Aivisha sang and sang, and ice danced for her, obeying her every whim. She commanded us, and mesmerized, we held our breath until her voice climbed to an overpowering crescendo. A burst of blue light pulsed from her, saturating the ice in an instant. The crystal lace burst, evaporating into the air. The curtain fell, hiding Aivisha from the audience. For a moment we sat stunned. And then the concert hall erupted in applause.
Crest squeezed my hand and I squeezed back.
Forty-five minutes later we pulled into the parking lot before my apartment building.
"Can I walk you to the door?" Crest asked.
"Not tonight," I murmured. "I'm sorry. I just wouldn't be good company."
"Are you sure?" Crest asked, hope dying in his eyes. I felt bad, but I couldn't do it. Something told me I should just stop this right here.
"Yes," I said. "Thank you for the dinner and company."
"I was hoping the evening wouldn't end this soon," he said.
I touched his hand with my fingertips. "I'm sorry. Perhaps some other time."
"Oh, well," he said. "There is always tomorrow night."
I opened the door and let myself out of his car. He lingered for a moment and then sped off. Too late I realized that he had expected a good night kiss.
MY HIP HURT MORE AND MORE AND BY THE TIME I crossed the parking lot, the ache had graduated to a full pain, spiced with sharp spasms.
"Just great." I slipped off my shoes. Barefoot, with heels in hand, I headed toward the door.
My foot found an imperfection in the pavement. I slid, and almost landed on my ass. Pain bit my leg. I bent forward, waiting for it to pass and growling wordless curses under my breath.
"Do you need me to carry you?" a voice whispered into my ear. "Again?"
I spun and hammered an uppercut into the speaker's midsection. My fist met a wall of solid muscle.
"Good punch," Curran said. "For a human."
Yeah yeah. I heard you exhale when I hit you. You felt it. "What do you want?"
"Where is your pretty date?"
"Where is yours?"
I started toward the building again. The only way to get away from him was to climb up the stairs and shut the ward in his face.
"Home," he said. "Waiting for me."
"Well, do me a fucking favor and go see her."
I reached the stairs and sat down. My leg demanded a break.
"Hurts?"
"No, I like sitting on filthy steps in an expensive evening dress."
"You're a bit surly tonight," he observed. "Not getting laid will do that."
I looked at the night sky, at the tiny dots of stars. "I'm tired, my leg hurts, and there's shit that needs answers and I can't find any."
"Like what?"
I sighed. "One, I don't know who killed Greg and why. Two, we found no evidence of the necro-tainted animals that killed your people. Three, Greg's file mentioned women. Why did Olathe take them and what did she do with them?"
He bent low toward me. "It's over," he said. "And you've got a bad case of spotlight deprivation."
"A bad case of what?"
"You're a no-name merc and all of a sudden everyone wants to talk to you. The power brokers of the city know your phone number. Makes you feel important. And now the dance is done. I sympathize." His voice dripped derision. "But it's over."
"You're wrong."
Curran walked away.
"She called you a half-breed," I told his back. "Why?"
He ignored me.
I forced myself to my feet and went upstairs. I got into the apartment, changed clothes, threw together a bag of stuff I didn't want to be without, took Slayer, and went downstairs again. I started Karmelion, biting off the words of the chant like a snapping dog, and pulled out of the parking lot. I've had it with this whole bloody city. I was going home. To my real home.
Chapter 8
DAYLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH THE WINDOW tickling my face. I yawned and snuggled under the covers. I didn't want to wake up. Not yet. In retrospect driving out of the city close to midnight, and with an aching hip, wasn't the brightest idea, especially considering that the tech hit around four, leaving my truck marooned a mile away from the house, but I had gotten in just before the sunrise and now none of it mattered. I was home.
I stuck my face into the pillow, but daylight persisted and I stretched, sighing. My bare feet hit the sun-warmed floor and I happily padded to the kitchen to make coffee.
Outside the late morning was in full swing. The clear sky was luminescent with blue. No wind troubled the leaves on the myrtles. The kitchen window begged to be opened. I unlocked it and pushed the bottom half up to let the coastal, sea-spiced air into my house. Home. Finally.
In the yard, positioned so it could be noticed from either kitchen or porch, rose a stick. On the stick was a human head.
Long hair hung in blood-caked strands. Pale eyes bulged from their sockets. The mouth gaped open and green flies were breeding among the torn lips.
It was so out of place in my sunlit world that for a moment it didn't seem real. It couldn't be real.
An unmistakable stench of rot crept into my kitchen I sprinted to the bedroom, wincing at the pain, grabbed Slayer, and went to the front door. My wards were up. Cautiously I opened the front ward and stepped onto the porch.
Nothing.
No sound. No power.
Nothing except a rotting head in my front yard.
I approached the head and circled it slowly. It belonged to a young woman. She had died recently - the expression of horror was still frozen on her face.
A large nail pinned a folded piece of paper to the back of her head. I raised the paper with the tip of Slayer's blade. Uneven letters glared back at me.
Do you like my present? I made it special for you. When you see your half-breed friend, tell him I won't waste his head like this. I'll strip every shred of meat off his bones. I'll gorge myself on his carcass until I can't walk and let my children finish the rest, while I sleep it off with half-breed women. Half-breed meat tastes like shit but it has good texture. Olathe never did appreciate it. It's a shame about her dress. I was partial to it.
I walked inside and dialed Jim's number.
THE DEAD HEAD LOOKED AT JIM. JIM LOOKED AT the head.
"You know some fucked up people," Jim said.
"Her name's probably Jennifer Ying," I said. "The hair has Mongoloid texture. She's one of the missing women whose names I found in Feldman's file. The head wasn't here when I came in, which was around four thirty this morning."
Jim sniffed at the head. "Fresh kill. A day, maybe a day and a half at most," he said. "You need to call Curran."