Chapter 7

...

I woke up chattering. The blankets still lay on top of me but they were no longer enough. The house was silent. Glancing around for a clock, I could see the morning light streaming through the window, creating a glare on the giant television screen, one that managed to reflect a rather unflattering image of myself. I blinked to clear my head. Sore from the old couch, I got up and stretched.

As the past twenty-four hours flooded my systems, I forced myself to change. A quick search through my duffle showed my cigarettes were gone, but it would be easy enough—if time consuming and annoying—to get them back from Bryce later. And least he hadn't taken my photo. I would have killed him if he had.

When I was dressed, I walked towards the kitchen, hoping to find some food. What with last night's little display, I knew I was nowhere near fulfilling any sort of nutritional requirements. Leech had pointed the kitchen out to me the night before and I found it easily enough, only stubbing my toe on some of the debris in the hall once or twice.

The kitchen was completely different from the living room, so much so that it felt like I had entered a different house. Where the living room was completely modern, with smooth lines and shiny fabrics, the kitchen looked like something straight out of a history textbook. The walls were stone and the island was some kind of age wood. Black iron pots hung from the ceiling and it even looked like there was a stone oven in the corner. It was a kitchen from a catalogue—a kitchen built for a chef, but strangely enough it was so clean I didn't think it had ever been used. Over in the corner there were even some wilted flowers, adding to the untouched nature of the room. The only place that was a mess was the island.

Leech sat in the middle of this pristine room, munching on a bowl of cereal. He was surrounded by three types of juice and seemed to have arbitrarily poured them into the same cup, creating a murky brown liquid that did not look appetizing at all.

"Morning," he greeted. "Sleep well?"

"You have a great couch."

He gave me a small smile. "Liar. You hungry?"

I nodded and he opened his cabinets to reveal the largest collection of cereal I had ever seen. It was as if he had brought the supermarket shelf home with him.

"Am I supposed to pick one?"

"I tend to mix and match. Want me to surprise you?"

He already had. I hadn't actually thought Bryce would have friends, let alone nice ones. "Sure."

He made me close my eyes as he bustled about. Cereal fell into a bowl and then more cereal. And then some more. I probably should have mentioned I wasn't that big of an eater, but I didn't want to offend him and I was curious to see this strange concoction. I could hear the fridge opening and closing. Breakfast was an intense process in this household.

When I was allowed to open my eyes, he presented breakfast with a flourish, proudly displaying a bowl filled with cereal in colours and shapes I was pretty sure was unnatural. One bite convinced me that I shouldn't care. It was delicious. I thanked him.

"You talk to Savannah this morning?" I asked, trying to make conversation.

"She's right here," Leech said, pointing to an empty chair. "We wanted to wait until you had eaten before bombarding you."

"Did she and Kristof find anything last night?"

"Nothing on the ghost side. Though they did confirm that there have been a few portals that are only on one side." He looked nervous as he added, "There's also the problem of her fading."

"What?" That didn't sound good.

"I've never seen it happen to a ghost before. This morning she was translucent—like the ghosts you see in movies. She's fine now, but..."

Not good. That meant we were running out of time. I felt guilty for wasting time last night. Obviously there was something wrong with Savannah and it wasn't about to go away. I went straight to the next step:

"When are we going to the warehouse?"

Leech shifted uncomfortably. "There's a problem with that, too."

"Which is...?"

"Bryce said he'd come."

"So?" I mean he wasn't that bad, most of the time. And the resources he had at his beck and call made up for whatever stupid thing was coming out of his mouth.

"What do you think is going to happen when Savannah magically appears in front of him? I'm his best friend and he might kill me. You...you probably won't make it," he admitted.

That was comforting. And slightly confusing. "Leech? I don't mean to pry, but if he is your best friend, then why are you lying to him? Not that I don't appreciate it, but..." But you didn't lie to you best friend. Those were the rules.

"Hey, Bryce is helping somebody. His first vacation since he moved East and he chose to help someone? I'm still pinching myself. I mean, he's doing it reluctantly, and not being very polite about it—I'm really sorry about the witch tirade. But he's helping. Sort of. I'm not going to be the one to ruin that," Leech said with a shrug. "I only wish I had thought of it before you."

