The Eldritch Conspiracy

by Cat Adams

  I shrugged as I pushed Adriana’s friends toward the cabin to get below decks. Vampire night vision comes in handy now and then. Now if you would, everyone needs to get below.

  You think we’re under attack. Her mental voice sounded truly shocked. Even with everything that had been happening, she hadn’t expected this. Of course, as a clairvoyant she’d probably gotten used to having at least a hint of trouble before it arrived.

  I don’t know, but better safe than sorry. Now go.

  At a word from her, the four of them darted for the stairwell, holding hands and keeping their heads below the line of the upper cabin. A pair of agents materialized from the shadows and followed them. Baker appeared at my side.

  “You should go inside, too.” It wasn’t quite an order, more a firmly framed suggestion.

  “I’m of more use out here, Helen. I’m on duty, just like you.”

  “We really do know what we’re doing,” she chided me.

  “Did any of your people see him? Even those using night-vision goggles?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but remained silent when I raised my hand. I thought I’d heard the soft whump of an object impacting the ship’s hull. There was a second thump, the sound barely audible over the noise of the engines and the slap of waves against the ship. It might be my imagination, but I didn’t dare risk it.

  Baker had heard it, too. We both drew guns from beneath our jackets and moved to take cover between the cabin and the built-in table. When we were concealed, she whispered into the microphone at her wrist and I saw shadows move into position around the boat.

  Seconds that lasted an eternity passed as we watched and waited. A pair of wet-suited figures eased over the railing and began creeping silently forward. When they were far enough from the edge of the deck that they couldn’t simply dive over and escape, a spotlight flared to life, accompanied by the voice of authority blaring through a bullhorn.

  “Freeze. Move and you will be shot.”

  They froze and dropped their weapons.

  Actually, what they dropped into the bright light were … cameras.

  27

  I hate the paparazzi. Just hate ’em. Some of them will do anything, risk anything, to get a picture or story. Never mind who gets hurt in the process. There are even those who, if they can’t get the story, will stage a story.

  Nellie Standish was evidently one of those.

  She wouldn’t give us her source, but admitted she’d been slipped information about tonight’s party. She’d also been told that Adriana wanted “one last fling” before she and Dahlmar tied the knot and that if Standish could get a camera on board, she’d find a naked man in the princess’s bedroom.

  Baker and I went to check on that detail, letting others continue the questioning.

  Adriana’s stateroom was down the hall from the main room where the party guests were waiting. Her private cabin was spacious, beautiful, and after a thorough check, unoccupied except for a male blow-up doll propped up by pillows. The doll’s staggeringly huge member was adorned by a big red bow.

  I burst out laughing. I mean, seriously, a blow-up doll?

  Baker gave a derisive snort. “She risked getting killed for this toy.”

  “At the right distance and angle, she might be able to make it look real. And even photos of this would be embarrassing for King Dahlmar if they got out.”

  “Or she could be an assassin, using this as cover.”

  Baker was right. Paparazzi go everywhere—it would be a great way for an assassin to hide. “When you find out, let me know. I’m going to deal with Seymour here and report to the princess.”

  “Seymour?” Baker asked.

  “Yeah, I’m seeing more of him than I ever wanted.”

  She chortled and left, first handing me a device I could use to scan my cousin’s “last fling.” I didn’t touch it, in case being tossed off the bed in disgust was a trigger. There was no bomb. But that’s not the only thing that can kill.

  I had no doubt I looked ridiculous hooking the scanner to the air port, which some clever soul had placed right where fluid comes out of a human male, to check out what the doll was filled with. I’d hate to find out it had been inflated with sarin gas.

  I waited for the light on the device to turn green, but it remained stubbornly yellow. Not red, but there was definitely something more to Seymour than his obvious attributes.

  I called in Baker and Griffith and managed not to blush as I told them to bag and tag the doll and get it off the boat without deflating it.

  I took Adriana into a small cabin to brief her. She was rightly alarmed as what looked like a body bag was removed from her personal cabin. I explained what had happened without mentioning the contents of the doll, then she and I went back to the main room, where the other guests were sitting and staring at nothing. That likely meant they were busily talking mentally.

