Keeper of the Moon

chapter 7



Charles Highsmith didn’t actually live in his own Keeper district. People with that much money, Sailor figured, couldn’t be expected to have just one home. So while Charles maintained a residence in Bel Air, he apparently preferred to live with his polo ponies, which was why she now found herself driving to Lake Sherwood.

Just south of the Conejo Valley, Lake Sherwood was old, man-made and beautiful. It had originally been called Potrero Lake, but in the 1920s, after Douglas Fairbanks had filmed Robin Hood there and in the surrounding forest, the name had been changed. Sailor had learned all this from Merlin, who’d been telling her Hollywood history since her childhood, long before she appreciated it. The terrain was rugged, Old West and ruinously expensive to maintain if you wanted to grow anything other than desert plants. Charles Highsmith did. As she drove up the long road to his house, she marveled at the huge rolling lawn, with grass as green as a golf course. His water bill had to be as big as his mortgage.

The house looked new and devoid of personality. Sailor was greeted at the door by a uniformed maid and led across a circular foyer dominated by a sweeping staircase and endless marble, then through double doors to a library. Even though she was on time, the room was filled, and she had the sensation of entering a party in progress. Had everyone else been given an earlier arrival time?

“Sailor, welcome.” Charles Highsmith was dressed, improbably enough, in cream-colored jodhpurs and a polo shirt, with glossy riding boots that she was certain had never mucked out a stable. “Let me introduce you.” He seemed to have forgiven her for the night before, for which she was grateful. She’d been ready to tough it out, but it was daunting to be the newcomer in a group this tight, their closeness born of years together and countless Council meetings.

She knew most of the Keepers either by name or reputation. Of course, they all knew her father, but Rafe had socialized with only a handful outside of meetings, and the meetings themselves were closed to non-Keepers and heavily guarded. She tried to gauge her fellow Keepers’ degree of friendship with her father by the way they reacted to her. It wasn’t easy. These people, like Charles Highsmith, were political animals and rigorously polite.

Everyone must have been curious about her sunglasses, but only one remarked on them, the woman named Justine Freud. In her seventies, Justine was fragile but straight-spined, the oldest Keeper. Sailor wondered why she wasn’t the head of the Council. “My dear, do you have a problem with light?” Justine asked.

Highsmith responded before Sailor had a chance to. “Let’s wait for the meeting to begin, Justine, and then all questions will be answered. Our newest member needs to mingle before you bear her off for one of your indoctrination lectures.”

This was said in a pleasant cocktail party tone, but Sailor felt the underlying ice, and Justine said, “Of course, Charles, we must all defer to your wisdom and leadership,” in a replica of his tone. Clearly Darius had been right and there was little affection on either side, but she wondered how she would ever figure out the web of relationships if all animosity was hidden under a veneer of courtesy.

A man entered the room, with an “Am I late?” expression. Highsmith, noting him, said in a resonant voice, “Reggie has finally joined us, so we can adjourn to the library. Oliver, perhaps you’d do a closing spell?”

Oliver Kent was one Keeper Sailor knew—tall, black, somewhere in his golden years—and she watched him move to the windows, making hand gestures and whispering quick incantations. The Highsmith estate was no doubt already well-secured via traditional methods against the average burglar or even assassin. The Keepers were more concerned with espionage by Others. Considering what Sailor planned to disclose about this meeting, they were right to be worried. Justine Freud joined Oliver, chanting in a soft soprano, an eerie and dissonant counterpoint to his baritone.

“Hello,” said a voice behind her. “You’re the new kid. I’m Reggie Maxx, Coastal Keeper.”

“Sailor Gryffald, Canyon Keeper.” She turned to shake his hand, happy to see someone around her own age. And smiling, no less.

“How much trouble am I in?” he asked. “How mad was Charles?”

“Not mad at all, that I could tell. But you weren’t that late. I would have been late, too, because I always am, but because it’s my first meeting I thought I’d try making a good impression and got here on the dot.”

“Smart,” he said. “Everyone here is old-school about stuff like that. Punctuality.”

“Of course they’re old-school,” she said. “They’re old.”

He laughed. “Don’t let her—” he gestured toward a well-preserved brunette “—hear you talking like that. That’s Jill. She’s only fifty-three. Our resident sex kitten, until today.”

