“Best to be absolutely certain, though.”
He was right. Neither of us needed to be involved in a jewel theft, though my instincts were with Miss Weaver being on the up and up. She’d gotten truly angry having her word questioned. Honest people are like that.
“Miss Weaver? Over here a moment,” I said, moving toward the kitchen door. Might as well get it over with.
“What for?”
“A private word.” I opened the door just enough to provide some light to work with. She had to be able to see me.
“Will you do this or not?” she demanded.
I looked her hard in the eyes, concentrating. “Miss Weaver, I need you to listen to me very carefully . . . ” I’d not smelled booze on her breath. This is difficult to do when they’re drunk or even just tipsy. Or insane.
Fortunately, she was neither and went under fast and easy. That was fine with me; hypnotizing people gave me a headache, and lately it had been worsening. Even now it felt like a noose encircling my skull, drawing tight.
Escott stepped in close. “Miss Weaver, are you the rightful owner of Hecate’s Eye?”
“Yes.” Her voice was strangely softened. Her eyes were her best feature, nearly the same color as her hair, a darker red brown. At the moment they were dead looking. I hated that.
The rope twisted tighter.
“Did your cousin Agnes steal it from you?”
“Yes.”
He glanced my way again, questioning. It was up to me. He’d need my help and not just to watch his back.
“Count me in,” I said. I wanted to see what a cursed jewel looked like.
He nodded and turned to our new client. “You may trust us, Miss Weaver.” It was both acceptance and an instruction.
“All right,” she agreed, almost sounding normal.
I quietly shut the door. The darkness crowded close around us. She’d wake on her own shortly. My head hurt. I think it had to do with guilt. The more guilt, the sharper the pain. I didn’t like doing that to people, but especially to women. I have my reasons.
Miss Weaver would not recall the interlude. Just as well. She might have popped me one, and I’d have deserved it.
Escott was satisfied we weren’t being duped into committing a criminal act—not much of one, anyway. When Miss Weaver woke, they shook hands, clinching the deal.
Stealing back a stolen item was nothing new to him. The work was no great mental challenge, but paid his bills. This would be a legal cakewalk. Agnes the thief wouldn’t dare report it to the cops, especially since Miss Weaver’s boyfriend and his family would swear she was with them all evening, wearing the heirloom pendant.
The cat shot out of the dark, lancing between us for the street. I shoved our client behind Escott and rushed the other way, pulling my gun from its shoulder holster. Yeah, I’m a vampire, but Chicago is a tough town . . . and I have bad memories concerning alleys.
A man crouching behind the garbage barrels slowly stood, hands out and down, his hat clutched in one of them. He had an egg-shaped balding head, thick arching black eyebrows, and plenty of teeth showing in his smile. “Easy, there, friend. No need to get bothered. Me an’ Charlie over there are old acquaintances. You just be askin’ him.”
An Irish accent combined with a sardonic tone. I didn’t turn to check on Escott; he’d moved next to me and had his own gun out, a cannon disguised as a Webley. A small flashlight was in his other hand, the beam on the man’s face.
“Riordan,” my partner said. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“That would be tellin’. We two bein’ in the same line, I’m sure you understand I have to maintain a bit of hush about me business.” He spoke fast with a glint in his eye, as though daring the world to call him a liar, even if it was true.
Escott held his gun steady. “Following Miss Weaver, are you? Working for Cousin Agnes?”
Riordan didn’t blink, just kept grinning. “Now is that civilized, asking a man questions he can’t answer while tryin’ to blind him? Not to mention threatenin’ him with no less than two deadly weapons. I ask you now, is it?” When he got no reply, he looked my way, squinting against the light in his eyes. “So you’re the mystery fellow who’s been keepin’ this lad out of the red. Pleased to meet you. Shamus Riordan, me name is me game, spell it the same.” He put a hand out.
I took my cue from Escott and kept him covered.
Miss Weaver came cautiously forward. “Is that true? Agnes hired that man to follow me?”
“Circumstances favor it,” said Escott. He looked tense and—rare for him—unsure of himself.
Riordan raised his hat. “Pleased to meet you, Miss. We appear to be at a partin’ of the ways, so if you don’t mind I’ll be takin’ me leave.”
“Jack . . . ” I’d seen this coming, even if I wasn’t clear on the why behind Escott’s caution. Gun holstered, I stepped forward to grab Riordan and pin his arms, but he bolted an instant ahead of me. He dragged a garbage can down to block my path, but I had enough speed when I jumped it to land square on his back and tackle him. That should have finished him, but he twisted like a snake, hammering short, powerful blows under my ribs with one hand, while his other covered my face, pushing me away, his fingers curled for eye-gouging.
Before that happened I vanished.
I’m good at it. It drains me, but damnation, it’s the second best thing about my change from living to undead. The first best has to do with my girlfriend, but I’ll talk about that some other time.
My abrupt absence didn’t faze Riordan; he scrambled up and sprinted, but by then I’d reformed in front of him and landed a solid fist to his gut that almost stopped him cold.
Struggling for air, he staggered and stubbornly kept going, but I swung him face-first against a brick wall and hauled his arms back just short of dislocation. I was fresh for more fight. Vanishing heals me: no bruises in my middle. Even my headache was gone.
Escott caught up, our client in his wake.
“What do we do with him?” I asked. Let him go and he’d phone Cousin Agnes.
“I suggest a refreshing nap.” Escott held the light; I turned Riordan around and made myself calm. I couldn’t let myself get emotional. It adds extra pressure to things that can permanently damage a mind.
Riordan was gasping, his face red under the sweat, but his brown eyes were alert and suspicious, his forearms raised to ward off a physical attack. I fixed my gaze hard on him and told him to listen to me, just as I’d done with Miss Weaver. Only nothing happened. The noose went tight around my head from the effort, but Riordan stayed conscious. His breath told me he was sober, leaving one alternative. “Charles . . . he’s crazy.”
Riordan grinned. “We Irish . . . are a mad race . . . or so I’m told,” he puffed out. “What concern . . . is it t’you?”
Escott snorted. “I’m not surprised. He still wants a nap.”
“No problem,” I said, and popped Riordan one the old-fashioned way. His eyes rolled up, and he slithered down the bricks as his legs gave out.
Miss Weaver gaped. “My God, did you kill him?”
“Not yet.” I hauled him up over one shoulder like a sack of grain. He was heavy, all of it muscle. “Let’s find his car.”
Escott knew the vehicle—a battered black Ford—got the keys from Riordan’s pocket, and opened the trunk. It was full of junk, but there was just room enough to stuff him in.
“He’ll suffocate in this heat,” she said.
She had a point. I found a tire iron in the junk and used the prying end to punch half a dozen air holes into the trunk lid before slamming it shut. They looked like bullet holes but larger.