Flashfire

by Deborah Cooke

  “Maybe you should.” Stacy disappeared, her heels clicking on the bathroom floor. “Seeing as he’s going to die on Saturday. Make every moment count and all that.”

  “What are you talking about?” Cassie ripped open the shower curtain and looked after her friend, who smiled.

  “The spectacle.” Stacy reminded her, waving the brochure with Lorenzo’s picture on it. “Didn’t you read the brochure? Oh no, I forgot, you were too busy ogling his picture.” Stacy rolled her eyes to show her skepticism. “Checking on the competition in the photography game.”

  “I’m sure it’s a stunt. He’s not going to die.”

  “That’s not what the bookies are saying. You should see the odds. If he survives this trick, Lorenzo could be a kabillionaire.”

  Cassie eyed the shower and thought about Lorenzo dying.

  It wasn’t a good thought.

  She was sure that he would work out the illusion so he survived—but what if he was wrong? Anyone could miscalculate.

  Stacy grabbed her purse and flashed a smile. “Gotta go. Be good—or if you can’t be good, be careful.”

  “Right back at you.”

  Stacy laughed, and then she was gone.

  Cassie stood under the deluge of hot water. Was Lorenzo’s feat going to kill him?

  Or was there more going on than anyone—even the bookies—realized?

  By the time she got out of the shower, Cassie was determined to find out.

  Not because she imagined that she had any future with a sexy illusionist. Cassie knew better than to believe in the long term.

  But she still wanted to know. Maybe she just wanted to know that Lorenzo himself had a long term. Maybe she just liked the idea of a world with one very sexy magician in it.

  Yes, that was it.

  She knew Lorenzo wouldn’t tell her outright. He was a man who prized his secrets and his privacy, maybe to preserve a bit of mystery about himself, maybe because he had something to hide.

  Unfortunately for Lorenzo, Cassie was the one woman who could find out anything about anybody.

  In another time and place, Lorenzo would have already been positive that his father had a talon in his current misfortunes. It was the kind of meddling his father most enjoyed.

  But even Marco’s conviction of that couldn’t persuade Lorenzo of his father’s involvement. The old Pyr was just too feeble to make trouble.

  After convincing the housekeeper that she couldn’t possibly have seen what she had seen, Lorenzo strode to his father’s apartment at the back of the house. He stood outside the door, listening.

  All he heard was the steady rhythm of his father’s breathing. It was very slow, evidence that the old man was essentially hibernating again. He’d been like this since the death of Lorenzo’s mother, but it had gotten worse in recent years.

  As if Salvatore was avoiding life.

  As if he couldn’t face it without Angelina.

  He certainly had aged to a state of frailty that was shocking to Lorenzo.

  Lorenzo entered the security code that kept curious eyes from peeking in on his father’s privacy and opened the door silently. He stepped into the darkness beyond, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it. The room was dark, the windows shuttered against the sun. The air was cool here, the stone floor exuding a familiar chill. Lorenzo checked, but his dragonsmoke boundary mark was intact.

  His father was safe.

  Lorenzo only ever breathed dragonsmoke for Salvatore. Dragonsmoke was a perimeter mark, one that was invisible to humans but a barrier to other dragons. A Pyr or Slayer could only cross the dragonsmoke boundary of another dragon with explicit permission.

  Lorenzo breathed his dragonsmoke so that only he and his father could cross it without being burned to a crisp.

  His father slept in dragon form, sprawled across an antique Persian carpet, the red and gold of the rug making a good contrast with his pale scales. He could have been made of hammered silver, or alabaster carved so thin that the light shone right through it. His scales shone even in the dim light, aglow like faceted quartz or diamonds. His tail unfurled across the carpet, magnificent and powerful.

  Unlike Lorenzo, his father preferred his dragon form.

  And why not? Salvatore had fought battles in this form. He had conquered villains in this form. He had won the heart of a courtesan in this form—although he’d seduced her in his human form. Lorenzo smiled, imagining the sight of his father carrying his mother on one of their night rides over the Veneto. His father had given her an experience that no other man could offer, and she, by all accounts, had been a sophisticated woman with a taste for the unusual.

  Lorenzo had never seen them together. He had few actual memories of his mother, since she’d died when he was so young. One painting of her was all that he had, and over time, he’d become uncertain how much of what he thought was memory was shaped by the painting.

  Did he really remember the curl of her hair touched by sunlight? The way her eyes had shone before she laughed? The whisper-soft caress of her fingertips on his cheek? The sweet rhythm of her voice? He’d been so young when she died that it seemed impossible he’d remember anything of her—and yet those snippets nudged at his thoughts.

  Lorenzo was convinced, though, that his parents’ romance was a relic from another era.

  He wasn’t at all persuaded that Angelina wouldn’t have tired of his father, his habits and his abilities, given time. They had been in the first flush of romance when she died, for it had been only two years after the firestorm had sparked.

  And they—two passionate people—had already been arguing.

  Immediately after Angelina’s death, Lorenzo’s father had been wild, drinking and gambling and carousing at a manic pace. Then abruptly, after fifty years, he’d just stopped. As if he had no more taste for life anymore.

