Every Which Way But Dead

“’Fast. Discreet. No questions asked,’” I said, reading it. “’Sliding scale. Payment options. Insured. Week, day, and hourly rates.’” Under it all were our three names, address, and phone number. I didn’t get it. There was nothing here that would lead anyone to think bloodhouse or even a dating service. Then I saw the tiny print at the bottom saying to see the secondary entries.

I flipped through the thin sheets to the first one listed, finding the same ad. Then I looked closer; not at our ad, but the ones around it. Holy crap, that woman was hardly clothed, having the perky body of an animé cartoon. My eyes flicked to the heading. “Escort Service?” I said, flushing at the steamy, suggestive ads.

My gaze jerked to our advertisement again, the words taking on an entirely new meaning. No questions asked? Week, day, or hourly rates? Payment options? Lips pressed together, I shut the book, leaving it out to talk to Ivy about. No wonder we were getting calls.

More than a little irate, I unmuted the stereo and headed back into the kitchen, Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” trying its best to lighten my mood.

It was the hint of a draft, the barest scent of wet pavement, that made my step hesitate and the palm streaking out at me past the archway to the kitchen miss my jaw.

“God bless it!” I swore as I dove past it into the kitchen instead of falling back into the cramped hall. Remembering Jenks’s kids, I tapped the ley line out back but did nothing else as I fell into a defensive crouch between the sink and the island counter. I almost choked when I saw whom it was standing by the archway.

“Quen?” I stammered, not getting out of my stance as the lightly wrinkled, athletic man stared at me with no expression. The head of Trent’s security was dressed entirely in black, his tight-fitting body stocking looking vaguely like a uniform. “What in hell are you doing?” I said. “I ought to call the I.S., you know that? And have them haul your ass out of my kitchen for illegal entry! If Trent wants to see me, he can come down here just like anyone else. I’ll tell him he can suck dishwater, but he ought to have the decency to let me do it in person!”

Quen shook his head. “I have a problem, but I don’t think you can handle it.”

I made an ugly face at him. “Don’t test me, Quen,” I all but snarled. “You’ll fail.”

“We’ll see.”

That was all the warning I got as the man pushed off the wall, headed right for me.

Gasping, I dove past him instead of backward the way I wanted. Quen lived and breathed security. Backing away would only get me caught. Heart pounding, I grabbed my dented copper spell pot with white frosting in it and swung.

Quen caught it, yanking me forward. Adrenaline hurt my head as I let it go, and he tossed it aside. It made a harsh bong and spun into the hallway.

I snatched the coffeemaker and threw it. The appliance jerked back at its cord, and the carafe fell to shatter on the floor. He dodged, his green eyes peeved when they met mine, as if wondering what in hell I was doing. But if he got a grip on me, I was a goner. I had a cupboard of charms in arm’s reach, but no time to invoke even one.

He gathered himself to jump, and remembering how he had evaded Piscary with incredible leaps, I went for my dissolution vat. Teeth gritted in effort, I tipped it over.

Quen cried out in disgust as ten gallons of saltwater cascaded over the floor to mix with the coffee and glass shards. Arms pinwheeling, he slipped.

I levered myself onto the island counter, stepping on frosted cookies and knocking over vials of colored sugar. Crouched to avoid the hanging utensils, I jumped feet first as he rose.

My feet hit him squarely in the chest and we both went down.

Where was everyone? I thought as my hip took the fall and I grunted in pain. I was making enough noise to wake the undead. But as such commotion was more common than silence these days, Ivy and Jenks would probably ignore it and hope it went away.

Slipping, I skittered from Quen. Hands reaching unseeing, I scrabbled for my paint ball gun kept purposely at crawling height. I yanked it out. Nested copper pots rolled noisily.

“Enough!” I shouted, arms stiff as I sat on my butt in saltwater, aiming at him. It was loaded with water-filled splat balls for practice, but he didn’t know that. “What do you want?”

Quen hesitated, water making darker smears on his black pants. His eye twitched. Adrenaline surged. He was going to risk it.

Instinct and practice with Ivy made me squeeze the trigger as he leapt onto the table to land like a cat. I tracked him, squeezing out every last splat ball.

His expression went affronted as he pulled himself to a crouching halt, his attention jerking from me to the six new splatters on his skintight shirt. Crap. I’d missed him once. Jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed in anger. “Water?” he said. “You load your spell gun with water?”

