Siren Song

11

I’d had one of the most physically and emotionally draining days of my life. I was freaking exhausted. I did not have the energy to go back to Birchwoods. I just didn’t. So I called, left a message at the night desk, and crashed on the floor of my office, using a cushion from one of the chairs as a pillow. I often have recurring nightmares when I’m stressed, but if I dreamed that night, I didn’t remember it.

I woke to the sound of purring and the feel of sharp little claws pricking my thigh. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it wasn’t something I could ignore. I cracked open my eyes. Bright sunshine had filled most of the room. A few more minutes and my arm would’ve been burning.

I started to roll over and Minnie the Mouser leapt to safety. “How in the hell did you get in here?” She hadn’t come in with me last night, that was for sure.

She moved to sit by the door, her expression and posture saying as plainly as words that she wanted out. Now. I got up, stretched, and obliged her. As I did I noticed a couple of significant things. First, on my desk were a huge carafe of coffee, an empty mug, and an ice bucket holding ice and two of the canned diet shakes that I use for food in a pinch. Second, my gym bag was sitting on the floor next to my desk. Third, it was 3:00.

P.M.

Holy crap. I’d slept most of the day away. No wonder my mouth felt like something the cat had dragged in to die. But I was more than a little alarmed that people had been able to come and go in my office without my knowing it.

As long as I was up, I grabbed the gym bag and went down the hall to the bathroom and set about doing those things one does to get the day started on the right foot. The third-floor bathroom isn’t large, but it’s not tiny, either. Modest by current standards, it would’ve been considered positively luxurious back when the house was built. In those days, not everybody had indoor plumbing and the standard was one bath for an entire house. But this building had been a mansion. Along with real parquet floors and a stained-glass window on the landing between the first and second floors, it had a bathroom on every floor. The original tub had probably been a big, claw-footed monstrosity, but that had gone the way of the dodo during a sixties rehab.

Now we had a shower and a matching oversized tub in flamingo pink. They exactly matched the pedestal sink and toilet. The wallpaper was candy-cane striped in pink, silver, black, and white. It was loud but undeniably eye-catching. It occurred to me that I could now afford to change it if I wanted. The thought was startling. I looked around again. If the design magazines I’d seen in the rec room at Birchwoods were any indication, this look was coming back in vogue. And I had to admit I really did like the candy-striped paper. The air felt lighter suddenly, as though the room itself had breathed a sigh of relief. I smiled and started to dig through the cupboards.

I keep travel sizes of my toiletries at the office. My hours are so weird that it just makes sense for me, so I was able to get cleaned up and dressed in something more comfortable and less wrinkled than the skirt and top I’d slept in.

Zipping open the gym bag, I found the lavender and white tracksuit my gran had bought me for my last birthday. Thinking of Gran made me sad. She was probably having a really hard time. God knows Mom has her flaws, but my gran loves her as only a mother can. Getting picked up again meant serious jail time. The good news, Mom might dry out, get into AA. But I’d gotten my siren blood through her. If Dr. Marloe was correct—and I was pretty sure she was—sirens do not get on well with other women. Locking my mother in jail with hundreds of other women would be a recipe for disaster, no matter how richly she might deserve it. I wondered if we could use the Americans with Disabilities Act to mitigate her sentence. I didn’t know, but I could at least mention it to my mother’s attorney. Once she had one.

Once I was presentable, I went into the office and ate. I was just finishing when I heard the gentle double whump of a walker on stairs. Damn it, Dottie!

“That had better not be Dawna’s new assistant coming up those steps. We have an agreement. No stairs,” I called out.

There was a pause and I was almost sure I heard soft laughter. “I’m going slow.”

I growled with the last bit of chocolate mocha in my mouth. “I’ll come down.”

Jumping out of my chair, I hurried out the door and down the hall. Dottie had stopped at the second-floor landing. Her walker could be used as sort of a chair when turned backward, and she was sitting comfortably, the light from the stained-glass window painting her with a vibrant rainbow of colors.

I sat on one of the steps facing her. “You said no more stairs.”

