Page 13 of You Slay Me

  "How do you know if you've broken your ribs?"

  "You haven't broken any ribs," I panted halfway up the steep stairs. "Can't you go any faster?"

  "I'm not a beast of burden," Jim snapped. "I think my spleen just imploded."

  "Shut... up..."

  "Fine, but you just remember this when I have to be on dialysis for the rest of my life."

  "That's ... man, he's heavy, how many steps are left? ... Your kidneys, not your spleen."

  We made it to the top and took a moment to catch our respective breaths before dragging Rene to the small util­ity room and the door I had forced. We had almost reached the door when Jim staggered into a collection of mops and brooms and other assorted cleaning tools that sat in a bucket, with the result that all three of us were immediately entangled. Jim fell, Rene slid off Jim's back, and I yelped when a broom slammed against my head.

  "Sorry," Jim said.

  "I'm going to get... ow! ... you for this." I had gone down on my knees, half falling on Rene when a couple of brooms tripped me. I grabbed my purse from where it had fallen and hoisted Rene's chest onto Jim, grabbing him by the waist to help drag him out the door.

  "You're not related to the Three Stooges, are you? 'Cause I could swear this escape thing is one of their rou­tines."

  "You ... stay ... here ... with . .. him," I wheezed as we emerged into the dark alley, ignoring Jim's idea of witticism. I pushed Rene against the building and fished through his pockets until I found his car keys. "I'll get the taxi. Don't let anyone take him!"

  "How am I supposed to stop anyone without any of my demonic powers?"

  "You're in the form of a dog, so start acting like one! If anyone shows up, bite them!"

  "Might be fun," Jim said thoughtfully as I staggered off down the alley toward where Rene had left his taxi.

  By the time I returned, Rene was beginning to regain consciousness, but I wasn't about to hang around outside Drake's house until he was fully sober, so I stuffed the Frenchman into the back of the taxi with Jim and got the heck out of there, mindlessly following streets until I felt we had enough distance between us and the wyvern's mansion. With a sigh of relief, I pulled into a multistory parking building.

  Twenty minutes later I was trying to concoct a story that sounded believable without spilling too much. Rene might know about Jim, but Jim was harmless. Drake was another matter, and I had a feeling he wouldn't be too happy if Rene knew too much about his identity. In this instance, ignorance was most definitely bliss.

  "I didn't see a second man," Rene complained as he rubbed his head. "You said he was behind me?"

  "Yeah, there was a ... uh ... secret passageway that opened up behind you. Drake's henchman clobbered you when you weren't looking."

  Jim snorted.

  Confusion and wariness took turns in Rene's eyes. "I don't feel the bump anywhere. If he hit me on the head, I would have the bump, yes?"

  Jim snorted again.

  "Did I say he hit you? I meant he karate-chopped you. You know, whacked you right on that nerve thingy in your neck that knocks people out. It was very fast. I'm not surprised you don't believe it, and Jim, if you snort one more time, you're off to the vet's office for a little snipping."

  "And they say demons are nasty," Jim said, gazing in­nocently out the window at shoppers going to and from their cars.

  "Ah. But you escaped?" Rene asked, still looking a bit confused.

  "Yeah, well, I had to crack Drake on the head with my aquamanile. At least I have that," I said as I patted my purse.

  It felt remarkably light for a bag that was suppose to contain a six-hundred-year-old chunk of gold.

  "Merde!" I yelled as I frantically dug through the purse. I didn't have that much in it, but even emptying it on the seat next to Rene showed what I feared with a sick, sick feeling in my gut.

  The aquamanile wasn't there.

  I wanted to cry. "I had it, I had it in my hands, I put it in my purse.... Oh. crap, I must have lost it in the util­ity room when you knocked all those brooms down on me."

  "It wasn't my fault. Rene was heavy. I could hardly walk," Jim protested.

  Much as I would have liked to blame the loss of the aquamanile on Jim, I couldn't. I didn't think it had pur­posely careened into the brooms. Demon or not, it was obeying my command to carry Rene outside. Losing the artifact was just bad luck.

  "Now what will you do?" Rene asked, a concerned look in his nice brown eyes.

