Keeper of the Moon

chapter 17



“Drink this.” Rhiannon offered Sailor a mug of steaming amber-colored liquid.

The beach house was warm and dry and filled with people. Sailor was on the long sectional, swathed in blankets, sitting against Declan, whose arms encircled her. “What is it?” she asked, her hand emerging from a cashmere throw to take the mug. She gave it an exploratory sniff.

“This from the girl who’ll try anything?” Declan asked, giving her a squeeze.

That got a laugh out of Barrie, who was on her way in from the kitchen. “Anything as long as it’s vegetarian.”

“If that’s a controlled substance,” Brodie McKay said, “I don’t want to know.”

Rhiannon swatted him on the arm. “It’s tea. Chamomile.”

Declan smiled. He liked seeing a family in his house, Sailor’s cousins, her dog, her cousin’s dog and Brodie. The curtains were drawn, closing out the night ocean, muffling its sounds, and a fire burned in the fireplace. The mood was relief to the point of giddiness. Sailor was still shivering involuntarily every minute or so. Until her cousins showed, she’d been sitting on his lap, which he considered a much better arrangement, but he could see the avid curiosity on the faces of Rhiannon and Barrie, and figured Sailor would have enough explaining to do later without the more graphic displays of affection now.

“What I want to know,” Barrie said to Declan, “is how you found Sailor.”

“Once I figured out that Reggie Maxx was the killer, I knew she and he were fighting it out. But I didn’t know where.” Sailor squirmed in his arms, but he pulled her in closer. “Charlotte knew, though. A window opened between the worlds, and she showed me the cliff face. It’s close by. I knew the exact inlet. I knew Sailor was trapped, like Charlotte’s cat had been the night of the full moon, with the tide coming in. It took me no time at all to reach her. And right there for the taking was Reggie Maxx, waiting to see her drown.”

“The Elven propensity for revenge,” Brodie said.

“It worked in our favor,” Declan said. “Charlotte had a need for revenge, too—but not for herself, mind you. For her cat. Reggie abandoned Tamarind on the beach when he dumped Charlotte’s body. And nobody messed with Charlotte’s cat.”

“So Charlotte saved your life, Sailor,” Rhiannon pointed out, “which was generous, given that she herself is dead.”

“And that you’ve stolen her boyfriend,” Barrie said.

“Ex-boyfriend,” Sailor protested.

“And that you said you didn’t like her acting,” Declan reminded her.

“Charlotte, I take it back,” Sailor said, looking skyward. “You were brilliant, you deserved fourteen Oscars.”

Barrie sighed. “I have to say, I’m shocked by Darius’s role in all this.”

“But he was right, it wasn’t his attack on me that put me in danger,” Sailor said. “It was my own ace detective work.”

“Well, that’s generous of you,” Rhiannon said. “I plan to tell him exactly what I think of him and his vampire version of tough love. Scaring us all like that.”

“There should be a censure of some kind,” Barrie said.

“How does one censure a vampire?” Sailor asked.

“Good point. So what exactly happened to Reggie?” Barrie asked.

“Brodie knows,” Sailor said, nodding at her Elven cousin-to-be.

“When Alessande arrived at the shack,” Brodie said, “and saw the situation, she summoned two members of the Elven Circle. A woman named Saoirse and a man called Dalazar. They teleported to where she was, guided by her description. Then they waited. At some point after dark an extremely large bird of prey dropped Reggie Maxx at their feet.”

Barrie threw Declan a look. “I can only imagine what the residents of Malibu thought they were seeing.”

“Terrible breach of Otherworld security,” Declan agreed, shaking his head. “Who would do such a thing?”

“At which point,” Brodie went on, “the three Elven dealt with Reggie according to the Old Way. While he was still alive, they cut his heart out. When the moon sets, around 4:00 a.m., they’ll burn it in a ritual bonfire somewhere in Las Virgenes Canyon. Peace restored. Case closed.”

There was a long silence.

“What about the police?” Barrie finally asked.

Brodie answered, “Reggie will eventually be declared missing and, at some point after that, presumed dead.”

Sailor sat up straighter. “In the shack Reggie was talking to Charles Highsmith on the phone. Discussing how to kill me. How on earth did he get caught up in the murders?”

“Reggie found the flasks of Scarlet Pathogen on a property he was selling,” Declan said. “He knew he had something special even before he knew what it was. He told Highsmith, who bought the lot in a preemptive bid, but Reggie kept back two flasks. Catrienne Dumarais emptied out one. The other was enough to infect a dozen women. Highsmith guessed what had happened the minute he heard about Charlotte’s death. The price of his silence was Reggie becoming his pawn on the Council. And elsewhere. Highsmith loves to own people. It probably didn’t hurt that three victims were Darius’s clients or employees. Those two loathe each other.”

