Power Play (Amanda Byrne Book 1)

by Kimberly Keane

  “I’m Amanda Byrne.” I offered my hand.

  He looked at me for a moment and said, “Michael Bradley.”

  I dropped my hand to my side when it became obvious he wouldn’t take it.

  “What’s this?” he said to Carol.

  “Amanda thinks . . . Amanda is here for the psychic conference. She came to look at Peter. He’s . . . well, he’s . . .”

  “Cursed,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow at me.

  “You don’t believe in curses.” I sighed and readied myself. I was either going to give my quick and dirty introduction to the psychic world and be met with skepticism, or be tossed out on my ass.

  “What do you charge to lift curses?”

  I jerked my head back in surprise. “You know about the curse?”

  He nodded.

  “What’s been done to try to lift it?”

  “My talents run in other directions.”

  “What do you know about curses then?”

  “That they exist.”

  “That’s all?”

  He nodded once.

  Gods, this guy was a first-rate ass.

  “Your son is quite ill. Have you tried anything magically to help him?”

  “We’ve got the best doctors here seeing him.”

  I gritted my teeth. “He’s been attacked psychically. If you know people who can help, bring them in.”

  “They don’t deal with curses.”

  I stood in stunned silence. It was his son lying in the hospital bed, for the gods’ sake. I stilled the urge to shake my head and looked back at Carol. “I’m going to reach out to some colleagues tomorrow. Call me the day after.” I fished a card out of my purse and held it out to her. Mr. Bradley reached over her and plucked it from my hand.

  “I’ll ask again,” he said. “What do you charge?”

  Money seemed to be terribly important to this guy. I wasn’t sitting on a gold mine, and I couldn’t afford to work for free all the time, but I remembered the Fates and their warning. “I won’t charge for helping to lift the curse, but I can’t guarantee others won’t charge for their services. If you or Carol would like to bargain with the gods for Peter’s recovery, I will charge my standard rate: three hundred an hour plus expenses.”

  “These others, how expensive are they?”

  “Mike,” Carol said. He turned a stern look on her, and she dropped her gaze to her lap.

  “I have no way of knowing,” I said.

  “But you will not charge for your actions and services used to remove the curse.”

  “Unless it involves me working with gods or goddesses, correct.”

  His smile turned as cold as his arrogance. I hesitated when he extended his hand to seal the deal. As I finally grasped it, I opened myself to his emotions, allowing them to no more than trickle in. My suspicion he’d placed the curse on Peter was replaced with the knowledge it wasn’t his. This realization was interrupted by a small electric current that ran from his hand through my body. A binding spell, his binding spell, attached itself to me. Lovely.

  I planned on doing exactly what I said, so the spell didn’t worry me. Well, it didn’t worry me too much. If something kept me from completing my task, things could get ugly. Damn.

  “A binding spell?” I said.

  Although I didn’t think it possible, his smile widened. “I don’t lose.”

  “I didn’t realize we were competing.”

  “Everything is a fight. There are only winners and losers. I’m one of the winners.” He spoke as if he lectured a child. “I. Don’t. Lose.”

  I gritted my teeth, nodded to Carol, and left the room. I suspected Mr. Bradley’s winning personality and trusting nature had made him a few enemies. Perhaps someone had decided to punish him through his son.

  Chapter Two

  Another hospital, but this patient wasn’t a child.

  Drew Jones lay in the hospital bed, one leg and a healed stump over the crumpled linens. His left hand rested in his lap where the other would have been—if he’d still had it. Kelly, his wife of seven years, sat on his left side. They were a handsome couple, both blue-eyed blonds. I could see him with his missing parts intact, playing on the football team in high school and her cheerleading on the sidelines.

  The last time I had seen them was the day we’d had his limbs exhumed, what was left of them.

  She took his hand and traced the lines in his palm. He twitched and pulled back. A smile played on his lips. She looked into his eyes and smiled back at him as best she could. Then her smile faded, and I saw the maize color of worry deepen around her.

  Drew brushed the hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear, then drew her forward and kissed her gently. Without the goldenrod color of anxiety covering him, I would have never known he wasn’t as calm as he appeared. I suspected his five tours in Iraq and Afghanistan and an honorable discharge due to losing an arm and leg in a roadside bomb taught him much about being stoic. If it were me awaiting a goddess who would reattach my missing limbs, I’d have been balling up the bedsheets in hands that couldn’t hold still.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said to his wife. I could see the anxiety swirling around her; he had to read it in the tension on her face and the set of her shoulders.

  She leaned back in the chair, gave him a wan smile, and turned to me. “When will she be here?”

  “Anytime now,” I said.

  “Is the doctor ready?”

  “Yes. He made sure he’d be in the hospital. I’ll ask the nurses to page him when Airmid arrives.”

  “Will it hurt?”

  “None of the other soldiers have complained of any pain.”

  “How many soldiers have you helped?”

  “I’ve lost count,” I said. “At least a hundred.”

  “And you’re sure it won’t cost us anything?”

