Fates 06 - Totally Spellbound

by Kristine Grayson

  She glanced in her rearview mirror. Still no cars. She took a deep breath, and limped her vehicle to the shoulder. Then she got out, and slapped herself hard across the face.

  Didn’t work. Nothing had changed.

  Except now her face hurt.

  A man stepped onto the shoulder from the side of the road. He had a leather glove on his wrist, and held a tiny hood in his hand. In the swirling dust illuminated by her headlights, he looked like a ghost.

  “Did you see a bird?” he asked.

  He was tall but slightly built. His hair was long and brown, tied into a ponytail with a leather cord. He seemed to like leather—not the shiny black leather that bikers wore, but soft brown leather, maybe even some kind of suede. If she had to label his shirt, she’d call it a jerkin—it even looked handmade—and his tan pants seemed just as crude. Even his boots looked medieval—all fabric with soles too soft for the desert on a cold summer night.

  He was looking at her like he expected something from her. Then she realized that he did—an answer. To his question. About a bird.

  “Um, yeah,” she said. “I think it ate a rabbit.”

  “Nonsense,” he said.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “But it took the rabbit in its talons and flew off—”

  “You didn’t see it eat the rabbit then, did you?”

  “No.” She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. “I saw it capture the poor rabbit and cart it away. I think the rabbit was screaming.”

  He nodded. “They do that.”

  As if it were the most normal thing in the world.

  “Which way did they go?”

  She pointed.

  He stepped out of the headlights and into the darkness of the road. By reflex, she looked over her shoulder. Still no trucks or cars or SUVs. No sign of anything but her, the mighty hunter, and his bird.

  Only she hadn’t seen the bird for nearly five minutes now, and the screaming had ended long ago (except in her memory) and even though she squinted, she no longer saw the man on the road.

  The streetlights flicked on one by one, and then a truck whizzed past, the wind in its wake so strong that she nearly toppled into her car.

  Standing on the shoulder was not the brightest thing she could do.

  She got back into her car as more trucks and SUVs and sedans went by—all the things she had thought she missed. Her breathing was hard, and she wasn’t quite sure what had happened.

  She’d have said she had fallen asleep at the wheel, but she had felt the wind and smelled the truck exhaust. She knew she hadn’t taken any drugs, so she wasn’t hallucinating. And she wasn’t prone to wild flights of fancy—those were reserved for Vivian and their late Great-Aunt Eugenia.

  And Kyle, of course.

  Kyle, who saw superheroes and monsters behind every tree. Kyle, who kept saying that Vivian’s new husband looked just like Superman.

  Megan could not see the resemblance. But then, she rarely read comic books. Relaxation wasn’t her forte.

  Maybe it should be. Maybe this was some kind of psychotic episode.

  Because it certainly hadn’t felt like a dream. Her cheek still stung from her self-administered blow, she was a little chilled from the night air, and her eyes had taken a minute to adjust to the increased light.

  And somehow, she had gotten to the side of the road.

  Somehow.

  She couldn’t quite believe she had driven there in her sleep, without hitting anyone, without being hit.

  That was as much a miracle as seeing a medieval hunter in the darkness, following the trail of his falcon into the desert.

  She glanced at her watch. Somehow, she’d lost about fifteen minutes.

  If she were being logical and practical, she would find a place to turn off and get some sleep before going any farther. But she only had an hour to drive, less if she kept up with the trucks, and the way her heart was pounding, she wouldn’t get any sleep anyway.

  She’d known the stress was getting bad, but she’d had no idea it was this bad.

  Maybe she should call Travers and flake out on Vegas. She wasn’t in the best shape to deal with trouble.

  But Kyle needed her. And just as a baby-sitter, Travers had said.

  She could baby-sit her only nephew. That couldn’t be stressful, not compared to life in L.A.

  She’d be all right.

  At least for the time being.

  Two

  How had she gotten into his bubble?

  Rob Chapeau stood beside the interstate for a good minute, watching the Mini Cooper slam on its brakes and then limp to the side of the road. When the pretty woman had gotten out of the driver’s side and slapped herself, he knew that she saw his magical little world.

  And she wasn’t supposed to.

  No one was supposed to.

  He brought Felix out to hunt at least five times a week—a falcon got restless in the big city—and he did it as far away from anything as he could get. Of course, he didn’t go too far because there were sorcerers nearby, ones who would take advantage of regularly scheduled magic.

  He tried to vary his locations, using the interstate only when he felt he had no other choice.

  Like tonight. He’d gone to his favorite spot only to find that someone was holding a rave there. He probably could have created a bubble in that spot—bubbles warped time just enough so that most normal folks felt a shiver as they passed through or saw a heat shimmer—and no one would have noticed.

  But he hadn’t wanted to risk it.

  And then this: no one had ever driven into one of his bubbles before, skidded to a stop, and slapped herself.

  He knew he had to do something—and quickly—but he wasn’t sure what. He couldn’t just dissolve the bubble: there was Felix to think about, first of all, and he didn’t want the falcon to know that his night’s catch wasn’t real. Besides, the woman might get into trouble if she stepped into the road at the wrong moment.

