by Rachel Caine
And these girls…well, they were very, very decorative.
He gave them a charming smile, and they all smiled back, crowding closer. His hands were still moving on their own, shuffling, fanning, dazzling. It was a nervous habit now, something he did without even thinking about it. Illusion wasn’t his main source of income, but it was his passion, and it kept him on the streets, where he belonged.
“Oh my God, that’s amazing!” the girl in the orange bikini—Heather?—said, and showed him the queen of hearts he’d flipped her. “Stefan, do it again! Please?”
“Put it back in the deck. Anywhere.” He didn’t look, and his hands never stopped. She slid the card in, and he did the trick again, faster this time. The cool slap of the cards on his fingers was soothing. Relaxing. It was a kind of meditation for him, card tricks, and of course, it got the girls to lean closer. That was never a bad thing.
When the queen of hearts spun out this time, flipping in midair to land faceup, they all squealed. He followed it with the rest of the suit, in order, never looking down. It was his own trick, invented on long, lonely nights when he hadn’t felt like company. He didn’t sleep much, never had. He’d been up at dawn this morning, down on the beach with a cup of Starbucks’ finest, watching the sun gild the waves in rolling gold.
“Wow,” Heather breathed and looked up, delight shining in her eyes. That was what he loved about magic…. It really did magical things, even if it was only illusion. It made people feel a sense of wonder, and that could never be underestimated. “Stefan, you are amazing!”
He winked at her. “Better save your praise. We just met. I could get better, you know.”
They all laughed, breathless and excited. He couldn’t understand what his attraction was for women; he couldn’t really see it when he looked in the mirror. He was a collection of flaws: not tall enough, a little broad in the shoulders, gypsy-dark skin at least three shades off the golden glow that Californians seemed to crave. His hair curled, and he’d given up styling it; it just cascaded wild and black around his face and down past his collar. His nose was too large, his eyes so dark brown they looked black. No, he was hardly the California ideal, and he was overdressed for the nearly naked dress code of Venice Beach in loose low-slung jeans and a roomy black cotton shirt over a red sleeveless undershirt.
And yet, he was surrounded by girls so hot that he was surprised the wooden floor didn’t catch fire around them. Ah well. His cross to bear, he supposed.
Heather slid onto the bench beside him, and a girl in a blue thong bikini slipped in on the other side. “Ladies,” he said. “Are you trying to distract me? Or learn my secrets? I promise, there’s nothing up my sleeves.”
Heather leaned over, and her tongue touched his earlobe, a gentle wet caress that made him pause in his shuffling and close his eyes to control a deep, satisfying shudder. Oh, yes. He liked Venice Beach. “How about here?” she asked, and her hand moved on his leg under the table.
“Naughty,” he said, and actually jumped when the girl on his other side moved, too. “Okay, that’s—naughtier.”
They giggled. Stefan started shuffling again, fumbling one or two cards, trying to think how to get himself out of this gracefully. Or at least how to retain as much of his mystery and dignity as possible while succumbing. After all, if it was beyond his control, who could blame him….
Over one of the girls’ bronzed shoulders a TV was soundlessly playing on a twenty-four-hour news channel. He fixed on it, trying to take his mind off the girls while still enjoying what they were doing, and read the text crawling at the bottom of the screen. BREAKING NEWS, it read. DUAL ABDUCTION IN PHOENIX…
It hit him in a rush of light and color and sickening sensation. Cold. Cold metal floor. Vibrations. Light leaking in through tinted, curtained windows. Fingers going numb, tied too tight. Sharp pain in bound ankles. Knees, too. Wet gag in his mouth, on the verge of choking him. No way to spit it out. The cool, gritty feeling of tear tracks on his face. Grim anger and fear, a trace of panic held down with difficulty.
A girl was lying across from him on the van floor, similarly bound, her purple-streaked blond hair falling over her face but not quite concealing her frantic eyes. There was a bruise on her face, dark even in the dimness.
