I glanced up, lips pressed into an annoyed line and Alex flashed me his million-dollar grin. He was holding a thick, hard-backed book wrapped in a glossy black jacket, the title Angels, Demons and Other Things that Don’t Exist in three-inch raised lettering across the cover. He opened the book, thumbed through a few pages and snorted while I snaked the last of his cookie from the plate.
“Angels are the mythological heavenly messengers and stories of their assistance and comfort have been reported across all Western religions, and often by those who have experienced near-death situations.” Alex grunted, shaking his head. He continued reading in a pompous orator voice. “The so-called white-winged angel is nothing but our humanistic need to find a sense of comfort in the face of unexplainable tragedy and death. The angel myth is a direct result of humanity’s unwillingness to grasp the finality of death.” Alex snapped the book shut and tossed it on our table, the huge tome making our tea slosh. “This guy really knows his stuff.”
“Does he have a chapter on missing dragons?”
Alex slid a bookmark out from the front of the book. “Don’t know. But according to this you can ask ole’ Harley Cavanaugh himself. He’ll be signing copies of this fascinating ode to idiocy tomorrow night.”
“Ooh, meet an Underworld debunker straight up and in person? Sign me up!”
Alex grinned at me, his eyes flashing a sexy combination of mischief and glee. “Sounds like a date.”
I was halfway out the door when Alex snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me toward him, my back against his chest. He buried his nose in my hair, his lips a hairbreadth away from my ear. “Don’t get involved. Promise me you’ll let Dixon handle the dragon thing,” he whispered.
My entire body—hormones to hair follicles—was humming. “Uh-huh,” was all I could muster.
I sat in my car in front of Mrs. Henderson’s house, her check balanced in my lap. I wasn’t getting involved, I was making a friendly delivery.
Besides, any statement made under duress or against an incredibly chiseled chest was useless, right?
Mrs. Henderson and her two obnoxious teenagers lived in a gorgeous old-Hollywood-style house in a quiet neighborhood off 19th Avenue. The house, usually resplendent with an impeccably manicured lawn and showy dusting of baby-pink impatiens, was hardly recognizable. The lawn was overgrown and the impatiens were leggy and capped with drooping brown blooms. I continued up the stone walk and stooped on the porch to gather up at least a week’s worth of Chronicle newspapers and local circulars advertising great prices on everything from fertilized duck eggs to tripe. Clamping my mouth shut against a wave of nausea, I rapped on the door, then waited. The hairs on the back of my neck slowly started to rise, as did the suspicion that I was being watched. I pressed the newspapers to my chest and slowly turned to look over my shoulder. The Hendersons’ overgrown lawn and shaggy plants remained as they were and the street was empty—but I couldn’t shake the creepy feeling. I stepped off the porch and glanced up and down the street. Mainly deserted, except for a few parked cars—ticketed, of course—and an old man walking a basset hound four houses down.
“I’m just jumpy,” I muttered to myself. “Jumpy.”
I went back up the walk and I rapped again, harder this time. The door swung open. I stepped in tentatively. The prickly feeling was still there, so I slammed the door, then pasted on a smile, ready to greet Mrs. Henderson or one of her annoying teens.
“Thank you so much,” I started, “Sorry to drop in but I have your check.” I waved it spastically. “Hello?”
There was no one in the foyer and it was dim. All the curtains were drawn and the little wedge of outside light that came in through a small crack in the fabric illuminated dancing dust mites.
“Mrs. Henderson? It’s me, Sophie. From the UDA. You missed your appointment today ...” I stayed pressed up against the door, the chill from the wood seeping through my sweater. “Is anybody home?”
My instinct told me that something was terribly wrong. That I should turn around and leave, drive straight to the police department and talk to Alex.
But I was never very good at trusting my instincts.