Blood Song (Blood Singer #1)

Blood Song (Blood Singer #1) Page 31

As I expected, the two heavier guards went first, but only after they made sure Cassandra was out of reach and protected by the third man. They were big—impressively so. They probably stood six four and six six, with the kind of muscles that come from serious weight work, but without any of the muscle-bound stiffness you see in folks who neglect flexibility training. They wore expensive, well-tailored suits in navy, with crisply starched white shirts. The only bit of color on either of them was their ties. The first wore one of knotted silk in pale yellow; the second, a more traditional red. I watched them step cautiously into the room, their eyes immediately seeking the source of the magic they’d felt downstairs, and finding it in the safe.

“What’s in the safe, Ms. Graves?” The man standing between Cassandra and me smiled when he spoke. It was a good professional smile, charming, showing straight white teeth in a face that was handsome but not excessively so. Like me, he hadn’t won the genetic lotto, but he hadn’t lost his shirt, either. He had a strong jaw and good cheekbones, but his nose was a little bit large and hooked, almost, but not quite, a beak. Eyes the color of honey met my gaze easily, and I felt him sizing me up in ways that had nothing to do with sex but weren’t ignoring the possibility. His hair was his best feature, or would have been if he hadn’t cut it so short. It was a warm light brown with golden highlights that would’ve fallen in soft, unruly curls if he’d given it the chance. Instead, it was cropped short enough to be kept under complete control.

I recognized him from their television ads. John Creede. Second billing on the letterhead, he was rumored to be the real power behind one of the biggest personal protection agencies in the business. When you care enough to hire the very best.

“It’s a weapons safe,” I pointed out drily. “What do you think is in it?”

“Impressive.” This time when he smiled he meant it, and it changed his whole appearance. Just that small change, but I felt my heart speed up just a little, my body suddenly becoming aware of him. The small hairs on my neck tingled, as did my fingers. I’d say it was his magic testing what I was, and that might have been part of it. But there was more to it. A deep shudder coursed through me as he pressed power against me more strongly. He noticed the reaction, of course, and his eyes started sparkling with mischief. Damned if he wasn’t intentionally teasing me. I’d never felt anything like what he was doing. It was primal, wild, yet absolutely controlled. His eyes started to glow lightly, liquid honey that forced me to stare while his magic made my skin ache. The worst part was I was pretty sure he wasn’t even trying.

Still, he kept his voice even and professional when he spoke. “I don’t know what you have in there, but I could feel the power almost a block away, through the building’s shielding. It takes something very … special to capture my attention. Makes me want to check it out personally, Ms. Graves.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that, but I was saved the trouble by the timely return of one of the guards, finished assessing my office for threats.

“You can come in, Ms. Meadows,” red tie announced. “It’s clear.”

Cassandra strode into the office, taking the visitor’s chair opposite the desk. She crossed her legs with lazy grace, showing a long expanse of silk-stockinged limb. I suppose they were good legs—I’m no judge of such things. But Lloyd’s of London had insured them for some outrageous amount during her last picture. Whatever.

Creede gestured for me to precede him. It was a polite gesture, so I did it, but my shoulders were tight and twitchy until I was in my chair with a wall at my back. I could tell he knew it and was quietly amused.

“To what do I owe this visit?” I kept my voice pleasantly neutral. So far, things had gone pretty well. If I was lucky, we would politely detest each other for a few minutes, get whatever business done, and I could get on with my day.

She looked at me across the desk as if miles separated us rather than a few inches of polished wood. I stayed impassive as those amazing eyes took in the bloodstains and the injuries. I caught her staring at my legs and tried to convince myself she was looking at my tattoo. Unfortunately, it was far more likely she was staring at the very old, very nasty scars that I tried not to think about but knew were just visible beneath the hem of my boxer shorts.

I watched her search for the right words and not find them.

“Were you and my daughter lovers?” I could tell it wasn’t the question she’d intended to ask, but it was the one that made it past her lips.

I burst out laughing, which startled her. “No. We were just friends. She was seeing someone the past few months. It was starting to get serious.”

“Friends.” She shook her head. It was a gesture of unconscious grace that made her shining dark hair move like a living thing around her shoulders. Her eyes met mine and I saw them shining with unshed tears. “Do you know that in my entire adult life I have never had a female friend?”

