Dead Witch Walking (13 page)

Kist passed between Ivy and me, hesitating on the sill. “You can’t hide your hunger from her forever,” Kist said, and Ivy’s lips pressed together. “Once she sees, she’ll run, and she’ll be fair prey.” In a clock-tick he slumped, a bad-boy look softening his features. “Come back,” he cajoled with a sultry innocence. “I’m to tell you that you can have your old place again with only a minor concession. She’s just a witch. You don’t even know if she—”

“Out,” Ivy said, pointing at the morning.

Kist stepped through the door. “An offer shunned makes dire enemies.”

“An offer that really isn’t one shames the one who makes it.”

Shrugging, he pulled a leather cap from his back pocket and put it on. He glanced at me, his gaze going hungry. “Good-bye, love,” he whispered, and I shuddered as if he had run a slow hand across my cheek. I couldn’t tell if it was revulsion or desire. And he was gone.

Ivy slammed the door behind him. Moving with that same eerie grace, she crossed the living room and dropped into a chair. Her face was dark with anger, and I stared at her.
Holy crap. I was living with a vampire.
Nonpracticing or not, she was a vamp. What had Kist said? That Ivy was wasting her time? That I’d run when I saw her hunger? That I was hers?
Shit.

Moving slowly, I edged backward out of the room. Ivy glanced up, and I froze. The anger drained from her face, replaced with what looked like alarm when she saw my fear.

Slowly, I blinked. My throat closed and I turned my back on her, going into the hallway.

“Rachel, wait,” she called after me, her voice cajoling. “I’m sorry about Kist. I didn’t invite him. He just showed up.”

I strode into the hall, tensed to explode if she put a hand on me. Was this why Ivy had quit with me? She couldn’t legally hunt me, but as Kist had said, the courts wouldn’t care.

“Rachel…”

She was right behind me, and I spun. My stomach tightened. Ivy took three steps back. They were so quick it was hard to tell she had moved. Her hands were raised in placation. Her brow was pinched in worry. My pulse hammered, giving me a headache. “What do you want?” I asked, half hoping she would lie and tell me it was a mistake. From outside came the noise of Kist’s bike. I stared at her as the sound of his departure faded.

“Nothing,” she said, her brown eyes earnestly fixed to mine. “Don’t listen to Kist. He’s just jerking you around. He flirts with what he can’t have.”

“That’s right!” I shouted so I wouldn’t start shaking. “I’m yours. That’s what you said, that I’m yours! I’m not anyone’s, Ivy! Stay the hell away from me!”

Her lips parted in surprise. “You heard that?”

“Of course I heard that!” I yelled. Anger overpowered my fear, and I took a step forward. “Is that what you’re really like?” I shouted, pointing to the unseen living room. “Like that—that animal? Is it? Are you hunting me, Ivy? Is this all about filling your gut with my blood? Does it taste better when you betray them? Does it?”

“No!” she exclaimed in distress. “Rachel, I—”

“You lied to me!” I shouted. “He bespelled me. You said a living vamp couldn’t do that unless I wanted him to. And I sure as hell didn’t!”

She said nothing, her tall shadow framed by the hallway. I could hear her breath and smell the sweet-sour tang of wet ash and redwood: our scents dangerously mingling. Her stance was tense, her very stillness sending a shock through me. Mouth dry, I backed up as I realized I was screaming at a vampire. The adrenaline spent itself. I felt nauseous and cold. “You lied to me,” I whispered, retreating into the kitchen. She had lied to me. Dad was right. Don’t trust anyone. I was getting my things and leaving.

Ivy’s steps were overly loud behind me. It was obvious she was making an effort to hit the floor hard enough to make a sound. I was too angry to care.

“What are you doing?” she asked as I opened a cupboard and pulled a handful of charms off a hook, to put them in my bag.

“Leaving.”

“You can’t! You heard Kist. They’re waiting for you!”

“Better to die knowing my enemies then to die sleeping innocently beside them,” I retorted, thinking it was the stupidest thing I’d ever said. It didn’t even make sense.

