Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

So casual: Come stay with me. Like an unexpected Christmas present. This time it had only been ten months and two weeks. The first time it had been thirteen months, and the next, exactly a year.

And damn, last time it had been almost two years, and he’d been so restless at the end he’d been that close to calling Rockville Perkins to find out where the hell she was. That would’ve been way out of bounds, though, and with good reason. As it was, he’d called and asked for “Ms. Belizaire’s number,” then hung up, feeling like a jerk. At least she apparently still had an office, she was still around somewhere…

It wasn’t that bad, though. You adjusted.

He remembered that first time—more than five years ago, now. She’d come to his office and explained that she’d heard of him through a friend, and hoped he could help her with a problem. It was so like a noir movie; the expensively dressed goddess in the cheap vinyl chair opposite his desk, the offer of a retainer—he was half expecting to hear she wanted him to murder her husband. Although even then it was hard to imagine Lilith Belizaire with a husband.

But no, it was more prosaic than that. An accountant had dropped out of sight with other people’s money—not Lilith’s, but a friend’s; and she had promised to locate him. Bailey was human, and his first impulse was to seize any excuse to, well, just have this creature return to his office as frequently as possible. But he was realistic. From her story, the accountant would be hard to find, and from his own good sense, Bailey saw no suggestion on Ms. Belizaire’s part that the pleasure she brought into his life would be anything but visual.

And visual paid no estimated taxes. He saw this case going nowhere, while there were two others out of town that looked to be more long-term and more promising. He refused, he thought, very courteously; and she left.

That night he stopped at Morell’s for a drink.

Jesus. He hadn’t been picked up in a bar since he was, what, twenty-five, twenty-six? He rather suspected that the look on his face in most bars showed exactly what he felt: That he wanted to get a drink and go up to his hotel room—usually it was a hotel room, anyway—and get some damned sleep before the phone calls of the previous day started bouncing back. And how the hell had Lilith found out where he drank when he was in town, anyway?

And then the next morning he’d gone to the mirror to look at the marks, and found a post it stuck there—like she’d known it was the first place he’d check:

Drink plenty of fluids. OJ’s in the refrigerator.

So he’d opened the refrigerator door and found two gallons of it. She must have stopped at the deli across the street before she left. But then, she was always considerate.

That had kicked off a hell of a six weeks, that first time. He’d even managed to concentrate on her case long enough to solve it, unearthing her missing accountant in Sebring, Florida, where he’d bought a condominium in his girlfriend’s name.

Bailey had been careful not to find out what happened to him.

There was a faintly British feel to the island, strange in a place of heavy sunlight and pastels. San Cristobel airport was full of vigorous, dark-skinned men and women in crisp, white, short-sleeved shirts, offering information, baggage handling, tour guide cards, and pamphlets on everything from motorbike rentals to scuba gear. Bailey ignored them, till a man in a chauffeur’s cap stepped forward and addressed him in a deep, courteous voice.

“Sir? Ms. Belizaire sent me to pick you up.” The accent was half British, half lilting. Bailey was not surprised that the driver could identify him; he was the only unattached person on the entire commuter flight of families and couples. It was still winter, prime tourist season in the Caribbean. And Lilith, he thought, always made sure her people were briefed.

Hiring a car for him was efficient, considerate, and expensive—just like Lilith. And pretty much the opposite of him, he supposed.

“Shall I fetch the rest of your baggage, sir?”

“This is it,” said Bailey, holding his battered gray duffel. The driver reached for it. Bailey retained the handle.

He smiled at the driver, a smile of blinding innocence he’d perfected through years of work in his chosen profession. The driver retreated, puzzled. “This way, sir.”

Bailey did not check his luggage; Bailey was paranoid, and proudly so. There were diskettes in that duffel he just felt better not handing over to people, even people who said they were from Lilith.

A long gray limousine was waiting at the curb outside. Bailey grabbed the door handle before the driver could, then shrugged apologetically. Bailey, those Ford Taurus reflexes are just way too obvious. As the driver circled back to the front, Bailey looked into the dimness of the interior and stopped short.