by Cat Adams
The procession probably looked casual, but of course that was an elaborate illusion. Everything had been planned to the last nuance. Adriana and Dahlmar were at the head of the group, walking hand-in-hand. The queen would be directly behind them, escorted by Gunnar Thorsen. If there were any concerns about whether she was strong enough to walk a couple of miles so soon after being released from the hospital, no one I knew had dared voice them. Truthfully, she looked good, and it wasn’t the makeup, either. Being so close to the ocean and back on her home island seemed to be doing wonders for her. She was beautiful in bright turquoise, her golden hair left long and loose so that it fell past her shoulders in shining waves. We three bridesmaids were next, with our escorts. Mine was Griffiths, who looked terrific in traditional long shorts and a flowing white shirt. Igor followed—with Baker at his side, which gave her a reason to stay close to me. I noticed that she and Igor were smiling at each other in a genuinely friendly manner. Hmmm.
I settled my hat on my head, activating the little spell disk that insured it wouldn’t fly off, even in a gale-force wind. Griffiths stepped forward, extending his arm. I took it and we began the stroll to the courthouse steps.
For all the expense, trouble, and elaborate planning, the actual ceremony at the courthouse would only take about fifteen minutes. It boggled my mind. I wondered what the cost added up to per minute, and decided I really didn’t want to know.
We walked down a wide brick street that had been strewn with flower petals of various colors. It smelled fantastic, and probably felt wonderful for those going barefoot. Somewhere, someone on the Internet was probably decrying the waste, and someone else was totting up how many flowers had been denuded to make this happen. But it was beautiful, and I took deep breaths, enjoying the fragrance as I turned from side to side and waved at the crowd.
“You do not know, do you?” Griffiths spoke softly, keeping a smile on his face as he waved cheerfully to the people on our right.
His voice hinted at something amiss. I forced myself to keep smiling, even though I felt a chill of foreboding. “What?”
“Your business associate has not called?”
“I left my phone in my room.” I’d figured it would be rude to leave it on during the morning’s events, so I decided not to even carry it.
“Ah. I see.”
My smile had probably gone brittle. Waving to the cheering crowds on the left, I whispered, “Is anyone dead?”
“No.”
“Maimed?”
“No.”
“Then just tell me.” Military jets roared overhead in formation. I looked up. The crowd looked up. Despite the ooohing and ahhing of thousands of voices, vampire hearing, activated by my rising level of tension, let me hear Griffiths clearly.
“Because of all of the various threats against Adriana and the sirens, my king has had me put intelligence feelers out throughout the world. An informant brought us word of a threat to a siren in Santa Maria de Luna. He had helped plant a bio-magical bomb in the upstairs bathroom of a Victorian office building.”
My stomach lurched. “Shit.”
“I sent my people to check it out. The device they found involves both explosives and powerful curses and was linked to your DNA by strands of your hair. It is a particularly nasty piece of equipment. The bomb squad is on their way. But, based on the photos my colleague has sent me, your police are not going to be able to disarm it. They will insist on a controlled explosion.”
My smile faltered and I gripped his arm tightly so that I wouldn’t stumble. My building. Damn it. Damn, shit, hell, crap, fuck! Swearing internally helped me fight back the tears that stung my eyes. I loved that building. I’d loved it since the day I’d seen it while looking for office space, long before Vicki had left it to me. Yes, it was just a thing, but it was my thing. It was unique. And we’d just gotten Ron moved out.
This was why Dottie had taken the cat, had had my things sent away, had looked sad. She knew but, like Vicki, couldn’t tell. Because if she had, we might all be dead; our searching for the bomb might have set it off.
I took a deep, shuddering, breath. I could handle this. Nobody I loved was dead. Nobody had been badly hurt. I’d rebuild if I could, or find another office. I could deal.
Griffiths waited until I had myself fully under control. “There is more.”
