Sylvie rolled up the windows, which made the truck cab instantly sticky and hot but kept distinctive car sounds to a minimum.
Ten minutes after Wright made the call, Eleanor scooted out of the house in a shiny little two-door—Mrs. Martinez’s around-town convertible.
Yeah, Eleanor would do a lot to keep this job,
Sylvie thought.
A knock on the front door yielded no response. Sylvie frowned. She was prepared to lean on the doorbell as long as necessary, but if Bella was sedated, it might be useless.
“Do you hear splashing?” Wright asked, head cocked, eyes narrowed. “You said she had a pool?”
“Dead yesterday, swimming today, you really think?” she asked, but she heard it, too. She walked along the house to the back, found a handy perch—a flowerpot dragged to appropriate proximity—and peered over the concrete wall. Wright pulled himself up, wiry muscles working, and peered over the edge beside her. They shared a speaking look.
Yeah. Bella was feeling all kinds of better.
She lounged poolside, her hair slicked back, her bikini damp. Footprints darkened the tiles around the pool, a track of her path. Bella leaned back in her chair, stretched a lazy arm up toward the afternoon sun, all serpentine angles and smooth, tanned skin.
Wright dropped back down to the scrubby dirt between the jacaranda bushes, and said, “So, now what?”
“Now we go in,” Sylvie said. His face screwed up as he looked up at her, sun dazzle behind her. She got the skepticism loud and clear even through the wrinkled nose and squint.
“Over the wall?”
Sylvie hopped down from the flowerpot, and shook her head. “Through the gate. You don’t think they let the pool man tromp through their house, do you?”
They walked around back until they found the gate, Sylvie thankful that it was the dead hour before three o’clock. There was a reason most home burglaries happened mid-afternoon. Fewer witnesses.
The wrought-iron gate opened soundlessly, and the cement was smooth beneath her sneakers. Wright stayed there, keeping a lookout. Sylvie got within twenty feet of Bella before the girl realized she was there. She yelped, nearly fell off the lounger, then said, “What the hell do you want?”
“Just a couple of questions,” Sylvie said. “Eleanor said we could come round back.”
The girl shrugged, drawing her towel up to cover herself, then letting it slide back to her waist when she saw Wright looking at her from the gate.
“I’m supposed to be resting,” she said. “Make it quick. But don’t think a home visit is going to stop my parents from suing your hospital.”
Sylvie rocked back, her footing suddenly uneven as if a sinkhole were devouring the concrete.
This was it; this was the tipping point. Sylvie pasted a bright smile on her face, suitable for some hospital social-worker lackey. Blandly unthreatening. It worked. Bella looked bored and utterly lacking in recognition.
Sylvie didn’t pride herself on it—she knew it was a flaw when she needed to be unnoticed—but she tended toward notoriety. People remembered her, maybe not fondly, but they remembered her.
For Bella to be drawing a blank—
Well, it was intriguing. . . .
Kill it,
her little dark voice said. The hairs on her neck rose. The girl before them might be vain, spoiled, and sadly stupid, but she was just a girl. Except her little voice was rarely wrong. Bad-tempered, evil-natured, but rarely wrong.
The girl crossed her arms over her chest, drummed her nails against her shoulders. Sylvie narrowed her gaze. Bella’s fingernails were blue at the base, the curved white moons as leaden as a stormy sky.
“I’m waiting for your apology,” Bella said. “Do you know how dreadful it is to wake up in a morgue?”
The cadence of her voice was subtly wrong. If Sylvie hadn’t been spent the past few days a reluctant audience for the Demalion-and-Wright show, listening to the slip and slide of personality through shared flesh, she might not have twigged to it. But she had, and Bella . . . didn’t sound like herself. Not just out of sorts, because of drugs, illness, trauma. Like an entirely other person. And there was a ghost gone missing. Patrice Caudwell’s Hand of Glory had gone inactive without notice.
It all made Sylvie sick with suspicion.
“Some people might be grateful they woke up at all,” Sylvie said, keeping her voice steady. “To get that precious second chance. You can squawk all you want about hospital error, but they know death when they see it.”
“Gratitude,” Bella said. She mouthed the word like she was unfamiliar with it. Then she sighed. “You’re not with the hospital, are you? She sent you. What does she want? She knows it will take a month or so for me to be able to access my accounts.”
