“To whom? Ethan?”
I snorted a laugh. “Especially to Ethan. And Cabot.” They’d both barge in here and tear the place apart looking for the box if they knew what was inside.
He tilted his head and did his best to look offended. “I think you know me better than that. So tell me before I beat it out of you.”
“I found Mom’s journal inside. I was reading the first entry when you two walked in.”
He stood there with a puzzled look on his face, like he couldn’t wrap his head around the concept that our mother would partake in such a mundane activity like journaling. “Our mother kept a diary?”
“Apparently.” I felt the lump on the back of my head starting to throb again when I tried to remember who opened the box and put me to bed. At least I was wearing clothes.
“Are we talking about the Katherine Winterborne? The tiger lady? Where did you find the box?”
“Believe me, it surprised me too.” I came up with a convenient lie to buy more time. “I was going through her things and found the box under her bed. Just promise me you won’t tell anyone about the journal until I have a chance to read it. In fact, I order you to keep your mouth shut.”
“Hey, my lips are sealed, but I have just as much right to read it as you do.”
“I’ll let you read it, but not until I do.” I hadn’t had time to digest the first entry, but the date on it suddenly fixed in my mind. “Something doesn’t make sense,” I said, cocking my head in thought. “Do you remember when dad left?”
He thought about it for a second and confirmed what I already knew. “Right after he knocked Mom up with me, so it had to be around 1996. Why?”
“The first entry in her journal talks about her meeting a man at the Columbia University library. She was gushing about him and how they were having drinks the next night. The date was November 1994, but she was married at the time.”
“You sure about that? Maybe all that tequila jumbled your brain.”
I went to the bedroom to get the journal and show him the date. “See. It was Thanksgiving week, 1994. A year before I was born.”
“Let me see that thing.” He tried to grab it from me, but I held it out of reach.
“Not until I finish it.” I shut the journal and sighed. “She was having an affair, Michael. Or at least thinking about it.”
He snickered and rubbed a lock of my hair between his fingers. “We all wondered why you were the only redhead in the family.”
I mussed his perfectly coiffed head and noted the auburn streaks mixed with brown. “I see plenty of red in here too.”
“Love children?” he said with an arched brow.
We lost our grins and stared at each other as the possibility set in. Did we know our mother at all?
Neither one of us had known our father. I’d been a toddler, and Michael hadn’t even been born yet by the time he was gone, so while the suggestion was a little shocking, it really had no impact on our feelings for a father we never knew. Just another skeleton in a crowded closet.
“I’m still trying to take it all in,” I said. “Jeez, you think you know who you are, and then smack! The rug gets pulled right out from under you.”
“Yeah, imagine the scandal if it’s true. I guess we should be upset about it, but we never knew our father anyway. And,” he said, holding up his index finger, “we don’t know if it is true. She probably just had a fling with the guy and ended it.”
“I can tell you this,” I said. “I’m damn sure going to read the rest of that journal as soon as I get a chance, but right now I have to get to work. We’re auctioning some rare letters this morning.”
He grabbed a banana from the counter and stuffed half of it into his mouth, mumbling something about DNA testing.
“By the way, why are you here?” I asked.
He tossed the other half in the trash and wiped his hands on his sweatshirt. “I ran into Avery on her way out of Cabot’s apartment. She said she was heading up to say hello and to tell you that Cabot wanted to talk to you, so I thought I’d tag along. Why? Do I need an invitation?”
“Not you, but a warning before Avery shows up and sucks the oxygen out of the room would be nice.” I was only half joking. My sister was one hell of a psychic vampire at times. “I’ll call Cabot from the auction house.”
“Wise move.” He headed for the elevator, probably to go back down to his apartment and sleep for a few more hours.
Before he disappeared around the corner, I asked, “Did Mom ever mention an interest in death rituals, or… voodoo?”
He looked at me like I’d lost my marbles. “Why the hell would you ask me something like that?”
“Forget it. It was a stupid question.” Not really. She’d been researching something to do with old magic and the dead.
Michael got on the elevator and headed back down to his apartment, and I headed for the bedroom to get ready, my head swimming with questions. Now I had to deal with Cabot on top of everything else. But first I had an auction to attend.
Chapter 9
The halls of the auction house were buzzing when I arrived around ten a.m. Our special auctions always took place on the weekend. This one was much smaller than usual, and it wasn’t required that I be there, but I chose to attend for one particular item that could possibly break a Winterborne record. Today’s featured item was a set of rare letters written by George Ivanovich Gurdjieff, a Russian mystic who founded the Institute for the Harmonious Development of Man. The auction had been heavily promoted in Europe because of the author’s connection to Russia and France, and a bidding war was guaranteed.
“Morning,” I said to my assistant, Kerry, dropping a couple of tickets on her desk.
“No! You got them?”
She’d been dying to get tickets for a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden.
I grinned and headed into my office. “Enjoy.”
Wilson walked in behind me, rubbing his hands together with a devilish grin on his face. “God, I love this feeling. I can smell blood in the air.”