  I managed to keep my voice low and supportive. I had been through this more times than I could remember, and every time, I was either peppered with questions or immersed in uncomfortable silence. I preferred the silence, especially when the day had been as long as this one had. I took a deep breath, pushing my frustration away, and went over the details with her yet again.

  “Yes. I don’t charge anything when I work with people who’ve served. Dr. McElvane and the head of the hospital’s administration agreed to waive their fees so long as the procedure is witnessed, and medical tests are run.”

  Chimes sounded and Airmid appeared in the hospital room. Drew was halfway off the bed as if to attack her or defend he and his wife, before he caught himself and settled back.

  “Well met, Airmid.” I stood and curtsied.

  “Well met, Amanda,” she replied. She carried Drew’s arm and leg within her woolen cloak. Her auburn hair lay over the cloak like silk.

  “A doctor asked to be present to witness the healing. I shall get him, mass a doohull a,” I said, knowing I slaughtered the Gaelic, but making the attempt anyway.

  She laughed. “‘If it be your will’ is said ‘Más é do thoil é.’”

  I gave her an apologetic look. “May I get the doctor?”

  “Of course.”

  Dr. McElvane joined us, followed by five additional doctors. They placed themselves so they had an unobstructed view. Several nurses stood behind the doctors and many more staff and orderlies gathered in small groups outside the room. The gray color of doubt and tangerine excitement was all about.

  I put myself in the corner. I’d seen the show before, and truth be told, it still turned my stomach.

  The scent of blacktop in high summer filled the room when Airmid opened a container containing her poultice. She smoothed it on the end of the unattached leg and the leg’s stump. She placed the leg on the bed and slid it up to press against the stump. Kelly gasped and leaned forward. I knew when Drew’s flesh bubbled and flowed over the unattached limb as I could hear her gag and saw her press her hand over her mouth. She closed her eyes tightly, tears leaking from the co
rners. She swallowed, shuddered, and asked Drew if it hurt.

  “No.” His brow furrowed, then rose. “It tingles and it’s a little warm. It . . . I can almost feel . . .” He fell silent and his hope swelled so large that it eclipsed all the other emotions in the room, pouring out of him and rolling toward me.

  I pushed the heels of my hands into my eyes, straightened in my chair, and strengthened my shields. The hope slammed into them, bits of the emotion leaking through, making my heart quicken. I leaned forward, the hope touching me, making my head spin. Still, I kept my shields in place, limiting the emotion’s effect on me. I wouldn’t be able to remain professional if I felt all of it. I marveled at Drew; not one ounce of what he felt crossed his face. The only sign was his rapt attention to Airmid and his leg.

  The goddess began to sing softly; I heard it only because of the hairs rising on the back of my neck. That and I knew what to listen for. It crept toward the audible, a haunting sound. I imagined it must be like a siren’s song: sensual and undeniable. It called to the flesh, albeit for a different purpose than the siren song. Her voice grew stronger, and soon I would feel the urge to join my voice to hers. I would resist, as would most others. The song continued until the bones, muscles, blood vessels, and nerves joined and regenerated. She sustained the last note and then let it go, as if releasing a butterfly into the wild. I glanced at my watch. It had taken about an hour.

  Drew’s eyes widened. He leaned forward and looked down. The tears that shone in his eyes didn’t spill, but it was close.

  “I can feel my toes.” His voice was just above a whisper, but I heard it from across the room; it ran over my skin, causing gooseflesh, and suddenly my eyes threatened to spill.

  Kelly touched Drew’s face, her fingers tracing a line from his forehead to his jaw. “Are you sure it doesn’t hurt?”

  “Not at all.”

  He leaned back and pulled his newly acquired leg up at the knee. He touched it and ran his finger down his calf. He raised his face to the ceiling and laughed. “I want to get up. I want to stand on it.”

  Airmid gently pushed the leg down until it was extended.

  “Stay resting for a time. When you stand and walk, do so gently. It is like a newborn and needs time to grow.”

  Drew grumbled and looked at Airmid. He dropped his gaze to his leg and flexed the muscles a couple of times. His jaw clenched, but he said, “I guess a few more hours won’t kill me.”

  The doctors talked to each other. They bandied medical questions about things I didn’t understand and couldn’t hope to repeat. They touched the reddened skin, remarking at how small the hairline scar was.

  “Airmid,” Kelly said above the doctors. “Thank you.” She opened her mouth to continue, paused, and closed it. I could almost hear her asking herself how one asks a goddess to get on with it.

  Airmid nodded at Kelly and looked at the doctors. They continued to talk among themselves until, one by one, they realized they were being watched. I knew Airmid would have watched the doctors talk for an hour. Adoration and worship was adoration and worship whether it was during a ceremony or at the witnessing of a miracle.

  “Shall we continue?” Airmid said after the final doctor fell silent.

  No one answered her, but they all turned toward Drew.

  After both limbs were reattached, not quite an hour later, Airmid looked over the backs of the doctors who were discussing the process again, and nodded to me.

  “May I have your attention, please?” I said.

  The doctors continued to trade questions and hypotheses, so I tried again, louder.

  “May I please have everyone’s attention?”

  Either the doctors still didn’t hear me or chose to ignore me. I stood on a chair so I could see everyone in the room and so they could see me.

