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Chapter 2
Rio Jones knew she had maybe an hour,
tops, before somebody found her. She had
that kind of luck; the kind that trips over cracks in sidewalks, falls off her
bike in the middle of rush-hour traffic in the middle of Bordertown, and sees a
major supernatural heavyweight kidnapping a kid in broad daylight.
A major magical heavyweight.
She’d heard a flash of something so wrong—so other—in his thoughts that she’d nearly wrecked her bike when she’d
turned to look at who or what was making that horrible noise. The taxi hadn’t even clipped her that hard;
she’d had far worse working as a bike messenger for Siren Deliveries.
Not that most of the fancy companies she
delivered to would believe they’d hired a company owned by an actual
siren. They just knew they got their
packages on time. Ophelia liked to hire
humans as messengers. She said they were
slower but harder to distract. More
reliable. Gave her the chance to focus
on her budding opera career, instead of dealing with Fae and demon hatreds,
feuds, and failures to deliver on time.
Punctuality was king in the cutthroat bike messenger wars, and Rio was
human enough to pass muster.
Rio nearly growled at the thought of
Ophelia and her damned rules. If Rio hadn’t
been so focused on making it to her next delivery on time, she wouldn’t have
taken that shortcut through the alley, and so she never would have rounded the
corner in time to see the tall, dark-haired man step out of a limousine and
snatch a small girl right off the street.
The girl had screamed, Rio had slammed
on the brakes of her bike and gone over the handlebars, and the kidnapping
bastard had met her gaze with eyes that blazed a surge of dark power across the
distance between them. Black eyes,
almost all pupil, had tried to bore into Rio’s mind until the struggling child had
screamed again and the man had thrown the girl into the limo and slammed the
door. He’d given Rio one last dismissive
glance as she knelt, bleeding, on the filthy pavement, and then he’d angled his
tall body into the front seat next to the driver. By the time he’d changed his mind and the
brake lights had flashed on the limo, she’d seen them over her shoulder as she
glanced back while racing away. She’d used
her throw-away cell phone to call in an anonymous report to the sheriff’s
office, complete with license plate number, for all the good it would do.
Bordertown hadn’t had any law of its own
since the last demon uprising, when the rebels ate the sheriff. That very
lawlessness was the draw for most of the people—human and, mostly, other--who
lived, worked, and played in the five square miles of dimensional fold that lay
hidden behind, beneath, and between the streets of Manhattan. Bordertown was the Wild West, but the cowboys
and outlaws of the typical frontier town were demon and Fae here.
Dangerous and deadly, with or without
six-shooters.
But she’d made the futile call, and a
few minutes later, still shaking, she’d tossed her cell phone in the back of
the first trash truck she saw, with some vague idea that the kidnapper might
trace it back to her if she kept it.
It was all too little, too late,
though. She knew it. She’d heard his thoughts—they’d shattered the
everyday barrier she wore around her mind like an icy wind slicing through a
flimsy scarf. Her mental shield was
plenty to keep out human thoughts; if she heard everything that people thought
around her all day long, she would have gone insane years ago.
But this man—the kidnapper—he wasn’t
human. Okay, she was used to that,
working for a company in Bordertown and living there, too, but he wasn’t a
low-level demon or a Fae or an ogre or anything else she’d ever heard
before. Fae and demon royalty never
leaked their thoughts, so they were out, too.
His thoughts had been wrong. Dark and raging and, yeah, demons were often the
same to a degree, but this guy was something . . . more. Icy. Determined.
Powerful.
She wasn’t even sure how she’d known,
but she’d somehow felt it. His thoughts had crawled with power and
focus—and once he’d changed his mind about her being beneath his notice—no loose ends had been the exact words
running through his jagged mind—he’d aimed that focus at her.
That had been eight hours ago, and she
had no doubt that he’d been trying to find her every minute since. She’d heard the rumblings of a new force in
town from Europe who played with the Old Magic; a man bent on taking over organized
supernatural crime. It was too much to
hope that this hadn’t been him.
“And one little freak of a telepath
isn’t going to have a chance against that,” she muttered to her tiny stuffed fox
before tossing it in her backpack. She
was already wearing her locket, as always, so there were the only two mementoes
of her childhood safely retrieved. Other
than that, she didn’t know what to bother taking. A couple of changes of clothes, all available
cash, and her laptop. Packing wasn’t
exactly difficult when you lived in a closet disguised as a studio apartment
and owned next to nothing.
