You Slay Me

  "I specialize in finding lost items, not examining mur­der scenes," Drake said abruptly. "How do you know so much about the stages of decomposition?"

  "The Detection Channel. I'm addicted to a reality forensic medicine show on it. It's really interesting. They do autopsies and stuff. Do you know what happens to bones left exposed to the elements?"

  "Yes, they turn brown."

  "That's right. I thought you said you didn't work homicides?"

  He scanned the room again, like he was looking for something he missed. He also totally ignored my last question, which .was fine with me, because I'd rather he answered the important one. "I arrived shortly before you did, five minutes at the most. My business with her is none of your concern. She was dead when I entered the apartment."

  "Then you must have heard me ringing the bell."

  "Yes."

  "You didn't let me in!" I said, a wee tad bit more petu­lantly than I would have liked, considering he was still the number-one suspect for the murder.

  He tipped his head back like he was smelling the air. "Would you have if you were in my place?"

  "I suppose not. So, why were you meeting Mme. Deauxville?"

  His brows pulled together in a frown as he turned to face me fully. "I think a more important question is why you insist on lying to me. You are a Guardian, and yet you deny the facts. You deny that a demon has been here. I can feel the very air soiled by its presence, yet you deny it?" He shook his head, moving slowly toward me. "Why a Guardian seeks to lie about something so simple as a demon summoning is beyond me. You will explain your­self now."

  I took a couple of steps back, toward the desk. "See, this is where you're confused. I'm a courier—I just told you that. I don't have any kids, my own or anyone else's, for whom I'm acting as a guardian."

  His frown deepened. "What?"

  "I'm a courier. C-o-u-r-i-e-r. It means someone who transports objects. That's my job. At least it was. There's no telling how Uncle Damian is going to react to my first delivery going to pot like this, but I have a feeling I shouldn't be planning on a raise and a promotion any time soon."

  Drake moved around to the far side of the circle, his eyes puzzled as they watched me. "You smell as if you are telling the truth, but you know about the symbols of Ashtaroth. You knew the circle was closed, and not even I can tell if a circle is open or closed. In addition, you are familiar with the rituals for destroying a demon. Only a Guardian would know such things. What game are you playing?"

  I spread my hands to show him that I was innocent of whatever it was he suspected me of. "What is it with you telling me I smell? I took a shower this morning! As for the rest of what you said, I'm just trying to do my job."

  "Which is to deliver what?"

  I shrugged, unwilling to tell him. Despite his badge and claims to the contrary, I didn't know he didn't mur­der Mme. Deauxville. The intriguing air of danger that surrounded him certainly made it seem possible, not to mention all that double-talk about demons and their guardians. And then there was his obsession with smelling things...". It's just a small statue. Even if you're not a homicide cop, shouldn't you be, like, you know, examining the body and stuff?"

  "I am questioning a suspect," he said, moving toward me. The calm part of my mind enjoyed watching how he walked, a sort of powerful glide, coiled strength implied, but not obvious in his fluid movements. "A statue of what? What is it made of?"

  "Metal. It's of a creature, nothing special, nothing im­portant," I lied.

  His head lifted again, and I could have sworn he was scenting the air. "Gold. The statue is of gold."

  I ran for the chair, just barely beating him to it. "You know what? I think I need to see your badge again. You're not doing this questioning thing right at all. You should be asking me my name and where I'm staying and whether I knew Mme. Deauxville and stuff like that, not babbling on about demons and why someone would use the Circle of Ashtaroth to summon one of the demon prince's legions, and what the small, insignificant statue I brought is made of."

  "For someone who professes not to be a Guardian, you appear very learned in demon lore," he said in sort of a low growl that sent shivers of mingled thrill and fear down my spine. With a move that was too fast for me to follow, he grabbed my arm and hauled me up to his chest, one hand clamped behind me, the other grabbing my hair and pulling my head back. "Very well. We will play this game as you demand. What is your name?"