“No.” She smiled beatifically. “You said no more stairs. I simply didn’t argue.”

That wasn’t how I remembered it, but she might be right. Even if she was wrong, I knew she’d just blame the faulty memory of old age and do what she wanted. I was beginning to realize just how hardheaded she could be and wondered if hiring her had been the best idea after all.

“I’m the boss,” I reminded her.

“Yes, dear, you are,” she said in a tone that clearly said I wasn’t—or that even if I was, it really didn’t matter.

“I suppose you’ve already made this trip once, bringing up my breakfast?” I gave her a stern look.

“No, that was Bubba. He insisted that if he did it, nobody would notice. If Mr. Creede had known you were right next door, asleep on the floor—well, you know he’s quite taken with you.”

“John was here?” It was a stupid question. But I’d only just had my coffee. I didn’t know what to think about the rest of her comment. But it did make me think well of Bubba that he hadn’t said anything.

She nodded. “Along with the client and his bodyguard. They spent the night. Ron seemed to recognize the man with Mr. Creede. Bubba said he was gushing over the man, which I got the impression was unusual.”

I found myself chuckling. I couldn’t help it. I probably should’ve guessed that John would bring Ivan and the king back here. The wards are excellent. I make sure of that. If King Dahlmar had enough money for a decent hotel, he wouldn’t be running around in a souvenir T-shirt and a cheap pair of no-name-brand jeans. That this hadn’t occurred to me before meant that I’d been further off my game than I’d thought. I’d needed a good night’s sleep.

“You needed your rest. Are you feeling better? I’m so sorry about your beau, dear. I didn’t mean to snoop, but I did want to know how the court case was going—”

She looked like a softer version of Gran. I couldn’t help but offer her a sad smile. “That’s all right. I know you meant well.” Clairvoyants. You can’t stop ’em looking. At least with most of them there was a chance they’d be wrong. But in Dottie’s case, like Vicki’s, it was a damned small chance.

“Thank you for understanding.” She sighed. “So few people really do.” Her expression grew even sadder than mine. It made me wonder about her family. Were they dead, or did they just never get around to seeing her, like Vicki’s parents?

“I saw something just a few minutes ago, too.” She sounded mournful.

“Yes?”

“I’m not certain. It’s just an impression. But . . . I really think you need to check on your grandmother.”

My stomach tightened, but I kept my voice calm. “I’ll do that.” I rose to my feet. “Anything else?”

“Not right now.”

“All right. But Dottie, I mean it. No more stairs. Promise me, right here and now.”

She gave me an impatient look. “If you don’t want me taking the stairs, you’re going to need to move down to the first floor.” She stood, flipping up the little seat and turning the walker around. “There are too many secrets in your life and Ronald is far too interested in things that are none of his concern.”

I watched her go down the stairs. It was a slow, painful process, but she made it safely. Once I knew she was all right, I dashed up the stairs to my office to give my gran a call.

She didn’t answer on the house phone.

It could mean nothing at all. But I just couldn’t get over Dottie’s expression, the tone of her voice. I set the phone down, debated with myself what I should do. I was probably already in deep, deep trouble with Jeff for not being back at Birchwoods. But I had to know that Gran was all right.

Screw it. If he gets pissed, I’ll have to live with it.

I grabbed my purse, slipped on the jacket to the tracksuit. It was broad daylight and nowhere near the full moon, so I shouldn’t need weapons from my werewolf or vampire kits. But I slapped on some sunscreen and strapped on my knife sheath and the knives Bruno had given me. Just in case.

I didn’t speed on the way to Gran’s. I wanted to. But a cop car pulled behind me about a block away from my office and stayed there, obviously following me, all the way across town. When I pulled into Gran’s driveway, the cruiser drove off but not before I got a glimpse of the driver: Officer Clarke. Oh joy.

Gran’s house is a small two bedroom, painted gray with white trim. An old-fashioned wire mesh fence surrounded a pair of flower beds on either side of the steps leading up to the front porch. California poppies and Shasta daisies exploded from the beds and filled my nose with flowery goodness. Gran lives in a working-class neighborhood that’s not as good as it used to be when she and Grandpa first bought the place fifty or sixty years ago but is still not bad. The neighborhood population is aging because back then people bought houses with the intention of staying in them until they retired or died, whichever came first.

