Siren Song

9

I could’ve gone to dinner with El Jefe. But I was exhausted. It had been a long, tiring day. Besides, neither of us was very good company. He was worried about his friend from UCLA. He’d made calls and learned there’d been no sign of her since she’d left Los Angeles a few hours before. It might be nothing—traffic, car trouble. But she should have called. There aren’t a lot of cellular dead zones between L.A. and Santa Maria de Luna. Of course her phone battery could’ve gone dead. Or she could’ve forgotten it. Or any of a million other things. But it wasn’t like her. So he worried. I was concerned, too, and asked that he call and let me know as soon as he found out anything. I wanted to eat something quick and get the Wadjeti back under wards and behind cold steel. Then I wanted to go back to Birchwoods before John’s spell wore off and go to bed.

One good thing about keeping busy—I hadn’t had time to fret about my upcoming court date. I kept telling myself that Roberto was the best. We had witnesses, including a slew of holy men who’d come at my psychic call to banish the demon. I reminded myself that Ren had sworn I’d get off; and that King Dahlmar, whose son I’d saved, would do everything in his considerable power to help me. All of this was true. Even so, I was scared. On the long drive from my office to Birchwoods I went over my testimony and my attorney’s plan of attack in my head.

I’ve been a witness before, plenty of times, mostly in paparazzi stalking cases, defending myself against assault charges from people who tried to get through me to the people I was guarding. But this was different. This was a paranormal manipulation charge. And I was now considered a monster. Both of which meant that I was considerably less likely to get a fair trial. My attorney was sure that, worst-case, I’d be confined to an institution of my choice. I hoped he was right.

The spectre of a state-run facility had been haunting my nightmares even before the attack on the limo. Now, knowing that someone there had already been paid to murder me . . . I shuddered. Were the same people behind the shooting at the Will reading, or was that something else entirely? I wasn’t sure I had the energy right now to track down more than one threat.

The closer I got to my destination, the worse I felt. By the time I slid my ID card into the slot of the security machine for the outer gate I was well and truly depressed. A full-body shudder hit me as the heavy metal grill rolled closed with a clang behind my car. Would this be the rest of my life? Locked away to protect the world from me—or worse, to protect me from the world?

The night guard at the second gate was a new guy, but apparently he’d been briefed about me, because the fangs didn’t panic him. We went through the expected routine with holy water and silver; then he opened the gate and I drove through.

I parked under one of the lamps, locked my weapons in the car trunk, and, feeling vulnerable and naked, made my way through the open parking lot to the administration building and the night-check-in desk. A very nice, very professional nurse took my shoes, my cell phone, and my name before sending me off to my quarters.

A message had been written on a slip of paper and slipped beneath my door. I picked it up and read: We must talk. It is urgent. I will contact you tomorrow. It was signed: Ivan.

Oh, freakin’ goodie. Just what I needed. More trouble.

I dropped the note onto the nearest flat surface and shambled off to bed.

I wish I could say I slept well. I didn’t. My dreams were weird and haunted, my sleep fraught with tossing and turning.

So, after a long, restless night, I rose and got ready to face the music. Since this hearing was an “official” event, I was escorted to the courthouse by the police—and not in my own car. At least I wasn’t under arrest, so I didn’t have to arrive in handcuffs. But the police insisted I eat two jars of beef and vegetable baby food in the back of the squad car before we set off. Logical, but yuck!

The Santa Maria de Luna Justice Center is a big four-story box of a building, built of stucco painted brilliant white with brick red trim. Red tile steps lead up to the four front entrance doors, each of which is manned by men and machines whose job it is to make sure nothing dangerous makes it into the building. I’d been through those doors many times. Today, however, I was taken in the back to avoid the hordes of press staked out front waiting for pictures of the vampire who could attend day court.

Roberto met me at the back door. He checked my appearance carefully, to make sure I would make a good impression. I was dressed for success in a conservative navy suit with a red silk blouse. It felt absolutely bizarre to be wearing one of Isaac’s signature jackets and not be carrying any weapons. Roberto had insisted on panty hose and heels. I hate panty hose. Whoever invented them was a sadist. They are hot in summer and never fit quite right, even if you don’t get them on crooked, which I usually do.

The goal was for me to, in Roberto’s words, “channel Laura Bush.” So the skirt hit me well below the knee and the pumps were low heeled and plain. I was supposed to be dignified, sedate, conservative, and still look good. I had no idea whether or not I was succeeding at it.

