Even Vampires Get the Blues (4 page)

I spent the next couple of hours visiting various antique shops in and around the Royal Mile, the most famous street in all of Edinburgh. By the time I tottered into the last shop on my list, a small, dusty shop tucked away between a bookstore and a gyro shop, I
was feeling uninspired. The antique dealers were particularly loath to talk about their clients, and none of them had heard of the
Coda.

A little bell over the door jangled as I entered the shop. Like others of its ilk, this antiquities shop was filled to the rafters with statuary, objets d'art, stuffed animals, strange old mechanical pieces, books and illuminated manuscripts, and a myriad of other items whose use and purpose were shrouded in the distant reaches of the past. I browsed through the items, glancing periodically at a man I took to be the owner as he stood with his back to me in the doorway to another room, speaking to someone I couldn't see.

“Shoot,” I said to myself as I glanced at my watch. I was three hours away from the office already, and I wanted to get back to help Clare. I stopped in front of a bookcase bearing a stuffed spider monkey, and sent yet another impatient look toward the man in the doorway. “I don't have time for thi
aaaaieeeeeee!
”

My heart just about leaped out of my chest as the spider monkey I'd assumed was stuffed suddenly jumped from the bookcase to my shoulder. “Oh, man alive, you just scared a good ten years off me. Hello there, Mr. Monkey. Um . . . that is, I assume you're a mister. I can't tell, what with that little sailor suit you're wearing. Do you belong here? Of course you do, what a stupid question. What else would a monkey be doing in an antiques shop? Would you mind asking your owner if he could talk to me for a few minutes? No? Drat. Well, doesn't matter—you'll do as an excuse to interrupt him.”

The monkey, evidently satisfied with his evil plan
to give me a heart attack, leaped back onto the bookcase, where he smoothed down the fur on his tail.

“Um . . . I can't use you as an excuse unless you're on my shoulder, so hop on . . . er . . . what's your name?”

I reached out a tentative hand to stroke his arm. He didn't seem to mind being petted, so I gently touched the jeweled collar he wore around his neck. Tiny rivets spelled out a series of letters.

“B . . . E . . . P . . . well, hello there, Beppo.”

The monkey stopped examining his tail and held out a rust-fingered hand. Stifling a giggle at the dignified look on his little face, I carefully shook his hand. Satisfied, he returned to his grooming.

“You are one strange little monkey. All right, Beppo, hop on and let's go interrupt your owner.”

He dropped his tail and held out his hand again.

“Hee!” I shook his hand again. That completed, he picked up his tail.

“Beppo,” I said again, unable to resist. Down went the tail; out went his hand.

“OK, cute but could well become annoying. Here, if you don't mind—” I hoisted the monkey off the bookcase and set him onto my shoulder. His tail wrapped around my neck as he clung with one hand to my ponytail. “Groovy. Now let's go pretend that I just found you in a dangerous situation and see if I can't have a quick word with your owner before toddling on my merry—holy crap! What is it with everyone trying to startle me into an early grave?”

A being popped up in front of me. I mean, literally popped up right out of the floor. All my supernatural senses went into high tingle mode at the sight of what appeared to be a short, middle-aged man.

Only he wasn't a man. I didn't know exactly what he was, but he
wasn't
human.

“Hello,” I said politely, feeling it was better to give him the benefit of the doubt. I'd come across a few different types of beings in my time with the Diviners, and although only a couple of them had turned out to be from the wrong side of the tracks, metaphorically speaking, some who looked bad had turned out to be quite nice. “That was an impressive entrance. Was it for me in particular, or are you just a fan of antiques?”

The man looked from Beppo to me. “You bear the monkey.”

“Beppo?” The monkey promptly held out his hand. I gave it a little two-fingered shake. “He jumped on me earlier, but I was just taking him back to his—what's this?”

The man shoved a shoebox-sized package at me.

“I am charged to give it to you. It is yours now,” the man said, then without another word, dissolved into black smoke that sank down into the floor.

“What the . . . OK, this day is really starting to go strange. What the heck is in this? It's heavy . . . hey!”

At the front of the store a man's voice rose in anger. He was speaking some language I'd never heard, but the threat in his voice was unmistakable. The bell on the door tinkled distantly, sending Beppo flying off my shoulder with an agitated squawk. The little monkey loped down the aisle until he was out of sight.

“Damn it, just when I needed—ouch! Who on earth would want to buy a guillotine?—just when I needed him, he runs off.”

I made my way around the blocky guillotine, rubbing my arm where I had hit it on a pointy bit of wood, past an eight-foot-tall reproduction of the Sphinx, and into the aisle that would take me to the front of the store. The small man I had seen earlier standing in the doorway was at the desk bearing an antique cash register. He looked startled to see me.

“Good morning. I had no idea there was anyone in the shop. Can I assist you? Are you looking for something in particular, or just browsing?”

“I was just browsing while you were busy with the other customer, but I am looking for something in particular. It's a fifteenth-century manuscript named the
Simia Gestor Coda.
It was stolen from a nearby collector. I don't suppose you've heard of it?”

