Pale Demon

“But they said to detain her!” the woman said, sounding disappointed.

Taking his eyes from mine, the head security man met his subordinate’s eyes. “Give the woman her dress,” he said, pushing my bag back to me across the table. “She’s not the one they want.”

“But …”

“Give the woman her God-blessed dress!” he shouted, and everyone looked at us, the noise of a plane taking off sounding all the louder in the sudden silence. His ears reddening, he hunched like a bear. “I have had an incident-free workplace for three years, and I’m not going to let you ruin that because you want a little gold star, Annie.”

The woman huffed, but the man beside her had handed me my things.

Sliding the straps of my bag over my shoulder, I accepted the unwieldy garment bag. “Thanks,” I said, surprised that calm and pleasant had gotten me further than hotheaded threats. Maybe there was something to a demon’s methods. My bags had never been out of my sight, but I hesitated, finding and holding the man’s attention. “Are they bugged?”

“No,” he said, his eyes flicking from me to the distant doors behind me and back again. “But your checked luggage probably is. Good luck, Ms. Morgan. You helped my grandfather once. About three years ago, on a bus. I think you’re getting a bum rap.”

I hesitated, then smiled as I searched my memory for a familiar face and found a close match. “He was being harassed by Were pups? Winter, wasn’t it?” I asked, getting a flustered nod in return. “It was my pleasure. You take care of yourself, okay? And thanks.”

He smiled, totally ignoring the woman behind him having a hissy, and with my pride intact, I spun on a heel and strode for the big plate-glass doors.

The second I emerged from the low-ceilinged hallway, Jenks dropped down to me. “I told you so,” he sang out, wings spilling a yellow dust over me like a sunbeam. Somehow, though, I didn’t have it in me to be mad. It wasn’t often that I ran into anyone who knew me, and even less frequent that they thanked me.

“Yes, you did,” I said, disappointed. Six hours on a plane, and I’d have been there. Now I had three days to get to the West Coast. Stiff, I pushed the automatic door aside when it didn’t slide quickly enough. The fresh air hit me, and I hesitated, fumbling in my bag for a moment until I remembered that I’d sat on my sunglasses yesterday.

“What about your luggage?” Jenks asked, and I shook my head, squinting in the bright morning light and brisk wind, looking for Ivy.

“Forget it. It’s bugged,” I said. “I’d have to dip everything in salt water.”

My new jeans, the silk sweater I was going to impress Robbie with, the swimsuit that took me three weekends to find … gone. At least I still have my dress, I thought, hiking it farther up on my shoulder. “Where’s Ivy?”

Jenks’s wings hit a higher pitch, and when he started swearing in one-syllable words, I followed his line of sight down to the end of the curb. Sighing, I pushed myself into motion and made my way past the chatting skycaps to the low black car. Ivy was there with her briefcase at her feet, the flat of her arms on the open front window as she talked to the driver. Her butt was giving the porters something to stare at, and not all the oglers were men. It had to be Trent. Whoopie friggin’ surprise.

From somewhere above me, Jenks shrilled, “Listen to me! Listen this time, witch! This is Trent’s doing! He wants to get you alone and brainwash you with a charm! Hit you with an enthrallment spell. What about yesterday, huh? You saw what he did! How stupid can you get?”

“Pretty stupid,” I said, feeling my heels clunking all the way up my spine as I dodged oversize luggage and yet another cheerleading team. “Trent isn’t going to charm me,” I said, not so sure anymore. He had tried once before, the spell fizzling only because I’d been drenched in salt water at the time. I wanted to trust him but couldn’t bring myself to do it, even if he’d shown me a part of himself that would be dangerous in the right hands. And what was with the elven magic? That stuff could kill you if you didn’t do it right.

Jenks dropped down to my shoulder, reminding me of a shoulder angel. “He’s going to convince you to get in that car,” he said. “And then you’re going to believe everything he says.”

I tried look at Jenks but failed. He was too close. “Probably. I want to talk to Quen.”

Wings going full tilt, Jenks drifted backward off my shoulder, sputtering.

Ivy noticed my approach and pulled herself out of the window, a hint of relief in her dark eyes. They were dilated despite the early sun but not bad. Worry, not fear. Squinting from the morning light, I looked inside to find Quen behind the wheel. A real smile came over me, and I crouched to avoid looking bad next to Ivy’s perfection. Despite, or maybe because of, having fought Trent’s security officer in the past, I liked Quen, and by the honest smile on the older man’s pebbly textured face, I knew he liked me, too.

“Hi, Quen,” I said cheerfully. “How’s Ceri?”

From the backseat, Trent cleared his throat, but I was mad at him and ignored him.

“Round, irritable, and as happy as if the world were hers,” Quen said, the dark-complexioned man reaching across the seat to shake my hand. It felt small in mine but powerful, and it reminded me of Pierce’s. His voice was as gravelly as his skin, both remnants of the Turn. It hit some species harder than most, but witches, vampires, pure elves, and Weres not at all. Quen had some human in him. Not that I thought any the less of him for it.

“It is,” I said as I took my hand back. There was something wrong with me. I could free thousand-year-old slaves, outwit militant Weres, survive exploding boats and a vampire roommate once fixated on my blood and body both, but I couldn’t find my own happiness. Yet seeing Ceri smile as she held her baby? That would be a good second place.

Quen was an honorable man. If Trent was up to something he didn’t approve of, he’d tell me. Wouldn’t he? Unsure, I angled my head to Quen. “If you were me, what would you do?”

“I’d get in the car.” His eyes were focused out the front window, his jaw tight. He was Trent’s security officer and abided by his wishes, but he’d also helped raise Trent and was probably the only one besides Ceri who could say no to him with impunity. And he wanted me to get in the car. A shiver ran through me. Something bad was coming. I could feel it.