“I take it we have a lot of deep pockets in attendance today?”
He laughed quietly and paced the room. It was his usual reaction to auctions like this. The man lived for the sight of paddles lifting into the air and the sound of excited whispers spreading through the crowd when an item sold for double or triple the reserve price. So did I.
“By the way,” he said, his glee turning to curiosity. “How’d it go with the box?”
The question caught me off guard. I had to think for a second because I wasn’t ready to tell him what was inside. Finding out that it contained a journal written by my mother would put him in an awkward position because ultimately he reported to Cabot. He’d feel compelled to either convince me to tell my uncle about it or to tell Cabot himself. Why take the risk?
“I haven’t figured out how to open it yet, but I’ll let you know when I do.” I hated to lie, but as long as I wasn’t hurting anyone, I could live with it.
“You can’t just…” He twirled his finger.
“Wiggle my nose and throw some incantation at it? Sure, if I want to risk destroying it in the process.” That part was true.
Kerry stuck her head through the doorway. “The auction is starting in fifteen minutes, and thanks for the tickets.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “We’ll be right down.” I took my jacket off and sat down to quickly check my email. “So, who’s the heavy bidder today?”
He took a seat and began to brief me on the celebrities in attendance, celebrities meaning the bidders with the most money. “We’ve got three on the floor, including Jonathan Henderson, who’s made it very clear he wants those letters.”
“Henderson? I guess we can all go home now.” Jonathan Henderson was filthy rich, and he didn’t like to lose. At the very least he’d push the bidding past the hefty reserve.
“Not so fast. We have five bidders on the phone and two more on the floor, all interested in the letters
.”
I glanced up from my laptop. “Oh yeah? I guess our promoting paid off. Who are the other two on the floor?”
He pulled a small notepad from his pocket. “Margo Kemp from Boston and a man named Caspian.”
“Hmm. Margo Kemp doesn’t stand a chance against Henderson. Who is this Caspian guy?”
Wilson got up and buttoned his jacket. “He’s never been here before and no one seems to know much about him other than he’s wealthy. All I could find out is that he likes to win as much as Henderson does. A colleague at Christie’s in London said he’s never lost a bid.”
“Did his credit and bank references check out?”
“Spotlessly. No one seems to know where he gets his money from though.”
I shut my laptop and stood up. “As long as he’s good for it, I don’t care.”
We took the elevator down to the lobby and headed for the room where the auction was starting, not an empty seat on the floor. I glanced around for our mysterious guest, but I recognized every man and woman lining the front row where we seated our high bidders, the ones who required vetting before allowing them to bid on an item costing as much as a house.
“Where did you seat Caspian?”
He shook his head. “Nowhere. We offered him a seat down front, but he said he preferred to mingle with the crowd. Probably a bidding strategy. You know, throw the competition off because they don’t see you coming.”
“Or he’s trying to keep a low profile. Maybe his money is dirty, so he doesn’t want to be seen spending it.”
The auctioneer spoke into the microphone to get everyone’s attention, and the crowd settled into their seats. The first lot—a rare Patek Philippe pocket watch from the early part of the twentieth century—appeared on the large screen that descended from the ceiling. The bidding opened at one thousand dollars. The watch was estimated to sell for seven times that amount. Paddles immediately started to go up, and a few minutes later, the bidding ended. It went to a phone bidder for nearly ten thousand.
“I need to make a call.” I headed for the back room to call Cabot to see what he wanted. With the sound of the auction barely muffled behind the closed door, I dialed his number. “You hear that?” I said when he answered on the first ring, holding the phone up to the noise. “That’s the sound of money on the floor. I hear you were looking for me this morning.”
“Yes,” he replied. “And you only waited two hours to call me.”
I ignored his sarcasm so I could get off the phone as quickly as possible. “What is it, Cabot?”
He cut to the chase. “It’s time to convene the Circle.”
There it was. I’d known it was coming. After taking an appropriate break to mourn my mother’s passing, it was time to gather the Circle and get back to business. The business of eradication. I took a steady breath and tried to sound like a leader even though the thought of sitting at the head of a table and planning the hunting and extermination of the enemy sent a cold shiver through me. It would be the ultimate test of my ability to lead the clan, and there was no time for easing into my role as executioner.
“When?” I asked.
“Let’s have lunch to discuss it. Say… one o’clock?”
The auction was important, but so was discussing the clan’s mission. “I’d like to hang around until we sell the Gurdjieff letters, so let’s make it a late lunch. Around two?” Weekend auctions usually took up most of the day, but today’s auction was limited to a much smaller number of lots that would be sold within a few hours. The letters were going up for sale sometime after noon, and I didn’t want to miss it.
We agreed on the time and place and I hung up, feeling a sudden rush of nerves. Cabot had a way of making me feel small. Immortals were good at that, but I was determined to sit across from him at the restaurant and hide those nerves.
I had about an hour to go back up to my office and try to relax before the letters came up for sale, and then I had to face my uncle. When I reached my office, the door was open, but I distinctly remembered locking it on my way out. I always locked my office on auction days when the building would be filled with strangers and potential office creepers.