“Just a reminder to be grateful,” Sylvie said. Her mouth was dry. She was getting the outlines of it now, but she needed more. She wondered how long she could keep . . . Bella talking.
“Gratitude implies something was unearned. A gift. I paid dearly for this opportunity. I intend to make the most of it, so she will just have to be patient.”
“If Odalys allows it,” Sylvie said. “After all, even if the hospital didn’t recognize it, you died of what she did to you. A black-magic OD.”
Mistake,
she thought, even as she let the words slide free. A misstep. She’d talked about Bella’s experience. Bella’s death. Not hers.
Bella’s face went flat, expressionless; her arm shot out, and next thing Sylvie knew she was dodging the aluminum pool pole aimed at her face.
Wright shouted; Sylvie dodged the next strike. Bella jabbed fiercely. The net crashed into Sylvie’s rib cage, hard enough to knock the wind from her, hard enough to send her plummeting backward into the pool. Gasping vainly for air, she found herself with a mouthful of bitterly sharp water, searing her sinuses, and rolling inexorably down her throat.
She splashed to the surface, flailing for air, for the edge of the pool, and found the net slapped down on her head, clammy and wet. She ducked instinctively and got another gasped breath of water scalding her throat.
This was a stupid way to go, she thought, killed off by a ghost-possessed teenager riding a self-preservation rush and with a bad habit of drowning people. But Sylvie wasn’t a toddler; she hit bottom, oriented herself, and pushed upward. Breath could wait for just a little longer.
She surfaced to the welcome sound of Bella shrieking, to the blurred image of Wright pinning the girl to the lounge. He rose to help Sylvie, and Bella lunged at him.
“Hold her,” Sylvie managed to gasp out, spitting water out on each word. Her throat felt raw.
Wright pushed the girl back again, and she screamed—her voice, high, thin, furious, slowly forming into words, surprisingly lacking in profanity for a teenager. But then, she wasn’t really a teen any longer. . . .
“Get your hands off me! Police! Help!”
Sylvie hung raggedly on the pool’s coping, and spat water. “Okay, forget her, Wright. Let’s get out of here.”
“Getting mixed messages,” he snapped. Bella slashed at his face with her nails, and he shoved her again, sent her reeling back. The lounge chair, battered by their struggle, collapsed, tangling Bella in it.
Sylvie beached herself on the tiles beyond the pool, forced herself to hands and knees, and Wright got his hands under her shoulders and tugged. She staggered out after him, spitting water, sneezing.
Drowning worked for her before,
her little dark voice suggested.
Pity the toddler hadn’t had backup,
she thought.
Her truck was a red haven in an eye-stinging wash of green trees and grass. Wright slung himself into the driver’s seat, snapped his fingers in her face. “Keys.”
“Manners,” she said, but forked them over, fumbling them out of the sodden weight of her jeans.
He jerked the car into gear with a grinding complaint that she flinched at, but got them moving in the right direction. Away. It ate at her to just drive off and leave Patrice Caudwell living it up in a new body, but now was not the time. She preferred to hit the bad guys when they weren’t expecting it.
“So we learn anything worth getting hauled in on assault charges for?” he asked.
“Oh hell yeah,” she said. She thought it was Wright. Hoped it was. She leaned back against the headrest, let the long shivers work their way free of her spine.
He merged into traffic with a quick jerk, banging her head against the window, and she snarled. Her sodden hair left trails on the glass, droplets rolling down like tears or rain. “So, what’s the deal? What just happened?”
Sylvie shook her head, unwilling to talk about it. Unwilling for Demalion to hear. She didn’t want to distrust Demalion, wanted to help him, save him, but . . . not like this. This wasn’t hanging about in a cancer ward. This wasn’t playing salvage with a body in a coma. This was . . . murder from beyond the grave.
“Tell me,” he said. “I don’t want to work blind.”
Two cops in one, she thought and not a chance in hell of keeping this from him. Either of them.
“Bella’s dead,” she said. Coming at the answer obliquely.
“Seemed damned lively to me,” Wright said. “Got the scratches to prove it. Helping you, Sylvie? It’s hard on the hide.”
