by J A Campbell
“See this little icon.” Melanie pointed. “You’re on Airplane Mode. That means you cannot get phone calls—and you have a serious queue of messages here, including ours.”
Marcus’ expression turned grim. He quickly called the other seven members of the JM Council and explained the situation. They agreed to a writ of arrest for Lord Clarion as well as Valonna and an investigation into the unauthorized mission, since Melanie sent them a photo of the faked JM orders he’d sent them.
“That does not ameliorate the problems you have caused, Hagatha,” Marcus said calmly. “I will be considering some type of remediation for you.”
Hagatha lowered her eyes and nodded. “Can’t you just spank me now?”
“You might redeem yourself,” he said. “I need both your intellect and your powers at my disposal if we are going to solve this problem and remain within the JM’s rules.” Marcus made a face at the bakery box and a scattering of granola bar wrappers in the trash can. “Is there someplace good to eat?”
“It’s Italy,” Hagatha said. “There’s everyplace good to eat. And the meal’s on me.”
“Lasagna,” Melanie sighed. “And something chocolate for dessert. I need chocolate, lots of chocolate.”
They hastened out of the hotel room and down to the snow-covered street.
Just as they were getting ready to load up into the tiny rented Fiat, Don Giovanni Machiavelli’s men arrived…in force.
“The Don wants to see you,” the huge goons said. “Now.”
“Excellent,” Marcus said to the biggest of them, completely unfazed by their bulk or their obvious weaponry. “I have business with the Don to attend to. If you wouldn’t mind, we’ll take our own vehicle.”
The man’s brutish face screwed up in what Elise suspected was a smile. The four of them loaded up into the tiny car, with Melanie once again at the wheel.
Two huge black Mob cars acted as escort at front and rear.
Nobody spoke on the ascent up the mountain. Marcus, who’d claimed the passenger seat, put on a pair of Ray Bans and watched the view. Elise had hoped to never see the Don or his house again. What had provoked the old criminal to come after them, when she thought she’d done an impressive job of putting the fear of ghosts into him?
Snow usually softened a harsh landscape; at least, in Elise’s experience living in Colorado, it did. In this case, the Alps looked even more formidable in the dreary gray light.
They strode into the same office as before. Don Giovanni didn’t rise to meet them. Aldo stood on his right behind the desk, smirking.
Elise gathered shields around their small party and felt Hagatha lend her power to the effort. Fae power touched her as well.
“Didn’t I tell you to leave here?” he asked conversationally. “Then I discover your boy has disrespected my men and led them a merry chase about the town.”
“You’re forgetting, Don,” Elise said. “I told you to leave us alone. We’ll depart when our business is concluded.”
Two men dragged what looked like a loose sack of clothes between them. Blood dripped on the marble floors.
“Darien!” Elise hadn’t realized she’d said his name aloud until she heard the echo of it mocking her in the capacious room. Bruises stood out sharply on his tanned skin.
His deep brown eyes focused on her, and he mouthed her name just before the goons let him drop like a rag doll on the cold stone floor. He cried out in a sound that nearly broke her heart. She forced herself to stay beside Hagatha, knowing their lives depended on unity.
Marcus stepped forward smoothly, unshocked by the hideous brutality before him. Melanie followed. When one of the guards tried to stop her, she glowered up at him. He stepped back and she knelt beside Darien, gently checking on him, her voice soft and reassuring.
Elise stood perfectly still, feeling like her knees would give beneath her if she tried to move. The emerald pendant burned at her throat. She forced herself to focus. The party had spread out, but they still needed her to shield them even with the extra power her companions offered up.
“I am Lord Marcus Macrow,” Marcus said, but did not extend a hand to shake. “Thank you for providing escort so I may recompense you for the loss of a wedding present. I can understand how a father would want to give something special to his only daughter on her wedding day.”
Elise swallowed, feeling warmth and a bit of nausea. Marcus seemed almost humble. She blinked, realizing that somewhere along the way to the Don’s house, he’d changed from casual attire to his usual black Armani.
