“Why did he try to kill you?”
“He decided that he didn’t need me any longer. But I knew all his secrets. As he explained, that made me a serious liability.” She shook her head, still amazed. “He actually believed all the lies that the Nightshade people told him, including the myth that the drug would lengthen his life span.”
“Why did you create the corporate librarian history for yourself when you went into hiding? Why not fire up a whole new identity, one with no connection to Crocker World?”
“I went with the old theory that the best lies contain a measure of truth. Also, I knew everything about Crocker World, including how to access the computerized personnel files and create an employment record that would stand up to close scrutiny. It worked, too. I made it through a J&J background check.”
Luther smiled slightly. “If Fallon ever discovers that, he’ll have an attack of the vapors.”
She turned her head quickly. “Are you going to tell him?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Thank you.” She drank some more coffee.
“What really happened that day that Martin Crocker and his butler disappeared?” Luther asked.
She told him everything. When she was finished he was silent for a long time.
“Do you believe me?” she asked when she could stand the suspense no longer.
“Yes.”
She peeked at his aura and knew that he was telling the truth.
“One more question,” he said. “If you were worried that someone might someday find out that you killed Crocker, why in hell did you apply for a job within the Society? You had to know that you’d be surrounded by people endowed with various kinds of psychic talents. Your secret would be at risk every day.”
“I wasn’t sure if the people who recruited Martin would get suspicious about his death and come looking for me. I also knew from what Martin told me that the organization you call Nightshade is a group of renegade psychics. I figured the one bunch they might want to steer clear of is the Arcane community.”
“So you decided to hide in the heart of the Society.” Luther’s mouth curved faintly. “I like it. Talk about a gutsy move.”
“There was another reason why I applied for the post in the Bureau of Genealogy,” she said quietly. “I’ve always heard that when you’re in real trouble, you run home.”
“So?”
“The Society is the closest thing I have to a family.”
TWENTY-FIVE
It was intolerable.
La Sirène paced the hotel suite, seething. The Queen of the Night’s desire for revenge against Sarastro was nothing, a mere whimper of protest, compared to this clawing need for vengeance against the bitch who had somehow managed to resist her singing. The stupid creature should have died the way all the others had died. Why hadn’t she?
Time, she decided. There just hadn’t been enough time to finish the job. Another minute and it would have been over. If only the damned elevator hadn’t arrived when it did.
She squeezed her hands into fists, still unable to believe that things had gone wrong. The silly housekeeper had been completely under control. The superbly powerful, violent notes of Chiang Ch’ing’s “I am the wife of Mao Tse-tung,” a coloratura credo from John Adams’s Nixon in China, had been working perfectly, drawing the woman to her doom. The Voice had been flawless. She had woven the energy into it until it became a lethal force. The maid had been unable to resist. No one should have been able to resist.
A tendril of panic slithered through her. There was nothing wrong with the Voice. Nothing. The dreadful incident at La Scala two years ago had been no more than a fluke. Yes, she had been booed but sooner or later everyone who was anyone in the world of opera got booed by the damned claques at La Scala. It was practically a rite of passage for a singer. But what if they really had heard the lack of power on the high F?
There was no getting around the fact that things had not gone well the following season. There had been that horrible night in Seattle when she’d had to fake some of the money notes in her Lucia. That critic at The Seattle Times had caught it. But she had been coming down with a cold at the time. So what? Every singer had the occasional off night.
Yes, and more than one famous soprano had awakened one morning to discover that her voice had simply vanished. Another chill lanced through her.
The doctors had assured her that there was nothing wrong with her vocal cords but they weren’t aware of her psychic side, let alone how it was inextricably entwined with her singing voice. What if the problem lay with her senses? What if her worst nightmare was coming true? What if she was losing her Siren talent?
Impossible. She was too young, only thirty-five. She was in her prime. But there was no denying that her career was in trouble. It was her former agent’s fault, of course. The idiot had cost her important engagements. He had actually believed the rumors about her. She’d had no choice but to fire him permanently in a very private performance. The last note he would have heard was the stunningly perfect high G in Mozart’s “Popoli di Tessaglia.” She hoped he’d had a chance to admire her brilliant passagework.
No, there was nothing wrong with her except a little bad luck and worse management. But that would all change after she sang the Queen for the opening of The Magic Flute in Acacia Bay. It was certainly not the Met but Guthrie Hall was an exquisite little jewel of a theater and it was situated close to L.A. As dear Newlin had pointed out, there was an excellent chance that some of the important critics could be enticed to the performance. There they would see for themselves that La Sirène was back, and more brilliant than ever.
Once again the most exclusive designers would be standing in line to beg her to wear their clothes and their jewelry. She would soon be signing autographs just as she had in the old days. She would be booked three years in advance for performances at the most important opera houses in the world. . . .
Her phone warbled, interrupting the glowing vision of her spectacular future. She glanced at the code and winced. The last person she wanted to talk to right now was her sister. With a sigh she opened the phone.