My gran was sitting on the front porch in the same old metal rocking chair she’d cradled me in through skinned knees and childhood heartbreaks. She didn’t rise when I drove up, didn’t call out a greeting, or react at all. Just stared into space. It reminded me forcibly of my own actions yesterday. As I climbed from the car I saw the track of tears on her cheeks.

“Gran.” I opened the gate and hurried up the walk to the house.

She looked up. “Hello, Celia.” She didn’t smile.

“Gran, what’s wrong?” I knelt down in front of her chair. “What’s the matter?”

“I met with your mother’s lawyer this morning.”

Oh, crap. “Gran—,” I started to say something, anything.

“You were right. All those times when you told me not to let her drive. You were right. They have pictures, taken by cameras at intersections for months. Even though they didn’t pull her over right then, they’re going to show them to the judge. The attorney said there’s no chance we can say this time was a mistake.”

I touched her shoulder, but even then she didn’t react. “Gran, it’s not your fault.”

“If I hadn’t let her use the car—” The tears were flowing hard now and she reached into the pocket of her sweater to pull out a damp clump of tissues.

Sometimes the truth, although harsh, can be comforting. I’m hoping she took it that way. “If you hadn’t let Mom use the car, she would’ve taken it anyway. You know that. I’ll bet she had her own secret set of keys made.” I gave her a wry smile. “Nothing ever stops Mom.”

Gran laughed, but it was more of a croak and it died as quickly as it had come. “He says she’ll go to prison. My poor baby . . . my Lana, in prison.”

I didn’t say a word. Any time my mother served would be richly deserved. She’d driven drunk and without a license or insurance more times than I could count. She’d wrecked cars, and while she swore to us that nobody had ever been hurt, she’d endangered herself and everybody else on the road. But my gran wouldn’t believe that and didn’t need to hear it. She needed comfort. Unfortunately, I had very little to give.

“Does she have a public defender?”

Gran squirmed in her chair and wouldn’t meet my eyes. I just knew what that meant. I sighed. “You hired an attorney.”

“I had to.” A little bit of her old ferocity returned. “I’ve heard terrible things about public defenders. They’re in all the papers and you know it. It’s my money. If I want to—”

Throw it away, I thought, but I bit my tongue. Instead, I said, “It’s your money and your choice, Gran.” I spoke softly. “But I had an idea last night and I want to call her attorney and see what he thinks of it. How do I get hold of him?”

She blushed and wouldn’t answer me. That was never a good sign. When she doesn’t want to tell me something, the news is always bad. Seeing the flush of embarrassment, the stubborn set of her chin, gave me an idea, a really, hideously, awful idea.

“Gran, you didn’t hire my attorney, did you?”

“Why not? He got you off—do you think he’s too good for your mother?” Her eyes flashed with renewed anger.

“Of course not,” I lied. My mom’s case was open-and-shut, no, not shut—slam the jailhouse door. Hiring Roberto would cost everything Gran had and the case was unwinnable. She might as well just flush the money down the toilet. “But Gran, you can’t afford him. It took all of my savings for me to afford him. All of my savings.”

She turned to me then and looked me straight in the eyes, her expression determined. “I told him I’d sell the house.”

It took me more than a few seconds to process the words and even then I couldn’t believe it. The meaning caught me in the chest like a baseball thrown by a star pitcher. I struggled not to gasp, but the great, heaving weight of it made my heart tight and painful. I know I clutched her shoulder tighter and she finally reacted . . . staring up at me with pain-filled eyes. “Oh, Gran.” She could wind up homeless. Broke and homeless, with no place to call her own. It was the ultimate sacrifice for a woman of her generation. She had always told me how proud she was that she and Granddad had owned, even during the war. She wasn’t like Dottie, who could work within the government system.

Any more than Mom was.