Yeah, manipulating a guy using his dead father? Why wouldn't Leech wish he'd thought of that? Feeling a little sick—though thankfully it was the self-loathing and not the food this time—I asked: "Where is he?"

"He's out back. I half cleaned the drains out yesterday and he offered to finish up so I could keep Savannah entertained."

"Okay. I'm going to talk to him. You can figure out the directions."

"Savannah wants to know what you're going to do," Leech says apologetically. "She seems concerned."

I couldn't help laughing. I definitely needed a translator between Savannah and me all the time. "He's on the roof, right? That's too public for him to kill me." Or fuck me, I didn't add, though that was Savannah's actual concern. She knew me too well to doubt that I found blatant disrespect attractive. But I didn't say it in front of Leech. I wanted to preserve his good opinion of me for as long as possible. It had been a long time since anyone had thought well of me and I wasn't giving that up without a fight.

The living room doors opened onto a small porch. For a moment, I stared at the yard in front of me. It was so perfectly landscaped, weeds didn't dare to grow. There was even a gazebo in to corner of the house. The porch was fairly small, though it must have been hand-crafted. Where did these people get the money? Just beside the porch, I saw the ladder Leech had told me about. Someone had placed it right smack dab in the center of a bed of petunias. The flowers were strewn about everywhere, and only a few had escaped being crushed underneath careless feet.

I tried to be careful as I climbed up the ladder myself. Leech lived in a bungalow and I couldn't help but wondering if I really needed the ladder. There was some well placed trellises that I should have been able to use. Maybe if no one was around, I could see if I still had it. The roof was mostly flat and covered in orange singles, which the sun had started to warm, reflecting heat back at me.

Bryce had his back to me, concentrating on the gutter on the right side of the house. That didn't mean he hadn't heard someone approach.

"Took you long enough. I told you witches were a pain, man."

"I actually kind of like them," I informed him. "I find they tend to be less judgemental."

He turned around, clearly surprised to see me up here. He must have been out here longer than I thought—he was sweating through his Grateful Dead shirt. I settled myself on the top part of the roof and waited for him to come over. This wasn't the sort of conversation I wanted to him while he was holding tools.

He did come over, dropping the metal weapons as he went; I tried not to let my relief show. Or notice the black lines that encircled a not unfortunate looking bicep just below the sleeve of his shirt. The ledge was the perfect place to sit and he dropped down beside me. "You should have brought me something to drink. I'm dying up here."

"You should have left my cigarettes alone."

"You'll thank me later," he said with a shrug. "What brings you up here? Fondness for drains?"

"Have you looked into what happened at the club? Or at my house?"

"I've had my people looking into it. Everyone at the office knew about the murder Friday night, but it's got them nervous. They don't know who caused it. And we don't like having new players in town." Especially not in L.A. The Nasts owned Los Angeles.

"But they're still looking, right?"

"Don't worry about it. These guys are the best. And until then, well, no one will hurt you if you're with me."

"Really now?"

He pointed out Grant and Paulson, stationed just inside the gazebo, unmoving. How did they manage to stay so perfectly still? It occurred to me that they might just be mannequins, painted up so that I just thought I was safe, but the idea was ludicrous. I was grateful to see them again. For someone who obsessively flirted with Death, I was rather disinclined to meet the guy. I preferred his cousin, Oblivion—he understood I wasn't ready for a serious relationship. And if the men in black suits helped keep it that way, so much the better.

Bryce was still talking. "Plus, Cabal children have immunity. No one would dare hurt you for fear of hurting me and the international incident that would follow."

"Those men in the vans yesterday didn't stop and ask if you were a Nast. What do your 'people' have to say about that?"

He shifted uncomfortably, somehow ending up much closer to me than I would have liked. "I can't report that," he admitted finally. "If I did, I'd have to explain why Grant and Paulson weren't with me."

"So you can drug them and leave them, you just can't tell anyone about it?"

"They'd get blamed for it. And Grant's been with me twenty fucking years. It would be too hard to train someone to replace him. So, just, don't mention that, okay?"