Wave, smile, turn. Wave, smile, turn. My movements were a little mechanical, but the audience probably wouldn’t notice. “Of course there is.” I didn’t bother to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
He gave the tiniest nod of acknowledgment. “My people have traced the magical signature and have found out who created this bomb and hired the man to plant it.”
“The terrorists?”
“No. A woman. A human. Her name is—”
I didn’t even have to guess. I finished the sentence for him. “Angelina Bonetti.”
His eyes widened, his eyebrows rising. “You are not surprised.”
Oh, I was surprised. I’d known Angelina was jealous. But a bomb? Really? How over the top was that? Still, in a weird way, it made sense. If she was going to kill me, now was the perfect time, and with all of the Guardian of the Faith crap going on, a bombing of my office would likely be written off as an act of terrorism. The terrorists might even lie and take credit for it, which would make the police less likely to look for any other culprits.
Beautiful and smart, she was quite the adversary. If it hadn’t been for the informant, she would probably not only have succeeded in killing me, she’d most likely have gotten away with it.
The knowledge was both shocking and frightening. But it also made me mad. She’d tried to kill me. She actually tried to fucking kill me. So much for not being much of a threat to her.
“I’m smiling, Griffiths, but heaven knows what people are reading in my mind.”
He squeezed my arm reassuringly. “That is why I am walking with you. I’m blocking your mind from outside reading or attack. Your thoughts are your own until this is over.”
It was a relief to hear. “Thank you.” Now I could be angry and hurt and terrified and still pretend for the public and the cameras that everything was fine. Everyone would think I was happy while in fact, I felt a level of rage that, if not held in check, was likely to bring out my inner monster. I managed to control it. But it wasn’t easy.
As a consequence, the ceremony was something of a haze to me. I was there. I did my part, but I don’t remember anything specific. Adriana and Dahlmar made their public declarations of love and fidelity, then kissed on the steps of the courthouse amid deafening cheers. We all made happy-happy in our lavalavas, and congratulated the beaming couple by tossing a few thousand flowers’ worth of fragrant petals into the air to fall in a cloud around them. Flashbulbs went off so fast that the air turned white.
Fortunately, there were no other threats. I’m a professional, but I have my limits. Knowing that someone hated me enough to plant a bomb likely to kill not only me, but pretty much anyone within a full square block, was mind-boggling. Shock and anger washed over me in alternating waves as I struggled to wrap my head around the idea.
How the hell had Angelina Bonetti gotten a sample of my hair? After the events of the past couple of years I have become almost fanatically paranoid about preventing that sort of thing, for exactly this reason.
I could only think of one logical possibility. Well, actually two.
John Creede had lost his siren charm, which was made from my hair, in our battle with Glinda. Someone might have found it and made it available on the black market. The other choices were that it had been destroyed … or that it had been taken to Hell. I didn’t want to think too much about the latter option. It was just too frightening.
It was much more likely that Angelina had gotten my hair from the charm I made for Bruno. Maybe that was how she knew he didn’t have it—because she did.
What worried me more was that Angelina wasn’t a witch, and Griffiths had said bio-magical. That
little fact was just sinking into my head. Yeah, Mrs. DeLuca, Grand Hag of the East Coast, hates me, but I didn’t think she’d actually help someone murder me. I mean, there’s hate and there’s hate. Besides which, Isabella DeLuca is smart and subtle. A bomb didn’t seem like her kind of thing, particularly one that could be traced back so easily. She’s more the death curse or poison sort of person.
Griffiths gave me his cell phone and helped me slip into the courthouse after the ceremony and before the wedding photos. Rather than use the women’s room and risk getting interrupted, I ducked into the “family” restroom, which was a single seater and had a changing table attached to the wall.
My first call was to Alex. If the locals weren’t in charge, she’d know who was.
Alex picked up on the first ring. “Detective Alexander speaking.”
“It’s me.”
“Christ on a crutch! Where the hell have you been? Don’t you ever pick up your voice mails?” She was almost snarling.
“Where have I been? Are you freaking serious? It’s Adriana’s wedding day.”