I wasn’t surprised. Friendships are usually based on give-and-take between equals. Not many women would be secure enough to consider themselves her equal, and I wasn’t sure she’d accept it if they did. But saying that wouldn’t be polite, so I settled for something a little more neutral but no less sincere: “I’m sorry to hear that.”

She gave a rueful grimace. “I came here intending to raise hell—accuse you of seducing my daughter to get her money and not even giving enough of a damn about her to arrange for a decent cremation.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Because”—she looked around her—“because of this office. Because looking at you right now, I find that I can’t.” She sounded exasperated, frustrated. “My husband told me you weren’t using Vicki, that you never had. He said that you were the one who saved her from the fire, that you visited her several times a week at the hospital, that you cared.”

Unexpected sorrow lanced through me. “Yeah. I do … did.”

A single glittering tear tracked down her perfect cheek. She sat up straighter in the chair and uncrossed her legs. “I’m told that Vicki told you her wishes with regard to her funeral arrangements?”

I chuckled. I couldn’t help it. Yes, she’d told me—and Alex and Dawna, after we’d finished our second pitcher of margaritas at the little Mexican restaurant not a block from here. Fortunately, I still had the cocktail napkin I’d made Vicki write it all down on. Just a little square of paper covered in tiny, smudged handwriting. I’d filed it in the same folder with the receipt for my pre-paid arrangements because Vicki had made me promise not to lose it.

“What’s funny?”

“Just remembering.” It had been a good night, one of the best, with good friends, good food, and bad karaoke. I scooted the chair back from my desk and got up. It was the work of a moment to find the file. I pulled out the cocktail napkin.

Cassandra laughed, then gave a startled, guilty look as if it was too soon. She was grieving, and nothing should be funny.

“I’ll go downstairs and make you a copy.”

“You’re going to keep the original.” She stated it as a fact.

I nodded. She was right. It was silly and sentimental, but I’d do it. Because every time I ran across that little piece of paper it would remind me of that night and the fun we’d had. I wanted to be reminded. Because in the press of day-to-day life it was too easy to get caught up in the bad things, let the small joys slip away.

“You’re sentimental. I wouldn’t have expected that.”

I shrugged, my hand on the doorknob. “You don’t know me.”

Her eyes seemed to dim, the last of the humor draining away, leaving sorrow in its wake. “No. I don’t.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. She could’ve gotten to know me at any time over the past several years—if she’d cared enough to bother. She hadn’t. Any more than she’d bothered visiting her daughter at Birchwoods. Saying that, however, would be cruel. I try not to be cruel—unless I’m really, seriously provoked. “You’ll need to talk to her attorney about the funeral arrangements. He already has a copy of this and is probably getting started. I think she made him the executor.” That was so obviously a slap at both of her parents that all Cassandra could do was open her mouth in shock. I used the excuse of someone coming in the front door to duck out the door before she could say anything unfortunate.

I ran into Dawna in the hall. She was back from her errands. Her face was flushed with anger, her eyes flashing. She had several shopping bags hooked over her wrist. “If I throttle that bastard, will you help me to hide the body?”

“Dawna!” Ron bellowed. I watched her eyes narrow, saw her take a deep breath as if to answer.

I took the packages from her hands. “I’ll deal with him,” I interrupted before she could say something she’d regret. Ron was being a jerk, but she needed the job. And if he pushed, he could probably get the others to agree to fire her even if I fought it. “Can you make me a couple of copies of this?”

She took the cocktail napkin curiously, opening it fully to make sure there was writing only on the one side. “No problema.” She went down a few steps and stopped. Turning to look over her shoulder, she grinned at me. “But if you kick his ass, I get to watch.”

I laughed and followed slowly behind her down as far as the second floor. My knee was still twinging. She peeled off toward the copy room. I continued down to the landing. Ron was taking a deep breath to shout again when I came down those last few steps. I stopped one step up from him. It was close enough to invade his personal space and high enough to put me at exactly eye level. I smiled and started speaking to him, keeping my voice, soft, gentle, and all the more scary for it.

“Ronald, what time is it?”

He didn’t bother to look at me. That’s not unusual for him. I sometimes think he doesn’t actually see anybody else. Ron’s world revolves around Ron. He stepped back, intending to walk around me. I stepped forward, taking back the space he’d just given himself. “I asked, ‘What time is it?’”