Born in Darkness Page 14

  When we pulled away, she smoothed my hair back from my face. “I kept my taxi waiting downstairs, so I’ve really got to run. If I miss this flight, I’m completely screwed on the London end of things.”

  I nodded sagely, as if I understood completely why she’d be going to London in the first place.

  “Can you do me a favor? Rick’s popping down to D.C. on Wednesday, which means he can’t watch Lucy and Ethel. I know it’s a pain, but it’s just the one evening. Do you mind? Rick’s not leaving until lunchtime, so you can come late.”

  “Um, sure. No problem.”

  “Really?” I assured her that Lucy and Ethel would be in the best of hands, and was immediately pulled into another hug. “You’re the best.”

  She clicked back to the door in high heels, gave me yet another kiss and hug, checked her hair in the mirror over the table, then disappeared into the hallway.

  I stood in the doorway, watching her go and wondering what I’d gotten myself into. A great big mess, I figured, especially now that I belatedly realized I had no idea where her apartment was. Or, for that matter, where she kept her key.

  Come to think of it, I wasn’t even certain about the genus of Lucy and Ethel. I’d assumed dogs, but for all I knew, I’d be babysitting two hungry Venus flytraps.

  I stepped into the hall, planning to chase after Rachel and ask her . . . what? I stumbled, realizing I couldn’t actually go with that plan. Not and keep my cover story, anyway.

  I was, I thought, going to have to wing it.

  20

  Here is an unexpected truth: shoving a knife deep into a demon is one hell of a lot easier than tapping a keg. Or maybe it was just me. After all, I’d spent the morning slaying demon after demon, tossing off the ones Zane threw at me like so much rubbish, my confidence growing with each ounce of praise he let leak out. I’d pored for hours over ancient texts, learning about various types of demons, studying more than I had in high school, and doing a pretty good job keeping the basics in my head.

  But now here I was, befuddled by a beer contraption. Honestly, it all made my head spin.

  This was only my second day on the job, but so much had happened to me, I felt like I’d been living this life for weeks. Months.

  Which only underscored my frustration. Considering the time I felt like I’d logged, you’d think I would know how to tap one stupid keg. But no. So there I stood, befuddled in the pub’s basement in front of a long row of kegs tapped by long hoses that led upstairs to terminate behind the bar where Egan happened to be waiting to dispense pints of Guinness to the riot-ready men upstairs. Separate an Irishman from his stout and trouble inevitably follows. That was one of those facts I was fast learning.

  “Problem?”

  I jumped, managing to knock my head on the overhead shelving through which the tubes ran. “Uncle Egan. Hey. I’m—”

  “Dicking around and pissing off the customers?”

  “I just can’t quite get this thing to . . . . . .railed off, gesturing helplessly at the contraption that reminded me of a sci-fi movie prop, the tubes sending goo out to anesthetize the victims.

  “First time I ever seen you fumble down here. Ain’t like it’s brain surgery.” He squinted at me, barely paying attention to the hoses and clips as he handily retapped the keg. “Something on your mind?”

  “No. No, nothing.” I shook my head and managed a wan smile. “Just distracted, I guess.”

  He nodded vaguely, his eyes on me the whole time, as if he were sizing me up. “You got second thoughts about coming back to work here?”

  “Of course not,” I said, wondering if that had, in fact, been part of Alice’s problem.

  “Good, kid. Glad to hear it. You know I love you like a daughter. Rachel, too, even though she’s got too big for her britches. Your mom, though . . . ”

  “What about her?”

  “No way. Uh-uh. We ain’t going there again tonight. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, get your ass upstairs and take care of the customers.”

  I nodded and started scurrying toward the stairs, but stopped when he called my name. “Something else?”

  “Just a sentimental old fool,” he said.

  I stood there, not sure what I was supposed to say to that.

  “When you were little, you used to crawl into my lap. You’d tell me stories—things that had happened to someone else or someone you made up—but I always knew you were talking about you. You needed to get stuff out, and I was the one you shared your secrets with.

