“We’re not open yet, sorry,” Freya called, as she heard the bar’s front door open and the bell signal the arrival of a customer.
A woman in black walked into the bar. She was tall and striking, with her blond hair pulled up in a tight ponytail. Her face was ageless and serene. “Are you Freya Beauchamp?”
“Yes, I am, who’s asking?” she asked.
“I was told I would find Killian Gardiner here,” the woman said, without answering her question, which Freya found a tad impolite.
“He’s not here right now,” Freya said, continuing to wipe the counter.
“Do you know where I might find him?”
Freya hesitated, wondering if she should be truthful, but there was no reason to lie. “He’s probably down at his boat. It’s docked at Gardiners Island, on the far left side of the house. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
Freya remembered what Bran had told her of Killian’s peripatetic life and how Ingrid heard that he had left a trail of broken hearts behind him. And yet the stern stranger did not look like an aggrieved ex-girlfriend; instead she had the slightly formal air of those involved in law enforcement. Was Killian in some sort of trouble? He didn’t seem to be hiding anything. When she asked him about the rumors surrounding his past, he laughed and told her that people liked to tell stories, and that none of them were true.
A few minutes later the front door opened again and a young girl entered. “We’re closed, sorry. Come back in an hour or so?” Freya asked, looking up from her chopping board.
“I don’t want a drink,” the girl said with a frown.
“Good enough, since we’re not open yet.” Freya smiled. She looked up and took note of the girl’s sexual history as it flashed before her eyes: twenty-two-year-old virgin. A few chaste kisses and several unrequited crushes; it reminded Freya a little of her sister’s limited experience in that department.
“I’m looking for my roommate.”
Freya looked around at the empty bar doubtfully. “And you’re looking for her . . . here?”
“She said she was going to be here. Friday night,” the girl said stubbornly.
“That’s three days ago.”
“Yeah. I know.” The girl sighed. “I mean, she’s missing. I’m Pam, by the way.”
Pam showed her a photo of a brown-haired girl wearing large glasses. It was the little brown wren, the same girl who had taken the Irresistible potion on Friday night. Freya squinted her eyes at the picture. “I remember her. Molly, right?”
“Yeah. She never came home on the Fourth. She’s an adult, so the police told me I had to wait forty-eight hours before they could file a report. They think she just spent the weekend with some guy. But I swear that’s not the case. I’m really worried. She’s never done anything like this before.”
Freya frowned, but past experience told her Pam was jumping to conclusions. With that potion, Molly definitely got lucky on Friday night. She was probably out having brunch with her new love right now. Freya thought of how she herself had spent the weekend—a blur of drinking, working, and Killian. The three days had gone by so fast, and no one knew where she was either; it wasn’t like she’d left Ingrid or Joanna a message. (Not that either would panic, since Freya came and went as she pleased.)
“She usually calls to let me know where she is,” Pam said stubbornly. “I’m worried about her.”
Freya remembered Molly that night, dancing on a table, belting the lyrics to “You Shook Me All Night Long,” her glasses crushed beneath her feet, her hair wild and loose, swinging her body to the beat of the music, while a group of college boys, red-cheeked and jolly, shouted themselves hoarse in appreciation. Molly had looked as if she were having the time of her life. Later Freya had seen Molly making out in the back with one of the boys, the two of them wrapped around each other so tightly it was hard to see where one ended and the other began.
There was nothing to worry about. Pam might not understand since she had never experienced it: how time sped up and slowed down in a lover’s arms, how daily life faded away and everything suddenly revolved around being with one person for as long as possible. Time did not exist where love and lust were concerned. Still, it was always best to be careful.
Freya took the photograph. “I’ll ask around. See if anyone knows any of those boys she was with that night. But I’m sure Molly’s fine. She’ll probably get back this afternoon.”
chapter twenty-four
Angel of Death
When Ingrid arrived at work on Monday morning, in the stack of interoffice mail she found a memo from the mayor’s office informing her that due to limited funds, the city council had cut the library budget again, which meant cutting more hours from the schedule. They were running on fumes as is. The mayor had included a personal note asking for her support of the plan to sell the library during the council meeting at the end of the summer. His smugness and condescension were infuriating. She balled up the letter and threw it across the room.
It was an awful way to begin what was already an awful day; the only redeeming factor was the fact that Caitlin had called in sick, so at least she would not have to hear every excruciating detail about Caitlin and Matt’s night of love. While she did not have Freya’s gift for affecting her surroundings, her coworkers understood enough to steer clear of her that day. She was not in the mood to perform her usual witchy duties either, and told Hudson to let everyone know to come back tomorrow instead.
Ingrid busied herself with steaming and studying the Gardiner prints and communicating with her source, whom she had sent scans of each page for review. She had gone through the whole set and found dozens of those scroll-like key tags; they were everywhere in the entire plan, and their meaning was still a mystery. Just to be sure, she had consulted one of the architects who frequented the library to make sure it wasn’t a design key they had used in the past. He had confirmed that he had never seen anything like it before.
She rolled up the piece of paper and put it aside for now. From the front office, she heard a cold, clear female voice say, “I’m sorry but I insist that she see me.”
A few minutes later, when Hudson walked into her office, his face was vacant, his eyes glazed. “You have to make time for her,” he said in a flat voice. He left the room and a beautiful blond girl let herself inside, walking with a confidence and a carriage that immediately put Ingrid on the defensive.
Her visitor was about eighteen years old, with hard green eyes and long thick platinum hair that fell down her back. She smelled of power and pampering and the cushion of wealth that surrounded those who were accustomed to the most lavish privilege. Ingrid noticed immediately that there was something more to this girl. She was one of the Fallen. A Blue Blood, an immortal vampire, one of the lost children of the Almighty.
“You’re not from here,” Ingrid said sharply. “And I don’t like my friends to be played with like toys. Your people might have been granted exemption to practice your brand of sorcery but I won’t have it in my library, especially if you’re looking for help with your cause. It’s a hopeless one, if you ask me.”
“Relax, Erda, I’m not here for redemption,” the girl said, taking a seat across from her desk and looking around contemptuously at the shabby surroundings.
“Good, because that’s certainly out of our jurisdiction.” Ingrid frowned, annoyed that she had been called by her true immortal name. The Beauchamps hardly used their real names anymore; they had gone out of fashion and it would draw too much attention, something the Council had warned them not to do. Of course, Freya had stubbornly kept her name all these long years, which was just as well since it was pretty, like everything else about her sister.