Ким Харрисон - Every Witch Way But Dead

Shoving him up the wall, Ivy dropped him and stepped away. He hit the floor in a slump, his hand at his neck as he coughed violently. Slowly he moved his legs into a normal position. Flipping his very black hair from his eyes, he looked up, sitting cross-legged and barefoot. "Morgan," he said roughly, his hand hiding his throat, "I need your help."

I glanced at Ivy, who was tightening her black silk robe about herself again. He needed my help? Ri-i-i-i-ight. "You okay?" I asked Ivy, and she nodded. The ring of brown left to her eyes was too thin for my comfort, but the sun was high, and the tension in the room was easing. Seeing my concern, she pressed her lips together.

"I'm fine," she reiterated. "You want me to call the I.S. now or after I kill him?"

My gaze ran over the kitchen. My cookies were ruined, sitting in soggy clumps. The globs of frosting on the walls were starting to run. Saltwater was venturing out of the kitchen, threatening to reach the living room rug. Letting Ivy kill him was looking really good.

"I want to hear what he has to say," I said as I slid open a drawer and put three dish towels in the threshold as a dike. Jenks's kids were peeking around the corner at us. The angry pixy rubbed his wings together to make a piercing whistle, and they vanished in a trill of sound.

Taking a fourth towel, I wiped the frosting off my elbow and went to stand before Quen. Feet spread wide and my fists on my hips, I waited. It must have been big if he was willing to risk Jenks figuring out he was an elf. My thoughts went to Ceri across the street, and my worry grew. I wasn't going to let Trent know she existed. He would use her some way—some very ugly way.

The elf felt his ribs through his black shirt. "I think you cracked them," he said.

"Did I pass?" I said snidely.

"No. But you're the best I've got."

Ivy made a sound of disbelief, and Jenks dropped down before him, staying carefully out of his reach. "You ass," the four-inch man swore. "We could have killed you three times over."

Quen frowned at him. "We. It was her I was interested in. Not we. She failed."

"So I guess that means you'll be leaving," I said, knowing I wouldn't be that lucky. I took in his subdued attire and sighed. It was just after noon. Elves slept when the sun was high and in the middle of the night, just like pixies. Quen was here without Trent's knowledge.

Feeling more sure of myself, I pulled out a chair and sat down before Quen could see my legs trembling. "Trent doesn't know you're here," I said, and he nodded solemnly.

"It's my problem, not his," Quen said. "I'm paying you, not him."

I blinked, trying to disguise my unease. Trent didn't know. Interesting. "You have a job for me that he doesn't know about," I said. "What is it?"

Quen's gaze went to Ivy and Jenks.

Peeved, I crossed my legs and shook my head. "We're a team. I'm not asking them to leave so you can tell me of whatever piss-poor problem you've landed yourself in."

The older elf's brow wrinkled. He took an angry breath.

"Look," I said, my finger jabbing out to point at him. "I don't like you. Jenks doesn't like you. And Ivy wants to eat you. Start talking."

He went motionless. It was then I saw his desperation, shimmering behind his eyes like light on water. "I have a problem," he said, fear the thinnest ribbon in his low, controlled voice.

I glanced at Ivy. Her breath had quickened and she stood with her arms wrapped about herself, holding her robe closed. She looked upset, her pale face even more white than usual.

"Mr. Kalamack is going to a social gathering and—"

My lips pursed. "I already turned down one whoring offer today."

Quen's eyes flashed. "Shut up," he said coldly. "Someone is interfering in Mr. Kalamack's secondary business ventures. The meeting is to try to come to a mutual understanding. I want you to be there to be sure that's all it is."

Mutual understanding? It was an I'm-tougher-than-you-so-get-out-of-my-city party. "Saladan?" I guessed.

Genuine surprise washed over him. "You know him?"

Jenks was flitting over Quen, trying to figure out what he was. The pixy was getting more and more frustrated, his shifts of direction becoming jerky and accented with sharp snaps of his dragonfly wings. "I've heard of him," I said, thinking of Takata. My eyes narrowed. "Why should I care if he assumes Trent's secondary business ventures? This is about Brimstone, isn't it?" I said. "Well, you can take a leap of faith and burn in hell. Trent is killing people, not that he hasn't done it before, but now he's killing them for no reason." Outrage pulled me to my feet. "Your boss is moth crap. I ought to bring him in, not protect him. And you," I said, louder, pointing, "are lower than moth crap for doing nothing while he does it!"

Quen flushed, making me feel vastly better about myself. "Are you that stupid?" he said, and I stiffened. "The bad Brimstone isn't from Mr. Kalamack; it's from Saladan. That's what this meeting is about. Mr. Kalamack is trying to get it off the streets, and unless you want Saladan taking over the city, you'd better start trying to keep Mr. Kalamack alive like the rest of us. Are you going to take the run or not? It pays ten thousand."

From Jenks came an eyeball-hurting pulse of ultrasonic surprise.

"Cash up front," Quen added, pulling a narrow wad of bills from somewhere on his person and throwing it at my feet.

I looked at the money. It wasn't enough. A million dollars wouldn't be enough. I shifted my foot, and it slid across the wet floor to Quen. "No."

"Take the money and let him die, Rache," Jenks said from the sun-strewn windowsill.

The black-clad elf smiled. "That's not how Ms. Morgan works." His pockmarked face was confident, and I hated the self-assured look in his green eyes. "If she takes the money, she'll protect Mr. Kalamack down to her last breath. Won't you?"

"No," I said, knowing I would. But I wasn't going to take his lousy ten grand.

"And you will take the money and the job," Quen said, "because if you don't, I'm going to tell the world about your summers at that little camp of his father's. You're the only person who has a ghost's chance in hell to keep him alive."

My face went cold. "Bastard," I whispered, refusing to feel afraid. "Why don't you just leave me alone? Why me? You just smeared me into the floor."

His eyes dropped from mine. "There will be vampires there," he said softly. "Powerful ones. There's the chance—" He took a breath and met my eyes. "I don't know if—"

I shook my head, somewhat reassured. Quen wouldn't tell. Trent would be mildly ticked if I was packed up and shipped off to Antarctica; he still had hopes of luring me to his payroll himself. "If you're afraid of vampires, that's your problem," I said. "I'm not going to let you make it mine. Ivy, get him out of my kitchen."

She didn't move, and I turned, my ire evaporating at the blank look on her face. "He's been bitten," she whispered, the wistful faltering in her voice shocking me. Hunched into herself, she leaned back against the wall, closed her eyes, and took a slow breath to scent him.

My lips parted in understanding. Piscary had bitten him, right before I clubbed the undead vampire into unconsciousness. Quen was an Inderlander, and so couldn't contract the vamp virus and be turned, but he might be mentally bound to the master vampire. I found my hand covering my neck, my face cold.

Big Al had taken the form and abilities of a vampire when he had torn open my neck and tried to kill me. He had filled my veins with the same potent cocktail of neurotransmitters that now ran through Quen. It was a survival trait to help ensure that vamps had a willing blood supply, and it turned pain into pleasure when stimulated by vampire pheromones. If the vamp had enough experience, they could sensitize the response such that they, and only they, could stimulate the bite into feeling good, binding the person to them alone and preventing easy poaching of their private supply.