“Where’d you chase up this one? He looks like something out of the movies. Is he your bodyguard?”
I laughed, and Mab snorted.
“A body would have to be crazy to guard the likes of her. Always rushing in where angels fear to tread.”
I stood to perform the proper introductions. “Mephisto, this is Mab Boreal, one of the Incarnated Northerlies. He heads our company detectives. Mab, this is my brother Mephisto.”
“Detective?” Mephisto’s eyes shone brightly. “As in ‘finds lost things’?”
I nodded.
“And he’s traveling with you? . . . And you’re going where now? To warn the others? The others who have staffs these Three Shadowy Ones might be hunting down as we speak?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Mephisto glanced back and forth between Mab and myself. Then, he gave us his brightest smile. “When do we leave?”
“No. Absolutely not.” Mab rose to his feet and stalked over to stand in front of me. “There is no way, Ma’am, that I am going to help this kook find his magical glorified kindling.”
“ ‘Kook’? Who you calling a kook? Mr. Sam Spade wannabe?” Mephisto turned to me. “Tell him how great it will be, Miranda. Just like old times! We’ll travel together, and I’ll help you. And if we just happen upon my staff? Well, that’s fine, too.”
His mention of old times evoked memories of countless treks, some pleasant, some disastrous. I recalled one time Father, Mephisto, and I had gone to Switzerland to meet with a yeti and discuss avalanches. Taking Mephisto, the Beast Tamer, instead of one of the enforcers—Theo, Titus, or Gregor—had turned out to be a mistake. Mephisto did gain a new shaggy friend he could summon up with a tap of his staff; however, nothing was ever done to improve the avalanche situation.
“No, Mephisto,” I said firmly as I pictured Mephisto’s well-meaning antics resulting in my being buried under ten feet of snow again.
“At last, she shows some sense,” muttered Mab.
“But, you’ll need help. What if the Three Shadowed Ones attack?” Mephisto said.
Mab snorted. “What help would you be?”
“I could hit them with my lute,” Mephisto offered helpfully, evidently forgetting the instrument he had broken. Or perhaps he was envisioning a fate for the one I had promised to buy him.
“No. I’ll leave you a little money. You won’t be destitute.” I made a mental note to dispatch an Aerie One to keep an eye on him.
“But I could help. I know I could,” he continued plaintively. “I knew how to use a sword . . . once.”
“No.”
“Please! Don’t leave me behind, Miranda. I’m afraid to be on my own without my staff. Please?”
I hated to hear him beg. He sounded so pathetic. Yet, I was certain if I brought him along, it would lead to another calamity such as our encounter with the yeti, or the time Theo and I were nearly drowned by his mermaid friends. We were facing the Powers of Hell, and even a slight mistake could lead to a fate far worse than frostbite.
“Come on, Mab,” I said, “We need to keep going. Lives could be at stake.”
MAB and I gathered our hats and coats. Mephisto retreated into the corner, where he sat with his arms crossed, sulking. I offered him some money, but he just threw it on the floor. I shrugged and returned to Mab.
“Do you have any more leads?” I asked, “Or must we return to Oregon?”
A crafty look came into Mephisto’s eyes. He leapt up and stepped in front of us to stand in the doorway.
“And, of course, you know where you’re going. So, you don’t need me to lead you around. But perhaps I’ll see you at Theo’s? Or maybe at Cornelius’s? Got to be going, now. Bye.”
He waved good-bye and started out the door. Mab and I exchanged glances.
“Mephisto! Wait!”
“Yes?” Part way down the hall, Mephisto froze as if in mid-step. He turned and leaned back toward us, cupping a hand about his ear. “You called?”
“You know where Theo is?”
“And Cornelius! And Logistilla!”
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell us?” I asked sadly.
“What do you take me for? A fool?” he asked, throwing up his hands. “But of course, I would be willing to lead you there, if . . .”
“If . . . what?”
“If you make your detective help me find my staff,” he said.
I looked at Mab. He was scowling.
“Could be a matter of life or death for some of my brothers, Mab. What if we hadn’t heard of the Three Shadowed Ones when the darkness started forming in the Great Hall?”