“Ain’t you just lucky for that?” I snapped. “What do you want?” He shook his head, and my breath hissed in as I felt a dropping sensation in me. He was tapping the line out back.

Panic jerked me to my feet, and I flung my hair out of my eyes. From his vantage point on the table, Quen straightened to his full height, his hands moving as he whispered Latin.

“Like hell you will!” I shouted, throwing my splat gun at him. He ducked, and I snatched up whatever I could to throw it at him, desperate to keep him from finishing the charm.

Quen dodged the butter tub of frosting. It thunked into the wall to. make a green smear. Grabbing the cookie tin, I ran around the counter, swinging it like a board. He dove off the table to avoid it, cursing at me. Cookies and red-hot candies went everywhere.

I followed him, grabbing him about the knees to bring us both down in a sodden splat. He twisted in my grip until his livid green eyes met mine. Hands scrabbling, I shoved saltwater soggy cookies into his mouth so he couldn’t verbally invoke a charm.

He spit them at me, his deeply tanned, pockmarked face vehement. “You little canicula—” he managed, and I jammed some more into him.

His teeth closed on my finger, and I shrieked, jerking back. “You bit me!” I shouted, incensed. My fist swung, but he rolled to his feet, crashing into the chairs.

Panting, he stood. He was soaked, covered in water and sparkles of colored sugar. Growling an unheard word, he leapt.

I lurched upright to flee. Pain lanced through my scalp as he grabbed my hair and spun me around into an embrace, my back to his chest. One arm went chokingly around my neck. The other slipped between my legs, yanking me up onto one foot.

Furious, I elbowed him in the gut with my free arm. “Get your hands …” I grunted, hopping backward on one foot, “off my hair!” I reached the wall, and smashed him into it. His breath exploded out as I jabbed his ribs, and his grip around my neck fell away.

I spun to stiff-arm his jaw, but he was gone. I was staring at the yellow wall. Shrieking, I went down, my legs pulled out from under me. His weight landed on me, pinning me to the wet floor with my arms over my head.

“I win,” he panted as he straddled me, his green eyes from under his short hair wild.

I struggled to no effect, ticked that it was going to be something as stupid as body mass that decided this. “You forgot something, Quen,” I snarled. “I have fifty-seven roommates.”

His lightly wrinkled brow furrowed.

Taking a huge breath, I whistled. Quen’s eyes widened. Grunting in effort, I jerked my right hand free and slammed the heel of my hand at his nose.

He jerked back out of the way and I pushed him off me, rolling. Still on my hands and knees, I flipped my wet stringy hair out of the way.

Quen had gained his feet, but he wasn’t moving. He was standing stock-still, cookie-smeared palms raised above his head in a gesture of acquiescence. Jenks was hovering before him, the sword he kept to fight off encroaching fairies aimed at Quen’s right eye. The pixy looked pissed, dust spilling from him to make a steady sunbeam from him to the floor.

“Breathe,” Jenks threatened. “Blink. Just give me a reason, you bloody freak of nature.”

I stumbled upright as Ivy dove into the room, moving faster than I would have believed possible. Robe loose and flowing, she grabbed Quen by the throat.

The lights flickered and the hanging utensils swung as she slammed him into the wall beside the doorway. “What are you doing here?” she snarled, her knuckles white with pressure. Jenks had moved with Quen, his sword still touching the man’s eye.

“Wait!” I exclaimed, worried they might kill him. Not that I’d mind, but then there’d be I.S. personnel in my kitchen, and paperwork. Lots of paperwork. “Slow down,” I soothed.

My eyes flicked to Ivy, still holding Quen. There was frosting on my hand, and I wiped it off on my damp jeans as I caught my breath. Saltwater marked me and I had cookie crumbs and sugar in my hair. The kitchen looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy had exploded. I squinted at the purple frosting on the ceiling. When had that happened?

“Ms. Morgan,” Quen said, then gurgled as Ivy tightened her grip. The music from the living room softened to talk.

I felt my ribs, wincing. Angry, I paced to where he hung in Ivy’s hold. “Ms. Morgan?” I shouted, six inches from his reddening face. “Ms. Morgan? I’m Ms. Morgan now? What in hell is wrong with you!” I yelled. “Coming into my house. Ruining my cookies. Do you know how long it’s going to take to clean this up?”

