Part 14 (2/2)

Suwani was a slender black man, not quite as tall as me, but lean, with a sinewy strength that started at his hands and wrists, and no doubt reflected the rest of his trim body. McCowan, on the other hand, had already lost most of his neck behind his sagging chin, and the rest of him was built like the love child of a dump truck and an elephant. Big, lumbering-kind of cute, kind of soft, kind of bullheaded-kind of this, kind of that, which I suspected was just a mask, given that his eyes were anything but dull or dithering.

Suwani gave me a sharp once-over, but only McCowan stared at the low neck of my dress, his gaze traveling down my legs and then up again-barely reaching my face. Grant cleared his throat. ”Gentlemen. I wish we could have met again under better circ.u.mstances.”

I wished we had not met again at all, but those were the breaks. Suwani nodded, and looked at me. ”Did you know the victim?”

”No,” I said. ”We were coming back from a party, and found him in front of my car.”

”You have a bad habit of collecting corpses,” McCowan replied. ”Last time we met there was a dead man who had your name in his pocket. And now another corpse just happens to be found beside your car. You sure you didn't know him? Or that he didn't know you you?”

Grant frowned, and this time when he spoke there was a faint melody in his voice, soft and filled with a thread of that old familiar power. He could do things with his voice. Change people. He could reach inside the heart of a soul and make something new. I could not imagine a more dangerous ability-nor a man whom I trusted more to wield it.

Grant was the last of the Lightbringers, just as I was the last of the Wardens, and the two of us should never have met. But we had, and now I was the only person who could keep him alive while he used his gift. We were bound together. Our hearts shared the same steady rhythm. Even now, I felt his pulse riding mine, soft and warm as a coil of sunlight.

”What did you learn from his body?” Grant asked, his voice sliding through me with a s.h.i.+ver. I could not be affected by his power-nor the boys-but I felt the ripple nonetheless. Zee said it tickled. I had told the little demon that it made me uneasy.

Suwani blinked. McCowan swayed ever so slightly. But then their gazes cleared, and the black detective coughed into his hand. ”He had a gun in his possession. Recently fired. Shots were reported near here less than an hour ago. We were called out to investigate, which is why we arrived so quickly.”

”He killed someone?”

”We don't know that,” Suwani said, and then frowned, as though he wasn't quite certain why he was talking so much. ”But there was a body, a young man. Heavy drug user. His arms were so eaten up with needle tracks he had started injecting into his leg.”

”Anything else?” Grant held his gaze, but this time it was McCowan who stirred.

”The old fellow's name was Ernie Bernstein,” said the burly man, rubbing his brow as though he had a headache. ”Israeli pa.s.sport in his suit jacket, along with a thousand dollars cash. Nothing else on him except for that gun.”

Nothing except a hotel key, and a piece of human skin.

And a message from my grandmother, dead now for more than thirty years.

THE distinction between human and animal skin was subtle, especially when aged and treated. Human skin was softer than animal, fine and supple, even more so than lamb; and thin, with a delicacy that belied its inherent strength. Most people would have been unable to tell the difference. That I could was not something that made me proud, but I had seen human skin before, dried and preserved for horrific reasons. It was not something I would ever forget. And it was on my mind now as Grant and I climbed the steps to his apartment: the entire top floor of the former furniture factory that housed his homeless shelter. distinction between human and animal skin was subtle, especially when aged and treated. Human skin was softer than animal, fine and supple, even more so than lamb; and thin, with a delicacy that belied its inherent strength. Most people would have been unable to tell the difference. That I could was not something that made me proud, but I had seen human skin before, dried and preserved for horrific reasons. It was not something I would ever forget. And it was on my mind now as Grant and I climbed the steps to his apartment: the entire top floor of the former furniture factory that housed his homeless shelter.

The detectives had driven us home to the co-op. My car was part of evidence. Luckily, there were three little demons in my life who were capable of playing housekeeper when they wanted to, and when I had opened up that door-slowly-there were no knives to be found on those vintage leather seats; no chewed-up baseball bats, rusty nails, decapitated teddy bears, or issues of Playboy Playboy. Sixty seconds of good hard work. All they had left behind was a decorative square pillow that had not not been there before, and that had i love the police embroidered on it in big red letters. been there before, and that had i love the police embroidered on it in big red letters.

My boys. Such comedians.

I carried my high heels in one hand, and held Grant's with the other as he made his way slowly up the stairs. His jaw was tight, but not entirely with pain. It had been a hard night. Zee paced through the shadows ahead of us, while Dek and Mal-now that I was in a safe place-uncoiled from my neck and slithered down my arm to join Raw and Aaz in the shadows.

”How long will you be gone?” Grant asked, when we were safe inside the apartment and its s.p.a.cious golden comfort: oak floors, exposed brick, dark windows that filled the entire length of the southern wall-almost as many bookshelves built into the other. A grand piano stood in one corner, in addition to a cherry red motorcycle that Grant would never be able to ride again; and my mother's trunk, pushed against the wall alongside the workstation where he carved all his flutes. His gold Muramatsu was the only exception, and lay gleaming upon the dining table.

Zee and the others were suddenly nowhere to be seen. I headed directly to the bedroom, shedding my dress as I walked. Grant's sharp intake of breath cut through my heart, and I tossed the slip of red silk at his face. I was wearing a lace thong and nothing else: a far cry from the cotton granny panties that usually covered my a.s.s.

