CHAPTER 13.

"Why are you crying, Insoli?"

Standing at my bathroom mirror brushing my teeth, I was reasonably sure I wasn't dreaming, but the dulcet voice inside my head begged to differ.

I spun, and my toothbrush clattered to the floor as I beheld Asmodeus, daemon, abandoned, a fugitive from the realm where the evil and powerful citizens of the netherworld resided. He was tinged in gold, as always, and his lion's feet sc.r.a.ped at my bathroom tiles.

"Not crying," I muttered, spitting into the sink.

"Who wounds you?"

"Why do you care? Are you going to go beat them up?" If I was flippant, then I wouldn't have to process that the number-one star of my recent nightmares had just manifested in my bathroom.

Asmodeus breathed out a cloud of gold and dark magick, and every hair I possessed stood on end. He shook his head, his crocodile eyes flicking over and around me, like he could perceive my spirit. h.e.l.ls, like like nothing. Asmodeus saw everything and he wasn't slow on the uptake. nothing. Asmodeus saw everything and he wasn't slow on the uptake.

"You do not see, Insoli, but threads are gathering around you like a spider spins down to an insect. You are pulling yourself hand over hand into a pit from which there is no egress. Do not follow your impulses."

"Here's an idea," I said loudly. "I'll go to bed and try to forget how much things suck, and you can go Hex yourself."

Asmodeus laughed. "You suddenly hate me, after I saved your life?" "You suddenly hate me, after I saved your life?"

Saved at the price of Dmitri. Saved just so everyone could find out my deep dark secret. Thanks, jacka.s.s. "What do you want from me?" I muttered. "You were all... released, and c.r.a.p. Can't you be free somewhere else?"

"I am drawn here, now. Later I will be elsewhere. I am a free agent, as you said. Warnings you may ignore, Insoli, but do not ignore what is in front of your eyes." am drawn here, now. Later I will be elsewhere. I am a free agent, as you said. Warnings you may ignore, Insoli, but do not ignore what is in front of your eyes."

I started to tell him that if I wanted prophecy, I'd go take in Stigmata, Stigmata, but there was the stench of char and Asmodeus was gone. I may have blinked and missed his leaving, but I didn't think so. but there was the stench of char and Asmodeus was gone. I may have blinked and missed his leaving, but I didn't think so.

Was Asmodeus just bored, and playing with the humans and near-humans? Or had the G.o.ds determined that I needed a faithful daemon to spring up when things got rough?

"Thanks a lot," I muttered before I fell asleep. It was the closest I'd gotten to a prayer in a long time.

How long my alarm clock had been screeching, I didn't know, but when I was finally able to move my arm and slap it to off, the little blue display read 10:30. As in a.m., not p.m.

"c.r.a.p!" I shouted, jumping out of bed and catching my foot on a pile of dirty jeans. "c.r.a.p c.r.a.p c.r.a.p!"

I had less than thirty minutes to make it downtown for our meeting with Patrick O'Halloran. Somehow I didn't think one of the richest men on the West Coast would take kindly to being stood up. Plus, I'd have to endure more whining from Shelby.

Five minutes later, I was dressed enough not to get arrested for indecent exposure and my Joan Jett-esque hair had been tamed down to something resembling normal. Anyway, the tousled bed-head look was s.e.xy. Or at least that's what I told myself as I controlled my tangled mid-back ma.s.s into a hair clip.

I took the longer route via the expressway rather than get stuck in lunchtime traffic on the bridge, broke several laws governing moving vehicles, and screeched into the garage of the O'Halloran Group building with two minutes to spare-literally.

"Miss!"

I turned from locking the Fairlane to see a pimply-faced youth in a blue uniform and cap running toward me, waving his arms.

"Miss, you can't park there!"

I checked the Fairlane-between two white lines, no bodies trapped under the wheels. "This isn't a parking s.p.a.ce?"

"That s.p.a.ce is reserved for clients who have business with the O'Hallorans," he said, with the kind of arrogance only nineteen-year-old boys can muster. As someone who was turning thirty in less than two weeks, I wasn't inclined to put up with his power trip.

"I have a meeting with Patrick O'Halloran at eleven," I said. "And you're making me late."

"I doubt that, miss." He sniffed, looking me pointedly up and down. I followed his gaze and knew how my torn Diesels and Dead Kennedys T-shirt must look. Hey, at least my outfit was free of crime-scene blood. He should consider himself lucky.

