by Cat Adams
“Yes, we have.” She relaxed a bit, giving me an honest smile. “It’s because of you that I met my fiancé. Because of you, I may become queen of Rusland.”
“Will,” I corrected. “You will become queen.”
She met my gaze. “It’s still may. Apparently, it depends entirely on you.”
Oh, fuck a duck, I thought, but managed a much more appropriate, “Excuse me?”
Adriana laughed, hard. It occurred to me, belatedly, that like most sirens, she was a telepath. She’d heard exactly what I was thinking. Oops.
She laughed harder, until she had to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. “Oh, my. All right, then. I guess you won’t be offended after all. So I’ll … spit it out.”
Of course, that was when the servers appeared. Servers, plural. One carried a tray bearing a frosted pitcher. The other was toting a tray of foodstuffs, many of them blended and presented in tiny glasses or semiliquids served on individual plates.
Only when everything was just so and the servers had disappeared did Adriana communicate with me. And this time, rather than speak the words aloud where anyone might overhear, she spoke to me mind-to-mind, in the way of the sirens.
There are no assistants because I have none anymore. Both were killed two days ago when a bomb went off in the shop where they were making the final arrangements for my bridesmaids’ dresses. The shop and the dresses were completely destroyed, but that is nothing compared to the loss of life.
The people claiming responsibility call themselves the Guardians of the Faith. They’ve made threats. I have asked my dearest friend to step aside as maid of honor, because I need you to be. I know it sounds ridiculous. And I realize it is on obscenely short notice. But my mother’s prophet, as well as my own visions, have told me that I need you to be by my side—not just as a bodyguard, but as a part of the wedding—if I am to be safely wed.
There have been other disruptions besides the bombing. My jet was tampered with and crashed. Thankfully the crew survived. There have been plots to discredit me in the eyes of Dahlmar’s people and to create a royal scandal involving him. There was even an attempt on my life with poison.
People had died. These fanatics were serious. But obscenely short notice was right. The ceremonies were taking place in …
Less than two weeks. As I said, it is ridiculous. And I will understand if you are offended that I did not ask you sooner. You are, after all, my kinswoman, and you have done both Rusland and the sirens honorable service in the past. I am embarrassed that it did not occur to me to ask before. You have every right to tell me to go to hell, or even challenge me to a duel.
She was flushed and the hand holding her drink was trembling just a little. She was embarrassed. But more than that, she was afraid. I’d seen her calm and composed in actual battle conditions. But she was well and truly rattled now. That was so not good.
I answered with my mind as well. I always hate to “hear” my mental voice because it’s the sharp, bitter caw of gulls, rather than Adriana’s sweet song of island birds or her mother’s tinkle of crystal bells. Of course I’ll help. I’d be honored to serve as both your maid of honor and your bodyguard. I’ll need everything your people have on the Guardians of the Faith.”
“I’ll have Kar—
She stopped abruptly in midthought. I felt a flash of pain and sorrow when she continued. I’ll have someone send the information to your office this afternoon.
She closed her eyes for a second and I watched as she fought not to sag in relief. She was royal. Royals are not supposed to show that level of any negative emotion, particularly fear. But she was afraid: angry, hurt, sad, and absolutely terrified. Then she looked at me and thought, I am grateful for your help.
When do you want me to start?
Is tomorrow too soon? The situation truly is urgent.
I took a brief second to wave good-bye to my plan to ease back into work, then answered. Tomorrow will be fine.
Thank you.
I let out a noisy sigh before I replied. Thank me if it works.
Of course if it didn’t, we’d both be dead.
4
I was halfway to the college before I realized I’d been an idiot. I’m a professional bodyguard. I get paid for putting my life on the line to protect people. Yet I’d just agreed to guard Adriana without so much as a word about charging a fee. Admittedly, there are families where everyone respects that the others are professionals and have to earn a living. My experience with my family just hasn’t been that way. Mom uses everybody without the slightest compunction. I do all kinds of things for my gran and wouldn’t accept payment even if she offered. So it seemed that I’d just volunteered myself for a dangerous and expensive freebie.
