To Dance With the Devil (Page 22)

She stopped a few inches away from me. This close I could see she’d been crying. I could also see her body was actually quivering, with nerves, anger, or some other emotion.

“You’re Celia Graves.”

There was no point denying the fact. I’m pretty recognizable, what with the über-pale skin and the fangs. I’d thought the new ’do and Goth-style clothing might confuse the issue a little, but apparently not. “Yes. Can I help you?”

She pulled out the chair and sat down without an invitation. Barbara gave me a quizzical look from where she stood by a nearby table. I just shrugged. I didn’t know who my guest was, but she didn’t seem the type to start trouble.

“My mother met with you the other day. I want to know why.”

Ah. This had to be Michelle Andrews. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see her after my conversation with Dawna, but I’d hoped to have a bit of time to figure out what the hell I intended to do before I actually had to speak with the woman. I kept my expression calm and pleasant. My insides, however, were shaking nearly as badly as she was. La Cocina is very public, and I’m known to hang out here. If the bad guys were watching the place …

When I spoke, I made my voice sound ever-so-slightly bored. Which I wasn’t. At all. I was pretty much terrified. Hologram Guy had made his point, loud and clear. I decided to play dumb. If I let her take the lead I might learn something useful. “Really? Why don’t you ask your mother?”

“My mother was supposed to meet my plane this morning. When she didn’t, I went to the police station. They told me she’d been abducted.

“They found a body they think is hers. They even asked me for the name of her dentist so that they can check dental records.” Tears trailed gracefully down her perfect cheeks. Her voice quavered.

“I can’t believe it. It can’t be.” She hid her face in her hands, her body jerking with the sobs she couldn’t hold back any longer. It took her several minutes to regain her composure. All the while, the restaurant’s customers either stared openly or tried desperately to pretend nothing was wrong.

Michelle dropped her hands onto the table and pleaded with me. “Please. Please. You have to help me. The police were kind, but they didn’t tell me anything. They mostly asked questions, and the few things they did say didn’t make any sense. But I overheard someone saying that my mother had tried to hire a bodyguard. I’ve been calling everyone in the book from here to L.A.”

“What makes you think I’m the right bodyguard?” It was neither an admission nor a denial.

“I met with a man at Miller and Creede. He suggested I speak with you. Please. You have to tell me. Why did my mother want protection? What was she afraid of?”

I closed my eyes, trying to decide what to tell her. If Abigail had been alive, I couldn’t have said anything due to ethical considerations. But damn it, she’d wanted to hire someone to protect this woman, the one sitting across from me. Michelle was in very real danger and she didn’t have a freaking clue.

God, I wanted that drink.

As if on cue, Barbara came to the table with a tray containing a pair of water glasses, the smoothie, and a great big beautiful glass of frozen alcoholic goodness. I swear I wanted to kiss her. I took the margarita glass from her hand and drank most of it in a single pull as she set the little paper napkins on the table, followed by the water glasses. Then I took polite sips of the smoothie—I didn’t want Michelle to think I was a barbarian.

Barbara gave me a wide-eyed look, her brows climbing high enough to disappear beneath her bangs. But she didn’t say anything to me; instead, she turned to my guest. “Can I get you something, miss?”

The young woman toyed with her water glass, then picked up her napkin and wiped her eyes and nose. Speaking in a voice that was soft and a little hoarse, she asked for the special of the day and a Coke.

Barbara moved off to fill the order and I set about sipping my smoothie before the alcohol from the margarita kicked in.

Michelle Andrews sat there, waiting silently for me to make up my mind about what to do with her. She didn’t seem to have anything personal against me, just seemed to be generally upset. Still, if I was going to speak with her for more than a few minutes, I’d better check to make sure she was protected.

“Are you wearing an anti-siren charm?”

“Yes. Mr. Creede gave it to me. He said that I’d need it if I was going to meet with you.”

“You spoke with John personally?”

She nodded. “He was very … kind.”

Yeah, he was that kind of guy. It was one of the many reasons I missed him. I took a long drink of my smoothie, using it as an excuse to not speak while I gathered my thoughts. “All right, Michelle,” I went ahead and used her name. She hadn’t introduced herself, but in her state I don’t think she’d realized it. I said, forcing myself to smile—but not too much; no fang. “Your mother didn’t come to me for protection for herself. She wanted someone to guard her daughter.” It was a stretch to say what I did next, but it was something that had occurred to me just that morning. “I wonder if it had something to do with your adoption, with your birth parents?”

