Harvest Hunting (4 page)

“Oh my stars,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “I had
no idea
that was going to happen.”

“What? What’s going on? If somebody doesn’t tell me soon, I’m turning back into a cat and going on a shredding binge.”

“Hey, Red,” Vanzir said, once again ruffling my hair. Only this time he had to reach up to do it.

“No. . . . no . . . you don’t mean what I think you mean, do you?” I took off for the bathroom, the smell of skunk with a side of tomato following me.

As I flipped on the light and stared in the mirror, I let out a groan. My beautiful golden hair was now rife with brilliant highlights. I looked like Ronald McDonald, only tiger-striped. The tomato juice had dyed the lighter parts of my hair, and now I was a patchwork of pink, rust, and burnt orange. And none of it looked good.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck,
fuck me
.”

Iris peeked around the corner. “I’m so sorry, Delilah. I had no idea tomato juice would do that. And it didn’t take care of the smell, either.”

“I reek, and my hair looks like a dye bomb went off in it!”

I dropped to the edge of the tub. I loved my hair. It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t anything super special, but it was mine. Now I looked like I was doing a bad Lil’ Kim impersonation.

“Well, hop in the shower; maybe you can scrub some of the skunk scent off. Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can find out. I’ve never had to deal with this before—no one I’ve ever known got skunked. Not that I remember.” She headed out of the bathroom, muttering to herself.

I grimaced, then looked at myself in the mirror again. I’d always loved the combination of my emerald eyes and golden hair, but now I looked like I’d gone punk. Bad. Very bad. Splotches of pink to orange dappled the gold, and even where it hadn’t, my natural color had become brassy. And not only my hair up top had decided to turn calico, but everywhere on my body. Eyebrows, razor stubble on my legs, and . . . oh yah, I had a burning bush, all right. For the first time in my life, I foresaw begging Camille to teach me how to go Brazilian.

“Crap. One more thing to deal with.” But right now, I needed to focus on getting the stench off me.

“Here we go,” Iris said, coming back with a basin filled with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a box of baking soda, and some dish soap. “Fill the bathtub.”

Mutely, I did as she ordered, backing off as she poured a cup of the baking soda into the churning water. Then she added the quart of peroxide and about a quarter cup of dish soap. I stared at the briny bath and gingerly stepped in when she gave me a little shove.

Far from a nice, fresh, minty bubble bath, which I’d willingly take, this felt more like she was scrubbing off the last seven years of skin. By the time we finished washing me and my hair, I was bright pink from the vigorous use of the loofah. As I rinsed off under the shower spray, I could still smell the skunk, but at least it was muted.
A little.

“Oh, dear,” she said, looking up at me.

Wordlessly, I peeked in the mirror. Now, in addition to pink, orange, and brassy blonde, I had platinum patches from the peroxide. Down below, too.

“Crap,” I said again, shaking my head. “What can we do about my hair?”

Iris bit her lip. I’d never seen her look quite so remorseful. “I’m not sure. I have no idea how hair dye would react on you, given your half-Fae heritage.
Especially
after the peroxide bath
.
Let me do some research on spells. Maybe there’s something we can do magically.”

“Forget about asking Camille to touch my head,” I muttered. “I remember perfectly well what happened when she tried to make herself invisible. She was nekkid for a week and couldn’t do a thing about it. And didn’t even
know
it until somebody told her that her clothes were invisible.”

A knock on the door interrupted us. I wrapped the towel around me, and Iris answered. It was Vanzir.

“Delilah—it’s Luke, from the bar. He wants to talk to you.”

Luke? Luke was a werewolf who worked at the Wayfarer Bar & Grill, owned by my sister Menolly. He occasionally came over to dinner, but if he was here instead of on duty, there must be something wrong.

I stared down at my towel-wrapped torso. At six one, I was lean, though not gaunt by
any
shape of the imagination. You couldn’t see my bones—they were all covered by a nice layer of muscle.

“He’ll have to deal with me being half-dressed. I’m not climbing into any of my clothes till I find something that will prevent the skunk smell from spreading to them.”

Wandering out into the foyer, I nodded at the tall, lanky werewolf who slouched against one wall. Luke could be mistaken for a cowboy except for the scar that laced its way down his cheek. A faint smile flickered across his lips. The ponytail that hung down his back was tidy but gave me the impression that his hair was fly-away and tousled by nature.

He touched the hat he wore. “Miss Delilah, how you doing? Ran into a skunk, did you?”

“That obvious?”

“Between your . . . perfume, and the new dye job up top, yeah. I bet Iris used tomato juice to no effect?” A lazy smile took the place of the worried look as he flashed a wink at Iris. She blushed.

I nodded. “Yeah, something like that. And then some quasi-crazy peroxide mix. You don’t happen to have a cure, do you?”

“Maybe,” he said. “At least for the scent. I’ll have to go back to my apartment to get it. Learned to make it years ago when I was still running with the Pack. We found out firsthand that tomato juice did a number on light-colored fur. But first, I need your services, if you’re willing.”

“My services?” I started to bristle, suddenly all too aware of my semi-naked state.

“You’re a PI, aren’t you?” He was doing his best to keep his eyes on my face, though I saw them drop a couple times, then swiftly scan back up to look me in the eye. Kind of cute, actually. He was blushing. And, mingling with the skunk, the tomato juice, and the chemical scent of the peroxide, I could smell his musk, though not so thick as to indicate arousal. But he liked women, that was for sure.

“Oh. Um . . . yeah.” I edged into the living room and nodded for him to follow me. “Have a seat. What do you need?”

Luke edged onto the sofa while I curled up in the rocking chair, making sure nothing was showing that shouldn’t. Before I could sit down, Iris slipped in and spread a grungy sheet beneath me. Great. I was beginning to feel like Typhoid Mary.