  Since then, he’d steadily become more pale and more feeble. His fire might not have been extinguished, but it was certainly dimmed. Even with all that had passed between them in Lorenzo’s first fifty years, he hadn’t been able to leave his father alone after that.

  The firestorm had launched his aging process, and life without his mate had only sped it along. Salvatore slept more every year, to the point that he could seldom be awakened for anything these days.

  Lorenzo stepped closer, shaking his head that his father continued to sleep, apparently unaware of his presence. He could see that his father’s scales had become thinner, that there was less muscle in his body, that he was slipping away.

  He’d been slipping away for most of Lorenzo’s life.

  He wondered why his father hadn’t yet gone.

  In a way, it was unkind to make demands of him, to trouble him with the details of life. Lorenzo had tried to rouse his father, tried to make arrangements for his future, but Salvatore would not prepare to move from this house.

  He could barely be roused.

  If Salvatore had been responsible for the disappearance of the darkfire crystal—and who else could be?—Lorenzo wasn’t convinced that his father would even remember what he’d done with it. He could have given it to one of the staff as a tip, a pretty bauble from an eccentric old man.

  Did it really matter anymore? The stone was gone. Lorenzo’s promise to keep it safe was broken. Marco knew the gem wasn’t here anymore. In fact, Marco seemed to know where it was. Mercifully, no one had demanded compensation for the stone’s disappearance, so Lorenzo’s disappearance could continue as scheduled.

  He definitely had the sense of having made a miraculous escape.

  Lorenzo stood and watched the old Pyr. He didn’t want to abandon his father, but he couldn’t move him like this. And apparently he hadn’t been very persuasive in arguing his case for them leaving together.

  Or maybe his father simpl
y didn’t have the will to live anymore.

  Maybe Lorenzo should make alternate plans. He could let his father remain here, at the house. He could will the house to Salvatore, ensure that there was enough capital to support him for another hundred years. The dragonsmoke would dissipate, of course, but maybe that didn’t matter as much as Lorenzo had thought. His father could live out his days in comparative tranquillity. It was a compromise, but maybe it would be more kind.

  Maybe Lorenzo didn’t have a lot of choices.

  He pivoted with purpose, his decision made. He’d have to contact the lawyer right away to ensure that everything was arranged in time. He wished there was another option, but he couldn’t see his initial plan working now.

  He paused on the threshold to look back one last time. The old dragon slept on, blissfully unaware that the perimeter of his lair had been compromised and Lorenzo’s dragonsmoke had been breached, even if it had just been by Lorenzo himself.

  Lorenzo’s lips tightened in dissatisfaction and he left, intent on the arrangements that had to be made.

  Lorenzo didn’t see his father’s eyes open after he left the apartment.

  He certainly didn’t see his father’s slow smile, much less the glint of mischief that lit Salvatore’s eyes.

  Stacy had—very helpfully—left another copy of Lorenzo’s brochure on the dresser, prominently displayed. Cassie read it while she dressed and learned the details of Lorenzo’s upcoming stunt.

  On Saturday, Lorenzo was going to be buried alive in Valley of Fire State Park. He’d be seated in his orange Ferrari, which would be buried in the desert. He’d be left underground for an entire month, longer than any person could be expected to survive with such limited supply of oxygen—never mind in the desert in the summer.

  No wonder people thought he wouldn’t survive.

  The whole idea gave Cassie the creeps. She didn’t like the dark much and she hated being enclosed in small spaces. Even elevators were endurance tests for her if they stopped too many times. She shuddered as she read the brochure again. She was sure there had to be a trick, and that Lorenzo had planned somehow to ensure his own survival.

  She was sure he wasn’t the kind of man to have a death wish.

  But he could make a mistake. It wasn’t as if he could practice this one, while doing a performance every day and two on Wednesday. How far would he go in pursuit of spectacle and a hit of publicity? Too far? The very idea made Cassie nervous.

  She dressed practically, packed a bag with a few essentials, and headed out to hunt for details.

  This was, after all, what Cassie did best.

  In the lobby bar, Cassie struck up a conversation with that same waitress, the one whose kids were intrigued with Lorenzo. It didn’t take much prodding to learn from her where Lorenzo lived—in a gated compound about forty-five minutes out of town. Cassie left the waitress a good tip and headed out to do research.

  She doubted he’d be in the phone book—on the other hand, she didn’t even know his surname so she couldn’t be sure. She went to the library and looked him up on the Internet.

  Cassie started with the accounts in the morning papers about his new dragon illusion the night before. Evidently the audience would be full of reporters for the remaining performances. As a result of the excitement, scalpers’ prices for Lorenzo’s final shows this week had gone even higher.

  It took her most of the day to read all the articles about Lorenzo—he had a good publicist—and despite all the articles she never found his surname or his date of birth.

  She didn’t find any personal details, either. No stories leaked by former staff. No unauthorized photographs. No gossip or trivia. Nothing about blood relatives, lovers, ex-wives, or kids. Cassie was impressed by his ability to stay on top of the information generated about him, especially given his level of fame.

