This Case Is Gonna Kill Me (2 page)

But he still had the intimidation thing down pat, and since I’d grown up in a vampire household I immediately reacted, offering a submissive and wordless apology by tilting my head to the side and shaking my hair off my neck. Not that he would ever have bitten a woman, but Sullivan neither accepted nor acknowledged the apology. He just snorted and disappeared into his office.

The door to my office beckoned, and I managed to get through the door and deposit the stack just before the top files went sliding like the leading edge of an avalanche. As Chip helped me gather up the files he asked, in a too-casual tone, “That thing you did.” He cocked his head awkwardly to the side. “That’s like spook etiquette, right?”

I cringed and Chip looked contrite. “I don’t mean any harm. It’s just the way I was raised. My mom worked here, but my dad never did like it, and didn’t much like the”—he made the mental correction and used the politically correct term—“powers, either. I hope you won’t mention that I used that term.”

I wondered if Chip would also say his use of the n-word didn’t mean anything, and that it was just his background. But I didn’t want to start out my tenure by ratting out a coworker. “Sure. No problem.”

“I heard from Shade that you were fostered in a spook—er, vampire household. Is that true?”

“Yes, I was.”

“How does a parent swing something like that?” Chip asked.

“I’m not exactly sure. My family’s been pretty closely allied with the Powers since 1963. My grandfather was a lawyer, and he helped with the integration after the Powers came out—went public. However you want to put it.”

“Sure does help your profile if you can establish that kind of relationship.” Chip ran a hand across his face. “I sure would like my kids to have that advantage, even if it meant that the boys might turn into inhuman creatures.”

I gave a mental sigh and decided that this was a habit Chip wasn’t going to break easily. I also had to wonder why he was working in a vampire-run law firm, given his feelings. Had to be the mother thing. Vampires took loyalty to servants very seriously.

I gave a noncommittal answer. “I’ll ask my dad. See if I can give you any pointers.” But I doubted it would do much good. If there’s one thing that can be said for the Powers, it’s that they’re snobs, and I had a feeling that neither Chip nor his offspring would pass muster with those households. I wasn’t exactly sure how we had rated. Maybe it had to do with my family’s illustrious past rather than our rather mundane present.

We once again passed through the reception area on our way to the elevators, and I noticed that the secretaries and assistants went into a huddle after we passed. Maybe the word had spread further than Chip that I had been fostered in a vampire household. That would inevitably result in them thinking I had gotten the job through connections, which I had—sort of. All of this meant I was going to have to work that much harder just to prove I deserved to be here.

I could feel the determination settling into my jaw as we stepped into the elevator. I almost suggested we take the stairs, but then I remembered how moving files and walking to my office had winded Chip and decided against it. Killing my boss on the first day was not a way to impress.

The seventieth floor was nice. Mahogany and cherry wood, slate tiles, green glass partitions to separate the assistants, private offices for the attorneys. The seventy-third was opulent. Teak furniture, polished Carrera marble floors softened by elaborate oriental rugs, an antique sideboard where an attractive and obsequious assistant would mix the beverage of your choice. A client might have to wait, but they would have a cocktail to sip while they waited.

And if said client wasn’t tempted by the wide selection of magazines, both foreign and American, they could drift to the wall of windows (all carefully treated with heavy UV screens for the protection of the vampires) and look out across the shimmering patch of green that was Central Park. Right now the early morning sun danced on the skyscrapers on the far side of the park and Columbus Circle, turning them into crystal spires and pulling rainbow colors from their windows.

The receptionist looked to be all of twenty, and he was gorgeous in that pouty way that only a really handsome male can achieve. He ran a bored eye over me, and I could see the rejection. I tried to figure out why.
Because I’m not seventeen? My outfit is dowdy?
Then I caught his expression as his eyes drifted over to Chip.
I’m with Chip. That’s why I’m being dismissed.

“Anybody in the conference room?” Chip asked, pointing toward the heavy, carved-wood double doors.

“No. I guess you can go in there, but be quick about it.” The kid’s tone was curt to the point of being rude. The level of disdain set off my alarm bells. Chip might not be a vampire, but he was still an associate in the firm.

