Bloodfever

Chapter 4

I told you. He was working on my sister’s case.”

“And when did you see him last?”

“I told you that, too. Yesterday morning. He stopped by the bookstore.”

“Why did he stop by the bookstore?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I told you that, too. To tell me he’d reviewed her case and there was still no new evidence and that he was sorry but it was going to have to stay closed.”

“Do you expect me to believe Inspector O’Duffy, who incidentally has a lovely wife and three children he takes to church every Sunday, followed by brunch with his in-laws—a family outing he’s missed only four times in the past fifteen years, and then for funerals—bypassed that in favor of making an early morning, personal visit to the sister of a deceased murder victim to tell her an already closed case was staying closed?”

Well, fudge-buckets. Even I was gripped by the illogic in that.

“Why didn’t he use the phone?”

I shrugged.

My interrogator, Inspector Jayne, waved the two officers flanking the door from the room. He pushed up from the table and circled it, stopping behind me. I could feel him back there, staring down at me. I was acutely aware of the ancient stolen spear tucked into my boot, inside the leg of my jeans. If they charged and searched me, I was in big trouble.

“You’re an attractive young woman, Ms. Lane.”

“Point?”

“Was there something going on between you and Inspector O’Duffy?”

“Oh, please! Do you really think he’s my type?”

“Was, Ms. Lane. Do I think he was your type. He’s dead.”

I glared up at the Garda looming over me, trying to use dominant body posture to intimidate me. He didn’t know how bad my day had already been, or that there wasn’t much in the human world that frightened me anymore. “Are you going to arrest me or not?”

“His wife said he’d been distracted lately. Worried. Not eating. She had no idea why. You know?”

“No. I told you that, too. Half a dozen times now. How many more times do we have to go over this?” I sounded like a bad actor in a worse movie.

He did, too. “As many times as I say we have to. Let’s take it from the beginning. Tell me again about the first time you saw him here at the station.”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

“Open your eyes and answer the question.”

I opened my eyes and stared daggers up at him. I still couldn’t believe O’Duffy was dead. Royally screwing up my world, he’d had his throat cut holding a scrap of paper with my name and the address of the bookstore written on it. It hadn’t taken long for his brothers in—well, not exactly arms, the Dublin police don’t carry guns—to come looking for me. I’d spent the morning battling Shades and a death-by-sex Fae, discovered something monstrous lived beneath Barrons’ garage right behind my bedroom, and now I was in the police station being interrogated on suspicion of murder. Could my day get any worse? Oh, they’d not pressed formal charges, but they’d sure used scare tactics on me back at the bookstore, making them think they were. And they’d made it clear they’d jump on any reason they could find to back me up against a wall and start snapping mug shots. I was a stranger in this city, nearly all the answers I gave sounded evasive because they were evasive, and O’Duffy’s Sunday morning visit to me really did look suspicious.

I repeated the story I’d told an hour ago, and an hour before that and an hour before that. He asked the same questions he and two men before him had asked, all morning and a good part of the afternoon—they’d let me stew for forty-five minutes while they went to lunch and came back smelling scrumptiously of vinegary fish and chips—phrased in minutely different ways, all designed to trip me up. The caffeine from my chilled latte had worn off hours ago and I was starving.

On one level, I could appreciate what Inspector Jayne was doing; it was his job, he was doing it very well, and it was obvious Patrick O’Duffy had been his friend. I hoped they’d done the same for Alina. On another level, it infuriated me. My problems were so much bigger than this. It was an epic waste of my time. Not only that, I felt exposed. With the exception of my trip across the back alley this morning, I hadn’t set foot outside of the bookstore since I’d seen what I’d seen in the warehouse at 1247 LaRuhe a week ago. I felt like a walking target with a bull’s-eye painted on my forehead. Did the Lord Master know where to find me? How high was I on his list of priorities? Was he still wherever he’d gone when he’d stepped through that portal? Was he watching the bookstore? Did he have his Rhino-boys, those watchdogs of the Fae—the lower caste of enormous, ugly, gray-skinned Unseelie with wide, squat, barrel-bodies, jutting underbites, and bumpy foreheads—waiting to grab me the moment I walked out of the police station by myself? Should I try to get myself formally arrested? I discarded that thought the instant I had it. Humans couldn’t keep me alive. I blinked, startled to realize I no longer quite counted myself in that camp.

“He was my brother-in-law,” he said abruptly.

I winced.

“Assuming you had nothing to do with his murder, I still have to find a way to tell my sister what the fuck he was doing with you the morning he died,” he said bitterly. “So what the fuck was he doing, Ms. Lane? Because we both know your story’s bullshit. Patty didn’t miss Mass. Patty didn’t follow up on cases on his personal time. Patty stayed alive because Patty loved his family.”