“Stolen! Oh no, we do not deal in stolen goods,” the man said, his soft voice filled with outrage.

“No, no, I didn't mean to imply you did. The owner just found out about the theft, which could have occurred up to six years ago, so there's no way anyone would have known that it was stolen.”

“Regardless, I do not have any medieval manuscripts,” the owner said stiffly.

“Well, it was a long shot. I'm interested in contacting some of the area collectors,” I said carefully. “People who collect medieval antiquities such as the manuscript. Would you be able to tell me who in this region might be interested in acquiring something of that sort?”

“I would be happy to appraise any object you wish to sell,” he said quickly, moving around the desk.

“Thank you, that's very kind, but I prefer to talk to collectors myself.”

His helpful expression turned to one of stone.

I sighed. “I didn't think you'd go for that. None of the other dealers and sellers have. Well, thank you anyway.” I had started to leave when I remembered the box that had so oddly been thrust upon me. “Oh—something popped up while I was in the back of the shop with your monkey, and gave me this. I thought maybe he mistook me for you . . . ?”

The man looked at me as if I had spider monkeys growing out of my ears. “Some
thing
popped up?”

“Yes, some sort of being or entity. Perhaps a spirit, although I haven't heard of spirits acting as delivery services. Then again, it could have been a demon—I'm afraid I haven't had much experience with the dark beings, so I'm not absolutely sure I would recognize one if I saw it.”

“Erm . . .” The man's eyes turned wary as he edged toward the part of the desk bearing a phone.

“Not a demon?” I asked.

He shook his head slowly and glanced toward the front door. “I'm afraid I don't quite follow you, madam. I don't have a monkey, nor is my store haunted with demons and ghosts. If there's anything else I can help you with?”

Clearly this man was not hip to all the woo-woo stuff that went on in the Otherworld. I smiled what I hoped wouldn't look like the smile of an insane person, and said very carefully, “My apologies for startling you—my imagination gets away with me sometimes. I assume you don't want this box?”

I held out the shoebox to him. He backed away as though it contained projectile leprosy. “I'm afraid I cannot accept gifts from . . .
visitors
.”

The words “freakish Canadians who babble about weird stuff” hung unspoken in the air, but I took his meaning. “All right. I'll just leave you my card in case you do happen to hear of anyone with the
Coda
for sale.”

I extracted one of the brand-new business cards from my purse and set it down on the counter, thanking the man as I left. The box was heavy in my hands, reminding me of the rashness of hauling around a strange gift from an even stranger being. With all sorts
of visions of plagues and blights in mind, I stood outside the antique store for a moment, chewing my lip.

“When in doubt, go to an expert,” I said to myself, and hustled my way through the misty drizzle to the nearest bus stop. A short time and a pound coin later, I stood outside a familiar white brick building. The buildings were designed in Georgian style, all clean, classical lines, but the Diviners' House itself (donated to the Order by a grateful client) was unremarkable, its polished oak and brass door speaking of the same quiet affluence as the hotels that sat on either side of it. I shook away the bad memories of the last few years and entered the house, quickly locating one of the few remaining Diviners who would acknowledge my existence.

“. . . so I thought it would be better to have it checked out before I opened it, in case there was some sort of Pandora's box thing going on,” I finished five minutes later, carefully watching the man who stood next to me with the box in his hands. “What do you think? Is it something bad?”

Brother Jacob, head of the Scottish branch of Diviners, and erstwhile schoolmate from a childhood spent in Calgary, gave me a look that almost made me squirm. Almost. “Sam, you didn't leave here utterly ignorant. You possess the skills to determine if this object is tainted by dark powers.”

“Uh . . . Jake, I hate to disillusion you about any of my so-called skills, but I flunked divination, remember? I was kicked out of the Order.”

“You left voluntarily,” he said, still giving me the look that said I shouldn't be bothering him with petty things.

“Right. Only I was
volunteered
to leave by the head of the Order.”

“Master Tsang was acting in your best interests—” Jake started to say, his brow furrowed.

I laughed and held up a hand. “Don't worry, Jake, I'm not here to start up that whole how-I-left-and-why-I-left thing. Honestly, I'm over it. And perfectly willing to accept that Master Tsang was right and I was wrong about divination being my calling. I'm a mutt, half human and half elf, neither one thing or another, and as we both know, divination is a gift, not a skill. Hence my inability to tell if that box is nasty or not. What do you think?”

Jake sighed and gave up trying to glare me into being something I just wasn't. He looked off into the distance as his hands spread across the box, an abstracted look on his face indicating he was deep in a world that only Diviners could access. “The box itself has been in the possession of a demon.”

“So that
was
a demon? Interesting.”

“However, the object inside it does not seem to be imbued with any dark powers.”

“That's good to know. So what is it?” I asked, curious.

Jake blinked and shot me a jaded look. “I'm not an X-ray machine, Sam. If you want to know what's in it, you'll have to find out for yourself.”

“But I told you, I can't divine anything—”

He rolled his eyes, shoving the box back at me. “I meant you'll have to open the box, you idiot.”

