Tears and Shadow (kitsune series) Page 4

  I landed on top of the wall, balancing wildly with circling arms. Once I was sure I wouldn’t fall back down, I turned. Squatting, I peered down.

  Torrent and his men peered up.

  So did Fenn, moving to see me while keeping Torrent in peripheral view. Fenn made little shooing motions with one hand, as if whatever else might happen didn’t concern me. Guys! Well, he might have a point; with me gone, there’d be no need for continued hostilities. I waved and slid down the inside of the wall, hanging by my fingers. I drew a quick breath—feeling a sharp stitch in my injured side—and let go, having minimized the length of the fall all I could.

  I never hit the ground. Arms with muscles on top of muscles caught me. I smelled white mocha, maple scone, and the pungent odor of too much musk cologne. Having heightened olfactory senses is a mixed blessing. I identified my interceptor before turning my head to see him.

  “Hi, Hammer. I was just looking for you. The top of the wall gives a good view of the area, doesn’t it?”

  “Won’t work.” He set me on my feet. “I’ve been here longer than you think. Who were you talking to outside the perimeter?” He touched his Bluetooth headset phone absently, not yet sure if he needed to call for massive backup.

  “Fenn. He should be along shortly.”

  “Good. I have a few words for him as well.”

  “Uh, I hate to be the bearer of ill tidings and all, but…” I stopped, tantalizingly.

  “Spit it out, Grace.”

  “There seem to be intruders out there of the less-than-natural type.”

  He sighed, rolling his eyes—totally stealing my thing. “Who have you pissed off now?”

  “Would you believe … shadow men?”

  He grabbed me and shoved me toward the building of the institute. “Get out of here, now!”

  I did as he said, listening to him call in the troops. We were going “Condition Red,” which meant heavy weapons and body armor. Ms. Griffin would soon be down from her CEO office to handle the more mystical defenses personally. I was really going to get yelled at later, but on the plus side, breakfast was calling.

  I came out between a few smaller buildings whose functions I didn’t know, and padded across a back street. A Security car braked. The silver Lexus had a guy in a dark suit behind the wheel. Like Virgil and Hammer, the driver wore yes-I’m-bad sunglasses. I blame this affectation on the Terminator movies. The driver powered-down a window. “Get in, now!”

  Sure, I needed a ride. I climbed in behind the driver and slammed the door. He floored the accelerator, shoving me into the backseat.

  “We’ve certainly been earning our money since you got here,” the driver said. “To think, I used to complain about this place being boring.”

  “I aim to please.”

  “Good one.” The sarcasm in his voice contradicted his words.

  We streaked past various structures on the way to the central tower, a building many stories higher than those found in Deedsville, the small town just up the road. We didn’t slow down at the structure, but nosed down into the underground parking garage. There were guys in full combat gear piling into black vans. Condition Red apparently meant the silver Lexuses were left safely on the sidelines. Our tires squealed as we braked. I slid across the seat and got out the opposite side, shutting the car door behind me. This left a straight path to the elevator. I punched the call button and the door dinged open.

  Stepping out on the first floor, I crossed the lobby. The receptionist stared coolly, her laptop switchboard on a side bar of her desk. Her magenta blazer matched her scarf, lipstick, and the edgy, painted streaks in her backswept blond hair. Black slacks and a white blouse somewhat tamed her look. She spoke into a wireless headset, “Yes, Ma’am, she’s here now. I’ll tell her.”

  I stopped for the message. Her perfume, Attar of Rose, assailed my nostrils, but I fronted a cheerful smile.

  “You are to go into the cafeteria and stay put. Ms. Griffin will be along, presently.”

  “Okay.” I turned toward the cafeteria entrance, jamming my hands into my pockets as I shouldered through the swinging doors. Beyond, lay bright lighting, long plastic tables, stacked trays, and a serving line. Recent hires, the new cooks were in place, peddling oatmeal, dumping bacon and scrambled eggs onto plates, handing out juice boxes and grapefruits. There were prices on a board—written in pastel colored chalk—for HPI’s employees. I reached the shelf where I set my tray, dragging it past various foods. The first cook in line stared at me, then over to a section of kitchen wall I couldn’t see.

