Oracle's Moon er-4 Page 4

  He frowned, suspicious. “Do you understand what that word means?”

  She shook her head.

  He sighed. “I see we have things to work on.”

  She asked, “Can you be a horsie too?”

  Ah. Small, noisy and remarkably tenacious. He was learning a great deal about new humans.

  “I don’t think we should be having this conversation right now,” Khalil whispered. He wanted to pick her up and hug her but restrained himself.

  She snickered sleepily. “Indeed.”

  He patted her back again.

  Indeed.

  The Bane of Her Existence might have disappeared from sight, but he still hadn’t left. Grace could still sense his presence hanging in the air, like the aftermath of a bonfire.

  Why hadn’t he gone? What attracted him, and how could she change it, so that he would lose interest and leave for good?

  Grace considered the problem of the unwelcome Djinn, while the matronly ghosts murmured to each other and she cleaned up the kitchen.

  The babysitting roster wasn’t the only assistance Grace received from the witches. Jaydon Guthrie, the head of one of the oldest covens in Louisville, had arranged for a quarterly community work day to help her with basic maintenance on the property. As Jaydon said, the work days would benefit more than just Grace. They would also provide a way for witches to volunteer several hours at a time, which would help those who were behind on their community service tithe. Grace had been too desperate to consider turning the offer down.

  On the first work day, she had used their help to arrange things so that she and the children were mostly using the ground floor. The kitchen was spacious and had a dining nook with a table, a high chair and four chairs, so they didn’t need a separate dining area. When Petra and Niko had decided to have children, they had installed a stacked washer and dryer in the kitchen so that Petra wouldn’t have to go into the basement very often. The ground floor also had a half bath.

  Grace had the large dining table and chairs stored in the garage, the downstairs office moved into the dining room and Chloe and Max’s bedroom set up in what had once been the office. She slept on a futon in the office/dining room. That meant she only had to climb the stairs when it was bath time or when she needed to get a change of clothes. The downstairs was cooler in the summer, and it was easier on her leg, so the solution worked for now. Gradually her clothes were coming down the stairs and not making it back up again. She had started storing things in a filing cabinet in one corner of the office.

  Saturday was the next work day. Maybe she could get someone to move a dresser downstairs. Simple things like that could make a hard situation a lot more bearable. She put the wet load of clothes from the washer into the dryer. Then she washed up at the kitchen sink, sticking her head under the faucet and soaping her fine, short hair with the baby shampoo she had used on the kids.

  Even with two fans running downstairs, the house was too hot. She gave in and went into the office to dig through the filing cabinet for lighter clothes, slipping on a tank top and cutoff shorts made from a pair of old, soft sweatpants. After all, she wasn’t expecting company, and she didn’t have to look at herself if she didn’t want to.

  Anyway, it was time she got used to how her body had changed. Maybe she shouldn’t ignore how she looked. Maybe she should look at herself until the scars didn’t matter anymore. They would fade over time and become less noticeable. At the moment they were still an angry, raw-looking red.

  Grace had been riding in the backseat of the car at the time of the accident. That had saved her life. The head-on collision had driven the front seat back into her. She had scars on both legs, but the real damage was to her right leg, where she had suffered extensive tearing in the cartilage of her knee. The surgeon had done what she could to repair the damage, but Grace, who had once run track in high school and had considered training for Louisville’s half marathon, would never run again. The surgeon had also warned she might still have to have a knee replacement at some time in the future.

  A knee-replacement surgery could cost as much as $35,000, if not more. Yeah, that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon. Grace did her physical therapy exercises religiously, and when she had to, she wore her knee brace. When all else failed, she used a cane. The fall from earlier was still bothering her, so she strapped on the brace and felt relief from the extra support immediately.

  She sat at the desk and turned on the computer to scroll through the database on the Elder Races that Niko had created based on the journals and books written by previous Oracles. Ah, she knew there was an entry on the Djinn. She clicked on the subject to open it up and read through it quickly.

