Siren Song (Blood Singer #2)

Siren Song (Blood Singer #2) Page 42

Another pair of guards appeared at the doorway. Passwords were exchanged, holy water was sprayed by both sides. I approved. Since we’d had a verified imp encounter on the boat Queen Lopaka’s people weren’t taking any chances. Very professional. I like professional.

One of the guards pressed a series of buttons on the keypad next to the front door. A light flashed green, the door opened, and I stepped over a threshold with enough buzzing power to take my breath away.

Baker noticed my wince and where I was rubbing my already sore arms. “Sorry, Princess. But we upped the wards and also spelled the building so nobody can to teleport in or out.”

Actually, that was nice to know. “Thank you.”

“It’s my job. So long as you’re on the island, my team is charged with your personal security.”

I had my own secret service detail? Seriously. Oh, that was just wrong on more levels than I could count.

“I’d appreciate it if you could give us a couple minutes’ notice before you leave the building.”

I could understand that, having worked the other side of the equation. “I’ll do that. I’m probably in for the night, though.”

“Thanks.” She smiled. “Explore the building all you want. Your suite is the top floor and has a balcony with an ocean view. It’s a sheer drop, so there’s no good spot for a sniper, and the space has been spelled. No chance of getting pushed off, either.”

She was giving me more detail than I expected, and I appreciated it. Then again, she’d probably been briefed that I worked in security and was making sure I knew they had all the bases covered.

“Thank you.”

“Again, it’s my job. But you’re welcome.” She bowed and let herself out.

There was a lot to explore, all of it gorgeous and still comfortable enough to make you feel like you could put up your feet and unwind. I found Bubba in the TV room doing just that, watching football highlights on the big screen. Beside him were half a dozen empty beer bottles and a big bowl of buttered popcorn.

“Yo, Graves.” His greeting lacked its usual warmth.

“Yo, Bubba.” I walked behind the wet bar and opened the fridge. It was fully stocked with several different varieties of beer, juices for mixing drinks, and a few cans of soda. I grabbed one of the latter, flipped open the top, and went to make myself comfortable on one of the bar stools.

He didn’t say anything, keeping his eyes glued on the game. Shit. Well, I could either sit here and let him give me the cold shoulder or grab the bull by the horns.

“Bubba, I’m really sorry about the Mona. I told you I was into something bad, but I didn’t expect it to be that bad.”

“It’s not the boat.” He dropped his feet to the floor, rose, and went behind the bar to get another beer. Twisting the cap off, he tossed it toward the waste can . . . and missed. He never misses. He was drunk. Holy crap. Bubba can hold his alcohol. He must’ve had a lot of beer—more than the empties indicated. Still, his feet were absolutely steady as he came around the bar and took the stool next to mine.

“How many years have we known each other, Celia?”

He was using my first name. Not good.

“A few.”

“You’ve been to my kid’s birthday parties, helped me pick out Mona’s anniversary gifts.”

This was going nowhere good. “Yeah.”

“And you never told me you’re a princess? That you have your own freaking secret service detail?”

I interrupted him before he could get any more outraged. I needed to nip this in the bud. I’d thought he was pissed about the boat. This was worse. He thought our entire friendship had been based on a lie. “I know. How weird is that?” I shook my head in disbelief. “I’m a bodyguard and they give me bodyguards?”

He opened his mouth, but I waved him to silence.

“Bubba, you’ve met my gran. You’re my mom’s bail bondsman, for Christ’s sake. You’ve seen the house where I grew up. I didn’t hide anything from you. Until Vicki’s wake, I had no idea any of this shit existed. I swear it to you.”

“But—”

“I didn’t even know I had siren blood until after the vampire bite. If the bat hadn’t tried to bring me over, the talents wouldn’t have manifested and none of this would’ve happened. To be honest, I didn’t really believe the woman when she told me I was siren royalty. I mean seriously, that is so . . . Disney.”

Surprised, he choked a little on his beer but managed to swallow it. “Oh, God, I’m picturing you starring in that movie—the one Sherry likes so much.”

Sherry was his daughter, eight years old and every inch the little princess down to her rhinestone tiara and pink tulle bedroom. She had her daddy wrapped around her little finger and had made him watch The Princess Diaries with her over and over again.

I rolled my eyes, but it was mostly for effect. He was grinning like an idiot. Thank God.

“Can it, Bubba.”

