Honeymoon of the Dead (3 page)

Cold, fresh air gusted into the cabin. Three National Guard soldiers armed with guns came in and looked around. One of the flight attendants pointed at us. They shouldered their weapons and moved toward Sebastian and me.

“You’re sure about this?” Sebastian whispered to me.

I took a last glance at Fonn. Her face was plastered against the window. She seemed to be trying to figure out what was going on. She frowned at the sight of the soldiers. I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out and say, “Nyah-nyah!”

The guardsmen focused on Sebastian, sparing me only the barest notice. “Come with us, sir,” said a serious young man with a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. His eyes flicked to me. “Ma’am.”

It wasn’t like we had a lot of choice. Turns out it was a guard for each of us, and one to carry our bags, which I guess would be searched and all that. I hoped they didn’t mistake the cherubs for some kind of weapon.

They flanked us expertly. I didn’t much like the look of the guns. I cringed closer against Sebastian and kept checking in with a glance. He gave me a brave smile that buoyed me during the long walk down the length of the plane.

As we were hustled out, I noticed someone else standing up and reaching for his overhead bags. He had short brown hair, big sad eyes, and an ordinary business suit. Everyone else on the plane looked nervous and ready to bolt.

The boarding ramp tube had been reattached and the wind howled and lashed against it like it was trying to get in. Given how mad Fonn probably was that I thwarted her plans, maybe it was.

“Bad weather,” noted one of the guards.

I was about to engage in some small talk, when I was informed I’d be going one way, and Sebastian another. “Wait,” I said. “I want to be with my husband!”

An arm restrained me, and I felt all swoony, like I might faint.

“It’ll be okay,” Sebastian said.

As we moved away, I craned my neck continuously until Sebastian disappeared from sight. Great, now I was on a honeymoon sans husband.

 

 

You know, for the record, I might not have chosen to
wear my black leather jacket with all the chains and buckles and the gigantic white skull on the back if I’d known I’d be spending time in a Homeland Security holding cell.

The room I was in reminded me less of a prison than a run-down, outdated office cubicle, except with real walls. One of the security guards that had escorted us off the plane offered me a seat in a springy, wheeled chair opposite a large, scarred faux-wood desk. On the desk was a blotter complete with doodles, piles of papers, and a tiny American flag in a pencil holder. A picture of the president smiled beatifically at me from a small, framed print on the wall behind the desk.

In stark contrast, the security guard that stood at the door frowned sternly in my general direction much as he had for the last half hour.

I’m not a very patient person. I don’t wait well. I fiddled. I twitched. I bounced the squeaky springs on the metal chair. I tried to engage grumpy guard in conversation about the weather several times and was rebuffed with a simple, “Just try to relax, ma’am.”

Relax? What could they possibly be doing with my passport all this time? Why hadn’t anyone come to let me out of here yet? Where was Sebastian? Had they found the hideous angel sculpture in my luggage? Did they think it was a weapon of massively bad taste? Or that I was some religious nut?

I tapped my toe and chewed my lip. My buckles clanked as I adjusted in my seat for the six thousandth time. Finally, the door opened.

I nearly leaped into the man’s arms. “Dominguez!”

My first impression, as always with Gabriel Dominguez, was: cop. He was actually FBI, but there was just something about his walk, that steely-eyed gaze, the perpetually stern expression, the sharp, military haircut, and the dark, off-the-rack, yet well-fitting business suit that spelled c-o-p.

I felt myself smiling.

Though I first met Dominguez when he was trying to connect me to the murder of the Order of Eustace agents who killed my coven, we’d become friends . . . or good acquaintances . . . or, okay, maybe his kindness toward me might have been prompted by a little love spell that went awry, but still, I knew him. We mostly liked each other, I thought. Although he didn’t exactly return my warm enthusiasm. In fact, he stood stiffly as I slowly unwrapped my arms from him.

“Oh, um.” I straightened my jacket. “I mean, hi.”

“Garnet,” Dominguez nodded briskly in acknowledgment of our at least knowing each other.