  In the Demonkind demesne, the Djinn social structure was made up of five Houses—the Shaytan, the Gul, the Ifrit, the Jann and the most Powerful of them all, the House Marid. The Houses were based on relationships, much like humans conceived of clans or extended family groups. Large decisions that affected an entire House were made through consensus, with the older, more Powerful Djinn having the final say.

  Djinn were creatures of magic and fire, and almost un-imaginable Power. They did not value physical things or money, but traded in favors. To the Djinn, a bargain was a sacred thing, and to break a bargain was a serious crime. They were not known as forgiving creatures. Many human legends told of Djinns’ malicious or mischievous behavior toward anyone who was foolish enough to make a bargain with them and then break it.

  She hadn’t expected to find the information quite so absorbing, but interesting though it was, the article didn’t say anything about how to get rid of a Djinn that insisted on hanging around.

  Thanks to her grandmother’s teachings, Grace knew the steps she would take to get rid of an unwelcome ghost or a dark spirit, but a Djinn was an entirely different class of creature. Most ghosts were little more than a dead person’s memories, and they tended to fade away on their own. Dark spirits like poltergeists were rudimentary things. They were residual energy from a particularly strong, malicious ghost, and while they could create physical chaos and cause harm, there was relatively little personality left with which to reason. As actual living creatures, the Djinn were much more sophisticated and Powerful. Sighing, she switched off the computer and moved to the living room.

  She turned on the television to catch the tail end of the local news while she straightened up the room, picked up toys and folded laundry. When she heard the current news segment, she turned to stare at the screen. The two anchors, a man and a woman, speculated on the sudden appearance of several Elder Councillors in Louisville, but the main focus of the segment was on Dragos Cuelebre, Lord of the Wyr, and his new mate as they checked into the luxurious downtown Brown Hotel.

  Cuelebre was a massive black-haired male who stood head and shoulders above almost everyone else around him. He had turned his rough-hewn face away from the camera. His arm was around a tall, slender woman with pale blonde hair. Grace recognized her from the confrontation in the meadow earlier that morning. In the aired segment she wore sunglasses that covered half of her triangular face. The woman said something to Cuelebre as they entered the hotel, and he nodded in response. They both ignored the cluster of reporters and camera crews surrounding them.

  The female news anchor was speaking. “So far no one has released an official explanation for why so many Elder Races dignitaries have gathered in Louisville, other than Councillor Archer Harrow’s secretary, Tara Huston, who spoke to the press this afternoon. Reading from a prepared statement, Huston said the gathering involved a private matter and had nothing to do with the sometimes tense interactions between the demesnes. However, what could that private matter be, Todd? Why would it necessitate Dragos Cuelebre’s sudden presence, along with his mysterious escort who, inside sources inform us, is his new mate?” The woman’s blonde hair was lacquered with so much hairspray that when she turned to face her coanchor, her entire head of hair, like a helmet, turned with her.

  Todd gave the camer
a a practiced smile. “Good question, Joanne. Cuelebre has been under a great deal of pressure recently. Like the rest of the world stock market, Cuelebre Enterprises has taken some serious financial hits lately, although no doubt the corporation will remain in Fortune’s top fifty for the year. There has also been increased tension between the Wyr and the Elven demesnes. In one of the most surprising announcements of the year, Cuelebre has also lost one of his seven sentinels, Tiago Black Eagle, who resigned from his position to work for the new Dark Fae Queen, Niniane Lorelle. Cuelebre’s seven sentinels are the lynchpins in Wyr governance, so not only is Cuelebre facing financial challenges and border strife, he is also critically short-staffed. Whatever the ‘private matter’ is here in Louisville, it must be something urgent for him to be called away from New York on short notice.…”

  As she listened, Grace realized that the news channel didn’t know anything of what had really happened earlier. They didn’t mention the gathering at her property, and they stated that Cuelebre had lost only one sentinel, not two. Apparently Rune’s resignation as Cuelebre’s First sentinel had not yet been made public. The segment was really a gossip piece that focused on Cuelebre because he was one of the media’s favorite subjects.

