Saladan eyed the faint glow about Kal’s hands, clearly knowing it would be harder now to down him with magic. “You can shift the blame to Dr. Plank?”
“The enclave will do anything to keep the elves out of it,” Kal said. “Alive or dead, Daniel will take the brunt of the blame. It’s his virus. Trisk was working in a human facility, so covering up that the tomato was elven crafted will be as easy as ensuring that she never sees a lab bench again. Even the enclave will want her discredited to help hide that it was her tomato that spread the virus.” He smiled, inclining his head with his best boy’s-club smile. “Someone will have to take control of her research.”
The flicker of magic wreathing Saladan’s hand went out. “And you will be more than happy to do so, eh?”
He nodded, his grip on the back of the chair easing. “The enclave will give it to me, calling it incentive to keep my mouth shut.”
Saladan laughed, but it was an ugly sound. “I’m beginning to see why your family is still in existence, Kalamack.” His posture shifted. “I don’t trust you, though.”
“Good.” Shoulders easing, Kal came out from behind the chair. “You tagging along with me will be useful.”
Saladan backed up into his circle. It fell with a sliding wave of color, and Kal took a deep breath, not liking having to breathe that foul, smoke-scented air that Saladan had been expelling. Immediately Orchid dropped down from the bookshelf. Saladan eyed her cautiously, and the pixy flipped him off before landing on Kal’s shoulder.
“Kal, you said her work was dangerous,” she whispered.
He shook his head, wishing she’d shut up. “In her hands, yes, but not mine.”
“But Kal,” she protested, “you can’t blame Dr. Plank. They might kill him.”
“It’s going to happen, Orchid,” he said brusquely, not wanting Saladan to think he didn’t have control over her. Guilt made his words harsher than he intended, but he couldn’t explain with Saladan listening.
Orchid pursed her lips, staring at him with her hands on her hips and her wings a blur of motion. “Fine,” she said saucily, then flew out the door, making Saladan duck as she clattered past his head and into the hall.
Kal watched her go, not liking the gray and red colors of her dust. “Do you have a car?” he asked Saladan, not believing the man was lighting up again.
“No, why?” Saladan asked as he gestured for Kal to go first.
“Because we have to get to the police station and I’m tired of dodging Weres. That’s where Trisk is, and where Trisk is, Daniel will be. We’ll shove a tomato down his throat, and it will be done.”
Saladan’s steps were eerily silent behind him, and Kal grimaced when the smell of the dead man grew strong. Muttering about the stench, Saladan took a long drag, the glow of his cigarette bright in the gloom. Outside, it had gotten dark, but Kal was confident that with Saladan beside him, he’d reach the station without being caught. “Orchid!” he called as Saladan looked out at the empty street, but she didn’t show.
“Where is your pixy?” Saladan said, and Kal felt his face warm.
“She’s probably running vanguard,” he said, knowing Orchid would find him when she got over her tiff. He couldn’t wait here for her, though. She’d have to catch up.
29
“Stop making that face. You’re giving yourself creases,” the woman sitting before Daniel said, but the perfume in the makeup was tickling his nose and the light touches on his neck itched. With a sudden spasm, he sneezed.
“Whoa, back up,” Phil said as he leaned out of the way, and Thomas, sitting on the edge of his cot, exchanged a nervous look with Betty. It made Daniel wonder what he looked like, but the little compact mirror was out of his reach.
“Hold still,” Betty demanded again, and Daniel forced himself not to move as the older woman in her tie-dyed poncho and army boots leaned in and patted on some more. There were six compacts and eight eye shadows arrayed on the cot beside him, but none was the right color. The only other option was the red pen Thomas had, stuck in one of his books, and even Daniel knew that would look suspect.
“I don’t have the right products,” Betty said, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. “If I was at my studio . . .”
Thomas made a rueful sound. “If we were at your studio, we wouldn’t have to do this.”
Betty stopped dabbing, frowning as she leaned back. “That looks like cat barf,” she said sourly. “It’s only fifteen minutes to lights out. Let me ask around tomorrow. Someone might have something in their handbag. We’ll get you out then.”
Daniel’s brow furrowed. His face felt caked and uncomfortable. How can women wear this stuff? “Tomorrow is too late,” he said, fighting the urge to touch it. Last time he had, he’d gotten his hand smacked.