I stared dismally at my hands, folded neatly in my lap. I badly needed a manicure. I tried to imagine what the wife of an officer who’d died mere hours after visiting a pretty young woman, and was given the inane reason for the visit I was offering, would think and feel. She’d know she was being lied to, and the unknown always takes on greater, more terrible proportions than whatever truth is concealed behind the lie. Would she believe, as her brother did, that her beloved Patty had cheated on her and betrayed their marriage vows the morning he’d died?

I never used to lie. Mom raised us to believe that every lie puts something out there in the world that’s inevitably going to come back and bite you in the petunia. “I can’t explain Inspector O’Duffy’s actions. I can only tell you what he did. He came by to tell me Alina’s case was staying closed. That’s all I know.”

I drew comfort from the fact that if I came clean and told him everything, confessed every bit of it, down to my suspicion that O’Duffy had somehow learned that something big, nasty, and not human had moved into Dublin, and been killed because of it, he’d believe me even less.

The afternoon was endless: Who owns the bookstore? How did you say you met him? Why are you staying there? Is he your lover? If her case is closed, why haven’t you gone home? How did you get those bruises on your face? Are you working somewhere? How are you supporting yourself? When do you plan to go home? Do you know anything about the three abandoned cars in the back alley behind Barrons Books and Baubles?

The whole time, I waited for Barrons to come and rescue me, the product, I suppose, of growing up in a world where nearly all the fairy tales I’d heard as a child had a prince rushing to the rescue of the princess. Men down south love to play up to that image.

It’s a strange new world out there and the rules have changed: It’s every princess for herself.

It was five-forty-five before they finally let me go.

O’Duffy’s brother-in-law escorted me to the door. “I’m going to be watching you, Ms. Lane. Every time you turn around, it’s my face you’re going to see. I’m going to be tape to your ass.”

“Fine,” I said tiredly. “Can I get a ride back to the bookstore?”

Okay, that was a no.

“How about the phone? Can I use it?” He gave me another hard look. “Are you kidding me? You guys wouldn’t let me get my purse this morning. I don’t have money for a cab. What if somebody out there mugs me?”

Inspector Jayne was already walking away. “You don’t have a purse, Ms. Lane. What would somebody mug you for?” he tossed over his shoulder.

I glanced uneasily at my watch. When they’d picked me up at the bookstore, they’d made me remove the flashlights from the waistband of my jeans and leave them with Fiona.

Thunder rumbled, vibrating the glass panes in the windows.

It was going to be dark soon.

“Hey! You there, wait up!”

I didn’t break stride.

“Beautiful girl, wait a minute! I was hoping I’d see you again!”

It was the “beautiful girl” part that flung a noose around my foot, the voice that snagged it tight. I raked a hand through my recently butchered hair and looked down at my dark, baggy clothes. The compliment was balm to my soul, the voice young, male, and full of fun. I skidded to a halt. Shallow, I know.

It was the dreamy-eyed guy I’d seen in the museum the day I’d been searching it for OOPs.

I turned bright red. That was the day V’lane had amped up the death-by-sex thing and I’d stripped in the middle of Ireland’s famous Ór exhibit, right there in front of God and everybody.

Flushing, I sprinted off again, splashing through puddles. It was raining—of frogging course—and the sidewalks of Dublin’s craic-filled Temple Bar District were nearly empty. I had places to go, darkness to race, guys who’d watched me strip to avoid.

He dropped into a long-legged lope beside me and I couldn’t help myself, I slanted a look at him. Tall, dark, dreamy-eyed, he was boy-on-the-cusp-of-man, in that perfect stage where guys are velvet skin over supple hard bodies, without an ounce of fat. I’d bet he had a six-pack. He was a serious leftie. Once upon a time in my life, I’d have given my eyeteeth for a date with him. I’d have dressed in pink and gold, swept my long blond hair up in a playful ponytail, and painted my nails and toes to match, Young-Hearts-Beat-Free-Tonight Blush.

“Fine, I’ll run with you then,” he said easily. “Where you off to in such a hurry?”

“None of your business.” Go away, pretty boy. You don’t fit in my world anymore. How I wished he did.

“I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again.”

“You don’t even know me. Besides, I’m sure you saw more than enough of me at the museum,” I said bitterly.

“What do you mean?”

“You know.”

He shot me a quizzical look. “All I know is I had to leave right after I saw you. I had to go to work.”

He hadn’t watched me strip? Some of the ugliness of my life melted away. “Where do you work?”

“Ancient Languages Department.”

“Where?” Hunky and smart.

“Trinity.”

“Cool. Student?”