“Good enough,” I said, hearing Trent’s exasperated sigh from the back.

My hand went to the handle, but Ivy’s was already there.

“I am not sitting in the back with Trent,” she said, eyes narrowing in warning. Behind her, Jenks pantomimed being hanged.

“Oh, for Tink’s diaphragm!” the pixy said. “What is wrong with you women?”

The trunk popped open with a slow whine, and I went around back to stow the garment bag nice and flat. Quen met me back there, and I handed it to him. “Thanks,” I said softly as Ivy and Jenks got in the front seat, arguing. The door slammed, and Quen gently put my dress into the trunk, already holding a bland but expensive-looking piece of luggage. We had only a moment. Time for only one question. Licking my lips, I blurted out, “Did Trent send those elves yesterday to persuade me to help him?”

Quen met my eyes, a lifetime of nobility in them. “No,” he said simply. “I’d feel better if he had, though.”

My shoulders slumped, and I didn’t move as he eased the trunk closed and the power lock whined as it shut. Squinting, I looked up at a plane taking off, roaring overhead to who knew where. Portland, maybe. My gaze dropped to the bustle of people. Life was going on, and no one but a handful of people cared if I lived or died.

“Yeah. Me, too,” I said with a sigh. Feeling trapped, I went to the door that Quen opened for me and slid into the leather-scented darkness.

Four

If looks could kill, my face would show the imprint of Jenks’s thoughts. The irate pixy was sitting on the rearview mirror of Trent’s big black car, heels thumping the glass and scowling at me as a green dust sifted from him, sparkling in the sun before it hit the dash to make an evil puddle, then spilling to the floor. Ivy was in the front passenger seat, talking softly to Quen about the success he’d had with Trent’s highly experimental treatment to make vampire neurotoxins dormant. I could tell it bothered Trent that they were discussing the illegal, high-risk procedure, and the only reason it didn’t bother me was because it wouldn’t help Ivy in her quest to be free of her vampirism. She was a vampire, and making the neurotoxins dormant in her wouldn’t save her soul when she died.

No, she expected me to do that.

Crossing my knees, I looked out the tinted window. We were passing through a weird mix of airport and industry on our way to long-term parking, and I felt cut off. The light making it through the tint was ugly, and it made me uneasy. No one was looking at us. We were just another black car. That made me uncomfortable, too.

From the far side of the backseat, Trent said, “Quen, could we have the roof open?”

Their conversation never hesitated as Quen touched a button and the small square of roof slid back to let the wind and sun roll in. I couldn’t stop my sigh of relief, and I settled back into the comfortable leather. I hadn’t meant to telegraph my unease, but I thought it telling that Trent was trying to make me more comfortable. Taking a deep breath, I tucked a stray curl behind my ear and looked at him. I’d called his bluff and was still alive. It must irritate him to no end.

He met my eyes and simpered, destroying any illusion I might have had about him being miffed with me. Damn it, he had warned me that I wouldn’t be able to fly, and it rankled that I’d have to admit he was right. That jet of his was looking easy. Easy like a demon curse, and those always came back to smack you.

I smiled back, thinking of that curse I owed him. He wouldn’t kill me for delaying it, but I was pushing him, and he would push back eventually. That he wasn’t dressed for revenge, having gone extremely casual today, made me feel better, and whereas Quen was in his usual black outfit that looked somewhat like a uniform crossed with a martial artist’s robe, Trent was wearing jeans and a lightweight short-sleeved shirt. Instead of his thousand-dollar boardroom shoes, he had on brown boots, scuffed from the stables and comfortable.

I was sure his appearance had been painstakingly contrived to remind me of the evening we had ridden over his fields. His number one man, Jonathan, had died under a pack of dogs that night for having attempted to kill me without Trent’s permission. Killing an enemy’s enemy was probably elven tradition for cementing a new relationship, but that Trent had run his own man down like some perverted version of the Hunt left me cold. Trent had insisted that it hadn’t been Jonathan out there and stayed with me while the horns blew and the dogs bayed, but I hadn’t seen Jonathan since.

Green was truly Trent’s color, and I wondered if the buttons of his shirt were real silver. The wind shifted the collar to show a wisp of hair, and I looked away, my pulse quickening. The moon had been new that night, and it had been wonderful riding as Trent tried to show me what it was like to rule creation with dogs singing for the blood of the one who had hurt me. It had left me feeling curiously … lofty.

And then he goes and does black magic in my kitchen? My attention flicked back to Trent, his expression open and wondering, clearly curious as to where my thoughts had gone. Looking toward the front through the quietly moving car, I sighed and said loudly, “Okay. I can’t fly. You told me so. I’m still not getting on your jet. And I’m still not going to remove your familiar mark until I’m free of the coven.”

Jenks made a rude sound and a burst of dust came from his wings.

Trent shifted in his seat, inadvertently giving away his mood. “I never offered the use of my jet. There you are, jumping to conclusions again, Ms. Morgan.”

My runner instincts kicked in, a soothing adrenaline starting to flow. Trent was trying to look relaxed when he was almost sweating. “Jumping to conclusions is my only option when every third word out of your mouth is a half-truth,” I shot back. “The Withons trying to kill you for standing up their daughter is a good story, except I know she walked out on you, not the other way around. You’re still lying to me. No.”

Quen’s eyes flicked to mine by way of the rearview mirror. His conversation with Ivy had cut off, and the tension in the car spiked. “You don’t need to know why I need to get to the coast,” Trent said softly, and Quen’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. Crap on toast, whatever it was, it was bad. “All you need to do is get me there,” Trent finished.