“I appreciate that. Thank you for meeting with me.” He waved and hurried off. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Bubba’s number from memory. Yeah, he’d said he’d call, but I was getting impatient. Dottie’d talked a good game going out the door, but she hadn’t looked good. Pinning the cell phone between my shoulder and ear, I dug in my pockets for a bill that was crisp enough to feed into the pop machine. He answered just as my can of “pure liquid refreshment” dropped into the dispensing bin.
“Hey, Celia. The doctors say she’s fine. Said she should get some extra rest over the next couple days, but no harm done. I did make her promise she wouldn’t be taking those stairs anymore. They’re too damned steep for a woman her age, particularly with a walker!”
“Amen to that.” I let out a silent sigh of relief. I’d tried not to worry, but I couldn’t help it. Then there was the guilt. I mean, I was absolute hell on secretaries lately. What was worse was that the death curse meant I would continue to be a danger to the people around me. I didn’t want to live in a cloister, but . . . oh, hell.
“Anyway,” Bubba continued, “she insists she is not quitting. And she told me to tell you that you’d better not fire her just because she wore herself out. You need her. She’ll just be more careful from now on. She does want to be around Minnie, and Dawna does need the help.”
He was quoting Dottie. I knew because I could hear her in the background, sounding waspish as an angry schoolmarm.
I shouldn’t agree. I knew I shouldn’t. But I also saw a lot of me in her. I knew instinctively that Dottie needed something more in her life than soap operas and cleaning her apartment. Karl had brought that to her, bringing her people to do readings for, giving her a way to use her gift and help others. Now that he was dead, she’d been set adrift.
I understood, but I was not going to push it. “Only if she promises not to overdo. She’s not going to do anyone any good if she winds up dead or in the hospital.”
He repeated what I’d said and Dottie agreed. I could hear the relief in her voice even over the phone.
She’d be careful. So would I. Until I dealt with the whole curse thing, I’d spend as much time as I could away from the office.
One step at a time, Graves. You found out about the curse. Now you find the caster and get the damned thing removed. Then you won’t have to worry so much about Dottie, Dawna, or anyone else.
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.