“Yeah. You?”

I shook my head.

“American?”

I nodded. “You?” He didn’t sound Irish.

“Little of this, little of that. Nothing special.” He smiled and winked. Dreamy eyes, long dark lashes.

Wow. Right. This guy was special all the way down to his toes. I wanted to know him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to feather my lips on those lashes. And he’d probably end up dead if he hung around with me. I killed monsters other people couldn’t see and had just spent the entire day in the police station on suspicion of murder for the death of a man I hadn’t killed instead of the sixteen I had. “Leave me alone. I can’t be your friend,” I said bluntly.

“That’s way too intriguing to pass up. What’s your story, beautiful girl?”

“I don’t have a story. I have a life. And you don’t fit in it.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Dozens.”

“Truth?”

“Is.”

“Come on, don’t dis me.”

“Consider yourself dissed. Fuck off,” I said coolly.

He held up both hands, “All right. I get it,” and stopped.

I pounded down the sidewalk away from him and didn’t look back. I wanted to cry.

“I’ll be around,” he called. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Right. Ancient Languages Department at Trinity. I made a mental note never to go there.

“I think they know me,” I said when I pushed through the front door of the bookstore. Barrons was behind the counter, not Fiona. That was weird. He was actually ringing up a purchase, like a real person doing a job. He cut me a look of warning—mute it, Ms. Lane—and jerked his head toward the customer.

“Flip the sign,” he said when the patron left. He slapped a cardboard placard on the counter and began writing on it. “Who do you think knows you?”

“The Shades. They get…I don’t know, agitated when they see me coming. Like they recognize me and I piss them off. I think they’re more sentient than you know.”

“I think you have an overactive imagination, Ms. Lane. Did you turn the sign over yet?”

I flipped over the sign. That was Barrons, autocratic down to his steel-booted toes. “Why? Wrapping up early?”

He finished writing, walked over, and handed me a placard to hang on the door next to the sign.

I read it. “For how long?” I was surprised. The bookstore was our cover and now he was closing it?

“At least a few weeks. Unless you want to start running the cash register, Ms. Lane.”

“Where’s Fiona?”

“Fiona turned off all the lights and left a window open last night.”

I staggered—physically stumbled backward—and nearly fell from the impact of that mental blow. I caught myself on a display table, toppling a few baubles and stacks of the latest best-sellers. “Fiona tried to kill me?” I knew she didn’t like me, but come on. Talk about excessive!

“She claimed she was only trying to frighten you off. She wanted you to go home. I was beginning to think she’d succeeded. Where were you all day?”

I was too busy reeling from Fiona’s viciousness to answer him. It was bad enough that I had to watch my back with all the known nasties. I wasn’t well versed enough in feminine wiles to see the subtler nasties coming. “God, what did she do?” I breathed. “Sneak back in late last night? How did she get out herself?”

“Same way you did, I imagine. Flashlights. I must admit, Ms. Lane, I’m impressed with how well you cleared the place. There must have been Shades everywhere.”

“There were, and I didn’t. I only cleared part of it. V’lane did the rest,” I said absently. How ironic that I’d been so doggedly trying to save her from the very monsters she’d turned loose on me.

There was a moment of frozen silence, then Barrons exploded, “What? V’lane was here? In my store?” His fingers banded around my upper arm.

“Ow, Barrons, you’re hurting me,” I snapped.

He released me instantly.

Barrons is dangerously strong. I think he has to maintain constant awareness of what he’s touching, or he’d end up breaking bones. I rubbed my arm. I would be bruised tomorrow. Again.

“My apologies, Ms. Lane. So?”

“No, of course he wasn’t in the store; you have it warded, don’t you? Speaking of which, why didn’t your wards keep the Shades out?”

“It’s only warded against certain things.”

“Why don’t you ward it against everything?”

“Wards demand…resources. Protection has a price. All power does. Lights serve well enough to keep the Shades out. Besides, they’re stupid.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” I told him about the one that had faced off with me in the back room, how I’d lost my flashlights and been left with only a pack of matches that I’d nearly run through, how V’lane had appeared in the back alley and driven it off.

He listened intently, asked me many questions about our conversation, wrapping up with, “Did you fuck him?”

“Ah!” I yelled. “Of course not!” I rubbed my face with both hands and kept it buried there a minute. “Wouldn’t I be an addict if I did?” I raised my face.

Barrons studied me, dark eyes cold. “Not if he protected you.”

“They can do that? Really?”

“Try not to sound so intrigued, Ms. Lane.”

“I’m not,” I said defensively.

“Good. You don’t trust him, do you?”

“I don’t trust anybody. Not him. Not you. Nobody.”

“Then you might just stay alive. Where were you today?”