We spent the next few hours talking out the details. It became clear early on that I wasn’t going to be able to talk her out of this last-ditch effort to save my mom. Gran knows my mom better than anyone alive. She knows what makes her tick, knows that jail would quite literally destroy her. I now learned that Gran had been working with Mom, trying to dry her out ever since the vampire had claimed her mind a few weeks ago. That had really scared Mom, to have no control over her actions. It had caused an epiphany that Gran had been trying to build on.

Crap and double crap.

I tried to salvage what I could of the situation by calling the attorney handling the probate of Vicki’s will to see if I’d missed anything after the reading was finished and what, if anything, I needed to do to work on getting hold of the money Vicki had left for me. Then I got transferred to Roberto’s assistant to make my suggestion about using a psychological or an ADA defense for Mom because of her siren blood.

Finally, I called my banker to see whether I might be able to get a mortgage to buy my grandmother’s house. It’s not easy for someone self-employed to qualify. Not every year’s income resulted in profit. All a small-business owner can do is save when the money’s good so you can spend when the money’s bad. But banks want to be paid every month. Still, with the inheritance I had coming, I thought I might be able to swing it.

She suggested I fill out the online application and they’d let me know.

At about that point I realized that I was enabling my grandmother to enable my mother. The circle of dysfunctional life. I could almost hear Elton John singing in the background.

By the time I left, Gran had at least stopped crying and was looking a little more hopeful. She really hadn’t wanted to give up the house. She’d have done it. But she didn’t want to.

The sun was setting as I pulled out of the driveway. Almost immediately I picked up a fresh tail. A police cruiser that trailed two cars behind, all along the route from Gran’s to my office. Not Clarke this time; not that it mattered. It pissed me off, but that didn’t matter, either. They would do what they were going to do. I couldn’t stop them. Reacting too strongly would imply guilt where there was none and give them an excuse to dig even deeper. So I counted to a hundred and tried to ignore the cop, with minimal success.

I had about an hour before I was supposed to go to PharMart and meet Creede and the others. I wanted my weapons. Now. I know hand-to-hand. It works well on humans. But there’s nothing like advanced weaponry when you go up against the monsters.

And we were going up against someone willing to traffic with the demonic.

The militant ministries have the best record fighting the demonic. True believers do well, too. I’m not either. I’d just have to make up for it with knowledge, planning, and excellent armament.

I felt the surge of magic as the car crossed the magical perimeter that guards the office and parking lot. It wasn’t as painful as it should have been, which meant the wards needed refreshing. I promised myself I’d write Dottie a note to make the arrangements as soon as I got inside.

I caught the cat before she could slip out the door and was rewarded with a deep scratch on the wrist. She hissed. I hissed right back. It startled her, but she didn’t look particularly intimidated. With a flip of her tail, she pranced off in the general direction of Ron’s office. I hoped she’d leave him a particularly stinky present.

There were messages in my slot and the UPS boxes were still stacked in the reception area. Grumbling, I took a look at the label on the top box. Yup, they were for me. The return address was for the ex-wife of Bob Johnson, a friend of mine who’d gotten killed in the same ambush where I’d been bitten. Vanessa was as nasty and bitter a piece of work as I’ve ever run across, screaming at me and blaming me for his death when I’d called to offer condolences. God alone knew what she’d mailed to me. I decided I didn’t want to know. At least not tonight. Time was a-wastin’ and I had things to do.

I grabbed the message slips and started pounding my way up the stairs. I hadn’t gone far when Bubba’s voice called down to me, shouting to be heard over the blaring volume of one of those reality singing competitions. It must have been one of the early rounds, because the singer was really, seriously bad. I could do better . . . and you do not want to hear me sing.

“Hey, Graves, that you?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“Dr. Scott called after Dottie left for the day. Said you needed to get back to him right away.”

“Thanks. I’ll give him a buzz,” I called out, and kept climbing, going two stairs at a time without feeling breathless.

Bubba’s office is just down the hall from mine on the third floor. As I walked past, the competition’s judges were eviscerating the poor kid verbally. Why anyone considered that entertainment I’d never know, but Bubba seemed to love it. I hurried to unlock my office door. If I was lucky the heavy wooden door would cut down on the sound. Situations like this made me truly hate having vampire-enhanced hearing.