“But you weren’t supposed to be going to the ceremony on Serenity. We’ve been looking everywhere for you! There was word someone had predicted your kidnapping so we’ve been treating you as a missing person. Bruno is gone. Dawna hasn’t heard from you for a couple of days. We can’t reach John Creede.”
Oh, crap. Of course she was worried. We deliberately hadn’t made my change of plans public.
“Geez, Alex, I’m sorry. Things changed and the Serenity Secret Service kept some details from the press for security reasons. I’ve been on Serenity for a few days. I just heard about the bomb in my building. Are your guys handling it?”
“Just crowd control. The feds are taking care of actually setting the damned thing off. You really need to call Rizzoli and Dawna—she’s an absolute basket case.”
I could believe that. “I’ll call her as soon as I’m done with you.” I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. “The guy who told me about the bomb said it wasn’t the terrorists, that it was personal. He said that they traced the magical signature to a particular woman.”
“Did he now? And how did he happen to get that information?”
“Off the record?”
“Oh hell,” she grumbled. “Fine, off the record.”
“He’s Queen Lopaka’s fixer. An informant told them about the bomb, and he had King Dahlmar’s fixer look into it.”
She swore colorfully. “Fixers. You mean international spies and mercenaries. Jesus, Celia. You are seriously telling me that you’re in bed with international spies?”
“I’m not in bed with them.”
“Unh-hunh.” She gave a martyred sigh. “I’m hanging up now. Call Rizzoli. I’m sure he’ll enjoy the hell out of hearing this.”
I called. He wasn’t thrilled to hear from me, but at least he wasn’t surprised about where I was. His wife and kids were obsessing over the whole royal wedding thing because they actually knew somebody in the wedding party. He already knew about Angelina, too. He was going to tell me—if I ever got around to returning his call.
I winced at the none-too-subtle hint. “Sorry, it’s been nuts and we’re on security lockdown here.”
“Your life is always nuts. Curled up in a corner yet with loaded weapons?”
Ouch. He was right, but saying so wasn’t exactly tactful. Still, part of the whole friendship thing is putting up with the other person’s foibles. Dom and I might have started out as business acquaintances, but we’d been through a lot the past couple of years. Somewhere along the way he’d become one of my friends.
So I ignored the verbal jab and changed the subject. “Have you picked Angelina up yet?”
My question was met with silence. A long, meaningful, silence. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a clue what it meant. “Dom, are you still there?”
“Yeah, she’s in custody now.”
There was something weird about his inflection when he said it, a tiny bit too much emphasis on the last word. I was about to push him to try to get more information, when there was a pounding on the bathroom door.
Oh, hell. I should’ve known. I couldn’t have five full minutes to myself. There simply wasn’t room for it in the day’s schedule.
“Princess, are you all right?” Baker didn’t sound worried, but she wasn’t happy, either. “They’re looking for you for pictures.”
“I gotta go, Dom—” I started to ask when it would be a good time to call him back, but he cut me off by saying “No problem” and hanging up. Hmnpf. Something was very definitely fishy.
“Princess?” Baker repeated.
“I’m fine,” I assured her as I was opening the door. “I was just making a couple of calls.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’re needed for photos. Any other calls you wish to make”—her expression made it clear that it wasn’t acceptable to do that in the middle of a royal wedding—“will have to wait.”
The woman at the door sounded like Baker. She looked like Baker, complete with steel gray suit, tasteful pumps, and ear piece, but I didn’t see Igor or Griffiths behind her. That was odd enough that I reached into my jacket and withdrew my One Shot with its holy water.
“Extend your hand, please.”
She didn’t argue, didn’t even blink, just offered her hand. I sprayed. It was her. “Where’s Griffiths? I need to give him back his phone.”
“He has already joined the rest of the party.” She said it politely but still managed to convey her urgency and frustration. “We’re running behind schedule.” She led me down a long marble hallway with hardwood doors spaced at intervals.
I was inconveniencing everybody and throwing off a schedule that had been timed with exquisite care. It was unprofessional of me. “I’m sorry. But Griffiths told me about the bomb in my office and I wanted an update.”
