My guess? You’re wondering why I haven’t walked out of Cassandra’s bathroom by now. Anyway, be a gentleman and do your business outside, okay, buddy? See you soon.”
Cassandra said, “He’s smiling. Huh. I wonder why he’s checking out the toilet?”
“No idea. So we’re stil stuck on what happened to Vayl?”
“I’m sorry, Jaz. I haven’t found any mention of this kind o f memory loss in the Enkyklios or my books so far, so I don’t think it’s a natural occurrence for vampires.”
“Yeah, Astral hasn’t come up with anything either.” Which sucked. Cassandra could research hundreds of supernatural sources. Astral, the wundercat Bergman had invented for me, also contained an Enkyklios, along with every government database I cared to access. Problem was, only a smal number of vamps had ever made it into the records. Most of them lived highly secretive lives, and of those who’d shared info, none had experienced Vayl’s current malady.
I took a deep breath. “Al right, then. I’m bringing in Sterling.”
Silence.
“Cassandra?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Who hasn’t?”
“Do you think—that is—maybe someone else would do just as wel ?”
“We’ve worked together before.”
“And how did that turn out?”
I cleared my throat. “I believe the city was going to have that house torn down anyway—”
“Jaz—”
“He’s the best. Nobody else wil do.”
“Okay.”
“So, uh, could you cal him?”
I didn’t actual y hear her gulp. But the long pause led me to believe she went through a hard swal ow or two before she said, “Me?”
“Yeah. Wel .” I pul ed my poker chips out of my pocket.
Set them down on the bench and began to shuffle them.
When I’d calmed down enough to talk again I said, “The last time I saw him, he told me that if I ever spoke to him again he was going to turn my hair purple and put a permanent knot in my tongue. He’s good enough to pul that off, you know.”
“What did you do?”
I sighed. If she was going to be my emissary, maybe she should have some background. “It was about three months before I started working with Vayl. I was chasing down a mage who’d been hired by some lobbying group to give the first lady a disease. I can’t even remember the name of it now. But it was rare enough that the government wasn’t providing any research funding. They figured if the president’s wife came down with it, the money would come pouring in. I’d cornered the mage once, but when he nearly dropped a bank sign on me, Pete decided I needed some hocus-pocus in my back pocket.”
“So he sent in Sterling.”
“Who is, I kid you not, the most annoying man on earth.
We’re only on the case for two weeks, but the entire time he never stops bitching about al the gigs he’s missing and how his band is probably just fal ing apart having to play with this dude from St. Louis. Like they’ve never heard of jazz in Missouri.”
I shook my head, realized Cassandra couldn’t see me, and went on. “So we’re searching through this abandoned house in the worst neighborhood in D.C., where we’ve heard the mage has holed up. There’s trash everywhere. It stinks like rotten potatoes and I’m pretty sure rats are living inside the furniture, so at least Sterling’s wearing shoes this time out. But I can’t figure why he’s dressed the rest of himself like a house painter. If his T-shirt was any whiter it would glow, making him a prime target. This, of course, makes me realize my black-on-black ensemble has probably qualified us to star in the next series of Good vs.
Evil videos on YouTube. But I’m not interested in becoming a cartoon. I just want to kil the mage and run before I catch whatever he’s got cooking for Mrs. President. However, Sterling’s not in the mood. He’s just had a cal from his drummer, who’s enchanted with his St. Louis sit-in.
Dumbass just can’t stop complimenting the guy whose name is, I kid you not, Doobie. We’re in the kitchen, I’ve got Grief off safety, and Sterling should be ready with a kickass spel . But instead he starts muttering the same old complaints.”
“Fucking Doobie, stealing my gigs, no doubt fucking everything up.”
“Hello?” I say. “Potential target behind the fridge. Or in the closet. And you don’t even have your wand ready!” He looks down at his empty hands. His fingers are long and pale. Great for weaving spells or playing the piano. I can’t imagine why his chosen instrument is the trumpet. “You can’t just carry wands around like cocked guns,” he says, frowning at me like I should have intimate knowledge of warlock lore. As if they don’t have it all guarded closer than nuclear material.
“Why not?” I ask.
“It’s dangerous , Chill.” That’s what he calls me, I think just to piss me off. He shakes his head to emphasize his point. His hair falls straight to his shoulders. It’s so black I’d suspect a bad dye job if he wasn’t a Power. He’s saved from utter geekdom by two factors. The hair sweeps directly back from his forehead, so there’s no part to reveal the freakish white of his skull. And he walks and talks with a rhythm that comes from somewhere deep underground, like he’s locked into the music of the earth itself.
We move on to the dining room, which may contain a table, but we can’t be sure because all we see are moldy boxes packed with old newspapers. I think we’re back on track until he says, “If this assignment goes on for more than a couple of days I’m gonna have to split. I gotta get back to my band.”
“Are you nuts?” I’m so mad I’m hissing. “We’re about to confront a disease-carrying mage and all you can think about is your stupid band? Would you like me to tell you what matters least to me right now? I mean even less than clipping my toenails? Your band. The fact that some dude named Doobie is getting his ass germs all over your chair. And that he’s probably playing better than you do.”
“Where do you get off talking tunes?” he spits. “You don’t know shit about jazz. Hell, you’re not even black.” Anybody else might’ve laughed until they blew snot.
But Matt and my Helsingers have only been dead for four months. I still feel like I’m walking around with no skin, just bleeding through my clothes like they should be bandages. So if you scratch me, I don’t bleed harder. I scream:
“You’re not black either, you bigoted twat! You’re whiter than me, and I’m a pasty-ass redhead! All you do is sit around and whine about how you’d be better-looking if you were black, you’d get more dates if you were black, you’d be a better musician if you were black. Because you know that’s the one thing even the most powerful warlock on earth can’t change. So it’s the one excuse you can make that nobody can throw back in your face as your own failure. How about you shower more than twice a week?