  She lost interest in the talking heads and switched off the TV. Sweat trickled between her breasts. She limped to the floor fan to position it in front of the screen door so it would pull in the cooler air from outside.

  As she did, she glanced out at the deepening dusk.

  Two tall figures wearing cloaks were walking up the gravel driveway to her house. The taller, broader figure glanced at the setting sun and pushed back his hood to reveal strong, aquiline features and dark hair sprinkled with flecks of white at the temples. It was Julian Regillus, the Vampyre Nightkind King. The second figure pushed back his hood as well. That man had shoulder-length, nut brown hair and a pleasant, nondescript face, and he was one of the most feared hunters in all the Elder Races. Julian’s right-hand man, the Vampyre Xavier del Torro.

  Vampyres were walking up her driveway.

  She had met Vampyres before. Not often, but she had. Those she had met seemed like perfectly pleasant people.

  The two Vampyres approaching her house were not perfectly pleasant people. They were two of the most Powerful Vampyres in the world. And their companion had been the one to pull a sword in a place that inter-demesne law had decreed a sanctuary for all races and people.

  Laws were a lot like locks; they were only as effective as the people who chose to allow them to work.

  Adrenaline roared along her veins as if shot from a rocket launcher. She shifted the floor fan out of the way, closed the front door and, ridiculously, locked it. An invisible vise squeezed her ribs, and she couldn’t breathe. Stupidly, she thought of Niko’s old shotgun, which was unloaded and stored at the top of the kitchen pantry. She knew how to use the shotgun, but even if she had time to retrieve and load it, the only thing she would accomplish by waving it around would be to piss the Vampyres off. It couldn’t cause them any real damage.

  Her gaze fell. She hadn’t had time to vacuum before putting the children to bed, and the floor was still sprinkled with crushed pretzels. The crumbs outlined a shoeprint the size of Chloe’s foot.

  Vampyres are coming to my house, she thought. And there’s no one here but me, two little children and assorted ghosts.

  Along with one arrogant, child-loving Djinn.

  Khalil is one of the oldest and strongest of the Demonkind, Carling had said to her earlier that morning. If he promises to keep your children safe, he will keep them safe.

  “Um, hello?” she said to the silent, empty-seeming house. Her voice was shaking as much as her hands. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  The silence acquired a listening attitude. Khalil, however, did not appear.

  “There isn’t much time, and I know you can hear me,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Black smoke drifted across the living room floor. A tendril of it lifted in front of her and formed in the semblance of Khalil’s face. The face regarded her with about as much friendliness as the black cat had earlier.

  She clenched her hands into fists. The article might not have told her much about Djinn, but it had said they loved to bargain. Material things meant little to them. What they traded in were favors. She said in a low voice, “We may not like each other much, but we both care about my niece and nephew, don’t we?”

  Khalil raised a dusky, elegant eyebrow.

  A firm knock sounded at the door. She startled violently. She switched to telepathy and spoke fast. I would like to offer you a bargain. If you protect me and the kids from the Vampyres, I’ll owe you a favor.

  The smoky Khalil-face cocked to one side as he considered the human female’s words. She really was a foolish creature, he thought. He had said he offered her a gift beyond price that she did not value. Now he realized she truly did not understand what he had meant. He had already promised he would look after the babies, and he had not put a time limit on that offer. And part of looking after the babies meant ensuring the safety of their caregiver, whom they loved and depended upon so much.

  Now she meant to bargain for something he had already given freely? He almost laughed. He took note of her rapid heartbeat and dilated eyes, and he realized she was truly in a panic.

  A compassionate creature might have cared about that and not taken advantage of it, but the Djinn weren’t known for their compassionate natures.

  And he certainly was not responsible for her poor bargaining skills.

