by Cat Adams
Angelina Bonetti.
Oh, hell. This was so not my day.
“Ms. Bonetti.”
“You know my name.” She wasn’t happy about it. Her eyes had narrowed, her voice polite but chilly. She’d expected to surprise me, have the advantage.
“Bruno showed me your picture.” Oh, she didn’t like that, not a bit. It showed. Apparently he was supposed to keep her from me, like some deep dark secret. The woman he’d always hold a torch for, someone to be ashamed of still having feelings for. And maybe he would have kept her a secret—if I hadn’t found the picture. Or not. Because he’d had the whole day to plan our date. To clean up. Why keep an incriminating photo around if he was embarrassed?
I forced myself to keep smiling. “I understand you were his high-school sweetheart. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll be with you in just a minute.” I gestured toward the lobby. I didn’t stay to see if or where she went. Whatever was going to happen next could wait. I was going to the bathroom. Now.
As I was washing up, I took stock of myself in the mirror. I was wearing a nice black suit with a white blouse. My hair was pulled back and my face was made up in my usual business-appropriate way. My bone structure has always been a little harsh, but that became more apparent after the bite—and even more so since I’d dropped weight in Mexico. I’ve learned to keep the fangs hidden most of the time. My skin doesn’t glow green unless I’m vamping, which isn’t often anymore. I could hold my head up at any business meeting in the city. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hold a candle to Angelina Bonetti.
I’ve known some gorgeous people. Vicki Cooper, my best friend since college, was the daughter of a pair of A-list movie stars, and was so beautiful that when she went out in shorts and a tank top she could actually stop traffic. Seriously, I honest-to-God saw a guy almost wreck his car because he was staring at her.
Angelina left Vicki in the shade. She’d grown into the face I’d seen in the photo. She was still petite, tiny even, but with dangerous curves that were emphasized by the crossover cut of the sapphire-blue dress she was wearing. The jewels she wore at her throat, wrist, and ears were sapphires as well, with just enough diamonds to add a little sparkle. Her long, dark hair had been swept back and to one side in a casually messy braid, a style that emphasized a heart-shaped face dominated by huge, doelike eyes and full, red lips.
She was overdressed for a simple business meeting and I doubted it was accidental. How I reacted would determine if she got the upper hand.
“She’s trying too hard. That means she’s nervous.” My reflection smiled at me. It wasn’t a happy smile. But I stiffened my spine, dried my hands, put a quick, glossy shine on my already pink lips, and went back to the lobby by way of the kitchen, where I fetched coffee for myself and my guest.
Baker was coming down the stairs as I entered the room. She gave me a brisk nod to let me know the office was clear. I acknowledged the gesture and turned to my client. “Ms. Bonetti, if you’d like to come upstairs? I hope you like coffee.” I extended the cup to her. “It’s black, but I have cream and sugar available in my office if you’d prefer.”
“Black is fine.” She stood, smoothing her dress with an automatic gesture before taking the cup from my hand. God, she was tiny. I felt awkward and huge standing over her. Normally, this kind of thing doesn’t bother me. Hell, Dawna had to be about this woman’s size. So what was the problem?
Attitude. Which meant I needed to adjust mine. Stat.
Baker took the lead up the stairs; Angelina, Griffiths, and I followed. The stairs to the third-floor office are steep. I’m used to them, and I knew the agents worked out. And it seemed Ms. Bonetti did, too, because she made it to the top without getting breathless or spilling her coffee. Point to her.
As we climbed, I remembered the night I’d gone to the winery in the Napa Valley for the debut of the new wine John Creede had helped create. Before that evening, Dawna, Emma, and I had spent several days in a spa. I’d been pampered and patted, trimmed and manicured. Hair extensions, smoking dress, and perfect makeup.
It took me a few minutes to channel the Celia I’d been that night, but by the time we reached my office, I was the woman John’s assistant had mistaken for a model. Point to me.
We took our seats, me at my desk, Angelina in one of the matching wing-backed visitor chairs. Baker and Griffiths waited outside the closed door.