  “Yo!” I yelled. “Docs!”

  Many of them jumped and then elbowed the others until I had everyone’s attention.

  “Drew needs twenty-four hours to complete the healing process before any tests are done. He should eat well and sleep as much as possible. Airmid would be happy to join the healing staff in a larger room to answer questions.”

  Dr. McElvane offered Airmid his arm and escorted her from the room. The rest of the hospital staff followed.

  I stepped down off the chair as gracefully as I could and winced at the loud click my heel made on the floor. I went to the side of the bed opposite Kelly.

  “Drew,” I said and took his hand—the one that hadn’t been there earlier that day.

  Drew looked at his hand in mine and then rolled his eyes as far up in his head as possible to make sure he shed no tears. When he finally looked at me, one tear escaped his control. He swallowed audibly. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You risked your life. I just helped return what was already yours.”

  Chapter Three

  “Harry?” I cradled the phone against my ear and paced.

  “Mandy, how is my favorite psychic?” His high-class Southern drawl curled through the phone and caressed my ear.

  “Sorry, I’m skipping the mutual flattery and getting straight to the point.”

  “Darlin’, I don’t know if I can go on without a little fun first.”

  “Harry . . .”

  “I can’t remember the last time we had a little tête-à-tête. You need some fun in your life.”

  “I don’t have time for fun at the moment. If you’re hunting for compliments, you’re the best damned private investigator I know. Now can we get down to business?”

  “Sweetheart, I’m the only private investigator you know.”

  “You know I know plenty of PIs.”

  “If I am the standard for a PI, then you’re wrong. I am the one and only.”

  “Didn’t I just say that?”

  “Yes, but I do it with flair.”

  “You certainly do.”

  Harry was the most audacious person I knew. He was intelligent, cunning, and too damn good-looking. His eyes were imperial blue surrounded by a ring of black that matched his hair color. Had it not been for them, it would have been nearly impossible to keep from looking at his athletic physique.

  “What can I do for you?” he said.

  “Peter Bradley. A boy. Ten years old. Someone laid a curse on him, and it’s eating him alive.”

  He was silent for a long moment. “A curse,” he said more to himself than to me. “In Las Vegas? A curse?”

  “Yes. And Harry, lifting the curse isn’t billable.”

  “Damn, Mandy, I do more pro bono work for you than all of my other clients combined.”

  “It will come back to you in the end.”

  “Favorable karma is all well and good, but I enjoy the perks that come with gettin’ paid.”

  “Okay, okay. See what you can find out about Michael Bradley. I’ll cover any charges for that. But don’t screw me.”

  “Your subtlety is slippin’. Who’s this Michael Bradley?”

  “The boy’s father.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Not much. I just don’t like him.”

  The line fell silent, and I could almost hear his thoughts crackle through the phone line. “You know somethin’, darlin’. Share.”

  “He’s mad.”

  “Crazy?”

  I paused to think about it. “It’s possible. He’s angry. He has trust issues and slipped me a binding spell. I expect he’d turn on anyone if it suited his best interests.”

  “When do you need this?”

  “When do I ever need anything?”

  “I’ll see what I can find by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thanks, Harry. Have I told you yet what an amazing private dick you are?”

  “Why, yes, you have. And flattery will get you everywhere.” His deep laughter rolled through me before he hung up the phone.

  Harry Thibodeaux loved to flirt. He loved to do more than flirt, but his three failed marriages and more one-night stands than I co
uld count ensured I kept our relationship on a platonic level. His boldness was a trait that continued to attract me despite my best efforts to hack it out of my definition of alluring. Thank the gods he and I were rarely in the same state.

  Next, I called Miriam. She’s my closest friend and a telepath of extraordinary talent—one of the few who haven’t fallen prey to catatonia. She attributes this to her shielding ability, which allows her to almost silence the constant pandemonium of thoughts and images.

  “’Manda. I didn’t think I’d hear from you until tomorrow. Would you like me to see what I can get from Michael Bradley?”

  I smiled. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to hearing the answers before I asked the questions. Miriam typically held special psychic shields in place to block her talent until it was needed. But, for unknown reasons, she always used it before answering the phone.

  “Thanks,” I said. “If it’s not too much to ask, I’d love your take on him. Do you want to meet up for a late lunch?”

  “Yes, how does sushi sound? They’ve got a Japanese restaurant here in the hotel.”

  “Sounds excellent.”

  “I’ll meet you just outside the elevators, casino level.”

  I stepped out of the elevator doors and looked around. It was easy to spot her. She was striking. Her black hair was long and straight, with only a few strands of silver. It complimented her cream-colored skin and forest-green eyes. Her features were delicate, with a slight Asian cast. We smiled at each other and headed toward the restaurant.

  The casino was loud with the sounds of poker machines and people yelling over them. It smelled like every other casino in Vegas, stale cigarette smoke and desperation.

  “How did your client meeting go?” I pitched my voice to be heard over the casino’s cacophony as I addressed the frustration that clung to her.

  “Not well. I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to meet with them, but I was going to be in town for the conference and let sympathy get the better of me.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Missing person.”