Witchling (Otherworld/Sisters of the Moon #1)

Witchling (Otherworld/Sisters of the Moon #1) Page 4

"Ready to go?"

He nodded. Delilah swung off the counter and slipped on her bomber jacket. At a hair over six feet and wearing tight jeans and stiletto boots, she was a sight to behold—both impressive and intimidating. After arming the security system, we headed for our respective cars.

The house in which we lived was a huge old Victorian, three stories high not counting the basement. Menolly slept there, hiding from the sun. I lived on the second story, and Delilah took the third. We shared the main floor, eating our meals together. Well, Delilah and I ate. Menolly just kept us company.

Set toward the back on five acres of land and next to a strip of woodland that led down to a large pond, the place hadn't come cheap. Lucky for us, Father had stockpiled a good sum of dollars from his time Earthside, keeping it in a secret account started years ago in a bank that had managed to keep itself afloat during the intervening decades. He gave it to us when we were assigned to this post, and over the years, interest had accrued. Along with the accounts Mother had left, we had enough to buy the house, furnish it, and keep ourselves going in a simple but comfortable fashion.

By tradition, we'd been given our mother's last name, even though she was human, and years ago, when we were born, Mother had insisted on getting Social Security cards for us. Father had brought her back Earthside to fill out the documents, and so when we'd arrived for our new posts, we'd been able to set up bank accounts and—after a lot of nail biting and practice—get our driver's licenses.

Thanks to our parents' foresight, we'd dodged one of the worst fates an Earthside OIA agent could be subjected to: living in one of the OIA's convenience suites. Read: slang for a cheap room in one of the roach-infested hotels owned and operated by agency flunkies.

Only OIA members were allowed to live there; a subtle way of keeping humans out of the loop, but not so subtle in reminding agents that they were a long ways from home and that the OIA owned their butts. Of course some operatives—giants like Jocko, and some of the goblins—were overjoyed with the conditions. They were used to living in hovels or caves that would make a skunk turn up its nose, but to the Sidhe, the grunge was positively appalling.

The drive into Seattle was the one drawback to living in Belles-Faire. It took half an hour to commute into the city in the morning, and another thirty minutes at night, if traffic was light. We were also five miles away from the nearest portal, which was hidden out in the woods, protected by one of the Hags of Fate. So slipping back to OW wasn't our first option should trouble arise. Otherwise, we had privacy, comfort, and a place where I could grow the herbs I needed for my spells.

Delilah kept down the mouse population, although she always complained they gave her indigestion. Another perk that came with living on the edge of a grimy suburb was that it made it easier for Menolly to hunt undetected. She did her best to confine herself to the dregs—thieves and the like—but I suspected that Chase would be pretty pissed if he really knew how she got her meals. We'd told him that she hunted stray animals. Which to us was close to the truth, considering the scum she went after.

I headed toward the porch as Delilah jumped out of her truck. Chase was close behind. I turned around and called back to her, "Why don't you get Chase a drink while I wake up Menolly?"

Chase looked like he wanted to protest, but then he shrugged and followed Delilah into the living room.

I slipped through the secret passage in the kitchen when I was sure he couldn't see me. We'd hidden the entrance to the basement for Menolly's safety—there wasn't much she could do in her sleep to protect herself. My skin prickled as I quietly tiptoed down the stairs. Sneaking into a vampire's lair was never a delight, even when the vamp in question was my own sister.

At least Menolly stayed away from stereotypes. The walls of the basement were painted a muted ivory, and she'd chosen a sage green toile for her bed linens and chair seats. She'd gotten the idea from an old episode of Trading Spaces, and by the results, it made me think she should go into interior design. But then, Menolly had an artistic bent. Unlike a number of vamps, she eschewed the tacky and kept herself meticulously clean, both in body and clothing.

She slept in a real bed, not a coffin, and we'd fashioned a blood room, accessible through a ventilation shaft, where she could hose herself off after feeding so she wouldn't track stains into the house. I appreciated her neatness, since most of the housework fell on my shoulders. Delilah always managed to conveniently stress out when it came time for chores, and Menolly did what she could at night, but even she had her limits for dusting and vacuuming. I kept asking the OIA to assign us a housekeeper. Probably a pipe dream, but I could fantasize, couldn't I?