I jerked to a halt as she slipped in front of me and shut the cupboard. “Get out of my way,” I threatened, my voice low so she wouldn’t hear it shake.

Dismay pinched her eyes and furrowed her brow. She looked utterly human, and it scared the crap out of me. Just when I thought I understood her, she did something like this.

With my charms and finger sticks out of reach, I was helpless. She could throw me across the room and crack my head open on the oven. She could break my legs so I couldn’t run. She could tie me to a chair and bleed me. But what she did was stand before me with a pained, frustrated look on her pale, perfect, oval face. “I can explain,” she said, her voice low.

I fought off the shakes as I met her gaze. “What do you want with me?” I whispered.

“I didn’t lie to you,” she said, not answering my question. “Kist is Piscary’s chosen scion. Most of the time Kist is just Kist, but Piscary can—” She hesitated. I stared at her, every muscle in my body screaming to run. But if I moved, she would move. “Piscary is older than dirt,” she said flatly. “He’s powerful enough to use Kist to go places he can’t anymore.”

“He’s a servant,” I spat. “He’s a freaking lackey for a dead vamp. Does his daylight shopping for him, brings Papa Piscary humans to snack on.”

Ivy winced. The tension was easing from her, and she took a more relaxed stance—still between me and my charms. “It’s a great honor to be asked to be a scion for a vampire like Piscary. And it’s not all one-sided. Because of it, Kist has more power than a living vamp should have. That’s how he was able to bespell you. But Rachel,” she rushed as I made a helpless noise, “I wouldn’t have let him.”

And I should be happy for that? That you don’t want to share?
My pulse had slowed, and I sank down into a chair. I didn’t think my knees would support me anymore. I wondered how much of my weakness was from the spent adrenaline and how much was Ivy pumping the air full of soothing pheromones.
Damn, damn, damn!
I was in way over my head. Especially if Piscary was involved.

Piscary was said to be one of the oldest vampires in Cincinnati. He didn’t cause trouble and kept his few people in line. He worked the system for all it was worth, doing all the paperwork and making sure every take his people made was legal. He was far more than the simple restaurant owner he pretended to be. The I.S. had a “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy on the master vampire. He was one of the aforementioned people who moved in Cincinnati’s unseen power struggles, but as long as he paid his taxes and kept his liquor license current, there was nothing anyone could—or wanted to—do. But if a vampire looked harmless, it only meant they were smarter than most.

My eyes flicked to Ivy, standing with her arms clasped about herself as if she were upset.
Oh, God. What was I doing here?

“What’s Piscary to you?” I asked, hearing my voice tremble.

“Nothing,” she said, and I made a scoffing noise. “Really,” she insisted. “He’s a friend of the family.”

“Uncle Piscary, huh?” I said bitterly.

“Actually,” she said slowly, “that’s more accurate than you might think. Piscary started my mother’s living-vamp bloodline in 1700s.”

“And has been bleeding you slowly ever since,” I said bitterly.

“It’s not like that,” she said, sounding hurt. “Piscary’s never touched me. He’s like a second father.”

“Maybe he’s letting the blood age in the bottle.”

Ivy ran her hand over her hair in an unusual show of worry. “It’s not like that. Really.”

“Swell.” I slumped to put my elbows on the table. Now I had to worry about chosen scions invading my church with the strength of a master? Why didn’t she tell me this before? I didn’t want to play the damn game if the rules kept changing.

“What do you want with me?” I asked again, afraid she might tell me and I’d have to leave.

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” I said, but when I looked up from the table, she was gone.

My breath came in a quick sound. Heart pounding, I stood, my arms clasped about myself as I stared at the empty counters and silent walls. I hated it when she did that. Mr. Fish on the windowsill wiggled and squirmed, not liking it, either.

Slow and reluctant, I put my charms away. My thoughts swirled back to the fairy attack on my front steps, the Were splat balls stacked on my back porch, and then to Kist’s words that the vamps were just waiting for me to leave Ivy’s protection. I was trapped, and Ivy knew it.

