Vanity Scare Page 6

  Fine. A problem for a later date. “What question was so important that you, however the hell you managed it, thought sending Dagan back to Dromir was a dandy idea?”

  The hair twirling stopped abruptly. A peculiar mischief swept across her face. The siren’s ghostly glow came to her eyes, and when she spoke, her teeth seemed a touch sharper.

  “He asked if I could be persuaded to marry him,” she said. After a brief pause, she laughed, as though it were a joke. “So I told him if he retrieved my scarf, maybe I could be persuaded.”

  “And the scarf was in Dromir?”

  “It was.” She giggled.

  “Osenna,” I said, “my dear, sweet, seductive little flower.”

  “Yes?” she asked, eyelashes fluttering.

  “You are completely stupid.”

  The light in her eyes died, and her smile became a challenge. “And yet.”

  “And yet,” I echoed. And yet I would help her regardless, because her stupidity had placed my life and my assets at great risk. I sighed aloud and slouched back into my chair, one hand on the side table, fingers drumming irritably.

  Then it dawned on me.

  “Dagan has my portal ripper.”

  Osenna pursed her lips and did not look at me. “Maybe.”

  “And where, pray tell, did he obtain that?”

  She shrugged, pretending to drink from the china we both knew was now empty.

  “Osenna,” I warned.

  “Hmm?”

  “I cannot help you if you refuse to answer me.”

  She put the teacup down. “Then try again, but ask me something else.”

  “That is not how this works.”

  She sighed rather huffily and crossed her arms over her ample bosom. I had known very few sirens in my time, but all those I had ever met oscillated wildly between mysterious seductress and petulant child.

  She blew her hair out of her face with a raspberry sound and stared glumly into the carpet. “You’re no fun anymore, Bram.”

  “Fun is not something one has in excess when dealing with demonic sociopaths.”

  “Dagan’s not so bad,” she crooned, though the statement hardly called for crooning.

  “Dagan is not a sociopath, my dear. A masochist, yes, and perhaps a sadist, but not a sociopath. I was speaking of Darion.”

  The name sobered her instantly. “He’s here.”

  “And Dagan is not.”

  She nodded. “But Darion came to Dagan’s apartment, looking for him.”

  “Thus, Darion knows Dagan’s personal information.” The story was becoming even better.

  “I’m worried Dagan’s dead,” Osenna admitted quietly.

  “Perhaps he is,” I answered. “But I think not, not yet—if only because Darion is still searching for him and, by connection, searching for you.”

  Osenna bit her lip, looking like a child detained in the principal’s office.

  “But he will not find you,” I continued. I sighed, less because I felt the need and more to convey my weariness. “But only if you answer my questions.”

  “Fine!”

  “How do you know Darion is here?” I asked slowly.

  She basked, craning her neck left and then right with an irksome slowness. “I saw him.”

  “You… saw him.”

  She nodded. “At Quillan’s house.”

  “Quillan’s…” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and clasped my hands together like the annoyed dean of a private school. “Why were you at Quillan’s?”

  “Dagan was missing,” she said simply. “I needed help.”

  “But why go to them?”

  She shrugged.

  I bit back an encumbering sigh. “And I don’t suppose you told Quillan where he might expect to find Dagan?”

  “What do you think?”

  “A yes or a no will suffice, Miss Warkley.”

  “I knew Quillan and Christina would go to Dagan’s apartment for me.”

  While it was still not a yes or no, the answer was mostly straight, which was more than one could traditionally expect of a siren—even one whose life depended upon the accuracy of her answers. Bloody nuisance.

  “Does Darion know your current name?”

  Osenna shimmied slowly in her chair as though being tugged at by lazy but persistent waves. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did he attempt to follow you?”

  “No.” She smiled, but some of that seductive venom so peculiar to sirens had drained out of it. “I left before he noticed me.”

  I nodded. “You will stay here,” I announced in a tone that brooked no argument, even from her. “I will see what I can discover about Dagan.”

  “My hero,” Osenna said breathily, draping herself over the back of her chair.

  “Stop that,” I said.

  “Stop what?”

  It was the behavior of creatures like Osenna Warkley that made one wonder how in holy hell the demonic plane maintained any semblance of administrative power without simply devolving into the crazed sex-cult the rest of the world believed it to be. Demons are either the most brilliant liars in all of creation, or the most brilliantly stupid creatures ever to walk the earth. In either case, their survival appears to rely almost entirely on luck.

  “I am not your hero.”

  She frowned. “Well, you’re helping me, aren’t you?”

  I shook my head. “I am not helping you,” I clarified. “I am acting with what we call a sense of self-preservation. Something the pair of you should look into.”

  Osenna smirked. “We’re lucky to have you as a friend, Bram.”

  Dagan was the furthest possible thing from a friend of mine; in fact, both Osenna and Dagan were active liabilities. But six years ago, they were rich liabilities, both of whom were more than happy to pay their way into new names and new lives in the scenic locale of Splendor, California. They were a business transaction, smuggled goods. They were no more or less risky than anything else I have spent the last four hundred years doing.

