Demon Song

reached the bullet. A weird sensation in my shoulder told me I was starting to metabolize the drugs. It was going to hurt soon, maybe before he finished. Maybe it would be better to concentrate on something else.

I was in a bed. The softness and the sheets gave it away. But whose bed, and when did I get there? Without moving my head, I looked around. I seemed to be in the basement of a house. A hot-water heater stood in a corner and I could see the back of a staircase beyond Gaetano’s muscular arm. “Where are we?” The direct approach is often the best.

“Safe house.” His voice held concentration. “Quit talking. It makes the drugs wear off. You’re starting to flinch.”

Yeah. “Should you give me more?”

His brown eyes flicked my way. Pretty. There was frustration mingled with amazement in his expression. “I’ve already given you enough to kill a full human, Graves. If you just relax and don’t think, they’ll work fine.”

“Celia.”

He stopped again. “What?”

“Celia, not Graves. I’m not a soldier.”

Another snort and a shake of his head. “Then you’re hanging out with the wrong people.” He put bloodstained gloved fingers on my eyebrows. “Now relax and let me finish, okay?” He closed my eyes.

*   *   *

There was a warm, vibrating weight on my chest that moved when I did. My eyes opened slowly, enjoying the sensation of heat and movement. Orange and white fur was all I could see. Why was our office cat, Minnie the Mouser, in the safe house?

Then I realized she wasn’t. I was in my office, lying on the couch. What the hell? I put a hand on the cat and gave her a stroke or two. She responded with extra purring. Then I gently lifted her up and put her on the floor. The purring stopped and she gave me an annoyed look with wide green eyes before walking into the nearest sunbeam on the carpet to begin bathing her face with one paw. I sat up and immediately regretted it. I’d been through a battle, and from the way my shoulder moved I was betting there was a bandage underneath my shirt, which was actually a button-down shirt and not a black turtleneck with a hole in the shoulder. Oh, crap. That meant my shirt had been off while Gaetano had been operating on me. Logical, and it shouldn’t bother me. Except it did.

My vest, clothing, and wrist sheaths, with knives, were neatly stacked on my desk. My first thought was to check the safe. The lock was still red, but I wouldn’t know if they’d used my palm to deactivate the magical part of the locking system until I looked inside. I was hoping not, but I wouldn’t put much past Jones.

I spun on the couch and sat up. The sound of crinkling paper had me looking around and then groping in the pockets of my bloodstained jeans. I hoped they’d been dry when I’d been laid on the couch. A folded slip of paper came out after a second of tugging.

I don’t date soldiers or coworkers, but you’re not either. Call me.

Gaetano

A phone number followed, and not surprisingly, it was local. How else would he have been around to swoop in, medical kit in tow, twice in a month?

Feast or famine. That’s nearly always how it worked with me. For five years, I couldn’t get a date on a bet. Now I’d attracted a growing flock of men, milling like the birds that were undoubtedly outside my office.

The problem was that everything I’d heard and experienced told me it was all frosting, no cake. Having a date who is magically compelled to worship the ground you walk on isn’t quite the same to me as earning his respect and him liking me as a person. It didn’t matter whether I could help it or not. I didn’t want to wind up like some of the starlets who abound in Hollywood and complain nobody respects their minds while on their way to the plastic surgeon to add a cup size. Maybe I needed to get a whole bunch of those anti-siren charms made up and hand them out to everyone I met.

I stood up and went to the desk, automatically checking each and every pocket of my vest. The place where the bullet had pierced the vest was obvious—the fabric covering the strips of Kevlar was frayed and slightly charred. Jeez! Were they using tracer rounds or something? I could fit my ring finger into the hole. It felt like a .30-06 to me, except that a hunting round would probably have gone right through me. Maybe I would call Gaetano sometime, just to ask what he’d pulled out of my shoulder.

Nothing was missing from the pockets except what I knew I’d used in the fight. I didn’t know whether that was good or bad. Damn my paranoia anyway. I could think of a thousand hideous spells that could be contained in seemingly innocuous ceramic disks. I might think I was throwing a mudder and wind up choking to death from a lack of oxygen around my head.

I sighed. Better safe than sorry. Part of my weapons safe has a containment unit where I store unknown stuff until I can take it to experts who can tell me what it is. All my disks would have to go there.

I put my palm on the sensor of the lock mechanism, then entered the code. There was a long pause. I’ve gotten used to the pause. It used to open right up, but that was before the vampire bite. The tech people got it to work for me after my DNA altered by telling it I was pregnant. Nobody knows what’s going to happen at the nine- month mark. I needed to add a note to my computer calendar to remind me of my “birthday” so I could clean the safe out the day before. I’d hate to not be able to get to my stuff just because I forgot. Finally it let out a confirming beep and the reassuring clunk of the lock that I’d been told could be heard everywhere in the building. I opened the door. Everything looked just as I’d left it, which made me feel better.

I’d stowed my now-unreliable tools and was just finishing putting replacement charms in the vest pockets when there was a light tap at the door. Minnie and I looked up at the same moment and her questioning mew coincided with my, “Yes?”

It was both creepy and endearingly cute.

“You okay in there?” Dawna poked in her head with Dottie right at her heels in an odd contrast of personalities and visuals. “We heard the safe open.”

Dawna is our receptionist. She’s my age, Vietnamese American, and was the epitome of high fashion in a cherry red skirt and blazer and sleek patent-leather heels. Dottie, on the other hand, is elderly, with a delightful lack of self-consciousness, a white-bread, walker-using American in vivid red velour sweats. Two halves of a whole or maybe just a vision of all of our futures. Dottie is our backup receptionist—brought on when Dawna suffered a mental collapse that put her in the mental ward for a little while. As far as I knew, she wasn’t doing inpatient therapy anymore. Emma still was.

“I’m moving slow, but I’m moving. What time is it?” I was guessing it was around ten o’clock given the position of the sunbeam on the floor, but I could be wrong. “Hopefully I know what day it is. Anyone know when I got here?”

Dawna shrugged, but Dottie said, “According to the security log, three men and one woman entered at seven fifteen this morning.”

I wondered immediately which three. Then I noticed that Dawna looked as startled as I felt. “We have a security log?” I asked.

“That shows the sex of the person who entered?” said Dawna.

When she nodded, my eyes met Dawna’s and we nodded. “Sweet.” It came out of our mouths at the same time, which made all three of us chuckle. I’d have to see what else the log showed.

“Oh, and it’s ten twenty,” Dawna added. “You have someone on the phone and someone in the waiting room. Should I tell them both to get lost or do you want one or the other?”

Did I want to see anyone? Actually I didn’t feel all that bad. I should be hungry, but I wasn’t. I briefly wondered what that meant—had Gaetano or Jones gotten some nutrition into me? I felt sore, but not to the point of turning down work. “Depends. Who’s who?”

“Your old therapist, Gwen, is on the phone. She says it’s important. Detective Alexander is downstairs. She’s been waiting nearly an hour and says she’ll wait all day if she has to.”

Crap. Well, there could be worse people waiting I suppose. Like my mother, for example. But she was in jail. One of the many reasons I had a therapist.

“I told her you’d had a long night. Was it a successful night? I haven’t been able to reach Emma.” Dawna was being deliberately coy with Dottie right there. I understood, but it wasn’t really necessary. Like Emma, Dottie was a clairvoyant. I seem to know a lot of them. Vicki had been, as well. I was betting Dottie already had seen what had happened. She’d told me that once she met me she started getting multiple images of my future—mostly of future dangers. Naturally. The death curse put on me as a child saw to