Dreamwalker (Stormwalker #5) (13 page)

“You see?” I said. “So no more talk about messing with lifespans. Cheese and rice, Mick.”

Mick still did not look at all repentant. His stony expression told me that, one, he’d not give up this idea; and two, he didn’t want to talk about it.

Colby regarded the pair of us with great interest. “So, Drake,
is
there a way to reduce a dragon’s lifespan? I mean besides losing in a fight against another dragon.”

“I could not find one.” Drake straightened the cuff of his black button-down shirt. Even his emergency-stash clothes were immaculate—silk shirt, dark slacks, polished shoes. “The only way a dragon can take on a human lifespan is to lose that thing that makes him dragon. If a dragon managed to split off the human part of himself into a separate entity and then put his sentience into the human instead of the dragon, he might live out life as a human. The dragon would likely die and the human would not have any powers of the dragon. He or she would become an ordinary man or woman.” Drake paused. “This is theory only. No one has managed to do such a thing. It would take god magic, and no dragon is foolish enough to place his fate in the hands of a god.”

I pointed a finger at Mick. “Don’t even consider it.”

I could picture him going to Coyote and asking for the insane favor of making him a normal human. Mick was a self-sacrificing kind of guy when he thought the sacrifice important enough. Stubbornly so.

Mick slowly shook his head, the dragon rage fading from his eyes. “I won’t do that. Living without the dragon in me wouldn’t be a life. It would probably kill me. It would be hard on you too, Janet, so no, it’s not a solution.”

“Glad to hear it.” I swept my glare over all three dragons. “Cease even discussing it. Like Drake says, who knows what my magic can do? How about we just take it one day at a time?”

“She’s so wise,” Colby said.

“Seriously,” I said, turning my stern look to Colby. “I’m not seeing at this moment how longer lifespans contribute to intelligence. The three of you are …” I made a helpless gesture. “Gah!” I turned and marched away.

I wasn’t sure where to go to make my dramatic exit, so I ruined it by dithering a few steps. I finally swept into the saloon, where the bartender, Carlos, was dispensing drinks beneath the broken magic mirror.

The sight of it reminded me of Emmett and his trickiness, which made me even more angry. I couldn’t sit around waiting for Emmett to attack me when I least suspected it or goad me into making a move that would destroy everything, as he’d done out at the vortex.

I gazed up at the mirror, who was humming to himself—he was following my father’s flute, I realized—the bits of glass tinkling faintly.

Flora, the new maid, had said she could repair it. I caught no taint of evil in her, but if Emmett had sent her …

I somehow didn’t think so—would Emmett trust even a minor mage around a powerful talisman he wanted? However, I wouldn’t make any assumptions about Flora’s goodness, even if Cassandra vouched for her.

If Flora
could
repair the mirror, I might be able to use that fact to best Emmett. The shards Mick and I had pulled off it were handy, and we’d keep those, but a whole mirror might be stronger than a broken one.

Emmett wanted this one bad, so why shouldn’t Mick and I figure out how to use it against him? I wouldn’t lose any sleep if the world was suddenly minus an Ununculous.

Carrying the battle to Emmett instead of waiting for him to strike sounded good to me. We’d need help, though. I asked Carlos for a club soda with a twist of lime, drank it down, then went in search of my phone.

***

Twenty minutes later, I was riding out of town on the back of Mick’s Harley, heading to Flat Mesa.

I was still seriously angry at Mick for his idea about shortening his lifespan, but we could talk about that later. Meanwhile, I’d told him my plan to interrogate Emmett’s men Nash had arrested to find out what I could. Mick watched me without expression as I spoke then agreed it was a good idea and said he’d go with me.

Drake, who had remained at the hotel, didn’t offer to accompany us. He made for the saloon and some dinner instead, telling Mick to call him when he tracked down Emmett and needed help killing him.

Colby had disappeared somewhere, though when Mick and I went to the shed for his motorcycle, I saw him on the patio, where my father was now surrounded by people who were asking him about his flute. Gina was at his side, fielding the questions for my shy father. She seemed to know exactly when to let him answer and when to take over. My heart warmed again. She was so good for my dad, and I loved her for it.

Gabrielle was there as well, sidling up to Colby as I watched. Colby looked down at her, delight in his eyes.

