Trail of Dead (Scarlett Bernard #2)(61)

“Don’t tell me where you’re going,” I said, too sharply.

“Right.” She didn’t falter. “Just do me a favor and kill that disgraceful bitch. For all of us.”

When we left Jack’s, I was wearing his present—a deep-green scarf, chosen to set off my eyes (“I just asked the saleslady to match it to mine,” Jack had said, blushing again)—and Jack was calling a cab to take him to the airport. I would have liked to march him right up to the security screening—hell, I wanted to close the door of the plane myself—but he promised to text when he had boarded, which would have to be good enough. I broke about twelve traffic regulations on the way home and made it to the house at 5:57. Molly made for the staircase, up to her room to pack. After a moment of thought, I went up after her and knocked on her doorframe.

“Hey, Molls, can you do one more thing for me?”

She looked up from an expensive-looking leather duffel bag. “What’s that?”

“Can you call Dashiell, fill him in on Olivia and the party tonight? Just so he’s updated?” Kirsten would never let vampires actually attend the party, but he’d want to know what we were doing.

A smile spread across her face. “Already done.”

Sometimes it can be useful, living with a spy.

Without really thinking, I stepped forward into her room and wrapped my arms around her slender frame. “Thanks,” I said into her hair.

Surprised, she hugged me back. “You’re welcome.”

We managed to avoid the whole when-to-pull-away issue, because the doorbell rang. I trotted down the stairs. Remembering my idiocy from the day before, I focused on my radius for a moment before opening it, but there was nothing Old World nearby. I checked the peephole anyway, and then let Jesse inside.

“Oh, good, you’re ready to go,” he said, eyeing my jacket and scarf. I did the classic look-down-at-what-you’re-wearing double take. “Uh…I guess so,” I said doubtfully. Then I saw a smear of ash on my jeans leg. “Wait, just a second.”

I trotted up the stairs, hearing Molly exchange a few pleasantries with Jesse as I went, and burst into the room. What do you wear to a witch’s party? Not red or green, because it wasn’t Christmas oriented, and probably not a dress, in case I had to run toward or away from something. Someone. I pushed the thought aside and tried to focus on the problem at hand. Clothes, I reminded myself. The problem at hand was clothes.

After Olivia died I had mercilessly thrown out all of the clothes she’d bought me, all those brand-name dresses from Nordstrom and the fancy heels she’d taught me to walk in. I wasn’t anyone’s f*cking puppet anymore. But that meant my wardrobe pretty much consisted of what I’d worn in high school, a supplement of jeans and T-shirts I’d chosen for comfort, and whatever Molly had forced me to buy via her famous excessive-whining torture method. I finally settled on clean jeans, silver flats, and a lightweight black V-neck sweater. Witches always appreciate black, right?

“Scar?” There was a light knock on my door.

“Come in.”

The door swung open and Jesse shuffled a few steps into the room with his hands covering his eyes. “You decent?”

I laughed. On our last case, he’d accidentally walked in on me while I was close to naked. “Yeah, I guess.” He took his hands down and gave me a warm smile. Don’t blush, Scarlett, I told myself sternly. You’re better than that. But the awkward silence unnerved me, and finally I looked down at what I was wearing. “What? You think it’s wrong?”

“No, I think you look great,” he said earnestly. “Do you ever wear your hair down?”

I stuck out my tongue and blew a raspberry at him. “What is this, a teen comedy in the nineties? If I just take off my glasses and take out my ponytail, I’ll be instantly pretty?”

“You don’t wear glasses, and you’re already pretty,” he said matter-of-factly. Then his voice softened. “You’re beautiful.”

I flinched. I never had learned how to take a compliment. Impatient, I turned back to my mirror and jerked the ponytail holder out of my hair. “Yeah, well, so’s your girlfriend,” I snapped. I reached up and braided my hair upside down, twisting the ponytail holder onto the end and letting the long braid settle down my back. “Happy?” I asked, turning back to him.

But Jesse’s face had stiffened. “I have something for you,” he said. He picked up a large paper bag from the hallway floor and thrust it toward me.

I immediately felt like an ass. Why couldn’t I ever say the right thing, just once? I reached into the bag and pulled out…a small, black bulletproof vest. “Uh…you shouldn’t have…?” I said uncertainly.

“There’s more.”

I peeked into the bag and saw a black leather cup with a snapping lid, the size of my two hands. “What is it?” I asked, pulling the thing out. Jesse didn’t answer, but I figured it out myself. I looked up to meet his face. “Jesse, this is for a gun,” I said stupidly. “This is a holster for a gun.”

“I know.” He reached around his back and pulled out a small chunk of black metal. “It’s the same model we used at the shooting range,” he said. “I think you should take it along tonight.”

I dropped the holster on the floor and backed away, as though it had burned my fingers. “No way. I am not carrying that. Put it away.”