Hellbent Page 7

  I felt a huge and overwhelming sense of relief, only slightly tempered by disappointment at the revenue loss. If it hadn’t been so much money, I probably would’ve just stuck with the relief.

  Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t about to lose any of my holdings, or go hungry in any figurative sense. But my cushion had taken a big hit, and now I had this whole household of people to support. Granted, Ian wasn’t exactly running up a grocery bill, and at least Adrian had a job to support himself—and his own apartment, even. Thank God somebody was capable of independence, even if sometimes it honestly felt like he did live under my roof. Now if I could just get the almost-fifteen-year-old and his almost-nine-year-old sister into some gainful employment, I’d be back in the black.

  Or I could take a really big case and clean up on the finder’s fee.

  Even so, the prospect of yet another hideously protracted, convoluted, endlessly complicated case of “fetch” just wasn’t at the top of my priority list. Maybe I was being a princess. Maybe I was only being reasonable. Either way, there was another bubble bath in my future before the night was out.

  There was also another stop by Walgreens, where I picked up an aluminum roasting pan (they didn’t have any bona fide kitty trays) and a ten-pound bag of litter for the kitten to shit in. Then I threw him and all his supplies into the car and began the long drive back to Seattle.

  I arrived home around one in the morning.

  As I got off the elevator, I was greeted by the sound of Pepper hollering something obscene at Ian, which didn’t surprise me as much as it should have. Ian was being his usual unflappable self in return, which only appeared to enrage her further.

  I walked into this little hurricane saying, “Hey now, what the hell is this about? Settle down, pipsqueak.”

  “I don’t have to settle down!” she yelled at me, but she immediately had the good grace to look embarrassed by it. She composed herself quickly and, I don’t mind adding, mercenarily. The kid knows what side of her bread is buttered, that’s for damn sure. “Oh. Raylene, it’s you. I didn’t know.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “He’s trying to make me do algebra,” she accused. “I’ll read, because I like to read. But I will not do algebra!”

  “Algebra?” I asked. “Is that all? Christ, it’s not—” I was going to say “anal sex” but I restrained myself. Don’t ever say I don’t know when to rein it in, because buddy, I nearly bit off my tongue holding back that particular gem.

  “It’s not algebra,” Ian argued. “It’s basic arithmetic.”

  “I can already count!” she shouted.

  I held out my hands in surrender. “I know you can, babe. Stop shouting, please?”

  “He’s trying to make me learn stuff and none of it is useful at all, and I’m not very good at it, and if I wanted homework, I’d go to school!”

  The last half of that sentence had come out shouted, and I very seriously needed to make her stop shouting, or so help me God I would not be held accountable for my behavior. I cannot stand the sound of children shouting. It’s like nails on a chalkboard to me, and this was particularly grating because the number one reason I liked Pepper was that she was usually so mellow and reserved.

  I couldn’t handle it, and I was about to start shouting above all of them, offering eviction notices effective immediately.

  Then I remembered I had an ace up my sleeve.

  Quite literally. Pita had wormed down my left jacket sleeve. (Different jacket—like I’d wear one smelling of cat piss.) I wrestled him out into the air with all the grace of a dinner-theater magician on meth, and displayed him like a trophy.

  With the world’s lamest, most inexpert subject change, I announced, “Hey, check it out. I found a kitten.”

  Well, it shut down the yelling.

  Ian and Pepper were both stunned speechless. Ian sat alone on the big love seat, and Pepper stood in front of me, both of them with their mouths hanging open.

  Ian found his voice first. “You found a … what?”

  “A kitten. His name is Pita.”

  Pita became impatient with the way I was holding him and began to writhe, fighting to find a way down, even though I was holding him four or five feet off the floor. Stupid cat. I withdrew him to my chest where he Velcroed himself to my collarbone.

  Pepper cocked her head at him. “You brought home a kitten … named Pita? Who named it Pita?”