Two men sat on benches, one on each side. Couldn’t make out their features in the darkness. One was smoking, the stink of it filling the van and making it even harder to breathe around the gag….
He jerked back into himself, gasping, and dropped the cards. A strange sound sawed at his ears, and after a couple of seconds he realized it was the girls, giggling. He was still in the coffee shop, in Venice Beach. He was safe. His heart was racing, his palms sweating, and he couldn’t get away from the feeling of fear and foreboding and claustrophobia in the vision.
He stood up, gathered the cards and jammed them into his pocket. “Sorry,” he said, and pushed through the crowd of girls to achieve the open air outside. He stood there, breathing deeply, trying to slow his pulse. Blue sky, warm sun, pounding surf. Laughing people. Weight lifters on the beach, displaying their oiled muscles and as much skin as legally possible. Skating, scantily clad girls. Jugglers. Sidewalk artists. Musicians. Normal life, by the community standards. Stefan stood there shaking, struggling to put himself back in his own body. He was unable to forget the bleak terror the girl was feeling.
DUAL ABDUCTION IN PHOENIX.
They were in a van, and they were in terrible danger.
He needed to tell someone.
He sat down on a bench facing the ocean and dialed his cell phone slowly, thinking hard about what to do. In the end, he did what he always did.
He called home.
“It’s about time,” his mother said. No hello because she already knew it was him—she always knew. “Are you all right, Stefan? I had a dream.”
“Did you?” He closed his eyes and smiled. “What about?”
“You, obviously. You were somewhere dark, and you were in danger. Where are you, my dear?”
“Not in the dark,” he said. “And not in danger. I think you had an echo of what I just had, Mom.”
“Ah. Vision?” She was businesslike about it, but then, she would be: it was her business. Rose Blackman, psychic to the stars and Hollywood nobility. A genuine talent. She’d taught him all about showmanship, too. “Tell me about it, peanut.”
“Mom, please don’t call me that.”
“Just tell me.”
He did, in as much detail as he could remember. Unlike some of his other visions, this one wasn’t fading like a nightmare—it remained immediate and frightening in its vividness. “Mom, I think it’s the girls who were on the news. In Phoenix. I think I should call the cops.”
“The cops? Oh, no. That’s the worst thing you can do. Believe me, I’ve been down that road before. Even in L.A., the police don’t believe in psychics, and you’re talking about Arizona ? Pffft. You might as well claim to be from outer space.”
“What about the FBI?”
“What about them? Do you have any real information, Stefan? Anything that could really help those girls right now?”
He thought it over. The impressions had been immediate, but limited to the van, the pain, the fear. He couldn’t describe the exterior of the van, or even the faces of the abductors.
His heart sank, and he bent over to rest his aching forehead on the heel of one hand. “Then what do I do?”
“Whatever you do, son, it will be the right thing. I know this, because I know you.” Rose Blackman’s voice had softened, as if she could sense his distress. Maybe she could, even at this distance. It had been a source of annoyance and comfort to him all his life, that he couldn’t hide anything from his mother or—to a lesser extent—his father. They always knew, somehow, what he felt, if not what he was thinking. “Are you working today?”
“No. I’m supposed to have some production meetings later this week, but I’m at the beach.” He didn’t consider street performing to be wor
king so much as playing, although he couldn’t say she agreed with him. “Why?”
“Maybe you’ll get more information,” she said. “When you do, you can decide what to do. And where to go. But, peanut—”
“Mom!”
“—I had the dream. So watch yourself.” There was a voice in the background, and Rose dropped her own voice to a lower volume. “I have to go. My morning’s very full.”
“Anything exciting?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Should I take this job or that one? What about this guy I’m dating? Movie stars aren’t really any different from everyone else when it comes to insecurities. Except that you can’t keep them waiting. I love you, son.”
“Love to you and Dad,” he said and hung up. He rubbed the plastic of the phone case for a few long seconds, thinking, and then stood up to walk toward the stand of yellow taxis nearby.
