I stashed my groceries under the table at the far end. Then I picked seats for the interviews. I set down my folder plus a pen and pad I could use to take notes in front of my chair, put a bottle of water alongside them and two other bottles in front of two other seats—one beside mine, for Dawna, if she came, and one for the potential hire, opposite us. I sat down and flipped through résumés for three whole minutes before I got bored and decided to take a quick trip to the bathroom. After all, it could be hours before I got another chance. When I came back, Dawna was sitting at the chair next to mine. She looked gorgeous … and utterly miserable.
Dawna is Vietnamese, tiny and delicate, with gleaming dark hair and exotic features. She’s a natural beauty who also knows the absolute best way to dress to play up her assets. Today she was wearing a hot pink skirt suit that nipped in at her tiny waist and was both long enough to be proper and short enough to show off a great pair of legs in three-inch heels. It was obvious she had been crying heavily, despite her perfectly applied makeup and the antitears eyedrops I could smell on her skin.
Crap. Apparently she was having an even worse morning than I was. “What’s wrong?” I asked as I sat down next to her. She shook her head soundlessly, fighting back tears.
“Can’t talk about it?”
“After the interviews,” she whispered, her voice harsh and raw.
“Okay. I get that. But when we’re done here, I’m taking you to La Cocina and we’ll talk. You can tell me about whatever it is, and I’ll bitch to you about Bruno.”
She gave me a weak smile.
“You know I’ll help any way I can, right?” I looked her straight in the eye, I needed her to know I meant it. I might be annoyed with her, but she was my friend, damn it.
She nodded. Rummaging in her purse, she found a tissue and used it to dry her tears and blow her nose. Then she pulled out a compact and made repairs to her makeup. She was just finishing when there was a light tap on the door. Our first interviewee was right on time.
Brian Carter was just about to graduate college and was looking for his first full-time job. That he was young was not a problem. That he was immature was. He kept staring very inappropriately at my chest and Dawna’s everything and trying to make jokes, so I cut the conversation short. There was no chance in hell I was hiring that bozo. He left reluctantly, leaving the door open behind him.
Interview two came right on his heels. Talia Han stood five eight and was built like a tank. She was wearing a T-shirt so white it practically glowed, a visible anti-siren charm, and black dress pants. Her body fat ratio had to be under three percent and her musculature was impressive. I guessed that her trousers had to be specially tailored—her thighs were bigger around than Dawna’s waist. Her upper body was equally impressive. Her skin was a lovely caramel color, her eyes a striking hazel and slightly tilted. Her hair had been shaved close to her head, but what there was of it was curly and medium brown.
“Hello, Dawna.” She smiled, showing very white but slightly crooked teeth, and passed each of us a résumé with a folded paper attached. “Ms. Graves.”
“Talia.” Dawna was a little flabbergasted, but she recovered well. “Celia, this is my cousin, Talia. I haven’t seen her in—”
“Fifteen years,” Talia supplied. “Not since my father moved us to Chicago. But I’m back, I need a job, and Grammie told me you were hiring.” She took a seat, making herself comfortable while I looked over the résumé and its attachments again. It was a stall tactic. Dawna had obviously been thrown by her cousin’s appearance. Evidently the name hadn’t rung a bell when she’d scheduled the interview. I figured I’d give her a few seconds to recover. Besides, the résumé was worth another look.
Talia was former military, a marine, with experience in the military police. The attachments were a pair of targets from the range. The results were impressive. She was obviously skilled at handling both handguns and magic. She was only a level four, but I didn’t doubt for a minute that the corps had trained her just as meticulously as the Catholic church trained its warrior-priests. I’d seen what a level four could do with proper training. The answer was: a lot.
I looked up from the paperwork. “So, what are your goals with regard to a position with our company?”
“May I speak freely?”
“I’d prefer it,” I answered. Dawna nodded her agreement.
“I need a job. There aren’t a lot of them available right now in the private sector, and some of the people with whom I’ve interviewed seem a bit”—she paused—“put off by my appearance. I didn’t think you would be. And truthfully, I hoped that the family connection might help.”
“You list several references on the résumé. Is it all right if I call them?”
“Please do.”
We chatted a bit more. I asked most of the questions, exploring details of her training and specific examples of how she’d handled various situations. Dawna chipped in a little, but for the most part she let me take the lead. As we wrapped up, I told Talia I would call her in a few days, after I’d had the opportunity to check references.
She rose, shook hands with both Dawna and me, then left, closing the door behind her.
“Well?” I asked my partner.
“I … I don’t know. Like she said, it’s been fifteen years. She’s changed.”
I started ticking off positive points. “Well, I like to support the military. She seems to have credentials. I’m assuming she knows how to follow orders, and she was smart enough to come in wearing a charm. That earns her a few points. We need a mage. I was hoping for a six, but with enough training, a four can do pretty much everything we’re likely to need, and she definitely has the intimidation factor that’s important for a lot of the simple bodyguarding work.”
“We do need another female bodyguard. You’re going to be tied up in administrative stuff a good part of the time.”
Oh, God, I hoped not. But she was probably right. Damn it.
“So what’s the problem?”
“When we were kids she was kind of a bully, really aggressive and mean. I mean, she’s probably outgrown it…” Her voice trailed off.
“But it may be her basic nature, which might make her too aggressive for what we need.”
Dawna nodded.
“Okay. Why don’t you do the calls? You’re better at subtle than I am. See if you can find out if she’s got it under control or if there’s still a problem. Check around with the family, too, if you think you can without causing a problem. We’ll hold off on a decision until we know more. Does that work?”
“It works fine.”
We had a few minutes until the next scheduled interview. I cracked open the bottle of water in front of me and took a pull as I hastily racked my brain for something to talk about. Dawna’s one of my best friends. It shouldn’t have been difficult. But I heaved a huge sigh of relief when I was saved by a light knock on the conference room door. I called, “Come in,” and the person outside opened the door.
“Kevin?” I was startled to see him. Kevin Landingham was Emma’s brother and he’d worked at the university—until the day he gave the college president a shove. Happily, he hadn’t killed President Lackley, and Lackley had decided not to press charges, since he knew about Kevin’s PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder is a real bitch to deal with. People can have bouts of rage that are difficult to control.
Thankfully, Kevin hadn’t totally lost it that day. If he had, Lackley would be maimed or dead. Werewolves are strong, with or without the full moon. President Lackley didn’t know Kevin was a shifter—most people didn’t—so he didn’t realize just how lucky he’d been. In the end, Kevin still got fired. Since then, he’s put in a lot of time remodeling his sister’s new house, gotten himself a service animal, and is doing better. But he still has a haunted look in his eyes.