My escort stayed close as we went up the stairs and through the hall leading to the courtroom. The place was full of spectators. The most obvious glares were the ones I was getting from Gerry, one of the head guards at Birchwood, and a group of five police officers, all in their very best finery and seated together in the gallery. Gerry and I had been friendly once—before he saw me go all spooky. It scared the crap out of him. Now he was making it his personal mission to see me put away. I think he honestly believes it is the right thing to do. Of course that doesn’t make it any better for me.

I recognized one or two of the police officers. They’d been among the people I’d used my siren abilities on. If I hadn’t, a greater demon would’ve wreaked havoc at that World Series game in Anaheim a few weeks back. I had witnesses willing to testify to that.

But the prosecution had witnesses, too. According to the list they provided to Roberto, they were even bringing in Dr. Greene from the state pen. Greene was a null and a shrink. She was also the woman who’d drugged me and set me up for the murder of a minister. Compulsion spells might make her tell the truth and nothing but the truth. But I wasn’t sure the whole truth was what I wanted the jury to hear.

Shit.

My stomach tightened into knots. If I were still able to eat solids I’d probably have tossed my cookies by now. As it was, I tasted bile in the back of my throat, despite the claim that baby food is a low-acid concoction.

“Celia, you need to calm down.” Roberto murmured the words softly enough that they barely carried to my ears. “You’re starting to glow.”

I looked down and felt my stomach try to do a backflip. Oh, that was so not good. Glowing is not human. It is not normal. It was not going to reassure the prosecutor, judge, and jury that little ole me was no threat to anybody.

I closed my eyes and took deep, cleansing breaths, forcing myself to think about the rocky stretch of beach where I go to be alone when the stress of life gets to me. I was starting to feel better—until I heard somebody say “Do you smell salt water?”

But I wasn’t glowing anymore and Roberto hustled me to the front of the courtroom without further incident.

“In front of the bar” has real meaning in a courtroom and only those who are on the daily docket can get through the magic barriers that separate the “working” area from the main gallery. Roberto went through first and I saw a flash of silver light as he passed through the scanner and heavy-duty wards. Then it was my turn.

I stepped in, closed my eyes, and stood perfectly still so that the scanner could do its thing. I saw a flash of red through my closed eyelids, felt the hot rush of magic across my skin, and it was over. I was cleared.

I tried not to show how relieved I was. I tried to act normal, but I’d left normal so far behind at that point that I was definitely faking it. Still, I meekly followed my high-priced attorney to the small table assigned to the defense and took my seat. I glanced around the courtroom, hoping someone I knew was there to cheer me on. In the corner I saw my gran, sitting with El Jefe and Emma. And toward the back on the right side I spotted Dr. Hubbard and Dr. Scott. But no Bruno. I felt my heart sink. I’d hoped . . .

I tried not to fidget as I watched Roberto pull folder after folder from his big, boxy trial briefcase. The prosecutor came over to shake Roberto’s hand. His name was Jose Rodriguez and he looked to be about thirty-five, or maybe a young-looking forty. Tall and slender, he was very handsome, with wavy black hair with just a touch of silver and eyes the color of dark chocolate. He had a winning smile and his navy suit looked nice and expensive until I compared it to Roberto’s.

“Bob. Good to see you again.”

“Joe.” They shook hands, “Here to give me a last-minute offer?”

Joe stepped back, his eyes widening. “You don’t know? Seriously?”

“Know what?”

The prosecutor looked at me and his expression darkened. There was a slight edge to his voice when he replied, “This hearing is just a formality. It isn’t going to last five minutes. Your client has some very powerful friends.”

Roberto looked at me over his shoulder. I shrugged to let him know I didn’t have a clue.

Rodriguez’s eyebrows rose until they almost disappeared beneath his hair, his expression conveying not just surprise but more than a bit of disbelief.

“Care to enlighten us?” Roberto’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Until that moment, they’d seemed like friends who happened to be on opposite sides of a case. Now Roberto had shifted gears and shown he was all business.

The prosecutor turned to his associate, who handed him a thin stack of papers. Turning back to us, Rodriguez began laying the sheets on the table one at a time, like playing cards, indicating what each was as he did.

