“Can’t because you don’t know or can’t because you aren’t supposed to tell me?”
“I don’t know. The outcome isn’t certain. Everything depends on you.”
“Terrific,” I muttered. But Summer wasn’t finished.
“There will be pain, betrayal, all you hold dear will prove suspect. What you believed once, you can believe no longer.”
“So, the usual, then?” I paused as a thought occurred to me. Summer was a DK. She’d been killing Nephilim for centuries. She might be more useful than she looked.
“Ever meet up with a Strega?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Come on. You must have.”
“They’re very rare, extremely powerful.”
“Any tips on how to kill one?”
She shook her head again. “There’s no known way to kill a Strega.”
“Bullshit.”
She blinked. “If I knew of one I’d tell you.”
“Would you?”
“Of course. You’re the leader of the federation. I swore allegiance long ago.”
“You have to do what I say?”
“Well, I don’t have to, as in I’m compelled to, but you are the boss.”
“Goody.” I rubbed my hands together. “Before I go, do you have any insights on killing a dhampir?” Sawyer’s method really wasn’t working for me since it didn’t make much sense.
Now her eyes widened. “You can’t—”
“Oh, I assure you I can. If Jimmy’s in any way responsible for Ruthie’s death, he’ll answer to me.” I snapped my fingers. “Death of a dhampir. Spill it.”
“I never— I mean I didn’t because I wouldn’t—”
“Make some sense, Summer.”
“I never researched that because I wouldn’t hurt him.”
“Even if he was going to rip out your throat, drink your blood— Wait a second. Do you even have blood?”
“Jimmy’s not like that. He kills Nephilim, not people.”
“So he says.”
“You don’t trust him?”
I laughed in her face.
She bit her lip. “I should go with you.”
I paused for a minute, imagining what it would be like to locate Jimmy with Summer in tow. It might be amusing enough to put up with her, but I doubted it.
“I don’t need your help.”
“You do, but I can’t fly.”
“I thought you could, even without the wings.”
“I can’t fly on a plane. I mess up the controls somehow.”
Then I definitely didn’t want her on my plane.
I walked off, leaving Summer on one side of the metal detectors while I made my way to the other. She could have gotten through without a boarding pass, but why bother? We’d said all we had to say. If I were lucky, I’d never have to see her again.
Of course, lucky didn’t seem to be in my repertoire very often lately.
That was proved to me when I boarded the plane. Since I’d purchased my ticket all of two hours ago, I had a seat between a woman who’d never seen a cupcake she didn’t like and a grungy teenage boy who appeared to have given up showers until Tibet was free.
I wished for some of Summer’s fairy dust so I could inspire in them a burning desire to sit anywhere but here. Perhaps back at the terminal.
The flight to New York was excruciating, but like most things in my life, it ended. As the plane banked over LaGuardia, the lights of the city sprinkled the night like that fairy dust I’d wished for. Water sparkled on either side of the runway as the pilot landed the jet with a teeth-jarring thump, then slammed on the brakes so hard I was grateful for the seat belt that kept me from kissing the back of the seat in front of me.
I tried Jimmy’s number the instant the words You may now use your cellular phones left the flight attendant’s mouth. I got voice mail again.
“Shit.”
The cupcake lady scowled even as the smelly kid winked. I flipped my phone shut and got off the plane as quickly as I could, my unnatural haste making me blend in with everyone else in the terminal.
I retrieved my bag, stopped at an ATM—then winced at the remaining balance on my bank receipt. This seer gig was costly, and it didn’t seem to pay very well. If I managed to succeed, at least I’d still have a day job. If I failed…
I shrugged and tossed the receipt into the nearest trash bin. If I failed, money wasn’t going to mean diddly anymore.
Outside the airport, I got in the cab line and climbed into the vehicle indicated when my turn came. The weather here was reminiscent of home, the night clear and crisp. I was glad I’d brought along one of the flannel shirts Sawyer had given me.
The cabby’s name was unpronounceable. He was either from the Middle East, India, Pakistan, or some other country whose name I should know but didn’t.
I’d been in New York twice and never gotten a cab-driver who was actually from New York. Both times I’d come for work—once for a conference on the urban police force and once for a workshop on new methods for finding missing persons. I’d been sent because I was so good at it. Locating Sanducci should be a—
“Piece of cake,” I murmured.
“You would like cake?” The cabby met my gaze in the mirror.
“No. Sorry.”