Holidays are Hell

Pierce's silence deepened after finding an entire building devoted to Inderland law enforcement, but even I was impressed with the I.S. tower. The entryway was a fabulous three floors high, looking more like the lobby of a five-star hotel than a cop shop. Pierce and I had a great view of the lower floors from where we sat. It was obvious that the designers had used the techniques of cathedral builders to impart awe and a feeling of insignificant smallness.

Low lights on the first floor created dark shadows that set off the occasional burst of light. Acoustically, the space was a sinkhole, making what would be a loud chatter into a soft murmur. The air carried the faint scent of vampire, and I wrinkled my nose wondering if that was what was bothering Pierce, or if it was that we were three stories up.

A minor disturbance pulled our attention to the street-level entrance as two people, witches, I guess, brought in a third. The man was still fighting them, his arms securely behind his back and fastened with a zip-strip of charmed silver. It looked barbaric, but bringing in a violent ley line witch was impossible unless they were properly restrained. Sure, there were ways to prevent magic from being invoked in a building, but then half the officers would be helpless, too.

Pierce watched until the witch was shoved into an elevator then he turned to me. His expressive eyes were pinched when he asked, "How long have humans known about us, and how did we survive giving them the knowledge?"

I bobbed my head, remembering Pierce's shock when two witches started flirting in the mall, throwing minor spells at each other. "We've been out of the closet for about forty years."

His lips parted. "Out of the closet…"

A grin came over my face. "Sorry. We came clean… uh… we told them we existed after a virus hiding in tomatoes—a sort of a plague—started killing humans. It dropped their numbers by about a quarter. They were going to find out about us anyway because we weren't dying."

Pierce watched my moving foot and smiled with half his face. "I've always been of the mind that tomatoes were the fruit of the devil," he said. Then he brought his gaze to mine and gestured to take in the entire building. "This happened in four decades?"

I shrugged, twisting my boot toe into the tight-looped carpet. "I didn't say it was easy."

Crossing his knees, he rubbed his beard as if noticing not many men had them. Though very quiet since our shopping trip, he had clearly been taking everything in, processing it. Even his words, few as they had been, were starting to sound… less odd.

"Your brother," he said, gesturing at him with his chin, "said you want to devote your life to this?"

I smiled somewhat sheepishly. "The I.S. Yes." A sudden worry pulled my brows together. "Why? You think I shouldn't?"

"No," he rushed. "A daughter's wish to follow in her parent's occupation is proper."

Startled he knew my dad had worked for the I.S., I caught my breath until I remembered our conversation in the bus, "Oh. You heard that."

He ducked his head. "Yes, mistress witch. And who am I to tell you the profession of protecting the helpless is too dangerous? I live for it."

I felt a quiver of connection, that he might really understand. Pierce, though, gave me a wry look. "Lived for it," he amended sourly.

Used to arguing about my chosen profession, I lifted my chin. "I'm stronger every year," I said as if he had protested. "I mean, markedly stronger."

"You suffered an illness?" Pierce asked, seemingly genuinely concerned.

I nodded, and then feeling some honesty was due, added, "I still am sick, sort of. But I'm doing much better. Everyone says so. I have more stamina all the time. I attend classes to keep from slipping back, and I haven't been in the hospital for about four years. I should have died, so I really don't have any cause to complain, but I want to do this, damn it. They can't keep me out because of my health. I got a black belt and everything."

I stopped, realizing not only was I babbling to the first understanding person I'd found, but I was swearing, too. "Sorry," I said, twisting my foot again. "That's probably gutter talk for you."

Pierce made a soft sound, neither accusing nor affirming. He was looking at my middle in a soft puzzlement. "You're passionate," he finally said, and I smiled in relief. I knew he would be gone by sunrise, but I didn't want to alienate him. I liked him, even if he was a ghost. Oh God, I was not crushing on him.

"I'm in the medical books, you know," I said, trying to get his mind off my bad mouth. "The only survivor of Rosewood syndrome."

He started, turning from where he had been watching Robbie argue with his interviewer. "You… Rosewood? You survived? I lost two sisters and a brother to that, passed before they were three months. Are you sure that's what ailed you?"