Siren Song

I didn’t want to face anyone. I wanted to be alone. But Gran was out there and Emma. They were probably worried. And hiding wouldn’t change anything. He was gone. Again. It felt like my soul had been ripped from my body, but life went on. I needed to face that, sooner rather than later. But right now, oh, God, it hurt.



I felt the magic of the shield disintegrate as I stepped across the barrier and found Emma standing outside the room, waiting.



“Your gran saw you go off with Bruno, so she figured it was okay to go tell your mom the good news. I ran into Bruno’s brother outside. He told me what happened. So I came back to wait for you.”



She stared at me in silence for a long moment, taking in the pile of used tissues I was stuffing back in my purse. Though I’d cried myself out, my nose wasn’t chapped. Nor were my eyes red. Vampire metabolism strikes again. So other than the fact that most of my makeup was gone, I probably didn’t look too bad. Emma asked, “Are you all right?”



I gave her the look that question deserved, then shook my head with a shrug.



“All right. Stupid question.” She sat together on the same little bench Bruno had sat on just minutes earlier. “Breaking up sucks, and I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “I know we’ve never been as close as you were with Vicki and are with Dawna—”



I started to say something, but she cut me off with a gesture. “It’s all right, Celia. I’m pretty sure it was the siren thing.”



“Was?”



She rolled her eyes, knowing that I was trying to change the subject. I was. But I was also curious. So she indulged me and explained, “I don’t want kids. I had a voluntary tubal last week. No longer fertile. No more siren problem.”



“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to say. “Um . . . congratulations?” I wanted to ask why she hadn’t told me, but the answers seemed obvious—I was stuck at Birchwoods, prepping for my hearing, and, oh yes, the “siren problem.”



She gave a weak chuckle. “Whatever. We can talk about everything over dinner. You’ve been here quite a while and you’ve got to eat something soon, before your hunger gets out of hand.”



I had never felt less hungry in my life. But wandering the streets filled with bloodlust wasn’t appealing, either. The cops would be watching me. I absolutely believed that. I might feel like hell, but I was free. It would be a shame to get locked up again the same day.



I stood. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I struggled to pull myself together. “Right, food. Preferably something quick.”



“New China’s only a couple of blocks from here. They’ve got a buffet. You can probably handle egg drop soup.”



“Do they have a bar?” My voice sounded as lifeless as I felt. I’m not a big fan of Chinese food, but I probably wouldn’t taste it anyway.



“I think so.”



“Good. I need a drink. Maybe several.”



“Celia—” She started to say something but stopped, thinking better of it after seeing my expression. “Never mind. Let’s get some food before things get ugly.”



Talk about prophetic. Then again, she is a clairvoyant.



10



I was not myself. That’s the only excuse I can give. I tried to be decent company and failed, miserably. Emma understood, trying valiantly to carry the conversational ball single-handedly—telling me about the job she’d landed in New York with Seacrest Artifacts. I tried to listen, but Emma’s voice was just white noise in the background. It was as if there was a vast distance between me and the real world. So while I heard her talking about how her father didn’t approve, that he thought she should finish her degree, I didn’t really take it in. I drank my drink and listened to her rattling on and tried to make interested noises at the right intervals.



She told that it was a great job, working as personal assistant to Irene Seacrest herself. The last person had walked out, so Irene needed Emma to start as soon as possible. She’d be flying out first-class day after tomorrow and staying in one of the corporate-owned apartments until she could find a place of her own. She was really excited. When she paused for a breath, I manage to ask how she’d found the job.



Bruno had recommended her for it. And while she didn’t say it, Emma’s sudden horror and rapid retreat to the bathroom let me put two and two together. Irene. He’d said her name was Irene. Emma was going to be working with Bruno’s baby momma.



I sat at the table, numb. I didn’t know what to think. I’d built a perfectly good life after Bruno and I broke up the first time. I could do it again. Of course I could. But right now, at this moment, I felt as if something essential had broken inside me.



I took another long swig of the salty-sweet frozen concoction in my glass, emptying it. I refilled the glass from the pitcher on the table. Now that was empty, too. Had we been here that long? A glance at my wrist made me do a double take. Not even an hour? Was that right?



