Tales of the Otherworld (39 page)

Those prejudices ran a dozen times deeper within the Cabals, which meant that it was critically important to solve Sean’s case before the Cabals heard of it.

“Spencer Geddes,” Aaron’s voice crackled over the speakerphone after Cassandra finished explaining what we needed. “Lives outside Seattle. Or he did last I heard. Geddes isn’t the type to provide a forwarding address.”

“A loner,” Cassandra said. “Even for a vampire.”

“Christ, that echo’s bad. You got me on speakerphone, Cass? Lots of great inventions in the last century, but that’s not one of them.”

“Do you have a last known address for Mr. Geddes?” I asked.

“Sure do. And they’re forecasting rain tomorrow, so no bricklaying. I’ll swing out to Portland, meet up with you guys—”

“I have this, Aaron,” Cassandra said.

A static-filled pause. “You sure? I can catch up and we’ll both go.”

Cassandra hesitated long enough for Aaron to whistle.

“Still there?” he said.

“Yes, and while I appreciate the offer, he doesn’t need both of us showing up on his doorstep. If you have an address and a physical description—”

“You’ve never met him?” Paige said.

“Neither have I,” Aaron said. “When Cass said he’s a loner, she wasn’t kidding. He emigrated from Europe in the late nineties. Josie apparently went to extend a welcome shortly after he arrived—”

“I’m sure she did,” Cassandra murmured.

“Her welcome
wasn’t
welcome,” Aaron said. “Maybe you’ll be more his type.”

We finished getting everything Aaron knew about Geddes. It was remarkably little, considering how well connected Aaron was within his community. After we signed off, I suggested Paige, Savannah, and I return to Portland. Cassandra could fly into Seattle the next morning, where we could meet and escort her to Geddes—

“You have a guest room, do you not?” she said.

Paige shook her head. “Just a pullout sofa. And Sean used that last night, so I haven’t cleaned—”

“I don’t sleep very much these days anyway. What time is our plane?”

Paige looked at me, begging for a way out of this.

“Six o’clock,” Savannah said.

“I’ll go pack then.”

On the flight back, Paige had Savannah sit with Cassandra. As she reasoned, if anything would persuade Cassandra to find a hotel for the night, that would be it.

The ploy failed. On some level, I think Cassandra was genuinely fond of Paige, whom she’s known from birth. It was not, however, a grandmotherly sort of relationship. More like a mother-in-law, Paige always said.

It’s difficult for me to watch Cassandra badger Paige, second-guessing her decisions, giving her unwanted—and almost always critical—advice. The discomfort was magnified by the knowledge that I could not interfere. I’d once tried to defend Paige against Cassandra’s tongue, only to have Paige ask me not to do so. She was right. Arguing with Cassandra only made things worse.

I know, too, that to Cassandra my silence spoke ill of me. To put it bluntly, I looked like a wimp, standing by silent as my wife was harangued. If I stepped in to defend her, I might feel better about myself, but I’d insult Paige. Yet concern over my image is hardly sufficient grounds for insulting my wife.

So I would do as Paige wished and keep my mouth shut. Cassandra already thought poorly enough of me on other counts that clearing up this misconception wouldn’t make a difference.

Once back in Portland, Paige and I wanted to drop Cassandra and Savannah off at the house and head out on the case. Cassandra stared at us as if we’d gone mad. Or more accurately, stared at me as if this was clearly my idea and I should be ashamed of myself, dragging Paige to Oregon so late.

“Surely this can wait until morning,” she said. “I can’t imagine what you hope to accomplish at this hour.”

“Checking on Geddes, of course,” Paige said.

“You’re hoping to secure this man’s trust and assistance by arriving on his doorstep at two in the morning?”

“No, we’re hoping to make sure he hasn’t bolted. Or gone looking for a fresh victim.”

“And if he’s not there? You can hardly speak to his neighbors or employer after midnight. Better to rest tonight and get an early start in the morning.”

Paige looked at me. I knew she was eager to get to work, but Cassandra did have a point. The Cabal wouldn’t learn about the case until today as they reviewed the weekend news. If they decided to pursue it, it would take time to assemble an investigation team. While they were capable of moving faster, the dead man was human and Cabal interests were not in danger, so there was no need for haste.

When we arrived home, Cassandra insisted on a proper tour. She’d been to our home once, for a Christmas party, but now she wanted the opportunity to explore—and evaluate—it fully.

Our house was in one of the older but less prestigious neighborhoods of Portland. A street of narrow two-story homes, most of which had been allowed to “age gracefully” for many years—neither neglected nor regularly renovated, but owned by middle-class families that’d lived there most of their lives.

As the owners died and the homes went up for sale, the area
underwent a “revitalization.” Gentrification, one could say, though not to the extent of boutiques and cafés popping up on the corner. A strictly residential neighborhood, with homes that ranged from high-end to…ours.

Our house had been one of the last holdouts, standing firm in the face of real estate suitors who’d stuffed the mailbox with offers. When the owner died, his grandson—a particularly danger-prone half-demon whom I’d helped several times—had seen the opportunity to repay me by offering us the house at a fair market price, uninflated by demand in this particular neighborhood. So we had bought it.

Or, I should say,
Paige
had bought it. She’d argue the point—marriage means shared property—and my “contribution” had been the reduced price.