“Didn’t Fiona tell you?” I was learning from his tricks: answer a question with a question. Distract. Evade.

“She was hardly forthcoming when I…fired her.” There was a hesitation before the word “fired,” nearly imperceptible unless you knew the man.

“What if she comes back around and tries to hurt me again?”

“Not a worry. Where were you?”

I told him about the Garda, that I’d spent the day at the station, that O’Duffy was dead.

“And they think you slit the throat of a man nearly twice your size?” He snorted. “That’s absurd.”

A sudden, deep quietude blanketed my mind. I hadn’t told Barrons how O’Duffy had died. “Yeah, well,” I blustered around it, “you know how cops are. By the way, where have you been lately? I could have used help a few times in the past twenty-four hours.”

“You seem to have done well enough on your own. You had your new friend, V’lane, to assist you.” He said the name in a way that made the prince sound like a prancy little fairy, not the virile, lethally seductive Fae he was. “What happened to my window out back?”

I wasn’t about to admit to a man who already knew how O’Duffy had died that I knew he was keeping some kind of monster under his garage. I shrugged. “I don’t know. What?”

“It’s broken. Did you hear anything last night?”

“Had my hands a little full, Barrons.”

“Of Shades, not V’lane, one hopes.”

“Ha.”

“You weren’t in my garage, were you?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“Of course not.” No more than you would lie to me, I didn’t add, honesty among thieves and all.

“Well, then, good night, Ms. Lane.” He inclined his head and whisked silently through the connecting doors, into the rear of the building.

I sighed and began collecting the various books and baubles I’d knocked from the display table. I couldn’t wrap my brain around the thought that Fiona had sneaked in last night and turned off all the lights. Chase me away, my petunia. That woman had wanted me dead. I couldn’t imagine anyone knowing Barrons well enough to develop such strong feelings for him. Still, I knew there was something between the two of them, if only the intimacy and deep possession of long association.

From the rear of the building came a howl of outrage. A moment later Barrons exploded through the connecting doors, dragging a Persian rug behind him.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“A rug?” I batted my lashes, thinking what a stupid question.

“I know it’s a rug. What are these?” He thrust it beneath my nose, stabbing a finger at the dozen or so burn marks.

I peered at them. “Burns?”

“Burns from dropped matches, Ms. Lane? Matches one might have dropped while flirting with a pernicious Fae, Ms. Lane? Have you any idea the value of this rug?”

I didn’t think his nostrils could flare any wider. His eyes were black flame. “Pernicious? Good grief, is English your second language? Third?” Only someone who’d learned English from a dictionary would use such a word.

“Fifth,” he snarled. “Answer me.”

“Not more than my life, Barrons. Nothing is worth more than my life.”

He glared at me. I notched my chin higher and glared back.

Barrons and I have a unique way of communicating. We have these little nonverbal conversations, where we say all those things we don’t say with our mouths with our eyes instead, and we understand each other perfectly.

I didn’t say, You are such a stuffy asshole.

And he didn’t say, If you ever burn one of my quarter-of-a-million dollar rugs again I’ll take it out of your hide, and I didn’t say, Oh, honey, wouldn’t you like to? And he didn’t say Grow up, Ms. Lane, I don’t take little girls to my bed, and I didn’t say I wouldn’t go there if it was the only safe place from the Lord Master in all of Dublin.

“You might reconsider that one day.” His voice was low, fierce, on the verge of guttural.

I gasped. “What?” Intrinsic to our wordless free-for-alls was a tacit agreement never to elevate those conversations to a verbal level. It was the only reason either of us was willing to participate.

He gave me a cool smile. “That nothing is worth more than your life, Ms. Lane. Some things are. Don’t put too high a premium on it. You may live to regret it.”

He turned and walked away, dragging the rug behind him.

I went to bed.

The next morning I woke up, dismantled my haphazard monster alarm, opened the door, and found a small TV with a builtin VCR/DVD player sitting in the hallway.

Manna from heaven! I’d been thinking, since Fiona was gone, about swiping the one she kept behind the counter. Now I wouldn’t have to.

There was a tape next to it.

I toted the TV into my room, plugged it into the wall, slipped in the tape, and turned it on. The program was already cued.

I winced and turned it back off. I kicked a chair.

Every time I think I’m getting smarter I realize that I’ve just done something stupid. Dad says there are three kinds of people in the world: those who don’t know, and don’t know they don’t know; those who don’t know and do know they don’t know; and those who know and know how much they still don’t know.

Heavy stuff, I know. I think I’ve finally graduated from the don’t-knows that don’t know to the don’t-knows that do.

Barrons had security cameras in the garage. He’d just given me a tape of myself breaking into it.