Blood in Her Veins (Nineteen Stories From the World of Jane Yellowrock) by Faith Hunter Page B

window between the kitchen and dining room.Her mouth wasn’t as pursed as it normally was, and her shoulders weren’t quite as unyielding.
    Over that last cup of tea, I asked Regan for Molly—who I figured was in the stockroom or the office doing accounts—so I could pick up and pay for the tracking charm. Regan slid into the seat opposite me and cupped her chin in her hand. Serious gray eyes met mine across the table. “Molly didn’t come in to work today. And she didn’t call. And she’s not answering her phone. Evangelina’s mad, but worried too, you know? Me and Amelia’s going out to her place after work. You want I should take the money to her and bring back your charm?”
    My Beast sat up inside my mind, kneading me with sharp mental claws. I’m not prescient. Not a lick. But a chilled finger of disquiet slid up my spine with the words. Molly was supposed to be here today. She was expecting me. And though I didn’t know her well, I knew she was ethical from her toes to her eyeballs. I set the teacup on the saucer with a dull
clink
. “I think I’ll ride out there and pick up the charm.” At Regan’s suddenly wary expression, I said, “I’ve known Molly for a while. Ever since she was cornered in the grocery store by the witch haters.”
    Most of the distrustful expression slid from her face. “That was you?” Witches were notoriously cautious and guarded of their privacy. They had been persecuted for thousands of years until the mid-twentieth century, when vamps and witches came out of the closet. They were currently negotiating for equal civil rights in the U.S., but Congress and the courts were having a tough time integrating the expanded life span of vamps and the power potential of witches into a code of law. And in many places the human population had a long way to go in accepting witches as anything other than the evil creatures portrayed in history, Scripture, and fiction.
    â€œYeah.” I shrugged slightly and sipped my tea.
    Regan looked me over in my biker jacket, jeans, and worn-out butt-stomper boots, and glanced back at the kitchen. I understood and sighed. “Go ask Evangelina. Though she’ll probably tell you no way. Evangelina doesn’t like me much.”
    Regan snorted though her tiny, pert nose. “My big sister doesn’t like anyone much. You been to Molly’s?”
    I recited the address and said, “It’s a double-wide mobile home withpale green trim and about two acres of grass for Big Evan to mow. He was mowing it last Saturday when I took the deposit by. He was riding a big yellow mower. Big Evan is redheaded like Molly; bearded, not like Molly; and built like a mountain.” I thought a moment more and added, “And her kid is actually cute. You know. For a kid. Angie Baby has so many dolls, it’s hard to find her bed under them all.” Angie Baby was the nickname used by two-year-old Angelina’s parents, which gave me another bona fide.
    â€œAnd on the wall of Angelina’s bedroom?”
    I grinned. “Noah’s ark with unicorns, griffins, and pixies on the gangplank.” I couldn’t help the softness I knew was taking over my smile when I said, “She climbed up in my lap and introduced her doll to me. Like it was alive.” I shook my head and tucked my chin, looking at Regan under my brows. “I have never talked to a doll before.”
    Regan chuckled. “Not even when you were a kid?”
    I remembered the children’s home where I was raised from the time I was twelve, and the smile slid off my face. “No. Not even when I was a kid.” Regan studied my face and the change of emotion there. After a moment she nodded. “Okay, so if you’re such big friends, why ask me if you can go?”
    That cold finger of unease brushed my spine again. “You think something doesn’t feel right about Molly not coming