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

"None of the above," he said, his casual shoes scuffing as he came to a halt.

A wash of cold shocked through me. "I beg your pardon?" I stammered, pulling myself up and away from the railing.

"I'm not afraid of you."

I stared, his liquid voice melting itself into the chatter of water surrounding us.

"And I can't read your mind, either, just your face."

My breath came in a soft sound and I shut my mouth. How had I lost control so fast?

"You took care of the troll, I see," he said.

"Detective Glenn, too," I said as I touched my hair to be sure my curls hadn't escaped my braid. "He won't bother us unless you do something stupid."

His eyes tightened at the insult. He didn't move, keeping that same five feet between us. "Where's your pixy?" he asked.

Irritation pulled me straight. "His name is Jenks, and he's somewhere else. He doesn't know, and I'd just as soon keep it that way as he has a big mouth."

Trent visibly relaxed. He went to stand opposite me, the narrow width of the bridge between us. It had been hard to slip Jenks this afternoon, and Ivy finally stepped in, taking him out on a nonexistent run. I think she was actually going for doughnuts.

Sharps was playing with the ducks, pulling them under to bob to the surface and fly away quacking. Turning from the sight, Trent leaned his back against the railing and crossed one ankle against another, his position mirroring mine exactly. We were two people meeting by chance, sharing a few words and the sun. Ri-i-i-i-ight.

"If it gets out," he said, his eyes on the distant bathroom behind me, "I'll make the records concerning my father's little camp public. You and every one of those sorry little snots will be tracked down and treated like lepers. That is if they don't simply cremate you out of fear something will mutate and start another Turn."

My knees went loose and watery. I had been right. Trent's father had done something to me, fixed whatever had been wrong. And Trent's threat wasn't idle. The best-case scenario would involve a one-way ticket to the Antarctic. I moved my tongue around on the inside of my mouth, trying to find enough spit to swallow. "How did you know?" I asked, thinking my secret was more deadly than his.

Eyes fixed to mine, he pushed the sleeve of his shirt up to show a nicely muscled arm. The hair was bleached from the sun and his skin was well-tanned. A ragged scar marred its even smoothness. My eyes rose to his, reading an old anger.

"That was you?" I stammered. "That was you I threw into the tree?"

With motions short and abrupt, he tugged his sleeve back down, hiding the scar. "I've never forgiven you for making me cry in front of my father."

A childhood anger flared from coals I had thought long extinct. "It's your own fault. I told you to stop teasing her!" I said, not caring that my voice was louder than the surrounding water. "Jasmin was sick. She cried herself to sleep for three weeks because of you."

Trent jerked upright. "You know her name?" he exclaimed. "Write it down. Quick!"

I stared at him in disbelief. "Why do you care what her name was? She had a hard enough time without you picking on her."

"Her name!" Trent said, patting his pockets until he found a pen. "What's her name?"

Scowling, I tucked a curl behind an ear. "I'm not going to tell you," I said, embarrassed that I had forgotten it again.

Trent pressed his lips together and put the pen away. "You forgot already, didn't you?"

"Why do you care anyway? All you did was pester her."

He looked cross as he tugged his hat lower over his eyes. "I was fourteen. A very awkward fourteen, Ms. Morgan. I teased her because I liked her. Next time you recall her name, I would appreciate it if you would write it down and send it to me. There were long-term memory blockers in the camp's drinking water, and I would like to know if—"

His voice cut off, and I watched the emotion flicker behind his eyes. I was becoming good at reading them. "You want to know if she survived," I finished for him, knowing I had guessed right when his gaze went elsewhere. "Why were you there?" I asked, almost afraid he'd tell me.

"My father owned the camp. Where else would I spend my summers?"

The cadence of his voice and the slight tightening of his brow told me it had been more than that. A thrill of satisfaction warmed me; I'd found his tell for when he lied. Now all I needed was the same for when he was speaking the truth, and he'd never be able to successfully lie to me again.

"You are as filthy as your father," I said, disgusted, "blackmailing people by dangling a cure within their reach and making them your puppets. Your parents' fortune was built on the misery of hundreds, maybe thousands, Mr. Kalamack. And you're no different."

Trent's chin trembled almost imperceptibly, and I thought I saw a shimmer of sparkles about him, the memory of his aura playing tricks on me. Must be an elf thing. "I will not justify my actions to you," he said. "And you have become very adept in the art of blackmail yourself. I'm not going to waste my time bickering like children over who hurt whose feelings over a decade ago. I want to hire your services."

"Hire me?" I said, unable to keep my voice lowered as I put my hands on my hips in disbelief. "You tried to kill me in the rat fights, and you think I'm going to work for you? To help clear your name? You murdered those witches. I'm going to prove it."

He laughed, his hat shadowing his face as he bowed his head and chuckled.

"What's so funny?" I demanded, feeling foolish.

"You." His eyes were bright. "You were never in any danger in that rat pit. I was only using it to knock home your current sordid state. But I did make a few astounding contacts while I was there."

"You son of—" Lips pressed tight, I clenched my hand into a fist.

Trent's mirth vanished and his head tilted in warning as he took a step away. "I wouldn't," he threatened, raising a finger. "I really wouldn't."

I slowly rocked back, my knees shaking in the memory of the pit. The gut-twisting feeling of helplessness, of being trapped and forced to kill or be killed, washed through me. I had been Trent's toy. Him running me down on horseback was nothing compared to that. After all, I had been thieving from him at the time.

"Listen to me really good, Trent," I whispered, the thought of Quen forcing me to retreat until the concrete pressed cold into the small of my back. "I'm not working for you. I'm going to take you down. I'm going to figure out how to tie you to every one of those murders."

"Oh please," he said, and I wondered how we went so quickly from a Fortune-twenty businessman and a slick independent runner to two people squabbling over past injustices. "Are you still on that? Even Captain Edden realizes Dan Smather's body was dumped in my stables, which is why he sent his son to watch me instead of filing charges. And as for having contact with the victims, yes, I talked to them all, trying to employ them, not kill them. You have a very strong skill set, Ms. Morgan, but detective is not among them. You are far too impatient, driven by your intuitive skills, which seem to only work forward, not backward."

Affronted, I put my hands on my hips and made a sound of disbelief. Who did he think he was, lecturing me?

Trent reached into a shirt pocket, pulling out a white envelope and handing it to me. Leaning forward and back, I snatched it, flipping it open. My breath caught as I realized it held twenty crisp hundred-dollar bills.

"That's ten percent up front, the rest on completion," he said, and I froze, trying to look cavalier. Twenty thousand dollars? "I want you to identify who is responsible for the murders. I've been trying to hire a ley line witch for the last three months, and every one of them ends up dead. It's growing tiresome. All I want is a name."