Siren Song

The night guard at the second gate was a new guy, but apparently he’d been briefed about me, because the fangs didn’t panic him. We went through the expected routine with holy water and silver; then he opened the gate and I drove through.



I parked under one of the lamps, locked my weapons in the car trunk, and, feeling vulnerable and naked, made my way through the open parking lot to the administration building and the night-check-in desk. A very nice, very professional nurse took my shoes, my cell phone, and my name before sending me off to my quarters.



A message had been written on a slip of paper and slipped beneath my door. I picked it up and read: We must talk. It is urgent. I will contact you tomorrow. It was signed: Ivan.



Oh, freakin’ goodie. Just what I needed. More trouble.



I dropped the note onto the nearest flat surface and shambled off to bed.



I wish I could say I slept well. I didn’t. My dreams were weird and haunted, my sleep fraught with tossing and turning.



So, after a long, restless night, I rose and got ready to face the music. Since this hearing was an “official” event, I was escorted to the courthouse by the police—and not in my own car. At least I wasn’t under arrest, so I didn’t have to arrive in handcuffs. But the police insisted I eat two jars of beef and vegetable baby food in the back of the squad car before we set off. Logical, but yuck!



The Santa Maria de Luna Justice Center is a big four-story box of a building, built of stucco painted brilliant white with brick red trim. Red tile steps lead up to the four front entrance doors, each of which is manned by men and machines whose job it is to make sure nothing dangerous makes it into the building. I’d been through those doors many times. Today, however, I was taken in the back to avoid the hordes of press staked out front waiting for pictures of the vampire who could attend day court.



Roberto met me at the back door. He checked my appearance carefully, to make sure I would make a good impression. I was dressed for success in a conservative navy suit with a red silk blouse. It felt absolutely bizarre to be wearing one of Isaac’s signature jackets and not be carrying any weapons. Roberto had insisted on panty hose and heels. I hate panty hose. Whoever invented them was a sadist. They are hot in summer and never fit quite right, even if you don’t get them on crooked, which I usually do.



The goal was for me to, in Roberto’s words, “channel Laura Bush.” So the skirt hit me well below the knee and the pumps were low heeled and plain. I was supposed to be dignified, sedate, conservative, and still look good. I had no idea whether or not I was succeeding at it.



My escort stayed close as we went up the stairs and through the hall leading to the courtroom. The place was full of spectators. The most obvious glares were the ones I was getting from Gerry, one of the head guards at Birchwood, and a group of five police officers, all in their very best finery and seated together in the gallery. Gerry and I had been friendly once—before he saw me go all spooky. It scared the crap out of him. Now he was making it his personal mission to see me put away. I think he honestly believes it is the right thing to do. Of course that doesn’t make it any better for me.



I recognized one or two of the police officers. They’d been among the people I’d used my siren abilities on. If I hadn’t, a greater demon would’ve wreaked havoc at that World Series game in Anaheim a few weeks back. I had witnesses willing to testify to that.



But the prosecution had witnesses, too. According to the list they provided to Roberto, they were even bringing in Dr. Greene from the state pen. Greene was a null and a shrink. She was also the woman who’d drugged me and set me up for the murder of a minister. Compulsion spells might make her tell the truth and nothing but the truth. But I wasn’t sure the whole truth was what I wanted the jury to hear.



Shit.



My stomach tightened into knots. If I were still able to eat solids I’d probably have tossed my cookies by now. As it was, I tasted bile in the back of my throat, despite the claim that baby food is a low-acid concoction.



“Celia, you need to calm down.” Roberto murmured the words softly enough that they barely carried to my ears. “You’re starting to glow.”



I looked down and felt my stomach try to do a backflip. Oh, that was so not good. Glowing is not human. It is not normal. It was not going to reassure the prosecutor, judge, and jury that little ole me was no threat to anybody.



I closed my eyes and took deep, cleansing breaths, forcing myself to think about the rocky stretch of beach where I go to be alone when the stress of life gets to me. I was starting to feel better—until I heard somebody say “Do you smell salt water?”



But I wasn’t glowing anymore and Roberto hustled me to the front of the courtroom without further incident.



“In front of the bar” has real meaning in a courtroom and only those who are on the daily docket can get through the magic barriers that separate the “working” area from the main gallery. Roberto went through first and I saw a flash of silver light as he passed through the scanner and heavy-duty wards. Then it was my turn.