“So.” I smiled with saccharine sweetness and grabbed the bull by the proverbial horns. “Shall we sharpen our claws, or should we just cut to the chase? I’d prefer the latter. I’ve got a lot to do today.”
She didn’t even blink. “I want him back.”
Wow, that was direct. I took a sip of my coffee before answering. “I’d say that’s up to him.”
“He wouldn’t be with you at all if it weren’t for you using your siren magic on him.” Her words were crisp, her back rigid. It was obvious that she was furious, and I hadn’t done a damned thing. I hadn’t deliberately worked siren magic against Bruno and I’d taken measures to protect him, but I couldn’t help having my siren abilities work against me with Angelina. It made me uneasy, since jealousy can be used to kill us.
I shook my head. “Nice try. But I gave him a charm that counteracts siren magic.”
“He doesn’t wear it.”
She stated it as a fact. There was no doubt in her voice, none, which I found very interesting indeed. She knew about the charm. Bruno might have told her, but I doubted it. No, I’d lay my money that Bruno’s mother was the source of her information. It made me wonder if talking was all Mama had done. The charm had been made with my hair—hair that could be used in all sorts of spells: tracking spells being first among them. Assuming, of course, someone was a witch or mage with a certain level of ability. Bruno’s mother is such a witch. He comes by his talent naturally.
“Not my fault. Not my problem. We got involved and were engaged before the bite. I was no more siren than you when he gave me a ring.” I took another sip, trying to look casual.
“You’re not even faithful to him. You expect him to share, of all things.” She was practically spitting out her words. Funny, now that she was getting angry, she wasn’t nearly as attractive. She looked cold, hard, and capable of almost anything.
“Why did you come here?”
“I wanted to see what I was up against. Now that I have, I realize I shouldn’t have worried.” She rose to her feet, using rage and posture to make herself more imposing. “Good-bye, Princess,” she hissed.
I stayed right where I was and kept my voice bland as butter. “Good-bye, Ms. Bonetti.”
I watched her sashay out. She didn’t slam the door because of the agents standing outside. But she would’ve. Bitch. A beautiful bitch, but a bitch nonetheless.
Meeting with her probably hadn’t been smart, but hey, not my fault.
“Whatever.” I shook my head. At some point I was going to have to really think about what had just happened—probably talk it over with Emma and Dawna. But right now I had an unexpected hour to myself and I had all sorts of uses for it.
I spent the time productively, going over the schedule of wedding events, looking for a spot to shoehorn in my party. It seemed that my best choice was the night of the rehearsal dinner on Serenity. The notice was so short it was practically breathtaking. There was no way was I going to get a venue. They’d all be booked up. I suppose there was probably a suitable room in the palace. It was a palace, after all. But what kind of party happened in the bride’s home?
I looked around, trying to come up with some inspiration, and found it. The office. This building was secure. It was historic and elegantly furnished. There were multiple bathrooms and a kitchen. If Ron took me up on my offer (and he would—there was no way he’d miss a chance to save a buck), there was a good chance he’d be out of the way. We could put a bar in the lobby and the buffet in the conference room, and have a DJ and dancing in the empty offices.
It might just work.
Holy
crap. It really might.
I called Baker and Griffiths in to review the plan with them. They immediately started poking holes in it.
“No caterers. There isn’t enough time to do background checks on their staff and drivers,” Baker stated.
She was right, of course. Small caterers wouldn’t have the facilities to do something this quick. Big ones were, well, big. “Crap.”
“You could use staff from the royal kitchens,” Griffiths suggested.
“There are all sorts of laws about importing food,” I pointed out.
“True,” he agreed. “But if they come over today, they could buy and prepare the food here.”
Baker grinned; her smile lit up her face, taking years off of her appearance.
“What?” Griffiths and I chorused.
“I am picturing Chef Antoine’s reaction to working in an office kitchen.”
The two of them laughed. Apparently it was an inside joke. Whatever. “Do you think it’s workable?”