I
tapped on the outside of the passenger window of Francis’s car to get Jenks’s attention. “What time is it?” I said softly, since even whispers echoed down in the parking deck. Cameras were recording me, but no one watched the films unless someone complained of a break-in.

Jenks dropped from the visor and wedged the button for the power window down. “Eleven-fifteen,” he said as the glass lowered. “Do you think they rescheduled Kalamack’s interview?”

I shook my head and glanced over the tops of the cars to the elevator doors. “No. But if he makes me late, I’m going to be ticked.” I tugged at the hem of my skirt. Much to my relief, Jenks’s friend had come through with my clothes and jewelry yesterday. All my clothes were hanging in neat rows or resting in tidy piles in my closet. It felt good seeing them there. The Were had done a nice job washing, drying, and folding everything, and I wondered how much he’d charge to do my laundry every week.

Finding something to wear that was both conservative and provocative had been harder than I thought. I had finally settled on a short red skirt, plain tights, and a white blouse whose buttons could be undone or fastened according to need. My hoop earrings were too small for Jenks to perch on, which the pixy had spent the first half hour complaining about. With my hair piled atop my head and a snappy pair of red heels, I looked like a perky coed. The disguise spell helped; I was a big-nosed brunette again, reeking of that lavender perfume. Francis would know who I was, but then, I wanted him to.

I nervously picked at the dirt under my nails, making a mental note to repolish them. The red enamel had vanished when I turned into a mink. “Do I look okay?” I asked Jenks as I fussed with my collar.

“Yeah, fine.”

“You didn’t even look,” I complained as the elevator chimed. “That might be him,” I said. “Are you set with that potion?”

“I only have to nudge the top and it will be all over him.” Jenks rolled the window up and darted into hiding. I had a vial of “sleepy-time” potion balanced between the ceiling of the car and the visor. Francis, though, would be led to believe it was something more sinister. It was incentive for him to agree to let me take his place at the Kalamack interview. Hijacking a full-grown man, wuss or not, was tricky. It wasn’t quite as if I could knock him out and lug him into the trunk. And leaving him unconscious where anyone could find him would get me caught.

Jenks and I had been in the parking deck for an hour now, making small but telling modifications to Francis’s sports car. It had taken Jenks only a few moments to short out the alarm and rig the driver’s door and window locks. And while I had to wait outside the car for Francis, my bag was already tucked under the passenger seat.

Francis had earned himself a real cherry of a car: a red convertible with leather seats. There were dual climate controls. The windows could go opaque—I knew, because I had tried them. There was even a built-in cell phone whose batteries were now in my bag. The vanity plate read,
BUSTED
. The hateful thing had so many gadgets, all it needed was clearance to take off. And it still smelled new. A bribe, I wondered with a stab of jealousy, or hush money?

The light over the elevators went out. I ducked behind the pylon, hoping it was Francis. The last thing I wanted was to be late. My pulse settled into a fast, familiar pace, and a smile eased over me as I recognized Francis’s quick footsteps. He was alone. There was a jangle of keys and a surprised “Huh” when the car didn’t make the expected welcoming chirp as he disengaged the alarm. My fingertips tingled in anticipation. This was going to be fun.

His car door squeaked open, and I sprang around the pylon. As one, Francis and I slid into either side of the vehicle, our doors slamming shut simultaneously.

“What the hell?” Francis exclaimed, only now realizing he had company. His narrow eyes squinted and he flicked his limp hair out of his eyes. “Rachel!” he said, nearly oozing misplaced confidence. “You are so dead.”

He went for the door. I reached across him to grip his wrist, pointing up to Jenks. The pixy grinned. His wings were a blur of anticipation as he patted the vial of brew. Francis went white. “Tag,” I whispered, letting go of him and locking the doors from my side. “You’re it.”

“Wh-What do you think you’re doing?” Francis stuttered, pale under his nasty stubble.

