Jenna Black - Dark Descendant

A part of me was beginning to suspect I should cut my losses and run. Earlier, I’d talked myself out of disappearing because of all the things I didn’t want to give up. Unfortunately, I seemed to be giving up a lot of those things anyway. I hadn’t spent the night in my own home since the accident, and I’d put so little thought into my job that I hadn’t even checked phone messages. I put referring my current clients to other investigators on my day’s to-do list. It was easier to face than figuring out what to do with the rest of my life.

I decided I needed a serious coffee infusion before I made any life-altering decisions. If I’d really felt like I lived in the mansion, I wouldn’t have hesitated to go downstairs in my nightshirt. But no matter what my supposed status, I felt more like a reluctant guest at an oversized B&B, which meant I wasn’t going anywhere until I was showered and dressed.

I only made two wrong turns before I found my way to the kitchen.

The coffee didn’t magically make all my problems go away, but it was warm, delicious, and caffeinated. That was all that mattered.

I spent the remainder of the wee hours of the morning doing some basic Internet research on Emma Poindexter of Arlington, Virginia. I assumed most of what I learned was pure fiction. Depending on how old she was, she could have dozens of different assumed identities. None of which would have much to do with who she really was. Still, it was a start.

At around eight there was a knock on my door. I answered cautiously, hoping it would be Maggie, because so far she was the only one of the Liberi I could actually say I liked. Instead, it turned out to be Blake, probably my least favorite of Anderson’s Liberi . Jamaal was hostility personified, but at least I understood where he was coming from. Blake just seemed slimy.

I probably made a face, but if so, Blake ignored it, holding up a manila envelope.

“Anderson sent me to give you this,” he said. “I believe the subtext was ‘kiss and make up.’”

This time I was sure I made a face. “I’d rather kiss a copperhead.” I grabbed the envelope from his hand.

He laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t worry. It was only a figure of speech.”

He didn’t seem particularly perturbed that I’d shot him yesterday, but I didn’t believe he’d gotten over it that easily.

“How’s your boo-boo?” I asked. I don’t know if I was trying to rile him, or trying to remind him I wasn’t someone he wanted to mess with.

He touched his chest, presumably where the bullet had hit him. “Still a little sore, but not too bad. I’m touched by your concern.”

He said it with a self-deprecating smile, as if there were no hard feelings, but I still didn’t believe it. I’d seen too much malice in him to think he’d let me off the hook that easily. Even so, I couldn’t help feeling guilty about what I’d done, and I couldn’t force myself to be as indifferent as I wanted to be.

“I really am sorry about that,” I found myself saying, though it made me feel like a wuss.

Blake waved off my apology. “As Anderson pointed out, I had it coming. If I’d left my attitude in the car, I probably could have persuaded you to come with me without the strong-arm tactics.”

I was momentarily at a loss for words. This was not the reaction I’d expected from him.

“Alexis brings out the worst in me,” Blake continued. “When I saw him sitting there with you, I started to wonder if Jamaal was right and you were a plant.”

It wasn’t quite an apology, but it was close. “And now you’ve changed your mind about me?”

“I don’t know what to make of you,” he said with refreshing honesty. “But if there’s a chance you’re telling the truth and can find Emma, then I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Sounds like you’re as anxious to get her back as Anderson is.” I belatedly realized that sounded accusatory, like I thought he and Emma were lovers, when all I’d really meant to do was fish for information.

He hesitated a beat, but didn’t respond to my unintentional implication. “Anderson hasn’t come close to getting over her yet. And the longer she’s been gone, the more saintly she’s become in his memory.”

“Meaning she wasn’t that saintly in real life?”

“Let’s just say she was a bit high-maintenance. And it had been a long, long time since she and Anderson were happy together. By the end, they weren’t even sharing a bed anymore. But you know what they say—absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

He pointed at the manila envelope, which I hadn’t bothered to open yet. “There’s a full dossier on Emma’s current identity in there. There’s also an outline of Anderson’s security plan for your sister. He’s hired a private security firm we’ve worked with in the past, and the rest of us are going to help out as time permits. She’ll be as safe as we can possibly make her, and she’ll never even know her guardian angels are there.”

“Angels, huh?” I asked with a lift of my brow. That wasn’t a term I’d associate with any of the Liberi I’d met.

Blake just laughed.

Over the next couple of days, I spent countless hourschained to my computer, looking for something that might help. I figured that since my non-supernatural abilities to find people had stemmed largely from my computer skills, maybe my supernatural ones would as well.

I had Anderson compile a list of all the known Olympians and all the Descendants who worked for them. The list was long and intimidating, but I started doing methodical searches on each person. It was true that Konstantin could have buried Emma anywhere, including out in some national park miles from civilization, but instinct told me he’d want to have easier access to her. Which meant wherever she was, it was most likely on property owned by Konstantin or one of his many toadies.

When you watch TV shows featuring private investigators, the job always looks like it’s exciting and full of action. The reality is somewhat different. Scouring databases looking for properties that belong to one of about thirty people—many of whom had multiple names as they changed identities over the years—was the antithesis of exciting.

The list of properties grew depressingly long, and though in theory I was making progress, it felt more like I was running in place. Even if I identified the right property, how would I find Emma once I got there? If I was a supernatural tracker, the power was taking its own sweet time to manifest.

On Saturday afternoon, I decided to take a break and get out of the mansion for a while.

Actually, it wasn’t so much my decision, as Steph’s. Her charity auction was on Wednesday night, and she called to remind me. Then she asked me what I would wear, and when I didn’t answer fast enough, she declared we were going shopping.

I could have fought her on it. Although Steph has a steel backbone, I have a pretty good streak of stubbornness in me, too. But one thing I’d learned over years of working as a P.I. was that it really was possible to work too hard. The brain needs to take a break every once in a while, or you start missing things that are right in front of your face. So I let myself be persuaded.

Steph’s favorite store is the Saks out in Chevy Chase, but I didn’t make enough money from my P.I. business to buy so much as a single shoe there. Trust me, if I was ever going to be persuaded to tap into my trust fund, it wouldn’t be for the sake of designer clothes. In deference to my budget concerns, we hit the shops and boutiques of Georgetown instead.

I enjoy shopping as much as the next girl, and I’d been on countless excursions with Steph over the years, but there was nothing like watching my beautiful sister trying on clothes to make me feel like an ugly duckling.