  “You told me about the sight,” he continued. “You told me even though it scared you to death. But you knew you could trust me to stay quiet. To help.”

  I licked my lips, not sure what I should say to that, finally deciding that the only thing I could do was take a chance. “I told you when it stopped, too,” I said, then drew in a breath. “And good riddance.”

  But Alice hadn’t told him when the visions had started up again, and I had to wonder why. Why had she run to a demon instead of her uncle, this man who loved her? And why was Rachel worried about what she was getting mixed up in?

  The only answer that made sense was that Alice was getting mixed up in dark stuff, and she was turning away from her family. Not an unfamiliar story, really. But instead of drugs, Alice was dabbling with demons.

  I had to believe that her dabbling had gotten her killed.

  She’d chosen the wrong path, trusted the wrong people.

  And one of the people she’d trusted had been Deacon. Or, at least, she’d trusted him until she’d stood him up. So what had changed? What had she learned that had kept her away? That he was a demon? Or something even more sinister?

  I shuddered, not liking the direction of my thoughts, but unable to dismiss them.

  “Alice,” Egan said gently, his eyes searching mine. “I know things were rough there between us for a while, and it about broke my heart when you run off last year. But, Alice, you came back. And we were talking, and last week, I thought . . . ”

  “What did you think?” I whispered.

  “I thought you were finally treatin’ me like a dad again. Now, though . . . Well, you barely said two words to me since you ran outta here the other night. I don’t know if you got yourself in trouble, or what’s going on. I worry, Alice. That’s all. I worry about you.”

  I’d never known my real father, and even though Joe had been around since I was little, that absence had left a hole in my heart. And now I found myself enveloped in Egan’s arms, my face against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of hops and grease as he patted my back, his touch filled with concern.

  He deserved to know the truth, and I wanted to tell him, but so help me there was a silent, shamed part of me that was glad I had to hold the secret close to my heart. Because it was that secret that let me slide into this life—this family and these friends—and at least have a taste of the world that I’d lost.

  And it was that secret that pressed a new wave of guilt down on me. Because I’d been given a second chance and a new world. But Rose, whom I’d promised to protect, was still lost in the old.

  21

  “You fly all the way to Ireland to get that, little girl?” the bear in black asked as I slid the pint of Guinness onto his table.

  I conjured a sweet smile, the kind that ensures a decent tip. “Sorry it took so long.”

  “Sit on my lap, sugar pie, and I’ll forgive you.”

  “The thing is, sugar pie, I sit on your lap and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself. Besides, I don’t fancy a shot of penicillin today.” I turned on my heel as the bear’s companion guffawed and revealed to everyone within earshot exactly where he’d like to see that sassy little mouth of mine. God.

  I kissed my tip good-bye and headed back to the bar, checking on a few tables as I did. Egan was back there again, and I looked at him fondly, happy to have found someone to ground me in this new life. If you wanted to get down to the rough-and-tumble de
tails, I had no more information than I’d had a few moments before. Still clueless, still no idea who killed Alice or why. I’d asked a few questions but had been unable to get any helpful information from Egan. There’s simply no elegant way to ask someone to reveal to you things that you’ve already confessed to them. Gee, Uncle Egan, I’ve lost my memory—what exactly was I worried about last week? wasn’t the approach I wanted to take.

  And so I’d drawn no information from our encounter. Even so, I’d walked away with something valuable, and as he smiled at me now, I felt warm and safe. But I remembered the way Rose’s eyes had looked when she’d peered out the door at me, at Alice. She wasn’t warm and safe, and the nice feeling that had been growing in my stomach shifted toward dark guilt and regret.

  I was working the front section of the pub, Trish taking the tables in the back. Gracie was off today, having called in sick, although Egan had roughly commented that she sounded damn perky on the phone. I’d forced my features to remain bland even as I wondered if today was her interview for the job Alice had lined up for her.