“A certificate of dual citizenship with Rusland. The official letter and certificate announcing Ms. Graves’s appointment as Official Security Liaison, with full diplomatic status, signed by King Dahlmar himself, including the royal seal. A letter of pardon signed by the governor to be used in the event of your conviction. A letter of pardon signed by the president of the United States, to be used in the event of your conviction. And we received a visit from some of the boys over at the State Department, suggesting that, all things considered and since you were acting in defense of others, we should save the state the money it would take to prosecute.”

“You’ve got a letter from the president? Seriously?” I just about choked on the words. “The president of the United States wrote a pardon for me? Holy crap. Ho”—I took a breath between syllables—“ly crap.”

Rodriguez smiled. It made him look younger, less cynical. “Yes. And I’ve got to tell you, the politicos don’t do that. Not in advance. It’s too likely to blow up in their faces.”

“I’m not surprised.” Roberto smiled benignly, leaning back and folding his hands across his waist. “Ms. Graves’s actions saved the lives of King Dahlmar and his son Prince Rezza and unmasked a political plot that would’ve destabilized their nation. She also assisted in the banishment of a major demon who had been summoned to wreak havoc at one of the largest public sporting events on the calendar. Who knows how many lives might have been lost if Ms. Graves hadn’t done as she did? King Dahlmar previously indicated to me his intent to do everything he could to keep her from being imprisoned as a result of her actions.”

“Well, he’s a man of his word.” Joe gathered up the pages, stacking them neatly.

“So, are you going to prosecute?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself.

Rodriguez shook his head. “Why bother? It’d be an open-and-shut case and a complete waste of the taxpayers’ money.”

“And the other matter?” Roberto’s voice was silken.

Rodriguez’s expression darkened, all the humor draining out of it in a rush, his features seeming to harden into stone. “It was self-defense. She and the doctor were kidnapped.” He turned to me, his eyes capturing mine, his gaze intense. “But know this. If you ever again set so much as a toe out of line, we will prosecute. We might not be able to put you away. But if you show you are a threat to our citizens, we will find some way of getting rid of you, even if we have to deport you to do it.”

I didn’t doubt that he meant it. I really hoped it never came to that. It bothered me deeply that I wasn’t considered one of “our citizens” anymore and somehow I just knew it wasn’t because of my new diplomatic status.

We were spared further conversation as the bailiff came in and announced the judge. The prosecutor stepped back behind his table as we all rose for the Honorable Sarah Jacobsen to take the bench.

Once she took her seat, the prosecutor made his announcement about dropping the charges. Judge Jacobsen immediately asked the attorneys to approach the bench, and it didn’t take vampire hearing to catch the gist of the conversation. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like it one bit. Governor, president, king, or no, she wanted me locked up somewhere far, far away from vulnerable humans and she did not appreciate the fact that people higher up the food chain were usurping her judicial authority.

She motioned the men back to their seats and stared at me for a long moment. Finally, she spoke. “Ms. Graves. The prosecutor has asked to dismiss the charges against you based on what, in my opinion, are political threats from people who have no business interfering in this case.”

Shouts and swearing erupted from the gallery behind me and I was suddenly very glad no weapons or magic was allowed in the room.

“While I might not have the power to change the prosecutor’s mind and press this case forward, I most certainly can take testimony from the experts already identified by both parties to satisfy myself that you are not a danger to yourself or others.”

Shit. This had taken a rather nasty turn. I might not go to jail, but there was suddenly the very real possibility I could still be committed and I might not be in a position to choose to return to Birchwoods.

“I will allow prosecution and defense ten minutes to confer with your experts. The question is whether Ms. Graves, in her current condition, can be a productive member of society without endangering the citizenry.” She banged a gavel on the bench while glaring daggers at me. “Court is recessed until ten thirty.”

Roberto leaned over and whispered next to my ear as the rest of the room erupted in chaos, “She’s already prejudiced against you. It’ll be easy to overturn it on appeal, no matter what she rules.”

My jaw dropped and my skin started glowing again. “And what am I supposed to do until then, Roberto? Sit in the cage like a good dog, hoping someone will spring me before they bring in the needle?”

He looked at me seriously, his eyes filled with pain. “I’ll do the best I can, Celia. You know that. Can we count on Dr. Scott’s testimony on your behalf? I know he isn’t your treating psychiatrist, but he has credentials Dr. Hubbard doesn’t, and from what I saw during depositions Ann Hubbard will make a terrible witness. You told me therapy has been going well.”