For a Cabal employee, I could keep silent. I tried to work out how young Bryce must have been. I wondered if he'd even been old enough to talk. I had never heard of a bodyguard staying for twenty years—it was dangerous work and the stress killed you when other people didn't. Bodyguards were with the Cabal sorcerers almost all of the time. That was twenty years multiplied by twenty-four hours. That was a lot of time together. A lot of time. I could see why a potentially life-threatening altercation would pale in comparison to that.

"Why did you do it, anyway?"

"Grant disapproved of...whatever her name was. So I figured I'd give them the unofficial night off. And let them chase after me, spice up their day."

Cabal prince. Bastard.

The sun continued to beat down and I felt my eyes begin to close as I baked in the sun. Each moment the temperature rose exponentially. The tiles under me were slowly cooking my legs. I was on a roof skillet and it felt nice. I leaned back slightly and let the sun wash over me, whispering against my skin. I could feel Bryce beside me, the tiny hairs on his arm ticking the inch of skin where my shirt had ridden up. I wanted to tell him to move but didn't want the hassle.

I also didn't want to do what I had come up here to do, but I had to. Changing the subject, I asked, "Did you mean what you said yesterday? That rant about witches?"

"Is this your liberal guilt asking?"

If I was honest with myself, I would admit that I was good at manipulating people. Too good, I thought, most of the time. But the fact of the matter was, I wasn't sure how to get Bryce Nast to do what I wanted. Because while playing on his feelings for his dad was easy enough, it wasn't his dad who was the problem. It was Savannah. And I wasn't sure how he felt about Savannah.

Which everyone on the planet would say was me being delusional. Bryce was a Nast. The Nasts hated Savannah. But then, I didn't think hate meant the same thing to Bryce as it did to the rest of the planet. Hadn't he cheerfully admitted to hating me? But he was helping me out—and occasionally coming on to me. Clearly hate didn't quite mean what I thought it did.

Then again, Savannah was responsible for his father's death. My passive-aggressive hatred for the man beside me stemmed from the death of my sister, which every part of me realized was unfair. It didn't make me hate him any less.

"Did you mean it?"

"As much as I mean anything."

That looked like the best I was going to get. But did that mean he hated Savannah as much as he would hate anyone? Or was she special? I rolled my eyes. Savannah was always special.

"So I lied to you," I began, trying to glance up. The sun was too bright, so I brought my hand to my head, shading my eyes. Confession wasn't usually my thing and it was harder than I thought it would be.

"A witch who lies? Really?"

The fake surprise in his voice annoyed me. I think I wanted to hurt him; destroy that damned Nast pride that had killed my sister. And I owed it to him because at least talking to a Nast—the people morally responsible for Dana's death—was my choice. This was something he should know

"I can't talk to your father," I announced. "He's here, but he's not the voice in my head." He didn't understand so I kept going. Slamming the door on the help he could provide? Probably. "A friend of mine went to that warehouse. Someone cast that spell on her. She ended up invisible, unable to interact with the world. Your father's been with her, helping her. But she's the one I've been talking to."

It didn't take him long to figure out what I meant. What did he know about me, after all, other than I was Savannah's friend?

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need to know. Please, don't push me off the roof."

"I'm considering it." He was considering a lot of things, muscles tense, not moving. I could only guess what he was thinking. Was it worth it, having his father around, when he had to have his killer around too? And what did it mean that Kristof was helping Savannah? Finally he spoke, "Does this mean she's dead?"

"Your dad says she isn't. He says she can be brought back." I pounced on the opening he had left me. "Shouldn't you sound more excited by her early demise?"

"Sean says it was an accident"

I didn't have to read minds to know what he meant. "That's what she says too. If she actually did it, she wouldn't feel compelled to lie about it. Trust me on that."

"Have I heard you tell the truth yet?"

I honestly didn't know. Probably not. I really had to stop doing that. Offering him something small seemed like it might help him decide not to push me off the room.

"I like the tat."

"Which one?"

Saying all of them made me sound too much like the white trash I actually was. So I settled for: "The one on your back. I didn't get a good look at the one on your arm."

I wasn't looking for an invitation, but he gave me one anyway, pushing up his right sleeve, showing off the ink. At first, I thought I was looking at a snake encircling a bird. But a second later I realized my mistake. Though it coiled and wavered, especially when he flexed, up close I could tell it wasn't an animal. Thought it was some sort of...