“Stefan?” His gaggle of beach beauties stepped into his path, led by Heather in the orange bikini. She pressed against him, arms around his neck. Warm and so very tempting. “You’re not leaving us, are you?” He’d be a fool, that much was clear.
And of course, he was a fool.
“Want to see another trick?” he asked, and they all agreed they did.
It was a disappearing act.
His.
Chapter 3
K atie had been lucky on flights. After grabbing an overnight bag—she always kept one in her car, packed and ready—she’d been the last passenger boarded on the MD-80 out of St. Louis, and spent the flight refreshing her memories of Phoenix, Glendale and the surrounding area. According to her maps, Teal and Lena had been grabbed several miles from the school, which was odd; why hadn’t the girls caught a ride to the movies, or a bus or a cab? It was a long walk. She jotted down questions for Jazz and Kayla, then filled a second page with questions for Christine Evans. Made herself a note to contact the Phoenix field office on landing to make sure they knew she was involved. She might end up needing an intercession from SAC Evangelista, if the local bureaucracy was going to be difficult about things; then again, she expected at least one Athena grad in a position of authority would make some phone calls, and that would straighten out the tangle quickly.
Sitting strapped down made Katie’s bruises and cracked ribs ache fiercely. She swallowed some nonprescription painkillers and tried to nap, since she’d been short on sleep for days. She couldn’t. Her mind kept replaying the visuals she’d constructed from Jazz’s verbal account.
The blue van, easing in at the curb ahead of the three unsuspecting girls. The blitz attack, fast and overwhelming—as if the attackers had known to anticipate considerable resistance. Which implied that they’d done their homework on the girls, and also implied an uncomfortable amount of knowledge about the Athena Academy and its students. Almost certainly not targets of opportunity, these girls, or they’d have managed to surprise their abductors and fight their way free.
Still. It was possible that she was reading too much into it. Maybe this was a simple case of sexual predators cruising for prey…which was never simple. Her mind veered off in unwelcome directions. Too many cases that had ended horribly, too many trials, too many autopsies. She’d seen and heard things that wouldn’t leave her in moments like these, even with all her mental discipline and training. What if it was that rarest of breeds, the team of sexual predators—one to drive, two to abduct? That kind of organization was associated with the most frightening of offenders, the ones capable of the most excessive and calculated cruelty.
Given all that, sleep stayed a distant wish.
Katie opened her eyes as the plane approached the runway and got everything ready. She had one small bag, no purse, and she was fast off the starting blocks once the plane had taxied to a halt. She walked quickly down the Jetway ramp and breathed a sigh of relief when she achieved the open space of the terminal—room to breathe, finally.
As Katie made her way toward the transportation, the traffic congestion increased. It was prime West Coast arrival time, and the flight from LAX had just disgorged a flood of tanned beach-bunny types, along with some business travelers in the dreary uniform of the breed. She could fit in with them, really; she’d worn black slacks today, and sensible shoes, a white-collared linen shirt and black jacket. No jewelry. All she’d done was rinse off the worst of her sweat in the airport bathroom in St. Louis. Crime scenes weren’t fashion runways.
She cut diagonally through the milling crowd, trying to move faster, and collided with someone who had the same idea. “My fault, sorry,” Katie muttered and automatically backed off to steer around. So did he, and for a second she froze, staring, because he was…well, worthy of a good stare. Of a height with her, with a carefree tumble of raven-black curling hair. Big, dark, gentle eyes. Dark golden skin that could have come from half a dozen different ethnic heritages, a clever, handsome face and a devastating smile that he probably didn’t even realize he was using on her.
“No, that was definitely my fault,” he said. He had a great voice, too. She wondered why she was noticing him so intently, and why now, and then it occurred to her: he was noticing her. She wasn’t used to that kind of scrutiny, so blatant and yet nonintrusive. He didn’t leer, he just…appreciated. “I don’t think I can say I’m sorry about it, though. Nice to meet you.”
