by Julie Leto
***
“Topher Pyle? Man, I ain’t seen that creep in weeks.”
Cat threw back her scotch, the liquid burning down her throat as she boldly eyed the bartender. She’d already found out the man’s name was Rock. She’d hoped he wasn’t as stupid as one, but so far, things weren’t looking good.
“Bullshit,” she responded.
Rock’s lip curled up at the corner. “You calling me a liar?”
Cat leaned forward, and beside her she felt Ben tense. The bartender, a large man with a patch where one eye should have been and a scar running a jagged edge all around his chin, glanced at Ben, who held up his hands as if her impertinence was none of his affair.
She grabbed the bartender by his marred chin and turned his eye back to her. “Don’t look at him. He’s just here for the beer. I’m the one who doesn’t believe the load of shit you just handed me. If I shell out fifty bucks more for this piss you call booze, you think you might remember something important?”
The man yanked out of her grip. “You’re a crazy bitch.”
She stepped down from the bar. “I’ve been called worse by scarier assholes than you.”
The huge man shot forward, but Ben jumped between them, kicking back his barstool, which skidded across the sawdust-covered floor. Funny how Professor Rousseau Jr. could look harmlessly charming one minute and the next, he’s standing with his hands palm forward—and the sweet side of a .357 magnum sticking convincingly out of his waistband.
“The lady offered you an extra fifty,” Ben said, his tone calm.
Rock’s one dark eye watched Ben’s gun as if it might jump out and do flips. Or deposit a bullet in his forehead.
“Ain’t worth it,” Rock spat.
“Got someone else who’s going to tip you so generously tonight just for information about some prick who probably stiffed you for his tab last time he was here?”
That had been a guess, though Rock’s pierced eyebrow rose enough to reveal that she’d hit the mark.
The sleazy dive bar Amber had directed them to was nearly deserted. A few bikers lined up around a faded pool table while two guys played for bragging rights and dollar beers. A couple of drunks gnawed cheap cigars in a corner. A guy in a stark white suit and many gold chains conducted business from a cell phone in the corner, oblivious to the fact that his fashion statement was older than he was. Cat doubted any of the college crowd Austin was famous for went anywhere near this joint ordinarily, yet this was the address Amber had provided for the guy who’d paid her for an introduction to Paschal. She must have been slumming.
Unless, of course, she’d been playing them.
But Cat didn’t think that was the case. Since she’d hooked up with Ben, her psychic abilities had intensified in ways they hadn’t since she lived with her grandparents. She’d known Amber was telling the truth with the same certainty that she knew this bozo bartender was lying through his crooked teeth.
“Forget it,” she said, tossing a couple of bills on the bar. “Old Rock here doesn’t know an opportunity when he hears one. His loss, not mine. Someone else with info on Pyle will want our money.”
“No, wait.” The bartender crowded forward, his single eye glinting both ways to ensure they weren’t overheard. “Look, Topher hangs out with real freaks. They rolled into town a few weeks ago and scared off my regulars. They split day before yesterday and I don’t want ‘em back here, got it?”
Cat slid back into her seat. Ben tossed her a cocky smile over his shoulder.
“Can’t guarantee Topher won’t come back,” Ben said, finishing his bottled beer. “But we won’t issue him an invitation. He’s got something we want, that’s it.”
The bartender frowned. “Yeah, well, I’ve got something of his. Maybe you can work out a trade.”
Dipping down beneath the bar, the guy emerged with a scarred leather jacket, which he threw over the battered bar. “He left it here the other night. One of his pals got a phone call and they shot out of here like bats outta hell.”
“Know where he lives?” Cat asked.
“Man, this joint ain’t Cheers,” Rock sniped. “Besides, Topher ain’t local. Rental plates on his truck. Drives around with four other freaks, all dressed in black and coats that don’t jibe with the weather. Earrings. Black lipstick. Tattoos on their faces. Vampires, if you ask me.”