“Oh.” I smiled and punched him lightly in the shoulder, just to let him know I appreciated the insult. I bummed a pair of scissors from him to cut the
leather thongs that bound the box, then popped off the lid, wondering what on earth a demon could be delivering, and whom it was supposed to be delivered to. “Huh. It's a statue.”

“Of what?” Jake asked, peering over my shoulder. “A bird?”

“Yeah.” I lifted the small statue from a nest of velvet material, surprised by its weight. It was gold-colored, about nine inches tall, apparently of a bird of prey. “Looks like a hawk or falcon or some raptor like that.”

“Ooooh. Is it gold?” he asked, his voice hushed as if he was in the presence of something awe-inspiring.

I turned the statue around, flipping it over to look at the bottom. “I don't think so. I think it's brass.”

“How can you tell?” he asked. “It looks like gold to me.”

“One word.” I pointed at the letters on the bottom of the statue. “Last I heard, Taiwan wasn't knocking off gold bird statues.”

“Why would someone go to the trouble of having a demon deliver a non-gold Taiwanese statue?” Jake asked, looking as confused as I felt.

“That is the question, isn't it?” I gave the bird statue another quick once-over, then put it back in the box and strapped the lid on with some packing tape. “Maybe if I knew that, I'd know who it was meant for. Thanks for your help, Jake. And for the referral. I appreciate you spreading the word about our agency.”

“What are you going to do with the statue?” he asked, waving away my thanks as he walked me to the door.

“You said it's not evil or anything, so . . .” I
shrugged, pulling my jacket close against the chilly, damp May air. “I'll put it in a safe place until after this job is over, and then try to track down the person it was intended for. Thanks again. And stop frowning—my mother always says a frown is what brings the rain.”

“That's because your mother's frowns literally do,” he answered, yelling after me as I hurried off toward the bus stop a few streets away. “Be careful, Sam. The statue may not be made of gold, but it clearly has some value if a demon was engaged to deliver it. Whoever it was intended for may not take kindly to you possessing it.”

I waved to let him know I heard, then made my way back to the office, stopping off at the store occupying the floor below to leave off the shoebox with Mila, sex shop diva, landlady extraordinaire, and more importantly, possessor of a huge black safe that squatted in the corner of her small office.

“I'm back,” I called to Clare as I trotted upstairs to our office. “Did you get a list of antique dealers? Did you find out anything about that book? Why are the shades drawn? You would not believe the guy I saw in one of those long dusters that are so sexy on men. He was browsing through the condoms at the back of Mila's shop, and wow, talk about slobber city! Tall, dark, and handso—oh. Hello.”

“Good afternoon.” A man wearing a long leather coat and holding a black fedora loomed into view. For a fraction of a second my mouth hung open. Even though the room was dark, the lights on the desk illuminated him enough to see one hell of a specimen of man—short curly black hair, liquid silver eyes that
glowed brightly in the dark room, and shoulders that seemed to go on forever. On the other side of the office, Clare quickly stuffed a tulip petal in her mouth, her eyes huge as she looked back and forth between the man and me. “You are the Diviner Samantha Cosse?”

“I'm Sam, yes,” I said, skating around the nonapplicable Diviner label. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so. My brother—he's the tall, dark and handsome one downstairs condom shopping—referred you to me as someone who might locate a missing object for me.”

I sent Clare a woohoo, two-cases-in-one-day look, but she was too busy gawking at the man to catch it. Clearly, though, something was up to have her so flustered. “I see. Well, Mr. . . . er . . .”

“My name is Paen Scott.”

“Pain? As in . . .
pain?
”

“Paen. It's a medieval name, one that runs in my family. My mother liked it.”

“It's . . . unique. Won't you have a seat at my desk, Mr. Scott?” I sidled over, grabbed Clare's arm, and hustled her toward the door. “I just need a quick word with my partner. I'll be right back to take down all the details of your missing item.”

“You're leaving him alone in there?” Clare whispered as I opened the door to the hallway.

I glanced back inside. The man stood next to the client chair in front of my desk, his hat in his hands, a dark, vibrant figure that seemed to catch my gaze and hold it.

“He is something, isn't he?” I whispered back, pushing Clare through the doorway to the hall
beyond. “I know he's a potential client and all, but hoo! The guy downstairs was nice-looking, but this man is drop-dead gorgeous.”

Clare stared at me as if a second head had magically sprouted on my shoulders. She popped another bit of tulip in her mouth and chewed quickly. “You think he's . . .
handsome?
”

She said the word like it was made up of maggots. Rotten maggots. “Well, of course I do. I'd have to be dead not to notice. What's wrong with you? Why are you so wonked out?”

She stared at me again. “Don't you know what he is?”

“A client?” I asked, suddenly concerned. Clare liked men. Men worshipped Clare. For her to be in the presence of a devastatingly handsome man and not be responding with her typical flirtatious manner was very unusual.

“No. Yes, I mean, he
is
a client, but he's also . . .” Her voice trailed away as she waved the remains of the tulip around.