I stepped in, closed my eyes, and stood perfectly still so that the scanner could do its thing. I saw a flash of red through my closed eyelids, felt the hot rush of magic across my skin, and it was over. I was cleared.



I tried not to show how relieved I was. I tried to act normal, but I’d left normal so far behind at that point that I was definitely faking it. Still, I meekly followed my high-priced attorney to the small table assigned to the defense and took my seat. I glanced around the courtroom, hoping someone I knew was there to cheer me on. In the corner I saw my gran, sitting with El Jefe and Emma. And toward the back on the right side I spotted Dr. Hubbard and Dr. Scott. But no Bruno. I felt my heart sink. I’d hoped . . .



I tried not to fidget as I watched Roberto pull folder after folder from his big, boxy trial briefcase. The prosecutor came over to shake Roberto’s hand. His name was Jose Rodriguez and he looked to be about thirty-five, or maybe a young-looking forty. Tall and slender, he was very handsome, with wavy black hair with just a touch of silver and eyes the color of dark chocolate. He had a winning smile and his navy suit looked nice and expensive until I compared it to Roberto’s.



“Bob. Good to see you again.”



“Joe.” They shook hands, “Here to give me a last-minute offer?”



Joe stepped back, his eyes widening. “You don’t know? Seriously?”



“Know what?”



The prosecutor looked at me and his expression darkened. There was a slight edge to his voice when he replied, “This hearing is just a formality. It isn’t going to last five minutes. Your client has some very powerful friends.”



Roberto looked at me over his shoulder. I shrugged to let him know I didn’t have a clue.



Rodriguez’s eyebrows rose until they almost disappeared beneath his hair, his expression conveying not just surprise but more than a bit of disbelief.



“Care to enlighten us?” Roberto’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Until that moment, they’d seemed like friends who happened to be on opposite sides of a case. Now Roberto had shifted gears and shown he was all business.



The prosecutor turned to his associate, who handed him a thin stack of papers. Turning back to us, Rodriguez began laying the sheets on the table one at a time, like playing cards, indicating what each was as he did.



“A certificate of dual citizenship with Rusland. The official letter and certificate announcing Ms. Graves’s appointment as Official Security Liaison, with full diplomatic status, signed by King Dahlmar himself, including the royal seal. A letter of pardon signed by the governor to be used in the event of your conviction. A letter of pardon signed by the president of the United States, to be used in the event of your conviction. And we received a visit from some of the boys over at the State Department, suggesting that, all things considered and since you were acting in defense of others, we should save the state the money it would take to prosecute.”



“You’ve got a letter from the president? Seriously?” I just about choked on the words. “The president of the United States wrote a pardon for me? Holy crap. Ho”—I took a breath between syllables—“ly crap.”



Rodriguez smiled. It made him look younger, less cynical. “Yes. And I’ve got to tell you, the politicos don’t do that. Not in advance. It’s too likely to blow up in their faces.”



“I’m not surprised.” Roberto smiled benignly, leaning back and folding his hands across his waist. “Ms. Graves’s actions saved the lives of King Dahlmar and his son Prince Rezza and unmasked a political plot that would’ve destabilized their nation. She also assisted in the banishment of a major demon who had been summoned to wreak havoc at one of the largest public sporting events on the calendar. Who knows how many lives might have been lost if Ms. Graves hadn’t done as she did? King Dahlmar previously indicated to me his intent to do everything he could to keep her from being imprisoned as a result of her actions.”



“Well, he’s a man of his word.” Joe gathered up the pages, stacking them neatly.



“So, are you going to prosecute?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself.



Rodriguez shook his head. “Why bother? It’d be an open-and-shut case and a complete waste of the taxpayers’ money.”



“And the other matter?” Roberto’s voice was silken.



Rodriguez’s expression darkened, all the humor draining out of it in a rush, his features seeming to harden into stone. “It was self-defense. She and the doctor were kidnapped.” He turned to me, his eyes capturing mine, his gaze intense. “But know this. If you ever again set so much as a toe out of line, we will prosecute. We might not be able to put you away. But if you show you are a threat to our citizens, we will find some way of getting rid of you, even if we have to deport you to do it.”



I didn’t doubt that he meant it. I really hoped it never came to that. It bothered me deeply that I wasn’t considered one of “our citizens” anymore and somehow I just knew it wasn’t because of my new diplomatic status.