I’d get past Bruno’s loss. I knew I would. Why did it hurt so much? He’d only been back in my life for a few weeks. Logically, it shouldn’t hurt this much. Of course emotions aren’t logical. Still, I didn’t have a choice. He was gone. I had to move on. The only way to do that was to keep moving. Winston Churchill had said it best, I suppose: “If you are going through hell, keep going.” I took a deep, steadying breath, letting it out slowly. I could do this. I would do this. Reaching beneath the table, I retrieved my purse from the floor.



Judging from her red-eyed, flying exit, Emma was likely to be gone awhile. If I didn’t distract myself, I’d think. Thinking would lead to feeling. Feeling was a bad idea right now. So I dug through the used tissues and detritus in my purse until I laid my hands on my cell phone.



With the simple push of a couple buttons I was listening to my voice mails. There were a lot. The first was from Kevin, congratulating me on my win.



The next message made me pick up my drink again and slug it down, then start looking for the waitstaff. It was Gran, telling me Mom was in jail again, picked up for driving without a license and insurance. I shook my head with annoyance. “Terrific. Just what Gran doesn’t need.” It would be Mom’s third strike. I doubted they’d offer bail this time, but if they did, even Bubba wouldn’t take her on. She was a flight risk. She was probably going to be spending some time behind bars. I’d need to call Gran back, see if she could come see me during Birchwoods’ visiting hours tomorrow.



There were lots of other messages, none of them urgent. Congratulations on the win. One or two reporters fishing for a story. The last call was from Creede and was less than fifteen minutes old. Stupid cell phone. I hate it when it doesn’t ring.



“Graves . . . Creede. You need to get back to me right away. I’m at the office. We have a situation.” He recited a cell number that matched the phone’s caller ID.



A situation. In my line of work, that phrase never means anything good.



The lump that had settled in my chest eased for a moment as the weight of a looming crisis started my brain clicking. Hallelujah for that. It was probably stupid to be grateful for someone else’s emergency, but I hit the button for callback with something close to eagerness.



“Creede.”



“Graves here. What’s wrong?”



“You have an important client with a situation. You need to get your game face on. I explained your circumstances, offered to take the job. But he swears nobody else can handle this for him except you.”



“Who’s the client?”



“No.”



Okay. Cell lines aren’t secure, but it usually isn’t an issue. If it was now, then there was a serious problem. Great.



My eagerness went away. The last time I’d been in a situation where names weren’t revealed, I’d earned my fangs. Bile rose into my throat and I struggled to swallow it back down. I reached for the pitcher again, trying to drain the few drops left in the bottom. The remaining chips of ice tinked against the glass from how hard my hand was shaking.



Crap. This shouldn’t be bothering me this much. I’d handled a hundred cases before the one that went bad and I’d fully planned to handle a hundred more after. But what if I couldn’t?



I stole Emma’s remaining drink, chasing the acid back down to my stomach where it belonged. The trouble was, it wasn’t just me. I was used to the threat of death. Been playing that game since I was a kid. No, it was the other people who were pulling out my insides right now. The Ivys and Bob Johnsons of the world who were sacrificed.



For nothing. There wasn’t a single good reason why they died, and it tore out little bits of my soul every time I thought about it. I’d failed to protect them. I was supposed to guard them, even though I knew they would say it hadn’t been my job. But they hadn’t had to be the ones left. The ones to stare into glazed, still eyes that would never see again, or cradle bodies that cooled to the touch the longer you held on and cried.



A big part of me wanted to say “screw it,” to hang up the phone and go curl up in a ball in some dark corner of the world with nothing for company but a bottle of something that would make the pain go away.



Just like my mother had.



Shit.



I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do it. How many would be hurt, how many would die, if I just gave up? Yes, it would be easy, too easy, to walk away. But people need bodyguards and I do know my stuff. Plus, now I had better hearing, better sight, and quicker reflexes. It should be a cakewalk to do personally what I’d often had to rely on gadgets for in the past.



Once I made that decision, the rest was easy. If I was going to keep going, keep living, I might as well start with this difficult case.



Looking on the bright side, someone else’s crisis might take my mind off my own. But even if it didn’t, life goes on. Whether you want it to or not.



“Where are you?” Creede asked.



“Just finishing dinner.” My voice sounded remarkably calm. “I can be at the office in ten or fifteen minutes.” I raised my hand, signaling to the waiter for the check as I spoke.