Where Demons Dare. Kim Harrison

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       Six

      The muffled thump, thump, thump of the rubber seal of the revolving door overtook the street noise and turned into the echoing sound of sporadic voices as I entered Carew Tower. It had grown warm, so I’d left my coat in the car, deeming jeans and a sweater would be enough until the sun went down—and I’d be back in my church by then. Hoping I didn’t lose my signal, I tried to catch what Marshal was saying as I held my phone to my ear and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light.

      “I’m really sorry, Rachel,” Marshal said, sounding embarrassed. “They asked me to come in early when someone canceled, and it wasn’t like I could say no.”

      “No, it’s okay,” I said, glad I was my own boss, even if my boss was an idiot sometimes. Stepping inside, I shifted out of the foot traffic and took my sunglasses off. “I had an errand come up, so this might work out better anyway. You want to grab a coffee at Fountain Square?” Three is good. Not breakfast, not lunch. A nice, safe hour with no expectations attached. “The only thing is I have to be back on hallowed ground by sunset,” I added, remembering. “I’ve got a demon gunning for me until I can figure out who’s sending him to kill me and knock some sense into him or her.”

      As soon as I said it, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was trying to drive him away. But Marshal laughed, quickly sobering when he realized I was serious. “Uh, how are your interviews going?” I asked to break the uncomfortable silence.

      “Ask me in a few hours.” He groaned softly. “I’ve got two more people to meet. I haven’t kissed so much ass since I accidentally knocked a customer off the dock.”

      I chuckled, my gaze rising across the busy lobby to the signs directing people to the elevators. My smile ended with a flash of guilt, then I got mad at myself. I could laugh, damn it. Laughing was not saying I had cared for Kisten less. He had loved to make me laugh.

      “Maybe we should try tomorrow instead,” Marshal said softly, as if he knew why I was suddenly silent.

      Tucking my shades into my bag, I headed for the express elevators. I was meeting a Mr. Doemoe at the observation deck. Some people just love the cloak and dagger. “There’s a coffee cart at Fountain Square,” I suggested with a bitter resolve. I can do this, damn it. It was right next to a hot dog cart. Kisten had liked hot dogs. A memory hit me—an image of Kisten in his snappy pin-striped work suit, leaning casually next to me against the huge planters at Fountain Square, smiling as he caught a drop of mustard from the corner of his mouth, the wind ruffling his hair and him squinting from the sun. I felt my stomach cave. God, I can’t do this!

      Marshal’s voice intruded. “Sounds great. First one there buys. I take a grande with three sugars and a hint of cream.”

      “Black, straight up,” I said, almost numb. Hiding in my church because of heartache was worse than hiding there because of a demon, and I didn’t want to be that person.

      “Fountain Square it is,” Marshal said. “I’ll see you then.”

      “You got it,” I replied as I passed the security desk. “And good luck!” I added, remembering what he was doing today.

      “Thanks, Rachel.’ Bye.”

      I waited until I heard the phone disconnect, then whispered, “’Bye,” before shutting the phone and tucking it away. This was harder than I had thought it would be.

      My melancholy trailed behind me like a shadow as I went down the short hall, my thoughts slowly turning to the upcoming client meeting. The roof, I thought, rolling my eyes. Honestly, Mr. Doemoe had sounded like a mouse of a man when I called him earlier to set this up. He’d refused to come to the church, and I hadn’t been able to tell by phone if he was nervous because he was a human asking a witch for help or if he was just worried that someone was out to get him. Whatever. The job couldn’t be that bad. I had told Jenks to stay home since it was simply an interview. Besides, I was running errands, and dragging Jenks around when I went to the post office and FIB building was a major waste of his time.

      My trip to the FIB had been productive, and I now had information on my original three witches plus an additional one from this morning’s obituaries. Apparently two of the recently dead witches knew each other, seeing as they had joint prior arrests for the crime of grave robbing. I thought it interesting that the arresting I.S. officer had been Tom Bansen, the same nasty little twerp who had tried to arrest me yesterday.

      This was looking easier all the time. Tom had all the motive he needed to call a demon to take me out—seeing as I’d told him to shove his little demon-summoning club last year. He also had the knowledge to do it, being high up in the I.S.’s Arcane Division. That in itself would make his demon-summoning hobby harder to trace and recruitment easy as he’d run into all sorts of black-art witches eager to make a deal. David was still checking recent claims for me, and if any of them pointed to Tom, the I.S. officer and I were going to have a chat. We might have a chat anyway.

      I really didn’t think it was Nick sending Al after me. I mean, I had misjudged his character badly, but actively sending a demon to kill me? My gaze unfocused in the memory of our last conversation, and as I turned the corner, I saw one of the express elevator doors closing. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so bitchy with him. He had sounded desperate.

      Jogging forward, I called out for whoever was in the elevator to hold it. A weathered, sturdy hand gripped the door at the last moment to wedge it open. I darted inside the otherwise empty lift, turning to the man to give him a breathless “Thanks.” But my words caught in my throat and I froze.

      “Quen!” I snapped, seeing the plague-scarred elf standing in the corner. He smiled without showing his teeth, and at the hint of amusement in his eyes, it all fell into place.

      “Oh, hell no,” I said, looking for the elevator panel for a button to push, but he was standing in front of it. “You’re Mr. Doemoe? Forget it. I’m not working for Trent.”

      The older man hit the highest button, adjusted his weight, and clasped his hands before him. “I wanted to talk to you. This was the easiest way.”

      “You mean this is the only way,’ cause you know I’d tell Trent he can shove his problem up an orifice,” I said.

      “As professional as always, Ms. Morgan.”

      His gravelly voice was mocking, and knowing I was trapped here until we reached the upper floors, I slumped in the corner, not caring if I looked sullen for the cameras. I was sullen. I wasn’t going to tap a line. You don’t pull a gun unless you’re going to use it—and you don’t tap a line in front of a master of ley line magic unless you want to be slammed up against the wall.

      Quen’s smile faded. He appeared innocuous in his long-sleeved shirt and matching black pants, which looked vaguely like a uniform. Yeah, he was innocuous. Like black mamba innocuous. The man stood only a few inches taller than me in his flat, soft-soled shoes, СКАЧАТЬ