Keeper of the Moon. Harley Jane Kozak
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Название: Keeper of the Moon
Автор: Harley Jane Kozak
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
isbn: 9781472006646
isbn:
Declan nodded. The moment they’d found Charlotte on the beach, he’d known in his gut that her death was a murder. But now, it seemed, the whole world knew it, and that hardened his resolve.
Reggie was watching him closely, reading his thoughts to some degree. “And you have a personal stake in this, don’t you?” he asked. “Didn’t you used to date Charlotte Messenger?”
“Yes.”
“Bad luck, her being found so close to your house.”
“Bad luck her being dead at all,” Declan said. “But worse luck for her killer.”
“Why is that?”
Declan smiled grimly. “Because I am going to send him to hell.”
The bouncer must have been given her name, Sailor thought, because he waved her through with no questions. Elven, she thought, and gave him wide berth, then entered the darkly atmospheric club.
She’d been a regular at the Snake Pit since turning legal. Back then it had been the heady thrill of drinking alongside celebrities. But some months ago she’d been part of a movie deal made right there at an A-list table, a role she’d been euphoric about playing—until the deal fell apart. The whole incident had left a bad taste in her mouth, and since then she’d avoided the chaotic main room, sticking instead to the quieter venue next door where Rhiannon could often be found singing and playing her beloved Fender. In the main room the music—and crowd—was rougher-edged.
Sailor made her way toward the stage through throngs of people, some dressed to the nines, some with the grunginess of migrant farmworkers. She took care to steer clear of any Elven. She was still in her waitress uniform, black polyester velvet, but theatrical, and with enough spandex to cling to her like an ace bandage. She’d traded her comfortable shoes for a pair of heels she kept in the trunk of her car, but she still longed for a shower and some real clothes. Her arms were bare and the concrete room cold, with a blue mist coming up from the floor, but she welcomed the sensation. She suspected she was running a fever.
Unless it was the thought of seeing Declan at any moment that was raising her temperature.
The band was tuning up, an unwashed quartet wearing chain mail, but Declan wasn’t anywhere nearby, so she climbed a spiral steel staircase to a cavernous green room furnished with cubist sofas, where one couple openly snorted cocaine and a trio of uncertain gender engaged in some act of sex. No Declan there, either.
But she noticed something. Her vision was sharper than usual, colors more vibrant and people more attractive. It had happened at work, too, now that she thought about it. Not all night, not consistently, but in waves. Similar to what she’d experienced when she’d awakened in Alessande’s house. Once she’d taken the síúlacht she couldn’t recall it happening anymore. Until now. So maybe it was a symptom that the síúlacht suppressed, and maybe now the síúlacht was wearing off.
She descended to the basement, a different scene altogether, with its own bar and two poker games in progress. She asked a cocktail waitress where she might find Declan Wainwright, and the woman nodded toward a corner.
Sailor saw the back of his head, his black tousled hair, and then her heart did a fluttery thing and her bravado started to slip. Not good. She needed confidence if she hoped to be taken seriously. Unless she could get her game on, this wouldn’t work.
A restroom was to her right, and Sailor slipped in. It was stark and dark, illuminated by floating votive candles, on the assumption that no one wanted to see herself clearly at this hour of the night. Sailor leaned in to stare at her flickering reflection, giving herself the equivalent of a half-time locker-room talk. “I know that in Hollywood terms Declan Wainwright is a rock star and you’re at the bottom of the food chain. But in Otherworld terms, you’re both Keepers. And that’s why—”
Three women entered the bathroom, two heading for the stalls, one stationing herself at the adjoining sink. Sailor glanced at her: nightclub-chic, exotic clothes. Great. Here she was in her cheap uniform with her crazy eyes, talking to herself.
“Be careful, sister,” the woman said.
Sailor looked at her, startled. The woman was applying lipstick, her face close to the mirror. She paused, pressed her lips together to blot them, then said, “The one who can fly through the air, he is not to be trusted. Nor can you trust your own kind.”
“Excuse me?” Sailor said.
The woman shrugged, still looking at herself in the mirror. “I’m a messenger. I hear words, I repeat them. Does the message mean something to you?”
An image of the winged creature flashed through Sailor’s mind. “Yes, I think so. But who are you?”
“I just said. A channeler, okay? I hear messages. Usually from the dead. Not always. Runs in the family. Kind of a drag. Anyhow …” With a last look at herself, she turned to go.
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