Mark Del Franco - Skin Deep

“There are interesting security issues as well,” said Blume.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

“My offices are upstairs. Shall we discuss it in more appropriate surroundings?” he asked.

She was tempted. She had followed Gianni and Sinclair to learn what she could about them. Blume was unexpected, and unexpectedly respectable, but clearly one of her “teammates” had told him about her. Under normal circumstances, she would have taken advantage of such a turn of events. But now the timing and situation felt wrong. Two and a half drinks had taken the edge off her alertness, and drinking with a concussion hadn’t been the smartest move in the first place. She didn’t need to follow up tonight.

“Maybe another time,” she said.

“You could use the money,” he said.

In one sense, it was true-part of the Janice biography. But Blume spoke with a tone of conviction that revealed he knew it for a fact. She faced him with a touch of indignation in her face. “Excuse me?”

He pursed his lips, his amusement turning smug. “You live in a small apartment and have no family to help you financially. InterSec throws you a short job once in a while, and the D.C. human force has no interest in hiring you. You’re three months late on your student loan, and your cable was turned off last month.” He placed a business card on the bar. “Do think about it.”

He melted into the crowd without another word. She picked up the card, a plain cream with two evergreen stripes down the side and across the top. The only text gave Blume’s name, email address, and a phone number, no title or business.

“I see he made his pitch,” Sinclair said.

She glanced at his sudden appearance. He didn’t startle her, but she was surprised she hadn’t detected his body signature until he was right next to her. Her limited sensing range became more constricted in crowded rooms; but once she knew someone, she was usually more sensitive to the body signature. She frowned. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“It wasn’t my idea. Maybe I wanted to see how you reacted,” he said.

“Did I pass your test?”

“Did you take the job?”

“No.”

He toasted the air. “A-plus.”

“I don’t like being played, Sinclair. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She decided to establish her own role as the druid with a backbone. She pushed through the crowd. She’d have plenty of time to make nice in the squad room.

“Wait a sec,” Sinclair called to her, when she reached the foyer. He followed her. She continued forward but waited for him on the sidewalk.

“What?” she asked, when he stepped out.

“Look, don’t take this wrong. I didn’t mean to make you mad. They played me when I was the new guy. You’re just newerer.”

She glared at him, then laughed. “I hope you’re drunk and don’t think that’s a word.”

He had the good grace to hang his head in embarrassment. Laura wasn’t buying it yet. “You okay to drive?” he asked.

She gave him a cocky look. “I’m a police officer with a badge. I’m always okay to drive.”

She tucked her chin down as she walked away so that he could not see her smiling. His concern about her driving was genuine. She surprised herself by feeling flattered but didn’t want Sinclair to see her looking pleased. He might get the wrong impression. Or the right one. Despite her suspicions, she liked him. He had a refreshing honesty in a city seldom known for truth. He wasn’t telling her everything-either about himself or what he knew about the raid-but at least he wasn’t lying. Yet. She allowed herself to enjoy the attraction. It had been a long time since she noticed a man. Surrounded as she was by beautiful fey people in the Guildhouse, physical attractiveness had almost become a given in what passed for her social life. Finding someone attractive wasn’t the problem. Finding someone attractive in the right way was.

She decided to stay the night at the Guildhouse. It was closer than her apartment, and she wanted to get an early start in the morning. She parked her SUV in its usual spot, shifted out of the Janice glamour in the elevator lobby, and rode the elevator to her Blackstone office.

Without pausing, she went to the closet behind her desk and pushed aside the coat and extra outfit she stored there. To the casual observer, the closet was two feet deep. However, the back wall didn’t exist in the conventional sense. A masking spell created the illusion of a wall, tactilely and visually. The spell was keyed to her body signature, and it tingled over her skin like cobwebs. It allowed her to pass through to an office on the opposite side of the floor. InterSec had requisitioned the space for her. The people who worked in the nearby department thought the hall door on their side accessed an electrical closet.

A double clothing rack along one side held a variety of outfits. Beneath, dozens of shoes sat toes to the wall, everything from work boots to ballet slippers. An unmade bed took up most of the next wall. Two worktables, a bureau, and a desk filled the rest of the space. The room was cluttered and messy, the stale, filtered air tinged with the faint burnt odor of the herbs that she used for healing and meditation.

Laura slept in the room more often than she liked to admit. As the years went on, she spent more time in it, even thought of it as a home. There was no pretense about the room, no artifice. It represented a world of hidden agendas, but the room itself contained none. It was the one place where she didn’t have to be anyone. The problem was, she wasn’t quite sure what that meant anymore. Her life had become the room, closed off, contained, and hidden.

She stripped off her clothing. In the cramped bathroom, she examined herself in the mirror as she waited for the hot water to come up. The bruise from the gunshot hit was already fading, a testament to her fey constitution. Despite whatever Cress had done to boost her essence, she looked drawn and pale. She didn’t spend much time in the tiny, claustrophobic shower, staying just long enough to get the odor of the bar off her.

In the main room, her gaze fell on a vodka bottle next to the hot plate. Even as her hand reached for the bottle, she changed her mind, picked up the teapot, and filled it from the bathroom tap. A small burn ignited in her chest. After decades on the job watching colleagues disintegrate in an alcoholic rage, she was not going to slide into the trap now. It bothered her that she had reminded herself about it twice in two days. Instead, she made chamomile tea and added healing herbs.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she wove a chant into the aroma from the tea. It flickered with healing essence as she sipped. Warmth spread in her chest and stomach, and she used her body essence to nudge the spell to her sore shoulder and head. The ache in both places lessened, as though under a mild anesthetic.

Turning off the lights, she stared into the darkness. She had spent too many moments gazing too long at Sinclair. She needed to pull herself together, remember her job, and not get distracted. Not by drinking and not by flirting with Jonathan Sinclair.

She sighed and rolled on her side. The only explanation she had for her behavior was exhaustion. Why else would she be almost actively slipping up? She needed a break, that much she was sure of. As she drifted into sleep, the image of Sinclair’s amber eyes floated through her mind. He was handsome. He was intriguing. He was interested. She reminded herself that none of those things were worth getting killed over.

LAURA PLACED HERhand on a granite panel beside the locked door to the InterSec unit. Her body signature-Janice Crawford’s body signature-interacted with the ward spell, tickling static across her palm. The spell recognized the glamour’s persona and the lock released. Over the years, she had taken pains to avoid connecting Laura Blackstone with InterSec. Whenever she worked on anything other than public relations at the Guildhouse, she wore the appropriate glamour. That way Laura Blackstone didn’t have to answer any questions about her presence in an area that had nothing to do with her day job.