She almost stumbled—apparently she hadn’t known—but when she spoke, her voice was rock steady. “A bomb?”
“Your people didn’t miss anything,” I assured her. “It was planted after we left. It had a DNA trigger.”
We took a sharp right turn down a narrow hall that led to one of the building’s back exits. Bringing her wrist to her mouth, Baker spoke into her wrist mic. “I’ve got her. She’s safe.”
Now, yes. But for how long?
29
Sirens live a very long time. They aren’t all that fertile and they very seldom marry. So there aren’t a lot of royal weddings or births, and when either occurs, it’s a huge historic event. The photographer was making sure there was an extensive record of the events. There were pictures with Dahlmar and Adriana sitting on chairs that were vaguely thronelike, the rest of us arrayed in a semicircle behind them. There were photos of them kissing. There were group shots, individual shots, shots of the various couples. There were so many shots, in fact, that I would’ve been happy to do a little shooting of my own. But I tried to be a good sport about it and I smiled at the camera until my face muscles ached.
But all things end eventually, including royal photo shoots. When this one did, we piled into various limousines and drove in a motorcade back to the royal compound, through streets filled with drunken revelers.
I stayed close to Adriana and kept a close watch on Olga during the luau that was the reception. And while the food and the free-flowing drinks looked and smelled amazing, I didn’t taste them. While people ate, a steady stream of performers put on a fabulous show that included amazing dance numbers, exciting singers, and exquisite music. I paid zero attention. Only after the bride and groom left the reception to enjoy some time alone was I able to relax. I chose to do that by having Baker and Griffiths escort me back to the guest house so that I could have a little time to myself.
Getting away from the crowds was a huge relief. Now that I wasn’t on duty I wanted a couple of stiff drinks, some food, and to have a good cry.
My beautiful office was probably a pile of rubble by now. I was likely to be t
reated to constant replays of the “controlled detonation” once I got home.
I didn’t want to see it.
Baker and Griffiths walked me to the door. After checking with the guards on duty to be sure that no one had come in the building in our absence, and that all of the visitors and servants had left, I was given the all clear to enter.
Normally I get a real jolt crossing the spell barrier at the threshold of the guest house. Today, not so much. When I gave Baker a look of inquiry, she smiled. “Our mages came up with a special barrier with you in mind. Any other paranormal creature will get hit hard. But the perimeter is keyed to recognize you. We got the idea from the man who manufactured your weapons safe.”
I found myself grinning. How very cool. Then I remembered that the safe was in my building. The grin died.
I needed a drink. More than that, I need to get stinking drunk, to the point I didn’t care.
The guest house is big, and normally pulsing with life. Even when I am the only guest, the place is full of servants. Tonight, it was echoingly empty. The usual staff had been given the night off for security reasons. I moved through silent halls that led to the living room, my footfalls sounding loud in my ears. Hitting the light switch, I noted that the hair and makeup experts had cleared out, leaving the room spotless. Stepping behind the bar I reached into the minifridge and grabbed ice and some orange juice. To my delight, I found that the cooks had left me a plastic container of frozen au jus. I shook my head a little. Good thing I wasn’t going to be staying on Serenity much longer. I could get used to having staff around who anticipated my every whim.
I popped the lid off of the au jus and stuck it in the microwave to cook while I mixed myself a stiff screwdriver in a tall glass. Once everything was ready, I settled into a comfortable chair with a good view of all the exits. A quick touch on the remote and the big-screen television came to life.
I flipped to CNN. I shouldn’t have. Not until the second or third screwdriver. But there, in high definition, was my building, with a banner beneath it saying “filmed earlier.” I watched in horrified fascination as an officer in a blue FBI windbreaker wrapped hair around a ball, taped it down, and loaded the ball into an air gun. He broke a spell disk over the gun. I couldn’t see the rune on the disk, but I was betting it was for distance and accuracy. He had a straight shot, but was quite a distance from the building.
