another reason to pul Vayl back to the present. But now I just had to know what had happened to Helena. And the Berggias. I decided to cal Cassandra as soon as we got inside. And if her first words were “I’m stumped!” I was going to swal ow my pride—and a big spurt of fear—and bring in Sterling. Since our department had been shut down he couldn’t be that busy, unless his band had lined up a bunch of gigs to fil his free time, in which case I’d just have to convince (bribe) him to cancel. I wondered if our resident warlock stil favored the Tul amore Dew. And if so, how was I supposed to get my hands on a case of Irish whiskey in the middle of a teetotaling country like Morocco?
CHAPTER FOUR
Though I’d done it at least a dozen times already, I stil wasn’t used to the transition. Stepping from the dusty, crowded streets of the old city into the quiet elegance of Monique Landry’s traditional Moroccan vil a, with its blue and white tiled floors, their pattern so intricate I stood in awe at the time and care that had gone into the job. Smal er tiles in brighter shades of green, red, yel ow, and white climbed a third of the way up the ground floor’s wal s and lined the stairways on either side of the main entrance.
Above the tile, pink or gold stucco was decoration unto itself, though here and there an original painting hung, usual y signed by a local artist who had managed to capture the radiant soul that moved within every corner of the city.
Everywhere we went in the riad—whether it was the big lounge in the front of the place, the formal dining room down the south hal , the kitchen at the west end of the house, up the stairs to the rooms we’d rented, or out to the courtyard where our after-dark meetings occurred—scal oped archways marked the passages, as if the doorways themselves wore lace scarves out of respect for Al ah.
Monique had managed an atmosphere of elegant warmth throughout her home. Except for this moment when, stepping into the lounge, I felt the sinister aura of conspiracy tainting the air. My first clue was that Bergman had not only beaten us downstairs, but was wil ingly sharing space with our hostess and Kyphas. Astral looked far too innocent sitting in the doorway with her tail curled around her paws like an actual cat. And Cole was shoving me into the room like he was afraid I meant to make a run for it.
Then I saw the cake.
And Bergman started singing.
And Cole handed me his phone—which I put to my ear
—only to hear my sister harmonizing from thousands of miles away.
I waited for the rush of pain that I’d been trying to avoid al day, now that I’d been forceful y reminded that this was the second birthday I’d spent without Matt. That the mind-blowing celebration I’d been planning with Vayl had melted into a nightmare.
It didn’t come.
Instead I saw my old roommate, his ridiculous Cole-perm flying out from his head like Einstein Jr.’s, holding a flaming dessert out in front of him. Which meant Monique had rushed out in the middle of the evening just for me. At my right, the man who loved me and would never be more than my dearest companion had made it al happen. At my left, the vampire I’d become so entwined with that I couldn’t tel anymore where I stopped and he began was trying to comprehend how everyone knew the words to a song he was sure he’d never heard before. But he stil had a smile for me. In a dark wicker chair with palm-printed cushions, separate from us al but struggling to understand how we fit so wel together, a demon managed not to stain the moment. And in my ear, my kid sister belted like a Broadway star.
When they were done I said, “Thanks. This is so cool of you guys. I’d say you shouldn’t have, but it turns out I’m glad you did.”
Cole gave me a gentle shove toward the courtyard. “Go on. Talk to Evie. We’l wait.”
As I walked out I heard Vayl say, “What is that contraption Madame Berggia is holding to her ear? Has
Learning to Kill: Stories