Redemption Song (Daniel Faust #2)(59)

I forced a laugh. “I’m a sorcerer and a thief, not James Bond.”

“I think you knew where to go, because the prince told you exactly who to talk to and what to expect. I think he gave you something to barter with, too. Thing is, you aren’t bringing the soul to him because that’s not what he wants. It’s just part of a bigger plan.”

“Now why would I lie about a thing like that?”

“I don’t know,” Melanie said, shaking her head. “It’s got to be something so secret that even my mom and Caitlin can’t know about it. I’m right, aren’t I?”

With the exception of a tiny detail or two, she’d pretty much nailed it. I was definitely going to have to keep an eye on this kid.

“You’re pretty close,” I admitted. I knew denying it would only encourage her to dig deeper. “I made a deal with Sitri. We’re both getting something we want, assuming my plan works. Thing is, Melanie, I need you to stay quiet about this.”

“Sure!” She picked up the dish and held it out to me. “Just one condition.”

I grabbed a piece of bacon. “What?”

“I want to help.”

Good thing I hadn’t started chewing. I shook my head.

“No way. I’m not putting you in any danger. Your dad would kill me. Your mom would literally kill me.”

“I’m not a kid, Faust.”

“By the definition of the word, you kinda are.”

“I’m not a little kid. I turn eighteen in five months. That’s an adult. Legally. Look it up.”

I thought it over. One thing I didn’t need right now was another complication.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I might have something for you to do. Might. Keep your mouth shut and your ears open, and we’ll talk later.”

“What about right now?”

“Drink another bottle of water. You’ll thank me later.”

? ? ?

I didn’t realize, until I’d gotten out to the car, that I was still holding the bottle of Bud I’d confiscated from Melanie. I shrugged and tossed it into the duffel bag. I wasn’t much of a beer fan, but there was no sense in throwing away perfectly drinkable booze.

The Metropolitan is hip. Its designers took great pains to make sure you knew, from every angle of its brushed-chrome curves and Andy Warhol stylings, that it’s hipper than you’ll ever be. It’s the kind of place where blond heiresses in garish plastic sunglasses mingle poolside with guys in European leisure suits. Not normally the kind of place I’d pick for a meet-up, but maybe that was a good idea. Right now, being unpredictable was my best defense.

I nosed the Barracuda up to the parking garage ramp and waited while the automated box clacked and spat out a paper ticket. The barricade arm swung up, inviting me deeper inside. I didn’t like it. My last meeting in a parking garage ended abruptly, with a single shot from a sniper rifle. This time I was driving down, not up, but that didn’t set me any more at ease. Fewer avenues of escape if things went sour.

Chrome letters, five feet high and backlit by florescent pipes in cool electric blue, spelled out METROPOLITAN along a curving tiled wall. The Barracuda’s motor purred as I rumbled down a steep ramp to the second level. If her word was good, Agent Black would be waiting for me two floors down. I found a parking space and killed the engine.

Driving down to meet Harmony would give me a faster escape if I needed one. On the other hand, I’d be handing her my make, model, and plate number. We might be helping each other out right now, but ultimately she’d made it damn clear she intended to see me in an orange jumpsuit. The less information she had on me, the better. I figured I’d have the meet-up, walk up to the hotel for a late breakfast, then come back down and retrieve the car once she was long gone.

I left my ride behind and walked down the ramp. A rusted-out Volvo with California plates rattled past me. My shoulders tensed. These galleries were too big, too packed with quiet and darkened cars. Too many shadows and too many ways to come up on somebody from behind, or open fire from the dark. I kept a tight hand on the shoulder strap of my duffel bag.

The hotel hired famous street artists to decorate the walls on each level. The fourth floor sported an underground-comics-inspired riot of black-and-white images splashed by garish red, line art mingling with old Life magazine photographs blown up into blurry smears. I walked halfway across the level before Harmony showed up. She stepped out from behind an NV Energy utility van.

I felt her before I saw her. She’d come loaded for bear. Her neck and wrists glowed like liquid gold in my second sight, dripping with high-caliber warding charms. She had something under her blazer, too, on the opposite side of her shoulder holster. Something that pricked at my mind when I tried to get a read on it, waving a razor in front of my eyes. I didn’t know if she was looking for a mage-fight, but she was ready for one.

“Is all that for me?” I said.

She held up her hand, stopping me about five feet away from her.

“That’s close enough,” she said. “We have a file on you, Faust. We know what you’re capable of.”

What she didn’t know, apparently, was that all my good magical tools burned up along with the rest of my apartment. My best weapon, right now, was the very mundane but very large handgun in my duffel bag. I didn’t feel inclined to share that information.