6 Under The Final Moon (14 page)

“I appreciate your fierce protection of the Vessel of Souls and your scrutiny of my order and myself. However, we just don’t think that when it comes down to your father, you’ll be able to think with the same kind of clarity.”

I gaped. “Oh, so you think I’m going to go into some little-girl-lost thing, huh?”

“Sophie—”

“No, no. I have protected this thing and kept it safe and out of the hands of your greedy minions and everyone else who’s been after it, but now suddenly I’m supposed to give it up because you think I can’t face my father? Who are you guys, anyway? Who gave you the authority? You know what? I need to do my own research. How about you leave a card or something and I’ll get back to you.”

I stood up so quickly that my chair shot out from behind me, its ancient wheels squeaking across the plastic slide mat. “I think it’s time you left, Mr. Abelard.”

To my surprise, Abelard didn’t argue. He stood slowly and waited for me to lead him to the door. We walked in silence to the elevator, everyone at the Agency falling against the walls, giving Abelard and me a wide berth as they stared at us in silent fear. I pushed the up button and Abelard smiled at me, a kind, wide smile, and took my hand in his. He tenderly pressed my hand in between both of his and eyed me. “The fate of the world is hanging on you, child. And you are making a terrible, terrible mistake.”

He must have stepped into the elevator and the doors must have closed, driving him upward, but I didn’t remember because all I could do was stand there, my hand still outstretched, feeling the cold from where his hand had been.

You are making a terrible, terrible mistake.
The words reverberated in my head, shooting terrifying licks of fire down my spine.

I wasted at least two hours sitting in my car in the police station parking lot, trembling, and drinking enough pilfered police station coffee to buy Juan Valdez a fleet of Mercedes. I still hadn’t heard from Will or Alex, and after Abelard left, I’d gathered what remained of my things and picked my way out of the UDA while Kale and the handful of clients left in the waiting room watched me go.

The fog outside my window was starting to bleed into long fingers of gray drizzle when my phone started blaring “How Do You Talk to an Angel”—a nod to the eighties and Alex’s ringtone. I nearly hit my head on the windshield jumping out of my skin.

“Lawson.”

“Now you call me? I called you like, ten hours ago. I needed you, Alex!”

“You called me?”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and gaped at it as though Alex could somehow see me. “Of course I did. If you didn’t know that, why are you calling me?”

“Where are you right now?”

“I’m in the police station parking lot. In my car.”

“Stay there. I’ll be there in three minutes.”

I had no idea if it was something about being an angel or just that Alex was police-officer anal, but he arrived exactly three minutes later, pulling into a spot close to the door of the station. I hopped out of my car and jogged toward him just as he came around the car to me. His eyes were blazing, his cheeks flushed.

“Lawson, about the other day, back at my office—”

My mind immediately went to Alex backpedaling about our relationship. It made sense that as my UDA family backed away from me, so would Alex.

“Yeah, no, that’s fine, I understand. If you want to, you know, be . . .”

“I’m not talking about us. The kid.”

I swallowed hard. “The kid?” Oh, God. There was a kid now? Did Alex want me to get
pregnant
? Could that even happen? Would our child be immortal, or like, half immortal? And what did that mean? Would he be immune to illness or just live to one hundred fifty-five? Would he have Alex’s ice-blue eyes, his hard, chiseled chin?

“Did you hear me?”

Sweat rolled down my back and was now oozing out of every pore as my skin radiated a fire of embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Alex’s gaze was steady, his jaw set hard. Everything about him told me he had his cop armor on, and I stiffened, the tension still ratcheting.

“Oliver. The kid.”

I nodded. “What about him?”

“He’s gone missing.”

I took a step back as if his revelation had physically moved me. “What? What do you mean ‘gone missing’? Where did he go?”

Alex shook his head. “We don’t know. He was being held at the children’s ward of SF General. Supposed to have had round-the-clock supervision.”

“But?”

“But sometime during the night, someone came in and signed him out. Took everything associated with Oliver—his medical chart, his things, his stuffed animal.”

“Well, if someone signed him out, don’t you know who it is? Who signed him out?”

Alex fished his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and swiped it on, showing me a photograph of a sign-in log. Oliver’s name was written in the P
ATIENT
box with small, sure script. A name was written in the V
ISITORS
box in careful cursive writing:
. Szabo
.