“I think that’s a compliment, so thanks. Please assure her that I never seduce people old enough to be my father. Or grandfather. Which leaves—” she glanced around “—you.”

He nodded. “I try to hide from Jill, out of self-preservation, but I’ll pass her a note.”

“Good. Can you sit by me?”

He could not. Charles Highsmith believed in assigned seating. The meeting was held in the library, a huge book-lined room with a long oak conference table. Sailor made a complete circle, reading the silver nameplates before finding her own name, to the left of Highsmith. There would be no passing of notes. The table could probably seat fifty, and there were thirteen Keepers, evenly spaced. Would they be given microphones?

Charles called the meeting to order with all the gravitas that would precede a State of the Union address, and hearing aids were adjusted. Keepers, like British monarchs and Supreme Court Justices, rarely retired. Most had to be carried away in coffins—or urns, in the style of their Elven charges, who preferred being scattered to the wind and earth to being stuck in a coffin. They were not, after all, vampires.

“Due to the emergency,” Charles said, “after the reading of the minutes we will launch into the single item on our agenda. We will also dispense with our customary speakers’ lists, unless things get out of hand.”

Good God, thought Sailor, listening to Jill the sex kitten read the minutes from the previous meeting. Could she sit through these things for the next sixty years? How had her father stayed awake? When Jill finished, Highsmith took the floor once more.

“Sailor Gryffald, whom you have just met,” he said, “has had an unfortunate experience, which she will now recount. Sailor?”

Her boredom fled. All eyes were upon her. Hundreds of years of Keeper experience, all waiting. She remembered something one of her acting teachers had told her. “Never sit when you can stand. Standing gives you power.” She stood. She told them everything she remembered of the attack and her subsequent rescue by Alessande Salisbrooke. And at the key moment, she unbuttoned her sundress down to her scar and showed them the marks of the winged creature. Then she took off her sunglasses.

The faces of her fellow Keepers showed shock, concern and anger.

“Are your eyes painful, my dear?” a woman asked. Sailor had forgotten her name, but she was Keeper of the Inland Empire, including the prestigious Palm Springs.

“No,” Sailor said. “It’s probably more painful for you to look at them.”

“Not at all,” the woman answered. “They’re lovely, in an unusual sort of way.”

A strapping man, totally bald, stood. Howard Zane, Downtown district. “Let’s focus on the attacker. Any chance it was an actual bird? Something predatory, maybe rabid?”

“No,” Sailor said. “It was Other. The air quality changed seconds before the attack. And whatever else I’ve got, it’s not rabies.”

“Then our problems are a lot bigger than four dead women,” Howard said. “Shifter or vampire, which would you say it was?”

“I can’t say,” Sailor said. “All I registered was Other—you know the feeling. And a rush of wind. And then there were wings all over me, and I was just reacting, protecting my face, closing my eyes.”

“Either way, this is serious,” Howard said.

“Either way it’s a tragedy.” This was the Anaheim Keeper, Sailor remembered, a man named George. “But am I the only one who’s relieved? If what we have is a walking, breathing killer, then he can be found and stopped. A biological hazard spread in some mysterious way, that’s a lot scarier to me than one man who has it in for a couple of beautiful actresses.”

“George,” said Justine Freud, “first, it’s not a ‘walking killer,’ it’s a flying one. And second, are you implying that as long as only women are being killed, things aren’t so serious?”

“Justine, not everything is a feminist issue,” George said. “I only meant that a serial killer is a lot easier to deal with than an airborne virus. Has the young lady been examined by a doctor?”

Sailor opened her mouth to speak, but Highsmith answered for her. “My physician will examine her this afternoon.”

She was about to contradict him, but more strident voices overrode her, three people talking at once.

“Can we get back on point?” Oliver Kent asked loudly. “Because once word gets out among the Elven that a vampire or shifter is killing their women, all hell will break loose. This Council has to come up with a plan that shows we’re on top of it or our charges will take matters into their own hands.”

“Exactly,” Charles Highsmith said. “Which is why secrecy is of the utmost importance.”

“Excuse me,” Sailor said. “I think speed is a bit more important than secrecy.”

“True,” Justine Freud said. Next to her, Reggie Maxx nodded.