  With only two of us on the floor, we were running ragged. The Bloody Tongue draws the five o’clock blue-collar crowd, and that crowd comes in hungry and thirsty. Someone from the back section called out to me, insisting they needed their cheese fries right then, and I glanced around wildly for Trish.

  She wasn’t on the floor, but after a moment, I saw the kitchen door swing open. She rushed in, looking frazzled, a shaft of light arcing over a two-top tucked into the corner. I gasped as the light hit the face of the man sitting there. Deacon. For a moment, our eyes met, my stomach doing one of those butterfly numbers I remembered from junior high. And, like junior high, I turned and started straightening the salt and vinegar on a nearby table.

  Half a minute later, I realized I was being a complete idiot and turned back around. He was gone.

  “Where’d he go?” I asked, brushing Trish’s sleeve as she hurried toward the bar to pick up a tray of pints.

  She blinked owlishly, and I watched her face as she slowly processed my words. Trish was a decent waitress, but her bulb was definitely dim. “Who?”

  “Table nine.” I pointed unnecessarily. “Deacon Camphire.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, then looked back at me. “There’s no one there.”

  “I know that,” I began. “But—”

  “If you know it, why are you asking me? I mean, come on, Alice. It’s not like I don’t have anything better to do than stand around talking to you.”

  And you know what? I felt the same way about her.

  She hurried off to feed the masses, and I shuffled over to table nine to avoid my duties. Still no Deacon, but the chair was warm, and as I sat there with my hands pressed to the tabletop, I imagined he was right beside me.

  I saw Egan watching me from behind the bar, eyes full of curiosity and concern. I didn’t raise a hand, though, to reassure him. How could I, when I wasn’t reassured myself?

  In the kitchen, I lost myself to the bustle of activity and the thick scent of grease. I could feel it seeping into my pores. Odors defined a place, I thought, and now they defined me, too. The scent of the pub. The stench of a kill.

  “Order up,” Caleb called, and I took the three baskets of fish from the burly cook, then moved back into the seating area, handily depositing the baskets in front of a group of twenty-somethings with law texts open in front of them. They barely noticed me, their discussion about Blackacre and adverse possession enticing only to the extent that I felt a bit adversely possessed myself.

  I headed back to the bar, planning on bumming a drink from Egan, but he wasn’t there. Instead, Trish was pulling pints with the expertise of a pro. I leaned over and grabbed the soda dispenser and an empty glass, then tried to fill it with Sprite. Nothing. Just a fizzle of carbonated water, and even that came out mostly air.

  “Dammit. Where’s Egan?” I asked, positively parched.

  She hooked a finger toward the kitchen. “Stockroom, I think. All I know is he ditched, and now I’m stuck.”

  “Sorry ‘bout that.”

  “Heh. It’s your party, too.” She shoved a tray of pints toward me. “Table seventeen.”

  “But I gotta—”

  “You gotta help me. That’s all you gotta do right now.”

  Okay, it was a fair point, but I was determined. Not being stupid, though, I took the tray and delivered the beers. What I didn’t do was go back to the bar, and when Trish saw me heading toward the kitchen, her irritated cry was enough to turn heads in the pub. I snapped off a wave and promised to be right back. Probably not the way to win friends, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

  I got to the stockroom on autopilot, heading down the stairs and past the walk-in and then the alcove with the taps where I’d met Egan earlier.

  The pub’s basement consisted of a series of twisting and turning wood-and stone-lined hallways, so much like a minotaur’s maze that I wished I’d brought bread crumbs. The door to the stockroom was on the left, and as I walked, my right hand trailed along the walls made of river rock and concrete. As I passed the walk-in, though, I stopped short, realizing I was no longer touching stone but cold metal.

  I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I saw a narrow, bronze door etched with odd symbols that seemed familiar, but when I tried to latch onto the source of that memory, it slipped away like trying to grab a handful of water.

  Experimentally, I pressed my hand against the metal, which seemed to thrum beneath my palm. I leaned closer, searching for a knob, compelled to go inside, to see what was behind the wizard’s curtain. I found nothing, though, and I slammed my fist against the door in futile frustration.