My lungs popped. I tried desperately to suck in air, but even with my big, fish-face gulps, it felt like I was breathing through a straw. Alex, my car, the parking lot swayed in front of me as a vice tightened around my forehead. I could feel Alex’s hands on me again, on my shoulders this time, steadying me.

“Lawson, breathe. Slowly. One breath in, one breath out.”

I tried to focus on Alex, on his commands, and after what seemed like hours, I was confident my heart wasn’t in my throat, wouldn’t flop right out of my mouth and onto the glass-and-condom-littered concrete.

“Lucas took Oliver?”

“There’s more.”

“More?”

Alex turned the phone to me one more time, swiping the image. He was explaining as my eyes took in the image. Under the box that asked RELATIONSHIP, again in that careful, sure script was the word
father
.

“Father? But Oliver has—had—a father. His father was killed. Was he—was he adopted? Oh, God, Oliver is my brother?”

I had discovered my half sister Ophelia under circumstances that were less than optimal as well. And, as discussed, she’d tried to kill me and our relationship had culminated in a stabbing by trident. Purely self-defense on account of my sister was bat-shit crazy and clearly took after my father, the devil. I still don’t know who Ophelia’s mother is, but I would be willing to bet the farm and a half-dozen donuts that her side of the family line included at least one jackal.

“My brother . . .”

“Actually, no, according to his records. There is no indication that Oliver was adopted, and his father—his actual father—is listed on his birth certificate, as is his mother. Medical records match up, too.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, a weird sense of joy and jealousy filtering through me. I was happy that Oliver wasn’t the son of Satan, even if unadulterated evil did seem to be his forte. But I was also weirdly upset that my father would devote so much time to a child that wasn’t even his when his real child had grown up without a father.

“Are there any leads?”

Alex cracked a half smile. “Look at you with the detective lingo.” His smile dropped. “But no, we don’t have anything. We weren’t even notified that Oliver was missing until about thirty minutes ago.”

“But he was checked out last night!”

“Technically, early this morning. The officer on guard has no idea how Lucas or Oliver got passed him.”

I cocked my head. “No idea like he was off on a cigarette break or grabbing a donut?”

“Why does it go directly to the donuts with you?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Okay, no. The surveillance footage shows that he didn’t leave his post. And the two times he did, for bathroom breaks, no one came through. No one.”

I leaned back against my car. “So . . . I don’t understand any of this. What do you need with me?”

“Lucas is your father. Do you know anything—have any idea where he might be?”

I gaped at Alex. “Where have you been the last three years? I don’t know Lucas from Adam. Well, I do, but not his haunts. He might be my dad”—it almost pained me to admit it—“but the only thing we have in common that I’m sure of is a couple of strands of DNA. If he has a secret fort or an evil lair, I’m not privy to it.”

“Is there anything, anything at all? Think, Lawson.”

“I am thinking,” I snapped. “I don’t know anything about my father except that he’s a killer and apparently, he was interested in every other kid except me.”

Suddenly, I was crying. I was completely aware of the ridiculousness of the situation, crying because a mass murderer had never taken me to a father-daughter dance, but I couldn’t stop myself. I felt pitiful, I felt small. No matter who my father was, one thing was clear: he didn’t want me at all.

“Oh, Lawson.”

Alex wrangled me into a hug that only made me cry harder. Stupid, body-wracking tears as I slumped against him while he gently stroked my back.

“Wha-wha-what’s wrong with me, Alex? Why wouldn’t he want me at all?” I snuffled into his neck, forgetting to be embarrassed by the fact that I was soaking the stiff collar of his button-down shirt with snot and tears. “I mean, it’s not like I want to go into the family business, but it would have been nice to be asked, you know?”

I blinked up at Alex and he thumbed a tear from my eye. “I know, Lawson. Your father has no idea what he’s missing out on.”

“But he does. He seems to know everything about me,” I wailed.

“No. He doesn’t know how amazing and warm and kind you are. He obviously can’t even see how beautiful you are. If he knew any of those things, he would never be able to turn away from you. Never.” He swallowed. “No matter what it cost him.” Alex swallowed and wrapped one of my curls around his index finger with a small smile. I was about to say something witty and poignant—or, since it was me, something would have unequivocally ruined the entire warm and tender moment—when his cell phone buzzed.

