The Edge of Ruin

by Melinda Snodgrass

  But Richard didn’t look at her. He watched their father with an intensity that bordered on desperate.

  Pamela thought Dagmar was right and said so, then added, “And they won’t just take the sword. Since you’re the only person who can use it, they’ll take you, too.”

  “I believe I made just these points in Washington in December,” the judge said.

  “Yes, sir, you did, and they made sense—then. But things are just getting worse and worse. Pretty soon we’re not going to recognize our world, and I’m afraid if we don’t mobilize now it will be too late. Nothing we do will have any effect.” His gaze went around the room, resting briefly on each of them. “We need allies and we need help. We’re going.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Aphone ringing late at night always elicits gut-clenching terror. Rhiana jerked awake in her nest of Egyptian cotton sheets and fluffy down comforter. The bed was a giant Georgian with massive posts rising toward the hammered copper tile ceiling. She had them remove the high rails and the heavy blue velvet curtains. She had slept in a gossamer tent in Kenntnis’s penthouse, and even though the material was vastly different it brought back memories. Memories of betrayal.

  Fighting her way out of the covers, Rhiana scooted to the side of the bed and snatched her cell phone off the bedside table. As she answered she saw the time—3:40.

  Shit, maybe it was her mom, or dad.

  She wasn’t sure why she’d called her adopted parents and given them her number. That was a different life that she was so totally done with, but she had, and she didn’t really want to think too much about it.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  But it wasn’t one of her reputed siblings. It was Doug Andresson. “Hey,” he said. “I’m in a little jam. I need you to come—”

  “What do you mean you’re in a jam?” Rhiana combed her hair out of her face and tried to focus. “How can you be in a jam at the compound?”

  “Well, actually, I’m in town. D.C.” He tried to infuse the words with an insouciant little bounce.

  “What? What the fuck have you done? Didn’t I tell you to stay there?”

  “Yeah, well, I was bored. You promised me anything I wanted, but you didn’t get back to me when I called. I’m important, and you treat me like shit.” He sounded angry and sulky now.

  The desire to strike at him clawed at the back of her throat, but she forced herself to moderate her tone. “So, what’s the problem?”

  “You need to come here.”

  * * *

  Here proved to be a hotel that straddled the boundary between official Washington, where power walked, and the decaying neighborhoods where crime preyed on the poor. Jack pushed open the pitted-glass doors. Rhiana had enlisted his help because she didn’t want to meet Andresson alone again. It was starting to feel natural, even comfortable, to call the tall spiritualist when she needed help. She knew it made her vulnerable and he might take advantage, but right now she didn’t care.

  In the east there was a hint of gray as dawn slouched toward its arrival. Rhiana reluctantly turned her back on the sky and followed Jack into the lobby. A night manager dozed behind the desk. There wasn’t a cage protecting the plump and pallid middle-aged man, but there was a prominent sign on the counter that stated NO CASH KEPT ON PREMISES.

  A few stained sofas and an armchair huddled around a scarred coffee table that was littered with People and Time magazines, several years out of date. There was the smell of cheap coffee brewing and of microwave eggs being prepared for the breakfast buffet.

  “Keep him asleep,” Rhiana said softly to Jack.

  The clerk yawned, stirred and started to open his eyes. Jack looked down at the big square-cut diamond ring on his own right hand, murmured, and the gem blazed with light. A tendril of white fire left the ring and touched the man’s forehead. The clerk collapsed back into the chair, mouth open, snoring sonorously.

  They moved down a hallway toward the back of the hotel. There was a faint wet-dog smell from the recently cleaned carpet. It hadn’t had a notable effect. There were still stains ground into the blue Berber.

  Rhiana tapped on the door, and Doug opened it a bare crack. That alone told her it was bad. “Oh, good, it’s you, come in. Hey, who’s he?” Suspicion sharpened the words.

  Jack slammed a shoulder into the door, forcing the smaller man backward. “I’d suggest you not question the lady,” Jack said. “She’s your—” The words cut off abruptly; then Jack said in a suffocated tone, “Oh, shit. Oh, Jesus. Oh, God.”