I stepped over the threshold, feeling the familiar buzz of the wards reacting to me. If I’d looked, I might have caught a glimpse of the silver sigils Bruno had used to create the protections. Thinking about him, his smile, his voice, the touch of his lips . . . hurt enough to incapacitate me if I let it. But I wasn’t going to let it. I’d had my own epiphany in the restaurant.

One of the things Gran told me was that part of what went wrong with my mother was that my father left her. That men simply aren’t supposed to be able to leave sirens. His going broke something inside her. I hadn’t really thought about things from a biological perspective before. Bruno shouldn’t have been able to leave me. Maybe he could because I wasn’t fully siren, or because we met before my powers were activated by the vampire bite, or because he’s such a strong mage. Whatever the reason, he had left, and it was hitting me much harder than it should, given that we’d only just gotten back together.

I’m not my mother. I was not going to crawl into a bottle. No matter how much it hurt right now, I would get past this. What had worked best for me last time was keeping busy, working hard. Fate was certainly giving me the opportunity to do just that. Life was apparently going to be interesting, in that ancient curse sort of way.

Which brought me back to curses. Setting my purse on the desk, I dropped into my office chair. Dialing the phone with one hand, I stared at the mark on my palm. It was faint but still clear. I didn’t know a lot about palmistry, but now that I knew what to look for I could see that it did, indeed, mingle with both my life and career lines. Crap.

Apparently Dr. Scott had given me his direct number, because he answered on the first ring.

“Hello, Celia.” His voice was flat, without inflection, and it unnerved me.

“Hey, Jeff, what’s up?” I made my voice as cheerful as possible. I intended to say I’d been going to call him anyway, but he spoke before I had the chance.

“Your aunt’s personal assistant was here.”

“My aunt? I don’t have any aunts.”

“A very regal woman. She bedazzled the guards without any effort at all and just walked right through all of our security.”

Oh, crap. A siren.

Judging from Jeff’s tone of voice, whoever the siren was, she’d gotten to him I heard his anger, but underneath it there was a hint of hysteria.

“Look—” I started to speak, but he kept talking. With every word he seemed to grow more confident and more pissed. Which was probably good for him. Not so much for me.

“She was quite upset to find you gone. Apparently, your aunt, the sovereign of the sirens, Queen Lopaka, has been trying to reach you. She’s quite insulted and offended that you haven’t returned her messages.”

“I can imagine she was upset.” Because queens don’t like to be insulted. Except that nobody had tried to contact me that I know of, other than Ren’s visit. “But since I had no idea she’s been trying to reach me, I’m not sure what to do about it. Has she been trying to reach me, Jeff? Has your staff withheld messages from me?”

“Nobody has contacted our facility until today, I promise you. It’s not the sort of thing we’d keep from you. We would discuss it in therapy at the very least. I’ve sent you an e-mail with the details of her visit, along with the results of your most recent blood work and . . .” He paused for a long moment and I could hear him breathing as though summoning his courage. “I’ve also sent you an agreement to sign, terminating your stay here and releasing us of all responsibility. Once you fax it back to us, we’ll refund all your money.”

“B-but—,” I stammered, trying to wrap my head around what he was saying. He was kicking me out? Could he do that?

“I’m sorry, Celia, but the fact is that you’re simply too much of a security risk. I can’t have people wandering in and out of our facility at will, manipulating the patients and staff. It’s dangerous. I know you’re not responsible for it, but the fact of the matter is that they are coming here because of you.”

I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t. He was right. I might not want to be a patient at Birchwoods and might not think I deserved to be there, but I sure as hell didn’t want it to get out that I’d been evicted. If word got out, I’d never get another facility to take me if things went south. Of course, the state would still be more than happy to let me in and then throw away the key. I wasn’t going there. I’d rather die.

“Tomorrow, movers will pack your possessions and deliver them to your office. We’ll cover the cost.” His voice was still cold, flat. He was doing his very best to be businesslike and make it absolutely clear that this was non-negotiable. Damn it! Dammit, dammit, dammit.