  “I did,” I said defensively. “It’s short for ‘pain in the ass.’ The nickname would suit you and your brother just as well,” I complained. “So if you want to fight the kitten for it, you’re welcome to. Or … or rename him. I don’t care. I needed something on the fly, and that’s all I could think of.”

  “You’re weird,” Pepper observed crossly. But she approached me anyway, not reaching to take the cat, but squinting at him to get a better, closer look. “He’s cute.”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty cute. It’s a good thing, too. That’s why I grabbed him on the way out.”

  Ian asked, “On the way out of what?”

  “A building that was about to blow up.”

  “You saved him because he was cute?” Pepper asked.

  “He was sitting there, making this accusing face at me, and the place was about to go up in smoke … and I don’t know. I freaked out and grabbed him. Then he ruined my good black jacket, and now my car smells like cat ass.” He’d taken a dump on the way up from Portland. I had to roll down all the windows and gulp for fresh air for half an hour. It was un-fucking-real.

  But something I’d said bothered Pepper, and she retreated a few steps—still thinking about Christ-knew-what.

  Domino poked his head around the corner where the back stairway dumped into the main living area. This place is an old warehouse. It has some quirks.

  The boy asked, “What’s this about a kitten?”

  “I’ve got one,” I announced. “No one seems very psyched about it, though.”

  He sauntered up to me with what could only be described as “somewhat more enthusiasm” than his sister and actually poked at Pita, very gently. “He’s cute,” he observed.

  “Yes,” I said drily. “It’s his only defense. Here. You want him?”

  “Do I … do I want him?”

  Both the kitten and the teenager looked at me as if I’d suggested they shave and set up a webcam. “Yeah. Do you want him?” Pita gave me a glare as I picked him off my shirt and dropped him into Domino’s unexpectedly offered hands, and I couldn’t blame the critter. If the shoe were on the other foot, I’d be feeling dubious, myself.

  “I don’t want him,” the boy said. He used one finger to pat the white spot between Pita’s eyes. “Hey Pepper,” he tried. “You want a kitten?”

  She just backed away, eyeing the both of us. “I don’t know. Do you want him?”

  Ah, I saw what she was doing. She thought this might be some kind of trick or trap—a suddenly introduced gift, and one that might require some responsibility on her part.

  “Okay, forget it. Domino, he’s your problem for now. Are you good with that?”

  Pita put his nose out, and Domino touched it with his own. “Sure. But—” He frowned. “I don’t know how to take care of … anything.”

  “You’ve done all right with your sister all these years,” Ian pointed out. Everyone turned to look at him, having almost forgotten he was there. He shrugged. “I think a pet is a fine idea. And cats aren’t much trouble, really.”

  “I have some kibble and some kitty litter downstairs in the car.” In a gesture that showed more trust than he truly deserved, I tossed him my keys. “Go grab it, and the little dude is all yours.”

  Pepper, still suspicious, asked, “If you didn’t want to take care of him, why’d you bring him home?”

  “I told you, he was cute. And I would’ve felt bad if I’d let him get blown up. He probably would’ve haunted me. I don’t need that kind of stress,” I grumbled, reminded of my out-of-town adventure and its fai
lure. “Just look after him, would you? I’m going to change clothes. Or take a shower, or something.”

  I left them all in the living area. I’m sure they were collectively wondering either what I was up to, or if I’d lost my marbles—but let ’em wonder, that’s what I figured as I tossed my overnight bag onto my bed. I took a long shower in the big bathroom that’s connected to my bedroom, then threw on a towel and exited the steam-filled nook to find Ian sitting on the bed.

  “Oh. Um. Hello,” I said.

  “I’m sorry to intrude, but the kitten is making himself at home out there—and despite her earlier reservations, Pepper seems to be taking to him a bit. While they’re distracted, I was hoping you and I could have a private chat.”

  Out in the main living area, something crashed, and Pepper laughed. It struck me as strange only because she laughed so rarely, and this one seemed both real and ordinary.