Realities crashed in. She didn’t have time for flirting; she had a crime scene to visit. The clock was ticking on two young girls, and she’d just wasted at least fifteen seconds of it on ephemera.
Katie took it out on him with a cool “Excuse me, I’m in a hurry,” then brushed by him, walked even faster and didn’t look back.
Stefan Blackman looked after the woman for a long moment, until she vanished into the crowd, and wondered what had possessed him to do a thing like that. There had been some kind of connection between them; he’d felt it, and he could have sworn she had, too. It hadn’t been a vision, not the way his mother received them, or even the way he usually did; it certainly lacked the power and definition of the images he’d received from the girl in the van.
Still. Something there. The woman was gorgeous. Obviously, not in the way he was used to; he couldn’t imagine her in an orange bikini, in-line skating around Venice Beach, for example. No, this one seemed cool and quiet and utterly self-confident, with just a hint of vulnerability in those dark eyes. Professional.
She was also armed. He’d felt it when they’d collided—a pancake holster under her plain black jacket—and his instant thought had been air marshal, but then he’d revised that. She seemed to be on her way somewhere in a hurry, and not just spending her days in airports. No, maybe a cop. FBI. Something like that. He didn’t imagine too many people other than those would be eligible to carry firearms on planes these days.
He’d never really had much to do with cops, other than the ones he ran into on the streets. Once or twice, one of his less-than-savory clients had brought about a visit from detectives, but usually it was perfunctory at most. He’d certainly never seen a cop like her.
Too bad he was on a mission. He was tempted to follow her, wherever she was going, although she’d probably have arrested him for it.
Hmm. Handcuffs.
He entertained himself with mental handcuff escapes as he shouldered his bag and strolled for the exits. He still wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing in hopping the last-minute flight, but something had told him not to delay. His mother had been correct—the police weren’t about to put any trust in what he had to say, and he didn’t yet have enough specifics to convince them. He needed more detail, and to get that, he needed to start at the beginning.
All he had to do was find the place where the girls had been abducted. Stefan hitched his backpack to a more comfortable position, thinking about the problem, and then strolled over to the nearest bank of phones. He flipped through the directory to find the number for the television station whose call letters he’d seen on the TV earlier, then programmed the main number into his cell phone.
>
He always did like the press. They were all show people at heart.
The cab stand outside the terminal was a zoo, every cab already claimed and being loaded. Katie growled in frustration and paced, watching as vacationers and business travelers loaded bags and laptops and kids into the available transportation. Come on, she thought. All I need is a damn cab.
One pulled up at the far end of the row, and Katie dashed for it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone else heading there, moving fast, and he was closer. His hand touched the door of the cab before she made it, and she pulled up short, fuming, as he pulled on the handle.
It was the man from the California flight, the one she’d bumped into. He’d been gorgeous in the terminal, but out here in the sun he glowed, his skin an impossible shade of light bronze, his deep black hair picking up blue highlights.
His smile was as warm as the sun.
“Okay, this time I do apologize,” he said and stepped back from the door to offer her the cab. “You look like you’re in even more of a hurry than I am. How about we share? You get dropped off first.”
She wrenched her stare away from that smile to some less dangerous territory. Not his eyes. His eyes were definitely, lethally beautiful.
“No,” she said.
“No?” He hung on to the smile. “You mean, no, you don’t want to share the cab, or no, you’re not taking the cab?”
Yes, she thought. He was rattling her, and that was strange and very distracting in its own right. She never let guys get to her. She’d seen all kinds—gorgeous charmers included—and she was definitely inoculated against their particular gifts. She’d seen the wreckage they left behind.
But this one…well. He was a challenge.
“I’ll take the next one,” she said. “You take this one.” She didn’t need a distraction, and he was the Las Vegas of distractions, neon and glitter and flashing arrows.
He frowned a little, and started to say something she was sure was going to be an argument, but then she heard someone behind her call, “Agent Rush?”
