Key to Conspiracy

by Talia Gryphon

  In the distance to the back of the property, he could see a pair of horses and their riders. The field from the house to a distant tree line was clear. The riders were nearly against the picturesque forest, far enough away that he could not hear any snippet of conversation. Since he was in full view, he remained where he was, on a flagstone veranda, and watched them. When they turned his direction, he waved and was rewarded with them cantering his way.

  Charles dismounted first, handing the reins of his horse to a groomsman, who suddenly appeared at Trocar’s elbow. Dahlia leaped lightly down from her steed, then took her husband’s hand. Trocar looked them over. She was as lovely as any Fey had a right to be. Charles was a handsome man for a Human, not quite six feet tall, lean with wiry muscles. His dark wavy brown hair was now whirled and tumbled over his forehead and collar. He looked handsome and fit, despite having healed a broken spine the night before. The rust-colored angora sweater he wore complemented his coloring. Black riding jodhpurs rode over slim hips; tan-leather-topped black riding boots graced his lower legs. Intelligent dark brown eyes regarded the taller Elf as Trocar greeted his wife.

  “Lady Dahlia . . . And you must be Charles. I am Trocar.” He kept his introduction brief and respectful.

  “Good morning,” Charles said in lightly accented English. “I apologize for everything that happened last night. My wife has filled me in on the situation.”

  “No apology is necessary, it is hardly your fault.”

  Anguish ghosted across Charles’s face as an empty look replaced the intelligence in his eyes. This was truly a shattered man, devoid of hope, certain that he had no life, no future.

  “Thank you, Trocar. I understand that all of you wish to help me but I am afraid the kindest thing you could do for me is to slip one of your daggers into my heart while I sleep.”

  “Charles!” Dahlia cried out, tears welling up in her lavender eyes. With a sob, she clapped her hand over her mouth and fled.

  “Daggers?” Trocar’s bemused expression reflected his surprise, but he didn’t interfere.

  “You are a Grael, correct? My wife has told me much about all the denizens of the Fey. I assumed that you would have a remarkable collection of daggers. If I am mistaken, I am sorry.”

  Trocar smiled one of his rare smiles. “I am indeed Grael. And you are correct about the daggers. It is impressive that you took the time to learn about Fey society.”

  “I love her; I could do no less.” Charles’s expression hardened. “Let us go in. I understand that the authorities are here. I would prefer to end this charade.”

  By the time they got back into the main sitting room, everyone was up and eating, even Claire. Her eyes were clear again and she greeted Trocar with a friendly smile instead of an impassioned pounce. Brant grinned gratefully at the tall Elf, assured that his partner was back in working order again.

  Gillian was a little worse for wear. She refused any further painkillers, preferring Trocar’s healing methods to keep her mind clear and her empathy functioning correctly. Everything ached from her hair to her toenails but she could focus. After the meal she shooed everyone out, including Dahlia, so she could speak to Charles alone.

  Brant and Claire had instructions to focus the full resources of Scotland Yard and Interpol on tracking down any descendants of the African tribe that Charles’s ancestor had so wronged. Helmut was online, hunting for information from the International Paramortal Psychology Association’s massive database about Lycanthropes, Curses and Loup-Garou Curses in particular—their pathology, any treatment recommendations, removal methods and proclivities toward suicidal tendencies. Jenna and Pavel were combing the immediate area around the estate to see if they could figure out how Charles was leaving the sealed room.

  Charles was cooperating with Gillian as best he could. He reiterated freely his desire to end his life and, therefore, the Curse. Gillian honestly couldn’t fault him. The situation definitely sucked, but she wasn’t one to give up on anything or on anyone. She conducted a brief but thorough intake procedure, had Charles sign all the necessary documents to make him her patient and assure confidentiality.

  The benefits of having a client who had nothing to lose was his complete and total honesty about himself, his desires and his intent. Charles simply didn’t give a shit. If they locked him up, he’d break out of any conventional institution on the next full moon. If they left him loose, he’d do what he could to be killed. Gillian was trying to find something for him to hold on to, something for him to remain connected with to rekindle even the smallest spark of hope within this tormented man. She wanted his anger, his despair, his frustration; that she could work with. All he was giving back was his apathy. Apathy was the enemy. Apathy had to be banished.