Charles Highsmith stood. “You may take your seat, Sailor. Speed encourages carelessness. What I propose,” he said, putting up a hand to quiet a few voices of dissent, “is that within our individual districts, we make quiet inquiries among the most trusted Elven. There are bound to be rumors of blood feuds, talk of vampires or shifters with whom our charges may have had disagreements.”

“Disagreements?” Sailor said. “Four dead women would seem to indicate a bit more than—”

“I have the floor,” Charles said sharply.

She felt herself blush, her face growing hot. But being spoken to like an errant schoolgirl couldn’t override anger at Highsmith’s muted reaction to the crisis. She recalled Darius’s advice: Talk less, listen more. She made herself look around the table now, to see if she had any allies. No one met her gaze except for Reggie Maxx, who actually winked.

Reggie was cute, she noticed: broad-shouldered, but also boyish, with freckles and curly, reddish blond hair— Damn! she thought. Here we go again. The telltale flush of heat, the racing heartbeat. And Reggie wasn’t the only one looking appealing. Charles Highsmith himself, patronizing though he was, had the kind of leadership qualities that made General Patton get a movie made about him. And George from Anaheim, bald-headed and potbellied, was so at home in his own body that she couldn’t help feeling comfortable around him. Justine Freud? The picture of ancient wisdom. Focus, she told herself. You’re missing the meeting.

George was speaking, asking if it was necessary to stick to his own district. “Say you follow up on a rumor,” he said. “It starts in Anaheim but then ends up in Studio City. I think we need to be talking amongst ourselves, number one, and number two, we need to be able to go into other districts without worrying about stepping on another Keeper’s toes. Also, some Keepers are less experienced than others, and we don’t want their districts given short shrift.”

Great. That was aimed at her. She was about to respond when she was struck by the fact that George himself had a certain magnetism. Especially if one liked grizzly bears. Distinguished grizzly bears with hearing aids.

“George, speak to whomever you please,” Highsmith said. “You don’t need my permission. But phone and email are out of the question, particularly now, and being seen together will draw the attention of the Others, so significant travel is out of the question, too. In a perfect world the law enforcement authorities will find the murderer. This being the world it is, law enforcement will need our help. Dividing L.A. into districts is what we have done since the 1930s, and with over four thousand square miles in Los Angeles County, simple logistics dictate we continue to do that. The challenge we have is tough enough without taking on one another’s districts. Now, if there are no more questions, I’d like to—”

“This isn’t a monarchy, Charles,” Justine Freud said. “Do you really propose that each of us remains sequestered, with no exchange of information as a group—”

“We will absolutely share information, at a meeting that will be called as soon as we have sufficient information to make sharing worthwhile. Let’s not forget the debacle that occurred during the Malibu fires, when excessive communication and the use of cell phones created a security breach that—”

“What do brushfires in Malibu have to do with this?” Sailor said, her fever making her both restless and talkative. “Were Others the targeted victims? Were Elven the only ones whose homes burned down? And that was forever ago. My God, I was in high school.”

“Easy as that is to believe,” Highsmith said, “it’s perhaps best not to remind us of your extreme youth.”

“Given my extreme youth,” she shot back, “maybe you can enlighten me. What do you suggest? Going door to door, questioning Elven, and sowing seeds of suspicion about vampires and shapeshifters? Why not start with the obvious, these four women?”

“Because we’re not the police, Ms. Gryffald. Let our people in Robbery/Homicide do their jobs. And which of those victims lived in your district?”

“None of them. But it’s clear that—”

“None of them. Three of them, however, lived in mine. One of them, Ariel MacAdam, lived in Phaedra Waxman’s district. Do you think Phaedra needs your help?”

Sailor glanced at Phaedra, who reminded her of the high school volleyball coach who’d made her teenage years hell. “You’re missing the point. I—”

Highsmith continued as though Sailor weren’t speaking. “What we don’t want is to add fuel to the fire of panic already spreading, creating more death and destruction on top of the four victims already dead. Every military campaign begins with a reconnaissance mission, and that’s our obvious first step. Now, each of you has a piece of paper in front of you, and a pen. A yes vote agrees with my plan. A no vote disagrees. I will abstain.”

Sailor scrawled “NO,” folded the paper and put it into a lead crystal bowl being passed around. Charles read the votes aloud. Six and six.

