Free Dangerous Calling (The Shadowminds) by AJ Larrieu Page B

weekend well after dark.
    It didn’t take long for the door to open. They’d probably been watching me walk up the drive. The guard looked me over. It was good to be short and small—it was hard to look threatening when you were barely over five feet tall.
    “I’m here to see Annette,” I said, and gave him my most innocent smile.
    He didn’t smile back. “You got an appointment?” White guy, tall and thick, not the same one who’d driven the SUV. I could drop him in half a second. Maybe I’d try the nice way first.
    “I only need a few minutes of her time.” This had the advantage of being true. I took out the envelope of cash and showed it to him. “I came prepared.”
    He frowned. “Name?”
    Shit. I hadn’t prepared for this part. “Liz Taylor.” It was the first thing that popped into my head. I mentally cursed, but the guard clearly wasn’t a movie buff. Or a telepath. That, or he was used to people giving made-up names. He stepped aside and waved me in.
    I stepped across the threshold and into a huge foyer. The outside of the house might’ve been bland, but the inside was designed to impress. The foyer was three stories tall with a chandelier at the top. The walls were painted dark red, and the light was low and yellow-hued, like candle flame. At the far end of the foyer, the dark wood of a massive, curving staircase gleamed in the low light.
    “Stand there.” He pointed to a spot on an intricately patterned brown-and-gold rug and patted me down without so much as a warning. “Wait in the parlor,” he said when he was done. “First door on the left.”
    The heels of my sandals clicked and echoed as I walked toward the door. It was dark-stained solid wood with an antique knob, and when I opened it and entered the room, I understood immediately why the guard called it the parlor. It was the only word I had for it too.
    The room was huge—easily three times the size of an average living room. It contained at least a dozen old-fashioned chairs and love seats, most of them in the ornate Queen Anne style, oval backs with curling, carved wood armrests. The light was low and red-hued from a half-dozen small lamps with miniature shades. The room looked like some trendy hotel basement bar, complete with a low ceiling and fancy crown molding. After the vast upward reach of the foyer, the closeness of it was suffocating.
    I didn’t sit down—it didn’t seem wise. I paced the rug in front of a green-and-yellow couch, my footsteps muffled by the thick fabric. I couldn’t quite make out the woven designs, but they were definitely animals. I thought I could see teeth and claws. The end tables nearest me held stacks of hardcover, clothbound books, delicate glass bowls with cut-out filigree patterns at their edges, and the perfectly reconstructed skeleton of a small animal, a rodent or maybe a cat. I couldn’t tell. It was posed upright, its spindly skeleton arms reaching out as if attacking, its tiny mouth bared.
    “Miss Taylor?”
    I jumped. It was lucky—if I hadn’t been surprised, I might not have responded to my fake name. Annette was standing in the doorway.
    “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her smile said otherwise. Predatory and amused.
    “That’s all right.” I faced her as she walked across the room with the kind of subtle, hip-swaying gait women learned young or not at all. She stopped in front of me and held out her hand. She was wearing all black again, long sleeves and slacks, high-heeled leather boots. No hat, though, and no sunglasses. Her eyes were so pale I could barely make out the color.
    “Welcome to Shadow House.” She didn’t introduce herself. She seemed like the type who didn’t have to.
    I took her hand. “Thank you.” Her grip was firm. Even her skin felt expensive. Smooth, cool and flawless.
    “Please.” She gestured to the chair across from her. “Sit.”
    Her accent was as soft and rich as I remembered. Butter and honey. If wealthy Southern