I smiled. “I’m taking your run to interview Kalamack. You just volunteered to drive.”

He stiffened, a hint of backbone showing. “You can just Turn yourself,” he said, his eyes on Jenks and the potion. “Like you’d dip into black magic and make something fatal. I’m tagging you right now.”

Jenks made a disgusted sound and tilted the vial. “Not yet, Jenks!” I shouted, lunging across the seat. Nearly in Francis’s lap, I snaked my right arm around the scrawny man’s windpipe, gripping the headrest to pin him to the seat in a headlock. His fingers clutched at my arm but he couldn’t do anything in the close confines. His sudden sweat mixed with the scrape of his polyester jacket against my arm, and I thought it more vile than my perfume. “Idiot!” I hissed into Francis’s ear, glancing up at Jenks. “Do you know what that is, dangling above your crotch? You want to chance that it might be irreversible?”

Red-faced, he shook his head, and I eased myself closer despite the gearshift jabbing my hip. “You wouldn’t make anything fatal,” he said, his voice higher than usual.

From the visor, Jenks complained, “Aw, Rache. Let me spell him. I can coach you on how to drive a stick.”

The fingers digging into my arm jerked. I tensed, using the pain as impetus to pin him to the seat all the tighter. “Bug!” Francis exclaimed. “You’re a—” His words choked off with a rasp as I jerked my arm.

“Bug?” Jenks shouted, incensed. “You sack of sweat stink. I’ve got farts that smell sweeter than you. Think you’re better than me? Poop ice cream cones, do you? Call me a
bug
! Rachel, let me do him now!”

“No,” I said softly, my dislike for Francis dipping into real aversion. “I’m sure Francis and I can come to an understanding. All I want is a ride out to Trent’s estate and that interview. Francis won’t get into trouble. He’s a victim, right?” I smiled grimly at Jenks, wondering if I could keep him from dosing Francis after such an insult. “And you aren’t going to nack him afterward. Hear me, Jenks? You don’t kill the donkey after he plows the field. You might need him next spring.” I leaned into Francis, breathing into his ear. “Right, cookie?”

He nodded as much as he could, and I slowly let him go. His eyes were on Jenks.

“You squish my associate,” I said, “and that vial will spill on you. You drive too fast, the vial will spill. If you attract attention—”

“I’ll dump it all over you,” Jenks interrupted, the light playfulness in his voice replaced with a hot anger. “You tick me off again, I’ll spell you good.” He laughed, sounding like evil wind chimes. “Got it,
Francine
?”

Francis’s eyes squinted. He resettled himself in his seat, touching the collar of his white shirt before he pushed the sleeves of his jacket to his elbows and took the wheel. I thanked God that Francis had left his Hawaiian shirts at home in deference to his interview with Trent Kalamack.

Face tight, he jammed the keys in the ignition and started the car. Music blared, and I jumped. The sullen way Francis cranked the wheel and threw the car into gear made it obvious he hadn’t given up; he was playing along until he could find a way out. I didn’t care. All I needed was to get him away from the city. Once clear, it would be nappies for Francis.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” he said, sounding like a bad movie. He waved his parking pass at the automated gate, and we eased into the bright light and late morning traffic with Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer” blasting. If I hadn’t been wound so tight, I might have enjoyed it.

“Think you could put more of that perfume on, Rachel?” Francis said, a sneer twisting his narrow face. “Or are you wearing it to cover your pet bug’s stench?”

“Shut him up!” Jenks shouted. “Or I will.”

My shoulder tensed. This was so stupid. “Pix him if you want, Jenks,” I said as I turned down the music. “Just don’t let any of that brew hit him.”

Jenks grinned and flipped Francis off. Pixy dust fanned over him, unseen by Francis but clearly visible from my angle, since it reflected the sun. Francis reached up to scratch behind an ear.

“How long does it take?” I asked Jenks.

“ ’Bout twenty minutes.”

