Red-Headed Stepchild (Sabina Kane #1)

Red-Headed Stepchild (Sabina Kane #1) Page 12

He snorted and pulled on the robe. “Deal.”

“You will stay in cat form unless I give you permission to do otherwise, is that understood?”

He cursed under is breath and did the shapeshift thing again. Another puff of smoke and a disgruntled cat reappeared. “Fine.”

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

He went still, his cat ears twitching. “Tell me we’re not going on the Ducati.”

I frowned. “Of course we are.”

“Bael’s breath, Sabina, you can’t expect me to ride on that thing. My fur will get all mussed.”

“Quit pouting,” I told him. He didn’t look at me, but he followed me into the bedroom. I grabbed an old cat crate from the closet. I’d bought it years ago for a stray I’d taken in. The damned ungrateful thing ran away before I could even name it. A hiss sounded behind me. Giguhl’s back was arched and the hair on his neck stood up in spiky tufts.

“Chill, cat,” I said. He hissed again, this time keeping his eyes on the crate. “I can still change my mind and leave you here, you know.”

“You’re a real bitch, you know that?”

“So I’ve heard. Get in.” I set the crate on the bed and opened the little gate. He shot off like a hairy bolt of lightning, heading toward the living room.

I breathed a martyred sigh and headed after him. The crate bumped against my shins as I dropped it to give chase. I caught him just before he disappeared under the couch. I held him by the scruff an arm’s length away, which protected me from his swiping paws and bared teeth.

“You’re not putting me in that cage!” he hissed.

“Quit being such a drama queen,” I said as I marched back to the bedroom and the waiting crate. “You’re the one who wanted to come with me.”

“No!” His paws grabbed for the doorjamb just as I went through, leaving claw marks on the white paint.

“Nice,” I said, pulling his nails free from the wood. “You’ll be fixing that when we get back.”

Just before I reached the crate, he did a crazy death roll maneuver and managed to break loose. He landed on his feet, momentarily stunned at getting free. My own surprise prevented me from grabbing him before he bolted under the bed.

I looked up at the ceiling and prayed to Lilith for patience. “Must not kill the demon cat. Must not kill the demon cat,” I chanted.

The clock next to the bed said it was already eight o’clock. I’d hoped to get to the City by the Bay with enough time left to feed again before sunrise. I didn’t have time for this shit.

“Fine,” I said. His refusal to get in the crate had ignited my competitive impulses. That cat was getting in the crate if it killed me. Besides, now that I’d had a chance to think about it, taking him with me made perfect sense. In addition to Giguhl’s helping me on the mission, I might be able to find someone in San Francisco to help me send him back to Irkalla.

I walked out of the room, only to return about two minutes later with a cat toy and a bottle of spray catnip—more leftovers from the stray. I scooted to the edge of the bed. A paw swiped out from under the bed at my foot. A muffled, angry yowl accompanied it. “Screw off!”

“Here, kitty, kitty.” As I spoke, I waved the pink feather enticingly in front of the open space where I’d seen the paw. As I wiggled it, it occurred to me how ridiculous I must look.

Finally, a paw poked out from the bed and took a half-hearted swipe at the feather. I hid the bottle of catnip spray behind my back as I continued to wave the toy in front of the paw. Eventually, a pink nose appeared and sniffed at the toy.

I could tell he was trying to resist the siren call of the catnip. But nature won out and soon he pounced and buried his face into the feather. He rubbed it all over his head as he purred.

Within a few seconds, he lay on is back in a dreamlike trance, purring softly. I laughed softly in triumph, relieved the catnip spray hadn’t expired. Wasting no time, I picked up his limp body and placed it carefully in the crate. I locked the gate, hooked a water bottle to it, and squeezed in a squeak toy.

Eight minutes later, I was strapping the duffle onto the back of the bike behind the crate when furious scratching and mewling noises started.

“Let me out, you misbegotten daughter of Lilith!”

“Shut it, cat.” I said. “It’s for your own good.”

I swung my leg over the bike and threw on my helmet. We were burning nighttime and it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

“Fasten your seatbelt.”

He hissed in response, this time it sounded suspiciously like the word “bitch.”

In no time, we were doing ninety on the 101. I usually preferred to take the Pacific Coast Highway, but I didn’t have time to spare for the scenic route.

I lowered my body into the wind, feeling alive and full of purpose. But a weird feeling tingled at the base of my skull—like I was leaving more than L.A. behind. I shook the feeling off, trying to keep my mind on the road and on the challenges ahead. The next night I’d meet Clovis.

