by Ann Macela
Bruce carefully spread the paper out on the yellow pad he’d been writing on. The number was still visible—fortunately for the man standing on the other side of the desk. At least he’d done one thing right.
“What do you want us to do now, Mr. Ubell? Try again?”
“No, they won’t come out of the Center without looking for you first, and there’s no place to hide where you won’t be seen. Go on and get out of here. Tell your boss I won’t need you again for a while.” As if they’d be allowed a second chance. He wouldn’t have used these incompetents in the first place, even if they were “associates” of his primary drug distributor, but they were all he could get his hands on in a hurry.
“Okay, Mr. Ubell.” The man left, and Bruce heard Sedgwick meet him in the hall to usher the bungler off the premises.
Bruce leaned back in his chair and swung it around to face Otto Finster’s portrait. In the dim light of the study, his grandfather’s eyes seem to glint with derision—a trick of the artist’s hand or the spirit of the old man somehow stuck in the painting? He nodded at the figure. “I’ll bet you’re cackling in hell.”
Once more, Bruce lamented the lack of good, trustworthy practitioner help. Using his Stone to try to entice someone over to his side was so tempting—with Swords prowling around, however, too dangerous to attempt. He and Alton hadn’t gotten where they were by carelessness. Until Alton’s bout of utter stupidity ruined so much, they’d had total success. If only his cousin had consulted him before he took his Stone out of its secure hiding place.
Bruce should have known he couldn’t trust an addict like Alton had become. Should have seen it sooner. Alton had never been in charge of his Stone the way he himself had. Pity. This line of thought wasn’t solving his problem, however.
He reached for his keyboard, typed in a note, and printed it. He read it over, checking the plate number carefully. Find the owner of this license plate and get back to me ASAP. The messenger will wait.
He put the note in a blank envelope, sealed it, and printed a name and address in block letters on the front. He rang for Sedgwick. “See that someone delivers this immediately, please. He is to wait for a reply”
After the butler went on his errand, Bruce turned back to his spreadsheets. They made him even unhappier. Under current conditions, the projections for the drug business profit were extremely low for the next three months, and nonexistent for weapons sales, thanks to Alton, his bungling with his Stone, and the subsequent events.
Thank goodness Bruce had his own copy of the books; he’d not been able to find Alton’s. Of course they weren’t where they were supposed to be, in the old man’s secret room. They weren’t in Alton’s usual hiding places in his bedroom either. Bruce hadn’t taken the time to search extensively. The house was simply too big, had too many nooks and crannies, and he was too busy.
As he raised his eyes from his keyboard, his gaze fell on the corner where the floor safe lay.
The floor safe. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? If Alton put his Stone there, he’d probably hidden his flash drives in the same place. When Alton collapsed, Bruce barely had time to shut the door and put the carpet over it before the household staff rushed in. He hadn’t looked in it at the time or since.
It only took a moment to open the safe. Ah, here were the flash drives in their box. The Sabel bitch hadn’t taken them, but why should she? He closed the safe, restored the carpet, and carried the box back to his desk. Now he could work on his spreadsheets in relative peace.
About an hour later, Sedgwick knocked and brought in a brown envelope. Bruce thanked him and told him to go to bed.
As he watched the old man close the door behind him, Bruce entertained the notion of his Stone influencing Sedgwick to become his prime gofer. No, he dismissed it quickly. Sedgwick was only about third level and made the perfect doorkeeper. His honesty practically shone out of his face. No, Bruce needed somebody younger, smarter, and ambitious, not afraid to get physical or throw a harmful spell. Maybe his Stone could help him choose. He wrote “Make list of possibles” on his to-do list for the next day.
For the moment, he had an answer to his most pressing question: who was the man with Irenee Sabel? He slit open the brown envelope, took out his original one, and opened the message. His contact—a very well-paid contact in the police department—had written the name James Booth Tylan, an address, and the words, “No other information at this time. Will look again in the morning when I can get into other systems.”