She was wasting time. She knew where she had to go. The one person whom she’d tried to stay away
from, because he scared the crap out of her.
She knew he’d help—he was a private investigator. She had money to hire him. Problem solved.
Luke Oliver had power; she knew it and everybody,
even the riffraff, in Bordertown knew it, too.
He could help her figure out a way to find and help that child, and she
was smart enough not to get caught up in the weird attraction she’d felt to the
man whenever she’d made a delivery to him.
A knock on the door broke through her stupid
mental rambling and scared her so badly she stumbled and nearly tripped over
her milk-crate coffee table.
“Rio?
Rio, it’s me. Are you okay?”
Rio’s heart slowly dropped out of warp
speed, and she took a deep breath and opened the door. Mrs. Giamatto, her landlady, stood just
outside the door in a pale pink robe that had to be older than Rio. The elderly woman gasped when she saw Rio,
and the tips of her ever-so-slightly pointed ears turned a vivid pink where
they peeked out of her fluffy white hair.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry to bother you
at this time of night, but I had a very odd phone call just now, and I wanted to
warn you--”
“I know.
I’m leaving.” Rio shouldered her
backpack, picked up her bike and stepped into the hallway, pulled the door shut
behind her, locked the door and handed Mrs. Giamatto the keys. “Thank you so much. I might be in a little bit of trouble, so I’m
going to go away for a while. I don’t
want to bring any problems here. Linda
down the hall just had her baby, and of course I don’t want--”
“No!”
Mrs. Giamatto folded her arms across her frail chest and raised her
chin. “I won’t have it. I know you, Rio Green, and you’re no
trouble-maker. Even if you did do
something you shouldn’t have--and the gods know that’s easy enough to do in
Bordertown--well, we stick together.
Nobody is going to mess with my tenants.”
For an instant—only a fraction of a
moment—Rio saw someone else underneath Mrs. G’s little-old-lady surface. Someone ancient; far older even than the
renovated Victorian home in which they stood, and maybe older than New York
itself. Her landlady was more powerful
than she appeared, it seemed, like so many in Bordertown. But the memory of the kidnapper flashed into Rio’s
mind, and she shuddered before shaking her head, too afraid to feel even her
usual twinge of guilt for having given Mrs. G another of her many fake last
names. She was Rio Green with Mrs.
Giamatto, Rio Jones at work with Ophelia and clients, Rio Smith with strangers,
and Rio To Be Determined when she got the hell out of town after this debacle.
Sometimes it was hard to keep all of her
names straight, but a lifetime lived in the school of brutal knocks—and worse
than knocks—had taught her caution. True
names held power, and she knew better than to offer hers up—even if she’d known
what it was. The names she used
regularly were already beginning to take on a de facto sense of truth; at least enough for rudimentary spells to
be cast. It was maybe time to become
Jane Doe.
“I love you for it, too, but he’s not an
ordinary bad guy. This is more trouble
than we can handle. I have to get help. There was a horrible man. Somebody with Old Magic. He . . . took a child. I think he plans to kill her. Or worse.”
Mrs. G slowly nodded. “You’re going to Luke?”
“I don’t think I have a choice.” Rio took a deep breath and hugged her
landlady and dear friend, and then she held out her laptop. “Will you keep this for me? Just for now?
I’ll try to keep in touch. I’ll
try to come back.”
They both knew neither might be
possible. When trouble came to somebody
in Bordertown, it was often of the permanent kind.
Mrs. Giamatto took the computer and
nodded, a hint of tears shining in her eyes.
She put her other hand in her pocket and held out an envelope.
“Take this. It should help.”
Rio glanced in the envelope, which was
stuffed with hundred-dollar bills.
“I can’t take this. I’m fine.
I have money; I just need to get to the bank in the morning--”
“You’ll take it,” Mrs. G said firmly,
closing Rio’s fingers over the envelope.
“I never paid you for planting those flowers.”
Rio heard the edge of panic in her own
laughter, and knew it was time to go.
“The going rate for landscapers is not a thousand dollars an hour, but
I’ll take it as a loan for now. I have to go.
If they called you, they know where I live.”
“Go.