  But, you see, they were running from something. Or rather, from someone: Darion Halsir, the merchant lord of Dromir. A very rich, very pompous, very touchy demon king. I had been assured by multiple parties that he would not come after them. Dagan and Osenna only had something to fear from him if they returned to Dromir—which, of course, they had no reason in all the world to do. No reasonable reason, at least. But expecting Dagan and Osenna to be reasonable, as I recently discovered, was a rather tall order.

  And now, because self-control is apparently for suckers, Darion was here. If Darion found them—either one of them, if he had not apprehended Dagan already—my involvement in their disappearance would not remain a secret for long. And from there it was a hop, skip, and a slit-throat away from Darion exacting his vengeance on all contributing parties, yours truly being the primary culprit.

  It would be a remarkably unpleasant evening for everyone involved, no matter who survived the inevitable altercation. If I managed, somehow, to kill Darion, it would bring down upon me the wrath of an entire dimension’s worth of demons with the general disposition of hormonal teenagers left in the woods to die; if Darion killed me, then I would, of course, be dead.

  And who wants that?

  SEVEN

  Bram

  Agent James walked from his office building to his vehicle. I emerged from the shadows surrounding his vehicle in what I hoped was a severe, placating manner.

  “Agent James,” I said, clasping my hands together in front of me. I could not help but leer; something about lurking lends itself so perfectly to unfortunate facial expressions. “You have a moment, don’t you?”

  He did not appear especially surprised to see me as he hooked the thumb of his free hand into the pocket of his jeans and regarded me coolly. With the other hand, he held the strap of a large backpack that smelled heavily of cologne.

  “No, actually,” he said, “I don’t.”

  “It is important, I assure you. I would not be
here otherwise.”

  “I know you wouldn’t, but I have a date.”

  It took me a moment to recall. “Ah, yes, you are involved with Miss White,” I said. “She is a lovely woman.”

  “She is. And she’s waiting for me. So, unless somebody’s life is at stake—”

  I smiled. “Interesting choice of words, agent.” He did not respond, so I continued. “As it so happens, someone’s life is at stake. A civilian’s life,” I added, hoping such information would endear him more to me and to the topic of the conversation.

  He sighed—but he did appear as if he might pause in his hurry to meet Samantha, if only for a moment.

  “Okay, talk fast.” The tone of voice was that of a man on a mission. I suddenly had every suspicion that Samantha was baking something for him, her affinity towards baked goods known near and far. Furthermore, I imagined she was likely doing so wearing nothing more than an apron and perhaps a sensible pair of house shoes.

  That type of urgency I could well understand.

  “I will be brief,” I said. “A previous client of mine is in danger of being discovered by someone from whom I helped her escape six years ago.”

  Understanding dawned on his face. “This is the girl Quillan was talking about.”

  Well, so much for containing the problem. Although I supposed it was only natural for the elf to go to his superior concerning Dagan’s disappearance. It didn’t exactly cross state lines, but it was increasingly the case that anything supernatural fell under the purview of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, simply because no one else wanted to deal with it. The popular consensus was “magic equals bad,” and there was little more to be said of it.

  “The girl is one and the same,” I confirmed.

  “So you know Dagan is missing?”

  “I am aware.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Yes,” I said, and now, the agent gave me his complete attention. “He is in Dromir attempting to retrieve a scarf.”

  Agent James appeared confused, not that I blamed him. “You’re telling me that Dagan went back to Dromir to get a scarf?”

  The scarf was a bizarre detail that had the unfortunate effect of derailing the conversation. Dagan returning to the dreaded demon plane in order to retrieve a scarf was so absurdly peculiar, even to the point of sounding erroneous. “Yes.”

  Agent James frowned, looking wholly disbelieving. “And, in doing so, Dagan risked running into whoever you helped Osenna escape from in the first place?”

  “Precisely.”

  He sighed and then shook his head in such a manner that revealed the fact that my story was so absurd as to be completely believable.

  “Okay, we can take steps to protect Osenna here, but Dromir is about as far outside FBI jurisdiction as far gets. Dagan went there of his own free will, so he’s on his own.” He looked at me flatly. “I have to admit, I don’t really care much about what happens to Dagan… in general.”

  I had no way to express exactly how little I cared for the well-being of Dagan, either. But perhaps it went without saying. “I am not worried for the girl. I can take care of Osenna. My concern is Darion himself.”

  “Darion?”

  “The man Osenna is hiding from.”

  “If he compromises her safety in any way, we can and will intervene,” Agent James assured me, “but if the Bureau doesn’t have any reason to believe Darion is actively dangerous, we can’t do anything.”

  “He broke into Dagan’s apartment, did he not?”

  “Yes, he did, and the local police are looking into that. So is Quillan, because Christina wants to be involved, I guess.” He shrugged, as if realizing he’d just told me too much. “At this point, there isn’t much we can do.”

  “You can do nothing then?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, man.” He did seem genuinely apologetic, for whatever that was worth.

  “But the lovely head of HR is looking into Darion’s whereabouts?” I pressed.

  “Yeah, Christina is looking into Darion’s location as long as it doesn’t get in the way of her other work.”

  “And she has the full backing of the FBI in her search?”

