The Magic's in the Music (Magic Series Book 5)

by Susan Squires

  Greta clutched her martini, trying not to sneak glances at her neighbor, but she could see in her peripheral vision that he’d downed another glass of Scotch. She felt like some kind of schoolgirl, deliberately not looking at the object of her attentions. She hadn’t felt like that since way before she’d stopped being a schoolgirl. Time to get out of here.

  She turned to Jax to say that. To Greta’s horror, Jax leaned forward and held out her hand across Greta. Jax’s plump breasts dangled, front and center, on view to their ghostly neighbor.

  “Hi, I’m Jax. Great session tonight.”

  Greta tried to sink into the barstool. Hadn’t Jax just told her he didn’t like to be touched? And he wasn’t exactly putting out ‘I’m-on-the-prowl-for-companionship’ vibes, not with two bodyguards keeping people away. Unable to look away from a train wreck, Greta couldn’t help turning to the guy next to her.

  Unbelievably, he bothered to raise his shaggy head. The look he gave Jax was filled with faint disgust. He didn’t take her hand. He just left her hanging.

  His eyes flicked to Greta, flicked away, slowly returned. They widened.

  She couldn’t really see the color of his eyes in the pervasive red light. The faint disgust in his expression turned to something almost startled and then to…revulsion. He thrust himself away from the bar, snatched up the bottle, his pack and his coat and dashed for the back of the club, mumbling something she couldn’t hear.

  Was he running away from her? Greta sat at the bar stunned. Insulted. And, God help her, fascinated.

  She watched the Ghost push through the crowd. He shifted away from pats on the back by the men and the clutch of his arm by several women as though they were blows. He disappeared into the hallway that held the club’s kitchen and restrooms.

  “Well, shit,” Jax said. Then she shrugged. “At least I saw him.”

  Greta threw two fifties on the bar. She gave a wave to catch the barman’s eye. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll take the back way to avoid the paparazzi.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‡

  Lanyon Tremaine swung his leg over and off the back of the motorcycle and trudged to the post that held the keypad, his backpack slung over his shoulder. The chug of the Yamaha’s engine almost covered the cooing of mourning doves. Cameras swiveled toward him from the top of the gateposts with a mechanical click.

  “You sure this is where you live?” the blonde on the Yamaha called. “I’ll drop you somewhere else if you want. My house, for instance.”

  “Nope. This is it.” He punched the buttons for the gate code. He wasn’t getting tangled up with some bimbo. She’d just want things from him he’d never give. Later he’d hitch up to Hollywood, pick up his Harley and find a new flop.

  “Well, uh, see you then.” The girl revved the cycle as though she was going to take off, but let it drop to a low rumble again, giving him another chance to change his mind.

  The gate began to creak open. Sounded like the gates to hell opening. God, but he had a hangover. “See you around.” He didn’t even look back at her.

  “Bastard,” he heard her mutter. The cycle revved up and spun out.

  Lan took a big breath and let it out. This was the last place he wanted to be. Fuck. Why was he here? Because I’m a chicken-shit. And hitting the clubs now held its own danger after that disaster at Magma. At least he could guarantee he wouldn’t see her here at The Breakers. He started down the long drive lined with oleanders. The breeze from the cliffs ruffled his hair. Too bad it couldn’t clear his brain. He plodded along the circular drive. He could see Catalina Island floating on the blue Pacific, behind the three-story hacienda perched on the cliff. Seagulls squealed and wheeled on the updrafts. The leaves on the trees in the center of the drive had started to turn. Trees in southern California didn’t go out in a blaze of glory. Their leaves just gave up, turned brown and drifted away. Pretty much what he was doing these days.

  Edwards stepped into the driveway from the wing of the house that held the security offices. His arms were folded across his chest, his look disapproving.

  “Don’t say it,” Lan muttered. “I was here just last month.”

  “It was July. And you wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t her birthday.”

  Lan shoved past the older man. “Do us both a favor. Stop letting me in.”

  “I wish I could, the way you worry them. But they’d never forgive me.”