I’d have to deal with Gabrielle and her obsession with dragons later. For now, I clung to Mick while we raced up to Flat Mesa at Mick’s usual breakneck speed.

The wind was cool, playing in my long hair. A hint of my dream came back to me—riding with Mick as we had years ago, carefree, happy, I thought. I missed that life, when I’d been innocent—mostly—and worried about nothing but riding from town to town and falling in love.

I knew I was viewing the past through the mist of nostalgia and had to admit that the present was better. I had figured out what my life was about, I’d found Mick again, and we’d connected with new understanding. The ring clasping my finger meant we’d committed to each other, come what may.

The evils we’d had to battle had become pretty much a day in the life of a Stormwalker and a dragon. After the fights, we’d celebrate our victory, and in between disasters, we settled in to take care of the hotel, ride out on our motorcycles, hang out with friends, or just be alone—so happy with each other we didn’t need to speak.

But such things could never last. Emmett was going to eat hot magic for ruining my alone time with Mick.

We rolled into Flat Mesa in less than fifteen minutes, then Mick cut his speed to a third of what he’d been doing, and we sedately slid through the little town. Nash wouldn’t hesitate to give Mick a ticket for going even a mile over the speed limit. Hopi County needed every dollar, Nash would say, as he busily wrote the ticket.

The courthouse, jail, and sheriff’s office sat on one edge of the town, surrounded by a parking lot that gave off into flat dry desert. This late, the building was nearly deserted, but Deputy Lopez was on duty, along with a clerk at the desk.

“Hey there, Janet,” Paco Lopez said when I walked in. His dark eyes sparkled with welcome and also curiosity.

I hadn’t been able to find my cell phone, so I’d used the hotel’s land line to call the sheriff’s department and ask to interview Emmett’s thugs. Lopez had told me that, sure, he’d arrange it. He’d also told me that Nash wasn’t there.

“Out on a date with Maya,” Lopez had said with glee. “Can you believe it?”

Jones actually leaving work to do something pleasant was pretty remarkable. I had the feeling Maya had insisted.

Lopez led us through the door to the cells, letting it lock behind us, and took us down the hall toward the heart of the small jail. I looked around with unease, remembering the night Nash had arrested me and put me in the cells to cool. A skinwalker had attacked, trying to get to me. I’d been terrified, feeling trapped and helpless.
 

“They have a good lawyer, but Jones won’t let them go,” Lopez was saying as we entered the cell block. “These guys are wanted for dealing and all kinds of assault. Illegal weapons, fraud, robbery, you name it.”

“Interesting,” Mick said. “You’d think Smith would hire people who kept a lower profile.”

“Well, they haven’t been linked with any crimes in the past couple years,” Lopez said. “Not since they started working for this Emmett Smith. I guess he keeps them in line.”

We came to the cells. The thugs Nash had arrested, three of them, had been locked into individual cells all in a row. Solid walls lay between the cells, which were fronted with floor-to-ceiling bars.

The guys in each cell, two lounging back on their bunks, one sitting up with his hands dangling from his knees, were very different body shapes from one another. One was solid muscle with a shaved head, one thin and wiry with skin tanned chocolate from the desert sun. The third, the driver, had muscle gone to fat and a shock of bright red hair.

They did have one thing in common—their expressions were mournful and resigned. No defiance, boredom, or anger. They looked like men who’d said good-bye to their last hope.

“Which one do you want first?” Lopez asked.

“The driver,” Mick said.

The red-headed man, who’d been the one sitting, jerked his head up but didn’t change expression. He looked Mick over, obviously recognizing him as the man who’d destroyed the limo, but he had no flicker of anger in him, no interest at all.

Lopez told the driver to stand up and turn around, locked cuffs around his wrists through the bars, then opened the cell and marched the man into a blank room down the hall. I’d sat in this room once before, across the table from Nash while he’d gone through my files and interrogated me.

Now I sat on the side of the table Nash had, facing the prisoner. Lopez took the chair next to me, while Mick lounged against the wall near the door.

Lopez opened a file folder and flipped through the pages inside. “His name’s Sam Holt, and he has a huge list of arrests and convictions. Grand theft auto—lots of those—assault, assault with a deadly weapon, robbery … The list goes on. Wanted in connection to a death in Phoenix, which is why he’s being held here.”