“Kerry, did you unlock my door?”
She stood up and shook her head. “I was downstairs for a few minutes and saw it open when I came back up. I thought it was you in there.” She frowned and started to fiddle with her hands. “Should I call security?”
The office looked fine. The drawers to the desk were shut, and I could see my handbag sticking out from under it. Maybe I had been careless.
“It’s fine,” I said, waving it off. “I probably just forgot to lock it.”
I checked my bag for my wallet just in case. I found it with all my cash and credit cards still inside.
Wilson walked in a few minutes later. “There you are. I wondered what happened to you.”
“I need to relax for a few minutes before the letters come up.” I sank into my chair and glanced at him sideways. “I’m having lunch with Cabot afterward. That’s who I went to call.”
“Ah, I see,” he said with a knowing grin. “It’s not like you to disappear when the heat turns up, and we just sold a vintage Rolex Submariner—never worn and in its original box—for triple the expected price.”
“Well, I would have liked to have seen that.”
He glanced at my desk. “What’s that?”
I followed his eyes to a small box next to one of the picture frames. It was sage green with a white ribbon wrapped around it. I straightened back up and reached for it, shaking it gently before untying the bow, the sound of pennies or some other small objects rattling around inside. “You sure you didn’t set it there and forget about it before we went downstairs earlier?”
He gave me an amused smile. “I think I’d remember misplacing a Van Cleef & Arpels box.”
My hand started to shake as I reached for the lid. The week was getting stranger by the second, and I knew I wasn’t going to find some loose change in that box. “Here,” I said, shoving the box at him. “You open it.”
He took it from me and lifted the lid. “Earrings. Very nice earrings.” He took them out of the box and placed them on the desk.
I leaned forward and looked at them. There were two rubies on each side, connected by filigree platinum crafted into a delicate design. I knew that because they’d belonged to my mother.
“Morgan?” He placed his hand on my shoulder when I didn’t respond. “Are you all right?”
“Someone’s playing games with me,” I said, still staring at the jewelry. “Those are my mother’s.”
He gawked at me for a moment. “Katherine’s? Why would someone—” He stopped and thought about it for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never actually seen them, but there’s a portrait of her in the penthouse. The painting was commissioned before I was born, and she’s wearing these earrings. She told me they were custom made for her.” I pulled my eyes away from the brilliant rubies and tried to think of who would leave them on my desk and why.
“They’re about to auction the Gurdjieff letters,” Kerry said, sticking her head inside the door. “In ten minutes.”
I snapped out of it and looked at her. “Thank you.” Then I put the earrings back in the box and shoved it in my bag as I grabbed it and headed for the door. “Do me a favor and don’t mention this to anyone.”
Wilson looked confused but nodded. “Of course.”
We made it back downstairs just in time for the auction of the letters to begin. Since they’d been heavily promoted and anyone interested in bidding on them already had all the history and background they needed, the auctioneer only gave a brief description before beginning. There was an absentee buyer who opened the bidding at fifty thousand dollars. Having already been outbid, Margo Kemp got up to leave, obviously annoyed at not getting a bargain today.
“This should be fun,” I said.
Wilson grunted. “And we’re just getting warmed up.”
>
“I have ninety thousand,” the auctioneer said, referring to the one remaining phone bidder who decided to throw in a high bid. “Do I have ninety-five?”
Jonathan Henderson raised his paddle with a smug grin on his face.
Henderson barely broke a sweat as his paddle kept up with his rival. The bidding continued until it reached one hundred and fifteen thousand, but eventually the phone bidder dropped out.
“I have one hundred and fifteen thousand. Do I hear one hundred and twenty?”
The auction floor went silent as we waited for the gavel to drop. The letters had already exceeded the estimated price of seventy-five thousand.
“Two hundred thousand,” someone said.
Jonathan Henderson’s eyes went blank, and I swear he lost all color in his face. A collective gasp filled the room when he started to raise his paddle. But he seemed to come to his senses and changed his mind, lowering it back down to his lap.
The gavel eventually hit the desk when the bidding stopped, and it was over. I looked at the man leaning against the back wall, recognizing him instantly. It was my stalker. The man from my mother’s memorial service, the vampire from the picture Ramsey had shown me, had just bought the letters.
“Is that him?” I asked Wilson.
“Yes. That’s Ryker Caspian.”
My heart began to pound and the sound of the voices in the room muted as I looked over the sea of people.
His name is Ryker, and he’s fascinating in a dark and dangerous sort of way.
The words from my mother’s journal filled my head as Ryker Caspian stared back at me, his eyes growing darker as a knowing look appeared on his face.
“Morgan?”
I pulled my eyes away from him to look at Wilson. “I have to get out of here.”
As I headed for the door, the pounding in my ears intensified. When I got outside, I leaned my back against the side of the building and pulled out my phone to call Edward, but when I looked up, he was parked at the curb.
“Thank God,” I whispered as the faint feeling started to subside.
Dark Legacy (House of Winterborne Book 1) Page 6