An equally intense- looking black woman in a dark suit came into the room. Her hair was ironed straight, colored slightly reddish, and cut into a bob. She wore a skirt and fancy, Italian pumps that made me wonder if she ever dared step outside in the snow. She shot Dominguez a look that implied she didn’t approve of his taste in acquaintances.

Taking a step away as though to distance himself from me, Dominguez gestured to his colleague, “Garnet Lacey, this is Special Agent Francine Peterson.”

I quickly dropped my arms to my side and tried to act like I hadn’t just been hugging an FBI agent.

She held out her hand for me to shake. When our palms touched, I got hit with vertigo. I nearly stumbled, but she caught my elbow. Looking up into her eyes, I saw bright emerald green irises, with cat-slit pupils staring back at me.

In surprise, I jumped back, breaking contact. The chair toppled with a bang.

For a second, I experienced a ripple of double vision, like the ghosts of bad TV reception. A Celtic faerie queen, with a porcelain white face and coal black curls and an African American FBI agent in navy blue wool power suit briefly occupied the same space before snapping back into . . . reality?

“Garnet!” Dominguez admonished, “What’s wrong with you?”

That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it?

I glanced somewhat sheepishly at Special Agent Peterson, whose frown only deepened after my outburst. “Sorry,” I said, and opting for the truth, added, “I’ve been getting these weird fainting spells lately.”

“Have you had your blood pressure checked?” Peterson asked, and I swore I could hear the slight lilt of an Irish brogue in her voice.

“No,” I said, eyeing her suspiciously. Was this faerie queen in league with Fonn? Righting the chair, I sank back into it too tired to fight even if she were.

It had never occurred to me that my dizzy spells might have a mundane cause. Blood pressure? Wouldn’t that be ironic?

Maybe I did just have the witch-aura flu!

“Can I get you a glass of water or something?” Dominguez offered kindly, putting a hand on my shoulder. At the contact, I steeled myself for another wave of vertigo, but it never came. Dominguez must have his psychic shields up. “Is this why you asked to leave the plane?”

“Not really,” I said.

Dominguez settled on the edge of the desk, and his partner stood beside him with her hands resting lightly on her hips. The way he sat, his suit coat bulged open just so that the butt of Dominguez’s gun showed plainly in its shoulder holster. He looked like one of those guys on cop shows, only I was the one sitting in the villain seat.

I tapped my toes nervously.

Since they seemed to be waiting for me to say something, I started talking. “Thing is,” I said, “I have been feeling weird lately and I was
going
to go to the doctor after our big trip—you know, our honeymoon. I just . . . you know, I didn’t want to ruin things.” As I spoke I didn’t look at Dominguez, because I was concerned about his reaction to the whole honeymoon bit. I mean, he did ask me to marry him once, even if it was under magical duress.

“That would be your trip to Austria?” Dominguez’s voice betrayed no emotion.

“Yes,” I said, hazarding a glance in his direction. His eyes stayed focused on the notes he was taking into a flip-top notepad he had balanced on his knee. I willed him to look at me, and his eyes flicked up momentarily. I tried to think “I’m sorry” in his general direction.

Dominguez
was
psychic, after all.

Seriously, he was.

I’d noticed his abilities in his aura when we first met. He even admitted that he suspected as much, but he tended to chalk those experiences up to a cop’s intuition.

Thus, I continued to think things at him, like, “Really, I’m not crazy” and “You’ve got to believe me.”

He shook his head at me. I wasn’t sure if I should interpret that as a “No, I don’t” or as “Sorry, the signal isn’t getting through.”

“Explain to us why you requested to disembark the plane, Ms. Lacey,” Dominguez said.

“I suppose it’s technically Mrs. Von Traum, but, well, I didn’t take his name. That just seemed so old-fashioned to me,” I said with a little laugh. No one else found it amusing, however. “Uh, well”—I looked between the psychic FBI agent and the Queen of the Faeries, and said truthfully—“there was a Frost Giant on the wing, and it just didn’t seem safe.”

Peterson laughed, or at least I thought I heard the echo of distant laughter, as Dominguez repeated incredulously, “You mean, you could see frost on the wing? And you felt it was unsafe?”

