The Outlaw Demon Wails (32 page)

I'd had the distasteful woman for an instructor, twice. The first time she flunked me the first week of class for no good reason, and the second time she threatened to do the same if I didn't take a familiar. She had been a murder suspect I was checking out, and her car had gone over a bridge during the investigation, eliminating her as a suspect. But I'd known she hadn't committed the crimes. Dr. Anders was nasty, but murder wasn't on her syllabus.

Yet seeing her having coffee in Trent's private kitchen, I wondered if she was learning new skills. Apparently Trent had helped her stage her death so the real ley line witch murderer wouldn't target her and she could safely come to work for him.

She reminded me of Jonathan, her disdain for earth magic as palpable as Jonathan's dislike for me. I ran my gaze over her too-thin form as I neared. It had to be her. Who would want to dress up in costume and pretend to be a woman that plain looking?

“Rachel,” the woman said as she turned, her legs crossing now that they were out from under the table. She glanced inquiringly at the heavy-magic detection amulet around my bruised and bitten neck, and my eye twitched when her voice brought back oodles and oodles of good memories of being embarrassed in class.

“How nice to see you doing so well,” she continued as her intern glanced between us, weighing our moods. “I understand you managed to break the familiar bond with your boyfriend.” She smiled with the warmth of a penguin. “Can I ask how? Another curse, perhaps? Your aura is smutty.” She sniffed as if her long nose could smell the blackness on my soul. “What have you been doing to it?”

I stopped three feet back, hip cocked, and imagined how good it would feel to plug my foot in her gut and send her chair crashing back. She had faked her own death, leaving me to try to figure out how to break the bond on my own—the harpy. “The familiar bond broke spontaneously when a demon made me his familiar,” I said, hoping to shock her.

The intern gasped, his almond-shaped eyes widening as he sat back in his seat, the tips of his black hair shifting.

Feeling like a smartass, I pulled out a chair and propped my foot on it
instead of sitting down. “When the bond didn't work through the lines,” I said lightly, enjoying the man's horror, “he forced a tighter connection by making me take some of his aura. That broke the original bond with Nick. It also made him my familiar. He didn't expect that.”

“You have a demon for a familiar?” The young man stammered, and Dr. Anders gave him a look to tell him to shut up.

I was tired of this, and as Takata shifted to one of his few ballads, I shook my head. “No. We agreed that because the familiar bonds were unenforceable, so was the deal. I'm no one's familiar but my own.”

Dr. Anders's expression changed, her long face becoming greedy. “Tell me how,” she demanded as she leaned forward slightly. “I've read about this. You can spindle line energy in your thoughts. Can't you?”

I looked at her in disgust. She had belittled and shamed me in front of two entire classes because I had pursued earth magic instead of ley line skills, and she thought I'd tell her how to be her own familiar? “Be careful what you wish for, Dr. Anders,” I said dryly, and she pursed her lips sourly at me. I leaned over my bent knee toward her to hammer my words home. “I can't tell you,” I said softly. “If I do, I'm his. Just like you belong to Trent, only a lot more honestly.”

A faint flush colored her cheeks. “He doesn't own me. I work for him. That's all.”

Her intern was looking nervous, and taking my foot from the chair, I stood and rummaged in my bag. “Did he help you fake your death?” I said as I pulled out my cell phone and checked for messages and the time.
Two
A.M.
—still no demon, still alive.
She said nothing, and flipping through the menu, I made sure my phone was on vibrate before dropping it away and adding my splat gun. “Then you belong to him,” I added cruelly, thinking of Keasley and hoping it might be otherwise for him.

But Dr. Anders sat back, snorting through her long nose. “I told you he wasn't murdering the ley line witches.”

“He murdered those Weres last June, though.”

The older woman dropped her eyes and anger flooded me. She had known. Helped him, maybe. Absolutely disgusted, I shoved the chair in,
refusing to sit with her. “Thanks for helping me with my problem,” I added bitterly.

My accusation had unbalanced her, and the woman's face reddened in anger. “I couldn't risk breaking my cover by helping you. I had to pretend to die, or I would have died for real. You are a child, Rachel. Don't even begin to think to lecture me on morality.”