  She said, “Grace Kenyon, no food allergies or special needs. That’s good.”

  The cafeteria served all company employees, but I was one of thirty or so special students that just got waved through; we paid the think-tank back in other ways. As a preternatural entity, I had yet to have my services called upon by law enforcement agencies or the feds. I was new here, my potential not quite understood yet, but my turn would come.

  Heading toward the food, my roving gaze slid to Jill and Drew. I waved at my friends, feeling a knot of tension loosening in my stomach.

  Jill waved back, but Drew was distracted, deep in conversation with a dark-haired boy who had his back to me.

  I filled a tray with a general assortment of items, and declined an offer of grits that bubbled and steamed like primal ooze. A piece of oh-so-yummy bacon delighted my tongue as I poured myself coffee, added cream and sugar, and went over to my friends. I set the tray down, and settled in a seat, only then taking a good look at the guy.

  I stared, my mouth hanging open, half-chewed bacon on display. It was Onyx … looking halfway normal in clothes he’d probably stolen from a male student’s room.

  He grinned and nodded like this meeting was ordained in the stars and written on the stone of his heart.

  I closed my mouth, chewed some more, and swallowed.

  Drew’s glasses had slid down to the end of her lightly freckled nose. She flicked a hand toward Onyx. Her nails were bubble-gum pink, matching her short, feathery hair. “This is Billy-Bob. He wouldn’t tell me his real handle so I named him.”

  “Much better than your first choice.” With a teaspoon and a great deal of concentration, Jill carefully excised a segment of grapefruit, lifting it toward her mouth. The spoon paused near her lips. “Besides, ‘Walker, Texas Ranger has already been taken.”

  “And I’ve done very little walking in Texas so far,” Onyx added.

  The change in name wouldn’t have helped; I’m more of a G. I. Joe kinda gal. Gotta love a guy with a kung-fu grip. I smiled sweetly at Onyx. “I’ve got a few names for you.”

  He cupped a hand beside his mouth and stage-whispered, “Save the endearments for later, darlin’. I’m bashful.”

  I narrowed my eyes at my would-be husband. “That’s not what I’d call it. Who let you in here anyway?”

  “Arrangements were made weeks ago for me to enjoy this experience with you. Weren’t you told?”

  “Must have slipped Ms. Griffin’s mind. I think I need to have a talk with her … soon.”

  “There were some security types in here earlier that left in a hurry.” Jill peered at me over another spoonful of grapefruit. “Your work?”

  I looked at Onyx. “Not entirely.”

  Drew and Onyx raised their faces, staring high over my left shoulder. I turned in my chair to find Ms. Griffin just behind me. “Right on cue,” I said. “How much trouble am I in?”

  “None at all, but there are a few matters I need your help with.” Arms crossed under her breasts, she rolled out her den-mother smile. She looked like she’d just escaped a fashion show, all polished poise—hair and make-up perfect, wearing a three-piece lavender suit with a silvery metallic scarf that matched her silver-set diamond earrings. Her shirt was open at the throat, revealing a silver necklace that might have been bought on a Native American reservation. A turquoise thunderbird dangled from the necklace. The bird gripped lightning in its talons, looking very
presidential.

  I crooked an eyebrow at her. “Yeah?”

  “There’s a Mr. Torrent—tall, broad-shouldered man with a long stick, I think you know him—who will be joining our security staff. Please don’t cause him any more trouble. He comes very-well connected, and we don’t need an all out war around here.”

  I nodded and sighed, temporarily defeated. I was getting a babysitter after all. Suddenly, Hammer didn’t look half bad.

  Ms. Griffin switched her focus to Onyx. “As a condition of having you here, you will cooperate with our researchers. They want to poke and prod you for a few hours this morning.”

  Onyx looked at me as he nodded at her. “Anything for love.”

  Pushing her glasses up her nose, Drew looked at Jill. “What am I missing here?”

  Jill shrugged. “It’s Grace. What do you expect.”

  I protested, “Hey, most of what I get into is seldom my fault. I’m cursed, I tell you.”

  “Maybe so,” Ms. Griffin handed me an envelope, “but we’ve got a job for you in town that’s right up your alley.”

