White Witch, Black Curse

Edden eyed her, clearly peeved himself. "My department is working on it. Gle

His eyes closed, and he became silent. Ivy stood, agitated. Almost brutal, she said, "If you don't put the heat on whoever did this in the next few hours, they will be gone." Edden met her eyes and she added more gently, "Let us help. You're too involved. The entire FIB is. You need someone out there who can look at what happened with dispassion, not a desire for revenge."

I made a small noise and crossed my arms over my middle. Revenge was on my mind. "Come on, Edden, this is what we do for a living!" I said. "Why won't you let us help?"

A dry humor was in the short man's eyes as he looked askance at me. "It's what Ivy does for a living. You're not a detective, Rachel. You're a haul-them-in-girl, and none better. I'll let you know when we find out who it is, and if it's a witch, I'll give you a call."

That hit me with all the pleasure of a slap in the face, and my eyes narrowed. Ivy saw my irritation, and she leaned back, content to let me yell at him. But instead of standing up and telling him to get Turned—which wouldn't do anything but get us thrown out—I swallowed my pride, contenting myself with bobbing my foot in anger.

"Then give Ivy the address," I said, wanting to accidentally kick him in the shins. "She can find a fairy fart in a windstorm," I said, borrowing one of Jenks's favorite expressions. "And what if it is an Inderlander? You want to risk losing them because of your human pride?"

Maybe that was low, but I was tired of looking at crime scenes after the cleaning crew.

Edden looked from Ivy's mocking expectancy to my admirably contained redhead anger, then pulled out a palm-size spiral notebook. I smiled at the scratch of the pencil as he wrote something down, a pleasant slurry of contentment and anticipation filling me. We'd find whoever attacked Gle

The sound of the paper tearing free was loud, and with a wry grimace, he extended the strip of white and blue to Ivy. She didn't look at it, handing it to me instead.

"Thank you," I said crisply, tucking it away.

A soft scrape of shoe on carpet brought my attention up, and I followed Ivy's gaze, over my shoulder. Ford was shuffling to us, his head bowed and my bag in his grip. I felt a moment of panic, and in response, he looked up, smiling. My eyes closed. Gle

"Thank you, God," Edden whispered, standing up.

I had to hear it, though, and as Ford handed me my forgotten bag and took the cup of coffee Ivy gave him, I asked, "He's going to be okay?"

Ford nodded, eyeing us over the rim of the paper cup. "His mind is fine," he said, grimacing at the coffee's taste. "There's no damage. He's deep into his psyche, but as soon as his body repairs itself enough, he will regain consciousness. A day or two?"

Edden's breath shook as he exhaled, and Ford stiffened when the FIB captain shook his hand. "Thank you. Thank you, Ford. If there's anything I can do for you, let me know."

Ford smiled thinly. "I'm glad I could give you good news." Regaining his hand, he backed up a step. "Excuse me. I need to try to convince the nurses to back off on the meds. He's not in as much pain as they think, and it's slowing down his recovery."

"I'll do it." Ivy eased into motion. "I'll tell them I can smell it. They won't know the difference."

The begi

Ford nodded, smiling tiredly. "He might not remember it, but he can."

Edden looked from me to Ford, clearly wanting to be with Gle

His steps fast, Edden strode toward Gle

"What happened to Gle

Ford watched Edden wave to the nurses as he passed beyond the wide, smooth door and into Gle

That's why he's a cop, I thought. "They've had only each other for a long time," I added, and Ford nodded, starting for the elevators. He looked whipped.

Ivy joined us after a last comment to the nurse. Falling into place on my other side, she looked across me to Ford. "What happened at the marina?" she asked as she shrugged into her long coat, and the afternoon's memories rushed back.

Her tone was slightly mocking, and I gave her a sidelong glance. I knew she was secure in her belief that her slow, steady investigations would find Kisten's killer faster than my reconstructing my memories. It was with no little pleasure that I glanced at Ford, then said to her, "Do you have time to go out tonight and smell the carpet?"

Ford chuckled, and Ivy stared, rocking to a halt at the elevators. "Excuse me?"

I punched the button for the lift. "Your nose is better than mine," I said simply.

Ivy blinked, her face blanker than usual. "You found something the FIB missed?"

I nodded as Ford pretended not to listen. "There's sticky silk stuck to the rim of the dresser's top. There might be a print, ah, other than the one I made today. And the floor under the window smells like vampire. It's not you or Kisten, so it might be his murderer."

Again, Ivy stared, looking uncomfortable. "You can tell the difference?"

The elevator doors slid open, and we all entered. "Can't you?" I said, backing up and pushing the button for the street level with a booted toe just because I could.

"I'm a vampire," she said, as if this made all the difference.

"I've lived with you for over a year," I said, wondering if I wasn't supposed to be able to tell the difference. "I know what you smell like," I muttered, embarrassed. "It's no big deal."

"Yes, it is," she whispered as the doors closed, and I hoped Ford hadn't heard.

I watched the numbers count down. "So you'll go out tonight?"

Ivy's eyes were black. "Yes."

I stifled a shiver, glad when the doors opened to show the busy lobby. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," she said, her gray-silk voice so thick with anticipation that I almost pitied the vampire who had killed Kisten.

Almost.

Three

I gripped the wheel of my car tighter in a

"Five trolls in dra-a-a-a-ag," the four-inch man sang from my shoulder. "Four purple condoms, three French ticklers, two horny vamps, and a succubus in the snow."

"Jenks, enough!" I shouted, and from the passenger seat, Ivy snickered, idly tracing a hand on the inside of the misted window to clear a spot from which to gaze out at the evening. The street was thick with holiday lights, and it was holy and serene, in a money-oriented, middle-class sort of way. Unlike Jenks's carol. Which was thirteen-year-old humor to the max.

"‘On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me—'"

I checked behind me and thunked the brakes. Ivy, with her vamp reflexes, easily caught herself, but Jenks was catapulted from my shoulder. He short-stopped himself inches from the windshield. His dragonfly-like wings were a blur of red and silver, but not a shadow of dust slipped from him, saying he'd half expected this. The smirk on his angular face was classic Jenks.