  Frustration morphed to obsession, and I think I would have stayed there forever, trying to will myself through that barrier, had I not heard Egan’s voice echo down the hallway.

  With no small bit of reluctance, I moved away from the door, pushing through the mist until the pull of the voice was stronger than the call of that door.

  “I need to know, dammit,” he said, his words drifting back from the stockroom. “You can’t fuckin’ leave me in the dark like this.”

  I paused, partially curious but also not wanting to interrupt. I expected to hear a second voice, but when I heard only Egan again I recalled the phone mounted on the wall by the door.

  “Yeah? Well, then you tell me what’s up. You tell me what happened to turn this whole effing thing back on my ass.” I heard the shuffle of his feet, then saw his shadow fill the doorway.

  I shrank back, the stone wall pulling me close as I held my breath, willing him to back away. I didn’t know whom he was on the telephone with or what he was mad about, but I did know that I didn’t want to interrupt.

  As if my will had power, the shadow receded, Egan’s voice fading as he moved away from the door. “No way. No fuckin’ way. I got a right to know. I’ve put my blood and soul into this pub, offered it up for you to come in and do your thing for how long? And this is the thanks I get? You got to be shitting me.”

  I took a step backward; whatever was going on, Egan was pissed. And because this seemed like a private moment, I wanted the hell out of there. I stopped short, though, when I heard the deferential slant of his voice in the words that came next. A fearful deflating, as if someone had taken a pin and stuck it hard in his puffed-up chest.

  “No, no. Course I would never—Right. Right, yeah, I know.” A pause, then, “I don’t think that. No way. I was just blowing steam. She just got me worried. That’s all.” An even longer pause and then another moment of supreme ass-kissage. “Absolutely. Yes, of course. Anything you need. No problem at all.”

  After that I didn’t hang around to hear the ending. He’d be in a rage when he came out of that room—who wouldn’t be after being royally called on the carpet—and I wanted no part of it.

  What I did want was answers.

  To whom had he offered the pub up, and how had they screwed him over? An
d the “she” who had him worried. Was that me? Or, rather, was it Alice? Had she learned something about the people on the other end of the line? The folks who were scary enough to put fear into a bull of a man like Egan?

  Had she been involved with whoever was threatening Egan? Or, if not threatening him, at least pissing him off. And definitely pulling his chain.

  Like an Escher drawing, my thoughts kept circling back on themselves, the rapidity of each new idea acting as the engine that carried my feet forward and back through the maze to the kitchen and finally back into the seating area of the pub.

  Trish yowled at me the moment I walked in, but I didn’t answer. I was too lost in my own questions and in the utter sense of helplessness that came from knowing that the answers I sought would be a long time coming.

  22

  I’d parked the bike in the alley behind the pub without giving a lot of thought to what would happen if someone asked me about it. Or, rather, I’d given it some thought, but because I’d still discovered no evidence that Alice owned a car, my need to remain understated and in line with Alice’s overall personality had given way to my need not to have to walk to work.

  I was heading for the bike when someone touched me on the shoulder, and I whipped around, knife in hand, only to discover it was Gracie.

  She yelped, and I did, too, then leaped back and shoved my knife behind my back.

  Too late—she’d already seen it. “Whoa,” she said. “My mom keeps telling me to carry a stun gun, especially with all those girls that disappeared over the summer,” she added, referring to a series of disappearances a few months prior, mostly of young college dropouts. Girls with few resources and no family nearby. The case had made the news, and I don’t think any of the girls were ever found. Maybe now, being super Über-chick, I was fighting back at evil for them.

  Gracie eyed the knife. “That’s even freakier than that switchblade you used to carry.” I blinked, surprised that Alice had gone anywhere armed. “And I still say that it’s a stupid weapon. I mean, I took a self-defense class once, and we had to stick a knife in the dummy. And I couldn’t do it I mean, really couldn’t do it. That skin was tough! And on top of that the dummy just looked so real . . . ” She trailed off with a shrug. “Stun gun. Moms always know best.”