  A chill of premonition slithered down my spine. “A job?”

  Ms. Griffin offered me a slightly malevolent grin. “There’s an evil spirit we want you to do something about. Consider it a way to make me forget you’ve been stalking Shaun.”

  Not stalking, just following, rather a lot.

  “You go, girl,” Drew exclaimed.

  Jill’s eyes opened wide. “You know he’s too old for you.” Onyx stared at me, his eyes dark, dead stones, as lifeless as his voice, “Who exactly is this … Shaun … and where do I find him?”

  My stare threatened everyone with a slow, excruciating death if they answered Onyx’s question.

  FIVE

  KISSING-THE-BUTTON: derogatory Spanish

  term for harassing rapier thrusts aimed at the

  mouth.

  Fifteen minutes later, I hurried down the hall and entered the door to my suite: two bedrooms, a central lavatory area, and a bath. I’d worked up a sweat at Shaun’s, and my shirt was ripped. I wasn’t going into town like this; casual is one thing, ragged another.

  The inner door on my left opened into my room. The place had been tidied, and Jill had made her bed. A pink, green, and blue Power Puff Girls bedspread made me smile. In every other way, Jill was a paragon of maturity with her inner-child kept under wraps.

  She was back at her computer, an expensive gaming system with a wireless control command chair like something out of a sci-fi movie. Her back was to me as she faced a massive Plasma screen. Her fingers flew over a keyboard that swung in front of her from an armrest. She wore headphones, completely focused on cyber-space. I expected to see more of the enzyme modeling she’d been helping medical researchers develop—she’d done nothing else for days on end—but she was relaxing, breaking through someone’s fire wall protection to get at restricted data. Seeing how cavalierly she did this, one would never guess her mother to be a federal judge.

  I stripped, laid out new clothes, and headed for the lavatory area with a beach towel wrapped around me. Wash cloth in hand, I gave myself the equivalent of a sponge bath from the sink. I’d have liked a shower better, but didn’t want to disturb the bandage I wore, or get it wet.

  Back in my room, I listened as Jill cackled, hacking her way into places that would have frozen the souls of combat-hardened veterans. Frequently, she also chortled in her sleep. That usually pissed me off. If I couldn’t have happy dreams, no one else was allowed.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” her voice rang with ecstasy.

  Smiling with amusement, I threw my towel on my bed.

  Jill chose that moment to push away her keyboard and spin her chair my way. Her eyes widened as she saw the bandage and tape. A little blood had seeped through by this time.

  “My Gawd,” she gasped. “Are you all right?”

  I shimmied into underwear. “Yeah, fine. It’s nothing. I fell over a garden gnome ... or something.”

  The “or something” kept it from being a lie.

  “Grace!”

  I pulled on jeans, as Jill stumbled over and grabbed my arm. She often mothered me—in an imperious sort of way—even though I was six months older. “What happened?” she demanded.

  “I got a little too close to a throwing star. A Good Samaritan patched me up. It’s not bad. I’ll lose a little time from my running, but it can’t be helped.”

  She stared at me. “Who cares about running?”

  I do.

  “You could have been killed.” She let go of my arm. “Stuff like this wouldn’t happen if you’d at least run at a decent hour.”

  I grinned at her. “I could do that, but then you wouldn’t be half so annoyed.”

  Drew wandered in, shutting the door behind her. She strolled to Jill’s bed and flopped down. “Hi guys, whassup?”

  Jill kept her sharp gaze on me, ignoring the almost interruption. She planted her fists on her hips. “Honestly!”

  I got serious though I knew it wouldn’t sound like it. “I got this cut saving Shaun from a horde of lady ninja.” I couldn’t help remembering his cool, appraising eyes, his strong hands, and warm breath on my cheek. I felt my face flush.

  Remembering she, too, was a teenager, Jill smiled. “Can’t say I blame you; he is cute.”

  “Cute isn’t even close,” I said. “On a scale of ten, he’s eleven and a half.”

  “You got his digits, right?” Drew asked. “He owes you that much for saving his life.”

  “No, no phone number,” I said

  “Gurrrl!” Drew growled the word. “When fate throws you a bone with some meat on it, you bite down hard and don’t let go.”

