Blood Song (Blood Singer #1)

Blood Song (Blood Singer #1) Page 34

I winced. Slicing yourself open every single day for five years? Ow. I didn’t even know what to say in the face of that kind of dedication and effort. “Thank you” didn’t seem to be enough, but it was all I had. So I said it. “Thank you.”

He smiled, and it softened his expression, bringing the usual warmth back into his dark brown eyes. He leaned in close, giving me a quick kiss on the forehead. “You’re welcome.”

The level of emotional intensity had risen to the point where I was getting uncomfortable, so I changed the subject. “You said the hotel. Does this mean you’re actually going to rest?”

“Only a catnap. I’m going to try to meet up with my brother Matteo before sunset—see if he’s gotten any leads on that demon I was telling you about. But I need a ride. Kevin drove me here.”

“I’ll grab my keys.” I shook my head in halfhearted disapproval and made a decision. I was not going to tell him that the demonic was involved in my mess. Not yet. He might not be my lover anymore, but he was and always would be my friend. I was worried about him. The days when we were close enough for me to have any say or influence as to what he did were long gone—if they’d ever existed in the first place. But if I could delay telling him a few hours until he was in better shape, I would. “Hope you don’t mind my stopping by the drugstore on the way? I need to wrap my knee.”

There was a tap on the door. We turned in unison to find Dawna standing in the doorway, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Celia, but you’re not going anywhere for a while. Detective Gibson is downstairs with a pair of men who keep scowling and muttering to each other in some foreign language. And the three of them are staring daggers across the coffee table at the FBI guys from yesterday. They all want to ask you questions. Now. In fact, they’re being pretty insistent about it.”

Crap. “Well, doesn’t this just suck?”

“You shouldn’t talk to them without an attorney present,” Bruno advised.

“I’ve already met with Gibson. But you’re right about the Feds.” I doubted an attorney would help much with the other two. Unless I missed my guess, they’d probably been sent here by Rusland’s king. I was actually kind of glad they were here with the police. Otherwise I might just have been taken off somewhere for a very private interrogation. Maybe even one that involved a certain level of … unpleasantness and ultimately my untimely permanent disappearance. Lucky for me, I had absolutely nothing to hide. It was unlikely any of my visitors would believe that. But if I disappeared there’d be lots and lots of uncomfortable questions and bad publicity. Bruno would see to it, even if Gibson didn’t. The king didn’t need bad press, even if his retainers did have diplomatic immunity.

And of course I said I’d cooperate fully. Hell. Don’t think about it, Graves. At this point if they want to kill you, they’re going to have to take a number. Just get through the meeting.

I pasted a smile on my face that I hoped would fool Dawna. I couldn’t fool Bruno. He knew me too well. “Dawna, do me a favor, put them in the conference room and order us up some coffee and rolls. I’m going to call my lawyer.”

“Ron’s got the conference room.”

“Of course he does.” I felt my smile wilt around the edges but tried to sound unfazed. God, why did this feel like every other weekday? “Fine. Give them coffee and tell them it’ll be a few minutes, we’re waiting for my attorney. Then order rolls. We’ll meet here in my office once the attorney arrives.” I turned to Bruno and tried to keep the frustration in my voice to a minimum. After all, none of this was his fault. Mine either, if it came to that. “Looks like you’ll be taking a cab.”

“I’m not leaving.”

I started to protest, but he silenced me with a look. “Consider me your supernatural advisor. Federal law dictates you can have one when you’re not fully human.” There was no arguing with him when he was wearing that expression, so I didn’t bother to try. Mollified, he closed his laptop, put it in the case, then got up and moved to the other side of the desk, settling into a chair in the far corner.

Dawna was shaking her head in amusement as she ducked out the door. Let her laugh. She’d never tried to budge Bruno when he was in one of his moods. Besides, considering what he’d gone through to make those knives, I owed him.

“You realize they’re not going to let you stay. Supernatural advisor or not.”

He gave me a smile that was more a baring of teeth. “Unless they are very, very good, they’ll never even suspect I’m here.”

I blinked stupidly. “You can do that? I mean—I thought it wasn’t possible for people to disappear.” Then again, wasn’t that exactly what Jones had done?