I thought I would have enjoyed this more than I was, and in the soft hush of Takata whispering “I loved you best/I loved you best,” I said bitingly, “Even a child would have known better than to leave me hanging like that. A letter would have done it. Or a phone call. I wouldn't have told anyone you were alive.” I rocked back, my bag held tight to me. “And now you think I'm going to risk my soul to tell you how to spindle line energy?”

She had the grace to look discomforted. Still standing, I crossed my arms and looked at the intern. “How is Quen?” I asked him, but Dr. Anders touched his arm, stopping his words.

“He has an eleven percent chance of seeing the sunrise,” she said, glancing to one of the doors. “If he makes it that far, his chances of surviving rise to fifty-fifty.”

My knees went weak and I locked them. He had a chance. Trent had let me drive all the way out here thinking his death was inevitable.

“Trent says it's my fault,” I said, not caring if she knew by my pale face that I felt guilty. “What happened?”

Dr. Anders looked at me with that cold, reserved expression she saved for her most stupid students. “It wasn't your fault. Quen stole the antidote.” Her face twisted in disdain, and she completely missed the guilty look that crossed the intern's face. “Took it from a locked cabinet. It wasn't ready for testing, much less consumption. And he knew it.”

Quen had taken something. Something that likely had tampered with his genetic structure or he'd be in a hospital. Fear slid through me as I imagined the horrors that Trent was capable of in his genetic labs, and unable to wait anymore, I turned to the door Dr. Anders had looked at. “He's in there?” I asked, then headed for it, my pace quick and determined.

“Rachel. Wait,” Dr. Anders predictably said, and my jaw clenched. I
reached Quen's door and jerked it open. Cooler air slipped out, softer somehow, with a comforting dampness. The lights were dim and the patch of carpet I could see was a soothing mottled green.

Dr. Anders came up behind me, the sound of her steps lost in the noise from the band. I wished Jenks were here to run interference.

“Rachel,” the woman demanded in her best instructor voice. “You're to wait for Trent.” But I had lost any respect I might have had for her, and what she said meant nothing.

I jerked to keep from reacting with violence when she grabbed my arm. “Get your hand off of me,” I said, my voice low and threatening.

Fear widened her pupils, and suddenly ashen, she let go of me.

From inside the dark room came a raspy, “Morgan. It's about time.”

Quen's voice was replaced by a wet cough. It was awful, like the sound of moist cloth tearing. I'd heard it somewhere before, and it sent shivers born in a stifled memory through me.
Damn it back to the Turn, what am I doing here?
Taking a breath, I pushed my fear down. “Excuse me,” I said coldly to Dr. Anders as I went in. But she followed, closing the door to shut out most of the music. I didn't care as long as she left me alone.

My tension eased as I took in Quen's shadowy suite. It felt good here, with low ceilings and deep colors. The few pieces of furniture were spaced to leave lots of room. Everything was set up for the comfort of one person, not two. It had an inner-sanctum feel that quieted my thoughts and soothed my soul. There was a sliding glass door looking out onto a mossy stone courtyard, and unlike most of the windows in Trent's fortress, I'd be willing to bet this one was real and not a vid window.

Quen's breathing drew me to a narrow bed in a sunken part of the expansive room. His eyes focused on me, clearly seeing my approval of his private rooms and appreciating it. “What took you so long?” he said, his words pronounced carefully so he wouldn't start coughing. “It's almost two.”

My heart sped up, and I came forward. “There's a party going on. You know I can't resist a party,” I quipped, and he snorted, wincing as he worked to keep his breathing even.

Guilt was heavy on me. Trent said this was my fault. Dr. Anders said
it wasn't. Hiding my tension behind a false smile, I took the three steps down into the sunken area. It put him below the level of the floor, and I wondered if it was a security precaution or an elf thing. There was a comfortable leather wing chair that had clearly been pulled from a different part of the house, and an end table holding a worn leather journal with no name. I put my bag on the chair, but I didn't feel right sitting.

Quen was struggling to keep from coughing, and I looked away to give him some privacy. There were several hospital-like carts set to the side, and an IV. The IV was the only thing hooked up to him, and I appreciated the lack of the obnoxious beeping of a heart monitor.