“Is there anything else?” I sounded a lot calmer than I felt. Shock maybe. Possibly fatalism. There’s only so much the mind can take in a short period of time. At some point, if you have enough disasters hit close enough together, you just get shell-shocked. I had not only reached that point, I’d also sailed right past it. All I could do now was just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

He kept talking, a little too clipped and high-pitched to sound normal. “Your therapist has indicated she is willing to continue seeing you privately, off-site. Dr. Talbert has also indicated her desire to work with you in the future. I took the liberty of giving them both your e-mail so that you can work that out between you.”

Did I want more therapy? I wasn’t really sure. While a part of me was thrilled that I could go home and didn’t have to be locked behind gates and wards anymore, I also felt . . . sort of weird. Now I understood what Vicki had meant when she said that the outside seemed too open. But there was nothing more to be said, at least not to Dr. Scott. “Wow. Well, I guess that’s it, then.”

“Yes, it is.” Long seconds of silence ticked by. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Good-bye, Jeff.”

“Good luck, Celia.”

He hung up. For a long moment I just sat there, holding the receiver. I was stunned. As of this moment I was probably the only homeless multimillionaire in the country. I had inherited the guest cottage and part of the beach from Vicki. But that was still in probate and I hadn’t signed the lease papers before Creede spirited me out of there. No doubt Cassandra would even contest that. Everything was going to be tied up in legal limbo for God alone knew how long. I hadn’t worried too much about it until now, because I’d been scheduled to be at Birchwoods for weeks.

Where the hell was I going to stay? Even if I bought Gran’s house, it would still be her house. And if Mom didn’t go to jail, she’d probably live with Gran. I couldn’t live there, too, and I couldn’t afford to buy another place and pay two mortgages if I bought another place. I make a good living but not that good.

I set the phone back in its cradle and put my head in my hands. Dammit, I didn’t need this shit. I’d had enough. More than enough.

There was a tap on the door. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

I looked up to see Bubba leaning against the door frame. He was holding a pair of beers from the mini-fridge in his office. I appreciated the gesture, but no alcohol. Not right now. Every day, every negative event was becoming a new temptation to drink. I didn’t need crutches, I needed solutions. The hard part was, there weren’t any to be found.

“You ever just want to say ‘screw it all’ and walk away?”

He grinned, giving me a glimpse of a chipped tooth that hadn’t been there the last time I’d seen him. Ah, the joys of being a bail bondsman. “All the time, babe, all the time.” He twisted the cap off one of the bottles and tossed it into the trash with a deft flick of his wrist. He offered the second bottle to me, but I shook my head no. “But what else am I gonna do? And you know it wouldn’t be any better anyplace else.”

I gave a gusty sigh. “You’re probably right.”

“You know it.” He set the unopened bottle on my desk in case I changed my mind, and sprawled into one of the guest chairs. Raising the bottle in salute, he said, “Screw the bastards,” before taking a long pull of beer.

“Screw the bastards,” I agreed.

“So, what can I be doing to help you?” Bubba asked. “ ’Cause I know you’re needing help.” He looked me up and down and my eyes followed his gaze, trying to see if I had shit on my clothes.

“I don’t look that bad.”

“Nope. Worse.” He smiled to soften the words.

Ouch. Well, that was not particularly flattering but probably honest. We sat in silence for a moment, and in that moment of peace and quiet something occurred to me for the first time. One of the biggest problems I’d been having was that too many things were happening to me, so many that I didn’t have time to do more than react to them. I got bit, I reacted. I got charged, I reacted. I was put in Birchwoods, I reacted. We were kidnapped, I reacted. Over and over again until I was exhausted and looking for escape.

If that went on, the pressure would break me, and soon.

It was time to break the cycle, to start forcing people to react to me. I raised my eyes to Bubba’s. I smiled, showing my fangs. Screw the bastards, indeed. “You still have that GPS navigation unit?”

“Yeah. It’s down in my truck.”