  The urge to cry was strong, but I knew all tears would do was leave me with red eyes and a runny nose. Instead, feeling very much the martyred Saint Aisling, I set my mind to being proactive.

  "I suppose Drake made it out of the room and has found the aquamanile by now." I had to swallow back a big lump at the thought of the lost dragon, but I never was one to cry over spilled aquamaniles. "So going back to take it is out of the question. What I need is someone who's an expert with dra—uh—" I glanced at Rene. "— Drake. I think, if you feel OK to drive, that I'd like to go back to La Pomme Putrefied."

  "What is there to help you?" Rene asked curiously as he slid into the driver's seat.

  "Amelie knows Drake," I fibbed. She knew about him, I was sure, and that was good enough for me. Per­haps she knew of a dragonish Achilles' heel. "I'm sure she'll help me."

  "Famous last words," Jim intoned from the backseat.

  9

  “What is it with you and dumps?" Jim asked as we strolled through the door to Amelie's shop. "This place looks like a reject from a Harry Potter knock-off."

  "Shh! Don't be so rude—Amelie will hear you." I glanced quickly around the room, grateful that Amelie wasn't present to be insulted by my demon. I unsnapped the leash and made squinty eyes at Jim. "And just what do you know about Harry Potter?"

  "Oh, Harry's very big in Abaddon. Is that cat's toes I see over there?"

  "Ew!" I said, staring in horror at a shelf full of jars containing what I had assumed were a variety of innocent herbs and such. "Cat's toes? That's horrible!"

  Jim made a disgusted face. "Grow up. Cat's toes is a fern."

  "Oh." I shot the jar Jim was snuffling a suspicious glance, then turned back to the store. "Hello? Amelie? It's Aisling. Anyone home?"

  "I will be only one moment, Aisling," Amelie's voice called out from a back room. "Cecile is just returning from her constitutional."

  "Who's Cecile when she's at home?" Jim asked, mov­ing its investigation to a rack of books.

  "Amelie's Welsh corgi. Now, listen to me—I don't want you embarrassing me, OK? Just remember that I hold the key to any and all future meals, and keep your lips zipped unless I ask you a question."

  Jim cocked its head to the side and considered me. "You'd fit right in Abaddon, you know. You're got the demon lord bossiness down pat."

  "I have nothing of the sort—," I started to say, then be­came aware of Amelie standing next to a curtained door­way. I gave her a watery smile. "Bonjour, Amelie."

  "Bonjour. I see you have successfully summoned ... a demon?"

  I upped the wattage of my smile, painfully aware of the blush that rode my cheeks. "Yes, well, the summon­ing went a bit... awry. This is Jim."

  "Yeah, hi, whatever, I'm not allowed to speak unless Her Holiness there permits me.... Fires of Abaddon! Baby, baby, baby!" Jim's eyes almost bugged out of its furry black head as Cecile waddled into the room. Jim did an odd little shimmy toward the surprised-looking Corgi. "Are you one hot mama, or what? Hey, baby, who's your daddy?"

  "Oh, god," I said, slumping down onto one of the stools that sat next to the long counter.

  Amelie looked from the dogs to me. "I do not under­stand—the demon named Jim wishes to know who Cecile’s sire is?"

  "No," I said, my hands over my eyes. Just how much worse could things get? "I think it's enamored with your dog. It tends to forget that it's not really one, as well. Which, actually, is one of the things I want to talk to you—Jim! That's rude!"

  Jim didn't even look abashed at
being caught sniffing Cecile's rear. "Dogs do it." I swear Jim waggled its eye­brows at Cecile. "Hey, honey, you wanna sniff mine?"

  "Right, that's it, out!" I ordered, pointing to the door.

  Jim looked shocked. "Out? You can't send me out there! I'm a valuable dog—someone will steal me!"

  "If I'm lucky."

  "Well!" Jim huffed, and sat down next to Cecile.

  I turned back to Amelie, who stood with a puzzled frown watching Jim. "I'm sorry about that. Jim's a lit­tle... odd."

  We both ignored the snort that came from Jim's direc­tion.

  "Yes, I believe I understand what you're saying." She waved toward a small brass-fitted coffeepot. "May I offer you some coffee?"