She grimaced, hoped it passed for a smile. It was hard when suspicion was burning into certainty in her blood. She’d expected Wright to recognize it, after the Ghoul’s lecture on
takeover
spirits, after his own experiences, but trees for the forest and all that. He looked at Bella through clouded glass and missed his own reflection in it.
The girl was back from the dead, yes, but it wasn’t Bella Martinez.
“That’s it,” he said. “Bella’s dead? That’s all I get?”
Her throat burned, chlorine still raw in it, and she coughed again as the air-conditioning clicked on. Reached out and slapped it off.
“Fine,” he said. “Bella’s dead. What next?”
“I’ve rethought my position on breaking into Invocat.”
Wright bobbled the wheel a little, then set his jaw. “I don’t like that plan? I don’t like it at all. I don’t do B and E. I told you that.”
“I need to find Odalys; I need to know what she’s hiding. She’s not keeping any secrets at her condo,” Sylvie said. She shifted uncomfortably, shivered even in the Miami heat, and rolled down the window, the better to air-dry.
“And the spells you said were guarding the shop?”
“Wright, what did we take from those teens today? Can you think back that far?”
“Besides a new despair for the future of this country—” Wright’s flippancy failed as he caught her intention. “Oh no, no. We’re not.”
“I am. You can stay with Alex,” she said. “Makes sense to me. I’ve got a magical shop I need to break into, and I’ve got the ultimate burglar’s tool sitting in my office.”
21
Invocat Redux
THEY SWUNG BY SYLVIE’S OFFICE, SYLVIE LEAVING DAMP AND HASTY footprints up the stairs. Wright followed closely on her heels and joined her in the office, eyes clouded with speculation. “You never answered me. Something about Bella upset you. Enough to make you use a magical tool you’ve been treating like—”
He blinked, blue eyes widening as she finished pushing her pants toward the floor, fighting as they clung to her skin. He turned his back to her, giving her privacy she hadn’t asked for.
“You mean besides her trying to kill me? Half-assed and impulsive though it was,” Sylvie said. She peeled off her socks, found a pair of old jeans in her “scutwork” drawer, and tugged them on. “People don’t die of black-magic malaise, then get better.”
“Then
what happened
?” Wright asked.
“She died. She got better,” Sylvie said. She rubbed the welt on her head, finger-combed her hair.
“Sylvie,” he groaned, “be nice. I don’t get all this magic stuff.”
She turned her back to his back, peeled her jacket, holster, shirt away from her skin. The floor creaked as he paced, trying to figure out what she wasn’t telling him. Sylvie pushed her hair out of her face and sighed. Another reason not to take up with cops—too damn curious. Too disinclined to let go. His pacing stopped. She shivered. He had come up behind her, rested his palm, warm and dry, on the small of her back. He leaned close, kissed the knob of her spine, and said, “You’re hiding something.”
“You know me, Demalion, full of secrets.” She slipped away from him. “Now, if you don’t mind, Wright and I were talking.” She wondered whose idea it was to set Demalion to asking her questions. It smacked of collusion.
“Don’t you get tired of explaining things to him?”
“I seem to recall explaining the facts of life to you more than once,” she said, “so don’t get all high-and-mighty.” She toweled her hair roughly with a sweatshirt destined for the laundry and pulled on a grey T-shirt. Her holster, the webbing still damp, went back about her waist. The gun—she sighed. Water was so unforgiving, and chlorine—even worse. Her eyes still stung, a sign that the Martinezes believed in a sterile blue pool.
Still, it wasn’t like the weapon was dripping, and she didn’t have time to strip it down. Plus, she remembered with a pang of loss, this was the backup; stripping it wasn’t going to be as familiar, easy, or quick as the gun that she had lost in Chicago.
She sighed. Some investigators bitched about insurance, about licensing fees. Sylvie just got tired of paying for replacement weapons. When she went through them as quickly as she did, they were hard to claim as business expenses.
Wisely, Demalion had backed away while she armed herself. He leaned against the desk edge, and said, “You really intend to use the Hands?”
“How often do I bluff?” she asked.
“Not often enough for my tastes,” he said. “You’re too damn fast on the trigger.” He reached forward, clicked the safety on her gun into place. She scowled at him and slunk away.
“I didn’t miss the lecturing.”