you’ll lose your job, maybe your visa, but you will lose your balls one night while you’re sleeping, because I know where you live and I’m good with a knife. You wouldn’t mess with an Elven woman, and I’m an Elven Keeper. Think about it.”
He stopped nuzzling and looked at her appraisingly, and she put all the force of her anger into her stare, knowing her scarlet eyes intensified the effect. It was something a werewolf respected, sheer stupid courage. Sometimes.
His nostrils flared, but his grip relaxed, and relief coursed through her. She pulled away from him with as much grace as she could muster and stood, moving out of reach.
“You better get out of here, Keeper.”
She wanted to bolt. She was shaking. But she made herself stand her ground and open her purse. She pulled out the twenties for a second time and held them out.
He was silent. Then he stood and looked at her, fixing his eyes on her in a way that demanded her attention. She saw what he was doing, and she took a deep breath and from his mind to hers came the answer she sought. It was as though he spoke it aloud, though he never opened his mouth.
Catrienne Dumarais.
He plucked the money from her fingers and sauntered toward the building with an insolent swagger. When he reached the doorway, she called to him, “Can you spell that?”
But Magdy entered the building without looking back.
* * *
Reggie Maxx answered his phone on the second ring. He’d already heard about her car and Julio’s death. “What can I do to help?” he asked.
“I thought maybe you could give me a tour of some real estate I want to check out in Lost Hills.”
“You got it,” he said. “And I’ve been doing some research of my own. Where should we meet? I’ll be in Beverly Hills in an hour to get some documents signed. That should take another hour, hour and a half. Then I can be anywhere.”
“Three hours, then,” Sailor said. “Let’s meet at the Mystic Café.”
* * *
Brodie McKay answered his cell on the first ring, sounding both grim and tired. Sailor was driving east, toward Crescent Heights, with Jonquil in the passenger seat, his long ears flying behind him in the wind from the open windows.
“I’m fine, Brodie,” she said in response to his questions. “Yes, I’m alone, but it’s broad daylight and I have my briefcase with me.” In other words, I have a weapon. At least, she thought that was what it meant. Those Keepers addicted to telecommunication talked on their cells in code. Unfortunately, the codes changed weekly and she rarely remembered to study them, something that would have to change. “Listen, I’m driving and there’s a deli up ahead. I know you’re worn out, but could you...meet me there?”
“Give me a street address.”
Less than a minute later she pulled into a parking space to see an extra-large Elven already coming out of the sandwich shop with an extra-large drink in hand. Brodie gave her a hug and indicated an outdoor table.
“Sorry to make you teleport,” she said, “when you’re already exhausted.”
“Not a problem. I was close by. What is it you can’t talk about on the phone?”
“The Ancients.”
He frowned. “What about them?”
“I’m not asking you to go into the details of the investigation, but can you just tell me if you’ve interviewed any of them?”
He shook his head. “No reason to interview them.”
“I’ve heard they have a bunch of really old documents that might reveal something about the Scarlet Pathogen.”
He leaned forward, his voice low. “Sailor, we have our hands full pursuing every credible lead we get. Is it possible the Ancients know something? Sure. Anything’s possible. It’s a question of priorities. We have a limited number of Others on the force, and I can hardly send a mortal into the woods looking for a tribe of antisocial fundamentalists who may or may not have an old book somewhere on a shelf with some reference to a plague reminiscent of this pathogen.”
His tone was kind, but she could see the stress he was under, signs of the all-nighter he’d just pulled. “Okay, Brodie, I get it,” she said. “I know you know what you’re doing, and that you’re doing everything you can. Can you just tell me, have you heard of a woman named Catrienne Dumarais?”
He stopped, his cup halfway to his mouth. Then he knocked back at least ten ounces of ice water and set it down. “I’ve