My eyes flicked to Ivy, standing with her arms clasped about herself as if she were upset. Oh, God. What was I doing here?
“What’s Piscary to you?” I asked, hearing my voice tremble.
“Nothing,” she said, and I made a scoffing noise. “Really,” she insisted. “He’s a friend of the family.”
“Uncle Piscary, huh?” I said bitterly.
“Actually,” she said slowly, “that’s more accurate than you might think. Piscary started my mother’s living-vamp bloodline in 1700s.”
“And has been bleeding you slowly ever since,” I said bitterly.
“It’s not like that,” she said, sounding hurt. “Piscary’s never touched me. He’s like a second father.”
“Maybe he’s letting the blood age in the bottle.”
Ivy ran her hand over her hair in an unusual show of worry. “It’s not like that. Really.”
“Swell.” I slumped to put my elbows on the table. Now I had to worry about chosen scions invading my church with the strength of a master? Why didn’t she tell me this before? I didn’t want to play the damn game if the rules kept changing.
“What do you want with me?” I asked again, afraid she might tell me and I’d have to leave.
“Nothing.”
“Liar,” I said, but when I looked up from the table, she was gone.
My breath came in a quick sound. Heart pounding, I stood, my arms clasped about myself as I stared at the empty counters and silent walls. I hated it when she did that. Mr. Fish on the windowsill wiggled and squirmed, not liking it, either.
Slow and reluctant, I put my charms away. My thoughts swirled back to the fairy attack on my front steps, the Were splat balls stacked on my back porch, and then to Kist’s words that the vamps were just waiting for me to leave Ivy’s protection. I was trapped, and Ivy knew it.
I tapped on the outside of the passenger window of Francis’s car to get Jenks’s attention. “What time is it?” I said softly, since even whispers echoed down in the parking deck. Cameras were recording me, but no one watched the films unless someone complained of a break-in.
Jenks dropped from the visor and wedged the button for the power window down. “Eleven-fifteen,” he said as the glass lowered. “Do you think they rescheduled Kalamack’s interview?”
I shook my head and glanced over the tops of the cars to the elevator doors. “No. But if he makes me late, I’m going to be ticked.” I tugged at the hem of my skirt. Much to my relief, Jenks’s friend had come through with my clothes and jewelry yesterday. All my clothes were hanging in neat rows or resting in tidy piles in my closet. It felt good seeing them there. The Were had done a nice job washing, drying, and folding everything, and I wondered how much he’d charge to do my laundry every week.
Finding something to wear that was both conservative and provocative had been harder than I thought. I had finally settled on a short red skirt, plain tights, and a white blouse whose buttons could be undone or fastened according to need. My hoop earrings were too small for Jenks to perch on, which the pixy had spent the first half hour complaining about. With my hair piled atop my head and a snappy pair of red heels, I looked like a perky coed. The disguise spell helped; I was a big-nosed brunette again, reeking of that lavender perfume. Francis would know who I was, but then, I wanted him to.
I nervously picked at the dirt under my nails, making a mental note to repolish them. The red enamel had vanished when I turned into a mink. “Do I look okay?” I asked Jenks as I fussed with my collar.
“Yeah, fine.”
“You didn’t even look,” I complained as the elevator chimed. “That might be him,” I said. “Are you set with that potion?”
“I only have to nudge the top and it will be all over him.” Jenks rolled the window up and darted into hiding. I had a vial of “sleepy-time” potion balanced between the ceiling of the car and the visor. Francis, though, would be led to believe it was something more sinister. It was incentive for him to agree to let me take his place at the Kalamack interview. Hijacking a full-grown man, wuss or not, was tricky. It wasn’t quite as if I could knock him out and lug him into the trunk. And leaving him unconscious where anyone could find him would get me caught.
Jenks and I had been in the parking deck for an hour now, making small but telling modifications to Francis’s sports car. It had taken Jenks only a few moments to short out the alarm and rig the driver’s door and window locks. And while I had to wait outside the car for Francis, my bag was already tucked under the passenger seat.
Francis had earned himself a real cherry of a car: a red convertible with leather seats. There were dual climate controls. The windows could go opaque—I knew, because I had tried them. There was even a built-in cell phone whose batteries were now in my bag. The vanity plate read, BUSTED. The hateful thing had so many gadgets, all it needed was clearance to take off. And it still smelled new. A bribe, I wondered with a stab of jealousy, or hush money?
The light over the elevators went out. I ducked behind the pylon, hoping it was Francis. The last thing I wanted was to be late. My pulse settled into a fast, familiar pace, and a smile eased over me as I recognized Francis’s quick footsteps. He was alone. There was a jangle of keys and a surprised “Huh” when the car didn’t make the expected welcoming chirp as he disengaged the alarm. My fingertips tingled in anticipation. This was going to be fun.
His car door squeaked open, and I sprang around the pylon. As one, Francis and I slid into either side of the vehicle, our doors slamming shut simultaneously.
“What the hell?” Francis exclaimed, only now realizing he had company. His narrow eyes squinted and he flicked his limp hair out of his eyes. “Rachel!” he said, nearly oozing misplaced confidence. “You are so dead.”
He went for the door. I reached across him to grip his wrist, pointing up to Jenks. The pixy grinned. His wings were a blur of anticipation as he patted the vial of brew. Francis went white. “Tag,” I whispered, letting go of him and locking the doors from my side. “You’re it.”
“Wh-What do you think you’re doing?” Francis stuttered, pale under his nasty stubble.
I smiled. “I’m taking your run to interview Kalamack. You just volunteered to drive.”
He stiffened, a hint of backbone showing. “You can just Turn yourself,” he said, his eyes on Jenks and the potion. “Like you’d dip into black magic and make something fatal. I’m tagging you right now.”
Jenks made a disgusted sound and tilted the vial. “Not yet, Jenks!” I shouted, lunging across the seat. Nearly in Francis’s lap, I snaked my right arm around the scrawny man’s windpipe, gripping the headrest to pin him to the seat in a headlock. His fingers clutched at my arm but he couldn’t do anything in the close confines. His sudden sweat mixed with the scrape of his polyester jacket against my arm, and I thought it more vile than my perfume. “Idiot!” I hissed into Francis’s ear, glancing up at Jenks. “Do you know what that is, dangling above your crotch? You want to chance that it might be irreversible?”
Red-faced, he shook his head, and I eased myself closer despite the gearshift jabbing my hip. “You wouldn’t make anything fatal,” he said, his voice higher than usual.
From the visor, Jenks complained, “Aw, Rache. Let me spell him. I can coach you on how to drive a stick.”