I bit at my lower lip, puncturing it with a fang and making myself wince. “I think you should call Dr. Hubbard anyway. Dr. Scott isn’t . . . happy with me right now.”

My apologetic look didn’t help much. Roberto sighed. “No. Never mind . We’ll go with Professor Sloan.”

Ten minutes goes really fast when you’re listening to people deciding your fate. Before I knew it, the gavel was banging again. I let out a little yelp, but I don’t think anyone other than Roberto noticed. “Mr. Rodriguez, you have ten minutes to make your case.”

A slender woman, dressed in an electric blue skirt set, approached the bench. She was not channeling Ms. Bush. Her heels were at least three inches high and the skirt length wouldn’t have been acceptable by my high school dress code. The witness bench hid most of the show, so all she offered the audience was a tasteful electric blue jacket and white shirt, with pearls, beneath shining auburn hair. Nifty.

Rodriguez apparently didn’t like being timed, because his words came out less smooth and polished than I expected. “Could you state your name for the record?”

“Jessica Marloe.”

“And what is your occupation, Ms. Marloe?”

“It’s Dr. Marloe. I’m a protective therapist at the California State Paranormal Treatment Facility.”

She was one of the guards at the state facility!

“Do you have any experience with vampires, Dr. Marloe?”

“I have studied vampires extensively and in a previous position worked on research into reversing the vampiric process.”

“Could you please tell the Court what success you had with that?”

“We had no success, unfortunately. Once a person is turned, the process always leads to loss of higher brain function and increasing violence until we’re forced to take measures to protect our other patients.” Meaning, they’re put down. I hadn’t been kidding with my comment about a cage and needle.

The testimony went no better for the remainder of the ten minutes and concluded with Dr. Marloe’s conviction that I was a ticking time bomb. I was sure I was done for. But I’d underestimated Roberto. He’d been taking notes the whole time Marloe was talking and stood smoothly when it was time for cross-examination.

“Dr. Marloe, have you ever treated a siren in your facility?”

She looked at him like he was an annoying fly. “No, of course not. There are very few sirens in existence.”

Now it was Roberto who raised his brows. “But surely you’ve read about other cases of sirens in state treatment facilities? Yes?”

She shook her head. “No. There’s never been a siren in a treatment facility.”

He leaned on the edge of the box. “Really? Never? Nowhere in the world? That seems odd, even considering the small population of full- and partial-blooded sirens. Why do you suppose that is?”

She turned on the icy glare. “I have no idea.”

“Could it possibly be because sirens are unique in their mental stability? After all, in order to manipulate a person’s mind, wouldn’t they have to have a great deal of mental strength and intelligence?”

“I . . .” She paused. “I can’t say one way or the other.”

He nodded and looked expressively at the judge before turning his attention to the doctor again. “In the course of your education, you’ve studied most manners of preternatural . . . creatures?”

“Of course.”

“Then are you willing to certify to this court that you’ve studied the physiology and psychology of sirens, even if you’ve never actually treated one or read about the treatment of one?”

Marloe made an odd face. “Well, I know as much as can be known. They’re a highly secretive society and international law prohibits infringement on their territory.”

“Because they can manipulate people’s minds, right? That is, after all, what this case is about.”

I bit at my lip again and let out a muttered swear when I tasted blood. Damn fangs. Where was he going with this?

“Yes, that’s correct.”

She was glaring at me as though daggers were going to shoot out of her eyes. Roberto noticed. “You don’t like my client much, do you, Doctor?”

Her chin went high and haughty. “I don’t even know her.”

“But you think the world would be safer if she was behind bars. Yes?”

Um . . . Roberto? You’re on my side, right? I struggled with everything I had not to move or show my panic.

“I do.”

He scratched the side of his nose lightly. “Doctor, isn’t it true that most fertile women who meet sirens hate them? Want them put behind bars or sent away?”

“Well, it’s not the way you say it—”

He pounced like a cat on a mouse, putting his face inches from hers in classic Perry Mason style. “Really? Because I could have sworn that my preternatural expert told me that sirens can’t influence postmenopausal women, or prepubescent children, or gay men, and that fertile women find them to be a threat. It’s an involuntary emotional reaction that causes the woman to work against the siren. Is that correct?’

Marloe looked at the prosecutor, the judge, the spectators, Roberto—everywhere but at me. Roberto prompted her, “Please remember you’re under oath, Doctor.”