  “I mean, nobody has full backing,” he was quick to point out, “but she has my permission to use our computers and access our databases, if that’s what you mean.”

  I nodded. I decided then and there that I would go and speak to Christina regarding the whole affair. She had already proven sympathetic to Osenna; I imagined it would not be difficult to convince her to tell me what she knew of Darion and his whereabouts. Particularly so if I said such information was in service of Osenna’s protection—and even, perhaps, Dagan’s. Though implying I intended to protect the demon would be wholly untrue.

  Agent James squinted at me. “Christina can’t call in the cavalry, if that’s what you want. Nobody’s invading Dromir for you. Or for Dagan. Or for a stupid scarf.”

  “Believe me, Agent James, invading Dromir is the last thing I want. Frankly, if I did not believe Dagan’s presence there would compromise my involvement in Osenna’s and his initial disappearance, I would leave him there.”

  “Great,” he said, adjusting his grip on the strap of his bag.

  “Do keep me informed,” I replied. “I would hate for something to happen to my client because you failed to warn me of nefarious activity.”

  “I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

  “See that you do.” Perhaps my response was a tad more assertive than Agent James deserved—he was being helpful, all things considered—but I had no intention of thanking him.

  At the ringing of his mobile phone, he pressed the screen and held the device to his ear. “Hey, Christina,” he said, and then paled. “Oh, Jesus. Are you hurt? … okay, good. Is he still there? Okay, I’ll send someone over.”

  He looked at me and held his hand over the receiver. “I think your friend just broke into Christina’s house and got his ass beat by… a plant.”

  “I assure you, he is not my friend,” I said in an irritated manner. In general, I was not foolish enough to call any demon friend. In fact, the only person to which I readily gave that noble moniker was Dulcie O’Neil. But I was not certain whether she would return it. Most probably she would not.

  “Right,” he said. “I’ll uh, let you know what’s up.” He returned to speaking into his mobile. “No, Bram is here. I’ll send you a memo—right now, let’s just focus on you and the demon that broke into your house.”

  I nodded once, which was the closest to overt thanks he was ever going to get from me. The air around us grew uncomfortably cold even for me, and I vanished in a rush of smoke with a sound like the screeching of a poorly-oiled door hinge.

  The look on Agent James’ face as I departed was one of a man thoroughly unamused.

  ###

  The offices of the FBI, most especially the newer ones, employ a number of creatures formerly belonging to the Association of Netherworld Creatures—the organization that had shipwrecked itself on the shores of Meg’s ambition not a year prior to the construction of this building. As the bureau adjusted to its new and quite peculiar employees, it realized certain changes had to be enforced in order to accommodate the needs of different arcane species.

  For instance: vampires and sunlight, as a rule, do not much get along. As such, for those vampires who stay late into the morning, there is a special parking lot attached to the building that does not allow light to pierce its stucco walls. And within the building itself, all of the windows are shielded or blacked out.

  As it happens—and I find this quite fascinating—there has been invented a new type of glass able to filter out the specific rays from the sun that scorch the skin of beasts like myself. Such glass is in the process of being retrofitted throughout the building. In translation, this means the offices are flooded with completely harmless early morning light and vampires are able to walk by the windows without fear of bursting into mounds of ash.

 
; At first, I found this quite… disconcerting, but in a way I was not prepared for. The look of the room, open and cluttered and swarming with bored federal agents, was bright. Naturally bright. I had not been in a room lit by anything other than florescent bulbs, LEDs, or, at its most romantic, candles in near four hundred years.

  As to the question of how I arrived at the FBI office when the sun was in control of the sky… I required my driver, a most hairy man of the lycanthrope persuasion, to deliver me via hearse. And, yes, I have found coffins to be the safest mode of travel for the vampire, and I am quite aware of the cliché of that statement.

  Time marches on, and technology with it, I supposed. But there was something about the vampires walking blithely through shafts of sunlight that made my skin crawl. As I passed through the building, I did my best to skirt the bright patches.

  Christina was now the head of an alchemical department responsible for the invention, installation, and maintenance of assets such as the vampire-friendly windows. This information was relayed to me by way of a large name plaque hanging on the wall outside of her office door:

  We of the newly-formed Innovations branch of the Humane Resources Department are proud to support, etc. etc.

  Although with respect to the non-human sector of the workforce, the word “human” had been corrected to “humane” resources—which was rather inelegant, as far as inclusion was concerned. But I had to admit it was a miracle someone had thought to change it at all.

  Christina’s workspace was small, but well-maintained. She sat at a desk on which several stacks of papers and folders were organized and labeled with brightly colored notes. Flowers and succulents sat on her windowsill in small terra-cotta pots.

  She looked up as I walked in, and she stopped typing.

  “Bram, hi!” she said, seeming inordinately pleased to see me. I was surprised. I can say, as a general rule, most people are not pleased to see me.

  “Forgive the absence of pleasantries, but the sun is up and I should not like to tarry longer than I must,” I grumbled, strangely feeling out of sorts by her cheerfulness. “I am here to discuss the sudden appearance of one Darion Halsir, the bubble-blowing demon with whom you interacted in Dagan’s apartment.”