  Rhiana rushed into the room. The cloying and yet almost metallic scent of blood filled the room. There was a man sprawled on the floor, back up against the dresser. His hands were cupped around the knife protruding from his belly. Blood stained the skin, and drops actually hung in the hairs on the backs of his fingers. Quivers ran through his body, and his eyelids were fluttering. He was alive, but only just.

  Not so the naked girl in the bed. Black hair hung in thin corkscrew ringlets. Some of them were draped across her face and helped hide the protruding, bloodshot eyes. Her tongue was like a piece of purple liver thrusting from between her lips. A man’s belt was wound around her throat and pulled tight. Livid bruises mottled her face and shoulders, and her breasts showed bloody bite marks.

  Jack was gagging. Rhiana fell back against the door. It gave beneath her weight, and latched shut. Her thoughts seemed to be spinning, colliding, and shattering. Nothing made any sense.

  “What … what … what …” was all she managed to say.

  “I was softening her up. A little play before we got down to action. I went to get a glove, who knows what a cunt like that might be carrying, and while my back was turned she got her cell phone and called her pimp. She kept crying, and telling me to stop, that this wasn’t what she did, and then this asshole”—Doug glared at the bleeding man on the floor—“let himself in. I think that fag at the front gives him a passkey so they can do a shakedown on their patrons. I’m settling with him next. Anyway, he tries to start something, but I got my knife. Then she starts to scream, and I had to shut her up.” Doug shrugged as if what had occurred in this room were the most natural things imaginable. “She shouldn’t have fucked with me.”

  Jack had pulled out a handkerchief and was wiping his mouth. He backed up to stand next to Rhiana. “Okay, what now?”

  She looked into Andresson’s flat black eyes, and wanted to call the police. Wanted to call Richard to come and take this man away and lock him up, so Rhiana never had to see him or deal with him again. But he was part of their plans. Their answer to getting Richard. But Andresson was awful, and he terrified her. Jack was looking at her, sensing her indecision. He took her by the upper arm and gave Doug a stiff smile.

  “Excuse us just one minute.” He pulled Rhiana into the hall and made sure the door was shut. “How is this guy our problem?”

  “Because he is. I’ve been put in charge of him. He’s an empty one, a person with no magic. If we … when we get the sword he’ll use it. And I was supposed to keep track of him. Keep him safe. Keep him happy. Oh, God, if they find out …” She spun in a frantic circle, fingers clutching at her hair.

  Jack caught her by the wrists and forced her to stand still. “Okay, we get rid of the evidence. We take him back to the compound, and you keep him supplied in hot and cold running girls, booze, anything he wants.”

  “What if he kills another one?”

  Jack stared at her, his expression quizzical. “What do you care? If you time it right you can have a snack.”

  “Yes. Yes. You’re right, of course. I’m not sure what I was thinking …”

  “That you were human?” he asked.

  Rhiana suddenly wanted to cry. Crossing her arms, she clutched at her elbows and thought. “We need to make this go away.”

  Jack nodded. “Yes, but unless you’ve got Harvey Keitel playing the fixer from Pulp Fiction I’m not sure just how we do that.”

  “We’ll send the room away.” With her f
orefinger she reached out and lightly touched the diamond in his ring. “Want to learn how to create a tear in reality?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  RICHARD

  The ferocious windstorm had the hem of my overcoat beating at my knees, and some of the gusts threatened to knock me off my precarious three-point balance. I tried to dig the tip of the cane more firmly into the concrete of the tarmac. It didn’t work. The western horizon was obscured by a wall of approaching dust, and dirt was pinging against the metal skin of the Lear with enough force to actually be heard over the screaming wind. It hurt on the exposed skin of my face, so I turned my back, pulled up my collar, and hunched my shoulders.

  Weber pressed his shoulder against mine and leaned down so we could hear each other. “You know if you need me you just have to call. I’d come with you now, but somebody’s got to try to keep the force intact, and the city safe.”

  His eyes, irritated by the flying sand, were running water. I started to reach up and wipe away the trailing moisture from his cheek, but when I realized what I was doing I quickly turned it into a swooping gesture that landed my hand safely in my pocket.