"Let me put it this way," I said, pulling my shield out of my jacket-my black canvas jacket, Hex that rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d thief-and shoving it under his nose. "This is a police matter and you're interfering. Stop doing that."

"That might not be real for all I know," he said. I wondered how much trouble I'd get in to for locking him in my trunk until the meeting was over.

"Luna!" someone shouted from the garage entrance into the tower. Shelby came barreling over to us, dressed in a gray wool skirt and power blazer.

"Spreading the good word of the Watchtower on the side?" I asked her in greeting.

"Vaughn, Detective Wilder is here to meet my uncle," Shelby chastised the garage attendant. "Shame on you for delaying us."

Vaughn swallowed. "Your-your uncle?" I swear to the G.o.ds he went stark white under the fluorescent lights, like one of those cartoon characters.

"Uncle Patrick, not Uncle Seamus," said Shelby, rolling her eyes. "Make sure nothing happens to the detective's car, Vaughn."

Vaughn started breathing again and nodded so hard I was amazed his head didn't pop off and roll away down the garage aisle. "Yes, ma'am, Miss O'Halloran! Sorry, Detective! I thought you'd look more like Miss Shelby here."

I took his ridiculous peaked cap off his head and threw it in the opposite direction. "You know what they say about a.s.sumptions. Go fetch."

He went scrambling after it and Shelby yanked me into the elevator. She punched the b.u.t.ton for the forty-second floor and said, "Be glad it's Patrick we're meeting, and not Uncle Seamus."

"Why, does Seamus have a trapdoor in his office that he uses to send late appointments to the shark tank?"

Shelby cast me a dead-serious look. I spread my hands. "Sorry. I overslept. Concussion will do that to you." That and a cheating rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d ex ...

Stop it. Forget it.

"So if Seamus and Patrick are your uncles, who's your father?" I asked, changing the subject for the sake of my sanity.

"He was Thomas O'Halloran," said Shelby shortly. "He and my mother are both deceased."

Hex me. Everyone knew about Tommy O'Halloran and the dramatic, drunken plunge off the Siren Bay Bridge that killed him. "I'm sorry," I said aloud. Shelby shrugged.

"I was only ten. How well do you know your parents at that age?"

The elevator slowed, blinking down the floors. I noticed a ward mark carved into the wood wall of the car above the indicator light, and another over the door. My skin crawled reflexively. It took powerful magick to permanently ward something, the magick of a caster witch with decades of practice and no little amount of innate skill.

"Are you cold?" asked Shelby. "You're shaking."

"I don't like workings," I said, gesturing to the ward marks.

"Get used to it," said Shelby as the elevator dinged and the door rolled back. "They're everywhere."

She didn't lie. The crown molding in Patrick's lobby was carved with a repeating alphabet that spelled out a protection working, managing to look decorative and sinister all at once.

A receptionist, cool and pretty as a glacier, looked me up and down while Shelby asked, "Is Patrick ready for us, Vera?"

"He'll just be a moment," said Vera with a perfunctory smile. I sensed the air thicken between her and Shelby and wondered what was going on there.

Behind Vera's head, the huge O'Halloran Group logo dominated the wall. I couldn't stare at it for too long without blinking and I figured out why-the logo itself, the symbol emblazoned on the checks at my bank, was a ward mark.

Maybe a civil-service salary wasn't the only reason I was always broke.

"Impressive, isn't it?" said Shelby at my elbow. Vera had returned to poking at her sleek silver computer.

"It's opulent," I said. "I imagine if I was a certain type of person I'd be p.i.s.sing myself in fear."

Vera's head snapped up at the comment. "What?" I demanded. She flared her surgically perfected nostrils and looked away from us.

"Don't worry about her," Shelby whispered. "She's some second niece twice removed of my uncle Seamus. Nepotism at its finest."

"She seems a little high-strung," I remarked. "Like one of those yippy dogs."

"She's a b.i.t.c.h," said Shelby bluntly. I blinked. Shelby bit her lip and looked at her sensible shoes. I was surprised she didn't shove a bar of soap in her perfect mouth after that comment.

I mimicked Vera and breathed deeply. Shelby smelled like tea tree oil and high-end soap mingled with that nonsmell plain humans give off. Vera smelled distinctly p.r.i.c.kly, her blood foreign.

"I get it," I told Shelby. "She's a witch, you're not. Friendly rivalry going on there?"

Vera slammed her hands down on her desk. "Must you speak? I'm trying to concentrate."

"Vera, shut up," said Shelby. "If you're so bugged, go tell Patrick we're here." She flushed pink. It was the most emotion I'd ever seen her display.