Mab stared at me hard for quite some time. Finally, he nodded glumly.
“Okay, Mephisto,” I said. “You have yourself a deal.”
“Yippee,” yelled Mephisto, punching the air as he leapt.
The phone rang in the room behind us.
“Could you get that Mab? It could be from our Chicago branch,” I said.
“While you’re at it,” called Mephisto. “Could you pick up the money Miranda left on the floor? I have a feeling I might want it after all.”
“Pick up your own damned money,” grumbled Mab, answering the phone. He spoke into it for a moment. Then, he picked up the money and came out, shutting the door behind him.
“It was for you, Ma’am. Front desk says there’s someone waiting downstairs to see you.” He handed me the money. I handed it to Mephisto, who wadded it up and stuck it into his pocket. Mab continued, “She hung up before I could ask any questions. I don’t like it.”
“Who could possibly know I was here, except someone from our Chicago office?” I asked. “Come on, let’s go downstairs.”
“What was it I said about ‘angels fear to tread’?” growled Mab. “Never listens to me. Okay, Ma’am, risk your neck. But I’m sticking with you. Just in case.”
“Me too!” exclaimed Mephisto.
“Great, just great,” I murmured. “You two have to promise me that if it’s a mundane business associate, you’ll both vamoose.”
“Let’s take the elevator to the second floor, then walk down the fire stairs to the lobby,” Mab said. “Just to be safe. That way we can approach from an unexpected angle and catch any assailants unaware.”
I sighed but obliged him. We took the elevator to the second floor and then found the nearest door marked EXIT. The fire stairs opened into a plush lobby covered by a maroon carpet. In the center stood a fountain surrounded by tall fronds.
Ahead, a man leaned casually against the counter. The clerk behind the counter, a pretty little brunette, blushed under his attentions. Then I saw his face.
Without hesitating, I turned and fled.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Secrets from the Past
Memory is a funny thing.
We think of it as pictures in a row, like a motion picture recording of the past, but it is not. When we visit a place we once lived or hear a long forgotten song, we suddenly recall not only images but also sounds, smells, feelings. If we were victorious when we last walked the cobblestone streets of Firenze, the ringing of those cobblestones beneath our feet will bring a swell of confidence. If we were sad when we last heard Beethoven’s Sixth, then upon hearing the orchestra playing the opening swell of its notes, we will find our hearts inexplicably filled with sorrow.
And, to my great shame, if we were an awkward lovesick girl of sixteen when last we encountered a certain man, meeting him again makes us feel clumsy and sick to our stomachs—no matter how many centuries have passed in the interlude.
I WAS across the lobby and through the glass doors leading to the street before Mab and Mephisto caught up with me. Grabbing their arms, I hustled them along rapidly. Mab followed without complaint, but Mephisto hung back, trying to get a good look at the man we were leaving behind. He leaned away from my grip at a precarious angle, hopping on one foot and shading his eyes with his free hand. He could not have been more conspicuous if he had yodeled
. In disgust, I released my grip. He lost his balance, collapsing gently to the pavement.
Mephisto leapt up quickly and hurried after me as I strode briskly, covering the blocks back to the office parking garage without pause or comment. My heart was pounding. My cheeks felt sunburnt. By the time we reached the car, my fingers were trembling so badly I could not hold my keys. I dropped them twice before finally managing to open the door.
I climbed into the car. Mephisto went obediently to the back door, waving cheerfully to a couple walking between the cement pillars of the underground complex. They waved back, puzzled. Mab strapped himself into the front passenger seat, then watched, bemused, as I struggled to get the right key into the ignition.
“You seem distraught, Ma’am. Sure you don’t want me to drive?”
“Better me driving distraught than either of you behind the wheel,” I replied hoarsely. “I would like to arrive alive, thank you.”
“So would I,” muttered Mab.
Ignoring his cheekiness, I drove out of the garage and began weaving my way through traffic, heading back toward Wilhelmi Field, where we had left our Lear. The rush of vehicles around me seemed a distant whir. Cars honked, perhaps at me; I did not care. I held my breath and waited for my innate sense of reason to offer some rational explanation as to what had just occurred.