Marcus pulled a black box that appeared to be glass from his coat pocket and laid it upon the Don’s huge desk.
“I hope this will suffice,” Marcus said, his voice icy.
Don Giovanni opened the box. His eyes widened at the contents. His hand shook minutely as he reached inside to remove the stone.
“A ruby,” the Don’s voice said approvingly. “Very nice, Lord Macrow.”
“No, Don Giovanni,” Marcus answered, still in a conversational tone. “It is a red beryl and quite a bit rarer. Some call them blood beryls for the difficulty encountered in mining them. I hope your daughter will enjoy it for many years to come.”
The Don’s face hardened. “It still does not equal the injustice of your people’s disrespect.”
“We pay our debts, Don Giovanni. We only give respect that is due.” Marcus voice went cold. “I am told you and your family has not earned that respect for generations. I call to witness those who have suffered at your family’s hands.”
Power surged in the room. Elise blinked as spectral images poured out from literally everywhere, crying foul for the misdeeds Don Giovanni and his men had done to them. Regular mortals typically could not see ghosts, but Marcus was a master necromancer. His power rendered the spirits visible, their voices clear as any mortal’s. The Don and his men stared as the solid images of people long forgotten and disposed of appeared before them. They flowed in and around her shields. Without them, she could imagine the terrible chill in the room.
Gunfire rang out as the mobsters opened up on the ghosts. The men fell, screaming, struck by bullets from their own guns that had ricocheted off her shields.
“I’ll let my people speak for me,” Marcus said. “They have much to say to you, Don Giovanni, and you have much to answer to them.”
Don Giovanni drew a gun and fired point blank at Marcus. It backfired and struck the Mafioso. Blood spouted from the front of the man’s white shirt. The Don stared down incredulously as a crimson river of life flowed out of him.
Then Marcus turned his gaze to the man’s son. Aldo stared between him and his father, who’d fallen face forward in a pool of his own blood atop his marble desk. The son clearly wasn’t ready to assume the role of Don, particularly facing Marcus.
“If you ever come near me or my people, Aldo Machiavelli, I will tell them I can lap you every damn day of the world!” Melanie shouted from the floor where she’d remained to hold Darien’s hand. “The only reason you sent a whole pack of men after me was you knew it, and you were afraid they’d figure it out.”
Aldo’s face whitened. He gibbered something unintelligible and ran.
“Praeterita obliviscentes,” Marcus commanded, his voice low and powerful. The ghosts closed ranks around the humans, mouths open, ready to devour their souls. The mobsters screamed and pled for mercy, their normally deep voices high-pitched and childlike.
“Elise and Hagatha, take the car,” Marcus said. “Melanie, with me.” He picked up Darien like he weighed nothing, opened a Way, and disappeared.
Elise felt Hagatha grab her arm, and they raced out to the Fiat.
“What? Where?” Elise babbled as she tried to get the driver’s seat back where someone larger than a munchkin could drive.
“Get in the passenger side,” Hagatha ordered.
Elise did as she bade her.
Hagatha got the seat in position and took off.
“Why’d he take her?” Elise yelle
d.
“Because she’s a doctor’s daughter, and she’s a First Responder, and she was calm in the face of Darien’s injuries,” Hagatha replied soothingly. “And she can pass him a buttload of power without even blinking. If anyone can help him save Darien, it will be her.”
Most of the way down the mountain was a shock-induced blur. Would Darien live?
With every Way, Melanie never knew where in the hell they’d land or what they’d go through. In this case, it was back at Elise’s hotel room. If anyone asked her what they’d passed at the crossroads, she couldn’t have told them. She was too focused on keeping Darien alive. She sent him careful doses of her power to ease his pain and keep him stable. Thank the Goddess he still breathed. She’d torn off strips of her clothing, securing the worst of the bleeders with her bare hands. Marcus carried the tall youth effortlessly, but she could see slick spots where hemorrhages soaked through his black clothing.
“Elise,” he repeated as often as he could draw a breath. “Must talk to her.”
