Alessandro recognized Pierce's voice. Irritated, he turned. "He was drunk and obviously didn't know what he was doing. But then, you were quite aware of that."
"You think I was going to show him a good time?"
"That's what he thought."
"Huh. Okay."
"Am I wrong?"
"What else would I be doing?"
Good question. But maybe he was reading too much into the remark. Pierce is drunk, too. Alessandro was faintly impressed. It took a helluva lot of alcohol to get a vampire intoxicated. Pierce's condition showed years of dedication and practice.
"I didn't offer the professor a refund," Alessandro said, guessing it was cash he had seen change hands.
"His money's already spent." Pierce gave an acid smile. "Texas Hold 'Em can be damned slippery. There were some arrears."
"Elliot deserves a fine for his stupidity." And so did Pierce, who was well-known for his gaming debts.
"Why do you care what happens to the professor? He's an ass."
True. Alessandro lit a cigarette. "Why do you care so little?"
"Because I'm despicable. It keeps things simple."
"And you like to degrade yourself."
"It's my business. Not yours. Not the queen's. I'm just selling what she doesn't want. Who knew it had cash value?"
"It hurts her to watch, you know."
"That's the point."
Alessandro laughed.
"Is that funny?"
"I was really depressed tonight. Then I started talking to other people."
"Whatever. I need a drink." Pierce wandered back inside, his stride unsteady.
Alessandro looked out at the night, marveling. Everything looks impossible between Holly and me, but maybe there's hope yet. At least we're not insane. That's got to count for something.
Finally left to get on with his night, Alessandro pulled out his cell and turned it on. He'd switched it off before going into St. Andrew's cemetery.
His stomach turned cold.
He had five messages from Omara, all thirty minutes apart.
What now?
Chapter 22
On Tuesdays Holly had two midmorning classes: Marketing and Financial Accounting. She went because she had no idea what else to do, but it was a waste of time. Lectures on income statements and product distribution faded to a drone of white noise. She squirmed in the hard wooden seat, uncomfortable and overheated.
Memories of the night before crashed like a surf, over and over, filling her mind's eye and heating her blood. Images of Alessandro touching her—she could still feel the imprint of his fingers on her flesh—were infinitely more stirring than any fantasy. He was right: She would not forget her night with him. Ever.
And that was without his biting her. How is it possible that he didn't? Holy Goddess, what would it be like if he had?
Holly drifted from one building to the next, climbing stairs and fumbling textbooks, wrapped in her private drama. The faces of the other students bobbed by, irrelevant as pigeons. I'm useless. Maybe he skipped the blood and took my brain instead.
Holly gave herself a mental head slap. She needed to take control, focus on things that needed her energy. For one thing, the attack by changelings meant they hadn't raised so much as a wisp of a ghost. As a result, they knew nothing more about the demon or the stolen book.
Just before they went into the Flanders house, Alessandro had asked her to use a tracking spell to find out who was casting summoning spells in his client's warehouse. That gave her an idea.
After classes she took a walk to St. Andrew's cemetery. Although it had been crawling with ghouls and changelings the night before, at midday they would be tucked up in their beds. Even demons slowed down a bit in daytime, so she gambled that a solo trip would be safe in sunlit hours.
Not that there was much sun to speak of. That afternoon it poured in fine Pacific Northwest fashion, an uninhibited downpour that brought arks and pairs of animals to mind.
Her aim was to find the area where they were supposed to meet Macmillan, in the oldest part of the graveyard. She was betting the location was significant. Doggedly she trudged up to the iron fence and away from the path, gum boots miring in the soft earth as she worked her way between the graves. The sunken plots were filled with a skim of rainwater, just enough to splash as more drops came down. Holly read the headstones, thinking how cold and dank the earth would feel around her bones. She sneezed, inhaling rain.
Time to get busy before she caught pneumonia. Holly turned in a semicircle, her senses open to energetic disturbances—restless ghosts or the cosmic thumbprint of a possible portal. Holly's boots, long coat, and umbrella made the movement clumsy, their bulk forcing her to move as one unbendable unit. Sinking into the waterlogged turf, her feet moved with a sound like the Swamp Thing taking an ooze bath. Good thing psychic investigation didn't demand fashion points.
Then she stopped thinking about anything but the coppery taste of fear.
The demon was here.
She could feel the echo of its presence, but diffused, the same way one could tell a smoker had passed through a room. What she was looking for was more specific—the actual cigarette. That was harder. There was a spell fogging the energy, much the same as the cloaking spell that had hidden the ghouls and changelings from psychic view.
The energy seemed to settle on a grave to her left—old, unkempt, and spacious. The headstone had been smashed, probably by kids. With umbrella in one hand, she held the other above the grave, feeling for any unusual energy signatures. The technique involved just scanning the surface, looking for the memory of who and what had passed that way. It was easy, painless work that took more subtlety than force, but the slow process worked better without spectators. Alone, Holly could take all the time required to do a good job.
Necromancy—or rather, the dead it raised—might give specific answers, but that was useful only if you knew the right questions. This would give Holly a snapshot. If she was lucky, maybe she'd get some background as to what the hell was going on.
At first there was nothing, just the mute knowledge of the earth and grass. Beneath that there was the shadow of the buried woman, a young mother taken a century ago by the weakness in her lungs. She was nothing but a wisp of memory, her soul long moved on to a new life. She was one of the good dead, the peaceful dead. No demons there. The cloaking spell had pointed Holly the wrong way, but she'd caught it in the act.
Gotcha.
Holly searched outward, her mind probing, ranging in larger and larger circles that spiraled out from the woman's grave. There was no feeling of disturbance. How much was the spell hiding from her sight?
Then she felt something, like a cold finger down the back of her neck. Clumsy in her rain gear, she turned. In her mind's eye she saw a memory shadow, a residual imprint of a night not long ago. In the memory changelings were passing by, hurrying to join a group of others who were bowing down, cowering, terrified. Changelings and someone else—a man or a vampire—backlit by torches, reading from a book. Strange gear—sickle knives, torches, bottles made of colored glass—littered the ground around them. The smell of blood and ichor.
The trappings of ritual, Holly thought. Not a nice ritual.
The summoning ritual? Was that book the one Alessandro was after?
Then the image flickered to nothing. Holly dropped her hand, now soaked from the cuff down.
The ritual in the vision had taken place a dozen feet away, right in front of a tall stone angel with upstretched wings. Holly shifted uneasily, and a flood of water sheeted from the edge of her umbrella. A shiver coursed over her limbs, half cold and half creepiness.