None came.
Having given up on getting any information out of me, Mab had turned to Mephisto. “. . . must be some explanation,” he was saying. “Wonder if it has anything to do with the good-looking mug on that chap.”
“I didn’t know they made real people who looked like that,” Mephisto replied enthusiastically. “Do you think he was an actor or a movie star? Maybe he does toothpaste commercials.”
“Have you ever seen him before?” asked Mab.
“Nope. Must be after my time,” said Mephisto. By which he meant, of course, that I must have met the gentleman recently, since our family had gone its separate ways. He was mistaken. I felt compelled to correct him.
“Before your time, actually,” I said as I cut across two lanes of traffic to merge onto Interstate 80.
“Before? But how could that be? Unless, you mean he’s . . .” Mephisto did a double-take back toward the direction of the hotel that would have done Cary Grant proud. “He couldn’t be!”
“Could not be who?” asked Mab, scowling.
“Ferdinand de Napoli!” Mephisto exclaimed eagerly.
“Who?” Mab asked again.
No point in delaying the inevitable.
“You read Shakespeare didn’t you, Mab? The Tempest?”
“Sure. That and Midsummer Night’s Dream are the only histories of Shakespeare where anyone of importance appears,” replied Mab.
“That was Ferdinand,” I sighed. “Prince Ferdinand of Naples.”
“Impossible! He should have been dead for some five centuries!” Mab paused. “Are you certain it was him? Maybe this guy at the hotel was a look-alike.”
Behind him, in the rearview mirror, I could see Mephisto nodding sagely.
“You saw him,” I muttered. My fingers were gripping the steering wheel so tightly I feared I might break it. “Do you think I could forget that man’s face?”
Mephisto and Mab both shook their heads.
Mab growled, “Bet he made off with one of Prospero’s books, back when he was on that island. Used it to make himself immortal, which would explain why he still looks as good as he did five hundred-plus years ago. Whatever he’s up to, it can’t be good!”
“Miranda,” Mephisto called from the back seat, “If that’s Ferdie, why are we running away?”
Ay, there’s the rub.
Why were we running away? What could I possibly say to my brother? I opened my mouth to tell him the truth, but after so many years of pretending, the words would not come to my lips.
“I have nothing to say to him,” I replied flatly.
Intrigued, Mephisto leaned forward, his dark eyes sparkling. “So, what’s the story, Miranda? Embarrassed to see him after you used him and abused him? Afraid to face him after you made him a pawn in your revenge against Uncle Antonio for exiling Daddy to that island?”
“Ah, yes . . . our great revenge,” I muttered. My mouth was unnaturally dry. What a tangled web I had woven. Now, I must bear the burden of unraveling it.
In my long life, there had been only one matter about which I had constantly been less than straightforward. I do not know when the line between fantasy and reality blurred, but I had repeated the fabrication so many times, I had forgotten the real version. Only, when I stepped into the hotel lobby and found the subject of my fabrications staring me in the face did I recall the truth . . . and my terrible shame.
If Ferdinand were really alive, the truth would come out. My brother might as well hear it from me.
“About the whole revenge thing . . .” The heat in my cheeks rose to the level of a second-degree burn. “The truth is . . .” I spoke the three hardest words of my long life in one rapid rush. “Ferdinand jilted me.”
Silence fell like a lead curtain. Stomach churning, I glanced sideways and then at my rearview mirror, trying to gauge the reactions of my passengers. Mab had pulled his fedora down over his face. Mephisto’s jaw hung open in astonishment. As I was turning away, Mephisto reached up and pushed his jaw shut with his hand. It closed with a snap.
“Jilted?” he squeaked. “As in ‘did not marry’? You? Marry? What about the Unicorn?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, wishing I had let Mab drive after all.
“I-I was young, six-sixteen,” I faltered. “You gentlemen saw him. Can you imagine any young girl who wouldn’t want to marry such a man? He was the only man I’d ever seen, except for Caliban. I thought . . .” My voice dropped. “At the time, I thought I’d given the Unicorn her due.”