Finally Quen's breathing evened out. Braver, I hesitantly sat on the front of the chair with my bag behind me. Dr. Anders hovered on the main level, unwilling to break the mental barrier of the stairs and join us. I solemnly looked at Quen, gauging the marks his struggle had put on him.

His usually dark complexion was pale and wan, and the pox scars the Turn had given him looked stark red, almost as if they were active. Sweat had tangled his dark hair, and lines creased his brow. His green eyes were glinting, brilliant with a fierce passion that twisted my gut. I'd seen that glitter before. It was the look of someone who was seeing around the corners of time to his own death, but he was going to fight it all the same.
Damn it. Damn it all to hell
.

I settled myself, not yet willing to take his small but muscular hand, which lay on the gray cotton sheets. “You look like crap,” I finally said, bringing a pained smile to his face. “What did you do? Tangle with a demon? Did you win?” I was trying for levity…and failing.

Quen took two slow breaths. “Get out, witch,” he said clearly, and I flushed, almost standing before I realized he was talking to Dr. Anders.

Dr. Anders knew who he was talking to, though, and she came forward to look down at us. “Trent wouldn't want you alone—”

“I'm not alone,” he said, his voice gaining strength as he used it.

“He wouldn't want you alone with
her,
” she finished, loathing heavy in her words. It was an ugly, ugly sound, and I could tell it bothered Quen.

“Get—out,” he said softly, angry that his illness had given her the idea she could assert her will over his. “I asked Morgan here because I don't
want the person who sees me take my last breath to be a stinking bureaucrat or doctor. I gave an oath to Trent, and I won't break that. Get out!” A cough took him, the sound, like tearing fabric, slicing through me.

I turned in my chair, gesturing for her to get her ass out of here—she was making things worse, not better—and she backed to the shadows. Stiff and angry, she leaned against a dresser with her arms crossed. I could see her frown even in the dark. The mirror showed her back, making it look like there were two of her. Someone had draped a bit of ribbon over the top to drape down in a smooth arc over the glass, and I realized Ceri had been here before she had gone to pray.
She had gone to pray—walked all the way to the basilica to do it—and I hadn't taken this seriously.

The distance Dr. Anders put between us seemed to satisfy Quen, and his clenched body slowly relaxed as the jerks of his coughing eased and stopped. I felt helpless, and tension drew my back into an ache.
Why does he want me here seeing this?
“Gee, Quen, I didn't know you cared,” I said, and he smiled, making his stress wrinkles all fold in together.

“I don't. But I meant it about the bureaucrats.” He stared at the ceiling, taking three careful, rattling breaths. My panic stirred, settling in a familiar place in my soul.
I've heard this sound before
.

His eyes closed, and I jerked forward. “Quen!” I shouted, then felt stupid when his lids flew open and focused on me with an eerie intensity.

“Just resting my eyes,” he said, amused by my fear. “I have a few hours. I can feel things faltering, and I have at least that long.” His gaze lingered on my neck, then rose. “Having trouble with your roommate?”

I refused to cover my bites, but it was hard. “Wake-up call,” I said. “Sometimes it takes a two-by-four across your head to realize what you want isn't what you'll end up with if you get it.”

His head barely shifted. “Good.” He took a slow breath. “You're a safer person to be around now. Very good.”

Dr. Anders shifted position to remind me she was listening. Frustrated, I leaned closer until the new skin on my bites pulled, smelling pine and sun under the medicinal smells of alcohol and adhesive tape. I glanced at Dr. Anders, then asked him, “Why am I here?”

Quen's eyes opened wider and he turned his head to see me, hesitating
as he stifled the urge to cough. “Not ‘What did you do to get like this'?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I already asked that, and you got all nasty, so I thought I'd go with something else.”

Closing his eyes again, Quen simply breathed, slow and labored. “I already told you why I asked you here.”

The bureaucrat thing?
“Okay,” I said, wanting to take his hand to give him strength, but I felt funny about it, as if he would think I pitied him. That would just tick him off. “Then tell me what you did to yourself.”