Trail of Dead (Scarlett Bernard #2)(36)

“I could speculate, but we really have no idea,” Kirsten said, busying herself with putting the book away so she didn’t have to meet my eyes.

“Speculate.”

She winced. “Well…in theory, you could live forever. Or bring someone back from the dead.”

I leaned back, thonking the back of my head lightly against the window. “Those are some pretty big no-no’s, Kirsten.”

“You’re telling me.”

We were driving through a residential neighborhood now. It was 8:00 a.m. in Los Angeles, and while the homeowners were on their way to their jobs, the city’s real workforce was beginning to emerge in the world: gardeners, garbage collectors, nannies pushing $3,000 strollers. Sometimes they reminded me of a story my mom had read when I was little, about some elves and a shoemaker. The real magic that kept the nicer parts of the city beautiful and luxurious happened because of these people.

Then I suddenly recognized where we were. “Uh, Kirsten,” I said, dread pooling in my stomach, “where exactly are we going?”

“The safest place I know of, and somewhere where Olivia wouldn’t think to look for you,” Kirsten said with a thin smile.

“But this is Pasadena. We’re in Pasadena.” Maybe the coffee hadn’t sunk in, but it took me a moment to put that together. “Are you kidding me?” I asked incredulously. “You’re taking me to Dashiell’s?”


“I don’t like this, I don’t like this, I really hate this,” I chanted as we pulled into the long driveway. I’d never seen the mansion in the daylight, but I wasn’t surprised that it still looked gorgeous, all the paint perfect and the windows spotless. Beatrice would pay attention to that sort of thing, even if she couldn’t actually enjoy the house in the sunshine. “Dashiell’s going to be pissed. Can’t I just go to a hotel or something?”

“No, Scarlett,” Kirsten said severely. “We know that the witch working with Olivia is very good. She can’t perform a tracking spell on you personally, but if she’s clever enough she might find a way to track you somehow, anyway. If she chooses to come at you during the day, she would have to kill you like a human would.” She gestured at the house as Jesse pulled to a stop. “This is the safest place for that.”

We all unbuckled our seat belts, but Kirsten said, “Scarlett, why don’t you let me go in first and do the talking? These guys will be less jumpy if there’s only one of us.”

I wondered if Kirsten was planning to use magic somehow to convince them to be nice to me, but I was more than happy to put off going in there. “Fine with me.”

As she rounded the house toward the front door, Jesse said, “These guys?”

“Dashiell’s daytime crew,” I explained. “I’ve never met them, but Beatrice told me they’re very tough. Ex-military types of guys. They’re mostly here in case of daytime attacks.”

“Okay,” Jesse said, frowning. “Is that what she meant by ‘kill you like a human would’?”

I nodded. “She means that the witch would have to shoot me or stab me or whatever. And Dashiell’s daytime guys are about the only ones in the LA Old World who use guns.”

“Ah.” At the mention of guns, I saw Jesse’s hand stray down to his own hip.

“Be cool, dude,” I advised. “We’re basically here asking for help.”

He caught himself and relaxed. “Right, sorry.”

A few minutes went by, and Kirsten came briefly back into view, waving me inside. “Do you want me to walk in with you?” Jesse asked.

I was tempted for a second, but I shook my head. The whole thing made me nervous, but I didn’t really have anything to be afraid of. Hopefully. “No, Kirsten’s in a big hurry. I’ll be okay.”

I leaned into my door to open it, and Jesse caught my free hand. I stilled. “If it’s a bad situation, get out of there,” he said quietly. “And just call me.” He squeezed my hand and let go.

Kirsten was waiting for me at the front door, along with a gigantic, handsome black guy wearing a gun holster over a black polo shirt. I put out my “feelers” for a second, but he was definitely human. He towered over Kirsten, who was only a few inches over five feet tall. “It’s all arranged,” she said. “This is Mr. Hayne. He and I…well, we go back.” She glanced furtively up at Hayne, who just smiled at me with distant politeness.

That was interesting. Hayne was probably in his late forties, but still had bulging muscles and a trim waistline. He reminded me of a British actor with an unusual name, who’d turned up in a lot of action movies recently. As he held out his hand for me to shake, I saw scarring on the inside of his wrist. Puncture wounds, a lot of them. Was Hayne a willing donor, or had he been punished for something? I forced my eyes back to his face as I shook his hand. My hands aren’t particularly small, but they disappeared into his.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Ms. Bernard,” Hayne said with a little smile. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

“Mr. Hayne will explain things to you,” Kirsten said hurriedly, taking a few steps back. She reached out to squeeze my arm and promised to call me on the way back to LA. And suddenly I was alone with a large, armed stranger at Dashiell’s mansion.