Storm in a Teacup (3 page)

"They might not be."

"Why are you bringing them to me if you don't have a reason to think there's anything there?"

"Were those imps you dispatched wearing anything?"

A chill runs across the surface of my skin. "Yeah, both of them had necklaces like really thin dreadlocks. Light brown hair. Looked human."

Gregor's silent for a moment, long enough that I speak again.

"Hey, are you going to tell me why I'm looking into this?"

"Call it a hunch." I know that telltale dryness in his voice. Dammit. His hunches usually end up being right.
 

I take a deep breath and hold it for a moment before exhaling in a gust of air. "Okay. What do you want me to do?"

"Just ask around, Storme. See what you can dig up."

"I'm not a PI. I kill shit." In fact, the idea of doing detective work – especially this kind; I've learned my lesson – is on par with getting my teeth cleaned. I'm seeing those matted strings of human hair again, and I don't like it.
 

"Just do this for me. I even got you started. Try the Hole, Thursday night. Word is, the most recent missing girl was in the band that's playing, and there's been some talk of them bringing up demons in their sets. The Righteous Dark. She played bass. You can do it!" He sounds for one minute like he's trying to give me a pep talk. Then he coughs and hangs up.

At least I won't have to leave work again. Laura's getting to the point that I think she might actually reprimand me. My alternative is working for the Summit, but that would just put me around too many Mediators. Plus, I like my apartment, and it's not cheap. The Summit doesn't pay Mediators that well. They give all their money to their sub-contracted witches and psychics.

So now I get to be the Summit's errand girl for no pay.

Dammit.

CHAPTER THREE

Turns out The Righteous Dark in all their horrible band name just had to pick the crummiest, most aptly named dive bar in Nashville to terrorize.
 

After casing the place Wednesday night, I sheathe myself in black fishnets, low-heeled leather boots, and a black sweater dress. I'll stand out because of my bright yellow-orange hair anyway, but I hope to blend in with the crowd's fashion sense. Any fans of a band with a name like that have to like black. Right?
 

The band is just setting up when I arrive, and the witch doing the sound looks as annoyed as I feel. His cabbage-like face crumples up every time the drummer's foot hits the bass drum, and it leaves me wondering how bad a band has to be to get this guy wincing.

Straightening my sweater dress, I pick my way through a gaggle of barely-twenty-ones to the bar. I order a PBR and plunk down on a bar stool to see who might show up. So far, the answer is only the band and the group I waded through to get to the bar.
 

That comforts me. If they were playing at the larger venue across the street and selling the place out, I might be worried that hellkin-worshipers were getting a little too popular.
 

At least I was right about the black. If I didn't know any better, I would have thought I'd gone color-blind by the lack of any rainbow hues.
 

I nurse my beer until the band starts to play.

All the band members are skinny, like four-toots-of-meth-per-day skinny. I see collarbones on all and ribs on the two whose shirts are cut away from their torsos. That strikes me as odd. Southern cooking is nothing if not buttery, and even hipsters have more fluff on their bones than that.
 

I don't know what I expected from the music, but the low, throaty sound of a cello surprises me.
 

The cello is the only redeeming quality. The sound witch at the board shoves earplugs into his ears as the drums and guitar kick in, and I applaud his forethought. The only musical observation I can make is that it's in a minor key — I think. So many notes slice through my eardrums at once that I can't even be sure of that.

The vocalist begins a guttural croaking into the microphone, and the little group of spectators coos at him from under their looped black scarves.
 

I sit through song after song. After song. After ear-shriveling song. The vocalist says nothing about demons or darkness, and their new bass player seems to be as disinterested as I am.
 

Lena Saturn. I repeat the name of the girl I'm searching for as I lean my chin in my hand and slant to the side in my chair, waiting for something that never comes. Lena Saturn.

Instead I pry my drool-slicked face from my palm only when a hipster kicks my chair by accident and the music stops, jolting me awake.
 

I make a shitty detective.

The ringing in my ears sounds like my ear drums have been replaced by cymbals, but I straighten myself in my chair just in time to hear the vocalist invite a few of the gaggle into the green room for "some smoke-a-dope."

I try to follow as unobtrusively as possible, but the aloof bass player slams the door in my face.

I kick the doorjamb. It doesn't make me feel better.
 

"You don't really want in there."

The sound guy motions to the door, his face relaxed and almost cheerful now that the noise has halted.
 

"Why not?" I hate when people say I don't want to do the one thing I'm trying to do.
 

"The guy's a fucking moron. Besides, you didn't look like you were even enjoying the music much."

"Neither did you, but you're here."

"I work here."

"I'm working too."

The cabbage-faced witch reaches into his pocket and gives his balls a healthy scratch. "And what do you do?"

I don't have to answer, because the cleaning lights go on, and my violet eyes give him a start.

"What does a Mediator want with that bit of human slime? I'd rather hang out with the demons."

"Nothing, but I think he's hanging out with demons."

The witch's face slackens like it's been blanched in boiling water. "No way. Really?"

"Do they play here often?"

"At least once a month." He leans on an iron bar that separates the seating area from the dance floor, but he takes a step back from me as he does.

"Do you remember their old bass player?"