And just like that, warm, tender Alex was replaced by all thin-blue-line detective Alex.

“Grace?”

I watched the hint of smile drop completely out of Alex’s eyes as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. He gave two curt nods, then hung up.

“What was that about?”

“Chief said a call came in. A pretty viable tip. Someone in Fremont said they saw a juvenile fitting Oliver’s description with an older man.”

“Did that older man fit my father’s description?”

Alex shrugged sharply, but I knew his answer was yes. “I’m going with you.”

He put out a hand and stopped me. “No, you’re not.”

I grinned. “I like how after all these years you still think you can stop me from doing things.”

“I’m serious, Lawson.”

“Alex, I’m a part of this case. And Oliver’s kidnapper is my father. I think that warrants a ride along, don’t you?”

“Actually, that’s exactly why you’re not going within twenty miles of the last known location.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He blew out a sigh. “Look, Lawson, I know we usually do this stay-here/don’t-stay-here dance. And usually, I don’t really care whether or not you tag along.”

A little needle of pain stabbed at my heart, and I crossed my arms in front of my chest, narrowing my eyes so Alex wouldn’t see.

“Haven’t you ever heard of sugarcoating, ass hat?”

Alex sighed. “Most of the time I’m happy when you tag along because I know you’re going to be safe. But we have no idea what we’re dealing with on this one.”

“But it’s my father!”

“Which is exactly why you have to promise me you won’t follow me.”

I opened my mouth and Alex pushed it back closed. “You’re too close to this one. You’ve got too much emotion to be counted on to act rationally.”

“I never act rationally!”

It was out of my mouth before I realized that it wasn’t the best argument.

“I’ll call you once I get there, and everything I find out, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

I cocked out a hip. “I’m just supposed to believe you?”

“For God’s sake, Lawson, I’m an angel.”

“Fallen.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ve got to go. You’re staying here.”

It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “Yeah, I’m staying here.”

Alex stared at me for a long, silent beat before grabbing my purse and fishing out my keys. He slipped them in his chest pocket and spun on his heel, moving toward his black SUV.

“Hey!” I yelled. “I said I was staying here!”

He disappeared around the driver’s side of the car, then poked his dark mop over the top of the car, followed by his stupidly mischievous blue eyes. “And I’m just supposed to believe you?”

Alex was out of the driveway, practically on two wheels, thirty seconds before the Muni bus wheezed to a stop. I jogged and boarded the bus, then sunk in my dollar, scanning the assembled riders for even a sliver of empty seat.

There wasn’t one.

I edged my way down the center aisle and reached up for one of the leather steadying loops, my arm firmly in place while the rest of my body cursed Muni’s apparent disdain for shocks as I thumped against my fellow riders. Three stops and plenty of inappropriate bumps later I was pretty sure the man behind me was my new husband, and either in celebration or desperation, I realized I wanted a drink. And though I knew better than to solve problems with alcohol, today was one of those days when I figured it couldn’t hurt. Lucky for me, San Francisco is filthy with bars, specialized for everyone from hipsters to hookers, and the first establishment I walked into fell somewhere in the middle.

It was one of those places that had always been a bar and would always be a bar because the smell of stale beer and old cigarettes had become part of the architecture. The waitresses looked like they were born there and when I opened the door, the patrons squinted at the rectangle of “light” that shone in. The bar was polished wood, long and glossy, and a dozen Naugahyde bar stools were lined up, only two of them taken. One man sat at the crook of the bar, staring into his beer, and the other was halfway down. He glanced over his shoulder when I walked in, and I could feel his eye slide from the top of my head to the bottom of my shoes. Normally, a full-body gaze like that would make my teeth clench and flush my face a pitiful red, but today I didn’t care at all. I was the daughter of Satan, a race of being that God wanted washed from the Earth, and my own idiot father who had gotten me in this stupid situation was hiding from me.

I slid onto one of the bar stools.

The guy was looking at me again and when I met his gaze he gave me a slight, respectful nod, then went back to tinkling the ice in his glass.

“What can I get you?”

The bartender looked like she had stumbled into the place one day and never left. She could have been twenty or two hundred and twenty; it was impossible to tell in the dim light and through her pancake makeup and surprised, painted-on eyebrows.