I gunned the engine, bringing my speed up to an even hundred. The sooner I could kill Clovis, the sooner I’d be back in L.A. Only then, I’d have finally earned my grandmother’s respect.

It was about damned time.

10

The next night, I left Giguhl in the motel room I’d rented in a seedy section of town near the airport. He still wasn’t acknowledging my presence, but I figured once his hair depuffed a bit, he’d come around. I thought about letting him shift back into demon form, but I couldn’t risk a hotel worker walking in on him.

Of course, you were more likely to find a roach than a mint on your pillow at the rattrap Sleep Inn motel. The place smelled of mold, and the bodily fluid stains on the dingy carpet didn’t suggest a high risk of a maid walking in on my demon. But I still didn’t want to risk it. Until I got a feel for what we were facing with Clovis, I didn’t want to take any chances. Giguhl would just have to make do for the time being.

Frank had called my cell phone with instructions. The meeting with Clovis would happen at midnight. It was only ten o’clock, but I wanted to feed before the meeting and still have enough time to scope out the scene before he arrived.

As I drove, the industrial spread of South San Francisco gave way to more scenic areas. A cool mist blanketed the city, making me glad I’d worn my leathers. I had guns strapped under my arms inside my coat, but I had no illusions I’d get within twenty feet of Clovis without a thorough pat-down. If shit went down I’d have to rely on my fists and my wits.

An hour later, I drove down Baker Street, which ran in front of the Palace of Fine Arts. My belly was full of fresh blood and my cheeks felt rosy and warm, despite the cool night air. I felt so good, I’d let the bum I fed from live. He’d be light-headed for a while, but the hundred-dollar bill I gave him for his time would buy him a nice warm meal to help raise his blood sugar.

As I cruised, I had a nice view of both the Palace Rotunda, which sat across a lagoon, and the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. The fog in this section of the city was thicker, causing the bridge to rise like a glowing apparition. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to gaze at scenery all night.

Clovis deserved some credit for his choice of location. The Rotunda was situated with a lagoon on one side and a theater and museum complex behind it. In other words, there were no easy exits and not a lot of opportunities to sneak up on someone.

After pulling into the public parking lot on the north side of the complex, I prepared for the meeting. In deference to my helmet, I’d left my hair down. Now, however, I pulled two apple wood chopsticks from my saddlebags. A quick twist of my hair and I slid the sticks into the mass, careful not to stab myself in the scalp with the sharp points. In a pinch, the hand-whittled sticks would serve as makeshift stakes. Clovis’s men would take away the guns and knife, without a doubt, but they’d never think to check my hair for weapons. Besides, the sticks did an excellent job of keeping my hair out of my face.

A few couples strolled through the grounds holding hands. Here and there, bums lounged on benches or sat between columns of the colonnade. Instead of using the concrete path leading to the Rotunda, I chose to stick to the shadows.

I skirted the Rotunda’s perimeter. At the front, next to the lagoon, I took a seat on a bench, partially hidden by overhanging trees. From inside the octagonal structure, the sound of a guitar and a male voice singing “Stairway to Heaven” wafted toward me. I could see flashes of fire as jugglers wowed a handful of spectators with flying torches. A pair of white swans floated into view in the lagoon. The scene would have been peaceful under other circumstances. Taking a deep breath, I settled onto the bench to wait for Clovis to arrive.

The wind picked up, whipping a few pieces of trash around the base of the octagon. With it came the distinctive scent of male vampire—a mix of blood and musky pheromones, meant to disarm potential victims.

Frank strolled in from the back of the Rotunda. His relaxed gait gave the appearance of a man out alone enjoying the night air. But as he approached, I saw a handful of other males, new arrivals who awkwardly tried to fit in with the tourists. Clovis wasn’t among them. Not sure how I knew this; I just did.

Frank stopped in front of me and nodded. “Glad you could make it.”

I stretched my arms along the back of the bench, a portrait of relaxation. “So is it just you and the welcoming committee tonight?” I asked, nodding in the direction of the other men.

Frank glanced over his shoulder with a smile. “Come now, Sabina. Surely you didn’t think Clovis would come here himself.”

I placed my hands on my thighs and pushed upright. “I don’t appreciate being played, Frank. Games don’t amuse me.”

Frank moved in front of me, holding up his hands. “Not so fast. I’m sure you understand the obvious security issues involved with such a meeting. Let’s not forget how recently you were on the Dominae’s payroll.”