“Hello, Damaris.”
“What’s going on? I’ve been waiting for your call. Is everything all right?”
“Calm down, everything’s fine. There was a small glitch this afternoon when I went to Eubanks’s hotel room, but it was nothing—”
“What happened?” Damaris sounded panicky.
“Take it easy. I used the gadget that Daddy provided to get into the suite, as we planned. I was going to wait for Eubanks and his bodyguard. I was preparing for my performance, doing a little warm-up, when one of the hotel housekeepers interrupted me. You know how I hate having my practice sessions interrupted.”
“What did you do?” Damaris yelped. “Please don’t tell me you killed her.”
“Well, no. Unfortunately that performance was also interrupted by an utterly impossible woman. Tell Daddy that I want him to find her for me. He owes me that much.”
“You want him to find the maid?”
“No, the horrid bitch who ruined everything. The one who was actually able to resist me for a short time. Can you believe it? She managed to save the housekeeper.”
“What are you saying?” Damaris cried. “You were seen by someone besides the maid?”
“Yes. I was forced to leave the stage before I could correct the situation. Some people were getting off the elevator, you see. You know how my talent works. I can handle at most two people in a private performance but no more.”
“We’re doomed,” Damaris whispered. “It’s all gone wrong.”
“That’s ridiculous. Pull yourself together. I’ve rescheduled my private performance with Eubanks for tonight. I’ve got a much more appropriate venue in mind. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be on a plane back to San Francisco.”
“But what about the other woman?” Damaris wailed. “If she was able to resist you, she must be a sensitive. Any possibility
she was Nightshade?”
“How should I know? Daddy’s the great secret agent in the family. It’s his job to find out things like that.”
“Is there any possibility that she could identify you?”
“Only if she is a true fan, which I doubt. She gave no indication that she recognized my voice. I was in full costume, as we arranged, so she could not possibly describe me.”
“But if she was Nightshade, she’ll warn Eubanks,” Damaris said.
“Eubanks is still at the hotel if that makes you feel any better. I watched him go into the spa a short time ago.”
“She wasn’t Nightshade then.”
“Probably not.”
“Who was she?”
“I have no idea. Ask Daddy. When he finds out who she is, I intend to give her one of my private performances. I will not tolerate the sort of interruption I was forced to endure today.”
“Vivien, you sound like you’re starting to obsess here,” Damaris said anxiously. “Are you absolutely certain the woman was able to resist your singing?”
“Only for a short period of time. I’m sure I could have destroyed her, given another minute or two. I’m going to hang up now. It has been a very unsettling day. I need to prepare myself for my next performance. Good-bye, Damaris.”
“Wait—”
“Tell Daddy to find the bitch.”
La Sirène closed the phone and tossed it aside. Really, it was such a responsibility being an older sister. Poor Damaris was so easily upset these days. It was Daddy’s fault, of course.
“SHE WAS J&J,” Daddy said.
“What?”
“Relax. I just pulled up the file. Turns out Fallon Jones has Eubanks under surveillance. But not because he thinks Eubanks is Nightshade.”
“Are you sure?” Damaris propped her elbows on the desk, rested her aching head in her hand and clutched the phone to her ear. The hot and cold chills were getting worse. She wondered if she was allergic to the drug. “Maybe J&J turned up a link.”
“No.” Daddy sounded very certain. “Trust me, if the agency had any suspicions in that regard, the Council would have been notified. Nightshade is its highest priority these days. This is a routine J&J operation.”
“How can you call it routine?”
“Eubanks is a registered sensitive who has killed three people,” Daddy said patiently. “The parents of the third victim were members of the Society. They asked J&J to investigate. That’s the only reason Jones is looking at him. These things happen.”
“This is getting complicated.”
“Calm down. I’ll know if J&J identifies the people on Maui as Nightshade. If that occurs, there are procedures in place designed to handle the problem. Meanwhile, let’s hope your sister can finish the job.”
“Vivien wants you to identify the woman who rescued the housekeeper.”
“Don’t worry, I intend to do just that.”
“Then what?”
“Then I will take care of the problem,” Daddy said.
TWENTY-SIX
Eubanks heard the singing when he emerged from the men’s room. It emanated from somewhere in the hotel’s extensive gardens and floated upward to the long veranda. The notes were so pure and high and sweet that at first he thought someone was playing a flute.
Some aria from an opera, he thought. He had never been a fan, but then, he’d never heard anything this thrilling. The music aroused all his senses.
The sound was so alluring, so enthralling, that he momentarily forgot that Clayton should have been waiting for him at the entrance to the men’s room. Belatedly it dawned on him that his bodyguard was nowhere around. A short time ago Clayton had made certain that the restroom was empty and then, per standard procedure, he had gone back outside to make sure no one entered.
Clayton was nowhere around and that was wrong. But the music could not be ignored. It called to him, seductive and inviting.