  “Yeah,” Jill said. “If you’re going to be reckless and stupid, you might as well make it work for you.”

  “I’ll remember that. Meanwhile, I need to get a move on. Fran and Madison will be here soon. They’re giving me a ride into town.”

  Jill rolled her eyes. “The slayer chicks from Van Helsing’s Academy? Really, they should leave rogue vamps to the PRT.”

  I wasn’t surprised Jill knew of the Preternatural Response Team; her mom was a federal judge, and Jill routinely assisted various law-enforcement agencies with computer forensics. Me, on the other hand; until a month ago, I hadn’t believed in a covert paramilitary, multi-agency task force dealing with the paranormal. I’d thought the PRT an urban legend, or the mad ramblings of conspiracy nuts needing to switch to decaf.

  “Fran and Madison are all right. They helped us out during that mess with ISIS.”

  “Yeah, for extra credit at school,” Jill said.

  That didn’t matter, I still owed them big. Besides, they might have some good ideas on handling my new assignment. It’s why I called them for a ride in the first place. I’d also hoped that with the slayers along, I could get by without HPI security. No such luck. Hammer had been happy to opt out, but Torrent let me know I’d be under his watchful eye.

  I was tempted to look under the bed and in the closet. Ms. Griffin had been firm, telling him the girl’s hallway was strictly off limits to males. The shadow men weren’t supposed to get any closer to my room than the TV lounge; Security would watch them watching me. Still, keeping track of living shadows wouldn’t be easy.

  I wondered if a dream catcher on the hall door would work.

  * * *

  They were a study in opposites: Fran, dark and Gothy—Madison, a blond and blue-eyed descendant of Vikings with the battle ax to prove it. Fran drove the white van, while Madison rode shotgun up front—with a shotgun between her knees. When I’d called for help her only question had been what kind of threat she needed to prepare for. But still, a shotgun … for a ghost…?

  She spoke as if reading my mind. “The gun’s loaded with rock salt and iron filings.”

  “Because?” I asked.

  “Oooo, I know this one,” Fran said.

  “Keep your eyes on the road. I don’t mind meeting God, but I don’t
want to do it now.” Madison turned in her seat, looking back at me. “Salt is a purifying agent. You put it in a zombie’s mouth, sowing the lips together, to keep it in the grave and sever the tie to its summoner. As for the filings, iron is like kryptonite to spooks and the fey. It’s why iron fences were sometimes put around old cemeteries; it kept the spirits of the dead from leaving.”

  “Knives were also buried under doorways to keep witches out of your house in olden days,” Fran added.

  “Wait a second,” I said. “Knives are forged. I thought the iron had to be cold iron. Doesn’t that mean wrought iron?”

  “No.” Fran looked back at me as well. “I missed that one on a test, so I know.”

  “Face forward,” Madison said. “I swear, if you get me killed, I’m going to kick your ass.”

  Fran whipped her face forward, and corrected her steering, bringing us back into our lane. I wasn’t worried about me. In case of an imminent crash, I could always cross over. But I hated to think of Fran and Madison smeared across the highway, tangled in wreckage. Hanging out with their ghosts just wouldn’t be the same.

  “Anyway,” Madison said, “cold iron refers to the fact that the iron ‘feels cold to the touch,’ iron that’s quenched in cold water, according to Franc Goose’s 1812 Dictionary of the Ruffian Tongue.”

  “Show off,” Fran muttered.

  I nodded. “So, we go to the address I was given, find the ghost, and blow him to bits.”

  “That’s a temporary measure.” Fran was looking back again. “The ghost will ground out and dissipate, for a while at least. You still need a long-term solution.”

  A vehicle screamed at us with its horn.

  ran jerked us back to our side of the road.

  “That’s it,” Madison said. “Pull over. I’m driving.”

  Fran pulled over, set the emergency lights to blinking, and got out as Madison also bailed. They switched seats and we continued. Things were quiet after that. Madison concentrated on driving, while Fran fell into a sulky silence, her arms crossed in front of her. I looked out my side window at the blurred wall of forest. There was a thick ripple of heavy shadow just inside the tree line, pacing us, that told me my entourage was staying close.