Crap. Apparently Mexico had taken more out of me than I thought.
Maybe I could pass it off as a wedding gift. I mean, it’s not like she and Dahlmar need another toaster. What does one buy the happy royal couple anyway? I mean, talk about people who have everything! Adriana had her own jet—well, she’d had her own jet. Dahlmar had his own country.
Pondering royal gift-giving kept my mind occupied until I reached the USC Bayview campus. Once there, I had to keep a sharp eye out for a parking space.
No luck. If I’d gotten here closer to noon I’d have stood a chance of finding a spot someone had vacated on the way to lunch. But it was 1:15, so the lunch crowd was back in class. I wound up driving a few blocks away and parking the Miata in the lot of my favorite restaurant, La Cocina. The owners are friends of mine and they know my car. They might get annoyed at me for parking there, but they wouldn’t have me towed.
Before going out into the sunlight I slathered myself with high SPF lotion and grabbed a big floppy hat from the backseat. I debated whether or not to take my umbrella, but decided against it. After all, the paranormal studies building was in easy walking distance. With fresh sunscreen and the hat on I should be able to make it to the building without burning, if I hurried. Which, of course, I did.
Despite the international prestige of the program, the paranormal studies building itself is nothing special. It’s roughly U-shaped, with the opening facing the university quad. One wing is all classrooms; the other, the administrative and faculty offices. The part of the building that connects the arms houses the big auditorium. The building’s magical perimeter is one of the toughest around—one of the benefits of having lots and lots of mages-in-training who need to practice recharging such things.
The first floor of the building has lots of windows. On nice days like today, the place is bright and sunny and has a great view of the manicured lawns and well-maintained landscaping of the quad. The public spaces had been redecorated not long ago; they feature cheerful colors and welcoming seating areas. The second floor is a whole different ballgame. The carpet is charcoal gray and industrial. The pale gray walls are marred with chips and marks from years of heavy use. Metal lockers, built into some of the walls, have been dented and battered by generations of students. Some of the old-style fluorescent lights were flickering. Maintenance would get around to fixing them … eventually. Probably a few weeks after they’d gone out totally; sooner if somebody fell down the stairs in the dark.
The graduate assistant offices were in room 212, at the top of said stairs, in what had at one point been the storage room for magical supplies. It was a good-sized room, but I found it hard to imagine that more than a couple of people could work effectively in the space. But there were six names on the door, which was completely covered with a variety of posters and stickers that appeared to be several layers deep. I paused to admire my favorite, one of a train tunnel with the caption, “Due to repeated complaints about it being too dim and too distant, until further notice the light at the end of the tunnel has been shut off. The Management.”
The door was ajar, so I peeked into the room, which was beyond crowded with six desks, six chairs, and an assortment of personal paraphernalia and teaching materials. I spotted two men and a wom
an, all looking to be in their twenties, huddled around someone seated at a corner desk. They were so absorbed in what was going on that they didn’t notice that I was standing in the doorway. As I raised my hand to knock, a wave of magic poured out from the group, knocking me back a step as a light show of rainbows danced in the air.
One of the men said, “What the…” in a tone that made it clear he hadn’t been expecting what he’d just seen.
“I’ve been working on this artifact for over a year now. Every time I feed it with my blood, it charges a bit more.” Bruno’s familiar voice was completely calm and patient, despite the fact that he’d just sliced himself open. Of course his magic had probably healed the cut almost instantly. The knives I use are his work. Every day for five years he’d bled himself to create a pair of knives, which my best friend Vicki had then given me as a gift. Five years. He’d made the weapons because Vicki was a level nine clairvoyant who assured him that having those knives was the only way to save my life. She’d been right. Still, the dedication, the sheer love it took to create something like that floored me every time I thought about it.