She let out a frustrated breath. “Well, of course, there are exceptions to a siren’s influence. The siren’s psychic call primarily appeals to a certain demographic—”

Roberto kept talking, right over her. “Exceptions like men over sixty and men with vasectomies and even ordinary men who wear magically created charms that prevent them from being affected by that influence. Is that correct?”

She shrugged and shifted in her chair. Her fingers were nibbling at her skirt now and she was having trouble meeting his eyes. Her voice went soft. “Yes, I suppose.”

He stood up to his full height, turned toward the gallery, and spoke without looking at her. He ticked his points off on his fingers as he went. Marloe couldn’t see, but the judge could. “So, what you’re really saying is that Celia cannot affect all senior citizens, all young children, all gay men, all sterilized men, and around half of the women in this great big world. The remaining men might be affected by the Defendant, provided they don’t have a charm to prevent it, and the remaining women will actively work against her rather than do her bidding. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper now, her eyes firmly on the floor in front her. I stole a glance at the prosecutor. His jaw muscle was bulging from clenching his teeth so tight.

The judge squirmed, clearly affected by Roberto’s argument. “The prosecution’s ten minutes are up. As are defense’s.”

“Your Honor . . . ,” Roberto began to protest. We hadn’t had a chance to put on our witness after all. But the judge cut him off with a glare. She stood up and picked up a thick file. “The witness will step down. Court will recess for thirty minutes while I consider the evidence.”

For the next half hour, I sat on my uncomfortable wooden chair trying to look inoffensive and harmless while conversations buzzed all around me. People were flat out calling one side or the other idiots. To add to the confusion, a flock of gulls had lined the window ledges outside the courtroom. They were just sitting, staring in at us . . . like tiny, white-winged vultures.

Finally the bailiff announced Jacobson’s return and we all stood.

She sat, we sat, and I waited, the bats in my stomach rising anew.

“The Defendant will rise.” Roberto nudged me and I stood as ordered. I did my best to hide my fangs under my lips and gave the judge my full attention, even though I was shaking more than a little. Please don’t send me away. Would tears help or hurt? It hardly mattered, because I was already crying.

“Ms. Graves. Your attorney gave a masterful performance here, clearly intending to sway me into allowing a known vampire, an admitted psychic manipulator, to go back into open society.” I was clutching the table so hard I was pretty sure my nails would leave marks. The baby food was inching its way back up my throat and the birds began to take flight, hovering outside the courtroom.

“And he managed it.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I felt my body partially collapse against the table. “While I’m still concerned about your . . . abilities, there’s a sizable portion of the human population you cannot affect. You’re not fully vampire, or human, or siren. Yet you currently have command enough of your body and mind to appear here, in full daylight, and at least look repentant. To commit you against your will would be the equivalent of locking up a clairvoyant who chose to reveal the future to people, or a mage who performs magic for pay.

“As much as I may loathe the result, your ability is biological and you quite literally”—she motioned toward the birds thumping against the bulletproof glass—“can’t help it. I find it rather disturbing just how very distasteful I find you, even though you’ve done nothing to deserve that reaction while in my court. Therefore, I have no choice but to believe that I’m biologically prejudiced against you, and will rule based only on the written record and testimony given today. I will recuse myself from any further proceedings involving you.”

She paused for a long moment, anger etching deep lines in her face. “However, know that this court will be watching you carefully. If you start to run amok or appear to be a threat to the general population, I promise you that you will be put away without a second thought. Is that clear?”

I nodded, feeling suddenly light-headed. “Crystal.”

And just that quick, the whole thing was over. On to the next case. A witch, I think. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. I wanted out of there, and the sooner the better. I wanted to find some fresh sea air and an empty beach so that I could calm my frazzled nerves. Unfortunately, there was a wide band of unhappy uniformed cops between me and the exit.

“Excuse us, Officers.” Roberto moved ahead of me, using his body as a shield between me and the angry men. He looked up at the lead officer, meeting his gaze without flinching.

The cop was a big man, six three or four, with the kind of build that you can only get with the benefit of serious weight lifting. He stood there, a solid wall of silent, blue-clad muscle. It was his partner, a smaller, blond man with harsh features and icy blue eyes, who spoke, addressing his words to me rather than Roberto.

