Under Suspicion

Chapter Five

I was steeling my resolve to walk into Dixon’s office and demand a full-scale investigation of Mrs. Henderson’s crime scene, and the body we just found, when my cell phone buzzed as I waited in the vestibule for the UDA elevator to come up.

“This is Sophie.”

“Sophie? Kale.”

“Hey, K—”

“Where are you? Are you on your way to the office?”

“I’m waiting for the elevator right now. Kale, what’s wrong? What is that? Kale?”

When the elevator dinged thirty-five floors below the San Francisco police station, the line went dead. I banged the phone against the heel of my hand a couple of times, shrugged, and threw it in my purse, knowing I’d see Kale in a millisecond.

But I didn’t.

The big metal doors slid open on the Underworld Detection Agency and it was—forgive the expression—like a ghost town. There was an ominous quiet; and though all the lights were on and business should have been in full swing, the lobby was desolate.

And then I heard the scream.

It was a high-pitched, bloodcurdling sound. It was a mixture of angst and misery, terrified and terror inducing. I clenched my hands into fists, feeling my fingernails digging little half-moons into my sweaty palms.

“Kale?” I called, my voice sounding odd and tinny in the silent room.

I took a step toward the reception desk and felt a hand grip my wrist, then yank me downward.

“Kale?”

She was huddled underneath the reception desk, a sweatshirt wrapped around her head. Pierre, our centaur filing clerk, was down there with her, sitting back on his haunches, hands pressed over his ears.

“What’s going on?”

Before Kale could answer me, there was another earsplitting scream, and then I knew.

“Banshee?” I said, grimacing.

Kale nodded and I rubbed my temples, the rhythmic drumbeat of a migraine beginning to pulse behind my eyes. “They wouldn’t be so bad if they could get the screaming thing under control.”

“She’s waiting for you in your office,” Kale said, pointing.

I nodded, then stepped out from under the desk. My ankles and knees cracked as I did so. “It’s okay, everyone, you can come out.”

Little by little, the UDA lobby came back to life as clients rolled out from under chairs and from behind the potted palms. Every man, woman, and beast held their hands over their ears or were sporting homemade earplugs, which may or may not have been torn from last month’s Martha Stewart Living.

I prepared myself to meet Bettina Jacova.

She was sitting primly at the edge of my office chair. Her posture was impeccable, and her long, dark hair hung in a sheet down her back. Her hands were neatly folded in her lap and her outfit—pearls, a baby pink twinset, and a dark pink chintz skirt—stood out cheerily against her decaying gray skin.

“Hello, Bettina.”

Bettina pressed her hands to the sides of her face and her mouth dropped open, ready to let out another earsplitting howl.

“No!” I said, jumping forward and slapping my own hand against her mouth. “Sorry.” I rubbed my palm against my thigh. “You’ll just need not to do that here, please.”

Though my new station as head of the Fallen Angel Division meant that I didn’t work with the general demon population any longer, there were a few members—and demon breeds—I kept tabs on. Either because our staffers had issues (Nina, being non–fire retardant in the face of dragons) or the demons themselves had certain powers that made general fraternization difficult.

Bettina was one of those demons.

You see, Bettina Jacova is a banshee. And though people are generally aware of the banshee yell—as in, “Those kids have been screaming like banshees all day”—they fail to realize the seriousness of it. The banshee scream signifies death.

Generally, yours.

Some demons are immune, but others are not.

The UDA found it prudent not to take the chance after we lost half the finance department to our Romanian intern, who failed to mark the box “banshee—deadly” on her intake form. My magical immunity super power allowed me to work with fire-breathing dragons and Bettina with her murderous screams.

Just another perk of being the only nearly normal at the Underworld Detection Agency.

Lucky me.

I sat down across from Bettina, who eyed me nervously. I offered her my most reassuring smile, praying to Buddha, God, and Oprah that she wouldn’t let loose another scream. It was hard enough to cover our clients when two of our staffers went on vacation simultaneously; should the entire group drop dead from banshee screams, well, then the Underworld Detection Agency would be in deep trouble.

“So, Bettina, how may I help you?”

“Well,” Bettina started to say, kneading her fingers in her lap. “I need help. I mean, I think we all might need help.”

I’ll say.

“‘We all,’ as in all the banshees?” I mentally started to scan my inner Rolodex. From my recollection there were only six banshees total in the Greater San Francisco Bay Area. “I suppose we could get some sort of soundproofed bus for—”

“No, not just banshees.” Bettina’s eyes shifted uneasily. “Everyone.” She paused, sucked in a sharp little breath, and cleared her throat. “Ms. Lawson, I was attacked last night.”

I felt my eyebrows rise, and felt the prick of heat wash through my body. “Attacked? By whom—or what?”

Bettina’s eyes started to water; her lower lip trembled. I snatched a few Kleenex from the box and pushed them into Bettina’s hands. “It’s okay, Bettina, you’re safe here. Now, can you tell me exactly what happened?”