The back stairs.” Mrs. G hugged
her again, the laptop caught between them, and then gave her a little push
toward the dimly lit stairwell. Rio grabbed
her bike and ran lightly down the stairs and opened the always-locked door a
couple of inches. What she could see of
the garden from her vantage point was empty of anybody or anything other than
the marble statue of a very plump Pan eternally playing his lute in the
fountain. She slipped out and made sure
the door clicked shut behind her, not that a door would hold out anybody who
really wanted to get in, and headed for the garden gate, only to skid to a stop
when the gate crashed open and three enormous, oddly misshapen men pushed their
way into the yard.
“Is that her?” One of them said, in a broken, growly voice,
like only part of him was human, and the other part was something ugly. Nothing unusual for Bordertown, but this guy
was big. World Wrestling Federation
big. Half a mountain big.
Rio dropped the bike and backed up, step
by slow, cautious step, wishing for the millionth time that if she had to have
a superpower it was something useful.
Like flying. Or
invisibility. What was the use, really,
of reading other people’s thoughts at a time like this? She wouldn’t even be in this mess without her
sorry excuse for a magical ability.
“I don’t know, she has a long braid, the
boss said she had a long braid,” another one said in an unexpectedly high,
squeaky voice that nearly surprised a laugh out of Rio. Things that ugly and that big shouldn’t sound
like Mickey Mouse.
“Look, if you’re Rio Jones, the boss
just wants to talk to you,” the first one said, his hands out at his sides in
what was clearly meant to be a non-threatening position.
Ha.
“I don’t know anybody named Rio Jones,”
she said evenly, eyeing the distance between herself and the fence. “You have the wrong person.”
“See, that sounds like a lie,” Mountain
Man rumbled, taking a step forward.
The other two moved to flank her, and
she pushed her fear aside and dropped her mental barrier, listening frantically
for whatever they were thinking that might help her figure out how to
escape.
Mountain Man’s thoughts were so
unsurprising she wouldn’t have had to be a telepath to figure them out. Too bad
the boss said not to kill her. Wonder if he’d mind if I play with her a little,
first?
Squeaky’s mind wasn’t quite on
business. Shouldn’t have had that spaghetti Bolognese. I need some antacids in the worst way.
And the third guy’s thoughts were so oily
and incoherent that Rio nearly gagged just from brushing up against them. Rip,
shred, tear, bloody, bloody, Tuesday, lovely cake, lovely cake, rip, shred
tear—
She slammed her mental barrier back in
place and, in desperation, tried something that only an idiot would fall
for. She whipped her head to the side,
stared at the gate behind them, and screamed.
“Rio! Run! These guys are here for you!”
Unbelievably, all three of them turned to
look, so she ran the other way toward the fence like she’d never run
before. She put her hands on the flat
surface of the wrought iron between two spikes and vaulted over like some kind
of track star, marveling even as she flew through the air at what adrenaline
could do for somebody in fear for her life.
Her ankle twisted a little as she landed; not enough for a sprain, but
enough that she knew she’d need to ice it soon or pay the price the next
day.
If she lived to see the next day. She hit the ground running and raced through
the streets faster than she’d ever moved before.
Seventeen blocks. Hit Tenth, turn left at the charms and
potions shop just past the High Line Park entrance at 14th, and
she’d be there. If only he’d be there. Luke practically lived at his office, she’d
heard, and three in the morning wasn’t all that late for Bordertown, where
business and social life came alive at night.
Rio’s breath came in short, harsh pants as she tried desperately to
pretend she didn’t hear the footsteps pounding after her.
The thugs weren’t all that far behind,
and despair tasted like rusted metal in her mouth when she realized she
probably couldn’t outrun them. A quick glance back showed them, if not gaining,
at least keeping pace. They were fast
for such big guys, again with her sucky luck.
Terror-fueled adrenaline gave her enough of a boost that her heart sped
up, her feet sped up, and she headed straight for the nearest place she could
think of where she might find help. The
Roadhouse was only a block away. Three
a.m. was still happy hour at the Roadhouse, but hopefully the nightly stabbings
and bar fights would be over.
It’s not like she had a choice. She wasn’t going to make it four more blocks
without getting caught. She put on a
burst of speed that made her ankle burn like fire and nearly flew under the
garish neon sign and through the door of the Roadhouse, slamming into a brick
wall that stopped all forward motion.
Arms like curved boulders wrapped around her to steady her, and she
looked up to discover that the brick wall wasn’t a wall at all.
It was Miro, the ogre head bouncer.
“It’s a little late for a delivery,
isn’t it?” His bushy black brows drew
together in a tangled frown as he released her.
