seemed to swirl and eddy around me, backwashing against the partitions of my cubicle and rising until it seemed he was behind me, too. My pulse quickened, and I focused on Francis.
The snot had settled himself on Joyce’s desk and was unfastening the button on his blue polyester jacket. He was grinning to show his perfect, clearly capped teeth. As I watched, he pushed the sleeves of his jacket back up to show his skinny arms. His triangular face was framed by ear-length hair, which he was constantly flipping out of his eyes. He thought it made him look boyishly charming. I thought it made him look like he had just woken up.
Though it was only three in the afternoon, a thick stubble shadowed his face. The collar of his Hawaiian shirt was intentionally flipped up around his neck. The joke around the office was he was trying to look like Sonny Crockett, but his narrow eyes squinted and his nose was too long and thin to pull it off. Pathetic.
“I know what’s going on, Morgan,” Denon said, jerking my attention to him. He had that throaty low voice only black men and vampires were allowed to have. It’s a rule somewhere. Low and sweet. Coaxing. The promise in it pulled my skin tight, and fear washed through me.
“Beg pardon?” I said, pleased my voice didn’t crack. Emboldened, I met his eyes. My breath came quick, and I tensed. He was trying to pull an aura at three in the afternoon. Damn.
Denon leaned over the partition to rest his arms on the top. His biceps bunched, making the veins swell. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I fought the urge to look behind me. “Everyone thinks you’re leaving because of the piss-poor assignments I’ve been giving you,” he said, his soothing voice caressing the words as they passed his lips. “They’d be right.”
He straightened, and I jerked as the plastic creaked. The brown of his eyes had entirely vanished behind his widening pupils. Double damn.
“I’ve been trying to get rid of you for the last two years,” he said. “You don’t have bad luck.” He smiled, showing me his human teeth. “You have me. Shoddy backup, garbled messages, leaks to your takes. But when I finally get you to leave, you take my best runner with you.” His eyes grew intense. I forced my hands to unclench, and his attention flicked to them. “Not good, Morgan.”
It hadn’t been me, I thought, my alarm hesitating in the sudden realization. It wasn’t me. All those mistakes weren’t me. But then Denon moved to the gap in the walls that was my door.
In a sliding rattle of metal and plastic, I found myself on my feet and pressed up against my desk. Papers scrunched and the mouse fell off the desk, swinging. Denon’s eyes were pupil-black. My pulse hammered.
“I don’t like you, Morgan,” he said, his breath washing over me with a clammy feel. “I never have. Your methods are loose and sloppy, just like your father’s. Unable to tag that leprechaun is beyond belief.” His gaze went distant, and I found I was holding my breath as they glazed over and understanding seemed to dance just out of reach.
Please work, I thought desperately. Could my wish please work? Denon leaned close, and I stabbed my nails into my palm to keep from shirking. I forced myself to breathe. “Beyond belief,” he said again, as if trying to figure it out. But then he shook his head in mock dismay.
My breath slipped out as he drew back. He broke eye contact, putting his gaze on my neck, where I knew my pulse hammered. My hand crept up to cover it, and he smiled like a lover to his one and only. He had only one scar on his beautiful neck. I wondered where the rest were. “When you hit the street,” he whispered, “you’re fair game.”
Shock mixed with my alarm in a nauseating mix. He was going to put a price on my head. “You can’t …” I stammered. “You wanted me to leave.”
He never moved, but just his stillness made my fear tighten. My eyes went wide at his slow intake of breath and his lips going full and red. “Someone’s going to die for this, Rachel,” he whispered, the way he said my name making my face go cold. “I can’t kill Tamwood. So you’re going to be her whipping girl.” He eyed me from under his brow. “Congratulations.”
My hand dropped from my neck as he eased out of my office. He wasn’t as smooth as Ivy. It was the difference between high-and low-blood; those born a vamp and those born human and turned. Once in the aisle, the heavy threat in his eyes dissipated. Denon pulled an envelope from his back pocket and tossed it to my desk. “Enjoy your last paycheck, Morgan,” he said loudly, more to everyone else than me. He turned and walked away.
“But you wanted me to quit. …” I whispered as he disappeared into the elevator. The doors closed; the little red arrow pointing down turned bright. He had his own boss to tell. Denon had to be joking. He wouldn’t put a price on my head for something as stupid as Ivy leaving with me. Would he?
“Good going, Rachel.”
My head jerked up at the nasal voice. I had forgotten Francis. He slid from Joyce’s desk and leaned up against my wall. After seeing Denon do the same thing, the effect was laughable. Slowly, I slipped back into my swivel chair.
“I’ve been waiting six months for you to get steamed up enough to leave,” Francis said. “I should’ve known all you needed was to get drunk.”
A surge of anger burned away the last of my fear, and I returned to my packing. My fingers were cold, and I tried to rub some warmth back into them. Jenks came out of hiding and silently flitted to the top of my plant.
Francis pushed the sleeves of his jacket back to his elbows. Nudging my check out of the way with a single finger, he sat on my desk with one foot on the floor. “It took a lot longer than I thought,” he mocked. “Either you’re really stubborn or really stupid. Either way, you’re really dead.” He sniffed, making a rasping noise through his thin nose.
I slammed a desk drawer shut, nearly catching his fingers. “Is there a point you’re trying to make, Francis?”
“It’s Frank,” he said, trying to look superior but coming off as if he had a cold. “Don’t bother dumping your computer files. There’re mine, along with your desk.”
I glanced at my monitor with its screen saver of a big, bug-eyed frog. Every so often it ate a fly with Francis’s face on it. “Since when are the stiffs downstairs letting a warlock run a case?” I asked, hammering at his classification. Francis wasn’t good enough to rank witch. He could invoke a spell, but didn’t have the know-how to stir one. I did, though I usually bought my amulets. It was easier, and probably safer for me and my mark. It wasn’t my fault thousands of years of stereotyping had put females as witches and males as warlocks.
Apparently it was just what he wanted me to ask. “You’re not the only one who can cook, Rachel-me-gal. I got my license last week.” Leaning, he picked a pen out of my box and set it back in the pencil cup. “I’d have made witch a long time ago. I just didn’t want to dirty my hands learning how to stir a spell. I shouldn’t have waited so long. It’s too easy.”
I plucked the pen back out and tucked it in my back pocket. “Well, goody for you.” Francis made the jump to witch? I thought. They must have lowered the standards.
“Yup,” Francis said, cleaning under his fingernails with one of my silver daggers. “Got your desk, your caseload, even your company car.”
Snatching my knife out of his hand, I tossed it in the box. “I don’t have a company car.”
“I do.” He flicked the collar of his shirt covered with palm trees as if very pleased with himself. I made a vow to keep my mouth shut lest I give him another chance to brag. “Yeah,” he said with an overdone sigh. “I’ll be needing it. Denon has me going out to interview Councilman Trenton Kalamack on Monday.” Francis snickered. “While you were out flubbing your measly snag and drag, I led the run that landed two kilos of Brimstone.”
“Big freaking deal,” I said, ready to strangle him.
“It’s not the amount.” He tossed his hair out of his eyes. “It