He forgot about Clayton again and crossed to the railing to look down. The massed foliage of the gardens was so thick it was like looking at the top of a jungle canopy. The moon gleamed on the long fronds of some of the taller palms. Here and there he could see a few of the low lights that picked out the narrow, meandering path that led to the picturesque wedding chapel.
The song tugged at him. He had never experienced anything like this. The flute-like notes were physically arousing. There was no other way to describe the effect. He was getting hard.
The singer was female and he was consumed with desire for her. She was down there in the gardens calling to him. He had no choice but to go to her.
A moment ago he had been focused entirely on his plans to move up into the highest circle of the Nightshade organization. He was being considered for the recently vacated opening on the board of directors. No one deserved it more. Soon he would be leaving the ranks of upper management and going straight to the top of the organization.
He knew that his superiors were extremely impressed with the recent refinement of the formula that had come out of the lab he supervised. There had been some unfortunate incidents in the early human trials but the organization was not the stodgy, timid FDA. The only thing that mattered to the people at the top was success. And he had delivered, big-time.
He had been told that the reason he was on the short list for promotion to the ultimate level of power was because his lab people had come up with a small but highly significant alteration that made it possible to store and transport the drug without the necessity of refrigeration. What’s more, it could now be put into capsule form and taken orally rather than injected. Until now, anyone using the genetically tailored formula had been forced to make certain that the vials were kept on ice or in a refrigeration unit of some kind.
There was no doubt but that he had earned the right to occupy a place on the board. Thanks to the drug, he was becoming a powerful strat talent. It was no secret that most of the people at the highest levels were strats. The ability to outthink, outplan and outmaneuver others was, after all, the master talent. It was what took you to the top.
The other talents had their uses to be sure. But what good did it do to possess a psychic power for charisma or for illusion or for viewing auras if you didn’t know how to use it to achieve your objectives? High-level strat talents used other talents as pawns.
Oh, yeah, he was destined for the board.
But first he needed to find the singer. Nothing was more important tonight. He listened closely with all his senses trying to pinpoint her location. Somewhere in the very heart of the darkened gardens, he decided.
He went down the flight of stone steps. At the foot of the staircase, he started along a narrow path following the lure of the music. When he rounded a corner he stumbled against an object. He tripped and almost fell but managed to catch his balance. When he looked down he saw a man’s leg sticking out from under the fronds of a mass of ferns. The sight briefly shattered the trance induced by the music.
Shocked, he took a quick step back. Then he realized there was something familiar about the dark trousers and the running shoe. Fear sparked through him.
“Clayton?” he said.
The figure did not move.
He crouched to make sure. There was just enough light from the footpath lamp to reveal Clayton’s face. The bodyguard’s eyes were closed. He was not moving but he was breathing. Blood that looked black in the poor light partially bathed his face.
Part of Eubanks continued to focus on the lilting music while another part tried to concentrate on the fact that someone had lured his bodyguard into the gardens and knocked him unconscious with a seriously blunt object. There wasn’t much that could catch a high-level hunter off guard, even one who was only partially enhanced.
Run. Get the hell out of here.
He leaped to his feet, turning quickly to scan his surroundings. It was impossible to make out anything in the shadows. He started back the way he had come.
But the music came to him out of the night, stro
nger and more powerful now. The singer was close. He could not resist, even though his mind was screaming at him to get to safety.
Against his will, he reversed course and went deeper into the gardens. Slowly, fighting each step, he crossed a small footbridge over an ink-colored koi pond. Something splashed in the dark waters. Now he could see the graceful silhouette of the moonlit wedding chapel. The singing came from within.
He went up the steps and through the open door. The structure was not illuminated but there was enough silvery light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows to allow him to see the figure standing at the front of the room. The singer was dressed in a long white spa robe, her features shadowed by the hood drawn up over her head. She looked like some ethereal being from another dimension.
Fascinated, he moved down the aisle, unable to resist the compulsion of the music. The singer opened her arms to him. Her voice rose higher, becoming a splashing crystal fountain of perfect and somehow terrifying notes.
The pain began then, alternately searing and then freezing his senses. It spread swiftly. The sudden headache was excruciating.
He finally understood that the singer was killing him. Someone had arranged his murder.
This could not be happening, not to him. He was destined for power and greatness. He had killed three women to get this far.
He fell, drowning in darkness. A horrifying thought came to him. Was the woman who was killing him with her music the ghost of one of the three he had murdered?
The crystalline notes followed him into the depths.
And then there was nothing.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Luther opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through palm fronds, the incredibly satisfying sensation of Grace curled around him, and the annoying trill of his phone. The sunshine and the phone were standard issue when it came to mornings. The feeling of Grace cuddled next to him was anything but. Only one night of having her here in his bed and he was already addicted.
Reluctantly he eased away from Grace’s soft warmth, sat up on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone. He got a little jolt of adrenaline when he saw the familiar code.
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