“A bunch of Goth kids scared off your bikers?” Cat asked.
“Weirdest shit you ever saw,” Rock said with a nod. “Even tough-as-nails bikers don’t want to mess with sociopaths, got me? Guys like these liable to blow your brains out only seconds before they do the same to each other. I’m glad they’ve split. Here,” Rock said, tossing the jacket at Ben, “take it. Do whatever, but don’t lead that jerk’s ass back here.”
Cat laid a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. “We won’t, but if he shows up, his jacket was stolen and you never saw us.”
Rock nodded, then, with a greedy sneer, snatched the C-note and turned away as if they’d never walked inside.
She followed Ben out the door. Once outside, she stopped suddenly, grabbed Ben by the sleeve and pushed him against the wall.
His smile was cocky, his body instantly hard. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“Sorry,” she said, not really meaning it. “I can’t help it. Your mean cowboy act back there just made me hot.”
She pressed her mouth against his and the blast of sensation nearly melted Cat from the inside out. Tense and powerful from the density of his biceps to the firm feel of his chest against hers, Ben’s body proved every inch as marvelous as she imagined. She leaned wholly against him, steaming the air around them and leaving little oxygen to feed her lungs. She fed on him instead, tearing her hands into his hair, only barely registering the stab from the zipper of Topher’s jacket indenting her skin.
The moment her focus shifted to the jacket, a wave of sensation—decidedly not sexual—crashed over her. She pulled away from Ben as if drowning. Anxiety. Fear. Anger. Emotions so strong, they yanked the lust from her body, leaving a striking pain in their wake.
“Cat?”
Ben grabbed her by the shoulders and led her away from the bar. At the car, he tossed the jacket into the backseat, and suddenly she was able to breathe.
“What happened?”
She shook her head, trying to regain her equilibrium. God, what had just happened? A premonition? She hadn’t had an emotional reaction like that since…since she’d been a young girl on the verge of puberty, coming into her psychic abilities in haphazard spurts. She’d learned to ignore her gift, pushing the ability deep inside her where it could do no harm.
But now, maybe it could do some good. Was she willing to take the chance?
“The jacket,” she said, breathless. “I felt…something. I’m guessing emotions of the guy who owned it. He’s pissed off. Royally. And he’s afraid he’s going to lose something he wants very badly.”
“Like my father?”
She shook her head, trying to clear the confusion streaming at her from all angles, all sides. She didn’t have a clear picture, just impressions.
“I’m not sure, and unfortunately, I know only one way to find out.”
“What way is that?” Ben asked, helping her to the passenger side, opening the door and graciously guiding her in.
Cat took a deep breath. She couldn’t believe she was going to do this—she couldn’t believe that after all this time, she was willing to go this far. One glance up at Ben’s expectant eyes told her she had no choice. She could help him find his father. But first, she had to take a very wild leap into a world she’d eschewed for many years.
“Do you know what a botánica is?” she asked.
Ben eyed her suspiciously. “A store where you buy supplies for certain religious rites.”
She nodded. “Like voodoo and Santería. You need to find the nearest one. Fast. Before I lose what might be our only connection to your father.”
Twenty Two
Damon stared at the screen, motionless. He had no idea how long he’d concentrated on the words there, but he knew that when he and Alexa had finally found a listing for the Forsyth family on a…Web site…tracing the lineage of families associated with the House of Lords, she had still been awake. Now she slept in the chair beside him, her head resting against her arms on the table, the flames from the hearth adding streaks of fire to her glossy red hair.
His gaze returned to the numbers beside his father’s name. Born 1684. Died 1767. He’d lived twenty years after the disappearance of his sons, to the ripe age of eighty two. Below his name appeared each of his male offspring born to his first wife, Margaret. Damon. Aiden. Colin. The twins, Logan and Paxton. No mention of Rafe. And of course, none of Sarina or her gypsy mother, Alyse.
