Demon Song (8 page)

“What? Why?” There was probably a note of horror in my voice. I’d been kicked out of Birchwoods by Dr. Scott. I got why … he’d rightly objected to one of my siren cousins walking through security without a single person stopping her and then psychically manipulating him into giving her information about me. But … damn it!

Her voice sounded surprised when she spoke: “I thought you knew. I’m the new administrator. The announcement was in the papers last week. Of course, I can’t do full sessions with patients until my license is renewed, but the center needed a new chief after Dr. Scott became a patient and I’m well qualified for that.”

Ah. That would explain it. I’ve been avoiding the press lately nearly as carefully as a movie star involved in a scandal. “Sorry, I don’t read the paper much. But congratulations!” I meant it. A new chief meant new rules and my being eighty-sixed from the facility could be swept away with the stroke of a pen.

I did know that Jeff Scott needed therapy. I’d suggested it to him myself, very sincerely. He’d been traumatized by a mental attack magical kidnappers had inflicted. From his description it had been the mental equivalent of rape. They’d tortured him because it was
fun
. I’d killed or disabled most of those responsible, but he couldn’t seem to get past it. That I understood only too well. It becomes disabling and therapy is really the only way out of the maze in your own brain.

“Thank you. So I’ll see you sometime today? I’ll let the gate know to pass you through.”

She might have to insist. The gate guard, Gerry, had once been a friendly acquaintance—before I’d saved a stadiumful of baseball fans by manipulating him and a bunch of cops. Then he turned into an anti-siren crusader. I still didn’t know if it was by his own will or the result of another manipulation by Eirene.

I pressed the cutoff switch after our good-byes, the receiver still in my hand. I was feeling … odd. I was happy that I might be able to have Gwen as my therapist again one day but curious—and worried—about what she was going to tell me. Emma was an inpatient there at Birchwoods, but she’d seemed generally okay while shopping, outside of her concern for her brother. Dawna was in outpatient therapy and also seemed fine. Not knowing what was wrong made me want to jump in my car and head straight over. Except that Alex was still downstairs and I had an eleven o’clock meeting with a P.I. I’d hired about a mysterious heir Vicki had posthumously asked me to investigate.

I released the cutoff switch and pressed the intercom for the front desk. “Yes, dear?” I was getting used to being called that, as were the other tenants. Hard to argue about office propriety when confronted by watery blue eyes and a patient smile.

“Send Alex up, please.”

“Of course, dear. But have you eaten yet?”

I sighed. No. Of course I hadn’t. If I’d gotten here at seven fifteen and woke at ten fifteen then I was definitely due for a shake. Except that I really wasn’t hungry and didn’t know why. But I’d had it hit me without warning before—like at the mall. “Thanks for the reminder. Give me five minutes.”

She hung up without another word. It’d probably be a good idea to take a look at my shoulder, too. It used to be that the only refrigerator in the building was in the lunchroom on the first floor. But since I need nourishment every four hours, I decided that having a fridge in my office would be a good idea. In part because of Dottie, we were also looking into an elevator for the building. It was officially a landmark building, so the elevator would probably have to be either a period art deco one or a freestanding external one that wouldn’t alter the building’s lines, with a window becoming a door. We’d had two tenant meetings on it without coming to an agreement.

Eventually I’d have to decide, providing the Will was deemed valid. Vicki had left the building to me. I hadn’t told the guys yet—Bubba would be fine with the idea, but Ron, the attorney who has most of the first floor, would have a conniption fit. But hey, Ron was an ass. Vicki had even asked in her video Will if her ghost could watch when I told him.

After grabbing a chocolate nutrition shake from my mini-fridge and drinking down half, I walked to the bathroom. In the mirror, which was framed by bright pink, candy-stripe wallpaper, I looked a wreck. No wonder Dawna had asked if I was okay. My face was blood smeared and my hair was sticking out at all angles.