Sam rested his hands on the table, his wrists now cuffed to a ring in the center. He kept his eyes on the open folder while Lopez talked, face unmoving.

“Why did you start working for Emmett?” I asked him.

The man flicked his gaze to me. His eyes were a light blue, which went well with his red hair, and sunk into a fleshy face. His skin was the very pale white of northern European ancestry.

“Pay was good,” he answered with a grunt. “Why’d you think?”

“How good?” I asked in curiosity.

“Couple hundred grand a year,” Sam said without hesitation. “For easy work. Driving him around. But he doesn’t use the car all that much.”

I couldn’t blame the man for jumping at a cushy job that paid well, especially if he hadn’t known anything about Emmett. “Where did he keep the car?” I asked.

“Santa Fe.” Again, no hesitation.

Lopez read from the file. “Car’s registered in New Mexico; Holt has a chauffeur’s license. All aboveboard. Limo was bought new from a dealer in Albuquerque. Paid for in cash.”

“Nice for some,” I muttered.

Lopez grinned. “I hear you. So, Sam, you were bought a car, lived in Santa Fe, and your boss called you occasionally to drive him places.”

“Yep,” Sam confirmed.

“Called from where?” I asked.

Sam shrugged. “Cell phone.”

“What number?”

For the first time, Sam showed an emotion—irritation. “I didn’t memorize it. Sheriff took my phone off me. The number will be in there.”

“Where would you pick him up?” Lopez went on, ignoring his annoyance.

“Lots of places. Airport. He might have me drive up and meet him in Denver. Or just down the street. Or in Albuquerque. One time I picked him up on the side of the 40 almost to Barstow. He was out there in his suit, not even dusty.” Sam sounded impressed.

I leaned a little forward. “Did you ever wonder why he’d have you pick him up in all these different places?”

Sam gave me a bland look. “Didn’t care. He paid. I have a nice apartment, plenty of free time. Who cares where he has me pick him up?”

“I’m more interested in where you drop him off,” I said. “Tell me about where he goes.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably, but again he answered readily. “Houses mostly. High end, up in the hills above Santa Fe. Or down into Phoenix. There’s a building downtown there he hangs out in, near the ballpark. I usually duck into Alice Cooperstown for a beer while I wait for him. I like their quesadillas.”

Again, everything was said in an even tone, without concern. He didn’t seem to mind that he was imparting Emmett’s secrets.

But then, maybe Emmett didn’t consider these secrets. I imagined any witnesses to his truly covert activities met abrupt ends. Emmett probably hired the chauffeur and bodyguards for business activities that were perfectly legit.

Sam was sweating. It wasn’t that warm in the interview room. Kind of cool, actually. Perspiration trickled down the man’s thick neck, though his face was a bit gray.

“Mick,” I said. “I think he’s been spelled.”

Mick looked nonchalant against the door, but I could tell he was keeping a close eye on Sam. “I think you’re right.”

Sam’s sweat trickled faster but he said nothing.

Lopez sent me a puzzled look. “Spelled how?” He didn’t sound surprised that we mentioned magic, but he’d lived in Magellan all his life. Spells and magic were real here.

Mick studied Sam with clinical attention. “Compulsion spell, probably. To tell us anything we want to know, whether he likes it or not. That means Smith wants us to know these things, or doesn’t care. Which means we will get nothing useful out of him.”

“I don’t know,” I mused. “We know Emmett visits people in high-priced houses and an office in the heart of downtown Phoenix. I haven’t been there enough to know much about the city, but I noticed a lot of high-rent bank buildings and other stuff down there. So he’s visiting people with money.”

“He owns the building in Phoenix,” Sam said before he could stop himself. “Second Ave and Adams. A couple of resorts in Scottsdale too. And houses in Santa Fe.”

“Do you know what he does in any of these places?” I asked.

Sam looked relieved. “No, I don’t. He goes in. I wait. Like I said, I like Cooperstown though I’ll grab fast food if he’s not going to be long. There’s a lady I visit if he’s going to stay all night …”

I held up my hand. “That’s all right. Don’t need to know.”

“Her name is Maria Harding. She has a place on 24th Street, around Camelback, a pretty nice condo. Her husband’s a total bastard, but he’s always out of town …”