Under Wraps

Parker paled and I mashed my foot on top of his. “No, thank you,” he said finally. “We should probably be going. Thank you very much for your help, though, Kishi. We really appreciate it.”

 

 

Kishi’s beautiful features went cold as she frowned. “Fine. Have a nice day,” she said sharply. Then she turned on her heel, and I grabbed Parker by the wrist, dragging him out of the Crystal Ball. I slammed the door behind us, and he turned for one last glance at the beautiful Kishi, and paled.

 

“Did you see that?” Parker breathed, pointing at the store. “Kishi, she—she’s—”

 

“Two-faced,” I finished.

 

Kishi was behind the counter, reaching for her Chinese takeout box. Her back was toward us, her rump perfect and perky under the loose folds of her skirt, her waist trim. Her long hair was parted neatly over her shoulders and a face—dark-eyed with salivating, pointed teeth—peered out from the back of her head.

 

“I told you. Kishis have beautiful faces on the front to lure their prey. On the backside, usually underneath their long, Pantene-commercial hair is their other face. The one they use to eat their prey.”

 

Parker’s breath was quick, and I crossed my arms in front of my chest, satisfied. “Guess you were lucky I was here, huh, ‘angel’? She must have really liked you. By the way—if you eat anything they offer you, you can’t escape them.” I leaned up on my tiptoes, my nose just inches from his. “Ever. So, you’re welcome.”

 

Parker pushed his hands into his jean pockets as we walked to the car. “Can Kishis … see things … about people?”

 

I grinned. “Like your angelic fa?ade?” Parker’s eyes widened and I laughed. “Obviously not.”

 

After we had pulled back onto the highway, Parker looked at me. “So, how do you know all this about demons and the Underworld, anyway? I’m a detective, but I couldn’t tell you much about it or, you know … detective history.”

 

I smiled, remembering. While most kids my age were falling asleep to Disney movies on the VHS, Gram was in bed with me, telling me stories about the Underworld and the creatures that lived there. She told me about the pink-and-blue-bodied Oni, from Japan, who drinks too much, eats too much, and is known for occasionally drinking Japanese rivers dry, and the oversensitive, shape-shifting Bori, who likes to playact as a human just for fun. She told me which demons couldn’t be referred to by name (lest you trap them as your slave), and that you should always whistle when approaching certain members of the demon world. Fairies, pixies, ghouls, and crouchers were generally peaceful if left alone but quickly resorted to violence when snuck up upon. Gram had volumes of knowledge about the Underworld and treated each being in it with reverence and respect—always reminding me that the Underworld, with its thousands of demon species, survived because demonkind followed a code of respect that had been lost on humankind.

 

Parker tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and looked at me sideways. “So, the person who bought the knife was a woman.”

 

“Right,” I said, yawning.

 

“With long black hair.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Kind of like your roommate.”

 

I looked at Parker incredulously. “You can’t be serious. There is no way Nina, of all people, would be involved in something like this. Look at her! She’s five-one for God sakes!”

 

“She’s a vampire. Weren’t you the one who told me they have superhuman strength?”

 

“She’s also my best friend,” I said, staring out the front windshield, “and I know her a lot better than you do. This has nothing to do with her.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seventeen

 

 

The light was fading in the conference room where Parker and I had the contents of the evidence boxes spread out between us. Well, the contents of the evidence boxes, two empty bags of peanut M&M’s, the remains of an Ali Babba falafel platter, and two frozen mocha lattes melting in Styrofoam cups. I rubbed my eyes and blinked out the big glass window into the police station vestibule.

 

“Looks pretty dead out there,” I muttered.

 

“Pretty dead in here,” Parker said, pushing the latest heap of crime-scene photos out of his way. “There’s no rhyme or reason to this. Maybe we should just call it a night.”

 

I glanced at my watch. “Ooh, I almost forgot. I have a Tupperware party over at Lorraine’s in half an hour.”

 

Parker’s nostrils flared. “What do witches need Tupperware for?”

 

I stood up, gathering my sweater. “I don’t know. To keep their eye of newt fresh?”

 

Parker grinned. “At least you have a sense of humor about your weird life.”

 

I paused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means that you have a weird life. And that you have a sense of humor about it. Face it, Lawson, as far as normalcy goes, you’re zero for zero.”

 

I put my hands on my hips, my eyes raking over the grisly selection of crime-scene photographs that Parker was shoving into his briefcase. “And I suppose you’re as normal as they come?”