“Sure,” I agreed, because that was kind of what I said, if you skipped over the whole supernatural part. I shifted in my seat, causing the buckles of my jacket to clatter against the metal. “I mean, do you trust that deicer stuff? All those chemicals and whatever?”

Peterson’s brown eyes sparkled with a hint of green as she asked, “Are you aware that the plane you were on was forced to make an emergency landing shortly after take-off?”

“Bright Goddess!” I exclaimed. Though I was horrified to hear about the plane, strangely I also felt a brief hint of relief. I mean, maybe I wasn’t entirely crazy. It was possible Fonn really
had
been out there, icing those wings. “Is everyone on the plane okay?”

“There were no injuries reported,” Peterson said, matter-of-factly.

“But perhaps you can see why some might feel you had inside information,” Dominguez added.

“Or,” I said, looking him straight in the eye, “I might have been psychic.”

“The FBI and Homeland Security don’t believe in psychic powers,” Dominguez informed me.

That’s hilarious given your abilities and the fact that your partner is the Queen of the Faeries . . . or something, I thought at him. Out loud, I said, “How about a lucky guess? Does the FBI believe in coincidences?”

“Rarely,” he said humorlessly.

“Well, then I’m screwed, aren’t I?”

 

 

Except, it turns out the FBI
does
believe in rock-solid
alibis and a complete lack of any kind of criminal activity. I mean, I don’t even have a speeding ticket on my record, thanks to the fact I’m an environmentally conscious “Green” witch and ride my bike (or the bus) all year round. But, while we waited for all that to check out, I spent a lot of time in the holding area observing Special Agent Francine Peterson.

The more I looked, the more I was absolutely convinced she was a faerie, and I don’t mean the fabulous kind.

While she and Dominguez conferred over my astounding lack of connection to anything even vaguely illegal, I watched Peterson out of the corner of my eye. When I didn’t look directly at her, but rather used my peripheral vision, I saw a woman with pointy ears, alabaster skin, and an impossible dress made of leaves, vines, and moss. If I shifted even the slightest—snap! She was primly suited Special Agent Peterson again.

What was going on? Was it possible Peterson was a witch and, like me, had accidentally caught and held on to a power she hadn’t meant to? Yet, other than the one time when we’d first touched, I didn’t get a sense when I looked at Peterson of two people sharing a single body. Plus, every once and a while, I’d catch her smiling this—I don’t know quite how to describe it, but it was a kind of odd little “isn’t it fun, pretending” childlike grin. Of course, that begged the question, why would the Queen of Faeries pretend to be an FBI agent?

And why could I suddenly see her?

I tapped my feet. Dominguez shot me a would-you-cut-that-out look. In exchange, I twiddled my thumbs.

Despite years of training as a witch, I’d never had any powers like this—at least not with the switch always flipped to “on.” Sure, I could use magical senses to perceive the otherworldly beyond-the-veil bits, but I normally had to do a lot of mental prep before getting visions of sugar- plum FBI faeries dancing in my head.

Did my newfound touch-triggered nausea come with the second sight somehow?

If it did, did that mean I was going to start seeing things like this all the time?

Ugh, that prospect horrified me if for no other reason that I really wanted a lot fewer supernatural creatures in my life right now, not more.

When Dominguez flashed me another harsh look, I realized I was tapping my fingers
and
bouncing on my toes. With a chagrined look, I sat on my hands.

But my mind continued to race. I supposed I should also consider the possibility that I might be going crazy, but, well, it wasn’t like I hadn’t seen Frost Giants and Goddesses before. These sorts of creatures were all part of my everyday life.

I was married to a vampire, after all.

Speaking of him, I glanced at the clock. It had now been over four hours. I wondered how Sebastian was holding up.

It occurred to me that I didn’t really know Sebastian’s legal status. He was born into the Ottoman Empire or something like that. Did he even have legal papers current to this century? And, if he did, they had to be totally bogus. It’s not like they issued birth certificates in the twelfth century, so he must have had someone forge his.

That didn’t bode well.

I mean really, the more I thought about it, the more it occurred to me how much of Sebastian’s legal life must be a total fraud.