  “Excuse me,” I said out loud, startling several of them, “but which of you left a gift on Adriana’s bed?” Nobody answered. That wasn’t good. “Really, this is important, ladies. If you did, we need to know.”

  Finally, Nani raised her hand sheepishly. “It was poor taste on my part, I know. But the expression on it made me laugh. I’m sorry if it frightened anyone.”

  Adriana laughed and told the others what I’d found. They all chuckled before Adriana swatted her friend’s knee. “You scamp, Nani! I’m sorry I didn’t get to see it.”

  Ouch. I’d been hoping it hadn’t been left by one of Adriana’s friends. Now came the hard part. “Did you actually fill the doll?”

  Nani, big-with-child, been-with-a-hundred men siren Nani, blushed. “Good heavens, no! Did you see where they put the nozzle?” She turned to the others. “It was right on the end of his … well, you know. Most of them have the place where you blow it up on the back of the head. No, I asked one of the servants to fill it.”

  I heard a cheep near the door. It was Baker’s earwig. She listened intently and then nodded. “Ten-four,” she said into the mic at her wrist. She stepped forward and took over the questioning. “Did you instruct the servant to place anything in the doll except air, your ladyship?”

  Nani shook her head, confused. “No. Of course not. Why, what—” She didn’t complete the sentence but her expression told me she’d figured out what was going on. Gasps from the others told me everyone else had gotten it too.

  “What did you find, Agent Baker?” Adriana’s voice shook, and for good reason. Everybody on board, with the exception of the reporters, was someone she trusted.

  “There was THC suspended in a mixture of air and ethylene. It wouldn’t kill the princess, but since she is a prophet, it would likely cause euphoria and hallucinations. We don’t know what was intended beyond that. Perhaps the photographer would catch her in a compromising position or appearing drunk, which would inflame the Ruslandic population. Or perhaps someone hoped she would fall overboard and drown. Of course, that could never happen. The ocean wouldn’t allow a siren princess to die by drowning. Or perhaps it was a prank. We might not ever know. But I do need to know which servant you asked to fill the doll.”

  Nani named the male bartender. Adriana protested that she’d known him for years. When the security team scoured the ship for him, they found him easily—he’d hung himself in his cabin. We might never know why he’d done it or who he might have been working with.

  The whole chain of events cast a pall over the party and it wasn’t long before the captain turned the ship around to take the subdued group of friends back to shore.

  28

  The wedding had been being planned for more than a year with military precision and timing. An army of workers were laboring to take care of even the tiniest details. You would think that there wouldn’t be any last-second preparations required on the final day.

  You would be wrong.

  That Nellie Standish had been able to get onto the princess’s yacht and that a member of Adriana’s own staff had been compromise
d had the secret service in a frothing fury. I went to the security meeting and listened as Thorsen went over the schedule for the next day minute by minute, confirming who would be in charge of what and which units where doing what where and when. Air space had been closed off over the capital city for the entire morning. Uniformed police would be stationed along the parade route at ten-foot intervals, providing a very visible presence. Less visible would be Creede, who was coordinating the work of the mages who would create an unseen magical barrier to protect the royals for the entire length of the two- mile procession. The Secret Service agents were doing continuous sweeps for bombs and snipers. Radio announcements and printed handouts asked all citizens and visitors to report anything suspicious.

  The sheer size of the endeavor was staggering. And even with all of the preparation, Thorsen and everyone else in the room were fully aware that we couldn’t keep Queen Lopaka, Princess Adriana, and the others completely safe. The route was too open and too long. But everything that could be done was being done by professionals who were the best in the business.

  And all this was for the casual part of the program. The procedures in place for the big church wedding in Rusland were going to be even more elaborate.

  I was proud to be a part of history in the making. I was terrified of screwing up.

  On the Internet, the Guardians of the Faith denounced the upcoming ritual on Serenity, decried Adriana’s baptism as a fraud, and threatened decisive action if she ever dared set foot on Ruslandic soil. They sounded hysterical and crazy. Then again, they probably were. But though the best minds in the security services of three countries tried, they were unable to trace the source of the messages. The bad guys had thoroughly covered those tracks. It was impressive and frightening—they’d spent a lot of time and effort to make themselves untraceable.