“She’ll be here soon,” Melanie reassured him, gently. “They’ll make it safely out of there.”
“This is Darien,” Melanie explained to Marcus as he laid the injured man down on Elise’s unmade bed. “He is one of the hatchlings and has been a great help to us. The adult dragons kicked him and his siblings out, and they’re living hand-to-mouth in a house in town selling the dragons’ discarded salvage from the wrecks they’ve caused. He’s Elise’s friend, and he helped Hagatha get away from the Mob.”
“There is more,” Marcus said, his eyes narrowed like a protective father.
“That is for Elise to say,” Melanie answered. It was obvious Elise cared for the hatchling, but those feelings were for Elise to share.
“Darien,” Melanie spoke to him next. “This is Marcus. He’s the Lord of Elise and Hagatha’s House. He can help you.”
“Listen to me,” Marcus said to Darien, holding the young man’s head so he’d look at him. “I can heal you with magic. It’s going to hurt like nothing you have felt before, but I’m fairly certain you cannot go to either a hospital or to the church. Blink if you understand.”
Darien blinked.
“What can I do to help?” Melanie asked.
Marcus pulled off his belt and instructed Darien to bite down on it. “Send me power.”
Melanie nodded. That, she could do. She ran to the bed and yanked off the sheets, ripping them into strips for bandages.
Marcus stripped off his jacket, tossing it behind him, and rolled up his sleeves, exposing muscular forearms.
“I have Scotch, do you need to sterilize?”
He shook his head.
“Bleeders first, then bones,” he said.
Melanie nodded. It wasn’t precisely what her orthopedist mother would have said, but close enough. She laid her hand on his bare arm and sent. She had seen plenty of surgery videos growing up, and even helped tend friends with minor wounds, but the scope of Darien’s injuries boggled her.
“Less,” Marcus said as the fine hairs on his arm stood up near razor sharp beneath her fingertips.
Melanie swallowed. “Sorry.”
They set to work, mending first the bleeders. They weren’t terrible. The mobsters hadn’t intentionally cut him, but there was still plenty of blood. She shivered, recalling the mess from her own broken nose. She’d been damn lucky in not being one of the ghosts who’d faced Don Giovanni. Then again, if they’d killed her, there would be no Marcus coming to this place…
“They’ve broken his arms and legs.” Marcus said, his voice tight with anger. At this moment, Melanie wondered if ricocheting their own gunshots off Elise’s shields was enough. Then again, karma took care of the men—they had just been her instrument.
Melanie wiped sweat from Marcus’ forehead with a torn-off piece of sheet. Clearly, the gangsters hadn’t intended Darien to live—or probably any one of them for that matter.
“I need to set the bones,” Marcus said. “Have you a sleep spell?”
Melanie nodded. “I can sing him to sleep with a lullaby. I did that to the dragons when we were trapped in the church.”
“Must talk to Elise.” Darien insisted, his eyes white like a frightened animal. “Please.”
“If you are certain,” Marcus said. “This is going to be quite painful.”
Darien blinked.
“Where do we start?” She sent more energy to Marcus and wished there was something she could do for Darien. “Wait, Marcus. We have something here that might help with the pain a bit.”
Melanie ran to the cabinets and pulled out the bottle of Talisker she’d bought for the cold and brought it back.
“Darien,” she said. “This is Scotch whiskey—it tastes a bit like dirt, but it will help dull the pain.”
She poured some into a glass and held his head when he managed to swallow the whiskey. He coughed and grimaced, but didn’t complain. Then she put the belt back between his teeth.
“I trust Marcus,” she told him, gently stroking his perspiration-soaked forehead with more torn sheets. “You’re in good hands.”
“Legs,” Marcus muttered. “I’m hoping to the Goddess he’s got fast healing powers like most of the mage-gifted, but I have no idea. Darien, this is going to hurt.”
“Wait, please,” Darien gasped around the belt in his teeth. “Need to talk to Elise.”
Hagatha drove at her usual breakneck speed down the steep, Alpine drive, and Elise still urged her for more than the four-cylinder Fiat could give them.