I used to have pale, translucent skin that burned easily. Now it was white enough to cause guys like the father in the mall to spritz me with holy water. It might be even more noticeable if not for my light blond hair. Dark hair would make me look three days dead. We’d been experimenting with makeup palettes to make me seem more … natural. The shopping trip had mostly been a success—nobody had gone screaming or running until I went vamp and got all glowy—so I was satisfied with the foundation and blush we’d settled on. I’d bought three sets of the colors. One for home, one for here, and one in my purse for emergency touch-ups.

The shirt I’d woken up in was a man’s … and from the way it hung on me, the man was a linebacker. I sniffed at the collar to see if I could get a hint of who it had belonged to, but it just smelled of clean cotton and Downy fabric softener. Stripping it off, I was pleased to note that I was wearing a bra. Strange how the little things like modesty ease the mind. But there was blood on the bra as well as the gauze bandages, so it would have to go. Let’s see … three hours. Would I have healed under the bandages? Would it be safe to shower? Hmm.

Naw. Probably best to give it another half day. Gaetano said he’d had to reopen the wound. I would take a sponge bath and wash my hair in the sink. Alex would understand. She’s been through more than one messy raid.

In fifteen minutes I was clean, blow-dried, freshly painted, and dressed in my own clothes. The linen cabinet now doubled as a wardrobe, so I had client-worthy clothes available whenever needed. Another reason for our shopping trip. Pale colors offset with black or rich, intense colors like burgundy seem to suit the “new me,” so I put on a pair of black jeans and a pale yellow sweater set with baby blue and pink embroidered roses. Not too bad, actually, with the light brown eyeliner and “peace rose” blush. Not stark, not threatening, and very not vampirey.

Since I wasn’t sure whether Alex was here as Alex or as Detective Heather Alexander I definitely wanted to appear non-threatening. Nothing to see here, Officer. Just a peace-loving citizen … not a prison-raiding, shopper-terrifying, fanged monster.

I drank the rest of the shake as I walked back into my office. It really tasted good after toothpaste—a chocolate cool mint shake. They should team up to market that flavor.

Alex was waiting for me in a client chair, reading the latest issue of
Bodyguard Quarterly
. They have trade journals for nearly everything now and it was a great place to find out about new gadgets. Crap! That reminded me. I didn’t remember seeing the fly in my vest. Well, shit. I wasn’t going to enjoy telling Creede I’d lost it. With any luck it was in my car.

“Morning, Alex. Sorry to keep you waiting. Want a soda?” She turned her head and took in my appearance with raised brows and general approval. I skirted around the coffee table just as she tossed the magazine the five feet backward to it. Good aim. It hit the top of the stack of magazines and stuck like an Olympic gymnast.

“Celia. Sure. I guess.” She looked and sounded haggard but determined. It’s hard to lose someone you love, especially to murder. Rumor had it that, like me, she’d thrown herself into her work to escape the pain and emptiness. I think I fared better. While she hid it well with makeup, I could tell from the fit of an outfit I’d seen her in before that she’d lost weight and had a few more wrinkles around her mouth. She took the drink I held out. “You’re looking well.”

I shrugged as I sat down in my office chair. “I’m trying some colors that don’t make me look so … well, you know.”

She nodded and then took a deep breath. I could tell that part of her wanted to be annoyed with me for not being a blubbering mess. I had been for a couple of weeks, but it had become a little easier because Vicki was still around in ghost form. We talked. Which reminded me, we needed to talk about Ivy. Damn. Alex said, “You’ve been avoiding my calls and I’m starting to get a lot of … pressure from above.”

So. She was here as a cop. Playing innocent was only playing, but I do it well. I wasn’t about to panic and throw myself on her mercy until absolutely necessary. “About what?”

“The department needs your help. Our guys on the street are getting edgy. They’re demanding protection.”

That stopped me cold. “Protection? From what?” She was silent for a long moment, obviously uncomfortable. Her fingers nibbled at her blazer trim before tucking into a pocket. Her foot began a light tapping on the floor that I’d seen before when she didn’t want to tell Vicki something about an active case she’d foreseen the events of.

