“So I’m supposed to sit around and wait until you decide to come home?”
I squinted at her. “Are you sure you’re not my mother?”
“That’s even less funny than it was the first time.” She dropped her jacket and other gear at her feet and spun around to shout to Clyde, “Don’t worry! I’ll pick it up in a minute.” She turned back to me. “Okay, so here’s the deaclass="underline" I want to be your apprentice again.”
Oh, no. Not that. Anything but that. “I thought you were writing your memoirs.”
“I am. But I need, you know, more stuff to happen.”
“So saving Boston from a Harpy attack and almost becoming a pop star aren’t enough?” Tina’s short-lived singing career had ended with her first concert, when attacking Morfran sent the crowd running through the streets in a screaming panic.
“Almost, almost, almost. See, that’s the problem. I fought off some Harpies, yeah, but you defeated Hellion that commanded them. That’s what really saved Boston. And there’s as many ‘almost’ pop stars out there as there are MySpace pages. Who wants to read about somebody who almost did something big? You have to help me do something for real.”
“Tina, fighting demons isn’t something you can do halfway. It’s not about gathering material for your memoirs. It takes hard work and serious commitment—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You said all that before. How it’ll take a long time and how I have to be all single-minded and stuff. I get it.” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “So when’s our next job?”
“You really think I’m going to say yes, just like that? A month ago, you decided demon-fighting was your ‘backup’ career. What’ll your new career be next month—fashion designer? Actress? Reality TV star? I can’t pour my time and effort into your training if you’re only going to give fifty percent.”
Tina’s expression grew thoughtful. “Reality TV,” she breathed. “That would be awesome.”
I pressed the button for the elevator. “Go home, Tina.”
She stuck out her bottom lip. “Why are you so mean?”
“You think I’m mean? You should meet my aunt, the woman who trained me. Mab accepts no excuses, no weakness, no ‘maybe, maybe not.’ You wouldn’t last ten minutes with her. That’s the problem—I was way too soft on you.” I’d taken on Tina as an apprentice because I felt sorry for the kid—zombified, abandoned by her parents, and most likely doomed to a life of manual labor. Zombies’ strength was the only thing norms valued about them. But feeling sorry for someone didn’t make her a good apprentice. Tina had stolen my most valuable weapon, tried to fight demons without proper training, and then quit with two seconds’ notice. She just wasn’t serious.
Her chin jutted out. “So get tough. I can take it.”
“Why, so you can write about how ‘mean’ I am in your memoirs? No, Tina. You had a chance to be my apprentice, and you quit.”
“But—”
“No. You made the decision, not me.” The elevator door opened, and I got in. The doors closed on Tina’s angry face. Well, that was her problem. I didn’t have time to fool around with a half-assed apprentice. And more than once, she’d proved that was exactly what she was.
So why did I feel a sting at the disappointment in her eyes?
MY VOICE MAIL HAD THREE MESSAGES: ONE FROM A POTENTIAL client who needed some nightmare-causing Drudes chased out of her dreamscape; the second from Gwen, who wanted to meet for lunch. “Please call back as soon as you get this,” she said. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.” I wondered if Maria had confided in Gwen about her dreams.
The third call was from Daniel. “I got your message,” he said. “If you come by the precinct, I can meet you at ten. If you can make it then, call back to confirm.”
I checked the kitchen clock. Ten would give me time to set up lunch with Gwen and return to Creature Comforts with some salve for Juliet. I called back to say I could meet him then, leaving yet another message.
I’d call the client later. The first phone contact with a new client often takes a while. It’s not just a matter of listing symptoms and setting up an appointment; most clients need a lot of reassurance that their demons can be vanquished. That in itself is a sign of a demon infestation—it’s in the demons’ interest, after all, to make their victims believe no help is possible. From her message, this woman sounded like a talker. She could wait until after lunch.
Next I called Gwen. “You want to come into Boston for lunch on a Sunday?” I asked. That was usually a family day in the Santini household.
“Nick is taking Maria and Zack to a community basketball tournament,” she said. “It’ll last all day. That leaves me with the baby, and I’ll call his sitter. You and I didn’t have much of a chance to talk last night.” I had a feeling Gwen wasn’t in the mood for a sociable chat, but we agreed to meet at a diner near South Station at noon.
I got a cotton ball from the bathroom and swiped it along the blade of the Old One’s sword. Brown Robe had sawed at Juliet’s leg with one edge of the sword; I was careful to take the sample from the other edge. The cops had a sample of Juliet’s DNA on file—as they did for every resident of Deadtown—and I didn’t want to hand the Goon Squad any leads in their search for her. I dropped the cotton ball in a plastic bag, sealed it, and put it in my purse.
Next, I went back into the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet until I found the jar of salve Mab had given me. I removed the lid and sniffed the contents. It had a deep, earthy scent, overlaid with lighter notes of herbs and some kind of flower—lilac, maybe? It smelled like health, like spring. This salve had helped me recover from a Morfran attack without a scar. The attack had been bad: dozens of demonic crows swooping at me, tearing at my flesh with their beaks and talons. Yet the salve had made me whole again. My skin tingled with the memory of its healing coolness. I hoped it would do the same for Juliet.
BACK AT CREATURE COMFORTS, I STOOD OVER JULIET’S bed. She lay still, no rise and fall of the chest to suggest she’d ever open her eyes again. She looked so vulnerable. I thought of all the horror movies that showed a vampire looming over some sleeping innocent, eager to do harm. But Juliet was the defenseless one here. Anyone who managed to find her—Goon Squad cop, Old One, even a Humans First fanatic—could do her harm.
The thought made me feel creepy, since I was the one standing over Juliet’s bed. But I was here to help her, and she’d given me permission to use the salve. Still, it felt wrong somehow to pull back the comforter and expose her leg as she slept, completely dead to the world. I did it, anyway.
I studied the wound, looking for any sign of healing, but I had to admit it looked worse. The leg was swollen and purple, still hot to the touch. If nothing else, the salve should cool it. I scooped some from the jar and spread it on the affected area as gently as I could.
Juliet didn’t move, didn’t even twitch.
I watched for a few minutes. The purple lightened a bit, grew a shade pinker. Or maybe I was imagining that in my hope of seeing some improvement. I spread on another layer of salve, then covered Juliet’s leg with the comforter. I placed the jar of the salve on the nightstand where she could reach it.
“Sleep well,” I said softly before I clicked off the light. “ ‘Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!’ ”
Damn, listen to that. I’d come up with a good Shakespeare quote—from Romeo and Juliet, no less—and Juliet wasn’t awake to hear it. Sometimes Juliet wanted to conduct whole conversations in Shakespearean. When she did, I could never cough up any apt lines. She wouldn’t believe me when I told her. But that didn’t matter. Shakespeare or not, the words expressed what I wanted to say.