  We stood in silence and watched as my father vanished through the hatch into the Lear. He was trailed by Dagmar, Angela, Syd, and Sam. My security detail—Joseph, Estevan, and Rudi—were arrayed around the perimeter of the plane. At the foot of the stairs my sister stood checking a list. The paper fluttered wildly in her hand from the force of the wind. Grenier, his hand on the railing, looked up at the stairs with the disgruntled expression of a man faced with an irksome and daunting task.

  “Looks like you’re loading the clown car at the circus,” Weber said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “That just fills me with confidence.”

  Weber cocked his head and gave me his lopsided grin. “And just how did the Bozo Brigade convince you to take them all along?”

  “Well, let’s see, Sam and Syd think they can help by contacting friends at the FBI, and Sam has offered to shoot people as necessary.”

  “That girl is just plain scary.”

  I nodded. “Papa needs to go so he can get Brook out of jail and arrange a passport for Tanaka.” My phone was buzzing and vibrating in my pants pocket. I dug it out and looked at the screen. BRENT VAN GELDER. I put it away again. “Pamela has to fly to Australia with said passport to collect Tanaka and bring him to me, and the Lumina plane is in Virginia.” I paused to catch my breath.

  “Your sister must hate being your girl Friday.”

  “Oh, probably. Where was I? Oh yeah, Dagmar. Dagmar is still trying to teach me the business and she won’t let me play hooky, and Angela is coming because … well … because …” I felt my face flame with embarrassment.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Weber. “You and your women.”

  “Don’t start.” I continued. “And Grenier refuses to be separated from me and the sword because he’s convinced he’ll be killed if he’s not with me.”

  “He’s probably right.”

  “He might actually be the most useful card I can play. He’s been a Washington fixture for almost twenty years. He knows the president and a number of legislators. He can back me up.”

  “While admitting he’s an evil sorcerer who wanted to bring the monsters into the world. Yeah, that’s a real winning hand.”

  We both looked over at him again just in time to see Grenier shake his head, like a bull bedeviled by flies, seize the rail of the plane’s stairs, and begin trudging ponderously upward toward the hatch.

  “We’ll just gloss over that.”

  “That’s going to be one hell of a gloss.”

  Pamela suddenly darted up the stairs and tried to squeeze past the former minister, but she caught her heel on a riser and almost fell. Grenier’s arms shot out, and he gathered her into an involuntary embrace. There was a moment when they looked into each other’s faces. Pamela pulled back, and I watched her say something.

  Lumina’s new pilot appeared in the door. He was short, wide, and pugnacious. His name was Jerry Cannon, and he was a former navy pilot. He’d found commercial aviation dull, so he’d spent the last few years flying emergency supplies into the world’s hellholes. I’d hired him, despite his surly attitude, because I figured he could fly us out of a fix. Jerry pointed ostentatiously at his watch and yelled over the wind, “Hey, you may own the fucking plane, but I’m flying the goddamn thing. Let’s go!” Jerry disappeared back into the plane.

  “He does know he works for you, right?” Weber asked. I held out my hand, palm down, and waggled it back and forth. Weber shook his head. “You’ve got, like, this superpower for attracting bossy assholes.”

  “It’s a gift,” I said lightly and gave him what I hoped was a confident smile.

  “You used the sword on him?” Weber asked.

  “No, why would I do that? He’s just going to hold my life in his hands. Of course I used the sword on him.”

  “Hey, watch the lip, you still work for me. So, here’s my orders. Make the assholes listen and get Kenntnis free.”

  “Yes, sir! That’s the plan, but you know what happens to plans.” He nodded, and my mind provided the rest of the quote. They rarely survive contact with the enemy. I gave myself a mental shake. “Well, Jerry’s right. We should probably get the flying circus in the air. ’Bye, Damon. Take care and stay safe.”

  “Same goes for you, Rhode Island,” the big cop replied and clapped me hard on the shoulder.