  Edwards watched him push into the house through the big wooden doors with the iron straps. Lan shut the door on him. It was cool inside. The heat Hollywood had been sweltering in for the past month seemed distant. Maybe he could make it to his room without having to face anybody. He heard conversation drifting in from the terrace. He slid through the foyer to the archway that led to the Bay of Pigs, so named by his oldest sister because it used to be the wing that housed the Tremaine’s four boys. Now he was the only pig left in it, on those rare times he was here. The others were all mated. More than just married. Shackled for life.

  He made it past the room commandeered as a hospital set-up for his father last year. It looked like Kemble and Jane had taken up residence. Devin’s old room was now a gym.

  “Lanyon.” The tone was commanding. Kemble. Formerly Prince of Wales, now the Prince Regent if you wanted to continue such a stupid metaphor.

  Lan stopped, but he didn’t turn. “What?” He could practically feel his eldest brother fuming. It must be a constant irritant that Lan came and went as he pleased in spite of any order ‘Brother Dear’ might give.

  But all Kemble said when he finally spoke was, “Welcome home.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Mother and Senior are on the terrace, after you’ve had a chance to shower.”

  “What makes you think I’ll shower?” He couldn’t quite say, ‘What makes you think I want to see them?’”

  Exasperation crept into his brother’s voice. “Because I can smell you from here, and it would be disrespectful to appear like that when you finally deign to show up.”

  Lanyon was about to stalk off when he heard a soft voice. “You look starved, Lan. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

  Jane. He’d always liked Jane, even before she married his stick-up-his-ass brother. He half turned. “That’d be…nice.” He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

  She smiled at him, even as his brother glowered. They made a funny pair. Jane was all soft curves and pastel colors these days, more than a foot shorter than his brother as well as pretty much pregnant, while Kemble was about as starchy and business-like as you could imagine. He searched his brother’s face. No, there was some new softness there as well. In the eighteen months they’d been married, Jane had rubbed off on Kemble. Thank God. His brother might get slightly less insufferable eventually. Lanyon caught himself. What did he care? Wasn’t he drifting away from the family as fast has he could go? Safer that way.

  “I’ll meet you on the terrace,” Jane said, still examining his face.

  He grunted and stalked back to his room at the end of the hall. Not drifting fast enough. He was here for his mother’s Goddamned birthday just like the dutiful son he’d once been. Maybe you’re here because you’re running away from something outside the gates, too. Or someone. He wouldn’t think about that.

  He slammed into his room and began to pull off his boots. The Prince of Wales might have been right about his need for a shower. Alcohol had dulled the senses, just not quite enough these days. And even dulled, he could smell he needed a shower. He stripped naked and tossed his clothes on the bed. Staggering toward the bathroom, his eye was caught by the tablature paper scattered across the big desk, covered with scribbled notes. Nobody had thrown it away. Even looked like someone had dusted it. Had he left it here last time he’d been home? He didn’t remember…. Of course, he didn’t remember much of anything about the last time he’d been home, except going through most of Senior’s stash of Scotch.

  Didn’t matter. He scraped up the sheet music, wadded it int
o a ball, and tossed it vaguely in the direction of the wastebasket. Nobody wrote music except on a computer anymore. His flute leaned at the corner of the desk. Why was it here? All his other instruments were up in the music room with the door firmly shut. He couldn’t bear to even touch it. He’d ask Jane to move it up with the others. He rubbed his temples. The pull of the flute was palpable. He could hear its pure tones trilling, accompanied by the drumbeat of his headache. Once it had been his constant companion, handy in case some of the notes flying around in his head had to be tried out, played. He pulled away from the lure of the flute, his breath shallow, anger welling up inside. Not for him. Not anymore. It was all gone, along with the life he’d known. Not fair. Not any of it. Before he knew it, he’d punched the wall behind the desk. A small, framed portrait of Beethoven clattered to the floor, glass shattering. The plaster bore a spider web of accusation.