He gurgled again, and my anger started to slow. Ivy was staring at him with a shocking intensity. The scent of his fear had tripped her past her limits. She was vamping out at noon. This wasn’t good, and I took a step back, suddenly sobered. “Um, Ivy?” I said.

“I’m okay,” she said huskily, her eyes saying different. “Want me to bleed him quiet?”

“No!” I exclaimed, and I felt another drop in me. Quen was tapping a line. I took an alarmed breath. Things were spiraling out of control. Someone was going to get hurt. I could set a circle, but it would be around me, not him. “Drop him!” I demanded. “Jenks, you too!” Neither of them moved. “Now!”

Shoving him up the wall, Ivy dropped him and stepped away. He hit the floor in a slump, his hand at his neck as he coughed violently. Slowly he moved his legs into a normal position. Flipping his very black hair from his eyes, he looked up, sitting cross-legged and barefoot. “Morgan,” he said roughly, his hand hiding his throat, “I need your help.”

I glanced at Ivy, who was tightening her black silk robe about herself again. He needed my help? Ri-i-i-i-ight. “You okay?” I asked Ivy, and she nodded. The ring of brown left to her eyes was too thin for my comfort, but the sun was high, and the tension in the room was easing. Seeing my concern, she pressed her lips together.

“I’m fine,” she reiterated. “You want me to call the I.S. now or after I kill him?”

My gaze ran over the kitchen. My cookies were ruined, sitting in soggy clumps. The globs of frosting on the walls were starting to run. Saltwater was venturing out of the kitchen, threatening to reach the living room rug. Letting Ivy kill him was looking really good.

“I want to hear what he has to say,” I said as I slid open a drawer and put three dish towels in the threshold as a dike. Jenks’s kids were peeking around the corner at us. The angry pixy rubbed his wings together to make a piercing whistle, and they vanished in a trill of sound.

Taking a fourth towel, I wiped the frosting off my elbow and went to stand before Quen. Feet spread wide and my fists on my hips, I waited. It must have been big if he was willing to risk Jenks figuring out he was an elf. My thoughts went to Ceri across the street, and my worry grew. I wasn’t going to let Trent know she existed. He would use her some way—some very ugly way.

The elf felt his ribs through his black shirt. “I think you cracked them,” he said.

“Did I pass?” I said snidely.

“No. But you’re the best I’ve got.”

Ivy made a sound of disbelief, and Jenks dropped down before him, staying carefully out of his reach. “You ass,” the four-inch man swore. “We could have killed you three times over.”

Quen frowned at him. “We. It was her I was interested in. Not we. She failed.”

“So I guess that means you’ll be leaving,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t be that lucky. I took in his subdued attire and sighed. It was just after noon. Elves slept when the sun was high and in the middle of the night, just like pixies. Quen was here without Trent’s knowledge.

Feeling more sure of myself, I pulled out a chair and sat down before Quen could see my legs trembling. “Trent doesn’t know you’re here,” I said, and he nodded solemnly.

“It’s my problem, not his,” Quen said. “I’m paying you, not him.”

I blinked, trying to disguise my unease. Trent didn’t know. Interesting. “You have a job for me that he doesn’t know about,” I said. “What is it?”

Quen’s gaze went to Ivy and Jenks.

Peeved, I crossed my legs and shook my head. “We’re a team. I’m not asking them to leave so you can tell me of whatever piss-poor problem you’ve landed yourself in.”

The older elf’s brow wrinkled. He took an angry breath.

“Look,” I said, my finger jabbing out to point at him. “I don’t like you. Jenks doesn’t like you. And Ivy wants to eat you. Start talking.”

He went motionless. It was then I saw his desperation, shimmering behind his eyes like light on water. “I have a problem,” he said, fear the thinnest ribbon in his low, controlled voice.

I glanced at Ivy. Her breath had quickened and she stood with her arms wrapped about herself, holding her robe closed. She looked upset, her pale face even more white than usual.

“Mr. Kalamack is going to a social gathering and—” My lips pursed. “I already turned down one whoring offer today.”

Quen’s eyes flashed. “Shut up,” he said coldly. “Someone is interfering in Mr. Kalamack’s secondary business ventures. The meeting is to try to come to a mutual understanding. I want you to be there to be sure that’s all it is.”

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