eleven A.M. on October 14.” I only half-listened as he droned on, giving al the details necessary to make
the statement official. I’d done this before. I knew the dril . In just a few seconds he’d ask me to state
my name, address, and whether I was giving this statement of my own free wil and volition and giving
him permission to use a spel to elicit memories.
I gave the appropriate answers. Slowly, patiently, he led me back through the previous day. I
remembered a lot of it with crystal clarity. It was Vicki’s birthday and I had worked real y hard to find her
a superspecial present.
Good afternoon, Ms. Graves. If you’l pul over to the guardhouse we’l complete the inspection
there.”
I recognized the voice coming through the speaker. It was Gerry, the supervisor of day shift
security at Birchwoods. It was an executive position, and I imagined the pay was impressive. It
should be. The people who checked into the facility were wil ing and able to pay exorbitant sums
to make damned sure that no one knew they were here or why. In al the years the place had
been in business, not once had word leaked about a celebrity patient—much to the frustration
of the press, who hovered at the required legal distance from a psychiatric facility.
I slid my visitor’s card into my wal et and tucked the whole thing back into my bag. I heard the
click of lock tumblers, fol owed by the buzzing of electronic equipment. A moment later the
heavy outer gate rol ed smoothly aside.
I stomped on the gas. The Miata positively leapt forward. I’d had it tuned up a couple of days
earlier, and I stil wasn’t quite used to the upswing in power. Stil , it was better to move fast. I had
forty-five seconds to get across the outer grid before the gate slammed shut. It took a manual
override with a supervisor’s key to get the gate back open. I knew this because I’d been caught
once behind a ditz who’d decided to rummage in her purse for something rather than drive on
in.
I pul ed the car into one of four spots in front of a smal white brick building with a red tile roof.
As I turned off the engine, Gerry stepped out the front door. I was surprised to see him on gate
duty. Since his promotion to management, it was way below his new pay grade to be checking
IDs. Stil , there he was, big as life and twice as ugly. He was wearing an electronic device
clipped to the waistband of his suit trousers, with a cord connecting it to the wand he carried in
his left hand. Behind him was a woman in the standard navy and white security uniform. She
wasn’t one of the regular crew. After al this time I know pretty much everyone who works at
Birchwood, whatever the shift. And “Lydia” (according to her little brass name badge) wasn’t
familiar.
She was a mage of some sort. I’d have bet on it. Their talents may not be as versatile or as
dangerous as some of the other “gifts” but are by far the most marketable and easy to control.
I took a good look at her. Probably in her mid-thirties, she had dark hair pul ed tightly back
from her face to reveal strong bone structure made even more harsh by the lack of makeup or
jewelry. It was the kind of face that would look better in photographs than in person.
The woman strode up to the passenger side, ignoring me completely. Her eyes were only for
the packages on the front seat. Yup. Definitely a mage. She’d sensed the power emanating
from them.
“I’ve cleared those with the management. They’re birthday gifts for Vicki. Since they’re glass,
the administrator required I have them put under at least a level-five charm to prevent
breakage.” She gave a slight nod but didn’t take my word for it. Instead, she withdrew a palmsized object from the pocket of her uniform trousers and began running it over the outside of
the package as she murmured words I couldn’t quite catch. Gerry, meanwhile, had been busy
running the plates of my car and cross-checking them against the VIN number posted on the
dash just inside the windshield on the driver’s side. Next he’d run the wand over me to check
for traditional weapons and have me sign the visitor’s form with a silver pen—probably
charmed to make sure I couldn’t forge someone else’s signature. The computer would then
cross-check it not only against al of my other signatures but also against the file and the
signature on my driver’s license. Last, but not least, I’d be checked for il usion charms and
sprinkled with holy water to make sure I wasn’t a vampire playing mind tricks. This even though
it was broad daylight and any normal vamps were stil safely asnooze in their coffins, dead to
the world.
We went through it every time. Wel , most of it. Inspecting the presents was unusual but not
unexpected.
Since I visit three to four times a week I’ve gotten pretty used to the whole rigamarole. Usual y
I even joke around with the guards. I know most of them by name and a little bit about them
—from those times when I’ve been forced to wait on admission until after a group therapy
session ended, or for whatever other reason. Today, however, everybody was acting grim and
businesslike.
“What’s up, Gerry?” I asked softly, while the female guard went over the outside of my trunk. I
wasn’t sure he’d answer, even if she couldn’t hear, but he might.
“We’ve had an incident.”
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. I mean, there are prisons and government instal ations that
don’t have the kind of personnel vetting programs they put people through to work here. And
I’ve never, once, seen any hint of anyone bending the rules, which is pretty impressive al things
considered.
“What kind of incident?”
Gerry’s baby face hardened into harsh lines, his eyes darkening almost to black. I could see
the sinews strain in his neck as he thought about it. For a moment, I thought he’d refuse to say,
but he shocked me again.
“One of our guards was found murdered. His right hand had been cut off at the wrist. The
body had been frozen, so we don’t know how long he’s been dead.”
My stomach clenched in reaction. I hated to ask, but I had to. There was a good chance it
was someone I knew. “Who?”
“Louis.”
Shit. Louis, who had four kids under the age of ten, whose pictures he pul ed out of his wal et
every chance you gave him, so that he could brag about their latest report card, dance recital,
or sporting event. Damn it.
“Julie had taken the kids to visit their grand-parents in Idaho for a week. She says they talked
on the phone every night until Thursday. That night she got an e-mail that he’d lost the cel
phone, so he’d be sending e-mails instead.”
“But I saw him …” I let the sentence drag off unfinished. It could’ve been him. Or not. He was
night crew. But there aren’t a lot of creatures that can use magic and il usion wel enough to get
by. The ones who can often do fingerprints. But they can’t manufacture the oil in a human hand.
Or DNA. Oh, shit. This was bad. And it certainly explained the extra searches and personnel
shifts.
“Any idea why?”
He shook his head. “It could be anything. We’re talking high-profile, high-money people here.
There’s plenty of folks who’d stop at nothing to get inside information.”
“And now somebody has.”
“Open the trunk please.” The mage’s voice cut across our conversation like a sharp knife. “I
need to see inside.”
I started to open the car door and Gerry stepped out of the way. Normal y, I’d stay sitting, but
something about her bugged me. I didn’t like having her literal y looking down on me. “I’m a
professional bodyguard. My weapons are in the trunk. I lock them in there when I come to visit.”
Also locked in the car was the special y cut black suit jacket I wear on duty. There’s magical y