  "Aisling," I said before I realized what I was doing. My body—traitor that it is—thoroughly enjoyed being smooshed up against him, fully aware of the long hard lines of his body. After several seconds of numbed bemusement, the sane side of my mind regained control. "Hey! What do you think you're doing? You can't man­handle me like this! Let me go!"

  "You wished for me to ask questions—I am simply granting that wish. Where are you staying?"

  "The H6tel de la Femme Sans Tete. Let go of me!" "Not yet. Did you know Mme. Deauxville?" "No, I told you I was a courier. Stop holding me like this, it's not at all PC."

  "Politically correct. Let me go."

  His eyes narrowed on me. "A Guardian who claims she is not a Guardian, and yet who understands the steps needed to summon a demon. What a puzzle you present me. I believe it is a puzzle worth investigating." Instead of releasing me, he buried his head in my neck and drew in a deep breath.

  "What on earth are you doing?" I shrieked, beginning to struggle in earnest despite the urge to go all girly on him.

  "Memorizing your scent."

  "What?" I shrieked again, then realized that it wasn't just my own voice that was echoing around the room— police sirens outside the windows were growing steadily louder.

  Drake pulled his face out of my neck just long enough to give me a look that left my knees weak. There was something different about his beautiful green eyes. The pupils were slightly elongated rather than round, almost like a cat's eye, but not quite as dramatic. It wasn't just his eyes, though. It was the way he touched me, the way he spoke, the way he ... scented me. There was some­thing not quite human about him that had my heart rac­ing. I understood then what he meant about my fear of him—it was definitely sexually charged, but beneath that was a baser emotion—the fear of being consumed, de­stroyed by a being who was much more powerful than I.

  With a gentle touch that belied the threat in his voice, he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and said, "The police are here, Aisling; thus I must bid you adieu. I do not know for what purpose you are denying the truth, but I advise you to be a bit more circumspect with the French police. They are not known for their tolerance of those who dally with the dark powers."

  He leaned forward and brushed his lips against mine, the warmth so quickly withdrawn that he was gone before I pulled my wits together.

  "What? Hey! You can't kiss me! And what do you mean to be more circumspect? What dark powers? Where are you going—? No! Stop! That's mine!"

  I lunged forward but was too late. Drake snatched up my case and spun around, racing out the door of the apartment before I stumbled forward three steps.

  Unfortunately, the three steps were directly into the circle. Instinctively I reached out to keep myself from ca­reening into the body. What I grabbed, though, wasn't Mme. Deauxville. It was a silver object that I suspected had been plunged into her heart, an object I hadn't seen because of the way her body was hunched over. The cool metal slid easily out of her body as I staggered to the side, away from her. I stood staring at the weapon in my hand for one horrified moment. It was long, with a thick curved blade smeared almost to the hilt in blood. I recog­nized what it was from several of the texts I'd read on demon lore—it was a seax, a medieval single-bladed dagger that was commonly used in the ritual destruction of beings of a dark origin. This seax had a bone handle and appeared to be made of silver. It was said that only silver piercing a demon's heart could destroy it... when coupled with the twelve words, of course.

  "A real live example of one of the Demon Deaths,
" I murmured, the reality of the decidedly unreal situation being driven home by the cold weight of the seax in my hand. I was just thinking about making a sketch of the arrangement of symbols so I could compare them with a book back home when noises in the hall had me gawking in surprise. A number of policemen pushed through the door, all talking at once. They stopped and looked at me in equal surprise, the look quickly turning to one of pro­found suspicion as they saw the dead woman next to me ... and the bloody seax in my hand.

  I sighed as I raised my hands in surrender, the police swarming forward to surround me. What was turning out to be the longest day of my life had just grown a whole lot longer.

  3

  Hi. I'm Aisling Grey, in room twenty-three. Are there any messages for me?"

  The hotel clerk on graveyard duty looked up from his magazine and gave me a martyred sigh before reluctantly setting down his Paris Match and hoisting his bulk out of the chair. "It will require me to check," he said, his voice rich with accusation.