His shoulders twitch at that, and I know he remembers her. His eyes narrow at me, assessing. "Lena? You're looking for Lena?"

"Yep. Know her?"

He shuffles his weight around. "Only a little. She was the only tolerable member of the band. Jack — the singer — said she got a gig playing bass with some new country singer and would be on the road for the next six months."

"Do you know of any family around here?" I haven't been able to find any, and it's not likely Lena's family lives in Tennessee. Musicians who move here don't usually bring their parents along.

"Her grandma used to come to her shows. And some bottle blonde showed up every now and then."

"What? Grandma?" I pop my ears and want to pop Jack the Singer in the face for the persistent ringing. There're enough blondes in Nashville to sell the SuperMart out of peroxide, but Lena's grandma? Probably not many of those.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But she used to come in. I think she lives nearby."

"Do you know her name?"

"Hazel something. Her last name is funny. Latte or something. She comes in for happy hour most days."

"Hazel Latte. Are you sure you're not remembering what you ordered at Starbucks this morning?"

"No, it's something like that." He doesn't even seem to take offense. "Much as I'd like to stay and chat, I've got to get my wrap-ups done so I can get out of this hell hole. I need a new job."

He shakes himself and turns to head back to the soundboard.

I catch his arm, and he stops.
 

"Look, I'm not lying to you." His irises go cloudy, like he's gathering his power. It swirls in his eyes, like silt stirring at the bottom of a clear pond. Damn witches, always ready to jump magic-first into the pool.
 

I drop my hand from his arm, and his eyes turn clear again. "I'm not saying you are. I'll stop by again. Will you let me know if you see Lena or hear anything about...Hazel Latte?" I can barely bring myself to say the name.

He nods. "Yeah, sure. Leave your number before you go, and I'll call you if I hear anything. Lena was a good kid."

We both hear the past tense, and he frowns.
 

"I mean, she is."

I jot down my cell number and hand it over, puzzling over his word choice. Either he knows something happened to her, or something I said made him second guess the idea that Lena's off playing stand-up bass for the new teeny-bopper reality show winner.

Either way, I'm done here.

And for some reason, I want coffee.

CHAPTER FOUR

Nashville's a big little town, and I no sooner mention Hazel Latte to Gregor than he finds her. And her surname isn't Latte, either. It's Lottie.

She lives a short block and a half from The Hole in a bright orange house. Cinder blocks litter her front yard in piles like redneck cairns. Where the Summit granny has snapdragons and tulips, this old bat has concrete. Nonplussed, I pull back a screen door that looks like it's been shredded by a cat. Hazel Lottie has a doorbell, and I press it. If she's anything like the Summit granny at all, she'll hear a knock about as well as she'd hear a whisper from Chattanooga.
 

I jump when the theme from Jaws booms on the other side of the door.
 

A moment later, I hear a rustle and a thud. I hope I haven't gone and killed her dead, because I need to ask her about Lena.

"Who the hell are you?" There's a pause, followed by a clunk. The door scridges open, and a bright purple head pops out. She scrutinizes me for about four seconds. "A Mediator on my doorstep. Come in, child, I'll make some tea."

I step inside and over the source of the clunk — a step-stool painted a virulent green. I see the reason for it as soon as I come face-to-face with Hazel Lottie; the top of her bouffant purple hair comes only to my chest.
 

She waves at the living room. "Have a seat on the sofa, dear. I'll get your tea."
 

I obey, sitting down on the squeaky, plastic-covered sofa. Not a speck of dirt or dust is to be seen as I look around. Across from me is a chair wearing neckties. Paisley, striped, bold solids — all sewn together to form the strangest chair skirt I've ever seen. Above the chair is a built-in glass hutch full of figurines like those that used to come in tea boxes.

The whistle of the teakettle pierces the silence, and a moment later, Hazel Lottie plunks someone's back pocket on the end table to my right, followed by a chipped rose-enameled teacup. I look closer at the pocket. It's exactly what it looks like; she's made a coaster from the butt pocket of someone's jeans. The tea smells of mint, and I lift the cup to my lips.

She plops herself into a burgundy armchair, without spilling scalding tea all over her lap somehow. Her hair clashes horribly with the upholstery. "So," she says. "If you're here and a Mediator, you're probably looking for Lena."

I choke on my sip of tea and set the cup down on the denim coaster. "Why do you think that?"

"She's missing, of course. Her idiot bandmate tried to feed me a line about her going to work with some new teen hit, but Lena's about as likely to play country as I am to burst into a spontaneous trapeze routine." Hazel takes a gulp of tea, which makes my throat convulse just to watch. My own esophagus still throbs from where the liquid made contact with my flesh.

Hazel Lottie might sound like something you'd buy at Starbucks, but she's no kooky old bat. Chair skirt and coasters notwithstanding. I reformulate my line of questioning and nod my acquiescence.

"I am looking for your granddaughter, Ms. Lottie."

The old woman harrumphs and claps her hands to her knees. "Granddaughter? Lawdy. No. Lena did my cleaning for me, honey. And call me Hazel."

I didn't really think they were related, but I'm glad she's confirmed it. "How long did she work for you?"