Part 11 (1/2)

CHAPTER 13.

”Why are you crying, Insoli?”

Standing at my bathroom mirror brus.h.i.+ng my teeth, I was reasonably sure I wasn't dreaming, but the dulcet voice inside my head begged to differ.

I spun, and my toothbrush clattered to the floor as I beheld Asmodeus, daemon, abandoned, a fugitive from the realm where the evil and powerful citizens of the netherworld resided. He was tinged in gold, as always, and his lion's feet sc.r.a.ped at my bathroom tiles.

”Not crying,” I muttered, spitting into the sink.

”Who wounds you?”

”Why do you care? Are you going to go beat them up?” If I was flippant, then I wouldn't have to process that the number-one star of my recent nightmares had just manifested in my bathroom.

Asmodeus breathed out a cloud of gold and dark magick, and every hair I possessed stood on end. He shook his head, his crocodile eyes flicking over and around me, like he could perceive my spirit. h.e.l.ls, like like nothing. Asmodeus saw everything and he wasn't slow on the uptake. nothing. Asmodeus saw everything and he wasn't slow on the uptake.

”You do not see, Insoli, but threads are gathering around you like a spider spins down to an insect. You are pulling yourself hand over hand into a pit from which there is no egress. Do not follow your impulses.”

”Here's an idea,” I said loudly. ”I'll go to bed and try to forget how much things suck, and you can go Hex yourself.”

Asmodeus laughed. ”You suddenly hate me, after I saved your life?” ”You suddenly hate me, after I saved your life?”

Saved at the price of Dmitri. Saved just so everyone could find out my deep dark secret. Thanks, jacka.s.s. ”What do you want from me?” I muttered. ”You were all... released, and c.r.a.p. Can't you be free somewhere else?”

”I am drawn here, now. Later I will be elsewhere. I am a free agent, as you said. Warnings you may ignore, Insoli, but do not ignore what is in front of your eyes.” am drawn here, now. Later I will be elsewhere. I am a free agent, as you said. Warnings you may ignore, Insoli, but do not ignore what is in front of your eyes.”

I started to tell him that if I wanted prophecy, I'd go take in Stigmata, Stigmata, but there was the stench of char and Asmodeus was gone. I may have blinked and missed his leaving, but I didn't think so. but there was the stench of char and Asmodeus was gone. I may have blinked and missed his leaving, but I didn't think so.

Was Asmodeus just bored, and playing with the humans and near-humans? Or had the G.o.ds determined that I needed a faithful daemon to spring up when things got rough?

”Thanks a lot,” I muttered before I fell asleep. It was the closest I'd gotten to a prayer in a long time.

How long my alarm clock had been screeching, I didn't know, but when I was finally able to move my arm and slap it to off, the little blue display read 10:30. As in a.m., not p.m.

”c.r.a.p!” I shouted, jumping out of bed and catching my foot on a pile of dirty jeans. ”c.r.a.p c.r.a.p c.r.a.p!”

I had less than thirty minutes to make it downtown for our meeting with Patrick O'Halloran. Somehow I didn't think one of the richest men on the West Coast would take kindly to being stood up. Plus, I'd have to endure more whining from Shelby.

Five minutes later, I was dressed enough not to get arrested for indecent exposure and my Joan Jett-esque hair had been tamed down to something resembling normal. Anyway, the tousled bed-head look was s.e.xy. Or at least that's what I told myself as I controlled my tangled mid-back ma.s.s into a hair clip.

I took the longer route via the expressway rather than get stuck in lunchtime traffic on the bridge, broke several laws governing moving vehicles, and screeched into the garage of the O'Halloran Group building with two minutes to spare-literally.

”Miss!”

I turned from locking the Fairlane to see a pimply-faced youth in a blue uniform and cap running toward me, waving his arms.

”Miss, you can't park there!”

I checked the Fairlane-between two white lines, no bodies trapped under the wheels. ”This isn't a parking s.p.a.ce?”

”That s.p.a.ce is reserved for clients who have business with the O'Hallorans,” he said, with the kind of arrogance only nineteen-year-old boys can muster. As someone who was turning thirty in less than two weeks, I wasn't inclined to put up with his power trip.

”I have a meeting with Patrick O'Halloran at eleven,” I said. ”And you're making me late.”

”I doubt that, miss.” He sniffed, looking me pointedly up and down. I followed his gaze and knew how my torn Diesels and Dead Kennedys T-s.h.i.+rt must look. Hey, at least my outfit was free of crime-scene blood. He should consider himself lucky.

”Let me put it this way,” I said, pulling my s.h.i.+eld out of my jacket-my black canvas jacket, Hex that rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d thief-and shoving it under his nose. ”This is a police matter and you're interfering. Stop doing that.”

”That might not be real for all I know,” he said. I wondered how much trouble I'd get in to for locking him in my trunk until the meeting was over.

”Luna!” someone shouted from the garage entrance into the tower. Shelby came barreling over to us, dressed in a gray wool skirt and power blazer.

”Spreading the good word of the Watchtower on the side?” I asked her in greeting.

”Vaughn, Detective Wilder is here to meet my uncle,” Shelby chastised the garage attendant. ”Shame on you for delaying us.”

Vaughn swallowed. ”Your-your uncle?” I swear to the G.o.ds he went stark white under the fluorescent lights, like one of those cartoon characters.

”Uncle Patrick, not Uncle Seamus,” said Shelby, rolling her eyes. ”Make sure nothing happens to the detective's car, Vaughn.”

Vaughn started breathing again and nodded so hard I was amazed his head didn't pop off and roll away down the garage aisle. ”Yes, ma'am, Miss O'Halloran! Sorry, Detective! I thought you'd look more like Miss Shelby here.”

I took his ridiculous peaked cap off his head and threw it in the opposite direction. ”You know what they say about a.s.sumptions. Go fetch.”

He went scrambling after it and Shelby yanked me into the elevator. She punched the b.u.t.ton for the forty-second floor and said, ”Be glad it's Patrick we're meeting, and not Uncle Seamus.”

”Why, does Seamus have a trapdoor in his office that he uses to send late appointments to the shark tank?”

Shelby cast me a dead-serious look. I spread my hands. ”Sorry. I overslept. Concussion will do that to you.” That and a cheating rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d ex ...

Stop it. Forget it.

”So if Seamus and Patrick are your uncles, who's your father?” I asked, changing the subject for the sake of my sanity.

”He was Thomas O'Halloran,” said Shelby shortly. ”He and my mother are both deceased.”

Hex me. Everyone knew about Tommy O'Halloran and the dramatic, drunken plunge off the Siren Bay Bridge that killed him. ”I'm sorry,” I said aloud. Shelby shrugged.

”I was only ten. How well do you know your parents at that age?”

The elevator slowed, blinking down the floors. I noticed a ward mark carved into the wood wall of the car above the indicator light, and another over the door. My skin crawled reflexively. It took powerful magick to permanently ward something, the magick of a caster witch with decades of practice and no little amount of innate skill.

”Are you cold?” asked Shelby. ”You're shaking.”