For A Few Demons More. Kim Harrison

       Chapter Five

      The hot morning had turned to rain by the time I’d gotten up again, and it felt odd rising so close to sunset. I’d gone to bed in a bad mood, and I awoke with the same, having been startled into consciousness by Skimmer ringing the front bell at about four in the afternoon. I’m sure Ivy had answered it as fast as she could, but going back to sleep was too much an effort. Besides, Ceri was coming over tonight, and she wasn’t going to find me in my underwear again.

      My arm ached as I stood at the sink in my shorts and camisole and polished the copper teakettle; Ceri’s silent disgust at my kettle this morning had galvanized me into cleaning it. She was going to help me sketch out another calling circle. Maybe in chalk this time, so it wasn’t as gross. I was starting to look forward to Minias’s visit. He might destroy the focus in exchange for my finding Newt for him, and after watching Ceri bargain with Al, I wanted her help with Minias. That woman was more devious with her turns of phrase than Trent.

      I had called David before falling asleep, and after a heated discussion that had emptied the church of every last pixy, he flatly told me that if the murderer hadn’t tracked the focus to him by now, whoever it was probably wouldn’t, and moving it out of his freezer would only draw attention to it. I wasn’t convinced, but if he wouldn’t bring it to me, I’d have to go get it. Meaning I’d be bringing it home on the bus or the back of Ivy’s cycle. Neither of which was a good idea.

      Blowing a red curl out of the way, I rinsed the kettle, dried it, and set it on the back burner. It wasn’t gleaming, but it was better. The cloying scent of polish was thick in the close air, and since the rain had stopped, I shoved the window open with two gritty fingers.

      Cool damp drifted in, and I looked out onto the dark, soggy garden as I washed my hands. A frown settled as I saw my nails, the polish ruined and green in the cuticles. Crap. I just did them, too.

      Sighing, I set the dish towel aside and turned to the pantry. I was starved, and if I didn’t eat something before Ceri got here, I’d look like a pig when I ate the entire bag of cookies intended for the occasion. I stood in the walk-in pantry, staring at the cans of fruit, bottles of ketchup, and cake mixes in the tidy rows into which Ivy organized our groceries. She’d probably label them if I let her. I reached for the elbow macaroni and an envelope of powdered sauce—quick, fast, full of carbs. Just what the witch doctor ordered.

      From the sanctuary came a thump and a light laugh, reminding me I wasn’t alone. Ivy had galvanized her old high-school roommate, Skimmer, into moving the living-room furniture to the sanctuary, partly to make room for Three Guys and a Toolbox to put the paneling up, partly to put space between Skimmer and me. Though Skimmer was frustratingly nice, she was Piscary’s lawyer—as if being a living vampire wasn’t scary enough—and I wasn’t keen on being nice back to her.

      Dropping the saucepan on the stove, I dug around under the counter until I remembered that Jenks’s kids were using the big pot as a fort in the garden. Bothered, I filled my largest spell pot with water and set it on the stove. Mixing food prep and spell prep wasn’t a good idea, but I didn’t use this one for spells anymore—now that it had a dent the size of Ivy’s head in it.

      I melted the butter for the sauce while the water warmed. There was a burst of noise from the sanctuary, and my shoulders eased at NIN’s belligerent music. The volume dropped, and Skimmer’s cheerful voice made a pleasant counterpoint to Ivy’s soft response. It struck me that though a living vampire, Skimmer was a lot like me in that she was quick to laugh and didn’t let bad things bother her on the outside—a quality Ivy seemed to need, to balance herself out.

      Skimmer had been in Cincinnati for a good six months, out from California and a sympathetic vampire camarilla to get Piscary out of prison. She and Ivy had met their last two years of high school on the West Coast, sharing blood and their bodies both, and that, not Piscary, was what had pulled Skimmer from her master vampire and family. I had met her last year, when she started our relationship off firmly on the wrong foot by mistaking me for Ivy’s shadow and, as was polite, making a courteous bid for my blood.

      My motions to push the pat of butter around the saucepan slowed, and I forced my hand from my neck, not liking that I’d tried to cover the scar hidden there under my perfect skin. The jolt of desire the woman had given me had been heady and shocking, surpassed only by the embarrassment that she had misunderstood the relationship Ivy and I had. Hell, I didn’t understand it. Expecting Skimmer to in the first thirty seconds of meeting me was ridiculous.

      I knew that Ivy and Skimmer had picked up where they’d left off, which I think was the reason Piscary agreed to take Skimmer into his own camarilla if the pretty vampire could win his case. And as I mixed the butter, milk, and sauce powder, I wondered if Piscary was starting to rue his leniency in letting Ivy maintain a friendship with me that was based not on blood but on respect. He probably expected Skimmer to lure Ivy back to a proper vampiric frame of mind.

      Ivy, though, had been a lot easier to live with the last few months as she slaked her blood lust with someone she loved who could survive her attentions. She was happy. Guilty, but happy. I didn’t think Ivy could be happy if she didn’t slather it with guilt. And in the interim we could pretend that I wasn’t feeling the first lure of blood ecstasy, not pushing the issue because Ivy was afraid. Our roles were reversed, and I didn’t have as much practice as Ivy did at telling myself I couldn’t have something I wanted.

      The wooden spoon rattled against the pan as my hand trembled, the thrill of adrenaline zinging through me at the memory of her teeth sliding cleanly into me, fear and pleasure mixing in an unreal sensation, filling me with the rush of ecstasy.

      As if the memory had called her, Ivy’s lanky silhouette appeared in the hallway. Dressed in tight jeans and a shirt cut high to show her belly-button ring, she went to the fridge for a bottled water. Her motions to open it slowed as she scented the air, realizing I’d been thinking about her, or at least about something that would get my rush flowing and my pulse up. Pupils swelling, she eyed me from across the kitchen. “That perfume isn’t working anymore,” she said.