“Any chance I could borrow it for a couple days?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I have to find an island.” Specifically, I needed to find the Isle of Serenity. If the queen was annoyed I hadn’t dropped by . . . it was time to go find out who didn’t want me to meet her.

He didn’t seem bothered by my request. Then again, Bubba liked to deep-sea fish. Every time he could manage to wrangle a couple of days off he was out on the water in his boat, Mona’s Rival, so named because she was the only thing that came close to his wife in his affections. She was a good-sized vessel, too, big enough to hold five in reasonable comfort. That was convenient, since that’s exactly how many I needed to bring along. I didn’t know what Bubba would charge me, but it had to be less than one of the commercial rentals. Despite what I’d told Gran, I wasn’t broke yet, but I was going through capital at a truly alarming rate. That refund from Birchwoods couldn’t come too soon.

“I’ll go get it.” Bubba rose with a lazy grace and meandered downstairs.

I closed my office door and locked it. I stripped down to my undies, changing out of the comfy-but-not-practical-for-business workout clothes and into the things I’d picked up from my old bedroom at my gran’s. I hadn’t had a lot to choose from and most of it had been black—from back in my “I’m cool, I’m goth” teenage period. I pulled on black low-rise jeans and was pleased to discover that they still fit perfectly. Yay. Let’s hear it for the all-liquid diet . . . at least until the next time I craved a pizza.

The cropped black tee with the motto Don’t get even . . . get odd was a little tight across the bust but not enough to be uncomfortable. The blazer I’d bought from Isaac was black, so it would match well enough and cover enough that I wouldn’t look slutty in the tight top. Which left me with a choice of shoes. I could go with the white sneakers: practical but not terribly stylish; the lace-up, heavy-duty, steel-toed Frankenstein’s work boots, which would certainly make a fashion statement but were a little extreme; or the dress pumps I’d worn to court. Not the pumps. There may be people who can run and fight in heels, but I’m not one of them. The Frankenboots were fun but heavy. So I went with the sneakers.

Once I was decent, I opened the door. Bubba would be back in a minute. Then, taking the jacket off the hanger, I spread it out flat on the desktop and opened my safe. First, before I forgot, my passport. We were going to a foreign country, after all. Then I began arming up again. I was strapping on the shoulder rig for my Colt when I heard Bubba’s tread on the stairs. I checked the gun, going with silver-jacketed loads. Not cheap and not necessary for dealing with ordinary baddies, but damned near essential if you want to do more than annoy the monsters. In my case, better safe than sorry.

I put a pair of One Shot water pistols, filled with holy water, in the snap loops Isaac had sewn into the jacket lining to hold them, then strapped on an ankle holster with my backup Derringer. When Bubba reached my doorway I was staring at the safe, wondering what else I should take. I have quite a few preset spells, little ceramic disks like the one Bruno had used at the courthouse. You don’t have to be a mage to use them. You just break the disk to release the magic. It would be very cool if Creede really could put a full binding spell in a disk. Not knowing what I’d be up against, I couldn’t know what spells I might need.

“Damn, woman, you’re arming for bear.” Bubba set the GPS unit on the desk and picked up the beer bottle he’d set there earlier.

“I’m in the middle of a situation.”

“This is about what Dottie saw in those bugs, isn’t it?” Bubba opened the beer and took a seat, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

I sighed and glanced at the Wadjeti, visible on the shelf of my open safe. “I think so.” I decided to grab a handful of boomers—tiny things, the size of a quarter, that were spelled to emit a flash of light and a deafening sound when broken. They’re useful in any number of situations. I popped a few in each of the front jacket pockets.

“You’re going to need backup.” Bubba’s voice was flat. When I turned to look at him, his expression had hardened, his pale blue eyes narrowing to slits. “And you’ll need a boat to get to that island.”

I really wanted him to take me, but I didn’t want to lie about what we might be facing. Not that I knew much about the details. “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to get ugly.”

He smiled and the chipped tooth was proof of his next words. “I can do ugly.”

He probably could. He was definitely a tough ole boy. He stood up, grabbing the beer. “Give me a couple minutes. I need to let Mona know and call Stew.”