“Well, I was leaving my apartment. I live by the ballpark, you know. It’s very loud and”—a twinge of pink bloomed in Bettina’s cheeks—“there’s a lot of general screams, so ...”

So the death-signifying screams of a banshee could be drowned out before entire subsections of San Francisco mysteriously dropped dead. Smart.

“Go on.”

“Well, I was going to get some groceries, and I was walking toward the bus stop. I wasn’t alone, because there was a Giants game going on, so there were tons of breathers.” Bettina blushed and lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I meant there were lots of other people around, at first. Most of them went into the stadium so the street emptied out pretty quickly. Even so, I felt like I was being followed.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“That’s the thing. Before I left, I looked out the window to check the weather. I thought I saw someone on the sidewalk looking up into my window, but then the bus came and I guess he got on. I went downstairs and walked to the bus stop myself, and I got that weird feeling again.”

“Like you were being watched?” I supplied, feeling the hairs on my arms prickle.

Bettina nodded. “I was walking and I looked over my shoulder, and no one was there. Then I turned back and someone hit me. Hard.” Bettina’s graying fingers shakily pushed aside her bangs, showing off an impressive gash just over her left eyebrow.

I sucked in a stunned breath. “Oh my. Bettina, I’m—”

“I was down on the ground, and he kicked me, too, right here.” Bettina gingerly rubbed her lower belly. “I was going to scream—I would have, but he caught me by surprise—and he hit me again.”

“Do you know what he hit you with?”

Bettina wagged her head. “I’m not sure. It looked like some sort of pipe.”

“Like a tire iron, maybe?”

Bettina shrugged. “I’m not really sure what those look like.”

I wasn’t entirely certain, either, but whether Bettina’s assailant was wielding a tire iron or a magic wand made a world of difference. At least it did here, in the Underworld.

“He wasn’t done, either,” Bettina said. “He—he was going to hit me again, in the head, but the game must have let out, because people started to fill the streets. He told me that my kind needed—needed to be erased.”

“Your kind? Did he—did he know you were—”

My saliva went sour and suddenly my skin felt too tight.

Demons walk among us every day. A vampire might be your neighbor; the corner store might be run by a werewolf or a troll. There is a thin veil that masks the demon differences from the human sight. That veil, combined with our human ability to unsee anything that might unsettle us, has allowed the demon race to prosper and blend into the natural world.

That veil doesn’t work on me; and if Bettina’s assailant was human, the veil didn’t work on him, either.

“He looked over his shoulder and ran, once the people started to come.” A single fat tear rolled down her cheek and plopped onto her cheery pink skirt.

“I’m so sorry, Bettina.” I patted her shoulder awkwardly and she fell into me, head buried in my shoulder, her small body shaking violently as she cried.

“I’m so scared,” she whimpered. “I’m so scared.”

I patted Bettina’s back and let her cry; then I cocked my head and squinted as her cries gave way to a series of half-muffled screams.

I thought I heard bodies dropping in the lobby.

“Don’t worry, Bettina. We’re going to find out who did this to you, I promise. We’ll keep you safe, too.”

My heart walloped and my mouth went dry. Even as I said the words, I wondered how I was supposed to keep a killer demon safe, and who would keep me safe.

I escorted Bettina through the UDA lobby and stepped into the elevator with her while she whimpered, gingerly touching a tissue to her moist eyes. As we neared the first floor, I bit my lip, working out the most diplomatic way to remind Bettina to keep her mouth shut. With someone walking around beating up demons, the last thing the city needed was the entire police department dropping dead.

The elevator lurched to a stop and the doors began to open on the police department.

“Bettina, you know you need to—”

But she already had her lips clamped shut; the edges turned up in a tiny, grateful smile. She pantomimed locking her lips and tossing away the key.

“Thanks.”

“So what was that all about?” Nina inclined her head toward the elevator doors when I came down again, popping a giant Hubba Bubba bubble in my face.

I don’t care how long I live—and live after that—I’ll never get comfortable with the weird look of vampire fangs working a piece of hot pink bubble gum.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, huffing the strawberry-scented air.

“Someone beat Bettina up.”

Nina snorted. “Not a great person to hit up. Is the idiot dead now? Did she need a Certificate of Acci-demal Death? I hate doing those things.” She flopped her wrist around. “So much flippin’ paperwork.”

“No.” I scanned the crowd of UDA clients lined up neatly between velvet ropes, some waiting silently, sitting on our straight-from-the-catalog office furniture, a few kids pushing around ancient toys on the IKEA kid’s table. If you took away the horns, plumes of smoke, and general stench of the undead, this could have been the waiting room for any other government office.

Why would someone attack a demon?

“She didn’t scream. He caught her by surprise.”

Nina shrugged. “Aren’t those a banshee’s best screams?”

“He told her he was going to eradicate her kind.”

Nina pinched her bottom lip. “What, like women?”