  I was sure we presented an absolutely absurd picture with me limping up the stairs while Joseph walked backward behind me, eyes scanning the airport, and the other two guards held at the foot of the stairs. I hoped Damon wasn’t watching this.

  Once we were all inside, Pamela touched the controls that folded the steps and closed the hatch. Jerry was in the cockpit flipping switches. A soft whine rose in intensity until it was a rumbling growl. The vibration ran up through the soles of my shoes and into my bones.

  Dagmar hung over the pilot’s shoulder. “The radar works? It’s to your satisfaction?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Lady, the day I can’t avoid a missile, even in a piece of shit plane like a Lear, is the day I hang it up. Now go put your ass in a seat.” Jerry looked up and saw me watching. “You, too.”

  I gave him a mock salute and moved into the body of the plane. It seemed cramped after the Gulfstream. Ah, how quickly you got accustomed to the life of the very rich.

  “What are you smiling about?” Dagmar asked.

  I told her, and she smiled back at me, which intensified the laugh lines around her eyes. I realized she was probably a person who, in normal times, smiled a lot. I felt a momentary flare of guilt that I was adding to her burdens. Then I looked at it logically—monsters/me, monsters/me. Probably the monsters were causing more heartburn than I was.

  “Yes, soon you’ll be deciding which yacht you want to buy based on the draw of the keel, and which harbors you can actually enter versus having to take the helicopter into Monaco,” Dagmar said.

  “If I ever become that person, you have my permission, in fact, I order you, to shoot me,” I said.

  “I don’t like guns. I’ve never shot a gun,” Dagmar said.

  “Okay, then have Sam do it. She’d probably welcome the chance.”

  Dagmar laughed, nodded, and took a seat, but I pushed father back toward the tail of the plane. Pamela was leaning across the aisle arguing with Grenier.

  “You violated your parole. You jumped bail. They will put you in jail.”

  “Your brother will protect me. And you can defend me. I’m sure you are formidable.”

  Pamela harrumphed and flung herself back against the seat. “This is so stupid.”

  I knew she meant me. I tried to explain. “Look, I think it will help having him with me. The very fact I would tolerate having him around, or that he would hook up with me, helps make our argument. We’ve done a lot of damage to each other.” At my words Grenier lifted his right arm and inspected his stump closely; he then ga
ve me a thin smile. “The fact we’d work together proves how serious things are.”

  Pamela just folded her arms and looked pointedly out the window. Grenier and I exchanged a glance. We’d actually discussed this. What I didn’t mention was the added part of the conversation.

  “I’m coming because you, dear boy, are going to need some respite from your terrifying sire. Not to mention all the estrogen swirling about. You’ll be grateful to have me along.”

  I stole a glance at my father’s profile. His eyes were closed, and his Bose headphones were already firmly in place. I knew he hated to fly. I wasn’t sure if it was the actual flying, or the disruption of being out of his space. I knew Dagmar didn’t like my father, I knew Angela didn’t like my father, and now I could add Grenier to that list. If it had just been the disgraced minister I could have shrugged and thought, consider the source, but I liked Dagmar and I had a hunch she had a pretty good sense about people. And I cared deeply for Angela and I knew she was fiercely protective of me, which meant—I didn’t like what it meant.

  He’s my father. But I wasn’t really sure where the thought took me.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Rhiana huddled against the swooping, graceful back of the Victorian fainting couch. Her bare feet were tucked up under the floor-length bathrobe, and she had an intricately crocheted afghan pulled up to her chin. It was both scratchy and greasy as wool and lanolin vied for primacy.

  The heater kicked on, and the rush of air through the vent set the crystal drops on the chandelier to shivering and ringing. She was beginning to think the chandelier had been a mistake. The ceiling wasn’t really high enough to support its four-foot length. Maybe she’d repaint. The rose and green wasn’t working for her anymore.

  Thoughts about interior decorating worked for a few brief moments to take her mind away from the hellish scene in that hotel room. Andresson was safely back at the Virginia compound, and no one seemed to know—or at least no one remarked—about his absence. Rhiana knew that women were being delivered to the dark paladin. She didn’t want to know any more than that.