnecting spaces that made me feel a little like I was wandering into someone else’s house. There was a living room with a working fireplace, a full bar, and bedroom with a four-poster bed and a fifty-inch plasma TV hidden in a mahogany cabinet.

Although, in all honesty, he could have gotten us a ratty room at the Flea Bag Express, for all I cared. And, given how much it cost per night to stay here, we probably could have hired a private jet to take us directly to Austria.

Still, I was just glad we were alive, together, and nowhere near the airport or Homeland Security or the FBI. All I wanted was to lie down and close my eyes. Especially since, after taking my bags from the bellboy, I got a flash of an image of a smiling monkey with wise, human eyes.

Maybe I needed to revisit the going-crazy possibility. Either that or Saint Paul was overrun with Gods.

While Sebastian tipped the Monkey King, I collapsed face first onto the fluffy king-sized bed. The sheets actually smelled good, like lavender soap.

The room—or rooms, really—was bigger than any I’d ever stayed in before. The hotel billed itself as historic, and it had definitely gone with an old-fashioned decor. All the furniture, including the bed, was fashioned of heavy, dark, ornately carved wood. The ceilings were high and had ornate plaster moldings. A glass chandelier had been fitted with flickering lights that mimicked gas flames. It was somehow both majestic and warm. A bank of windows presumably looked out over the elegant rooftops of downtown toward the Mississippi, though all I could see outside right now were bright streaks of white snow.

All in all, it made a nice sanctuary from everything that had happened so far. Maybe if I closed my eyes the whole day would reboot, like a great, big do-over.

I opened my eyes.

Nope, no luck.

The springs bounced slightly as Sebastian sat down on the other side of the bed. “He was a chatty fellow, wasn’t he?”

I flopped my head over to squint up at Sebastian. “The Monkey King? What do you expect?”

Sebastian’s eyebrows drew together, and he gave me a considering look. “Honestly, I thought he looked more like a young Jackie Chan. Isn’t ‘monkey’ a little harsh? I’m not always up on current social custom, but I really don’t think you’re supposed to call anyone a monkey, darling.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said, propping myself up onto my elbows so I could better read Sebastian’s expression. He’d been in a funny mood on the drive to the hotel, very introspective and quiet. We hadn’t talked much. Now seemed like the perfect time to broach the subject of the visions and vertigo I’d been getting, but Sebastian’s face seemed tight and tired. I’d wait. After all, we’d been through enough already thanks to my stupid, newfound sight. Slumping back against the bed, I pulled a pillow over my face.

“Oh, phooey,” I muttered.

He patted my thigh lightly and got up. I could hear him moving around the room. Peeking over the edge of the pillow, I checked. Yep, he was brooding. His eyebrows knitted together tightly as he glanced around for the suitcases. Right now, we should be halfway to Amsterdam for a connecting flight to Vienna. Poor Sebastian. He’d been looking forward to this trip. He told me he hadn’t been to his homeland in decades.

Pulling the pillow down to my nose, I peered over the edge at him. “I ruined our honeymoon before it even started, didn’t I?”

“It’s not over yet.” Giving me a tender smile he added, “We’ll find a way to salvage this, I’m sure.”

I sat up, pulling my knees up. The pillow squashed my tummy and still hid part of my face. “Still. I’m so sorry,” I said again. “There was ice, you know.”

“My FBI goons informed me of that fact several times,” Sebastian said glumly. “It made our departure that much more ominous, apparently.”

His words confirmed my suspicion that things had been much more complicated for him, given that he wasn’t born in America. I swallowed the urge to apologize again and asked, “Did they rough you up or something?”

He snorted. “Not hardly. I just didn’t appreciate their line of questioning.”

“Sorry,” I said again, unable to hold it back this time.

He shrugged. “It’s all right. Maybe if we’d stayed on the plane the—what was it, Frost Giant?—would have found a way to crash the plane.”

“It wasn’t just any Frost Giant. It was Fonn. Do you remember her?” I asked.

“My birthday present? How could I forget?” He grimaced at the memory. “I suppose it’s too much to hope she’s done now and will leave us in peace?”

“Given our luck? Doubtful,” I mumbled into the pillow.

Sebastian grabbed his suitcase—we’d each only packed one, trying to keep our baggage light for the true European experience—and placed it on one of those luggage racks with the foldout metal legs. He started fussing with his things, unzipping his perfectly organized clothes. His socks were rolled and lined up, from dark brown to black. Shirts so sharply folded I swore they’d cut someone. He very carefully put everything away in the dresser drawers.

Mine, on the other hand, was a mess. I’d be lucky if I remembered to pack a toothbrush. I’d stuffed everything in willy-nilly, and now it was all wrapped around that horrible cherub gift.

I sighed. Look at him: so organized! I should really be more like that. Part of me always secretly wished I was the sort of person people could depend on, you know, the kind that always had a Band-Aid in her purse?

Honestly, I had to stop carrying any kind of handbag because I kept setting them down places and losing them. If it didn’t fit in my pockets, I had to leave it at home. Thank Goddess they made slim cells these days. As it was, I lost my phone more than I’d like, and that was when I remembered to keep the battery charged.

Oh shit, I think I forgot the recharger at home.

I was about to say something to Sebastian, when he placed his—and mine—on the bed. He gave me a smile, which I returned, though inwardly I cringed. So much for being the lady with the magic purse o’ plenty.

“Looks like you’re planning on staying awhile,” I noted.

“Didn’t you hear the weather report? The cabbie had it on,” he said, as he smoothed out his unrumpled shirts one by one. “I suspect we may be snowed in for a few days. But I suppose I should call my travel agent,” he continued, sounding disheartened at the mere prospect. “There’s certainly another flight tomorrow.”

I made a face. Not only was I so,
so
done with airports, there was the real possibility that Fonn might sabotage the next plane as well. I swung my feet over the edge of the bed. “There’s no real hurry. I like Minneapolis . . . or Saint Paul, which I guess is where we really are.”