“It can be drained if it comes into contact with another, more powerful, artifact. Not likely, since this is a mirror. But the Isis Collar drained a pair of knives I’d worked on for five years, sucked them completely dry in a matter of minutes.”
“The Isis Collar is just a myth.” The big blond guy stepped back, putting his hands on his hips—an aggressive pose. I recognized the expression on his face. He wanted trouble and was looking for a fight.
“It is now.” I smiled as I spoke, making my voice light, trying to defuse the tension in the room. “When Isis took it home to wherever it is goddesses live. But I assure you, it was real.”
“Celia!” Bruno leapt to his feet and the others scattered out of his way. He was across the room in three bounding steps, sweeping me into his arms to give me a kiss that left me breathless and blushing, my heart pounding like a trip-hammer. “I have missed you.” He swung me around so that we were facing the others, his arm protectively around my waist.
“Guys, this is Celia Graves. Celia, these are some of the GAs I work with.” He pointed to the scowling blond. “Jan Mortensen,” he said, giving the name the Nordic pronunciation, then continuing the introductions. “This lovely lady is Trudy Cook.” Trudy was pretty and petite, a redhead with a round face and clouds of curly hair that probably drove her crazy, but looked really good. The smile she gave me was a little forced. I didn’t need to be a telepath to figure out she wasn’t happy about Bruno’s reaction to me. It wasn’t just the siren thing, either. No, I’d have bet a fair amount of money that Trudy had a real thing for Bruno DeLuca.
Well, I didn’t blame her, not even a little. After all, Bruno’s tall, dark, handsome, charming as hell, and a powerful mage. The cherry on top is that he has a real sense of joie de vivre. He sings show tunes and cabaret numbers in the shower. He can dance and he knows more dirty jokes than anyone else I know.
A lot of folks are misled by his lighthearted side and his heavy New Jersey accent. They think he must be dim or a bit of a thug. In truth, he’s very smart and absolutely dedicated to his craft. Which was why he’d been accepted into Bayview’s doctoral program … and how he’d convinced Dr. Sloan to be his advisor.
“And this”—Bruno gestured to a smaller black man whose close-cropped hair was going prematurely gray—“is Gary Jefferson.”
“Hi, Celia.” Gary gave me a smile that was a lot warmer and more genuine than Trudy’s. “Bruno’s told us a lot about you. Glad to finally meet you.”
Gary might be glad to meet me and Trudy might be reserving judgment, but Jan, very obviously, was not at all happy. He gave me a frigid look down his patrician nose. While the others were dressed very casually in worn T-shirts and cargo pants or faded jeans, Jan wore an untucked blue-and-white striped dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show just a hint of the tattoo decorating his left forearm. It was obvious that shirt had been pressed and starched and the cuffs adjusted just so. It was a look straight off of the runways, as were the jeans with both knees deliberately torn out. Of course I got the feeling everything about Jan was deliberate.
I decided to ignore Jan and to focus on the others. I turned to Gary. “Thanks. It’s good to meet you, too.”
Gary smiled, then his expression quickly grew serious. “So, I’ve gotta ask, did you really, seriously, face down a greater demon?”
I shuddered. I couldn’t help it. That was one of my worst memories. “Twice. Not by choice.” Bruno’s grip tightened a little, and I could easily guess that the look he was giving Gary was something less than friendly. “I don’t recommend exorcisms. They hurt.”
“Had to be scary,” the GA continued.
“It’s utterly terrifying, and not something anyone who’s been through it wants to talk about,” Emma said from the hallway, cold and hard.
“Right.” Gary squirmed, then decided abruptly that there was someplace else he needed to be. “Look at the time. I’ve gotta run. Later, DeLuca. Guys.” He brushed past Bruno and me, stepped around Emma, and was gone. As Emma edged into the office and made her way to the one desk in the place that wasn’t littered with scattered junk, she spoke very softly, to Bruno. “Just so you know, Professor Sloan was less than a minute behind me.”