  “What is the one thing that you care about?” Gillian asked him, after a long silence.

  “Dahlia,” Charles answered her without hesitation.

  “Dahlia wants you to live.” Better to just be blunt at this point.

  “I know.”

  Gillian watched as the love for his wife faded from his eyes and a resolute, empty look replaced it. “Do you know what can happen to a Fey when they lose their mate? Their chosen one?”

  “She will go on, Dr. Key. She is a strong woman, she has plenty of support, she will survive. Dahlia is a survivor.”

  “The Fey have an ability which allows them to cease to exist if they experience a great loss, such as the death of a loved one,” Gillian continued, ignoring Charles’s statement.

  “What do you mean?” Intelligence was back in the sharp brown eyes as Charles peered at her intently.

  “If they love, truly love, as Dahlia seems to love you, they can will themselves into death. Some can even literally fade into nothingness, destroying themselves in the process, never to return.”

  Pain sparkled in Charles’s eyes now. “No! She has to live. I do not want her to suffer because of me!”

  “She is suffering now. She watches you, sees your desire to leave her.”

  “I do not want to leave her! I just want to end this!”

  “Death is final. She could win you back from a rival but she can’t reclaim you from death.”

  “I cannot continue to live like this.” Charles’s voice was despondent but Gill took hope from the amount of pain in his eyes.

  “Do you know, Doctor, that I was even considering having myself turned into a Vampire? I thought perhaps that might break this goddamned Curse.” He met her eyes fully, a man without hope but wracked with anguish over his wife dying because of him.

  “I’m afraid it wouldn’t have worked,” Gillian said gently.

  “I know. I realized that if I went mad . . . from the Curse, that is, and changed into . . . what I become, but still maintained Vampire abilities, no one would truly be safe, not even Dahlia.”

  “Nothing would be able to hold you. You’d have intellect in your Beast form as well as the power and true ruthlessness.”

  Gillian breathed an internal sigh of relief that Charles Chastel was, at heart, an honorable man in every way. A hybrid like that, she would not have wanted to face under any circumstances. She was pushing him way too fast, not giving him time to process and recover, but there was no help for it.

  “Let’s talk again in a little while. I want to know what the others have found out.” He needed a break and she needed time to think.

  “Very well, but you will not change my mind, Dr. Key,” Charles said in a flat voice.

  “I’m not trying to, Charles.” Gill managed a genuine smile in his direction. “I’m trying to help you change your own mind.”

  She limped off in search of Trocar for a quick healing jolt. The pain was lessened, but she was stiff and sore from all the escape activities since her fall, injury and surgery. Right now she wanted a huge, soft bed and crisp linen sheets to wrap herself up in so she could forget about everyone else’s issues.

  What she had to do was consult with Brant and Interpol— better to get Helmut inv
olved as well. There was still the problem of the people Charles had eaten recently. He knew there was a possibility that he might mangle a person rather than just livestock by letting himself out of his cage; that made him liable for the killings in the area but she wasn’t sure about the murders prior to his discovery of what he was. Gillian wasn’t so egocentric that she would make a judgment call on something this complex all by herself. Gathering up Brant, they arranged a conference call on his cell phone with the Yard and Interpol, inviting Helmut in as a consultant.

  They explained to the best of their collective ability what the situation was with the Chastels and asked for advice on how to handle it. Caucusing like that always made Gillian’s stomach hurt. She hated politics with a passion; she hated having to reexplain a situation to people who were removed from it, safely sitting behind desks instead of being chased by slavering horrors through the Gallic night while in a postoperative chemically enhanced state.

  The discussion dragged on throughout the day. Jenna remembered Gill’s laptop being in her belongings, so they were able to set up a video conference call, saving Brant’s cell battery. Gillian smiled weakly at the discovery. Knowing someone else had to remember things for her proved just how wiped out she was. She wasn’t in any kind of shape to deal with this. Her stomach hurt from tension, her abdomen hurt from the surgery, her entire body felt like it had been run over by a herd of starving wildebeest. Falling into her bed at Castle Rachlav and sleeping for a week sounded like a tremendously good idea.

