Ким Харрисон - The Good, The Bad, And The Undead

My attention went to Trent. His green eyes were intent on me even as he talked to Edden, and I tugged my hat straight and tucked a wisp of hair behind an ear. Refusing to let him rattle me, I stared back. His gaze flicked behind me, and I turned as Sara Jane's red car pulled up with a scattering of sawdust beside the FIB vehicles.

The small woman bolted from her car, looking like a different person in her jeans and casual blouse. Slamming the door, she stalked forward. "You!" she accused, coming to a flustered halt before me, and I took a surprised step back. "This is your doing, isn't it!" she shouted up at me.

My face went blank. "Uh."

She put herself in my face, and I took another step back. "I asked for your help in finding my boyfriend," she said shrilly, eyes flashing. "Not accuse my employer of murder! You are an evil witch, so evil, you could— could fire God !"

"Um," I stammered, glancing at Edden for help. He and Trent were on their way over, and I backed up another step, holding my bag tight against me. I hadn't thought of this.

"Sara Jane," Trent soothed even before he was close. "It's all right."

She spun to him, her blond hair catching the highlights of the sun. "Mr. Kalamack," she said, her face shifting abruptly to fear and worry. Eyes pinched, she wrung her hands. "I'm sorry. I came as soon as I heard. I didn't ask her to come here. I—I…" Her eyes welled, and making a small noise, she dropped her head into her hands and started crying.

My lips parted in surprise. Was she worried about her job, her boyfriend, or Trent?

Trent gave me a dark look, as if it were my fault she was upset. It melted into genuine sympathy as he put a hand upon the small woman's shaking shoulders. "Sara Jane," he soothed, ducking his head to try and meet her eyes. "Don't even think that I blame you for this. Ms. Morgan's accusations have nothing to do with you going to the FIB about Dan." His wonderful voice rose and fell like puddles of silk.

"B-But she thinks you murdered those people," she stammered, sniffing as she pulled her hands from her face and smeared her mascara into a brown blur under her eye.

Edden shifted uneasily from foot to foot. The radio chatter from the FIB vehicles rose over the crickets. I refused to feel sorry that I had made Sara Jane cry. Her boss was dirt, and the sooner she realized that, the better off she would be. Trent hadn't killed those people with his hands, but he had arranged it, making him as guilty as if he had carved them up himself. My thoughts went to the picture of the woman on the gunnery, and I steeled myself.

Trent pulled Sara Jane's gaze up with a gentle encouragement. I wondered at his compassion. I wondered how it would feel to have his beautiful voice soothing me, telling me that everything was all right. Then I wondered if there was a chance in hell of Sara Jane getting away from him with her life intact.

"Don't jump to conclusions," Trent said, handing her a linen handkerchief embroidered with his initials. "No one has been accused of anything. And there's no need for you to stay here. Why don't you go back home? This ugly business will be done as soon as we find the stray dog that Ms. Morgan's charm has fixed on."

Sara Jane shot me a poisonous look. "Yes sir," she said, her voice harsh.

Stray dog? I thought, torn between my desire to take her out to lunch for a heart-to-heart and my need to slap some sense into the woman.

Edden cleared his throat. "I'd ask Ms. Gradenko and yourself to stay here until we know more, sir."

Trent's professional smile faltered. "Are we being detained?"

"No sir," he said respectfully. "Merely a request."

"Captain!" a dog handler shouted from the second floor landing. My heart pounded at the excitement in the man's voice. "Socks didn't point, but we have a locked door."

Adrenaline zinged through me. I looked at Trent. His face showed nothing.

Quen and a small man started forward, accompanied by an FIB officer. The short man was obviously a past jockey now turned manager. His face was leathered and wrinkled, and he had a wad of keys with him. They jingled as he pulled one off and handed it to Quen. Body tense with that unnerving liquid menace, Quen handed it in turn to Edden.

"Thank you," the FIB captain said. "Now go stand with the officers." He hesitated, smiling. "If you would, please." He crooked his finger at a pair of FIB officers who had just arrived, pointing at Quen. They jogged over.

Glenn left the crime scene van with its radio and headed in our direction. Jenks was with him, and the pixy circled him three times before zipping ahead. "Give me the key," Jenks said as he came to a pixy-dust-laced halt between Edden and me. "I'll take it up."

Glenn looked at the pixy in bother as he joined us. "You're not FIB. Key, please."

An unheard sigh lifted through Edden. I could tell he wanted to see what was in that room and was making a conscious effort to let his son handle it. By rights, he had no business being out here. I imagine accusing a city council member of murder gave him more justification than he might have otherwise.

Jenks's wings clattered harshly as Captain Edden handed the key to Glenn. I could smell Glenn's sweat over his cologne, his eagerness. A cluster of people had joined the dog and her handler about the door, and gripping my bag tightly, I started to the stairs right along with him.

"Rachel," Glenn said, coming to a stop and catching my elbow. "You're staying here."

"I am not!" I exclaimed, jerking out of his grip. I glanced at Captain Edden for support, and the squat man shrugged, looking put out that he hadn't been invited, either.

Glenn's face hardened as he saw the direction of my gaze. Letting go of me, he said, "Stay here. I want you to watch Kalamack. Read his emotions for me."

"That's a load of crap," I said, thinking, crap or not, it was probably a good idea. "Your d—" I bit my tongue. "Your captain can do that," I amended.

Bother pinched his brow. "All right. It's crap. But you're going to stay here. If we find Dr. Anders, I want this crime scene tighter than—"

"A straight man's butt cheeks in prison?" Jenks offered, his tiny shape starting to glow.

He landed on my shoulder, and I let him stay. "Come on, Glenn," I wheedled. "I won't touch anything. And you'll need me to tell you if there are any lethal spells."

"Jenks can do that," he said. "And he doesn't have to step on the floor to do it."

Frustrated, I cocked my hip and fumed. I could tell that under his official veneer, Glenn was worried and excited all at the same time. He had only made detective recently, and I imagined this was the biggest case he'd worked. Cops spent their entire professional lives on the job and were never assigned a case with this many potential political ramifications. All the more reason I should be there. "But I'm your Inderland consultant," I said, grasping at straws.

He put a dark hand on my shoulder, and I pushed it off. "Look," he said, the rims of his ears going red. "There are procedures to follow. I lost my first court case because of a contaminated crime scene, and I'm not going to risk losing Kalamack because you were too impatient to wait your turn. It needs to be vacuumed, photographed, dusted, analyzed, and anything else I can think of. You come in right after the psychic. Got it?"

"Psychic?" I questioned, and he frowned.

"Okay, I'm kidding about the psychic, but if you put one manicured nail over that threshold before I say, I'll throw you out of here faster than stink on snake."

Faster than stink on snake? He must have been serious if he was mixing his metaphors.

"You want an ACG suit?" he asked, his eyes shifting from mine to the dog van.

I took a slow breath at the subtle threat. Anticharm gear. The last time I tried to take Trent down, he had killed the witness right out from under me. "No," I said.