  'Thanks, I could use it."

  "I should tell you that I'm not entirely surprised to see you," she said as she poured us both cups of coffee.

  "Why? Oh"—I inclined my head toward Jim—"you mean because of my little friend in dog fur? You were right about skimping on supplies. You can see what the result of that was. Big-time screwup."

  "Of that, I am not entirely sure," she answered, look­ing thoughtfully at Jim, who was licking Cecile's ears. I pretended not to notice. "I have always felt that Guardians summon the demon who is most deserved by them. But it was not because of the supplies that I ex­pected to see you. You have heard about the happenings at G & T?"

  I dragged my mind away from the ghastly contempla­tion of what horrible deeds I had done to deserve Jim and shook my head.

  "The police, they went to the club .and questioned everyone there."

  "Questioned them? Why?"

  She watched me over the rim of her cup. "It is said that the police were looking for you."

  "Me?" I squawked, splashing coffee everywhere. "Oh, I'm sorry. Do you have a cloth—? Thanks. They were looking for me? Are you sure? I've already talked to the police, just this morning I talked ... Oh. Inspector Proust mentioned he had been looking for me. "

  She did the feminine version of the Gallic shrug as I mopped up the spilled liquid with a dish towel. "That is what I was told. The police who interviewed the Venediger reportedly questioned him most closely about you."

  "Oh, no," I said, staring into the remainder of my cof­fee. It was strong and black, just the way I liked it, minute beads of oil dancing along the gently steaming surface. I knew that Inspector Proust had had me followed—he all but admitted that—but I had no idea he would go so far as to bother people at the G & T. My shoulders slumped as I wondered how angry the Venediger was.

  "My informant said that the Venediger has put the word out that you are to be brought to him immediately," Amelie said, evidently reading my mind.

  Yikes! "Brought to him? As in kidnapped? Is he that angry?"

  Her black-eyed gaze didn't waver one tiny little bit. "The Venediger does not look kindly upon people who bring the I'au-dela to the attention of the police. Every­one has been told to look for you. Everyone."

  "L'au-dela?" I had a horrible, sick feeling in my stom­ach.

  "It means ..." Her hands fluttered-for a moment while she tried to find the words. " 'Otherworld.' It is the name of our society, those of us who practice magic, and those of you who manipulate the dark forces. The police do not tolerate us well. It is part of the Venediger's job to keep us far from the notice of the authorities, thus his anger with you for jeopardizing our safety."

  I didn't quite know what to think of being lumped in with the dark-force-commanding group, but there were other things, more important things to worry about, things like just what the Venediger had planned for me. "You're saying that kidnapping isn't out of the question?"

  She nodded.

  "Lovely. Now I have the whole of the Paris Other-world after me. You know, I didn't think my day could get much worse, but somehow, it has. I almost hate to ask this, but are you going to turn me in to the Venediger?"

  She looked down at the cup in her hands. "I am a guerisseur, a healer. I owe no allegiance to the Venediger, nor do I practice magic—not the type that could be in­fluenced by him. So no, I will not turn you in, although if you will accept a morsel of advice—"

  I smiled. Advice I was getting great huge gobs of of late.

  "—it would, I think, be better for you to see the Venediger on your own terms rather than be presented to him as a bounty ... or worse."

  I pushed my coffee aside, no longer able to swallow anything. I didn't want to think what would be worse than being dragged to the Venediger as bounty. "You think I should turn myself in to him?"

  Her gaze flickered away from me. "He is not the po­lice, although he serves that function in I'au-dela of France."

  My stomach, already wadded up into a tiny little ball, turned to lead and dropped to my feet. "Gotcha."

  "Why is it, I wonder, that the police are so interested in you?"

  I looked up from my slump against the counter. Amelie's face was one of bland innocence, no expression visible. "Well, it's no secret. If the police are going so far as to question the Venediger, you'll probably hear about it. I'm... um . .. kind of involved in a murder.'

  "The death of Aurora Deauxville," Amelie nodded.

  I sat up straighter. "You know about it?"