  Ian corrected himself. “Or as private as is reasonable to expect.”

  “Yeah, it’s a madhouse around here,” I agreed, still clutching the towel to my chest.

  After a pause, Ian asked, “Are you standing there in a towel?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know I can’t see you.”

  I nodded, and he couldn’t see that, either. “I know. Old habit, I guess. Residual modesty, or whatever. Anyway, I feel dumb about it, and now I’m going to stroll around the room buck-ass-naked while hunting for some clothes to put on.”

  He smiled without showing his teeth—the same smile he gave me when we’d first met. Cautious but pleased, and a little sneaky. “If you’re going to narrate, I suppose I’ll sit here and enjoy it.”

  “I wasn’t planning on giving you a play-by-play,” I groused, but I was grinning, too. “But if you’re really dying for one, I’ll see what I can scare up.” I went to the top dresser drawer and said, “First, underpants. I’m reaching for the yellow polka dots because I’m feeling kind of kicky.” This was a lie. All my underpants are black, white, or nude. I’m not very creative in the underpants department.

  “Excellent,” he said. “A playful side you don’t often show.”

  “And now I’m …” I opened another drawer and as I fished through it with one hand, I used the other to yank my underwear up over my ass. “Hunting for a pair of jeans. Something comfortable. The dark wash, with the skinny cut.”

  “A classic color. Goes with anything. Easy to dress up, or down.”

  “I didn’t know you were such a clothes horse,” I said almost under my breath, but added, “But you always look good, particularly for a man who can’t tell if his socks match.”

  “Ah, well. These days I have the children to thank for that. It’s nice to hear they aren’t leading me too far astray, or using my evening routine as a chance to play tricks.”

  “They’re getting a little old for pranks. But the other day you were running around in a green waistcoat, and I had to wonder.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “It was green? Very green? I was led to understand it was more of a moss-colored affair.”

  “Leprechaun green, I’m sorry to say.” By now I was inside the jeans and fighting with the button at the top. I threw on a T-shirt and grabbed a light sweater to throw over it.

  “No bra?” Ian asked—and drat his powers of deduction or hearing.

  “None. I’m off duty tonight, and anyway, I’ve never had much that required a lot of structural support, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “I’ll use my imagination.”

  “I bet you will. Now what’s up?” I shut all my drawers, stayed barefoot, and came over to sit down on an old steamer trunk I keep beside the bed. It let me face him, and it felt less weird than sitting on the bed with him, even though “weird” does not necessarily equal “bad.” I was tired, that’s all. It’d been a busy couple of days, and I wasn’t feeling up to any of the really hard conversations. Not yet.

  “What’s up,” he mused an echo, and I only then noticed that he was fidgeting with a piece of paper. He must’ve just taken it out of a pocket or something; otherwise I would’ve seen it sooner. “I’m not completely certain, but I have an idea, and I have some concerns about it.”

  I sat back on the trunk. It creaked, but held. I leaned my shoulders against the wall and folded my arms in a subconsciously defensive position. Call me nuts, but I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like this. Usually, he was much more direct—though letting himself into my bedroom was, I had to grant, pretty direct. “What are you getting at? Just let it fly. You’re starting to worry me.”

  “Oh no.” He shook his head and held up the paper like it was worthless, absolutely nothing to be concerned about. Just a pizza order someone scratched down beside the phone. “It’s not anything … alarming. Merely worrisome. Mildly worrisome, even. I didn’t mean to worry you. Not at all.”

  “With every word you are worrying me more. I think you need to get to the point before I take a jump off the high dive.” The expression was a private one, a joke between us that we’d never bothered to explain to anyone else. It meant that I was going to have a neurotic meltdown of the spiraling variety. And since he didn’t want that to happen because it drives him crazy, he needed to work himself around to what he really wanted to say.

  “All right, yes. You’re right, and I’m stalling. I apologize, but I’m … I’m not sure how much I can ask of you.”