  I gave him a feeble smile as an apology. After spend­ing the whole night explaining to the police over and over and over again who I was and what I was doing at Mme. Deauxville's apartment holding the deadly weapon that had been used to kill her, my "be a good American abroad" muscles were all worn out.

  "Yes, there is one."

  The clerk looked at me. I looked back at him. Neither one of us blinked. When the room started to swim, I de­cided to give in. "I'm sorry, it's six in the morning, but according to my internal clock, it's two in the afternoon, and I've just spent the last thirty-some hours without sleep, which means I'm more than a little bit fuzzy around the edges. Could you maybe get the message for me? So I could read it? If it isn't too much trouble?"

  He sighed and shambled over to the old-fashioned wall of pigeonholes that served as the hotel's room direc­tory, plucking a yellow message sheet from the square la­beled 23. With an even bigger sigh, he gave it to me, then stood looking at me as if I were going to demand some other extraordinary act.

  "Thank you," I said politely, and glanced at it. It was a message from Uncle Damian demanding that I check in and tell him how the delivery had gone. I crumpled up the note and turned toward die little elevator that the tiny but eccentric Hotel de la Femme Sans Tete (which, I found out at the police station, means "hotel of the headless lady") boasted.

  'The lift, it is not marching," the clerk called out after me, with, I couldn't help but notice, an immense amount of satisfaction. With five rooms on each floor, my room was on the fifth floor. My shoulders sagged a bit at the thought of dragging myself up five flights of stairs, but mere was no help for it.

  Ten minutes later I collapsed on my bed, having first rallied enough energy to kick off my sandals and peel from my body the dress that had been light and gauzy when I'd put it on, but was now just limp and blood­stained. I figured that being grilled nonstop by the police for more than twelve hours would have sent me immedi­ately to sleep, but I ended up tossing and turning for a long time while the events of the day ran through my head like an annoying song refrain that refuses to stop.

  "Oh, this is ridiculous. I'm so tired, I can't even see straight, and yet my mind won't shut up," I said, sitting up and clicking on the light next to the bed. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror visible through the open door—the skin around my eyes looked bruised; my hair, normally cute and curly, resembled brown straw sticking out of my head; and my skin could have doubled for the underbelly of a fish. A sick fish.

  "Right, shower first, then coffee, lots and lots of cof­fee, followed by some exquisite French food, and then, after I've gathered my strength, I'll call Uncle Damian."

  The pale face staring back at me in the mirror flinched at the words. The only way I could possibly imagine my day getting any worse was thinking about what my uncle would have to say to me.

  "I take that back," I said out loud a moment later as I did a little spin, looking at every possible spot in the small room for a dark blue canvas bag. "Having my lug­gage stolen out of my room can make my day worse, too. Well, hell."

  The bag was gone. The handful of change I'd thrown on the table before leaving for Mme. Deauxville's was still there, as was the airline magazine I'd filched for the article on fun things to see in Paris, so I knew I was in the correct room. But my bag of clothes and sundries? Gone, goner, gonest. The only things I had with me were my money, Rene's card, a small comb, my plane ticket, and my French phrasebook. The police had confiscated my passport, visa, and all the aquamanile documents. I couldn't leave the country, let alone go home.

  A titter of semihysterical laughter burst from my lips. I thought seriously about just letting myself go and hav­ing a good old-fashioned nervous breakdown, but real­ized that once I started, I probably wouldn't be able to stop. Since I had no idea if the French loony bins were at all nice places, it was probably better if I skipped the whole breakdown thing and just stayed sane. "Shower," I told myself. "Sanity, shower, then food. And shopping. Cheap shopping. Then I'll call Uncle Damian."

  My dress was still limp when I went downstairs an hour later, but at least I was clean, my hair was combed, and I'd washed out the worst of the bloodstains. I fol­lowed my nose to the small room in the basement of the hotel where meals were served, stopping by the reception desk to inform the management that my bag had been stolen from my room.

  The woman in charge didn't look very happy with me when I told her that, and I ended up wasting another twenty minutes by having to tramp up the five flights of stairs to accompany her while she examined the room for signs-of a break-in.

