Keeper of the Moon. Harley Jane Kozak
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What is it?” Sailor asked. “Why do you keep looking at each other?”
The woman said, “Whatever it was that attacked you—”
“Other,” Sailor said.
“What?”
“It was Other, whatever attacked me.”
The woman moved closer. “What are you?”
“What am I? I’m a Gryffald. Sailor Ann Gryffald, to be exact.”
“Are you kin to Rafe Gryffald?”
“He’s my father.”
The woman frowned. “You’re the Keeper’s daughter?”
Sailor winced. “Keeper” wasn’t the sort of word you said in mixed company, and the man applying rubbing alcohol to a gauze pad appeared to be mortal. The first rule of Keeperdom was nondisclosure. “The question is,” Sailor said, nodding toward the man, “what’s he?”
He looked up and gave her a smile. “Don’t worry. I’m a friend. You can speak freely.”
Sailor looked to the woman for confirmation. She nodded.
“Okay, then,” Sailor said, and then, as the alcohol touched her wound, “Ouch. My father is the former Keeper. He’s now serving on the International Keeper Council at The Hague.”
“So your uncles are—”
“Piers and Owen. Keepers of the vampires and shapeshifters, but also currently serving on the International Council.”
“And you’ve inherited the family proclivity toward—”
“Otherworld management? Yes. I am the current Keeper of the Elven.”
“Bloody hell,” the woman said. “The grown-ups have left the building.”
Sailor shrugged. In her three months on the job, she’d gotten several negative reactions to her youth and inexperience. The truth was, while she looked like a teen, she was twenty-eight. The three Gryffald brothers, Sailor’s father and two uncles, were well-respected in the Otherworld, but respect isn’t always passed on to one’s heirs, and while Sailor had been born with the mark of the Keeper, she’d assumed she had decades to prepare for the role. Fate had decided otherwise. When her father had summoned her home from New York, she’d come. There was no question of refusing—Keeping was the family business—but L.A. wasn’t rolling out the welcome mat.
“Yes,” Sailor said. “I’m no happier about it than you are, but anyhow, nice to meet you. Except I haven’t met you.”
“Alessande Salisbrooke,” the woman said.
“And I’m Vernon Winter,” the man said.
“Okay, nice to meet you. So what’s my diagnosis here, doc?”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“I thought you said you were.”
“No, I’m a stockbroker.”
“Why are you examining my chest? No, never mind. Stupid question.”
He smiled and once more she found herself drawn to him. Was he mortal? She was no longer sure. “I’m doing it because she can’t,” he said, nodding at Alessande. “She shouldn’t be touching you, because the Elven are highly susceptible to what you’ve got, which is a disease. You’re both lucky to be alive.”
“Lucky to be alive?” Sailor said. “Because of a scratch on my chest? It was weird, the attack, but hardly life-threatening. And I have no diseases. What are you talking about?”
“I’m putting on the kettle,” Alessande said, moving into the kitchen as she talked. “You’ve heard about the film stars who’ve died these past weeks from what the media calls the Celebrity Virus?”
“Charlotte Messenger and Gina Santoro?” Sailor said. “Of course. And last week an acting student from the California Institute of the Arts, who wasn’t exactly a celebrity, and a junior agent at GAA, also not a celebrity, but quite beautiful. Oh. And a sitcom star.”
“Did you know any of them?” Alessande was making kitchen noises, opening cupboards.
“Personally? No. I’ve followed the story online.”
“What else do you know about it?”
“Nothing,” Sailor said.
“Good God.” Vernon Winter taped gauze on her wound. “Don’t you Keepers talk to each other?”
“You mean like send around an email blast? No. What’s it got to do with us?”
“You realize the dead women were Elven?”
Sailor snorted. It was an insult, suggesting that a Keeper couldn’t recognize Elven, or, for that matter, vampire, pixie or were. Shapeshifters, by their nature, were trickier and took longer for her to figure out, but except for them, Sailor found it hard to believe her fellow humans were unaware of Others living among them. It was like being unable to distinguish cats from dogs. She said, “I could spot Elven characteristics since I was a toddler. Gina Santoro and Charlotte Messenger? Flamboyantly Elven. The sitcom star? Not. I don’t know about the two. I only saw Facebook photos.” Elven charisma was hard to discern in a still photograph.
“What tribe?” he asked, challenging her.
Who was this guy? “Gina was Rath,” she said. “Obviously. Charlotte looked multiracial. Déithe, of course. Maybe Cyffarwydd, as well. Hard to say, with all her plastic surgery. And I’m not just talking ears.” Softening ear tips was a practice as common as earpiercing for Elven children. “Why, is this a test?”
“Everything’s a test for a Keeper as new as you,” Vernon said. “And looking like a high school cheerleader isn’t going to help your cause.”
Was that a compliment? Was he flirting? “I don’t have a cause. And I don’t have to make my case, because I was born a Keeper. It’s not a job I’m auditioning for or even one I particularly want, but I’m a Gryffald, so I’ll be good at it. And I don’t know what your interest is in this as a stockbroker, but if you’re used to judging people by their faces—”
“It’s not your face I was judging.”
He was flirting. How crazy was this? Sailor was about to respond, but Vernon’s face wavered, suddenly becoming younger. Darker. Handsome. Light shimmered around it. She blinked several times. Okay, the attack had somehow affected her eyesight. That was scary.
Then he went back to being plain again. Homely. Nonshimmering. Her vision was fine. That was a relief.
“Back to the issue at hand,” Alessande said, coming back into the room. She carried a plate of gingersnaps, and Sailor could hear the teakettle on the burner in the kitchen. “The so-called Celebrity Virus is what my tribe is calling the Scarlet Pathogen. It’s only affecting the Elven. Except that now here you are, an Elven Keeper, exhibiting one of its key symptoms. Whatever attacked you? It infected you. You’re not bleeding much, thank God. With the others, there were rumors of excessive bleeding.”
“But—” Sailor’s mind was reeling. How could she have a disease? An hour earlier she’d been on a seven-mile run. “Wait, wait, wait. None of this is true. First, that sitcom girl wasn’t Elven. She was completely mortal. And not very talented, I’m sorry to say, because I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. And second—”
“The sitcom girl didn’t have the disease,” Alessande replied. “She overdosed on meth. One of our people took the 9-1-1 call and leaked misinformation to the press.”
“Why?”
“To draw attention away from the Elven. Standard procedure. Mortals see patterns, even where they can’t understand them. The human girl disrupts the