“Call the princess. She’s in charge. If she agrees to it, we will make it work.”
20
Adriana’s answer (to my secret relief) was no. She already had plans with her gal pals from Serenity during that time slot. Even though they were no longer in the wedding party, they were her best friends, and she wanted some time with them before she moved to the other side of the planet. And, as she pointed out, there was no other room in the schedule, and security would be a nightmare. She thanked me for the thought, but insisted that it just wasn’t workable. She added that her friends had asked her to invite me to come along. I told her I’d be happy to, but as her security. She didn’t argue, just said, “I’ll tell them you’re coming.”
I didn’t dance out of the office after that call, but I wanted to. I’d have done my duty by Adriana the same way I would for Dawna and Emma when the time came. But Dawna and Emma, I know. I know who to invite, and that if I didn’t have it at La Cocina my friends would be seriously disappointed, as would Barbara.
So with a smile and a clear conscience I told Dawna, Baker, and Griffiths that the princess had declined. I promised Dawna I’d keep in touch by phone and e-mail over the next few days, and with quiet delight, grabbed my things and headed off to the islands.
* * *
The Isle of Serenity is actually the largest of a chain of small islands in the Pacific between the mainland and Hawaii. For centuries the Pacific branch of sirens have made it their home and, until recently, kept it and themselves shut off from the rest of the world. The islands hadn’t appeared on maps. They weren’t on flight paths. Magic had been used to keep people the sirens didn’t want to see at bay.
That was all changing, and changing rapidly under my aunt’s new “inclusion” rules, with mixed results. East Island has the royal compound, the queen’s private docks, and the nature preserve. West Island is as modern as you could want, with a couple of actual cities and the international airport. I’d been worried that there’d be trouble since I was bringing in enough weapons to arm a developing nation. Although Baker and Griffiths had assured me that my permits, my rank, and the direct orders of the queen herself would smooth the way, I was fretting.
Turned out I shouldn’t have worried. Adriana had decided to meet the plane, with Queen Chiyoko at her side, and with all the pomp and circumstance that a real princess would receive. It was so weird. But I’d wager it would be best not to get too used to it, because once the wedding was over, things would get back to normal with startling speed. The attention span of the public in general and the press in particular is exceptionally short.
What a relief that would be. Until then, however, the spotlight was on the sirens, particularly their royalty, including me. I knew full well that my appearance was a direct reflection on Adriana. So before we got ready to land I popped into the miniscule but well-appointed on-board bathroom and primped. I could, and would, look my absolute best.
So my hair was fluffed, my makeup in place, and my smile fang-free when I stepped out of the plane and onto television screens throughout the world.
Adriana embraced me with actual warmth. To my surprise, Chiyoko hugged me, too. Her posture was so stiff she might as well have been wearing a whale-bone corset under her pretty red suit. But while it was obvious she didn’t like me any better than she had the last time we’d met, and hated having to touch me even the littlest bit, she smiled like a pro for the cameras and said all the right things.
I was expected to say a few words, so I told everyone how happy I was that King Dahlmar and Princess Adriana had found each other, and added that I was incredibly flattered to have been asked to be part of the bridal party.
One of the reporters in the back tried to ask probing questions about my mother and my childhood. I pretended not to hear, answering other, lighter questions instead. Then I posed for a few more photos, before we were whisked across the tarmac to the motorcade.
We drove swiftly through the city, our path cleared by an advance team. Neither Chiyoko nor Adriana seemed to want to talk, which was fine by me. I contented myself looking out the car window.
Serenity City was a lot like L.A.—minus the movie stars and plus a lot more flowers. There were lots of boutiques and a handful of high-end department stores. There were few signs of the earthquake that had roused me from sleep that night at Bruno’s, though I knew from news reports that it had been felt here, too. If there had been any damage, it had already been cleaned up thoroughly. Everything had been gussied up for the royal wedding. Banners of black and silver alternated with ones of purple and gold above all the main streets. Posters of Dahlmar and Adriana’s engagement photograph hung in shop windows that also displayed commemorative plates, knickknacks, and anything else you could think of. Adriana looked stunning, nearly ethereal. Dahlmar looked regal and elegant. I think they’d added a little more black to his hair than he really has. But hey—artistic license and all that.
