I shrugged. “None of my business.”
Something sad and bitter touched her eyes for a moment. “Some women would be worried that I was secretly lusting after them.”
It hadn’t occurred to me, but I cocked an eyebrow as dramatically as I could. “Lily, are you secretly lusting after my body?”
An actual giggle spilled from her lips. “Not so much.”
“Well, obviously you have no standards and I pity you.”
She threw her head back and laughed.
Lily made me sit still through two more bags of IV fluid. While I did that, Quinn called his contacts to dig up Ardie’s home address. I didn’t know much about how he got that kind of information, but I didn’t really want to know, either. Simon and Lily, meanwhile, worked out a schedule for the next couple of days so one of them would always be in the apartment with Maven. As long as word didn’t get out that Simon was hiding her, they would be okay. Even if someone did come for Maven, Simon was living there, which meant a vampire would have to be invited in. Lily or Simon could probably handle any other unwelcome guests with apex magic.
By the time I finished the last bag of fluid, I felt like I’d been brought back from the brink of death . . . although since I actually had returned from death a couple of times, I suppose that was hyperbole. At any rate, I also really had to pee. When I got back from the bathroom, Quinn was waiting with a Post-it Note in hand: Ardie Atwood’s address in Denver.
The two of us made a quick stop at my cabin to change clothes—he had a drawer in my room—and feed the herd, since I wasn’t sure when we’d be back. I also put on an unseasonably heavy jacket, still chilled from the IV fluids.
Then we were on the road.
Chapter 15
I kept my eyes in my lap while Quinn drove us in the Jeep. Part of me was hoping I’d eventually get used to the sight of a translucent, half-decapitated man wandering the intersection at 30th and Arapahoe, or the two little girls who ran skipping into the street every night on Baseline Road. At the same time, though, I didn’t want to get used to it. I didn’t want the horror of their deaths to fade into normality. I had a sudden flash of memory: the ghost of Hugh Mark, former manager of the Boulderado, begging me to help the hotel’s remnants cross the line between living and dead. He’d wanted me to make them whole again on the other side, but I had no idea how to do that. I reminded myself that when this was over I needed to go back and push Nellie for more information on boundary magic. For now, though, I just stared at my hands and hoped no one had died in Ardie Atwood’s house.
I didn’t need to worry. Ardie Atwood lived in a fairly new “planned community” neighborhood in Aurora, the kind of place where the homeowner’s association forbids large dogs and everyone has to have their lawn cut to regulation length. It was after one a.m. by the time we pulled into the driveway, but there was a small light on in one of the upstairs bedrooms. A reading lamp, maybe.
When we rang the doorbell, I instinctively braced myself for barking out of habit, but this house remained silent. After a long moment, I reached for the doorbell again, but Quinn stayed my hand. A light had popped on inside, and a moment later the small window in the door revealed a woman in her late thirties padding down carpeted steps.
I’m not sure what I was expecting from Ardie Atwood, but it was definitely on the supermodel side of attractive, like one of those celebrities who’s so good-looking they could seduce men, women, and most forms of plant life. But the woman who opened the door seemed like nothing special: shorter than me, blonde hair chopped short, fashionable square plastic glasses. She was in her late thirties or early forties, and wore old-fashioned button-down pajamas with slippers, along with a few extra pounds on her hips. There was a faint odor clinging to her, and after a moment I realized she’d been smoking pot recently. “Yes?” she said, frowning up at us.
I let Quinn take the lead. “Ardie Atwood?”
“Doctor Atwood-Kazinsky,” she corrected, straightening up. “Who are you?”
“I’m Quinn, this is Lex. We represent Maven’s interests.”
When he mentioned Maven’s name, I watched Ardie carefully. She reacted, certainly, but I couldn’t tell if it was an “oh shit what does she want” reaction or an “oh shit the vampire I conspired to murder” reaction.
After a glance behind us for witnesses, she opened the door wider. “You’d better come in, I suppose. You’re lucky my husband and children are out of town this week.” She turned on her heel, assuming we would follow.
Quinn and I exchanged a look, but trailed her through a beige hallway into a small, tidy living room. Ardie had said she had children, but you would never know that from seeing the house, or at least the downstairs. There was no sign of any toys or clothes, let alone the cheerful clutter that always infested John’s house. The paint, carpeting, and furniture were all different shades of beige and gray. It was like a conservative dentist’s office without the old magazines.
“You can sit there,” she said, pointing at a sofa. She dropped into the opposite armchair. “What is this about?”
By unspoken agreement, Quinn and I remained standing, even though I still felt a little light-headed. “Several of the Denver vampires have recently succumbed to belladonna,” Quinn said, his voice even.
If Ardie was uncomfortable with us standing, she didn’t show it. She leaned back and crossed her legs. “I don’t know anything about that.” She paused and waved a hand. “Well, of course I know about the plant—I’m a horticulturalist. But I have nothing to do with the fetters.”