  Aleksei. Shit. She really ought to call him, let him hear her voice and that she was all right, from her own mouth. Unfortunately that would also mean that she had to hear his voice and that would suck right now. Gillian wasn’t sure how she would respond to the warm, magical tones of the Vampire and the modicum of security he represented. Frowning, she realized she did know. Listening to Aleksei and his black velvet voice would trigger an unconscionable response. He would be reassuring, probably a little chastising, and more than a little concerned. It might just make her believe in him even more than she did, or worse . . . cry. That so wasn’t happening right now.

  “Gillian?”

  “What?” Cronus on a cracker, she’d let her thoughts drift and hadn’t been paying attention. She stared at Brant, trying to psychically divine what the hell he had just said.

  “Your thoughts?”

  Great. No help there. The British detective was staring back at her expectantly.

  Helmut thoughtfully provided her with the information she needed. “Do you think we should take Charles into custody immediately or should we let the Interpol agents handle everything when they arrive?”

  Her exhausted brain rallied. “Let them do it. Saves us from having to deal with the paperwork.”

  Brant unexpectedly smiled. “All right. Good thinking, Dr. Key.”

  She waved her hand glibly and collapsed back into the couch cushions. “Hey, I try.”

  He turned back to the computer screen to talk to the Interpol agent again. Helmut moved closer to her on the couch and leaned in, whispering.

  “Schatzi, you are exhausted. You really should go lie down where it is quiet and you can really rest. The agents are coming from Paris. It will be a while before they get here.”

  Gillian ignored his observation. “Helmut, there just isn’t a right way to solve this one, is there? I can’t help Charles, not with the time frame I have. I understand he has to be held accountable for his actions but none of this really is his fault at all. Sometimes this job really sucks.”

  She’d caught bits and pieces of the ongoing conversation. Charles Chastel was to be apprehended and tried for the murders of six people in the area, including the original family, victims of his first change. Now someone had to tell Charles and Dahlia what had transpired. Thanks for your hospitality . . . “You have the right to remain silent . . . Anything you say can and will be used against you . . .”

  “Gillian, go lie down,” Helmut insisted, interrupting the imagined Mirandizing of Charles Chastel. “There are plenty of spare rooms in this chateau where it is a great deal quieter and you can rest.”

  “Do you watch horror movies, Helmut?” She grinned, trying to rally.

  “No, I don’t . . . Why?”

  “Separating the characters in the movie is a sure sign the person off by themselves is going to get butchered by the axe-wielding maniac. Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  Helmut laughed. “Not in a million years, Schatzi.” “Then I’m staying right here.”

  Brant took care of informing Charles and Dahlia what had happened. Charles was characteristically stoic when he was told the situation. Dahlia just as typically cried and clung to Charles’s arm. Brant sighed. Gillian was right. Sometimes the job just sucked. It wasn’t Charles’s fault that he was a Loup-Garou. It was Charles’s fault that he had disregarded the safety and well-being of others and had murdered people when he could have prevented it. Still, it would never have happened if the original ancestor . . .

  There was a honk outside, indicating the arrival of someone, hopefully the Interpol agents. Brant went to the door, followed by Charles, who was only too willing to give himself over to the authorities and end his longstanding nightmare. Dahlia remained at his side, determined to see her husband through his ordeal to the end.

  Claire walked in to flank all of them. She’d awoken during the ages-long discussion, and Brant had quickly filled her in. No worse for wear over her temporary crush on Trocar, she stood behind Dahlia, a slender, strong presence just doing her job. Pavel was inside the house somewhere, either taking a shower or walking guard. Gill wasn’t sure.

  Four male agents were at the door. Gillian watched them from her vantage point on the couch. Automatically, her empathy registered: two were Human, one was a Shifter and one was a Vampire. She could see through the open doorway that the sun had set. They had come in either a van or a shielded limousine of some kind to have the Vampire along.

  “Good evening,” the Vampire said, eliciting rolled eyes from Gillian and Jenna.