“My sister’s missing.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” I said.

He nodded. “Amber was moving up here. She said that she’d had a vision, that she needed to live in Seattle for some reason. A few weeks back, she left the Pack, which is a big no-no unless you’re excommunicated like I was.”

“Did she say why?” I was beginning to wonder about lycanthropes—the Were system wasn’t the same in all species, and I’d heard rumors that among the wolves, rules were very patriarchal. Not conducive to free-thinking females.

“Yeah . . . I’ll tell you why in a moment. Anyway, she called when she hit town this afternoon. She was going to check in, then rest a bit and meet me at the bar around eight. But she never showed. I called the cops, but they won’t put out missing person reports on Supes for forty-eight hours, which is bullshit. My sister came all the way from Arizona, and I’m worried. I checked with the hotel. They said she checked in at two P.M., but they haven’t heard from her since.”

“Any chance she got caught up visiting someone else?” Interested now, I pulled a notebook off the end table next to me and began to jot down notes.

Luke shook his head. “Nope. She doesn’t
know
anybody else here, but she was adamant about being summoned to this area. That’s the word she used—summoned. I’m especially worried because she’s pregnant. A werewolf who is seven months pregnant just doesn’t disappear. She should be nesting, creating the lair for the pups . . . or children, so to speak.” His voice belied his calm exterior, and I could hear the panic welling just below the surface.

“What’s her last name, and do you have a picture of her?”

He handed over a faded picture from his wallet. As I took it from his hands, I noticed the calluses that had long embedded themselves into his fingers and palms. This man had seen hard work, harder than he was doing at the bar, and his skin was covered with faded scars.

I took the picture and gazed at the young woman staring back at me. She looked about twenty-five—misleading, of course, given the long-lived nature of the Supe Community. She had Luke’s eyes. Feral and yet . . . a yearning hidden behind the wariness. Long, wheat-colored hair drifted down her shoulders, honey-kissed and vibrant. She was beautiful, luminous, and dangerous.

“Her name is Amber. Amber Johansen. We haven’t seen each other in years.”

He left something unspoken. Something that told me Luke had a suspicion about what had happened.

“What do you think is going on?” I caught his attention, turning on my glamour, willing him to open up.

He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, locking his gaze on mine without flinching. “I think that rat’s ass she calls a husband came after her. She told me over the phone that she was being followed down there, and my guess is he’s trying to
convince
her to come back to the Pack. His ego—the ego of the Pack—neither takes it well when their women leave. Rice is an abusive motherfucker, and I’m afraid he’ll track her down and kill her.”

And then, slowly, he crumbled. “Amber’s the only family I’ve got.”

“We’ll find her,” I said, sliding my hand over his. “We’ll do everything we can to find her.” But inside, I was praying we weren’t too late.

At that moment, the front door opened, and Menolly wandered in, her arm around Nerissa, who was obviously three sheets to the wind. They were both laughing, and my sister’s fangs were down, but one look at Nerissa reassured me that Menolly hadn’t slipped. Menolly gently deposited her in one of the armchairs and gave her a kiss on the cheek, then turned around.

“What the hell are you doing here? Is everything okay at the bar?” She stared at Luke in that uncanny, unblinking way she had. I could hardly wait until she actually took a long look at me. I could just imagine what was going to come out of her mouth, and none of it would be complimentary.

Luke shrugged. “Chrysandra’s covering for me. I needed to talk to your sister . . . and you, if you want to listen.”

He mouthed off at her now and then, and she smacked him down from time to time, but they got along a lot better than most werewolves and vampires. Luke was a damned good bartender, and my sister was a damned good boss.

“What’s up?” Menolly folded her feet under her, sitting in the corner of the sofa. She stopped, sniffed the air, and looked at me. “Is that
you
? What the hell are you doing . . .” She stared, then let out a strangled laugh. “Oh my fucking gods, what happened to your hair?”

I grimaced. “About that . . . yeah. Me. Skunk. Tomato juice. Peroxide and baking soda. I’ve turned into a flaming orange calico, sans the black splotches, as you can see. Iris is researching whether hair dye will make it worse.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to breathe.” Menolly laughed again.

“I can help with the smell, I believe,” Luke said, leaning back in his chair. “But I ain’t even gonna try to touch that mop on your head.”

Blinking at him, I frowned. “Yeah, I have a bad feeling I’m stuck with it until it grows out.”

Menolly stifled a snort. I flashed her a nasty look, but she shrugged. “What? It’s funny—and if anybody can pull off the look, you can.”

“Right, that and a dime will buy you the Brooklyn Bridge.” I let out a long sigh. “What about Nerissa? Shouldn’t you take care of her? She looks about ready to pass out. How much did you—she—drink, anyway?”

Menolly flashed me a toothy grin. “I think she downed a bottle of champagne on her own. Camille and her harem will be home pretty soon, by the way. They stuck around to say good night to some of the stragglers. But before she gets here, I better warn you: Tread carefully around the whole issue of our illustrious father’s bailing on her wedding to Trillian. It hit her hard. I heard her talking to Iris earlier, and she was trying not to cry.”

“Crap. Why couldn’t he have played the good guy this time? He’s never been this mean to Camille.”

“Yeah, he’s never turned his back on her except when she first came out about being involved with Trillian. For him to do so now after all she’s done for the agency and our family, it fucking sucks. I’m so pissed at him; he can shove his attitude right up his tight—”

“You’re talking about our father!” Wrong or not, I couldn’t help but stand up for him. It was ingrained in my nature, even though my heart wasn’t holding much in the way of his defense this time.

“I don’t care if I’m talking about Zeus. He had no right to do that to her.” She tossed a look at Nerissa. “She’ll be okay. She’s comfy. Where’s Vanzir?”