  "You must have left the door open when you left," she finally decided. "A stranger must have entered and taken your bag. The hotel is not at all liable for damages in such a situation."

  I protested my innocence, but she had made up her mind, and I was too exhausted to argue with her. To be honest, I kind of wondered if the police hadn't taken it. They certainly had the time to sneak in and grab it while I was being questioned. "If someone turns my bag in, will you let me know? There's nothing valuable in it, it's just my clothes and cosmetics, but right now, they're all I have."

  She sniffed and returned behind the smooth wooden desk that served as reception, giving me a disparaging eye. "There are many shops in the Rue des Mille D6ces. You will wish to avail yourself of them before you return to the hotel, yes?"

  I brushed at my still-damp dress and bared my teeth in what I fervently hoped was a grin. "Afraid I'll bring down the tone of the neighborhood? Yeah, I'm going shopping, don't worry. Later. After I have some break­fast."

  I left her pursing her lips as if she'd like to refuse me admittance to the dining room, but breakfast was in­cluded in the price of the room, so I trotted downstairs to a cheery whitewashed room that looked out over a petite little garden. I took a table in the corner and concentrated on consuming as much caffeine and food as one person could handle in a half hour.

  By the time breakfast was finished, I'd come to several decisions. First, I wasn't going to call Uncle Damian. Not just yet. My stint in the police station had made it quite clear that although they did not have enough evidence to charge me, they considered me a suspect. Probably the only suspect because Drake had so conveniently skipped out.

  I drew circles on the tablecloth with my spoon, my now-caffeinated mind going over the events of the evening one more time. A lot of the past twelve hours was a dulled blur, most of it consisting of me sitting around in a small, airless room waiting for a translator to show. Then Jean-Baptiste Proust, a small, balding man who was the head of the criminal investigation department arrived, and things began to happen. A call was put in to the American Embassy. My fingerprints were taken, as were samples of the blood on my dress. People asked me ques­tions, some in English, some in French. I explained who I was, showed my passport and visa, and the invoice for the aquamanile.

  "Where is this valuable artifact?" Inspector Proust asked in a softly accented voice. Everything about
him was quiet, from his mild brown eyes to the neutral tones of his brown pants and jacket. I knew, however, that you don't get to be the head of a police unit without having a razor-sharp mind.

  "It was stolen. Just before the police arrived."

  Inspector Proust looked down at a notebook another policeman had given him. "Ah, yes, by the man you claim was an agent of Interpol."

  "I'm not claiming it; he is. He said he was an Interpol detective. He even showed me his badge, although I didn't get a good look at it. I was ... uh ... distracted." By the nonsense about demons, but I wasn't about to tell Inspector Proust that.

  He looked at me with sad eyes. "You are aware, Mile. Grey, that Interpol does not have detectives?"

  I stared at him, my hands suddenly going clammy. "They don't?"

  "No. Interpol is an organization dedicated to the shar­ing of information between countries only; they do not have a police force of their own."

  He waited patiently to see what I would say. I didn't say anything but "Oh."

  That's not all I was thinking, of course. My brain was whirring about madly, angry at Drake for stealing my dragon and fooling me, furious with myself for having ig­nored Uncle Damian's strictures about security. I see one dead body and what do I do? I throw away everything I know about safeguarding the aquamanile. Damn Drake. It was all his fault. Well.. . mostly his fault.

  I didn't say any of that to Inspector Proust, though. I answered his questions, then the same questions asked by other members of his investigation team. Over and over again, I answered the questions, until I knew them so well, I started answering them before my interrogators had the chance to ask them.

  ,But I never once told them that I had frogs in my bidet. I was oddly proud of that fact, too, which just goes to show you how deranged you can get when you don't have any sleep while being suspected of a murder you didn't commit. The truth is, I was certain that I was going to be tossed into some dark, dank, rat-infested jail cell and left to rot there until the U.S. Embassy was notified of the horrible events that had overtaken me, but to my surprise, twelve hours after I was taken to the police sta­tion, M. Proust strolled into the interview room and an­nounced I was free to leave.