He started humming. I didn’t know the theme song for the movie, but I’d be willing to bet that was what it was.

I grabbed the first thing I could reach on the bar—one of those little foil bags of roasted nuts—and flung it at him. He caught it in midair, giggling like a lunatic. He ripped it open, still chortling. It took him a minute or two to settle down. I didn’t mind waiting. We were going to be all right. I was glad. I don’t have enough friends to be willing to lose one over something stupid.

He ate a few nuts with a chaser of beer. I sipped my soda.

“I called Mona, told her what happened.”

Oh, shit. Mona was gonna kill me. “Maybe it’s a good thing I’ve got those secret service types.”

He choked again and this time he wound up coughing. I patted him on the back. A useless gesture, but I was pretty sure he didn’t need the Heimlich.

Tears were flowing from his eyes. “Oh, God, Graves, don’t do that to me.”

“Sorry,” I apologized meekly.

He shook his head. “I told her about the imp. How you stood toe-to-toe with it, damn near bare-ass naked, and fired a One Shot of holy water down its gullet.”

He sounded awed and it made me blush. It sounded a lot more impressive than it was. Honest truth, I hadn’t had a lot of choice. I mean, it was a frickin’ boat. It wasn’t like I’d had anywhere to go.

“You know what the wife said?” He was chortling now, his big body shaking with mirth.

“What?”

He imitated his wife’s voice as best he could: “ ‘Very impressive. But tell me something, Bubba. Why was Celia running around your boat naked?’ ”

“Oh dear.”

17

I could so get used to this. The bed was heavenly, with the perfect soft-to-firm ratio and sheets with a thread count so high they ought to cost as much as my car.

My suite was elegant and gorgeous, and since the security was so good, I’d felt perfectly fine leaving the French doors to the balcony open so that I could listen to the waves and smell the ocean breeze.

I woke to a light tap on the bedroom door. “Who is it?”

“Creede. You decent?”

“Hang on a second.” I jumped from the bed and pulled on one of those ultra-thick terry-cloth robes you can only find in the really high-end hotels. Belting it tight around me, I called out, “Okay, come on in.”

The door opened and Creede stepped inside. Once again, everything that was him preceded ahead of his body and I fought not to shiver. He took a long look around, taking in the solid oak cabinets, dresser, and built-in desk equipped with a top-of-the-line computer. The curtains were dark gold, the color a perfect match for the carpet, which had also been color-coordinated with the cream-, gold-, and brown-checked comforter. There were half a dozen throw pillows in brown and gold, although at the moment most of them were piled in the far corner of the room rather than on the bed.

A conversational group was arranged at the other end of the room, all of the furniture expensive, comfortable, and color coordinated. The final touch was a beautiful abstract oil painting that used all of the colors in the room. It was huge, taking up most of one wall. It was gorgeous, the kind of thing I could stare at for hours, noticing more and different details. It probably cost more than the house I was buying from my gran.

Creede did a slow turn, taking in the sights. “Nice.”

“It is, isn’t it? Yours?”

“Oh, it’s not bad. But it’s not like this or Dahlmar’s. Then again, I’m not royalty.”

He was trying to sound casual, but he was tense. I could see it in the tightness of his shoulders, the way he kept flexing his hands. He looked a little worse for wear. There was a big bandage on his cheek. His jeans were gone, replaced by a pair of drawstring sweatpants, his nice blue polo shirt by one of Bubba’s T-shirts. It was black and showed a slavering bulldog with the caption Who’s the bad dawg? So very Bubba.

He gave me a long, appraising look. “You have clothes?”

“I sure as hell hope someone’s going to find me some. The lavalava’s nice, but you can only wear something like that so long.” I gestured toward his ensemble, “And somehow I don’t think Bubba’s loaners would fit me.”

Creede wandered over to take a seat on the couch. I took the love seat directly across from him, curling my legs up onto the seat beside me. It was worth it to me to stare him square in the eyes. “Thanks for banishing the imp yesterday.”

He scowled. He was a tough guy and I’d just broken rule one of the Certified Tough Guy Manual. I’d said “thanks.” You don’t do that.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably and I wasn’t sure if it was just because I’d said “thanks.” “Seemed the least I could do under the circumstances.” Which was the acceptable way of saying “thanks” to me for my part in the rescue.

“So, what have I missed?”

“Quite a lot really. I’m not even sure where to start.”