We stepped through the doors and were in a long hallway with offices to either side. The aroma of coffee hit my nose and my stomach gave a loud growl. I had been too nervous to eat this morning. Chip walked through a doorway on our left, and we were in a kitchen.

The fluorescent lights glittered on stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops. My apartment didn’t have a kitchen this nice. A young woman was toasting a bagel.

Leaning casually against a counter and wolfing down a powdered-sugar donut was a stunningly handsome man dressed in blue jeans, a silk polo shirt, and a blue blazer. His hair was a mix of white, gold, and black streaks of varying widths, as if a hairdresser had gone mad during a highlighting session. His eyes were green and he sported a spectacular shiner.

Now that I was looking more closely, I realized he had a long grease stain across the back of his coat, which had one elbow ripped out. He was also pretty clearly an Álfar. Among all the Powers, only the fey folk possessed such devastating beauty.

“… saw me taking a scraping off the bumper, and came flying out the front door and down the steps. He threw back the screen so hard he broke it,” the man was saying, punctuating his words with little puffs of powdered sugar.

“What did you do?” the woman asked, pausing from smearing cream cheese on her bagel.

“Ran like hell, but he was fast for such a fat guy. He tackled me.” The man ruefully regarded the rip in his coat. “He tried to grab the Baggie with the sample, but I had it someplace safe.” The Álfar patted the front of his pants and leered at the woman. She blushed. “He popped me once, but he got the worst of the encounter,” he concluded with satisfaction.

“Oh, you poor thing. Would you like to come over tonight? I can make dinner.”

“Sorry, but Jennifer has already offered tea and sympathy.”

Chip chuckled and slapped the man on the shoulder. “John, stop telling tales of your derring-do and pitching woo to all the secretaries, and come meet our new associate.” Said secretary blushed and slipped through the door. “Linnet Ellery, John O’Shea. Linnet comes to us by way of Radcliffe and Yale.”

We shook hands, and I found myself studying his. Despite a scrape on the knuckles, they were beautiful, with long tapered fingers, manicured nails, and powerful muscles across the back. I am a sucker for hands. I have capable hands made even wider from years of riding horseback, but no one would describe them as elegant.

We murmured our how-do-you-dos, and I wondered why he’d assumed the human name. O’Shea was smiling in a way that made me catch my breath. I knew that smile was fool’s gold; in addition to inhuman beauty, the Álfar are also known for devastating charm and short attention spans.

“John’s our P.I. If you need anything investigated, photographed, stolen, or staked out, he’s your guy,” Chip continued.

I was startled and decided to say so. “Not the usual role for an Álfar. You’re usually in the entertainment industry.”

“I’m not your usual Álfar.” He gave me a genuine smile this time. “Most of the Fair and Crazy Folk couldn’t hold down a real job.”

I was startled by his dismissive tone, and I would have loved to talk more with him, but I wasn’t sure if the desire was from actual intellectual interest or if he was throwing a glamour on me. If it was a glamour, I decided to start breaking the spell. The best way is to perform a mundane activity, so I began to prepare my own bagel. Chip was rummaging through the big Sub-Zero refrigerator.

“There’s lox,” he said, and emerged with a package of thin-sliced salmon.

“I’ll leave you folks to it,” O’Shea said. “I’m going to go put in a requisition for a new blazer. Nice meeting you,” he added.

“And you,” I said, putting the finishing touches on my bagel.

Chip pulled down plates from a cabinet. It was real bone china, Wedgwood. No paper plates at Ishmael, McGillary and Gold.

“What’s his story?” I gestured toward the door and the now departed O’Shea. “O’Shea isn’t exactly an Álfar name.”

“It’s not. He is a changeling. Raised by humans, lived with humans, worked with humans. He was actually a policeman before he opened his own detective agency and we put him on retainer. I’m surprised more Álfar haven’t done that, or become really good crooks. They’ve got that whole walk-through-Fairyland thing they can do. When John’s on your tail, he’s almost impossible to spot.”

“Wow.” I really couldn’t think of anything else to say to this remarkable story, and now I really wanted another chance to talk with John O’Shea.