“You were going to leave the Unicorn to marry him, and he left you for another woman?” Mephisto asked. “Had you already bought your dress?”
“Had it handmade, you mean . . . one did not buy dresses back then. And yes, it had been made. I was wearing it. I was . . . at the altar.” My voice seemed to have dropped out of my throat. In a hoarse whisper I finished, “He never showed up.”
Amazing how a mere memory could shame me to the point of tears.
“He left you standing alone at the altar? Oh, poor Miranda!” cried Mephisto. “What was his explanation?”
“I don’t know. I never saw him again. He just . . . disappeared.”
“And now he’s here,” Mephisto said happily. “How romantic. The two of you can get back together.”
“Not a chance.” I stepped on the accelerator. The car leapt forward. I changed lanes, shooting between two other vehicles. This time I was certain the honking was meant for me.
We drove in silence, the other two afraid to speak. The roads flashed by, and soon we were at the exit, heading back toward Wilhelmi Field.
“That’s odd,” I said suddenly. “I was thinking about Ferdinand just today, right before we found Mephisto. I wonder what reminded me of him? I haven’t thought of him in years.”
“Maybe it was the song your brother was playing on his lute,” suggested Mab.
“I doubt it. That was a sixteenth-century English song. I knew Ferdinand in 1473, in Italy. Hardly the same, at least to me.”
“But it was from The Tempest,” Mephisto piped in knowingly. “It must have been the song!”
“Perhaps,” I murmured, unconvinced.
“The real question,” growled Mab, “is what’s he doing here? And how did he know Miss Miranda was at that hotel? That’s what I wanna know!”
WE arrived at the airport just after two, returned the rental car, and headed across the field to the Lear.
“So, where does Mr. Theophrastus live?” Mab asked as he readied the plane, a custom-designed Lear jet modified to Aerie One piloting specs. He stood on a ladder wiping the windshield with a soft cloth. Below him, Mephisto had bent himself almos
t halfway backwards in order to walk under the wing and examine the flanges.
“So, where’s my staff?” asked Mephisto, from under the wing.
“Can’t we talk on the way?” I asked impatiently, folding my cell phone with a snap. I had been standing to one side, conversing with Mustardseed, my vice president of Priority Accounts, while I waited for Mab to ready the jet. “Theo could be dead by the time you two stop bickering.”
“Would like to oblige you, Ma’am, but I can’t deduce anything without facts. I can’t keep track of facts without notes, and I can’t write notes while I’m piloting the plane. If either of you two want to fly the plane, then I’ll talk about the staff while we go. Otherwise, no dice.”
“I’ll fly the plane,” Mephisto offered helpfully, emerging. Mab and I both ignored him.
“It’s your call, Ma’am. You’re the one who would like to keep your family from the jaws of Hell. Mephisto, here,” Mab jabbed his thumb at my brother, “and I couldn’t care less if the whole kit and caboodle spontaneously combusted.”
“Hey! Don’t include me in that. I love my family,” said Mephisto. He threw his arm about my shoulder. “Those members who don’t irk me, anyway.”
I gave him a cursory squeeze, then shrugged free. “This is getting ridiculous. How close is Theo’s house to the nearest airport?” I asked.
“About two hours,” said Mephisto.
“Why don’t you tell us where to fly the plane. We’ll land at the airport and rent another car. Then I can drive while you tell Mab about your staff. If Mab stops taking notes, you can stop telling me where to go.”
Mephisto narrowed his eyes. He struck a pose with one hand on his hip, staring at us suspiciously. Mab and I waited.
“I’ll tell him where to go,” Mab muttered under his breath.
“All right. I’ll agree,” Mephisto threw up his hands. “Fly your silly plane to New Hampshire.”
THE flight was relatively uneventful. Mephisto sat in the co-pilot’s seat making comments about how the land features below resembled smiling or leering faces with long ears or enormous noses. I sat in the passenger section with my laptop open, forgoing the delight of gazing out at the sky in order to review the inventory situation for our upcoming Priority Accounts.
Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I Page 7