”Not long.” I glanced over my shoulder, watching as he crumpled the dress against his chest and made a slow inspection of my nether regions. ”And if I find any answers, I'll come here first before I make any mission to mayhem.”

”Hmm.” Grant limped after me, a bit more spring in his step. He dropped the dress and began unb.u.t.toning his s.h.i.+rt, exposing his strong throat. The bow tie already hung loose beneath his collar. I turned to face him, backing into the bedroom, slowly enough that he caught up with me before I was hardly through the door. His gaze was dark with something deeper, more raw, than hunger, and I placed my hand against his chest, over his heart. I trembled, or maybe that was him. Both of us like kids.

He covered my hand, and we stood unmoving. Just being with each other. As always when I was naked with Grant, he felt huge, permanent as a mountain, radiating heat as though lava burned beneath his skin. Immovable, resolute. I loved that feeling. I loved him. him.

Grant brushed my cheek with the back of his fingers, his touch impossibly gentle, and then did the same to my breast. I held still, savoring the ache that spread through me; taking pleasure in the fact that we were here now, together, when everything in our lives said we should not be.

”Be careful,” he said quietly.

I kissed his throat. ”You have ten minutes to show me how careful you want me to be.”

THE name of the hotel written on the plastic key was Hotel Vintage Park. A quick Internet search had revealed that it was a boutique establishment located in downtown. I took Grant's Jeep and drove fast, listening to the name of the hotel written on the plastic key was Hotel Vintage Park. A quick Internet search had revealed that it was a boutique establishment located in downtown. I took Grant's Jeep and drove fast, listening to the Strictly Ballroom Strictly Ballroom soundtrack version of Cyndi Lauper's ”Time After Time.” soundtrack version of Cyndi Lauper's ”Time After Time.”

Raw and Aaz sat in the pa.s.senger seat, legs dangling while they clutched teddy bear heads against their chests, white wispy stuffing trailing into their laps. Zee perched on my thigh, peering over the wheel at the road ahead of us. Dek and Mal, coiled around my shoulders, were busy singing a countermelody to the music on the CD player.

”So,” I said. ”Who was Ernie?”

”Munchkin,” Zee rasped, placing his hands over mine to help me steer. ”Little boy.”

Not so little now. Not so alive. ”My grandmother knew him when he was a child?”

”War child,” replied the demon, leaning back against my chest to peer up at me with large red eyes. ”Big bad war.”

World War Two. My grandmother had been in Hiros.h.i.+ma when the Americans dropped the bomb. Luckily for her, the blast had occurred during the day, while the boys slept on her skin. They had protected her until she could get free of the danger zone-just as they had protected me under similarly lethal circ.u.mstances. If I died, the boys would die-or so the family legend went. Ten thousand years of women, a single bloodline that Zee and his brothers had survived upon-and one that they had no intention of giving up.

”I doubt Ernie was in j.a.pan when my grandmother knew him,” I said. ”Germany? Israel?”

He picked at his sharp teeth with a long black claw. ”China.”

I frowned. ”How and why?”

”War,” he said again, simply, as though I should understand everything from that one word. Which I did not. Ernie Bernstein, I had guessed, was probably Jewish. And a Jewish child in China during World War Two did not add up. Not yet, anyway.

It was well into the middle of the night when I arrived, and the roads were almost empty as I drove up Spring Street past the angular gla.s.s behemoth that was the Seattle Public Library. At the Fifth Street intersection I saw the awning of the hotel on my left, next to the Tulio restaurant. No left turn. I had to circle two blocks before I found myself directly in front of the hotel, and parked across the street.

I sat staring at the front doors, thinking hard, and then patted everyone's head. Their skin could slice through solid rock, but only if they wanted it to. I had free rein to touch them-as did Grant and several others.

I braided my hair and tucked it under the collar of my navy sweats.h.i.+rt, oversized and borrowed from Grant. Grabbed a blond wig from a canvas tote bag on the floor and slid it over my head. It was an expensive piece of work, with real hair instead of the coa.r.s.e synthetic stuff, but I hadn't been especially careful with the thing, so it looked as though I had just rolled out of bed. I slapped a baseball cap on top, wrapped a pink scarf around my throat to partially obscure my chin, and then slid on a pair of heavy-framed gla.s.ses-lenses thick enough to blur my eyes, though they were nothing prescriptive. I stuffed chewing gum in my mouth, too, just to make my cheeks look puffier. Slid on a pair of pink knit gloves to hide the armor on my hand.

As disguises went, it was pretty awful, but if Ernie had used a credit card to stay here, then the police would track down his room sooner or later. Best not to be too obvious with my appearance. The boys could disable security cameras-out on the street and inside the hotel-but not eyewitnesses.

The front doors were locked, but I used the key card to get in and strode across the lobby with my shoulders slightly hunched, head ducked, a harried expression on my face. Apologetic, even. A young woman dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit manned the front desk, and gave me a questioning look as I approached.

I held up the room key. ”Sorry to bother you, but my grandfather is visiting and forgot his medication in his room. He gave me his key, but I can't remember if he's in 304 or 403.”

The woman smiled faintly, which eased the shadows under her eyes. ”His name?”

”Ernie Bernstein.”

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