  So he walked out onto the road, pretended a nonchalance he didn’t feel, and said, “Have you seen a bird?”

  Which he had been kicking himself about ever since. Have you seen a bird? Of course, she had seen a bird. She had slammed on her brakes (nice woman, that) and she had pulled over to the side of the road. She’d probably seen the rabbit, too, and then she saw him, in his hunting garb.

  He liked to wear the clothes he’d grown up in on these nights, even though they were more suited to an English forest than to a Nevada desert. Just a little touch of his past.

  But he saw her lovely green eyes assess his clothing as if he were dressed like Bozo the Clown, and he noted something like weary resignation on her face. Either this woman expected strange things to happen to her, or something had been going wrong in her life long before he’d asked his inane question.

  She’d answered him, of course. She had a deep, throaty voice that sent a tingle through him. He hadn’t heard a voice that beautiful in centuries.

  But he tried to ignore it. He didn’t even smile at her, he did nothing to put her at ease, and then he hurried off the road, only to crouch on the other side of the interstate and watch her gather herself and get back into the car.

  He felt bad; he really did. He had added to her difficulties without intending to, and she looked like she hadn’t needed that. So he decided to be especially gentle in easing her out of the bubble.

  Instead of simply dissolving the bubble over the interstate, he dismantled it piece by piece, sending her little warnings such as the lights coming back on, a few trucks going by, a whole host of small things before he let her out of the magical protection and back into her ordinary life.

  If, indeed, she had an ordinary life. Not many people could see magic if the mage didn’t want them to. Unless, of course, those people had magic themselves. And she was too young. No one had skin that creamy in middle-age, not even women who had fortunes to spend on reinventing themselves with plastic surgeries and too many cold creams.
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br />   He remained crouched by the side of the road long after she had driven away. He restored the bubble over the interstate, and no one else entered it, so he knew that his magic hadn’t gone awry.

  Just that woman—that young, pretty woman—had managed to get through his defenses.

  No one had been able to do that for more than eight centuries. He felt a pang of loss, mixed with a sharp thread of loneliness.

  Eight centuries.

  And he had let her drive away.

  Two

  How had she gotten into his bubble?

  Rob Chapeau stood beside the interstate for a good minute, watching the Mini Cooper slam on its brakes and then limp to the side of the road. When the pretty woman had gotten out of the driver’s side and slapped herself, he knew that she saw his magical little world.

  And she wasn’t supposed to.

  No one was supposed to.

  He brought Felix out to hunt at least five times a week—a falcon got restless in the big city—and he did it as far away from anything as he could get. Of course, he didn’t go too far because there were sorcerers nearby, ones who would take advantage of regularly scheduled magic.

  He tried to vary his locations, using the interstate only when he felt he had no other choice.

  Like tonight. He’d gone to his favorite spot only to find that someone was holding a rave there. He probably could have created a bubble in that spot—bubbles warped time just enough so that most normal folks felt a shiver as they passed through or saw a heat shimmer—and no one would have noticed.

  But he hadn’t wanted to risk it.

  And then this: no one had ever driven into one of his bubbles before, skidded to a stop, and slapped herself.

  He knew he had to do something—and quickly—but he wasn’t sure what. He couldn’t just dissolve the bubble: there was Felix to think about, first of all, and he didn’t want the falcon to know that his night’s catch wasn’t real. Besides, the woman might get into trouble if she stepped into the road at the wrong moment.

  So he walked out onto the road, pretended a nonchalance he didn’t feel, and said, “Have you seen a bird?”

  Which he had been kicking himself about ever since. Have you seen a bird? Of course, she had seen a bird. She had slammed on her brakes (nice woman, that) and she had pulled over to the side of the road. She’d probably seen the rabbit, too, and then she saw him, in his hunting garb.

  He liked to wear the clothes he’d grown up in on these nights, even though they were more suited to an English forest than to a Nevada desert. Just a little touch of his past.

  But he saw her lovely green eyes assess his clothing as if he were dressed like Bozo the Clown, and he noted something like weary resignation on her face. Either this woman expected strange things to happen to her, or something had been going wrong in her life long before he’d asked his inane question.

  She’d answered him, of course. She had a deep, throaty voice that sent a tingle through him. He hadn’t heard a voice that beautiful in centuries.

  But he tried to ignore it. He didn’t even smile at her, he did nothing to put her at ease, and then he hurried off the road, only to crouch on the other side of the interstate and watch her gather herself and get back into the car.

  He felt bad; he really did. He had added to her difficulties without intending to, and she looked like she hadn’t needed that. So he decided to be especially gentle in easing her out of the bubble.

  Instead of simply dissolving the bubble over the interstate, he dismantled it piece by piece, sending her little warnings such as the lights coming back on, a few trucks going by, a whole host of small things before he let her out of the magical protection and back into her ordinary life.

  If, indeed, she had an ordinary life. Not many people could see magic if the mage didn’t want them to. Unless, of course, those people had magic themselves. And she was too young. No one had skin that creamy in middle-age, not even women who had fortunes to spend on reinventing themselves with plastic surgeries and too many cold creams.