“Crap.” Bruno released my waist and stepped over to the nearest wall. Seconds later he’d vanished, replaced by a battered coat tree with a couple of jackets and an umbrella hanging from it.
It’s not that he doesn’t like Dr. Sloan. Bruno thinks he’s great. But the professor had been running him absolutely ragged when I’d left for Mexico. Apparently, he still was.
“DeLuca!” Dr. Sloan’s voice preceded him into the office. “I’ve had a thought about that table. I want you to—” The short, wiry, elderly man appeared in the doorway. Looking around through thick glasses, he found Trudy, Emma, and Jan working hard at their desks and no sign at all of Bruno.
“Hi, Dr. Sloan. How are you doing?” I said.
“Celia.” He smiled broadly and cocked one bushy eyebrow at me. “I’m well. The question is, how are you? Has the curse mark faded?”
“I’m fine. And I can’t tell on the mark. Maybe a little. I’m not sure.” I held out my hand so he could look at my palm.
“Jan, Trudy, come here. You’ll want to see this. It’s not often you get to see a death curse of this quality on a living human being.”
They obediently came over to examine my palm. Dr. Sloan gave them a brief, esoteric lecture about the nature of death curses in general and of mine in particular—the one that kept putting me face-to-face with said greater demon—before releasing my hand and gesturing them back to work with shooing movements of his hands. Then, winking at me, he turned directly to the coat rack. “DeLuca, you may take the rest of the afternoon off to visit with the lovely Ms. Graves. But I expect you in my office at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, without fail. Do I make myself clear?”
The illusion faded, revealing a sheepish-looking Bruno. “Absolutely.”
“Good.” He turned on his heel and left. But his parting shot could be heard from the hall. “Have fun, kids.”
“All right.” Bruno turned to the others. “What did I miss?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Trudy gave a derisive snort. “The illusion was perfect. Your work is always perfect. The doctor must be psychic.”
I shook my head no. He’d missed something. The illusion was not perfect.
Bruno turned to me. “What?”
I gave him a little smile. “Your cologne. He could smell your cologne. It’s very distinctive.”
Jan laughed. “Of course.”
Bruno’s expression darkened. “Hmm. Smell … I’ll have to work on that.” He wandered over to his desk, where there was a hand mirror in a scrolled silver frame lying next to a razor-sharp knife. With a quick, deft movement, he picked up one of the blades and sliced shallowly into his forearm. There
was a surge of power as his blood spilled onto the shining glass and was absorbed into it. The cut knit itself closed as I watched. Bruno hadn’t even winced.
“That is just so cool.” I hadn’t meant to say it out loud. I should be used to it by now. I’ve seen Bruno working often enough. But every time, it just gets to me.
I realized that Jan was glaring at me an instant before he shifted his gaze to the knife and then Bruno’s face. Both men looked stubborn, just short of angry, and I had the feeling I had walked into the middle of an ongoing argument. “I fail to understand why you would do this to yourself for her.” The blond man made a sharp gesture at me. “You yourself said that she allowed one of the knives you created to be ruined.”
“I told you”—Bruno’s eyes locked with Jan’s—“she used the knife to kill the überbat that attacked my brother. It’s not her fault that Lilith had been a spawn before she was turned.”
“She was?” That was news to me, but it explained why her death had been so weird. Normally, to kill a vampire you stake it, cut off its head and take out its heart, then have the parts cremated separately and spread over separate bodies of running water. When I stabbed Lilith with the knife Bruno had made for me, she’d burned to ash, from the inside out. It had been très creepy and totally unexpected.
“I’ve done the research. It’s the only possible explanation for Lilith’s ability to call a priest on holy ground … and for the damage to the knife.”
Um, wow. Okay. I didn’t even know that it was possible for a spawn to be turned. I mean, Spawn are the offspring of a mating between a human and a demon, so they’re already monsters. Wasn’t turning one into a vampire sort of … well … redundant?
“So you’ve said.” Jan obviously didn’t believe him.