  That only made her more determined to know more.

  Because it convinced her that he had a secret.

  It was probably something mundane. Maybe he had a lot of illegitimate children. A criminal record. Or maybe he just liked his privacy. Cassie couldn’t fault him for that.

  She still wanted to know.

  Cassie didn’t imagine that she’d be able to breach Lorenzo’s security system, but she could head out to the house and have a look. She’d do it while Lorenzo was involved in his evening performance, so she’d know for sure that he wasn’t home.

  She wouldn’t have an address, per se, but it sounded as if the house was distinct. One thing was on her side—famous people like Lorenzo never did their own laundry or took out their own trash.

  Maybe she’d find a staff member willing to talk.

  She called Stacy and learned that her friend was going to dinner and a show with JP. Cassie smiled at Stacy’s warning that she should call before letting herself into the room, and was glad to hear her friend so excited again.

  It sounded like JP was exactly what Stacy needed.

  Cassie waited until twenty minutes before Lorenzo’s show started. She could have gone sooner, but hadn’t wanted to risk passing Lorenzo on the highway heading out of town.

  She found her Jeep in the hotel parking lot, then drove past the back of Lorenzo’s theater just to be sure. She was relieved to see his orange Ferrari parked in place.

  He was there and inside.

  Busy.

  Cassie did some quick calculations. The show would last two hours or maybe a bit more, which meant Lorenzo could be on the road home by eleven. She should be able to get to the house by nine thirty, but to ensure that they wouldn’t pass on the road when she returned to town, she’d have to leave by ten fifteen. Make it ten for insurance.

  She didn’t have a lot of time.

  Cassie headed out of town, pushing her Jeep to its limit once she was on the open highway. She rolled down the window, liking the wide horizons, and ignored the unhealthy vibration of the engine. She liked that she was leaving Las Vegas behind, with all its hype and sparkle. These canyons and sweeping vistas of the desert touched her in a way that was surprising. She’d never been a nature fiend, but she liked the raw power of stone and sand.

  They were genuine.

  To her relief, even without an address, Lorenzo’s house was obvious. The only thing real about it was that it must have cost a fortune—it was evidence of his success. Beyond that, it was pure Vegas, another spectacle. The house could have been a piece of Renaissance Italy transplanted. In the midst of cacti and dust, after passing scattered adobe buildings and sixties ranches, the Venetian palace caught the eye.

  It was massive, all arches and golden light, a fountain dancing in the front courtyard. It was two stories in height, judging by the lines of windows, but each floor must have fifteen-foot ceilings.

  The driveway was long and straight, and she was sure that there were lots of cameras to track anything that moved on that length of pavement. There was a high fence surrounding the house and several acres of grounds, with large wrought-iron gates front and center.

  They were closed.

  They were embellished with a shield, a coat of arms, and lots of frilly curlicues.

  A capital L right in the middle.

  She smiled. Lorenzo didn’t do subtle.

  The land was rocky, both inside and outside the fence. The size of the lot would give a certain amount of privacy, and Cassie thought that the windows probably had sheer blinds. She could see light behind them, but it was diffused and there were no distinct shadows. The property backed against a rocky rise, one that looked red against the night sky.

  Cassie drove past the house, slowing down only a little bit. She continued until the road finally curved, then turned off the asphalt. She took the Jeep off-road and circled back to the house from behind.

  She turned off her headlights when she could see the house and
was glad that there was enough light from the moon to mostly see her way. She drove slowly, aware of the press of time, but not wanting to kick up any dust that might be noticed.

  She parked the Jeep when she’d driven as close as she dared, grabbed a flashlight and her camera, and crept closer. She hunkered down behind a cactus about twenty feet from the house and had a better look.

  There were fewer lights at the back of the house, just as she’d suspected. Light showed in only one window. It looked as if a blind was pulled down, the light showing only around the perimeter of the window.

  Good. No one to witness what she was about to do.

  She could spot just two security cameras, one on each corner pillar of the fence. They moved in a steady rhythm, sweeping the area. Their paths were synchronized so that one or the other always had the back fence in its field of view.

  Cassie tugged out her new camera and used the zoom to get a better look. The gardens were extensive and formal, laid out in succulents and stones. Another smaller fountain chortled here, nestled between a pair of benches. There was a stone gazebo close to one corner. The yard looked tranquil and it was quiet other than the sound of the fountain.

  She wondered whether this was where Lorenzo did his sunbathing. Not many gawkers would make it around the back of the house. It was easy to imagine him sprawled out beside the fountain, dozing in the sun.

  There was no sign of any staff members at the house. Just those relentless security cameras. And the house was located so far within the fence that she wouldn’t even have been able to intercept anyone taking out the trash. Cassie sat for a while in her hiding spot, checking out the house through the zoom on her camera, and hoping for a miracle.

  No luck. She just got chilled.

  And time was slipping away.

  Cassie was just about to call her mission a failure when she noticed that the far camera had frozen in place. Its lens was fixed on the desert in the opposite direction of where she was.

  It defied belief that it should break right when she was thinking of approaching the house.