Dead Heat
Page 86
Katie Jamison surveyed the ruin of her house ruefully. If she hadn’t been drunk, would she have had the brains to tell the FBI special agent and her friends the werewolves to go to hell? And if she had, would they have listened and spared her the headache of dealing with more construction in her house?
But they’d found that fae, the one who’d been killing children. She’d seen it in the news. And she’d seen a werewolf in his—and her—natural state. Too bad those photos hadn’t turned out. Magic could be odd that way, her garden fae told her.
So she didn’t have photos of the big wolf running amok in her living room, the ones she’d taken without permission. But the photos of the black wolf in her garden were lovely. Not as interesting as the ferocious and angry werewolf had been, but beautiful.
The cleaners had come and gone. Her favorite contractor had called this morning to tell her he was sending a guy down to replace her front window today. “And this time,” he’d told her dryly, “don’t marry him.”
Yes, well, she admitted to herself. That had been a mistake—and she admitted it. But he’d been so pretty.
This one was pretty, too. His smile was warm—and his muscles were hard. He didn’t have a ring on his left hand. She admired that hand, thinking about what it would feel like to have it touch her skin. He was awfully young for her.
“Are you married?” she asked.
He smiled. “I was. She took off with the bank account, my best friend, and my dog. I sure do miss that dog.”
Too young, she thought, watching him work.
“Hey,” she said. “Would you like some lemonade? It’s fresh-squeezed from lemons I grow in my garden.”
“That sounds really good,” he said, and she noticed he had dimples.
Maybe not too young, she decided. Then she went to pour him some lemonade.
Trent Carter hung up the phone and thought seriously of getting into his car and driving off a cliff. But that would leave his daughter alone. Five years old was too young to be alone.
“Daddy?”
He loved his daughter with all of his heart. She was the only thing he had left of her mother. But he didn’t know how to save her. Didn’t really know how to save himself.
“You look sad,” she said.
Sometimes, like now, she acted like a normal kid. She’d play with her toys and dress her dolls and invite him to make-believe tea parties.
Last night her babysitter had called him and told him that she could no longer watch Iris. “She was torturing our kitten,” she said. “Pulling out her whiskers with tweezers. I can’t do this anymore. I am sorry. You need to get her into therapy.”
He didn’t argue, didn’t tell her that he already had her in therapy. That hadn’t worked with the last babysitter. It probably wouldn’t work with this one, either.
He’d called in to work today and told them he had to stay home because he didn’t have anyone to take care of Iris. His boss had just called to let him know he didn’t need to come back to work at all except to collect his things. That was his second job in six months.
“Daddy?”
“No worries, sweetheart,” he told her. “I’m just not feeling good today.”
“How about I get Mr. Blanket and we’ll watch some TV until you feel better?” she asked.
Someone rang the doorbell. “You do that. I’ll see who is at the door and then we can watch some cartoons.”
He opened the door without checking through the spyhole. On his doorstep was a very average man so nondescript that he ought to work for the CIA. The woman was small and curvy, with black hair and wraparound sunglasses so dark he couldn’t see her eyes behind them. There was an unfamiliar car—a black Mercedes—parked just outside his building. A scar-faced man who looked dangerous was leaning against the fender of the car.
Maybe this was the CIA. He thought back, a little anxiously, to his interview with the Cantrip agents. Had he said something wrong?
He’d kind of expected to be visited by Child Protective Services—it would be his third visit. Somehow the bruises always were gone before CPS came. Both her bruises and his.
“Mr. Carter,” said the man, holding out his hand. “I’m Bran Cornick. We were in town on some related business. It was suggested to me that we should stop in to help you with your problem while we were here.”
His hand was very warm.
“This is my associate, Moira.”
“Daddy?” said Iris in her not-Iris voice. “Tell them to go away.”
The woman brushed past him and into his house, her hand reaching down and closing on Iris’s wrist. She touched his daughter’s forehead and murmured a few words he didn’t catch. Iris, who’d been fighting her, suddenly stood still.
“Yes,” she said. “He was right about her, Bran. This is definitely a case of demonic possession.” She turned her head toward Trent, and for the first time he realized she was blind. “This won’t take very long. Demons have a hard time getting a good hold on innocents.”
Bran Cornick urged Trent into the house and shut the door, closing them in together. “Mr. Carter,” he said. “My associate is very good at what she does.”
“Who are you people?” he asked.
“The good guys,” said Moira. “We’re here to help.”
Anna dreamed that it was summer and she and Charles were riding in the mountains. The air was fresh and clean and the sun was warm on her back. Heylight trotted down the trail with the same enthusiasm he’d demonstrated in the arena. She turned to see how Portabella was doing and frowned at Charles.
“That’s a moose,” she told him. “Why are you riding a moose?”
“Because Portabella won’t be here until the spring,” Joseph told her. “Charles would never bring horses up from Arizona to Montana in the winter.”
“That’s right,” Anna said. “We’re bringing them up in March.”
“You should have bought Hephzibah,” Maggie told her, and laughed, but there was no malice in her laughter.
The sweet sound of it rang in Anna’s ears as she woke up. It was still dark, so it was early. Charles wasn’t in bed, which was probably what had woken her up.
