Keeper of the Shadows - By Alexandra Sokoloff Page 0,25

rather radiant today. Is there something new in your life?”

Barrie was about to answer an automatic “no” when Alessande added, “Or someone, maybe?”

Barrie felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair. “No,” she lied. “I don’t know wh-what you mean.”

Alessande raised her eyebrows, but to Barrie’s relief, she dropped the subject. “You’re late,” she said instead, lifting her hair from her neck. “I’ve been wrestling with that mandrake for an hour. Let’s sit and have some tea.”

Barrie followed her onto the semi-enclosed patio with a sweeping view of the sinking sun. A frosty glass pitcher of iced tea was already waiting on a mosaic-topped table with two glasses and a plate of decadent-looking cakes. Barrie reached for one and sniffed it suspiciously; she was sure there were all kinds of herbs in them.

Alessande smiled her cat smile. “Oh, go ahead, you’ll like them.”

Barrie bit into an explosion of chocolate and berry deliciousness. Whatever its healing properties, the cake was also loaded with sugar, more proof that Alessande had seen her coming.

Alessande sat and poured them both tall glasses of rosily glowing tea. She pushed one glass toward Barrie and got straight down to business. “Sailor told me you’re looking for information on the death of Johnny Love, and I’ve been looking into it.”

“You’re an angel,” Barrie said, meaning it. “Thank you.”

Alessande nodded distractedly. “You’re very welcome, but there’s actually a troubling dearth of knowledge about this incident, given that it’s one of the most notorious celebrity deaths of the end of the century.” She had a way of talking that made history sound long and vibrant—not surprising, considering her age and relationship to time. She continued, serenely and seriously.

“No Elven I spoke with seems to know anything about what happened to him. There was no Elven Keeper I can track who had anything to do with the investigation into the death or the autopsy.” Pale as she was, her lovely face was shadowed. “It is extremely troubling. It’s almost as if...wherever Johnny died, there were no other Elven in the vicinity at all.”

“That is strange,” Barrie murmured, and reached for another cake. There was nothing about the case that wasn’t strange.

“I can only think that very powerful Others were involved in this cover-up. They would have to be, to circumvent the Elven Council so completely.”

Barrie frowned, frustrated. That was no help in narrowing suspects down. In Hollywood, power was the coin of the realm.

“What do I do, Alessande?” she asked.

“I think any paperwork you’ll be able to find on the case will be completely false,” the beautiful Elven said soberly. “You must find direct witnesses. People who knew Johnny. People or Others who were actually there at the time, who can tell you their story.”

Barrie nodded, feeling a rush of excitement. She knew exactly where to start.

“I’m thinking Declan Wainwright,” she said aloud.

Alessande smiled. “I’m thinking you’re right.”

* * *

Sailor’s fiancé owned two clubs on Sunset, which in that zip code pretty much constituted a dynasty. One club was completely “out” and legit, a popular hangout for the mainstream mortal population of Los Angeles and a popular destination for tourists wanting a taste of the “real” L.A. The other club was grungy and edgy, showcasing up-and-coming underground bands and sometimes popular bands who wanted to get back to their down and dirty roots. And after after hours...that club opened by invitation only, to Others only.

At least technically speaking.

The truth was, though, that there was a certain segment of the human population of L.A. that just knew about the Others.

Artists are a different breed from ordinary mortals. They push the boundaries of society and civilization. It was not an accident that for centuries actors had not been allowed to be buried in hallowed ground.

Just as in the segregated past white patrons had sought out the jazz clubs of Harlem, just as people from all walks of life had risked arrest to have the speakeasy experience in the Roaring Twenties, there was today a small slice of humanity that sensed the presence of Others and sought to learn more about them.

The denizens of L.A. were especially apt to seek out the edgy, the bizarre, the occult, the outré, and artists had a long history of possessing a heightened sense of non-rational forces. And there was no earthly secret more outré and non-rational and exciting than the Otherworld. So, for as long as there had been artists and Others, they had been commingling. And those humans who knew of the Others, while