  On Serenity, every trail connecting to the man who’d tried to kidnap my grandmother held a fresh corpse. Some were obviously victims of foul play. One was an apparent suicide. In the United States, the FBI had found Clarke, murdered with gruesome irony on a standing warehouse set that had been used in the James Bond movie A Place to Die. I was glad I had an alibi for that one, because it was common knowledge that Clarke had been harassing me and that I hated the bastard.

  Jan was in the wind and there was still no sign of Okalani. Despite the words of Laka’s seer, I was losing hope of anyone finding her alive.

  It was hard. I would save her if I could. But first someone had to find her. Both the queen’s people and the FBI were working with local law enforcement to search anywhere that Clarke had been known to frequent, so far to no avail. Okalani was off the grid and definitely in danger. Knowing that the mess she was in, start to finish, was her own fault didn’t make it any better. Most of our problems are of our own making. Since there was nothing I could do to help her, I tried to put the whole situation from my mind.

  The morning dawned bright and clear—something I knew because I watched the sun rise through the French doors of my suite. The procession was scheduled to start at 9:00 sharp and there was a lot to be done before then. And it wasn’t as if I had been sleeping, anyway.

  I brushed my teeth, then stumbled to the shower, hoping it would help wake me enough to keep me moving until I got some caffeine. I scrubbed and shampooed, but didn’t dry or style my hair or put on makeup. Both would be taken care of later by professionals—Adriana, Olga, Natasha, and I would all be getting “done” in my big living room. The very best hair and makeup artists in the world had been hired to make sure we looked perfect. I was a little surprised they were letting me dress myself. They must figure I could be trusted to tie on a lavalava. Silly them.

  I pulled the dress from its garment bag, laying it across the bed. It was a striking piece made of raw silk in a red so dark it was almost black, with a pattern of glittering silver and gold abstract flowers and contrasting black bamboo. It was dark enough to set off my pale coloring and blonde hair and looked good with the black jacket and matching picture hat I’d be wearing to protect the delicate skin of my face.

  Isaac had come through with the solution for my hands and feet: handmade gloves and boots covered in illusion spells that made them look eerily like bare hands and feet—with a perfect manicure and pedicure to match my dress, no less. My skin would be covered and protected, but I’d look like everyone else. I was more grateful to him than I could say.

  When I was dressed, I went downstairs to join the others. I’d accessorized with a boatload of concealed weapons as well as the ruby-and-diamond earrings and bracelet that I’d used to have Gilda spy on Olga and Natasha for me—not because I needed their special properties, but simply because they were the best match for my outfit.

  I was directed to a tall stool, where an elderly woman with close-cropped curls and skin the color of café au lait whipped a black plastic cape over my shoulders and began using a wide-toothed comb to detangle my hair. It took a bit of time. I have a lot of hair.

  “It’s a bit windy today, and I understand you want to wear a hat, is that right?” she asked. There was no censure in her voice.

  “Yes. I need to protect my skin.”

  “In that case, why don’t I pull it over to one side, and arrange it in curls trailing over your shoulder?” She combed it into place, to give me an idea of how it would work.

  “I like that.” I smiled at her.

  I sat still, letting her do her thing with a variety of pleasantly scented hair products, a blow dryer, and a pair of tortoiseshell combs. All the while I wished fervently for a cup of black coffee. I can function without caffeine in the morning, but I’m never happy about it.

  The stylist was working with the curling iron when Hiwahiwa arrived at the head of a parade of servers pushing carts laden with food and drink—everything from capers to caviar, bagels with cream cheese to scrambled eggs, English breakfast tea to—oh joy and rapture—coffee. It smelled glorious. They even brought me a Sunset Smoothie that must have been made from Juan and Barbara’s recipe. It was all I could do to sit still and let the hairdresser finish what she was doing instead of pouncing on the tray like some ravening beast. I’d have to brush my teeth again to get rid of the garlic and onions, but the coffee and the wonderful food were worth every second.