  Oh. He needed a favor. How bad could it be? I wondered, and then hated myself for wondering. It’s always worse than you expect. “Try me,” I suggested. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He pressed his lips together, frowned gently—like he wanted to blurt out the word “fuck” but had no intention of doing so—and finally he told me what he didn’t want to tell me. “Earlier this evening, Domino took a message from someone who’d called my phone. I didn’t hear it ring; I suppose I was outside. But he heard it, and answered it.”

  “Is he supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t mind if he does. What could he possibly learn that would be to his detriment? Almost no one ever calls but you, and sometimes Adrian—and him only if he’s looking for you.”

  I’d heard the disclaimer, and I pounced on it. “Almost no one?”

  He went on, but not without pausing so dramatically I thought I’d have to prompt him. “I’ve had this phone for several years. Cal set it up for me. The number is untraceable so far as we know, and it’s been an easy way for me to keep tabs on things in San Francisco—if I really feel the need. I still have friendly contacts there, though I could count them on one hand. And tonight, one of them called.”

  “With a message about your old stomping grounds?”

  “My old House, yes. Something has … happened.”

  “Something?”

  “The House’s judge has died. That’s all I know—that’s all the message said.” He held it up, and I saw that Domino’s barely competent handwriting had in fact recorded nothing more detailed about whatever had been said.

  House judge died. Call San Francisco.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” he replied, but he sounded like a man desperate to make the most of a bad situation. “It could be an opportunity for me to withdraw from them for good.”

  “Bullshit. If you thought anything useful could come of this, you wouldn’t be weaseling around. This is bad news, isn’t it? Did Dom tell you anything else? Offer any details beyond what he scrawled on the back of … what is that, a Starbucks coupon?”

  “Yes, it’s probably bad news. No, he didn’t tell me anything else. I don’t know if it’s a Starbucks coupon; it’s whatever Domino found to be the handiest bit of scratch paper.”

  “Well, you just answered three questions in a row with direct yes-or-nos, so I’ll consider that progress and press my luck for one more: They still don’t know you’re blind, do they? At your San Fran house?”

  “No.” He said it softly.

  We both knew what it meant. It meant that
he wasn’t in as much danger as he could be. Yet.

  And now for one of those digressions I warned you about. I’ll try to keep it short and sweet.

  Vampire Houses are Machiavellian to the core, and Ian used to be a major power player in San Francisco. Then he was captured, experimented upon, and blinded. To date, the blinding has proved permanent—though we hold out hope that one day, it might be improved.

  If word of his disability made it back to San Francisco, Ian’s shelf life would shrink considerably because, as I understood it, he’s one of the legal heirs to the House’s seat. Merely wandering away doesn’t undo that legitimate claim to power, but that’s what Ian had done, or that was his cover, anyway. After his blinding, he’d announced his intention to withdraw and hand the reins over to his brother, and then he’d relocated to New York for a while. Then Mexico. Then … I don’t know where else, but obviously he’d ended up in Seattle.

  Unfortunately, all this did was buy him time. Houses don’t let vampires “retire.” It’s just not allowed, and for good reason. Once or twice before someone has wandered away from the gig, only to return years—even decades or centuries—later, wreaking havoc on whatever organizational structure rose up in that vampire’s absence.

  It’s far better to make sure deserters have deserted on a permanent basis. It lets everyone sleep better at night.

  Everyone except the deserters, and those of us who care about them.

  “So,” I said, and the word sounded loud in the near-darkness of my bedroom, illuminated only by the bathroom light behind the half-closed door. “What are you going to do about this?” I asked. “Is there any way anyone could track you here?”

  “I don’t know—to both of your questions. If I remain here long enough, someone will find me. They always do, don’t they? I’ve deserted, and that’s bad enough. Now they’ll need me to come home as a matter of House life or death; they need to sort out the succession, and I’m in line.”

  “You can’t go,” I said flatly.