At the time, it had seemed a deal my pride could live with. She had money from her inheritance and insurance, so it made sense for her to buy it, but soon I’d be contributing my full share to our living expenses.

Almost three years later, that had yet to happen. If anything, I contributed less—most of my income going to expenses incurred in taking on out-of-state clients. I told myself I was building credibility and it would pay off…but I’d been building it since college with little change in income.

Now, as we led Cassandra around the house, I was keenly aware of her roving gaze, picking out a repair I had yet to complete or a project Paige was undertaking in my absence—and keenly aware, too, of her language, which attributed the house and all it encompassed to Paige.

While others would focus instead on the good I was doing in my work, Cassandra gave me no such allowances. She had come to accept, albeit grudgingly, that I did love Paige, but persisted in seeing me as an idealistic gadabout, so intent on saving the world that he doesn’t tend to his own corner of it. Like so many of Cassandra’s criticisms, as unfairly critical as it seemed on the surface, there was, underneath, that harsh kernel of truth that made it all the more uncomfortable.

On her tour, Cassandra lingered longest in the office.

“We’re still working on plans to move this to the basement,” Paige said. “We keep meaning to, but we haven’t had a chance yet.”

Cassandra’s gaze cut to mine, telling me she knew full well who “hadn’t had a chance yet.” She surveyed the room.

“I hope you aren’t clearing it out for a nursery,” she said. “Once Savannah finally leaves, you should take time for yourselves, not pop out babies—”

“No nurseries in the foreseeable future. We just need”—Paige waved around—“a bigger office.”

“Why don’t you use Savannah’s room? It’ll be empty soon enough.”

“Excuse me?” Savannah said as she passed on the way to her room. “I’m going to college, not Siberia. I’ll be back on weekends and holidays.”

“I’m sure you’ll find the sofa bed quite serviceable.”

Savannah snorted and disappeared into her room.

“I hope you’re getting that twenty you owe me,” Cassandra called.

“Like you need it,” Savannah called back. “And I only owe you ten—I got the artist right, just not the period.”

“Well, I should hope you got the artist right, considering he signed his name.” Cassandra turned back to the office, gaze going to the oversized wipe-off calendar. “Is that
your
schedule, Paige? My God, how do you find a moment’s time for yourself? You really have to learn to say no to people—particularly with your volunteer efforts, however just the cause.”

She waved at the blinking answering machine. “And five new messages on a Sunday? I hope those aren’t for work. If you let clients get away with calling you at all hours—”

“Lucas?” Paige cut in. “Could you check those? I want to show Cassandra the bed.” She turned to Cassandra. “It’s an antique. Needs some work, but I picked it up cheap—”

“I should hope so, if it needs work. You must watch antique dealers, Paige—”

“—and I was hoping you could give us some advice on how to find someone suitable to repair it.”

Paige waved Cassandra into the bedroom and pantomimed throttling her from behind as she passed.

“Wouldn’t do any good,” I murmured.

“I know,” she whispered with a grin. “But that’s okay. All the pleasure. None of the guilt.”

In the next room, Cassandra returned to her diatribe about Paige’s workload. I knew Paige had already tuned her out. Yet it was one subject on which I wish she’d listen. Like Cassandra’s quiet insinuations about my freeloading, there was some truth in this. Paige did work too hard.

If someone needed help, Paige was always there. While I understood that urge better than anyone, I saw the toll it took and knew that the real solution was not to reduce her volunteer efforts, but to focus them in the direction she loved: her work for the council.

Yet how could she jet off to Indiana or South Carolina, chasing a council investigation, when she had Savannah to look after, a household to run, and a full-time job to attend to? She had to refocus that altruistic urge on local charities, concentrate on her Web site business, and let me pursue cases of injustice involving supernaturals. Let me live her dream while she paid our bills.

That would change. When Savannah left for college, Paige would have more freedom to travel, either on her own cases or accompanying me, taking her programming work with her. And yet …

Perhaps it’s pride speaking again, but I didn’t want Paige to have to wait for Savannah to leave. More important, I didn’t want Savannah’s leaving to resolve the problem for me. I wanted to prove to Paige that I recognized and regretted the injustice of our financial arrangements and was willing to make sacrifices to see her dreams realized. But I had yet to find a way to accomplish my goal, and had begun to suspect with each passing year that Savannah’s leave-taking would solve it before I did, however much I wished otherwise.

I lowered the volume on the answering machine. Three messages were indeed work-related for Paige—two clients and a coworker from a volunteer group. The fourth was also for her. It was Adam, asking how “that, uh, thing went.” Then came the fifth.

“Lucas, it’s Papá. I’ll be in Portland later this week. I have business in the area and I’m looking forward to seeing you and Paige. Give me a call—”

I hit the stop button and went to join Paige in the bedroom.

I could have pretended not to have received my father’s message. Four years ago, I would have…then suffered the self-disgust that would accompany so blatantly immature an avoidance tactic. When I first contemplated a relationship with Paige, I’d assumed it would further damage my fractious relationship with my father. I know others have speculated that I began seeing her for that very reason—to upset him. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I had no desire to hurt my father. I rebelled against his way of life by retreating, not by lashing out. With my father, my defensive strategy had always been to ignore him. Engaging him, by dating someone who would cause embarrassment to the Cabal and the family, would hardly have achieved that goal.