  Lan tried to get hold of himself, reel in the anger. Like a writhing mass of worms, it was hard to get back in the can these days. Chest heaving, he put one hand on each side of the doorframe above his head and just tried to breathe. He hated these episodes where he spun out of control. What he needed was a drink.

  It was all the fault of that girl two nights ago. Or was it three?

  He stomped into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Sure she’d been good-looking. Blonde, blue eyes, slim. But right after he’d left The Breakers, he’d had a lot of girls who were hot. They were a dime a dozen in clubs like Magma. It wasn’t her looks that had gotten under his skin. She’d looked vaguely familiar. Yeah, that’s it. He stepped into the steam and stood under the showerhead. The hot water poured over him, clearing his head. Maybe she was one of the chicks he’d banged when he’d first started hitting the clubs. Turned out banging chicks didn’t change anything either.

  He grabbed the soap and lathered up.

  No. He’d have remembered her. Hell, the problem was that he couldn’t seem to forget her. He’d only seen her for an instant, but the minute they’d locked eyes a disturbing connection had taken hold of him. He slicked the soap over his body. Just remembering her was making him half-erect, headed toward a full hard-on. The longing that had been dogging him for the last three days waited to pounce as she wormed her way into his thoughts. He’d never heard her voice. He could imagine how it would sound though. Sweet. Musical almost. A contralto, even though that didn’t seem like it would go with her angelic good looks.

  The truth was he’d felt her presence in the bar before he’d even looked at her. He was sure of it now. What could that be?

  Stop lying to yourself. He knew very well what it was. He had examples all around him of his family’s magic. And their curse. It was why he was trying so hard not to think about her.

  The destiny he’d been trying so hard to avoid might just have found him anyway.

  *

  “I could pick him up before we go,” Jason said. He cleared his throat. His power had grown now they’d found three of the four Talismans. He felt strong. But he didn’t let that lead him into being foolish. However strong he was, Morgan’s power was stronger.

  He watched Morgan straighten from where she had been latching her carry-on bag. They were in the living area of the suite in the casino Morgan had finally purchased. Three display cases shed their glow over the posh red and black furniture. One display held the Sword. One held the Cup. Only the one that normally held the Wand stood empty. Morgan almost always took that Talisman with her. It was the one she related to the most.

  “From what you’ve said, we don’t need to rush things.” Her yellow eyes dared him to tell her his reports were in error. “He’s not likely to hole up at The Breakers again for any length of time, as broken as he is. We can pick him up any time.” She raised her brows in a silent question.

  “True,” Jason said trying to sound definite. Actually, he wished the Clan included a Finder. The youngest Tremaine boy could be elusive. He showed up at a different club every night, changed dirt-bag motels frequently, and used cash only. The Clan’s surveillance on The Breakers made it the one sure place to locate him, but he didn’t come home often.

  Morgan grinned. She was a stunning woman these days, except for the golden eyes, which Jason never could like. Vibrant, she looked about thirty-five. But no one could call that grin attractive. “I rather like the idea that they must be sick with worry about him.” She pulled on her gloves. Who wore gloves for traveling in Southern California? Her real age showed in small things. “Besides, Hardwick is right. I have been far too focused on the Tremaines. They are no risk without their leader, and I’ve taken care of him rather nicely, if I do say so myself. Thank the gods I didn’t kill him. His suffering is much more satisfying.” She motioned to the valise. Jason made haste to pick it up. “Let’s get moving. We have much to do.”

  Jason was relieved to change the subject. “How many more will you recruit?” Recruiting didn’t quite describe what she was doing, of course.

  “At least three.” Morgan’s self-satisfied grin made him uneasy. “Hardwick is making excellent progress in orienting them. Hannibal is ready for deployment, and Alexander is coming right along. Now all we need is the last Talisman.”

  But with Hardwick so engaged in Morgan’s little military projects, how could he search for it? And how would the Clan know if the Tremaines found it, now that their spy at The Breakers had been neutralized? Their plans required all four Talismans of the Tarot before they could be consummated. Without the fourth Talisman all this chasing around after military strategists was useless.