As I approached the bed, I gauged my distance. Long scars forever embedded in my arm were a good reminder of the power a waking vamp could wield. After the first time, I stayed out of reach. Of course Menolly felt horrible about it, and I wasn't one to hold a grudge. But I wasn't stupid either, and now I stood well away from the bed whenever it was time to wake her up.

"Menolly? Menolly?"

The waxen expression on her face stirred. Lovely and delicate, there wasn't a wrinkle in sight, and there never would be. She was far too pale, of course, but there was nothing we could do about it. We'd tried a bronzer for her skin, but it just turned her a bad shade of orange to match her hair—clouds of burnished strands caught up in dozens of beaded braids. Bo Derek of the vampire set. We watched a lot of old movies to catch up on pop culture.

"Huh?" She shot straight up in bed, blinking, and I jumped. Once bitten, twice shy. Her eyes shifted to red, then back to frost blue when she saw me standing there.

"Camille? Is it time to get up already?" She squinted at the clock. "Barely six thirty? Has the sun gone down?"

"Just now. You're safe. Something important happened, or I would have let you sleep longer. Chase is upstairs. HQ has assigned us a case."

She stretched and slipped out from under the covers. Where I was curvy and buxom, she was willow-thin and petite, the top of her head barely coming up to my nose. Delilah had us both beat, topping out at an inch over six feet, a good six inches taller than me, and athletic to boot. The girl would put Sarah Conner to shame. I just hoped that Jocko's death didn't foretell a meeting with our very own Terminator.

Menolly slipped into her jeans and a hunter green turtle-neck. No shifting the jeans to fit her butt, no adjusting her boobs in her bra. In fact, she didn't have to wear a bra. No, she was like a beautiful porcelain mannequin, who would never fade, never gain weight, never have to face the world of underwire.

"What happened?" she asked, shaking her braids into submission. The beads clicked, and she grinned at the noise. She had confided in me that it made her feel alive again. Vamps moved in silence, and it drove her nuts.

I sat cross-legged on the bed, playing with the edge of the quilt. "Jocko's been murdered. HQ has pawned the case off on us. They say it's random, but I smell demon behind it. You're not going to the bar tonight—I called in for you this afternoon."

"Murdered? A demon killed Jocko?" Although her expression remained frozen, I heard the catch in her voice. She and Jocko had become good friends over the past few months, as good as a vampire and a giant could be. Both felt their handicaps keenly—Menolly hadn't asked to be a vampire, and Jocko had been born stunted.

I nodded. "I'm sorry." Leaning over, I wrapped my arm around her shoulder, and she stared at her hands. I could tell she was fighting off the tears—vampires' tears were red as the blood they drank, and she hated the stains that they caused.

"How? And who the hell would kill him? Jocko never hurt anybody who didn't ask for it." She let out a long sigh. "This just sucks."

I kissed her forehead. "I know it does. Somebody garroted him, a really bad scene. Chase will fill you in. He went to talk to HQ again after I smelled the scent of demon on the murder weapon. He said he managed to get a call through to them, though who knows what good it will do." I put my arm around her shoulders. "And on another subject, I have a surprise for you. I'm going to take you somewhere tonight, but I don't want you to ask why. Promise you'll go?"

"You aren't taking me to another strip bar, are you?" She glared at me. "After that last fiasco, I hope you learned that combining lots of bare skin and a hungry vamp is a recipe for disaster."

Not all of our attempts to understand Earthside culture had turned out to be good ideas. After I had managed to drag Menolly out of the bar and shake her out of her glazed state, I decided that the last thing she needed was to look at naked bodies. Which meant no Chippendale shows, strip clubs, saunas, locker rooms, or anything else of that ilk.

"Trust me, we're not going through that again. No, it's something quite different. Promise you'll go?"

She sighed as I led her toward the stairs. "Oh, all right. I promise. But it had better be as entertaining as the shows I get at work."