He was a solid wall of muscle, eight feet tall and a good five feet wide
at the shoulders. The coarsely woven
shirt he wore with his jeans made him look like a farmer on the way to his barn
in a land of giants. His ruddy skin only
had the faintest tinge of green—those kids’ movies had gotten ogres all wrong.
“No delivery, Miro; I just picked up
some unwanted traffic on my trail,” she said, in between sucking in deep
breaths. She hadn’t run much since she’d
started taking the bike everywhere. Out
of practice, out of shape. She glanced
at the door.
Out of time.
“Miro, can I duck out the back door, and
you stall these guys? They’re big, and I
don’t want to cause trouble, but--”
Miro laughed his big, booming laugh, and
the floor underneath Rio’s feet actually shook, but only a few of the sparsely
scattered bar patrons bothered to look up.
“I will snack on their bones like
pretzels if they try to cause trouble.
You run along, little girl, and bring me some jelly beans the next time
you deliver.”
She rose up on her tiptoes, and he
leaned down so she could kiss his cheek.
“I promise. No black ones.”
Miro’s cheeks flushed a deep red. “You’re a good girl. Now go.
I hear somebody coming. Time to
do my Fee Fie Fo Fum routine. You go.”
She went.
By the time she heard Miro’s rumbling
growl thunder through the room in warning or threat, she was already halfway
out the back door. Her ankle was throbbing,
and the initial burst of adrenaline was wearing off. She didn’t know how she was going to make it
all the way to Luke’s office.
“That was a hell of a lot easier than I
expected. I’m good, but even I’m not
that good,” a deep, sexy voice said from behind and to the left of the
door.
A voice she recognized instantly.
“Hello, Luke. I was actually just coming to visit you,” she
said evenly, trying not to look like somebody who needed rescuing--even if she
did.
“There’s a funny coincidence,” he said
slowly, sweeping his gaze from her head to her toes and back up again,
assessing, measuring, and probably finding her wanting. After all, he’d never had more than five or
six words to spare when she stopped by with a package.
Damn him, though, he was as gorgeous as
ever. Silky black hair just a little too
long, unshaven jaw line as if he were a pirate come to plunder, and chiseled
face like a woman’s secret fantasy. He
was nearly six and a half feet of hard muscle and lean, dangerous lines, and
rumor had it that his steel trap of a brain of his was always calculating his
next moves at least ten steps ahead. It
was why he was so good at his investigation job—some called him the Dark Wizard
of Bordertown, even though he’d always denied having any real magic.
Some called him the man who should be sheriff,
and it was rarely a compliment.
She’d never called him anything but Mr.
Oliver. And yet here they were.
A cacophony of shouting and crashes
sounded from the bar, and she hurriedly shut the door behind her. Luke glanced from the closed door to her, raising
one silken eyebrow.
“That anything to do with you?”
She lifted her chin. “Why do you ask?”
A corner of that seductive mouth quirked
up, and he shook his head. “Stubborn, I
see.”
She clenched her teeth against the wave
of hostility that crashed through her.
It wouldn’t help her case to punch the private eye.
“Can we go to your office? I need . . . to hire you,” she said, unable
to say the other H word. Unable to ask for help. She had money. She’d get more out of her savings account in
the morning and mail Mrs. G back her cash.
All she needed was to find that little girl, rescue her, and then maybe
get out of town without being killed.
No problem.
Her shoulders slumped. She didn’t even know how to begin to explain
all this to Luke. Luckily, he didn’t
ask.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Just like that. Like women always came crashing into him
asking for help in the middle of the night.
She almost laughed at herself.
They probably did.
He stood waiting, silent and watchful,
although he tilted his head when the sounds of what might be a full-scale
battle inside the bar grew louder.
Luckily, she’d never heard that he could read minds, and she’d never
been able to penetrate his, either, on those few occasions she’d tried. He was a strange anomaly, but she’d never
been bothered by it. Until now, when she
wanted to know what he was thinking.
What he was thinking about her.
“Let’s go,” she echoed, nodding firmly
and taking a step toward him. She landed
on her injured ankle and cried out, then tumbled face-forward toward the
sidewalk. Strong arms scooped her up,
and she found herself cradled against Luke’s hard chest, her nose pressed against
his shirt, breathing in his scent of forest and spice.
“This is not how I expected this to go,”
he said softly, almost as if he didn’t want her to hear him. “I think I’m in trouble.”
The
door behind them smashed open, and Mountain Man stormed out, carrying an axe.
“I think we’re both in trouble,” Rio
said.
