by Cat Adams
“Your Majesty.” I forced myself to smile. “May I recommend the egg drop soup or the kung pao chicken? They’re quite tasty. You look like you haven’t eaten for a while.”
He grimaced. “No. I haven’t.”
“Well, the food here is quite good. And you need to keep your strength up to deal with whatever is going on. I’m guessing it’s your sons?”
He sighed heavily, absently tapping his knuckles against the table. “My son Kristoff has staged a coup d’état. I escaped with my life, thanks to a core group of my men. Rezza did not.” There was a pained pause. Rezza was . . . had been the crown prince. Kristoff was the younger son. While Rezza had been more hard-core religious than his father, they both shared a deep love of their people and truly believed they knew the best way to lead the country into the future. Kristoff didn’t have a deep love for anything except himself. More to the point, he was stupid. Even his father admitted it. Stupid people make bad rulers.
I opened my mouth to voice my condolences, but he waved me to silence. When he spoke again, his voice was flat, inflectionless. Just the facts. “Thus far, no word has leaked out and Kristoff has been using demon spawn as impostors to maintain an appearance of normalcy. As he is neither cunning nor strong enough to manage something like this on his own, there must be someone else behind this.”
I knew all about demon spawn. The products of humans breeding with demons, they were born without souls and with the magical abilities of their demon parents. A spawn could change into an exact replica of anyone, right down to the cellular level. My last job—the one that left me with fangs—had been to guard Prince Rezza. Only it wasn’t Rezza but a demon spawn. I’d been really angry when I’d talked about this in group. I’d guarded a demon spawn . . . how laughable! Guarded it against what? An angel? That was about the only thing that could hurt them.
I shook my head with both weariness and frustration. Kristoff didn’t realize what kind of dynamite he was playing with. He might think he was in control, but it was an illusion. A demon spawn will turn on you in a red-hot minute. “So they’ve taken your country from you and you don’t even know who the villain is.”
“Yes. But our advantage is that they must kill me and make it look like an accident. I don’t plan to give them that opportunity.”
“Why do they have to kill you? They’ve got the country. You’re on the run and powerless. Rezza’s dead. Why not just announce that Kristoff’s in charge? There wouldn’t be much you could do about it.”
The waiter started toward our table, carrying a water glass and a menu for my companion. As he came near, Dahlmar’s expression changed, as if a switch had been hit. One minute angry, deposed monarch; the next, pleasant dinner companion. While a part of me had always known a ruler needed to be a good actor, it was disconcerting as hell to watch.
King Dahlmar listened to the list of daily specials with apparent cheerfulness before ordering exactly what I’d suggested when he arrived.
The instant the waiter left, Dahlmar’s smile disappeared. His expression was grim. “You don’t understand politics, Ms. Graves. I’ve gained enough international favor that he doesn’t dare simply exile me. My allies will intervene. For example, my iron ore contract with France depends on reserves that only I know the location of. No, he needs the respectability of a seemingly honest inheritance.”
“Again, why?” I took a sip of my water. He didn’t touch his. “It would be just as easy to claim to the world that you’d snapped and he had to take the throne.”
He thought carefully before answering. Until that moment I don’t think he’d slowed down enough to just think things through. He’d been on the run, desperate, with too much happening. In those circumstances you react. He’d done well thus far. He was still alive. But if he seriously wanted to get his throne back, he needed to stop reacting and start thinking. Even then the odds against him succeeding were ridiculously long—and probably getting longer by the minute as Kristoff settled in.
After a long pause, the king nodded. “First, my people wouldn’t believe it, even if the leaders of other countries did or pretended to for their own purposes. Kristoff is disliked by the upper class. Also, I am a popular ruler and many of the more moderate clerics would not condone patricide and fratricide. And we have many opportunities now, with the wealth from the natural gas reserves. We even have a vote on the UN Security Council.”
“So, you go to the U.S. government, ask for asylum, make them go public.”
He shook his head sadly. “It is not so simple. It may be that your government will feel that Kristoff would be an easier monarch to deal with. He is a simple soul, much like his mother. Wave shining objects in his face and he will follow blindly.”
I gave the King a dark look. I like to think that, regardless of which party is in power, my country wouldn’t buy a despot like a new handbag.
Yeah, yeah. Don’t quote history to me. Let me have my delusions of honesty and fair play. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Perhaps I am wrong. But there are things your government does not know about . . . weapons that I would prefer not to divulge and that I do not want to fall into the hands of the unscrupulous.”
His face was studiously impassive. “Are we talking about the kinds of weapons I think we’re talking about?” As in the Russian nukes that had gone mysteriously missing last fall or maybe some of the very specialized biological curses I’d heard of that didn’t even bear thinking about.
“Let us say that should Kristoff’s backers discover the location of and gain access to the weaponry that was at my disposal, there is the definite possibility of a third world war.”
Oh, fuck a duck . . . twice.
I’d been right. This was out of my league. Way, way out of my league. “Why come to me?”
“I believe you may be the only person I know who has the appropriate contacts to handle the situation.”
If he thought that would enlighten me, he was wrong. I don’t have government connections. I don’t even want government connections, despite what Ren had intimated earlier.