  Why did they do that? It was so stereotypical, Gill thought to herself, watching the procession file into the house. She could feel Charles’s confusion when they didn’t immediately clap handcuffs on him. He was flustered and very uptight; not that it was news. He was about to go to jail for a very long time, if he was found guilty in a Court of Law. The only thing to be decided was which Court.

  Dahlia had argued that as a standing member of the Twilight Court, Charles had rights as her spouse, and could be relegated to their authority. Brant had argued right back that Charles had been killing Humans and was inherently Human; therefore, he needed to be judged through the Human judicial system.

  The Shifter agent, an Egyptian named Tariq, accompanied Charles to his room to gather his personal effects. The Vampire agent, a Kenyan named Zuberi, was explaining to Dahlia in rapid-fire French what would transpire. The two Humans, Philippe and Ernst, remained by the open door, waiting for their comrades and soon-to-be prisoner.

  Dahlia was crying to Gill’s right, shifting the former Marine’s attention from the front doorway and the two agents. She staggered painfully to her feet and moved haltingly toward the woman, intending to give her some measure of consolation before they whisked her husband off to jail.

  “Is Dr. Key in?” a chillingly familiar voice with a very clipped, upper-crust British accent asked.

  Goddammit, she felt like shit. She was imagining things, but that voice sounded just like . . .

  “Come in, please,” Dahlia blubbered through her tears. “Dr. Key is right over there . . . Monsieur . . . ?”

  “Please, madam, call me Jack.”

  Sweet Mother Isis, it couldn’t be. Not here. Not now. Stalker! Gah!

  Gillian’s head jerked toward the voice. She watched in horror as Jack the Ripper stepped across the threshold of Chastel Manor, invited in by the lady of the house.

  Trocar was suddenly beside her. “Run, Captain,” he
hissed into her ear then shoved her toward Jenna, Dahlia and Helmut, who was standing by the Fey, thinking to comfort the woman.

  “Run. Now.” Trocar’s voice wasn’t loud, but the alarm in it was evident. Jenna and Helmut snagged Gillian and Dahlia respectively and tried to do what he said. Helmut and Dahlia were making much better time than she and Jenna were, since both she and the firebug were wounded in ways that made walking to the kitchen for a sandwich an ordeal. Blade drawn, Trocar faced the legendary Vampire alone. A tall, stylish black-garbed lethal presence between Gillian and a very ugly fatal encounter.

  Gillian heard the gurgle of blood from a sliced windpipe before she smelled corpuscles spilling. She turned back, hand going to a nonexistent pocket with a nonexistent gun. Shit. Damn. Hell . . . and fuckadoodle doo. She was still wearing Jenna’s jogging pants. No pockets and definitely no gun.

  Agent number one, she thought it was Ernst, crumpled at the doorway, a red waterfall pouring from his neck. Philippe, the other Human, never got a chance to fire the gun he spun around with before he too went down, clutching at a severed throat. Jack casually wiped the scalpel in his left hand with a white handkerchief, leaving a scarlet blossom on the snowy linen. His eyes narrowed as he regarded Trocar. The Dark Elf moved almost too fast for the Human’s eyes to follow but Jack noticed. Trocar sailed through the air and fetched up against the ornate fireplace after the Vampire casually backhanded him across the jaw. Momentarily stunned, the Grael shakily regained his feet, determined to die if necessary rather than permit Jack access to any of the women.

  “Oh fuck,” Jenna breathed as she tried to yank Gillian after her, causing both of them to stumble, Gillian teetering against Jenna’s wounded leg and Jenna bouncing against the corner of the wall. Both of them hit the ground rather hard, jarring Gillian’s battered insides and Jenna’s leg.

  Brant, ever the observant cop, began firing at the dark shape that stood inside the doorway. Claire’s gun joined his in making a lot of noise as a tall brunette woman ran in past Jack, directly into the line of fire, with a large buck knife in hand yelling, “Come in, all of you, you are invited.” She was either a Human thrall or a Shifter paving the way for Jack’s retinue of Vampires. Sometimes Vampire protocol sucked.