Vera rolled her eyes and pushed a b.u.t.ton on her elaborate desk phone. A moment later a smooth male voice instructed, "Send my favorite niece in, will you, Vera?"

The opaque gla.s.s doors to the inner workings of Patrick O'Halloran's office slid back and Shelby marched ahead, not giving Vera a glance.

"It fits that Shelby would surround herself with your type," she murmured as I followed. I did an about-face on the heel of my Cochran boot.

"What do you mean by 'your type'?"

Her mouth quirked. "Merely that Shelby seems to content herself by consorting with the lower ranks of creatures to make up for her, hmm, shortcomings."

A few years ago-h.e.l.l, six months ago-I would have slapped the superior smirk off her face so hard she'd be a Pica.s.so. But I was tired, I was Shelby's guest, and somehow I didn't think Patrick would be inclined to help us if I beat the snot out of his racist secretary.

Instead I indicated her pointy-shod feet and said, "Friendly word of advice: real Manolo Blahniks don't have plastic heels that have been painted. Hope you didn't pay full price. People might think you were, hmm, less than bright."

She gaped, and I walked after Shelby, smiling. Shelby rubbed her hands over her face before knocking on a sleek wood door with inlaid steel. "Sorry about that. Vera-my whole family-they're a little bit lacking with outsiders." She looked genuinely upset, like I might suddenly decide not to sit with her at lunch.

"It really bothers you, doesn't it?" I said. Shelby grimaced.

"Let's say I know what it's like to be a black sheep."

"You and me both, partner," I muttered as the door swung open.

Patrick O'Halloran was behind his desk, one foot propped up. He was in shirtsleeves and his salt-and-pepper hair was strategically tousled. He stood and embraced Shelby, kissing her on the cheek before extending his hand to me. "Patrick O'Halloran. Please, just call me Patrick. Any friend of Shelby's is one of mine."

I let my hand be pumped in a carefully calculated not-too-hard grip. Patrick exuded more wattage than a spotlight, although up close I could see the lines of his tan and crow's feet gathering around his eyes and mouth. He wasn't as perfect as the cameras would have us all believe.

"We couldn't be more proud of Shelby," he said. "And she's told us some impressive things about you."

"Uncle Patrick, you can stop selling," said Shelby. "Luna's not gonna buy it."

Patrick laughed, his teeth so white they could have been used as a beacon for small aircraft. "No, I guess you're right, sweetheart," he said. To me, "She's sharp, isn't she?"

"Oh yes," I said politely. "Shelby's been a fine partner." If fine fine stood here for stood here for irritating and prissy as h.e.l.l. irritating and prissy as h.e.l.l.

"We need you to look at the financial history of a nightclub," said Shelby. "I can't tell you why, I'm afraid."

Patrick held up his hand. "Say no more. Anything you need, kiddo-you know that."

Shelby shifted uncomfortably standing in front of his desk. I was playing very hard at being relaxed, hands in my jacket pockets, hip c.o.c.ked. If I had been any cooler I would have whipped out a comb and said "Eeyyyy!"

It was decent cover for the fact that I found Patrick O'Halloran really creepy. He was like a Ken doll, saying the right things at the right time, with the well-cut suits and the silk tie and the gentle handshake.

"The name of the place is Bete Noire," said Shelby, giving him the address. Patrick pulled up an FTC database window and typed quickly, generating a number. He pressed the intercom b.u.t.ton on his phone.

"Vera, can you generate a report for this tax ID, please?"

She burbled something back and he clicked off, lacing his hands behind his head. "It'll just be a minute. Sit, please. Tell me how things are going at your new a.s.signment."

"Very well," said Shelby, subdued. The more Patrick turned up his voltage, the more Shelby retreated. Not that I wasn't enjoying the quiet.

"How about you, Luna?" said Patrick. "I remember seeing your name in the papers last spring. How are you holding up after having to kill that man?"

I felt a violent twist inside me, and searched Patrick's eyes for any hint of malicious intent. His plastic sincerity never slipped.

"Well, Patrick," I said. "I still have nightmares more often than not of seeing a friend get her throat cut and someone I loved nearly die. I wake up screaming, soaked in sweat, tasting Alistair Duncan's blood. How does it sound like I'm holding up?" I held his pale blue eyes and, just for a second, something flickered there- a short-circuit of the smile and the pat banter that came with being the public face of his family.

"It sounds like you were lucky to get my little niece here to watch your back," he said finally, the walking-talking-wets-his-pants Ken doll again.