She threw on socks because the floor was cold, and a robe because the house was cold, too. Then she shuffled out to the kitchen, where Charles was putting on the kettle. She shuffled right up to his back, warming herself on him.
But they’d found that fae, the one who’d been killing children. She’d seen it in the news. And she’d seen a werewolf in his—and her—natural state. Too bad those photos hadn’t turned out. Magic could be odd that way, her garden fae told her.
So she didn’t have photos of the big wolf running amok in her living room, the ones she’d taken without permission. But the photos of the black wolf in her garden were lovely. Not as interesting as the ferocious and angry werewolf had been, but beautiful.
The cleaners had come and gone. Her favorite contractor had called this morning to tell her he was sending a guy down to replace her front window today. “And this time,” he’d told her dryly, “don’t marry him.”
Yes, well, she admitted to herself. That had been a mistake—and she admitted it. But he’d been so pretty.
This one was pretty, too. His smile was warm—and his muscles were hard. He didn’t have a ring on his left hand. She admired that hand, thinking about what it would feel like to have it touch her skin. He was awfully young for her.
“Are you married?” she asked.
He smiled. “I was. She took off with the bank account, my best friend, and my dog. I sure do miss that dog.”
Too young, she thought, watching him work.
“Hey,” she said. “Would you like some lemonade? It’s fresh-squeezed from lemons I grow in my garden.”
“That sounds really good,” he said, and she noticed he had dimples.
Maybe not too young, she decided. Then she went to pour him some lemonade.
Trent Carter hung up the phone and thought seriously of getting into his car and driving off a cliff. But that would leave his daughter alone. Five years old was too young to be alone.
“Daddy?”
He loved his daughter with all of his heart. She was the only thing he had left of her mother. But he didn’t know how to save her. Didn’t really know how to save himself.
“You look sad,” she said.
Sometimes, like now, she acted like a normal kid. She’d play with her toys and dress her dolls and invite him to make-believe tea parties.
Last night her babysitter had called him and told him that she could no longer watch Iris. “She was torturing our kitten,” she said. “Pulling out her whiskers with tweezers. I can’t do this anymore. I am sorry. You need to get her into therapy.”
He didn’t argue, didn’t tell her that he already had her in therapy. That hadn’t worked with the last babysitter. It probably wouldn’t work with this one, either.
He’d called in to work today and told them he had to stay home because he didn’t have anyone to take care of Iris. His boss had just called to let him know he didn’t need to come back to work at all except to collect his things. That was his second job in six months.
“Daddy?”
“No worries, sweetheart,” he told her. “I’m just not feeling good today.”
“How about I get Mr. Blanket and we’ll watch some TV until you feel better?” she asked.
Someone rang the doorbell. “You do that. I’ll see who is at the door and then we can watch some cartoons.”
He opened the door without checking through the spyhole. On his doorstep was a very average man so nondescript that he ought to work for the CIA. The woman was small and curvy, with black hair and wraparound sunglasses so dark he couldn’t see her eyes behind them. There was an unfamiliar car—a black Mercedes—parked just outside his building. A scar-faced man who looked dangerous was leaning against the fender of the car.
Maybe this was the CIA. He thought back, a little anxiously, to his interview with the Cantrip agents. Had he said something wrong?
He’d kind of expected to be visited by Child Protective Services—it would be his third visit. Somehow the bruises always were gone before CPS came. Both her bruises and his.
“Mr. Carter,” said the man, holding out his hand. “I’m Bran Cornick. We were in town on some related business. It was suggested to me that we should stop in to help you with your problem while we were here.”
His hand was very warm.
“This is my associate, Moira.”
“Daddy?” said Iris in her not-Iris voice. “Tell them to go away.”
The woman brushed past him and into his house, her hand reaching down and closing on Iris’s wrist. She touched his daughter’s forehead and murmured a few words he didn’t catch. Iris, who’d been fighting her, suddenly stood still.
“Yes,” she said. “He was right about her, Bran. This is definitely a case of demonic possession.” She turned her head toward Trent, and for the first time he realized she was blind. “This won’t take very long. Demons have a hard time getting a good hold on innocents.”
Bran Cornick urged Trent into the house and shut the door, closing them in together. “Mr. Carter,” he said. “My associate is very good at what she does.”
“Who are you people?” he asked.
“The good guys,” said Moira. “We’re here to help.”
Anna dreamed that it was summer and she and Charles were riding in the mountains. The air was fresh and clean and the sun was warm on her back. Heylight trotted down the trail with the same enthusiasm he’d demonstrated in the arena. She turned to see how Portabella was doing and frowned at Charles.
“That’s a moose,” she told him. “Why are you riding a moose?”
“Because Portabella won’t be here until the spring,” Joseph told her. “Charles would never bring horses up from Arizona to Montana in the winter.”
“That’s right,” Anna said. “We’re bringing them up in March.”
“You should have bought Hephzibah,” Maggie told her, and laughed, but there was no malice in her laughter.
The sweet sound of it rang in Anna’s ears as she woke up. It was still dark, so it was early. Charles wasn’t in bed, which was probably what had woken her up.
She threw on socks because the floor was cold, and a robe because the house was cold, too. Then she shuffled out to the kitchen, where Charles was putting on the kettle. She shuffled right up to his back, warming herself on him.