“They want siren charms. Two of the cops Eirene manipulated are having post-traumatic stress symptoms. The staff psychologist says the only thing that will help them even start to get over it is protection against future events.” She gave me a disgusted look that had both frustration and fear in it. “I’ve been resisting putting you in this position, but I’m afraid they’re going to hold it against me if I don’t get you to donate hair or skin samples for anti-siren charms. You’re the only siren they know and I’m the only one on staff who knows you.”

Whoa. I honestly didn’t know what to say to that. I understood the fear of being out of control—doing things against your will. Whether or not you realized it was manipulation until later was pretty irrelevant. But while I sympathized, I was also offended and worried. Because DNA samples can also be used effectively in spells that are a lot less benign, and there were more than a few cops who’d felt I should be hunted as a monster. And then there was the obvious implication. “In effect, they want an anti-
Celia
charm. Isn’t that right? I presume your department witch told you there are two kinds. A true anti-siren charm would take a lot more magic and would have to be recharged periodically. Wouldn’t what you’re
really
asking for break something like a hundred years of precedent about discrimination against individual magic users? I don’t plan to break the law, so it would be punishment before an event.” Last night excepted, of course. And I wasn’t even sure I’d broken any laws. Other than throwing myself into one guard to keep him from shooting Kevin, the worst I did was break through the magic barrier, and I’m not sure it’s a crime to break
into
a prison. I wasn’t the one who actually got Kevin out.

She sighed like she agreed with me but had to present the official viewpoint. “Except it’s not just you. Once Queen Lopaka sent that letter to the governor saying that you were certified royalty and he made that press statement about how proud he was to have a royal who was a citizen of California … It’s only a matter of time before there are official state visits or before other powerful magical visitors come to see you. That’s going to put an extra strain on our department. How can we protect the citizens if visitors can run mentally roughshod over our people?”

Fuck a duck. Lopaka and the governor? Jeez, I really did need to start reading the newspapers. I was surprised there weren’t a dozen reporters sticking mics in my face when I went outside. “When did all that happen?”

Now
she
looked surprised. It softened the lines on her face and made her look more like the Alex I remembered. The semifriend. “Have you been living in a cave? The only reason the press isn’t on your doorstop is you’re not the flavor of the week this week. There are other people with siren blood in California—both male and female—but not all of them have the ability to manipulate minds. Right now, the press hasn’t quite figured that out.”

Ah. Now I got it. “And without charms, none of your guys are willing to tell the press about me for fear I’ll retaliate. Is that it?” She had the decency to blush slightly. She covered it well, but I knew it bugged her. “Y’know, I can’t see any wins for me in this situation, Alex. There’s no way to know if a charm made with samples from me would be effective against other sirens, even if the department witch added extra oomph. If I give you DNA to make charms, then cops who already don’t like me will go public or use them for God knows what. The press will hound me and I won’t be able to do my job. What’s my incentive?”

She shrugged slender shoulders and flipped her short blonde hair just as I heard a click. It sounded just like the little digital recorder I used for keeping notes. She was
taping
our conversation? Okay, that’s a total violation of multiple laws. But all of a sudden she relaxed into her chair and let out a snort. Apparently with the taping done, she could now be open about her
own
opinion of the department decree. “Precisely. I tried to tell them you weren’t stupid and would figure that out. But I said I would try. And I have. I’d do exactly what you did and refuse. It’s ridiculous. Our own department witch couldn’t give any opinion about the charm’s effectiveness. She said we’d just have to try it and see. But she didn’t like the idea, either. Too risky, she said.”

“You know I could sue the department, and you, for taping this without permission?”

She nodded but didn’t say anything out loud—probably thinking I’d been doing the same thing. I wasn’t but should have been, damn it. “As a favor, I would appreciate a formal refusal … on the record.” She put her hand back in her pocket. “Ready?”