“Graves, don’t think you got away with anything. It isn’t over. We’ll be watching you. You’ll screw up eventually. When you do, we’ll have you.”

Roberto’s smile was as warm and friendly as a hungry shark. “I must have misunderstood you, Officer”—he glanced at the man’s name pin—“Clarke. What you just said sounded suspiciously like a threat. You wouldn’t be planning to harass my client, would you?”

The crowded courtroom fell so silent you could hear Clarke’s harsh breathing. He said nothing, but his expression was answer enough. He looked murderous, his jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding.

Roberto continued, “Understand, Officer, if you and your men harass my client, we will have you up on charges.”

No one answered. There was another long, tense moment of silence. A standoff. Neither side willing to back down. It was the judge who broke the stalemate. With a gesture, she stopped the witch hearing and signaled for the bailiff, who headed in our direction. As if that were a signal, the cops turned as a unit and filed out of the room. As the last man passed through the door, the courtroom erupted into noise and chaos.

“Sorry about that,” Roberto said softly enough that only the bailiff and I could hear.

“Not your fault.” I forced myself to give him a smile. “Nothing we can do about it, either.”

“We can if they harass you.”

I sighed. “Only if we can prove it. And honestly, how far do you really think we’d get?” I felt and sounded tired and more than a little bit bitter. Roberto might have kept me out of captivity—for now—but there was no way I was out of danger.

The bailiff had moved off and the judge was pounding her gavel. Time for me to get out of here.

“I have another case,” Roberto said. He reached his hand out for me to shake. I shook it, told him “thanks” one more time. “If you need me, you’ve got my number.” He walked away briskly, heading for his next client. I hurried into the hallway myself, hoping to join my friends and family.

I am a big, bad-assed bodyguard, with vampire fangs and siren abilities. Is it wussy of me to admit that I wanted to be held? Because I did. I wanted Bruno, needed to feel his arms around me, to hear him to say it was going to be all right. I knew, logically, that everything had changed, that I could never get my old life back. But I wanted it just the same.

The door was still swinging shut behind me when my gran pulled me close, hugging me as tight as she could. “Oh, Celie, thank God! When I saw it was a woman judge I was so scared! But my prayers were answered. It turned out all right.” She squeezed me tight enough to cut off my breath. For such a tiny woman, she’s strong, in every way. My eyes stung, but I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. I held her close.

“They caught the shooter from the Will reading,” Gran said.

My eyes widened. “No! Who was it?”

“They don’t know yet, but he’s in custody and they’re bringing in mages to interrogate him.”

It was great news. Warren and Emma both hugged me, then Warren excused himself explaining that he’d promised to let Kevin know how things turned out. Since no cell phone use was allowed in the courthouse, Warren wanted to immediately head outside and call his son.

It would have been nice if Kevin had come to the hearing, but I understood why he couldn’t.

I half-listened as Em and Gran started talking about taking me to dinner. I was looking for Bruno. He was here. I knew it—I could sense his magic. It slid over my skin like liquid silk, making all the little hairs stand up.

But where was he? Turning slowly, I began searching in earnest, finally finding him standing next to his brother Matteo, the priest. I smiled at them and started to hurry over, my steps faltering when I saw the expressions on their faces.

Matty came forward first. He pulled me into a fierce hug. I barely had time to hear his whispered, “I’m sorry, Celia. I really am,” before he let me go and strode toward the exit at a speed that was just short of a run.

“Matty?” I looked after him for an instant, then turned to Bruno, who had sat down on a bench in a shadowed alcove not too far away. He didn’t look up, just sat there, head in his hands. “Bruno . . . what’s wrong? We won.”

I stopped about eighteen inches away, afraid to come closer. Why didn’t he say anything? Why wasn’t he looking at me?

He looked up just then and my heart fell to my feet. His expression was so lost, pain etched deep in his features.

“What’s wrong?” I came closer but didn’t touch him, knowing somehow that I shouldn’t.

There were voices behind me. The others were coming. I could hear them.

Bruno gently took my hand and led me into a small meeting room usually used by attorneys to meet with their clients. He pulled a ceramic disk the size of a quarter out of a pant pocket. Setting it on the floor at the doorway, he muttered a soft incantation under his breath. A wave of blue-white light spread out in a perfect circle with us at the center. I could feel the power of it like pressure in the air and I found myself working my jaw, trying to get my ears to pop. All of the ambient noise in the hall was just gone, as if I’d stepped into a soundproof booth.