“Will Highsmith go to prison?” Barrie asked. “For conspiracy, or accessory or...”

Brodie shook his head. “Impossible to prosecute without exposing our world. But Highsmith has been advised to leave town before the Elven Circle can separate his heart from his chest. He has now relocated to a small island he owns.”

“So Highsmith’s getting away with murder,” Sailor said.

Declan murmured, “Don’t bet on it, love.”

“Well, he’ll never sleep well,” Barrie said. “Would you, if you had three tribes of Elven mad at you?”

“I’ll sleep tonight,” Sailor said, “regardless of who’s mad at me.”

“Tonight,” Declan said, “no one is mad at you.”

At that point the front door opened and he turned to see Harriet in the entrance. “I was just going home, Mr. Wainwright,” she said, “and look what I found on the doorstep.”

In her arms was a gray cat, with no collar or tags, wet from the rain. The cat regarded them calmly, then set about grooming herself.

* * *

Magic hour.

The only thing better than being out for a run, mile seven on a perfect stretch of downhill trail, Sailor thought, was spending that last hour of sunlight in bed.

In the right company.

Declan reached for a glass of water on the bedside table and took a long drink. “Performance-wise, you’re doing well,” he said, “for a woman who half drowned not twenty-four hours ago.”

“And you’re doing well for a man of advancing years.”

He looked over at her. “Am I going to be listening to this forever? When I’m ninety, will you be flirting with the eighty-year-olds and making fun of me?”

“Think we’ll still be dating?” She toyed with the white bedsheet, pulling it up over her breasts, suddenly shy.

He pulled the sheet back down. “Well, it will take me at least a century to tire of this.” He traced his finger from her throat downward, between her breasts, over her sternum, stopping at her belly, covering it with his hand. The warmth on her skin started a fire inside her. Don’t stop, she thought. Keep going.

Instead he rolled her toward him, caressing her hip, her birthmark. His eyes met hers, so blue she thought she would cry just looking at them. “Anyway,” he said, “I’m not letting you out of my sight, not until you’ve paid me back.”

“For what?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The Aventador. You pumped four bullets into it.”

She laughed. “Wow, I’m a better shot than I thought.”

“At your present salary, giving me twenty-five percent of your take-home, we’ll be square in forty-eight years.”

“Except I’ve been fired,” she said. “While trying to stop a war last night I missed my shift and I didn’t call in. Instant pink slip.”

“In that case,” he said, pulling her close, “I guess you’ll have to marry me.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

He pulled back and looked down at her. “Nothing to say? That’s not like you.”

She gazed up into his eyes and smiled.

“Ah,” he said. “The telepathy thing. I’ll have to work hard to have any secrets from you at all. Any other abilities I should know about?”

“Yes, many,” she said. “But I believe it’s your turn.”

“Meaning what?”

“Well, you keep saying you can do birds, but except for a fleeting glimpse—in the dark, I might add—of some sad little extinct thing, I haven’t seen any. I’m starting to think you’re all talk, no feathers.”

He laughed. “I was saving it for the honeymoon.”

“Uh-uh,” she said. “I want to know what I’m getting into.”

His hand snaked around her waist once more, moving her effortlessly until she was underneath him, her thighs wrapped around his, her eyes staring up into his shadowed face. “What kind of bird would you like?” he asked.

“Surprise me,” she said.

“Really? Anything?”

“Well, because it’s my first time...I wouldn’t like to find myself in bed with a turkey. Or an ostrich—that would be disturbing. So maybe a bird with your face. And your hands, of course. Your chest.” She ran her hands down to his waist. “And this...” She moved her hands lower. “And, of course...this.”

“That is not your average bird,” he pointed out.

“More like an angel, then,” she said. “A dark sort of angel.”

His eyes half closed, sleepy. A lock of black hair fell forward onto his forehead. She studied his unshaven face, hardly able to believe her luck that it would be hers to look at for the rest of her life. He inhaled and opened his eyes, meeting her look with the intensity of a hawk, and something inside her awakened. His shoulders shimmered, and the next thing she knew the air itself wavered and then arranged itself into...wings.

He stretched them out and asked her if she would like to fly.

She watched a feather float through the air, in the last moments of sunlight. “Yes,” she said, “I would.”