“My what? No.” Michelle shook her head. “That’s impossible.” She reached into her bag, pulling out her cell phone. After a couple of quick strokes, she passed me the phone.

The screen showed a photo. It was a cute picture. Michelle was kneeling beside her mother’s wheelchair, hugging her. Michelle was wearing a cap and gown—I assumed from her college graduation, given how she looked now—and Abigail was beaming with joy and pride as she held her daughter’s diploma in her lap.

“Is this the woman you met with?”

“Yes.”

Michelle shook her head in vigorous denial. “But I’m not adopted. I’m not.”

“Look—” I started to speak, but she interrupted me.

“No! Damn it, no. I refuse to believe my entire life is a lie. She’s my mother. My real mother. Do you understand? She wouldn’t lie to me. Not about something this important.”

Actually, I suspected she would, if it would keep Michelle safe. Abigail Andrews had appeared to me to be a tough, pragmatic woman. Kids talk. Oh, they swear each other to secrecy … and sometimes, not often, they even keep the secrets. But mostly, they talk. Adults do, too. If you truly want to keep a secret, you don’t tell anyone.

“Did she ask you to come here? Say the two of you needed to talk?” That was a shot in the dark, but it made sense.

I’ll give her this, Michelle Andrews wasn’t stupid. She caught my drift immediately. It pissed her off, and she reacted pretty much the same way her mother had a few days earlier.

She stood, shaking and with tears of rage in her eyes. “You bitch.” She turned on her heel, then shoved her way through the crowd and out the door.

Sighing, I brought the last of the smoothie to my lips, determined to enjoy it before it got too cold and became inedible. I was sipping it when I heard the crack of a rifle.

16

People often tell themselves a gunshot is just fireworks or a car backfiring. The sound is similar and the lies are reassuring. But there’ve been enough nut jobs on shooting sprees in the news recently that people don’t simply assume the sound is harmless anymore. When they hear it, they look around. And when they see a woman fall to the ground, bloody and screaming in agony, they react—badly.

People began trampling each other to get away from the restaurant’s glass doors. Some dived under tables, seeking cover. Nearly everyone was screaming. I could see a few people on their phones and hoped they were dialing 911. The smell of fear filled the air and despite the fact that my stomach was full, the predator within me began rising to the surface. My vision sharpened to hyperfocus as my body took on a sepulchral glow.

I needed out of there now, before I did something irretrievable. Drawing my Colt, I flipped off the safety. Holding it at my side, I stepped through the patio doors, moving quickly among the knocked-over tables that shielded the crouching restaurant workers and patrons.

Amid their sobs and prayers, I moved to cover, a corner formed by the awning post and wall. Peering out, I scanned for sniper spots. There were one or two, empty. No gunmen were in sight.

Michelle Andrews lay in the middle of the parking lot in a spreading pool of blood.

Taking a chance, I slid my gun back in its holster, vaulted the patio railing, and dashed across the lot.

No one shot at me. In fact, everything outside La Cocina was perfectly normal—other than the body on the ground. Traffic flowed by on the street, people were walking along the sidewalk. There were sirens in the distance, growing closer. But that was it. Eerie. I knelt beside the injured woman. The shot had hit her in the right shoulder, creating a mess of shattered bone and torn flesh.

The smell of blood and meat made my mouth water. I closed my eyes, willing the beast within me under control. I was winning when Michelle whimpered.

My body swayed from the effort it took to fight down primal instincts roused by the sound of wounded prey. I wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t food. Damn it, she wasn’t food.

Shaking with effort, I managed to open my eyes and found her staring at me, her own eyes wide with fear and pain.

“Help me. Please, help me,” Michelle pleaded weakly.

I couldn’t speak—I knew if I tried, I’d hiss, and that would only terrify her more—so I nodded. Swallowing hard, I stripped off my jacket and T-shirt. She shrieked in agony when I pressed the quickly folded shirt against the wound and put pressure on it, to try to slow the bleeding. I knew it wouldn’t stop—the injury was too severe. But slowing the blood loss might keep her alive long enough for the medics to arrive.

They were coming. The sirens were very close now. I just had to hold on. I closed my eyes, blocking out everything but keeping pressure on the wound. Sights, sounds, smells—anything that might bring the bat that fraction closer to the surface was a threat. I was in control, but only by the thinnest of threads. I knew that anything at all could push me over that edge.