The place was pulsing with life, too. Gulls wheeled and cawed overhead, their voices competing with the sounds of the city. Baker commented that the roads were packed because so many people had come to witness the first half of the wedding festivities. It had to be a security nightmare, but an electric current of excitement ran through the town, and for the most part everyone from the mainland seemed happy in their ill-fitting lavalavas and Bermuda shorts. They lined the streets, shouting and waving wildly as we went past, cameras and cell phones clicking away, capturing fleeting images of royalty. Adriana and Chiyoko did the tipping-hand “royal wave” as we drove down the street. I couldn’t bring myself to, so I just smiled a lot.
We’d reached the highway leading to the east half of the island before Adriana broke the silence. “What is the status of the bridesmaid dresses?”
“They should arrive at Levy’s today.” I smiled. “Isaac and Gilda have agreed to do the tailoring and the spell work. Agent Baker told me that they’ve cleared their background check, so no worries there.” I hadn’t been worried. I’ve known and loved Isaac and Gilda for years. But Adriana had wanted reassurance from her own security people. Her big days were coming up very quickly and things hadn’t exactly been going smoothly. She needed to know that something, at least, was going according to plan. Well, plan B. Or C, or whatever plan we were on by now.
“You should be using one of the royal tailors, not some stranger.” Chiyoko didn’t even bother to look at Adriana when she said it. It was a small slight, but a deliberate one. Since she outranked my cousin, she knew she could get away with it.
Still, Adriana isn’t one to let things slide. She smiled ever-so-sweetly and answered, “Isaac has done all of Celia’s tailoring for years. In fact, that’s one of his outfits she’s wearing right now. Cousin, how many weapons do you have on you at this moment?”
I took a quick mental inventory. “Two guns, a pair of knives, two One Shot guns with holy water, about a dozen various spell disks”—I paused, knowing I was forgetting something—“oh, and the garrote.”
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Chiyoko turned away from the window, her eyes just a little bit wider than usual. “Truly?” She stared at me, looking me up and down very carefully. “I can’t see any of it.” Her voice was more curious than disbelieving.
I don’t like flashing my weapons, but I could tell that Adriana was up to something. So, sighing, I pushed up my left sleeve a bit to reveal the hilt of the sheathed knife. At Chiyoko’s raised eyebrow I opened my blazer enough to let her see the holstered gun and the small loops that held my squirt guns.
“What are the empty loops for?” the queen asked.
“Stakes, usually. I’m not wearing any because there’s never been a vampire on Serenity.”
“Until you.” She smiled like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
“I … am … not … a … bat.” I spoke softly, almost gently, but enunciated every word past smiling teeth. She obviously wanted to provoke me, was counting on my getting angry and saying or doing something that would cause trouble. I wasn’t going to oblige her.
“And yet obviously not fit for the throne.”
“Very true. I made that clear the last time I was here. I don’t want the throne.”
She smiled again, and this time it was the cat that ate the canary. “Then your aunt, Queen Lopaka, has neither heir, nor any prospect of one.”
Aha. There it was, out in the open. I smiled again, and this time I made sure my expression was every bit as predatory as hers had been. “Oh, I don’t know.” I looked at Adriana to confirm whether my suspicions about her vision of the other day were correct. “My cousin is a prophet, and I believe she’s seen who the new heir will be. It isn’t me.”
The car turned and stopped; apparently we’d reached the gates to the queen’s compound. Perfect timing. I couldn’t wait to get out of this car, but Chiyoko needed to hear about the future High Queen of Serenity from the princess who had seen her.
“It’s true, Aunt.” Adriana used the familiar term that I suspected was more a tradition between the royal houses than a fact of biology. “You should check with your own prophet. My sister-to-be will someday look remarkably like Celia, but without the fangs, tattoo, or scarring.”