  Morgan got a sly look about her. Jason hated that look. Had she seen the doubt in his eyes? “All in good time, Jason. I can feel the forces of the universe begin to align. Can’t you? Besides, Phil can keep an eye on The Breakers while I’m away.”

  “How…how long will we be gone?” Morgan didn’t like to be questioned. But he was traipsing half way around the world with her. Didn’t he have a right to know?

  “No idea. Once we reach Ulaanbaatar, I’ll want to meet with the Minister of Antiquities. Then we still have to trek out to the gravesite.”

  At least a week in constant proximity to Morgan. That would be hell. But of course Jason had been in hell for some time now, working for Morgan. So it didn’t much matter.

  *

  Better get it over with. Lan pulled a blue tee shirt from the fully stocked chest of drawers in his room and tucked it into a pair of clean jeans in a vain gesture of tidiness. As if that would placate his family. He took a breath to gird his loins and headed out to the terrace.

  They were all there: all the couples that comprised the family. Only Lan and Tammy were still unattached. His oldest sister Drew had Michael. They lounged together on a double chaise under the jacaranda tree. Kee was painting them. She’d perfectly captured Drew’s cool sophistication and Michael’s brute strength. Kee had set up her canvas at the edge of the flagstone terrace next to Devin, who had his nose in a book. The surfer boy wasn’t attending classes anymore. Must be writing his dissertation. Desalinization, if Lan remembered. Or cared, he reminded himself. His brother, Tris, was riding Jesse around on his shoulders across the grass beyond the terrace. Kid was getting big. Tris’s wife Maggie was discretely breastfeeding their newest, Elizabeth, though if the baby wasn’t dressed in pink he’d never know whether it was a boy or a girl. Lan tried to stay as far away from babies as possible.

  Tammy, Kemble and Jane were not in evidence. Tammy was probably down at the stable. That’s where she always was these days. Tammy might be trying to escape her fate almost as hard as he was.

  His mother glanced up from where she was reading to his father. Lan forced himself to look in their direction. Pain stabbed his gut and closed his throat. She looked so much older than she had eighteen months ago, before the attack. She’d be sixty this year and for the first time she looked it. She’d always been a beautiful woman. Still was. But the hair that once showed only a dramatic streak of gray had gone salt and pepper almost ove
rnight. All the wisdom she’d seemed to exude in former times went unsaid these days. She didn’t even read her tarot cards anymore, like she’d given up on the future. He understood that feeling pretty damn well.

  He kept his eyes carefully away from his father and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Lanyon.” His mother put down the book and stood, apparently surprised. Everyone else on the terrace stopped what they were doing and looked up. Lan could feel himself flush.

  “Mother.”

  “Decide to grace us with your presence?” Drew drawled. God he hated her manner sometimes.

  “I’m sober. What more do you want?”

  His mother came out from around the table and hugged him. He stood stiffly in her embrace. When she was done, she looked up at him. “We just worry about you.”

  “Why the hell would you do that? You know where I am because Michael can Find me any time you want. And Drew probably reports my future like the six o’clock news.”

  “You know that’s not how it works.” Drew frowned, marring her porcelain features. His sisters were beautiful, all of them.

  Kemble came in from the kitchen. He carried a plate with a sandwich about six inches high. “I wanted to chain you in your room. But Miles said that was kidnapping.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “Lawyers. They only see the downside.”

  Lan had given his oldest brother a merry chase for a while. He used to skip out of The Breakers by heading down the cliff path to the beach and hiking north, until Kemble put security cameras out there. Hid in the trunk of a car a couple of times, until Edwards started searching everything going out the gates as well as in. Then Lan discovered that even if he made it out, Michael would just Find him as soon as the family missed him, and they’d come and pick him up wherever he was. But he kept at it. He just started walking out the front gate as soon as they brought him back. What were they going to do, shoot him? And when they came to get him he ignored them. They weren’t going to wrestle him into the car or drug him, were they? He’d been plenty drugged during that time anyway, by his own hand.