Armed with food and cups of coffee, Chip and I continued to the end of the hall, where five conference rooms occupied the far wall. The center one was magnificent, with an inlaid-wood round table and high-backed chairs.

“This is where the big boys meet,” he said, and I could hear the envy.

“Where’s the law library?” I asked.

“Just below us. They took out the floor between seventy-one and seventy-two to accommodate the shelves. Walkways and ladders everywhere so you can reach the top shelves.” He paused to gauge my reaction.

It was one of pure lust. I love books, especially old books. There’s a smell and a feel to old paper that makes me feel like I am shaking hands with people across time. Law firms measure their wealth in the quality of their research library, and it’s always a real point of pride in a White-Fang firm. During one of my summer internships while I was in school, the senior partner loved to wander by, notice what book I was perusing, and casually mention that he’d acquired the tome back in 1715.

I have the same reaction to portraits. Whenever I walked through a museum, I was always drawn to the walls of faces. I actually preferred the unknown subjects to the famous people. I’d look at the young girl playing with a puppy, or the young man wearing his dignity like a cloak, his hand resting on the sword hilt in a way that clearly said,
don’t laugh at me
.

I’d weave stories about them and wonder about their lives. And then I would look over at my foster liege and realize that Mr. Bainbridge had become a vampire during the Renaissance. The past had been walking among us every day, and it was only in the past forty years that most humans had learned of it.

“Want to see the library?” Chip asked, pulling me out of my reverie. I nodded in enthusiastic assent. We finished off our bagels and coffee, dropped off the china in the kitchen, and rode the elevator down one floor.

There were twelve-foot-tall wood and glass double doors to the left of the elevator bank. Chip pushed one open and allowed me to precede him into the muted light thrown by glass-shaded brass lamps. It was so quiet that I could hear someone turning a page in a secluded carrel.

For my high school graduation present, my folks had treated me to a trip to Europe. The only other place I had seen a library like this was at Blenheim Castle. Stairs led to a catwalk at the level where the seventy-second floor would have been. On both levels the walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling shelves and rolling ladders were available to reach the upper volumes. There were desks scattered among the standing shelves, carpet underfoot, a beautiful inlaid round conference table, and even a large gas fireplace topped with a carved marble mantle to add to the sense of comfort.

Only one thing was missing. There were no computers. Instead, the index files were kept in an enormous antique file cabinet, and a table held a large stack of legal pads and pens. At least there was a copier so you wouldn’t have to hand-copy every citation you found.

I sighed, but I wasn’t surprised. Vampires were conservative. If something worked well in 1847, why wouldn’t it work just fine in the twenty-first century? It was something I had endured growing up in the Bainbridge house. If I’d wanted to surf the net, I had to make a trip into town and find the nearest Internet cafe. A laptop was no help because there was no Internet service. Eventually the neighbors put in Wi-Fi, and I discovered that if I sat near the edge of the Bainbridge property I could bootleg their signal.

Chip and I were just turning to head back to the door when a tall, silver-haired man in a rich gray-and-blue Canali suit emerged from between the stacks. He was frowning down at the open page of a book. Shade Shadrach Ishmael was one of the founding partners of the firm. He was close friends with my foster father, Meredith Bainbridge, and had often been a guest in the Sag Harbor house. Over the years we’d shared a number of rambling conversations about music, history, and law. I suspected Shade was the reason I had been asked to interview at Ishmael, McGillary and Gold.

“Linnet, my dear. Welcome.”

He bent, making the motion seem more like a bow. Vampires were so damn graceful, it made me feel all the more like a klutz. He kissed my cheek, and his lips were cold against my skin. Like most vampires, he wore a lot of aftershave and made sure to use mouthwash four or five times a day, but nothing completely masked the faint scent of blood that hung around him.

Deep inside, I felt that primal shiver of fear. Intellectually, I knew it was unwarranted. I was in no danger. I was a woman, and vampires didn’t bite women. I had also been raised in a vampire household. I had watched Mr. Bainbridge feed every night from the time I was eight until I graduated from high school. But the old lizard brain that had kept us safe when we first swung down from the trees was convinced that I was prey and that I was standing way too close to a predator.