  “All done.” She turned the stool around so I could get a look at myself in the mirror behind the bar. “What do you think?”

  I looked great. Even without makeup. “Wow.”

  “You have great hair,” she said as she whisked off the cape. “Now go eat. When you’re done they’ll want you down the hall for makeup.”

  “Thanks, so much.” I wished I could tip her, but I hadn’t brought down my purse. “Um…” I tried to think of an apology that didn’t sound lame, but couldn’t think of a thing.

  It was as if she read my mind, or maybe just my uncomfortable expression. “Don’t worry about it,” she assured me. “Everything’s been taken care of. Tips and everything.”

  I enjoyed my breakfast while my hairdresser worked on Natasha. I half expected Hiwahiwa to approach me with word about Laka or Okalani, but she didn’t. Most likely, there wasn’t anything to say. Still, I was glad to move to the next room and put some distance between us.

  “I’m going to use a base with the heaviest sunscreen available,” the makeup artist assured me as she swept another little capelet over my shoulders. This one was hot pink and marked with the logo of her company. The color was an almost exact match for her short, spiked hair and perfect manicure.

  “I appreciate that.”

  “My name is Brenna.”

  “Celia.”

  “I know.” She smiled, showing straight white teeth. “Now try to relax.”

  I tried, but wasn’t very successful. It was weird having somebody paint makeup on me. I didn’t like it. Still, I couldn’t argue with the result. When she stepped aside so I could see myself in the mirror, I was stunned.

  That was me? Wow. I had a moment of pure ego—which was de
flated the minute I got a look at my cousin, seated nearby.

  Everybody says brides are radiant, and Adriana was. Her long red hair was held to one side by pearl-encrusted combs carved from abalone shells; it fell in a cascade of curls over one shoulder. The lavalava she wore was dark gold, cream, and yellow, and was tied in a way that showed off her dangerous curves. The cross King Dahlmar had given her the night before nestled in her ample cleavage; the colors of the dress picked up the topaz in the necklace and her topaz-and-pearl earrings.

  The makeup artist hadn’t needed to do much for her. Adriana had amazing skin and she was so excited and happy that cosmetics were almost redundant—almost.

  Natasha and Olga were both looking lovely as well. I studied myself again in the mirror and was pleased with what I saw. Today I could hold my own with the other bridesmaids, and that was good, because even if the bride was going to be the center of attention, I’d be in lots of the wedding photos, and the event was being televised all over the world. Too, there’d be press photographers taking shots for all the international print media.

  There was a light tap on the door.

  It was time to go.

  The drive from the guest house to the parade route was surprisingly quiet. Nobody bothered making small talk. I didn’t mind. I was enjoying staring out the window at the milling throngs of happy people waving and shouting congratulations as we drove past.

  We arrived at the starting point exactly on schedule. Stepping out of the car into the bright morning sun was like stepping into a pool of thick, burning magic. It hurt. I’d known about the protective spells everywhere, but ow, ow, ow. Damn. And it was going to be like this for the long, long walk to the courthouse. I’d have to really fight not to wince the whole way—and wouldn’t that look special on the front page of every paper in the world?

  The procession probably looked casual, but of course that was an elaborate illusion. Everything had been planned to the last nuance. Adriana and Dahlmar were at the head of the group, walking hand-in-hand. The queen would be directly behind them, escorted by Gunnar Thorsen. If there were any concerns about whether she was strong enough to walk a couple of miles so soon after being released from the hospital, no one I knew had dared voice them. Truthfully, she looked good, and it wasn’t the makeup, either. Being so close to the ocean and back on her home island seemed to be doing wonders for her. She was beautiful in bright turquoise, her golden hair left long and loose so that it fell past her shoulders in shining waves. We three bridesmaids were next, with our escorts. Mine was Griffiths, who looked terrific in traditional long shorts and a flowing white shirt. Igor followed—with Baker at his side, which gave her a reason to stay close to me. I noticed that she and Igor were smiling at each other in a genuinely friendly manner. Hmmm.