“As the tiebreaker,” he said, “I vote yes. We investigate within our own districts and pool information in a meeting to be announced shortly. As for Ms. Gryffald,” he said quickly, seeing Sailor once more on the verge of interrupting him, “her district is large and she herself is new, and especially in light of her current disability, assigning her a mentor strikes me as an excellent option.”

“I’ll take her district, along with my own,” Phaedra Waxman said.

“No, you won’t,” Sailor said, finding her voice.

“I’ll help her, Charles,” Justine said.

“I think not, Justine,” Highsmith said.

“I’m happy to team up with Sailor,” Reggie said. “Our districts are adjacent, so it makes sense.”

“Fine,” Sailor said, before she got stuck with the volleyball coach. Her body temperature had dropped, and all thoughts of affection and goodwill had been replaced by anger and frustration. She pushed her chair away from the table and walked away and out of the mansion, not trusting herself to even say goodbye without exploding.

“Wait up, Sailor!” she heard, and turned to see Reggie Maxx running to catch up. “My God,” he said, “was that unbelievable?”

“Which part?” she asked, heading toward her car. “Me getting stuck with a babysitter? Or Highsmith’s stupid, ineffectual nonplan?”

“I’m talking about the attack on you,” he said, “but yeah, that was classic Highsmith. Listen, I’m glad we’re working together, and it’s not babysitting as far as I’m concerned. My district is Malibu, and we can pool our resources.”

“Okay, thanks. And sorry,” she said. “I’m just really pissed. And disappointed. I expected...I don’t know what. Some kind of big mobilization, kicking into high gear. Something.”

“Then we’ll kick ourselves into high gear,” Reggie said. “Here’s the deal about Malibu. There aren’t any Elven living on the beach. None of them will set foot west of Pacific Coast Highway. They’re all in the mountains off Las Virgenes and Kanan Dume, all the hermit types. If it was a Unabomber we were looking for, those are the first people I’d check out, but I doubt if most of my Elven have even heard of Charlotte Messenger or Gina Santoro. That said, if we can get them to talk, they may know things, so say the word and we’ll start interviewing them. Tomorrow, say?”

Sailor looked at him, and he looked back unflinchingly, not bothering to block his thoughts. I like you, you’re pretty, you’re hot, I’d like to be your friend and Highsmith’s an ass, but we can make this work to our advantage, he said. Not in so many words, but in thought patterns. It wasn’t as clear as if he were an Elven, but she could understand him, the way she understood French after having had three years of it in high school.

She nodded. “Thanks.”

Reggie glanced toward the house. “As for the Keepers, some of them will share information with us, help us out—especially given who your dad is. But the others will go right to Highsmith if you deviate from the plan. And if he thinks you’re doing an end run around him, he’ll make your life on the Council hell. So, you know, be careful.”

Sailor flashed on Darius Simonides, whose advice she’d all but ignored. “Can you fill me in on who’s who?”

“Yeah, I can.” Reggie looked at his watch. “Only not now, because I have to go show a property in the Colony. I’m a Realtor. Tomorrow?” He handed her a business card.

“Tomorrow,” she told him.

* * *

Sailor was in her car and halfway to the 101 Freeway before she got a good cell signal. She called Declan.

“Sailor,” he said, instead of hello.

“I’m ready to tell you anything you want to know. About—” speak in code, she thought “—how I spent my summer vacation.”

There was a pause. “Change of heart?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good news,” he said. “And what’s it going to cost me?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you.”

“Provocative answer. And when will that be?”

Her first impulse was to say “the sooner the better” because she wanted nothing more than to see him again. But she hesitated. What did she have to report, really? That the Elven Keepers as a whole were doing essentially nothing. But she herself was no different, either. What was she bringing to Declan, to their partnership, other than her own blood samples? Where were her investigative skills, her resourcefulness? She had to step it up. The afternoon had been a waste, but the day wasn’t over yet.

A billboard image of a cupcake flew by, and Sailor had an inspiration. “I’ll see you,” she said, “after I run one quick errand.”

“Kimberly Krabill wants another blood sample. She’s free for an hour, and then she has rounds at the hospital.”

“It will take a little longer than that, given the traffic.”

“Sailor, that’s not going to work for me.”

“I’ll call you when I’m done. Bye, Declan.” She hung up.

Her next call was to the morgue.