And all the sons, including himself, bore a death date of 1747.
His heart ached. Had none of his brothers survived the battle? Had they died at the hands of King George II’s mercenaries or in battle with Rogan? The document did not say. And of course, for all he knew, his brothers had simply been cursed as he had.
This brought him no comfort.
He took a measure of relief from knowing that his father did not die in the cellar of the Valoren home. Had he searched endlessly for his sons, or had he returned to England to serve the Crown until he died? Damon had once aspired to nothing more. But now? Damon could afford to serve no one but himself and his burgeoning desire to piece together all the fragments of his past.
“Have you googled Rogan yet?”
Alexa’s voice, thick with sleepiness, startled him. She hadn’t moved a muscle. Her hair was a curtain over her face, but through the strands, he saw her eyes flutter open.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I’m catnapping,” she replied, shaking her hair out of her way so the dying embers of the fire behind him glistened in her emerald eyes. “I showed you how to google.” She yawned. “Didn’t you look him up?”
Damon closed the top of the contraption he’d learned was called a laptop computer. The origin of the word perplexed him since Alexa warned him that the lap wasn’t a sturdy place to balance such a delicate instrument.
But she certainly hadn’t been exaggerating about the magical quality of the thing. The library at Alexandria could not have held half the information available with the click of a button here, the typing of a word there. He’d had trouble adjusting to modern American spellings but, with her help, had found the academic Web site where he’d first discovered his father’s name. Clicking subsequent “links,” as she called them, led him to the family tree.
And since she had shown him how to “google” not only his family, but hers, the moment she’d drifted to sleep, he’d revisited the many pages that referenced her life story. He now knew what a car looked like—particularly after being squashed by a monstrous vehicle called a semitrailer truck. He’d studied the mangled steel in horror, trying to imagine her body being pulled from the wreckage. In many ways, she’d cheated death more than he. All he’d had to do was remain in a painting for two hundred and sixty years. She’d had her body stitched back together inch by bloody inch.
“I do not wish to know more of Rogan,” he answered.
She frowned. “That isn’t very smart. ‘Know thy enemy’ is the first rule of business.”
He eyed her carefully and spied a hint of secrecy lingering in her eyes. “Then I suppose you researched him yourself before you came here tonight.”
Lifting herself heavily off the table, she stretched and yawned again, her bodice nearly falling open as her back arched. He glanced aside. He had no time for dalliance tonight, despite the wicked desire coursing through him at the sight of her in such a decadent black silk gown. He hadn’t had much time to explore the change in fashion from his century to this one, but if all women dressed like her, he had no trouble understanding why the female gender seemed to now rule the roost.
“Of course I did,” she replied. “But I couldn’t find a damned thing. You didn’t give me much to go on.”
“I do not know much beyond my personal interactions with the man,” he replied. “Rogan shrouded himself in mystery. I do not even know his family name. The man wore inscrutability around him like a cloak. If one had to ask questions of his past and family, one was considered to not be ‘in the know,’ so to speak. Everyone assumed that everyone else knew the man’s history, yet even the gossips were stumped. When someone dared question him too closely, he turned on his considerable charm until the queries were forgotten.”
“That may have worked with others, but how did it with you?”
Damon smirked. “I didn’t wish to know more. Not knowing was more intriguing.”
“But once he went to Valoren with you, he must have told you something. Your father would have asked—”
“Of course my father asked, and Rogan’s replies were rife with words that answered nothing. He was a world traveler, the son of the earth itself and a follower of the moon. The Gypsies loved him, embraced him, despite his high-born wealth. I highly suspected he was a Gypsy himself who had somehow come into a massive fortune.”
“So he had no past, but he had money?”