"A whip?" I asked, tracing the outline. I did not notice how warm his skin was, or how fine his hair was. I was concentrating on the artwork. Pushing up his sleeve still further I examined the bird. "Why is it around the eagle?"

"It's a long story," he said, grinning at the memory. "Too long. You have to get going. Take Grant and Paulson with you. I've already told them how to avoid the wards."

"You're going to let this go?"

Bryce shrugged. "I hate being predictable. Help the she-devil if you want. It's nothing to me."

I didn't quite believe him, but as long as he wasn't actively trying to stop us, I could live with it. Picking myself off the roof, I dusted off my clothing and headed back towards the ladder. I turned to glance back—because I was an idiot—and found Bryce staring at me.

"Hate witches a little less this morning?" I asked.

He just smirked.

"You know, MacArthur, when you jump me, I think I might let you."

I tried not to blush, but I don't think I succeeded. So to get some off my long-abandoned pride back I smiled back.

"Great. Now I can die happy."

And then I threw myself off the roof.

It was a stupid, show-off-y stunt that I wouldn't have normally dared tried. But it was hot out and it had been months since I had anything to show for my training. If I could shut up Bryce Nast, if only for an instant, then I was going to try.

You weren't supposed to do stunts like this without practice and sure as hell not without a spotter. But Grant had said to trust him and he could teleport if I needed him. I didn't think I would. I was pretty good at judging distances and the porch railing ended up exactly where I had wanted it to be. My arms went out—the shock reminding me why warm-ups were a good thing—and then I was flinging myself up and over. I didn't stick the landing, but managed to stay on my feet.

Out of habit, I bowed in the direction of the judges, in this case Grant and Paulson. Only Paulson was there. Turning around I spotted Grant not five feet away. He gave me a quick nod and then disappeared, ending up back in the gazebo. I rotated my wrists, trying to loosen them up, as I glanced up at the roof. He wasn't even peaking.

Oh well.

...

Leech had found the directions to the warehouse and wasn't surprised when I announced that Bryce had changed his mind about coming. He was surprised that Grant and Paulson were coming with us. When asked who would be left protecting Bryce—which I actually hadn't thought of—Grant informed him that the security on Leech's house would be adequate. Apparently, Bryce had actually been planning to stay at the necromancer's house. Crashing at his brother's room had only been a temporary detour.

Paulson drove us in the most conspicuous black SUV around. None of the men said anything on the way over and I didn't know what to say. Savannah was staying back at the house, unless Kristof could think of something else. We would tell her to start walking if we found something in the warehouse. She hadn't been able to give us exact directions to the portal, so it could have been anywhere in the building. But I was counting on Leech being able to find it. Necromancer's always managed to find portals.

The drive was a long one and I was impressed that Savannah had managed to walk the whole way on foot. It also made me nervous. It was a long walk. She should have been exhausted, especially when she had to turn around and walk me back across town.

Worrying about Savannah just made me feel sick, so I studied the men in the car instead. Without Bryce around it was easy to notice a change in Paulson's demeanour. The looks of disdain he continued to shoot me showed that his facsimile of politeness had been only for the sake of his boss. Without him around Paulson apparently saw no reason to hide his disgust for the supernatural that most supernaturals thought of as powerless. He was clearly a Nast employee—Cortez employees didn't act like this. I was only the daughter of one, and still I knew that you maintained an aura of polite disinterest at all times, no matter what your feelings, no matter the situation. Always polite.

Like Grant. His attitude was distant but respectful, the exact type my father was always explaining was the perfect one to use when at work. He probably thought the same as Paulson—why did they have to waste their time guarding a witch?—but his expression gave nothing away. It was actually a strange contrast. I would have thought the one who had been with Bryce the longest would have been the more impolite.

Grant even glared when Paulson didn't immediately open the door for me. Not that I needed him to, but we were all here to do our jobs. The building they had parked in front of was huge and square, and containers of some sort lined the parking lot. This was the grungy, hard-working side of California that people rarely saw. I hadn't even known it had existed until I moved East.

Grant and Paulson carefully brought us to the front door, avoiding the security traps by habit and knowledge and the fact that Bryce had ordered most of them to be turned off earlier today.

"I don't like this," Leech said as we waited for Grant to open the door. "It doesn't feel safe."