The address wasn’t far from the mansion, but in a very different neighborhood. Although Bruce had never heard of the man, lack of such information didn’t matter these days. Time to use the Internet. He displayed a search engine on his computer and typed Tylan’s name in various configurations. Within seconds, he was reading about the man’s parents being killed ten years ago in San Diego.
Tylan was a long way from San Diego. Bruce found another article about a Charity Tylan, who had been killed by a drug overdose in Bakersfield. Only one survivor, James, a brother, a police officer in San Diego. He had to be the same man.
Bruce went to the practitioner registry Web site. No Tylan. Not a one. He breathed a short sigh of relief. The last thing he needed was another Sword or Defender. Or, for that matter, another practitioner of any talent. Who was the man?
Idly he began to play with the box holding the flash drives while he considered scenarios. He flipped the lid open and shut several times before he looked into the box and what he saw registered in his head.
For all his faults, Alton was probably more than a little obsessive-compulsive about certain objects—like how he put them away.
Each drive fit precisely into its own slot. Alton always put them in with the little key rings attached at the ends of the casings facing up, so he could easily hook a finger in to pull one out. The key rings were not in sight. Somebody had put the flash drives into the box upside down.
Alton would never do such a thing.
Somebody copying the drives might.
Bruce slid one of the drives into a USB slot on the back of his laptop. He clicked on the icon for drive contents to be displayed. When the list of files came up, he double-clicked on one. Then he opened the Properties box. The last time the file was accessed was the date of the gala. The time of access was right before the auction began—exactly when Alton was in the ballroom.
So, most likely, somebody had copies. Good luck to them. The spells he’d been able to put on those drives with the help of his Stone should give accountants absolute fits. Even if the police or another agency was investigating the Finster activities, there was no way they could straighten out the financials without the reversing spells. All his other dealings were well hidden. He had nothing to worry about from the law.
Were the Defenders teaming up with a law enforcement agency? Their doing so would be a new tactic. Was the agency aware of the Defenders’ abilities? He’d have to be on his guard. Of course he could handle everything either would throw at him, but he didn’t need any more surprises.
In fact, he and the Stone would take great pleasure in destroying them all, especially the little Sabel bitch and her boyfriend. They would be the first to go.
The familiar oozing of confidence and hatred from his crystal filled his body, and he allowed himself the luxury of fantasizing about what he would do to them. Should he start with the woman or the man first? Decisions, decisions. His center warmed up, and he laughed in delight. Yes, the Stone agreed with him. Together they could defeat everybody.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Jim!”
Her scream ringing in her ears, Irenee sat straight up in bed.
Jim was in trouble. He needed her now.
She ran out of the bedroom, out of her condo, down the hall. The elevator took forever to come, and she danced in anxiety until it did. She entered and hit the button for the ground floor, wishing she’d taken the stairs even if it would have taken longer. She needed to be moving.
>
Once the door opened, she dashed out, conjuring her sword while she ran for the other side of the lobby. She heard someone shout, but didn’t stop.
From the hall with the elevators to the hotel, Jim suddenly appeared, gun in hand. “Irenee!”
“Jim!” She canceled the spell for her glowing weapon, and it dissipated when her hands came apart.
They met in the middle of the lobby and flung their arms around each other, holding on tight for a long moment. Then she loosened her grip and separated enough to see his face.
“Are you all right?” she asked as she ran her hands over his naked chest and shoulders to make sure.
“Are you all right?” he asked as he held her to him with one arm and captured her hands with his free hand.
“Fine,” they said in unison and hugged again, holding on until ...
“Excuse me,” a voice said from behind her. “I’ve called Mr. Whipple and Mr. Baldwin. Can we be of assistance?”
Irenee turned in Jim’s arms to face the desk clerk and a security guard. Before she could say anything, someone coming from the condo side caught her attention.