Jenks was right. By the time we had gotten out from under the shadow of buildings, through the burbs, and into the country, Francis put two and two together. He couldn’t sit still. His comments got nastier and nastier, and his scratching more and more intense, until I pulled the duct tape out of my purse and threatened to tape his mouth shut. Red welts had appeared where his clothes met his skin. They oozed a clear liquid, looking like a bad case of poison ivy. When we hit deep country, he was scratching so much it seemed a struggle to keep the car on the road. I had been watching him intently. Driving a stick didn’t look hard.

“You
bug,
” he said with a snarl. “You did this to me Saturday, too, didn’t you!”

“I’m gonna spell him!” Jenks said, the high pitch of his voice making my eyes ache.

Tired of it all, I turned to Francis. “All right, cookie. Pull it over.”

Francis blinked. “What?”

Idiot,
I thought. “How long do you think I can keep Jenks from tagging you if you keep insulting him? Pull over.” Francis glanced nervously between the road and me. We hadn’t seen a car in the last five miles. “I said,
pull over!
” I shouted, and he swerved to the dusty shoulder in a rattling of pebbles. I turned the car off and yanked the keys from the ignition. We lurched to a stop, my head smacking against the rearview mirror. “Out,” I said, unlocking the doors.

“What? Here?” Francis was a city boy. He thought I was going to make him walk back. The idea was tempting, but I couldn’t run the risk of him being picked up or finding his way to a phone. He got out with a surprising eagerness. I realized why when he started scratching.

I popped the trunk, and Francis’s thin face went blank. “No way,” he said, his skinny arms raised. “I’m not getting in there.”

I felt the new bump on my forehead, waiting. “Get into the trunk or I’m going to teach you how I spell mink and make a pair of earmuffs out of you.” I watched him think that over, wondering if he would make a run for it. I almost wished he would. It’d feel good to tackle him again. It had nearly been two whole days. I’d get him into the trunk somehow.

“Run,” Jenks said, circling above his head with the vial. “Go on. Dare you, stink bag.”

Francis seemed to deflate. “Oh, you’d like that, eh, bug?” he said with a sneer. But he wedged himself into the tiny space. He even gave me no trouble when I duct-taped his hands in front of him. We both knew he could get out of the wraps given enough time. But his superior look faltered as I held my hand up and Jenks landed on it with the vial.

“You said you wouldn’t,” he stammered. “You said it would turn me into a mink!”

“I lied. Both times.”

The look Francis gave me was murderous. “I won’t forget this,” he said, his jaw clenching to make him look even more ridiculous than his boat shoes and wide-cuffed slacks. “I’m coming after you myself.”

“I hope you do.” I smiled, dumping the vial over his head. “Nighty night.”

He opened his mouth to say more, but his expression slackened as soon as the fragrant liquid hit him. I watched, fascinated, as he fell asleep amid the scent of bay leaf and lilac. Satisfied, I slammed the trunk shut and called it good.

Settling uneasily behind the wheel, I adjusted the seat and mirrors. I hadn’t ever driven a stick before, but if Francis could do it, I sure as heck could.

“Put it in first,” Jenks said, sitting on the rearview mirror and mimicking what I should do. “Then give it more gas than you think you need while you let up on the clutch.”

I gingerly pushed the stick back and started the car.

“Well?” Jenks said from the mirror. “We’re waiting….”

I pushed the gas pedal and let up on the clutch. The car lurched backward, slamming into a tree. Panicking, I pulled my feet from the pedals, and the car stalled. I stared wide-eyed at Jenks as he laughed. “It’s in reverse, witch,” he said, darting out the window.

Through the rearview mirror, I watched him zip to the back and assess the damage. “How bad is it?” I asked as he came back.

“It’s okay,” he said, and I felt a wash of relief. “Give it a few months, and you won’t be able to see where it was hit,” he added. “The car’s busted, though. You broke a taillight.”

“Oh,” I said, realizing he’d been talking about the tree, not the car. My nerves were jittery as I jammed the stick forward, double-checked it, and started the car again. Another deep breath, and we lurched forward on our way.