"It's just a big creepy building. Nothing to worry about," I teased.

"We care take of anything," Grant said, then added, "Sir."

Leech looked positively mortified at that. By the sir or by its slow arrival? It had been borderline disrespectful. But Grant always easily called me Miss. It almost made me think that Paulson's angry glare wasn't pointed in my direction.

I cut in: "We should hurry, if you're nervous. Can you pick up any sort of trail?"

The big man stepped through the door. Paulson let him pass. My father would have slapped him upside the head. That wasn't proper procedure at all. I followed him inside, pleased that Grant had the grace to bring up the rear properly, scanning behind us for potential threats and glaring at his younger partner. I muttered a sensing spell, just so nothing could sneak up on us. Grant disabled the alarm.

In front of me, Leech had his eyes closed, taking deep breaths.

"What do you see?" I asked.

"Nothing. But there's something wrong here. Very wrong," he muttered.

He began moving through the huge boxes and the rest of us trailed after him, following our leader. Turning his head to watch us every minute, Leech was obviously uncomfortable. Still, he kept going. I cast a quick light spell, trying to see in the dark. Grant and Paulson pulled out flashlights. Between the rows and rows of shipping containers, it was dark and difficult to suppress the feeling that something was about to jump out and axe-murder us all. Faint noises echoed in the background, mice or something more sinister. I couldn't dwell on it.

"Miss MacArthur?"

I looked up at Grant, surprised he had kept up the title. But since Bryce wasn't around... "It's Gillian."

"I know, Miss MacArthur," he said with the tiniest ghost of a smile. "We just wanted to say that the next time you pull a stunt like the one back at the house, you should give us a warning."

"But what fun would that be?" I said, trying to keep Leech in my sight.

"Mr. Nast would be most unhappy if we let you crack your skull open."

"Especially since he's gone to all that trouble of giving her permission to come near him," Paulson muttered.

Grant and I turned to stare at him and he blushed, ducking his head and pretending to check behind him. I felt my face heat up a little, because I had forgotten about him being an Expiscor. Damn. That meant he could hear everything. I hoped not; it took a lot out of an Expiscor to have their powers invoked all the time. With the conversation effectively over, we just hurried after Leech.

Leech turned yet another corner. I was starting to suspect he had no clue what he was doing. It was getting darker, less safe, as we moved deeper amongst the storage. I shivered. Maybe I should just contact Savannah and see if she couldn't give better directions? Ten more minutes and I was just going to run outside. The darkness seemed to be moving closer.

"Ignore Paulson." I jumped a little when Grant spoke. "He hasn't yet learned any manners. Or his boundaries."

Paulson said nothing. Because these were my people, I decided to be upfront: "Why don't you like me?"

Paulson turned redder but said earnestly, "I don't—or I do—you seem nice enough Gill—Miss MacArthur. Anyone who can scare the shit out of Mr Nast is fine by me."

Grant scowled, but said nothing and I found myself really grinning at Paulson. "Scarred shitless?"

"Heartbeat through the roof," he confided. Grant cleared his throat and Paulson looked properly chastised. "Possibly," he threw in.

"Then why don't you want to be here?" I asked. Because it was obvious from the way he had been acting before that he didn't want to be.

"It's a blatant insult to the necros. Mr Nast doesn't have the right—"

"Never mind," Grant ordered. They fell silent, as Grant pretended to be checking the perimeter. Paulson hushed, but glared off into the distance, off in the direction of...but how could you not like Leech?

"I think I found it," the big man called and I hurried away from the guards. Leech was standing in front of a yellow storage container, staring at it in rapt attention. "I think this is it, but...I've never seen anything like it."

"What's wrong with it?" I asked.

An enormous arm swung out and held me back. "Stand back. I don't like this."

The storage container looked just like every other in the damn warehouse, big and mental, and completely sealed shut. Leech was staring at in with something akin to horror on his face.

"Contact Savannah," Leech told me.

I cast the spell. "About freaking time!" Savannah immediately whined. "What took you so fucking long?"

I was so busy concentrating on formulating a response that I jumped three feet in the air when Paulson put his hand on my arm. There was no sign of the disgruntled employee on his face. Cool efficiency had taken its place. Dad would have been proud.

"We need to go."

...