Maybe I had.

“Bruno?”

He still wouldn’t meet my eyes. Instead he sank into a chair and gestured for me to sit opposite from him.

My throat was tight. I barely dared to breathe. I sat.

“I love you, Celie. I always have. I always will.” His voice cracked. Tears filled my eyes and the world grew blurry.

“You’re everything to me. You always have been . . . since the day we met.” He meant it. I could feel the intensity of it.

He looked at me then. There were tears rolling down his cheeks. Big, tough Jersey Italians aren’t supposed to cry, but he was crying and his voice was a hoarse croak.

“I went back to Jersey, to tell Irene it was over, that I was taking a new job and moving to L.A. to be with you.”

I couldn’t speak. I hadn’t known there was someone else, that he’d had to make a choice between me and anyone. My chest was heaving as if I couldn’t get enough air, my heart pounding as though it would explode. No. Not explode. Break. My heart was breaking. He’d never mentioned another woman. You’d think she would have come up in conversation.

“She’s pregnant.”

I didn’t hear much after that. He kept talking, explaining. He loved me. But he’d grown up without a dad. He couldn’t do that to a child of his. He had to be there. And it wasn’t fair to her to have to raise a kid alone. From the first sentence, it was a foregone conclusion. It was over. He was leaving me. The reason why didn’t really matter.

I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t bear it.

We sat there, crying and not touching, for long minutes. Eventually he stood. “I’m sorry. The shield will stay in place as long as you want it to. You can leave whenever you’re ready.” His voice was hollow, as if crying had emptied him of everything. He walked away. I didn’t watch him go. I was too angry, too hurt. I sat there alone for a long time and cried tears that were tinged red.

I didn’t want to face anyone. I wanted to be alone. But Gran was out there and Emma. They were probably worried. And hiding wouldn’t change anything. He was gone. Again. It felt like my soul had been ripped from my body, but life went on. I needed to face that, sooner rather than later. But right now, oh, God, it hurt.

I felt the magic of the shield disintegrate as I stepped across the barrier and found Emma standing outside the room, waiting.

“Your gran saw you go off with Bruno, so she figured it was okay to go tell your mom the good news. I ran into Bruno’s brother outside. He told me what happened. So I came back to wait for you.”

She stared at me in silence for a long moment, taking in the pile of used tissues I was stuffing back in my purse. Though I’d cried myself out, my nose wasn’t chapped. Nor were my eyes red. Vampire metabolism strikes again. So other than the fact that most of my makeup was gone, I probably didn’t look too bad. Emma asked, “Are you all right?”

I gave her the look that question deserved, then shook my head with a shrug.

“All right. Stupid question.” She sat together on the same little bench Bruno had sat on just minutes earlier. “Breaking up sucks, and I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “I know we’ve never been as close as you were with Vicki and are with Dawna—”

I started to say something, but she cut me off with a gesture. “It’s all right, Celia. I’m pretty sure it was the siren thing.”

“Was?”

She rolled her eyes, knowing that I was trying to change the subject. I was. But I was also curious. So she indulged me and explained, “I don’t want kids. I had a voluntary tubal last week. No longer fertile. No more siren problem.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to say. “Um . . . congratulations?” I wanted to ask why she hadn’t told me, but the answers seemed obvious—I was stuck at Birchwoods, prepping for my hearing, and, oh yes, the “siren problem.”

She gave a weak chuckle. “Whatever. We can talk about everything over dinner. You’ve been here quite a while and you’ve got to eat something soon, before your hunger gets out of hand.”

I had never felt less hungry in my life. But wandering the streets filled with bloodlust wasn’t appealing, either. The cops would be watching me. I absolutely believed that. I might feel like hell, but I was free. It would be a shame to get locked up again the same day.

I stood. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I struggled to pull myself together. “Right, food. Preferably something quick.”

“New China’s only a couple of blocks from here. They’ve got a buffet. You can probably handle egg drop soup.”

“Do they have a bar?” My voice sounded as lifeless as I felt. I’m not a big fan of Chinese food, but I probably wouldn’t taste it anyway.

“I think so.”

“Good. I need a drink. Maybe several.”

“Celia—” She started to say something but stopped, thinking better of it after seeing my expression. “Never mind. Let’s get some food before things get ugly.”

Talk about prophetic. Then again, she is a clairvoyant.