  He remained crouched by the side of the road long after she had driven away. He restored the bubble over the interstate, and no one else entered it, so he knew that his magic hadn’t gone awry.

  Just that woman—that young, pretty woman—had managed to get through his defenses.

  No one had been able to do that for more than eight centuries. He felt a pang of loss, mixed with a sharp thread of loneliness.

  Eight centuries.

  And he had let her drive away.

  Three

  Megan arrived in Las Vegas at one in the morning. The streets were filled with cars, the neon stabbed her eyes, and she had never felt so relieved in her life.

  She was beginning to think she had seen a mirage in the desert—and it wasn’t a hotel designed by Steve Wynn. That hunter got handsomer and handsomer the more she thought about him, a dream lover appearing in the foggy mist of her lonely headlights.

  Lonely. That probably was the cause of her mirage, her hallucination, her dream-vision. She hadn’t spent quality time with anyone—her family, her friends, let alone a man—in a very, very long time.

  The hotel that Travers had picked was a no-name thing off the Strip. That didn’t surprise her. What surprised her was how nice the hotel was. Travers, once the poorest of the siblings, had become the richest (at least, Megan thought so, although Vivian inherited all of Great-Aunt Eugenia’s estate). Travers claimed he had made his fortune by staying at the lowest priced hotels, refusing to splurge on the latest fad, paying cash for his house.

  He called it “being frugal.” Megan called it “unnecessarily cheap.”

  This place looked like a splurge from Travers’ perspective. From Megan’s, it seemed like a godsend. It actually had a front lobby instead of some dweeb living on-site, and rooms inside the main building instead of cabins down a long sidewalk. Elevators, a fitness room, and a restaurant inside—all the necessary amenities, from Megan’s point of view.

  It took only a few minutes to check in (competent desk clerks! What a concept!) and take the elevator up to Travers’ floor. A bellman, on duty in the middle of the night (such luxury!), hefted her single bag all the way to her room for her.

  According to the numbers that greeted her when she got off the elevator, her room was at the end of the hall. She walked past door after door, wondering how Travers had found this place. The farther she got into it, the more unlike him it seemed.

  Then she used her keycard to open the door to her room and stopped in amazement. He hadn’t gotten her a room. He had gotten her a suite, complete with living room, small kitchen, and a single bedroom.

  Three large rooms behind one locked door, and quite obviously hers, because that bellman had placed her overweight bag on the luggage rack inside the nearest coat closet.

  Nearest coat closet. There were others.

  A shiver ran through her. This was confirmation that Travers was in trouble. He would never voluntarily take a place like this—and he would never pay for one like it for her.

  Maybe she should check to see if hell had frozen over.

  Instead, she pocketed her keycard, spun on one toe, and walked out of the room. She stopped at the only room beside it, the one with the same number she’d been using when she called him back, and knocked. (There actually was a doorbell beside the door, but she was too scared to use it.)

  For a moment, she was afraid that she had the wrong room or that no one had heard her. She raised her fist to knock again when the door swept open.

  A tall, willowy blonde answered. She was stunningly beautiful, with delicate little features that formed the most perfect face. She wore a pink negligee and a matching robe with feathers trimming the sleeves and hem.

  She was everything that Megan was not—slender, gorgeous, perfect, tall—the kind of woman guaranteed to make Megan even more nervous than she already was.

  “I must have the wrong room,” Megan said.

  “Nonsense.”
Even the woman’s voice was feminine—light and floaty with just a hint of dumb blond. “You’re Travers’ sister, aren’t you? Come on in.”

  The woman stepped aside. Her negligee flowed around her as if she were on stage. Megan walked in, peering around the corner for Kyle.

  She didn’t see him, but she did see a pristine comic book on one of the end tables. He was here somewhere.

  This room was a suite, too, only it was filthy. Two other women sat on the couch—a brunette with a petite skinniness that made her look athletic and breakable at the same time, and a redhead who was as heavy as Megan. Only that redhead—whose hair really was flaming Vegas red, not the auburn that Megan was blessed with—had her curves in all the right places.

  She wore a green negligee, while the brunette wore a white one. They were eating popcorn and staring at the big screen TV, their mule-covered feet resting on the coffee table.

  At that moment, Megan realized she had seen them before. The three women had been at Vivian’s wedding less than a month ago. Megan hadn’t had a chance to talk to them, though, because every time she glanced at them, they seemed to be talking to one another.

  The blonde walked over and shut the television off. The redhead looked up grumpily. “It’s the best part.”

  “We have to know if the nassty shadowy creaturesss are going to get the hobbitsses,” the brunette said.

  “We’ve seen it already.” The blond sounded grumpy. “Besides, Travers’ sister is here.”

  The redhead stood and extended her hand. She was tall, too. No wonder her curves worked. “You’re Megan? I’m Lachesis.”

  “I’m Atropos,” said the brunette.

  “And I’m Clotho,” said the blonde.

  “Sure you are,” Megan said. “It’s late, but it’s not that late. And if you ladies are the Fates of Greek Mythology, I’m going to eat my shorts.”

  “Please don’t,” said the redhead.

  “You’re not wearing shorts, are you?” asked the brunette.