  Amelie waved her hands in an expressive gesture. "Everyone in Vaudela knew Aurora Deauxville. She was an amateur, one who had pretensions but no true ability. She frequented G & T, as well as my shop and shops of the Wiccans. She called herself a mage, but I do not be­lieve she even knew what a mage truly was."

  "Hmm. Do I take it she was not well liked in I'au-deld?"

  "I do not think it was so much a matter of her not being liked—she paid very well for consultations, for supplies and manuscripts. People tolerated her perhaps, but they respected the power of her money."

  "Really? I thought... I assumed ... I mean, if you've got the sort of power that can call up demons and cast spells and stuff, I'm surprised you'd be swayed by some­thing so mundane as money."

  She laughed, her eyes crinkling in delight. "There are very few wealthy inhabitants of I'au-delct. Only the very oldest immortals are what you would call rich, and that is because they have had time to accrue their wealth over the centuries, rather than because of their powers."

  "Oh." That made for some interesting thinking. "Maybe I am going about the solving-the-mystery thing all wrong. Maybe rather than forcing Drake to tell me whodunit, I should investigate the murder like a detective would.... Naw. I'm no detective. Give me the easy way every time. Not that forcing Drake to tell anything is easy."

  "I imagine it would be very difficult if he did not wish to oblige you," Amelie agreed without asking what I was talking about.

  I gave her a feeble smile. "Drake is also involved in the murder of Mme. Deauxville. At least, I think he is. He won't tell me what he was doing there, or what he saw, or what he knows. He's so darned frustrating!"

  Amelie laughed again and got off the stool to pad bare­foot over to a beautiful antique glass-topped rosewood box sitting next to the cash register. She unlocked it and withdrew a small green object on a gold chain. "I believe you have more need of this than I have to profit from its sale."

  I stared down at the green jade dragon. It was about three inches tall, highly stylized, obviously Oriental in origin, the curved tail of the dragon forming a figure eight around the body. Touches of gold on the head and body and tip of the tail made the piece glow with a bril­liance that isn't usual in jade. "What is it?"

  "It's a talisman. Its provenance is unclear, but I believe it was created by one of the dragon septs, possibly the green dragons."

  "It's so pretty," I cooed, wanting like mad to touch the beautiful dragon. My fingers positively itched to feel it.

  "It is. It is also something that I suspect you could use, given the present difficulties you find yourself in."

  I gave in to temptation, allowing the tip of my finger to trace the sinuous curve of the dragon's body. It felt warm, not cool like jade normally feels. "It's
much too valuable for me to accept, Amelie, although I greatly ap­preciate your generosity in offering it to me."

  "It is not a gift I offer easily," Amelie said, pressing the jade dragon into my hand. "But it is one that I feel is right."

  "But, it's valuable, and I don't have a lot of money—"

  "To refuse a gift that is sincerely offered is to give great insult," Amelie said briskly.

  I looked at the green dragon. It felt... vibrant. As if it had its own energy. It hummed silently in my hand. 'Thank you," I said as graciously as I could, slipping the chain over my head. The talisman hung between my breasts, a warm, oddly comforting weight.

  Amelie nodded her approval. "What is it you came to consult me about?"

  I looked up from running my finger around serpentine dragon's tail. "Huh? Oh. Well, I was wondering if you knew whether dragons have an Achilles' heel. So to speak. Something I could use to force Drake into telling me what he knows about Mme. Deauxville's murder."

  She made a thoughtful face.

  "No Achilles' heel?" I guessed.

  "None that I know of. The only one who might have the power to force a wyvern to do something he does not want to do ..." Her voice trailed off into nothing.

  I sighed and picked up the cup of coffee again. "Don't tell me: The only one who can get the upper hand with Drake is the Venediger."

  She spread her hands in a gesture of impotence. "He is the only one."

  "Great. So now I'm going to have to go crawling to him on my belly to apologize up one side and down the other, as well as beg for his help—which will cost me heaven only knows what, if Ophelia and Perdita were right—all while he's so pissed at me that he's put a con­tract out on me."

  "Contract?"

  I waved away the question as I climbed off the stool, gathering up my bag and Jim's leash. "Doesn't matter. I think if I'm going to have to grovel, I'll do it without my furry little friend. I'd better get back to the hotel and fig­ure out how to do the release ritual."