“You’d be amazed at what I can do.” Bruno gave me a genuine smile this time. “But no, I’m not disappearing. It’s a kind of illusion spell. It makes me very, very, unnoticeable—a part of the furniture. Don’t get me wrong. There are telepaths who can use mental manipulation to make you and everyone in the area think they’re seeing someone else. But I’m not a telepath. So I make do with a little magic.”

More than a little magic, unless I missed my guess. But I wasn’t going to start an argument I couldn’t win. Besides, I was curious. I’d studied the paranormal for four years and none of this stuff had come up. “So you get a good enough telepath and they really could go up in front of the crowd and pretend to be the president and everybody would think it was him?”

“If he had enough oompf, yes. But he’d have to be damned careful. Because while folks with the gift can influence what people think, they can’t manipulate reality. So a mirror, window, whatever, is going to reflect what is actually there.”

I sat there for a few seconds, trying to absorb that. I mean, telepaths had always kind of scared me—they’re mind benders after all. And it’s one of the skills the government and the schools keep the tightest rein on. But Jones had done it. Had to have. I was just starting to ponder the implications of that when Bruno’s voice brought me back to the present.

“You’d better call that attorney. Your guests won’t wait forever.”

I looked up, intending to make a snappy comeback, and he wasn’t there. Oh, he was. And if I looked really hard, I could see him. But at first glance, hell, even second glance, I would’ve sworn he was a rubber tree. Except I don’t own a rubber tree.

“Show-off.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a spell, not psychic manipulation, so I can’t move and keep up the illusion. And don’t stare or they’ll know something’s up.”

Not staring was harder than it sounded. I tried to practice, looking everywhere but at the rubber tree in the corner as I dialed the number for my attorney.

It took a couple of minutes to get through but considerably less time than it should have. I found my attorneys through Vicki’s referral. To the esteemed professionals at Pratt, Arons, Ziegler, Santos, and Cortez I was just a teeny little fish in a great big pond. It’s a big firm, with specialists in various areas of law. They’re the best, but you pay for it. There was no doubt in my mind that the only reason they dealt with me at all was as a favor to Vicki. That I wasn’t left on hold for ten minutes with the answering service meant something. I just wasn’t sure what.

Roberto Santos is the senior attorney in criminal defense matters. If you haven’t heard of him, I assume you’ve been living in a Carmelite convent or hiding somewhere under a rock. He represents the famous and infamous—provided they pay their bills. He’s a bottom-line kind of guy. I can respect that. I’m the same way. I’ve never been a big enough client to merit an introduction. My stuff has always been handled by very, very junior associates. So the last thing I expected was for the man himself to pick up the line.

“Roberto Santos, Ms. Graves. I understand you have a problem?” His voice was smooth, cultured, flowing like molten chocolate down the line. Impressive as it was over the telephone, I could only imagine the reaction of a jury in person.

It took me a second to gather my wits, but I managed. As succinctly as I could, I caught him up to speed.

He let me talk. I could hear a pen scratching across paper as he took notes, but he didn’t interrupt once as I ran through the facts. Once I finished, however, he had questions. Probing, intelligent questions. He voiced them with brisk efficiency—and actually listened to the answers. The whole conversation took maybe twenty minutes.

“I can be at your office in a half hour. In the meantime, I want you to print hard copies and make a CD for me of everything you’ve got. We’ll probably not want to share it all, but it’ll save us all time and effort if you have it all ready when I get there.”

“Right. How much am I going to owe you for this?” I didn’t really want to know, but I needed to. I just hoped it wouldn’t bankrupt me.

I managed not to gasp at the amount he quoted. I kept the firm on retainer, but the hourly fees for actual work—well, I could afford it … barely. Provided, of course, that things didn’t drag on. “I’ll have a check ready for you when you arrive.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

I hung up the phone and started getting everything ready for him. There wasn’t much. Telephone messages, some hand-written notes. I scanned those into the computer, which thankfully Dawna had gotten working. The signed contract was already on file.

Not too many minutes later I heard footfalls on the stairs and smelled fresh coffee mingled with the sweet cinnamon aroma of baked goods. Thank the good lord for Cinnabon. My stomach rumbled audibly in response.

Dawna was chatting amiably with the deliveryman from the bakery and I could hear Roberto grumbling that with this kind of workout he wouldn’t need the StairMaster. Good. I’d rather we didn’t have to wait much longer. In fact, I wanted to get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.