I shook my head. “No. Like demons.”

Nina’s bare shoulders quaked with a tiny shiver. “Who would want to kill demons?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

Nina crossed her arms; a single eyebrow raised. “Sleuthing?”

I rolled my eyes. “This is important.”

She leaned her ear toward her shoulder and cracked her neck. “You know every time you plan to get to the bottom of something, someone gets kidnapped. Or killed.”

I blinked; there was no reason to argue the truth.

“Why don’t you leave this one to Dixon?” she asked, falling into step with me as I walked toward my office.

“I mentioned the missed appointments to Dixon. He barely even batted an eye. He’s not going to care about Bettina.”

“So what are you going to do?” Nina wanted to know. “Become the Banshee Avenger?” Her lips parted slightly, forming an O of surprise. “If so, I have a great outfit for that.”

“I’m just going to look around. Maybe see if I can find any clues.”

Nina crossed her arms, jutted out one hip. “Knock yourself out, Nancy Drew.”

“You’re not going to help me?”

“I thought you had Alex on speed dial for that?”

My stomach quivered—something between sadness and nerves—at the mention of his name. “He’s not here.”

Nina’s eyes went wide and she sat down hard. “Heaven? Holy—”

“Buffalo.”

“Crap.” Nina shrugged. “Ordinarily, I would do anything for you, my breathy friend, but I have a date and you have an overactive imagination.” She blew me a kiss and turned on her heel, leaving in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and stale plasma.

“Don’t choke on a blood clot!” I yelled to the back of her head.

It was half past six when I processed my last intake form. For a community that still depends heavily on divination and medieval prophecies, our computer system was surprisingly up to date. Unfortunately, that date was 1992. I was ready for chocolate pinwheels and a snuggle with my trusty pup, ChaCha, and dreaming about sinking into a mountain of sweet-scented bubbles when I walked out into the parking lot, deserted except for a couple of squad cars, an abandoned Buick, and my modest Honda Accord. I sank my key into the lock when I heard a soft cry on the wind. It was mild, but loud enough to cut through the constant city din of police sirens and honking horns of tourists, and it seemed to be coming from the alleyway that separated the police station from the rest of the looming buildings on the block. My hackles went up, prickles that started at the base of my calves and stopped at the top of my head. I licked my suddenly dry lips and took my key into my hand, taking a tentative step toward the alley.

“Hello?” I asked. “Is someone there?”

I heard the distinctive crunch of feet on gravel and then another wince. As much as I wanted to avoid another naked Vlad-and-Kale situation, something inside me was drawn, desperate to help. Before I could think better of it, I ran into the alley. My footfalls echoed heavily between the buildings, and the limp wail, the crunching gravel, was gone.

“Hello?” I asked again.

My voice bounced off the wall and was cut off by my own scream.

Something hit me hard, cracking against the back of my head. I pitched forward, my palms and chest making contact with the damp cement. Beads of gravel dug into my skin. My knees throbbed and I tried to cry out a second time, but my breath was gone and my mouth was filled with the hot, metallic taste of blood. Someone yanked me, flipping me over so my tender skull smacked the cement. Bright white light burst in front of my eyes. I felt the urge to vomit, to cry, to wail, but my eyes began to focus. I saw my assailant above me, both hands hugging a sharpened dowel, both coming directly at my chest. There was an “oof!” and a scream, and the sharpened edge of the stake dug at my collarbone and slid over my breast.

“Run, Sophie!”

Will’s English accent was hot as it sliced through me and I tried to kick away, or assumed I was kicking away. I saw him dive at my attacker, heard the hollow sound of the wood dowel clunking to the ground; then I heard footfalls—hurried, echoing, as my attacker took off across the parking lot, with Will in tow. Bitter tears flooded my eyes, stinging the shallow fresh cuts on my cheeks. I looked down to where my blouse was torn. The red angry welt puckered like pressed lips underneath my collarbone.

“Are you okay?” Will asked in a breathless pant as he jogged back to me.

I pressed the pads of my fingers against the hot tear on my skin and nodded. “I think so. What was that? Why are you here?”

Will’s eyes were on my chest, on the wound. He brushed over it with his thumb and smiled up at me. “It doesn’t look so bad.”

“How did you know to come to—to my rescue?” Will clasped imaginary lapels. “I’m a Guardian, love. That’s what I do.” He plucked a piece of gravel from my hair. “And I was having a pint across the way. Can you stand?”

He offered me a hand and I pushed myself onto shaky legs.

“Now what on earth would make you step into a dark alley at night?”

My bottom lip started to tremble and all I could manage was a pitiful shrug. “Did you see who it was?”

Will wagged his head. “Bloke was fast.” He crouched, rolled the dowel toward himself, eyebrows raised. “And he tried to club you.”

I took the dowel in my hand and touched the chiseled, whittled end; then I touched the purpling wound on my chest. “No, he was trying to stake me.”