  Another, louder knock sounded. “Ms. Andreas, please answer the door,” del Torro said. His voice was as pleasant and nondescript as his appearance. “We know you are in there.”

  You and the babies have my protection from the Vampyres, Khalil said, his mental voice as smooth as a rope of silk slipping over her neck. At a time of my choosing, you will do anything I ask you to do, for the sum of one favor. Agreed?

  She gave him a jerky nod. Agreed.

  Khalil gave Grace a sulfurous smile. Intending to take on a full physical form with which to greet the Vampyres, he let the smoke-face dissipate and…

  Grace straightened her spine, assumed a calm if tight expression and turned to open the door.

  Khalil had to admit, that surprised him a little. After the human had evidenced such panic, he hadn’t thought she had it in her. She still smelled of fear, but her energy crackled with anger too. She clearly didn’t like how the Vampyres had frightened her. Since it was also clear she had the ability to sense his presence, he decided to hold off on materializing to see how she dealt with what waited on her doorstep.

  Grace felt Khalil looming behind her as she looked through the fine mesh of the screen door at the two Vampyres on her porch. Earlier that morning in the clearing, there had been so much concentrated Power from so many entities, she’d had trouble sensing which Power belonged to whom. She’d felt surrounded by a formless heat, as if she had been engulfed by a solar flare.

  Now she had no difficulty sensing the intense Power that the Vampyre males carried. She faced two disasters dead ahead with a calamity at her back, and that was more than enough to dry out her mouth and keep her heart racing.

  “What do you want?” she said to the Nightkind King.

  Wow, listen to me, she thought. I sound kinda rude, don’t I? Get me a Djinn like a gun in my holster, and I lose all my manners.

  Julian Regillus’s dark gaze met hers. She felt the draw from his eyes through the screen door. “I want to talk with the Oracle, of course.”

  The Nightkind King’s voice was deep and rough, like a shot of raw whiskey. He had opened the front of his cloak to the warm summer night, and he wore a plain black shirt and black trousers underneath. He was broad across the chest and shoulders, flat through the abdomen and heavily muscled. This close, she could see that when he had been mortal, he had not aged particularly well. He looked like he was in his late forties when he had been turned, so he had prob
ably been in his midthirties. His rough features were weather-beaten, lined at the eyes and at the corners of a stern mouth. Though he kept his hair military short, somehow he gave the impression of a shaggy wolf that watched her every move.

  In contrast to his King, the killer that stood beside him appeared almost slender, del Torro’s long, lean body disguising what must be a terrible whipcord strength. Xavier del Torro looked like he had been turned in his early to midtwenties. He could still embody the illusion of youthfulness, with eyes that were somewhere between gray and green, a clear complected skin and refined features that somehow missed being either handsome or delicate.

  Del Torro’s turning had been a famous event in history. A younger son of Spanish nobility, he had been a priest until the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition tortured and destroyed a community of peaceful Vampyres near his home in Valencia. The Vampyre community had included del Torro’s older sister and her husband. After the massacre, del Torro walked away from the Catholic Church and approached Julian, who turned him into a Vampyre and set him to cut a swath through the officers of the Inquisition. The ten years that followed were some of the bloodiest in Spanish history.

  While in theory Grace didn’t have a problem with someone who had decided to go after the Inquisition, um, yikes.

  Grace turned her attention back to Julian. “What do you want to talk about?”

  Del Torro turned his attention from studying the front of her house and gave her a pleasant smile. He asked, “Is this how you offer sanctuary to strangers?”

  “You’re rich and Powerful,” she said. “You don’t need sanctuary. You need a luxury hotel suite downtown. And you lost any right to sanctuary this morning when your friend pulled a sword on my land.”

  Behind her, Khalil’s presence flared in surprise, and she realized he hadn’t known what had happened. His attention must have been focused on the house. He coiled tightly around her.

  Julian shifted, a sharp, abrupt movement, and del Torro lost his easy smile. “We did not know that she came armed or what she intended to do,” Julian said.