“An unending supply of gold, which made keeping his secrets all the easier.” Damon slid the laptop toward her. Dawn would soon approach. He had an hour, perhaps two, with Alexa before he faded from sight and needed rest. Since he had not used magic since her arrival, the anger within him remained at bay. And yet, he knew the peace could not last. He’d tried to reach his goal her way, but they’d accomplished nothing except establishing that his brothers had also disappeared or died the same night as he did—and that Sarina more than likely had never been found. Now more than ever, he had to return to his original plan—conjuring up the entirety of Rogan’s castle in order to search for the source of his magic so he could set himself free.
“I appreciate your concern, Alexa, but there is only one way for me to discover the secret to Rogan’s curse. I must use the magic.”
Her arm shot out and her fingers clasped his wrist. “You can’t. The magic is infecting you. Maybe you’ll find the magical source, but who will you be once you’re free?”
He extricated himself as gently as possible. “The consequences matter not. Only the outcome. I cannot exist this way forever.”
Sliding his chair away from the table, he focused on the mosaic, one of the many once scattered throughout the castle. The scene seemed ordinary—a day in the life of the Umgeben village Gypsies. When Rogan didn’t take his meals in his private rooms, he often arranged dinner in the main hall. He invited the Gypsies into his fortress so he could revel not only in their adoration but in their tradition and music.
Their magic.
Damon wandered to the fire and stared into the flames. He had to continue re-creating the castle. The infection of evil would invade him, but he’d fight the effects as best he could. But not with Alexa anywhere near him.
He turned to send her away and she was already standing behind him.
“I’m not going,” she declared, arms crossed.
“Daylight beckons, my lady. I know you have business to attend to.” He reached forward to touch the triangle of gold dangling around her neck, but she jerked away.
“Oh, no, you don’t. The necklace is mine now. It allows me entrance to my castle, and I’m not about to give that up. You can try and take it from me again,” she challenged, loosening her arms by her sides, though he wasn’t fooled by her casual stance. She was ready to fight for the talisman, even against him. He knew he could overcome her, but at what price?
“I will not take it, but I will warn you that with this sunrise, you must leave and not return to the castle. It will not be safe.”
“No can do,” she replied. “I won’t let you destroy yourself.”
“You mean, what’s left of me.”
She arched a brow, then sidled forward until her body pressed against his. “You’re
all the man I need.”
Humor and lust battled within the emerald depths of her irises, but Damon had to remain strong in his conviction. “In the night, yes. But in the light of day, I’m no more than a shadow. I cannot exist this way, Alexa. Being locked in the painting—aware, yet unaware—was easier than knowing a whole amazing world exists outside these walls that I cannot experience except through your machines. I have never been a man to be satisfied with living through others. Like my sister, I yearned to explore, learn, enjoy. I finally understand her anger and frustration…about three hundred years too late. Perhaps if I’d comprehended earlier, she wouldn’t have been susceptible to Rogan’s allure.”
“You can’t change the past,” she argued.
“No, but I can alter my future. And I must do so without you.”
He closed his eyes and concentrated on Rogan’s study. In a sparkle of color, he materialized there. Darkness surged inside him once again, licking at his insides like the tongue of a horrible beast. He took a deep breath and pressed the air downward, forcing the evil to remain at bay. When he opened his eyes, he discovered Dante, the cat, lounging on the chair, his tail flicking aimlessly while his golden gaze regarded Damon with indifference.
Breathless, Alexa charged into the room. She caught the edge of a bookcase to stop her momentum and shouted, “Stop! Don’t run from—”
He closed his eyes again, this time transporting himself into the tower. She’d never reach him here—she likely did not even know the way. He paced, trying to determine his next course of action, wondering at what point Alexa would retreat to the mainland and abandon him so he could act without worrying about the consequences to her. A quarter of an hour later, however, he received his answer. Watching the ocean outside for any sign of her boat leaving the island, he heard her steps on the circular stairs behind him.
When she reached the top, she collapsed on the floor, her lips parted halfway between a smile and a snarl.
“You can’t get rid of me,” she said, panting, “so easily.”