With his bathrobe flapping around his bare ankles, Fergus hurried over from the elevators. He relaxed once he looked them up and down. Turning to the desk clerk, he said, “Thank you, Mr. Bennett, I think we have the situation under control.”
Irenee was still breathing hard, and her heart was beating like crazy, but she managed to say, “Thanks for calling Fergus so quickly. I’m sorry we disturbed you.”
“Perfectly all right. Let us know if we can be help,” Bennett replied, and bowed himself and the guard away.
Also in his bathrobe, John Baldwin stalked up from the hotel side. “I take it we’re not being invaded.”
“Doesn’t look like it,” Fergus said. “Nobody say a word until we get upstairs to my place.”
Her arm still around Jim’s waist and his around her shoulders, Irenee walked to the elevator with the men. Only when she saw herself in the long mirror on the wall opposite the doors did she realize how she looked. Her hair was flying about her head, and all she had on were her long sleep T-shirt—one saying “You show me your spell and I’ll show you mine”—and a pair of panties. She hadn’t even grabbed a robe or slipped on shoes in her rush out the door.
Of course, Jim looked fine—more than fine, actually—barefoot and bare-chested in his jeans with his curly hair disheveled. She jerked her gaze back to the elevator doors. This wasn’t the time or place to ogle him.
Bridget was waiting in the Whipple, condo. When she saw Irenee’s state, she loaned her a robe and gave her a wool throw to put around her feet.
Irenee and Jim took seats on the couch, John and Fergus on the chairs. Jim put his gun on the end table next to him after unloading it.
“What happened?” Fergus asked.
Irenee looked at Jim, who said, “You first.”
“I was asleep, and I guess I was dreaming. I was in a big black room. Suddenly a light showed Jim, tied to a chair. Bruce Ubell was standing over him, laughing like a maniac. He had a grotesque, misshapen Stone in his hand, and he threw a fireball at Jim, then a lightning bolt. Jim shouted my name, and I woke up screaming his. I just knew something awful had happened, and he needed me. So I ran to find him.”
“I had pretty much the same dream,” Jim said, “although it was Irenee in the chair, not me, and it was physical torture, not magic. He hit her. I woke up, threw on some pants, grabbed my gun, and went to find her. We met in the middle of the lobby”
“Interesting.” Fergus stroked his beard. “You actually had the dreams at the same time.”
“Yeah, and that’s not all,” Jim stated. “Mine felt exactly like the last one did—the one where you thought Ubell was communicating with his Stone. I was a hell of a lot closer to his house, though, the first time.”
“Fergus told me about your episode,” John said. “You evidently have some of the qualities of a sensitive Defender, or you could be attuned somehow to this particular Stone.”
“Come to think of dreams ...” Jim rubbed his jaw. “I had an earlier one, the night of the gala—or rather very early the next morning. All I remember is an awful feeling, something like a black hole, and then a flash of white light.”
“That was when we destroyed Finster’s Stone,” Fergus said with a gleeful smile, and he rubbed his hands briskly together. “Oh, this gets more and more interesting.”
“There’s another possibility,” Irenee said, “and it’s not all about me, me, me, I assure you. Maybe you’re picking up Ubell’s and his Stone’s animosity aimed at me. Each of your dreams has involved me and the Stone, one way or another. It could be some sort of soul-mate connection triggers your sensitivity”
“Ah, you told him,” Fergus said.
“You didn’t give me much choice,” she answered.
“And?”
“None of your business, Fergus.” She wasn’t going to get drawn into that topic. She’d do what Jim did: stick to the subject at hand. “What about my theory?”
“If this soul-mate thing is so powerful,” Jim said, “maybe my dream anxieties are getting sent to you or shared somehow. I may be physically farther from Ubell, but I’m closer to you now in distance.”
“We still don’t know if Ubell’s actually using his item when you have the dreams, do we?” John asked.
“No,” Fergus answered, “but I’ll bet he’s doing something. These dreams don’t make sense otherwise, and the timing’s right.”