They hurried upstairs to her room to see Darien stretched out in his underwear, broken, on her bed.
“Speak quickly,” Marcus instructed him.
“Came to warn,” he said, gasping for breath with the pain. “Dragons planning another raid tonight. This time, in the Pacific Ocean—California. They learned I was going to tell you and handed me over to the Mob. They called it a hit—Don supposed to kill us all tonight before raid—trade for you.”
“Now may I have Melanie help me ease you into sleep?” Marcus asked Darien.
Another blink.
“Cover your ears.” Elise warned everyone else.
Melanie commenced singing, and soon Darien slept. His face had smoothed out as the pain left him.
“It’s time,” Marcus said. “Melanie, have you energy to send?”
The two set out to straighten Darien’s broken limbs. Elise went to his side to hold his shoulder in mute comfort. She couldn’t look, couldn’t think about what was happening, what could have happened.
Darien didn’t scream in the lullaby-induced sleep, but his bones cried out and crackled when Marcus set them back into place.
She’d seen Marcus do the same for Hagatha years ago when she’d injured her shoulder in an automobile accident. It’d been dreadful, but Hagatha assured her the healing was a lot better than the break. She couldn’t think past that—the rest was too painful, even now.
She wanted nothing more than to get her mind off of what was happening. She turned her eyes to Hagatha, who carefully was not looking at the proceedings, either.
Elise grimaced as Hagatha flipped on the television set. None of them were watchers, save for Melanie, who turned on the music channel and dimmed the picture to near non-existence, since the rooms did not have a radio.
The news channel had already discovered the massacre at the Don’s estate. From the evidence, police were assuming it was mass suicide. Aldo Machiavelli had left the building, and when asked, couldn’t provide any information about why his father and his men had turned their guns on themselves.
“But isn’t there evidence we were there?” Hagatha asked.
Marcus gestured to his jacket. Hagatha went and returned with the black box in her hand.
“The stone would have been his daughter’s, had he not tried to kill us all,” Marcus said calmly. “Alas, he made a terrible mistake and paid with his life… Aldo is the only survivor, and he will not remember, which is more mercy than
he deserves. Though he will be hounded by the family’s ghosts for what remains of his life.”
From the reports, cameras all around the estate malfunctioned. Don Giovanni sent his staff away for the afternoon, and they’d readily gone—no doubt aware that what the man wanted to do in the strictest of privacy was not something they cared to know about. No one had even seen the Fiat come and go—and if they had, they weren’t talking about it.
Elise felt like she could breathe easily—until Marcus asked her to join him out in the hall.
“Would you care to tell me what your relationship is to the dragon hatchling?”
“He’s...” Elise’s face flamed when her fingers encountered the warm, reassuring shape of the emerald Darien had given her. She dropped her hand, but Marcus had already seen it. Her mind flashed through a myriad of answers. “I don’t know…”
Marcus’ mouth tightened. “Understand he’s…”
“I know what he is,” Elise said. “He’s...”
Marcus shook his head. “He’s the spitting image of Toby.”
After all the years, Elise hadn’t expected the pain of grief to come back so intensely. They’d dealt with the succubus who’d killed the boy she’d cared about in JM school—and later had tried to imprison the town of Neutral and Boring, including Melanie, in a snow globe. But it wasn’t over. Not in her head, anyway.
She let out a long breath.
“And yes, he’s a shapeshifter,” Marcus continued in a quiet calm voice. “We have no idea about the species, how they mate...”
Bile rose up in Elise’s throat, and her head shook from side to side. “We saw that—in the church…”
Marcus’ lips compressed.
“I don’t know if I want children,” Elise said.
“It’s not just that,” Marcus began. “I’m certain they’re different in many other ways…”
Elise felt like steam could pour from the top of her head. “You’re not my father. Uh, well, you didn’t raise me. And I bet yours wouldn’t approve of you getting involved with a fae, either! In case you hadn’t noticed, Melanie doesn’t think like any of us do, either!’”