Chase and Delilah were waiting at the kitchen table. Chase had a bottle of beer in front of him, Delilah a glass of milk. Both looked so relieved when we appeared that I snorted. "Not much to talk about, huh?"

Delilah whistled and stared at the ceiling. Chase stared at his drink.

"Let's get this show on the road, then." I slid into my place, shivering as the warmth from the oak resonated through my body.

Chase was staring at Menolly, and for once, lechery wasn't even in the equation, a good thing for him. He was right to respect her. She could make quick work of him with a single bite.

I poured myself a glass of wine. Menolly didn't drink when we had company. Even though blood looked a lot like tomato juice and we kept some spare in the refrigerator, it could get a little awkward. And the smell had a tendency to put off people who weren't used to it.

"Okay, here's the scoop." Chase cleared his throat and pulled out a notebook. "Camille already knows some of this, but I'll start from the beginning to catch everybody up. This morning at five thirty, a wino—an informant—in the alley behind the Wayfarer stumbled over Jocko's body. He called me, and I arrived not more than ten minutes later. Jocko had been garroted. Whoever killed him had to be a strong motherfucker because Jocko's big, and it was obvious that he put up a fight. But the medical examiner agrees with me that he was probably killed inside the bar and then dumped out back. There was a trail of tipped-over chairs, and the back door was standing open."

Delilah winced. "Poor Jocko. What else did the medical examiner say?"

Chase consulted one of his notes. "Not much. They found traces of nonhuman energy signatures on him. Once Camille told me she smelled demon on the rope, I went back and asked them to check it out. Unfortunately, the OIA agent who did the autopsy doesn't recognize demon scent, and so we're waiting for a specialist to verify it."

"That somebody is big enough and strong enough to strangle a giant is a sobering thought." Menolly raised one eyebrow and nodded toward Delilah. I glanced at our blonde goddess of a sister.

The subtle signs of stress were playing out across her face. She was taking Jocko's death harder than I'd thought. Or maybe she was just tired—the full moon was coming up in a few days and she always got PMS—pre-moon-syndrome—before it hit. I tapped her on the arm.

"Drink your milk, honey. It will relax you."

She picked up her glass and lapped at it gently before taking a full sip.

Menolly propped her elbows on the table as she stared at Chase. "So, no idea of who or what killed him beyond demon scent?"

He shook his head. "No, but as I said, I got through to HQ once I talked to Camille. They're keeping close-mouthed on it, but they did ask if you'd overlooked reporting anything suspicious happening at the bar?"

Menolly sucked in a deep breath—more for show than any need of air—and pushed back her chair. "Just what are you hinting at, Johnson? That I screwed up or that I'm a traitor?"

Oops. I could see the impending signs of a blowup. The last thing we needed was a fracas between Menolly and Chase. I cleared my throat. "I don't think he was implying anything. HQ was the one who asked." I shot Chase a quick look that said, Think first; speak later.

He blinked, realizing how close he was to becoming dinner. "No, no! I wasn't implying anything of the sort," he said. "No offense meant."

"Then HQ thinks I messed up," Menolly said, her gaze still fastened on Chase's face.

Delilah picked up on the tension. "Please don't argue! I don't like it when you're mad." A stricken look crossed her face.

I pushed back my chair, but before I could reach her side, a wave rippled through the air, colors shifting and melding. The image of my sister folded in on itself, limbs shortening, body morphing. It was hideous to watch and looked incredibly painful, though Delilah denied that it hurt. A shower of golden light sparkled around her, and in her place, an orange tabby cat placidly sat, a sweet, blank look on its face.

CHAPTER 3

"Oh Great Mother, look what you two have done!" I cautiously approached Delilah and knelt down, holding out my arms. "Delilah? Kitty, kitty, kitty… come here."

Chase stared at the cat, transfixed. "Holy shit." He'd seen her in cat form but had never before witnessed the transformation process. "What happened? Is the moon full?"

"No, but certain stresses—especially when it comes to family altercations—also force her to shift. Sometimes, she's able to control the transformation, but not always." I pounced for the bewildered cat, but she slipped away, clawing her way up the curtains. Leaning against the fridge, I let out a long sigh. "Menolly? Some help, please."