“Intriguing theory,” Bridget said, “but it would appear none of you have answers, and it’s very late. From what Fergus told me, you two, Irenee and Jim, have a big day tomorrow. Speaking as a physician, I recommend you get some rest. Sleep late. I’ll tell Johanna to expect you when she sees you.”
Everybody thought it was a good idea, so Irenee, Jim, and John said good night and left. John took one elevator down to return to the hotel side. Saying he’d see her to her door, Jim followed Irenee up to her condo on the fourth floor.
All the way to her door, Irenee wondered how to ask him to stay the remainder of the night with her. She simply wasn’t sure she’d get even a little bit of sleep unless he was close.
Neither said a word until they were inside and she turned on the lights. Then Jim pulled her into his arms, and they held onto each other for a few minutes.
When they let go enough to pull back, she got no farther than “Jim, I—”
“Irenee, we both may need time,” he interrupted, his golden-green eyes very serious, “but I’m staying here with you for the rest of the night. There’s no way I’m going to be over in the other wing. I won’t be able to sleep unless I’m sure you’re safe. Your couch looks long enough, so I’ll bunk here.”
She was right. They were attuned to each other. “The sofa in my home office is a bed. It will only take a minute to open it.”
“No, this is fine.”
“Okay, let me get you a pillow.” Rather than dig one out of the closet in the office, she walked into her bedroom and pulled one off the bed. For a blanket, he could use the afghan. Coming back out into the living room, she plopped it on one end of the couch and watched as he took his weapon out of the back of his jeans and put it on the coffee table.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of guns, a big bad Sword like you?” he said when he noticed her watching him. As he spoke, he unloaded it again.
“Let’s just say, I respect them.” She hadn’t even noticed him putting the bullets-or clip, or whatever the thing was—back in the weapon before they left the Whipple’ place. More proof she was really exhausted.
“That reminds me, what was the glowing stick you had in your hand in the lobby? It disappeared.”
“My sword. I’ll show you tomorrow.”
“Fine. For now ...” He drew her into his arms and kissed her until they were wrapped around each other like jungle vines.
When they finally broke the kiss, she managed to whisper
, “Sleep tight,” and wobble off to her room, so tired she wasn’t certain if she’d make it to the bed without falling on her face.
After thirty long minutes of tossing and turning—with a nagging flutter in her center—she dragged herself to the bedroom door and down the short hall to the living room. When she came around the corner, he sat up on the couch.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I can’t sleep.”
“Neither can I.”
“My center’s bugging me.”
“Mine is, too.”
She hesitated, then blurted out the only remedy she could think of. They really did need to rest. “What if we only lie down together? Sleep, not do anything else. We’ll know where each other is. Maybe the physical proximity will help.”
“Works for me.” He got up, grabbed his pillow, his weapon, and its pieces, and came toward her. He’d taken off his jeans and had only his boxers on. He stopped when she looked at them. “I can put my jeans back on.”
She shook her head. “Too much trouble.”
She led him into the bedroom, where he put his gun on the chest next to his side. Between the weapon and her sword, they were ready for all physical threats, and she hoped there’d be no repeat of bad dreams for the rest of the night.
They climbed into bed, he leaned over to give her a little kiss, and she snuggled into his arms.
Exactly where she was supposed to be. She took a deep breath to fill her lungs with his scent, and it was the last thing she remembered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jim woke up the next morning with Irenee’s hair tickling his nose. Her head was on his shoulder and her arm flung out across his chest. He couldn’t see her bedside clock and he didn’t have his wristwatch on, but the sun was shining through a crack in the curtains. Light outside, however, didn’t mean it was time to get up. The summer dawn came so damned much earlier in Chicago than his southern California self was used to.
Bridget had told them to sleep late, so he wasn’t going to wake Irenee just yet. Instead, he’d lie here and enjoy having her in his arms. She’d had the right idea last night for them to go to bed together. He hadn’t slept so well in months. No dreams.
