To Dance with the Devil

my bed. I wound up curled in a somewhat unnatural position. But I slept like a rock, and if I dreamed, I didn’t know it.

I woke up to just a hint of sharp little claws and imperious meowing that demanded food now. I shambled grumbling into the bathroom, dealt with the necessities, and started making the coffee before feeding the vigorously complaining fur ball. I love that cat. But five o’clock in the freaking morning? Seriously?

While the coffee brewed, I cleared a spot in the middle of the living room and started my warm-up, all the while making a mental list of what I needed to do that day: get a new cell phone, file the insurance claim on the Miata, rent or buy a new car.

In a few minutes I was as limber as I was going to get and began my kata: focusing body and mind, breathing deeply. Even before the hospital stay, I’d fallen out of the habit of exercising. It felt wonderful to be moving in the old familiar patterns. The cat stared at me the whole time, her expression saying as clearly as words that she thought I’d lost my mind.

Feeling virtuous, I wandered into the kitchen and poured a huge mug of coffee as I evaluated my breakfast choices. In the end I settled on leftover meat drippings from last night, reheated in the microwave. After breakfast, I debated what top to wear with my favorite jeans. In the end I put on an old Pantera T-shirt and my Frankenstein boots. The look was a little aggressive, but it worked with the hair. I set out my armaments, choosing a waistband holster for my Colt so that it would fit in the small of my back. It felt odd sliding ordinary knives into my wrist sheaths, odd and wrong. I’d been using the knives Bruno made for me pretty exclusively for years now, but they were locked up in evidence for the time being.

Just thinking about how those knives had last been used made me shudder. Don’t think about it. It’s over and done. You can’t change it. It wasn’t your fault. The knives are just knives—tools for whatever hand wields them.

I told myself that. Even though I knew it was true, it didn’t change the visceral fear and loathing that rose in me every time I thought about what we’d found in that warehouse. I needed a distraction pronto. Luckily for me, there were plenty of them at hand. I spent the rest of the morning doing errands via my laptop. The rental car company promised to deliver my SUV “sometime between ten and noon.” The car insurance people said they’d process my claim “right away.” I searched online real estate listings for office space and the database of felons for any sign of my enemies, both with negative results.

At eleven fifty-five, just as the rental car guys were pulling in the drive, my landline rang. Caller ID said it was the Santa Maria Police Department.

“Hello, can you hang on a minute? I’ve got to deal with the rental car guys.”

Alex’s voice on the other end of the line was martyred. “Fine. I’ll hold.”

“Thanks.” I set the phone on the counter and went to the door, where a skinny guy with big glasses and freckles, wearing a green polo shirt, handed me a set of car keys and held out a clipboard with half a ream of paperwork. Even though it was expensive, I opted for the full coverage. It’s possible I wouldn’t need it. But the way my luck had been running, did I really want to take the chance? Oh, hell, no. I signed here, there, and everywhere else as he tried not to stare. When it was done, he thanked me politely and left. I was glad to see him go. I practically ran back to the phone, hoping Alex hadn’t hung up.

“Okay, Al, I’m back. Before I forget, I found two of the guys in the mug shots. Is that why you called?”

“Actually, no. But I’m glad to hear it. I wanted to check and see if you were feeling better, and if you were up to driving.”

“I’m okay today. Why? Do you need me to come downtown?”

“Yes. Please come get your knives and ring.”

“What?” That made no sense at all. They were evidence.

“Rob Douglass refused to give a statement or press charges. One of our best detectives tried to push him, but it backfired. Douglass killed himself in the hospital last night.”

“He what?”

“Suicided. There’s no case. The brass decided that we don’t have enough security to hang on to artifacts like yours unless we absolutely have to, and they don’t want to risk a diplomatic incident. So, if you want your things, you can come get them.”

“Wait—he had the ring too?”

“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate, and her tone let me know that she didn’t want to say anything more about it. So I dropped it and asked something else instead. “Do I get them from you?” It wasn’t as stupid a question as it sounded. The police brass tended to use Alex as a liaison with me—sort of a siren filter. It was very handy for them, though that didn’t keep them from bitching mightily about our “connection.”

“Nah, the property department. But don’t come until afternoon. They’re still working on the paperwork. In the meantime, I’m going to be out at a crime scene. Someone found a body. Female.

“The coroner’s guessing she’s in her midforties. She’s been beaten and tortured extensively, so facial recognition is a no go.” Alex’s voice was icy calm, but I could sense an underlying rage. Whatever had been done to the woman was bad enough that it was getting to her, but she was enough of a professional to hide it. I could understand that. I’ve done the same thing, more than once.

She continued, “There were signs of old injuries, quite severe. She would’ve been paralyzed from the waist down.”

“You’re thinking it’s Abigail Andrews?”

“Yeah. We’re sending the DNA out to see if it matches anything on record, but that’ll take a few days. In the meantime, I wanted to warn you to be careful. Things have escalated.”

“I sure wish I’d been able to find the suited guy or the guy in the hologram.” I had a brainstorm. “Maybe I should call Bruno and John. There can’t be that many people capable of that kind of spell. I mean, I’ve never even heard of anything like it. Bet they’d know who to talk to.”

“I already did. They don’t know of anyone, and no one they checked with does either.”

“Oh.” Okay, I felt dumb. Of course she’d thought of that. She was a detective, and a good one.

“Celia, are you okay? You sound … odd.”

My temper started to rise. “I just got out of the hospital, Alex. Those guys deliberately left me to burn. You saw what they did to one of their own people. Now you’re telling me they tortured a disabled woman to death. So, no, I’m not all right. Not even close.” I was snarling at her. I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t even her I was mad at. I was mad at the car rental guy for staring, at the bastards who did this to me, and at myself for still being so shaky—so damned scared.

“Sorry.”

“No. I’m sorry.” I sighed. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. It’s just these guys are so—”

“Brutal, vicious?” Alex suggested.

“Exactly. I don’t scare easily, Al, but these guys scare me.”

“Good,” she said firmly. “They should. They’re seriously bad news, and I intend to see that they’re taken off of the streets for a very, very long time.”

Her words gave me an idea, one that might make me sound like a complete nutcase. But now that the thought had come to me, I had to ask. “Alex, the link you gave me only has photos of criminals who aren’t currently incarcerated, right?”

“That’s right. There’s no point in having you wade through thousands of people who couldn’t have done it because they’re locked up.”

“But I spoke to a hologram. The boss wasn’t actually there. Maybe there’s a reason why.”

She made no reply, but I could tell she was thinking about it. I pressed on.

“I know, if he’s a mage and he’s incarcerated, he shouldn’t be able to work magic. That might explain why nobody’s heard of this hologram spell. He can’t advertise it without getting caught.”

“I’ll run Alyssa’s sketch through the system, see what comes up.” She sounded doubtful, and tired, but I knew she’d do it.

“Thanks, Alex.”

“You’re welcome.” She paused. “And Celia, seriously, be careful.”

Everyone seemed to be telling me that. You’d think I was disaster-prone or something. Still, it was good advice. “I plan to.”