Seeing my lack of understanding, Dahlmar continued. “My son is being controlled by a woman. I believe her to be a siren.”
Oh, shit. Well, that certainly explained why me. He probably didn’t have any other siren contacts. They’re notoriously reclusive. I might be his only option, but he had a right to know the truth—that I wasn’t a good option. “I may have siren abilities, but I don’t really know any sirens. And those I do know have made it clear I’m not their favorite person. In fact, they’re going to have a hearing to determine whether or not they’ll let me live or destroy me as an abomination.”
He gave a fierce smile, baring his teeth. “Perfect.”
I raised an eyebrow at him in inquiry because, for the life of me I couldn’t see an upside.
“Ivan is a mage. Before the coup, he had his suspicions about this woman. She was too secretive, too careful to make sure none of my people saw her. It sent up a”—he searched for the right phrase—“red flag. He managed to obtain a few of her hairs and used them to create a protective charm that enabled him to escape her influence. With a simple spell, it can be used to identify her if we are in her presence.” Dahlmar didn’t explain how he’d escaped being influenced. I was betting the omission was intentional. And boy, did that make me curious.
Using the amulet to track the culprit might work. But somehow I didn’t think the sirens would be wild about my bringing Dahlmar and Ivan to their island to track down and kill one of their own. Assuming, of course, I could even find it, or that I was willing to let the king use me that way.
“If she’s not there?”
“Oh, but she will be.” His smile was predatory and quite chilling. “There are not very many sirens in existence to begin with. Your siren ancestry being activated by a vampire is something so strange and so dangerous that I’ve no doubt every one of your kin will be called to this hearing. She will be there. And so will we.” His voice was
compelling, and despite his weariness and the silly clothes, I could feel the power and force of his personality. I honestly didn’t think it occurred to him that I might, say, refuse him. It was both a strength and a weakness, this royal arrogance. I’d seen this in him before. But even as we’d spoken, even though he seemed to be him, I needed to be sure. I needed to be careful. Because I have been fooled before. See the previous notes on spawn.
“How do I know you’re you?”
He blinked at me, completely dumbfounded.
“I’ve dealt with spawn who wanted to take your crown before. Who’s to say you aren’t another one? After all, King Dahlmar is at a very public finance conference.”
“He is the impostor. I am not demon spawn.” He puffed up, taking offense.
“Yes, well, obviously you would say that.” I didn’t add the “duh” because it was just too insulting. “So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to leave this restaurant and in exactly twenty-four hours I will meet you at the place where you and your men delivered my sire’s head to me. If you’re you, you’re bound to remember that. When you get there, you’ll have to cross the line of protection and I’ll be dousing all three of you with holy water. You pass the test, we’ll talk.”
He looked irate and opened his mouth to argue, but I didn’t let him.
“Look. You need food and rest and more of a plan than just ‘find the siren and kill the bitch.’ I’ve got things to do, too. So . . . twenty-four hours. Nothing critical is likely to happen in your country before tomorrow, and Creede will keep you safe until then.” The waiter came up with Dahlmar’s food. I’d timed it perfectly. I rose as the waiter began setting dishes on the table in front of the king. Ivan was glowering at me from his spot in the telephone nook. Creede was looking very thoughtful. They were probably them. Probably. I’d find out tomorrow.
11
I’d had one of the most physically and emotionally draining days of my life. I was freaking exhausted. I did not have the energy to go back to Birchwoods. I just didn’t. So I called, left a message at the night desk, and crashed on the floor of my office, using a cushion from one of the chairs as a pillow. I often have recurring nightmares when I’m stressed, but if I dreamed that night, I didn’t remember it.
I woke to the sound of purring and the feel of sharp little claws pricking my thigh. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it wasn’t something I could ignore. I cracked open my eyes. Bright sunshine had filled most of the room. A few more minutes and my arm would’ve been burning.
I started to roll over and Minnie the Mouser leapt to safety. “How in the hell did you get in here?” She hadn’t come in with me last night, that was for sure.
She moved to sit by the door, her expression and posture saying as plainly as words that she wanted out. Now. I got up, stretched, and obliged her. As I did I noticed a couple of significant things. First, on my desk were a huge carafe of coffee, an empty mug, and an ice bucket holding ice and two of the canned diet shakes that I use for food in a pinch. Second, my gym bag was sitting on the floor next to my desk. Third, it was 3:00.
P.M.
Holy crap. I’d slept most of the day away. No wonder my mouth felt like something the cat had dragged in to die. But I was more than a little alarmed that people had been able to come and go in my office without my knowing it.
As long as I was up, I grabbed the gym bag and went down the hall to the bathroom and set about doing those things one does to get the day started on the right foot. The third-floor bathroom isn’t large, but it’s not tiny, either. Modest by current standards, it would’ve been considered positively luxurious back when the house was built. In those days, not everybody had indoor plumbing and the standard was one bath for an entire house. But this building had been a mansion. Along with real parquet floors and a stained-glass window on the landing between the first and second floors, it had a bathroom on every floor. The original tub had probably been a big, claw-footed monstrosity, but that had gone the way of the dodo during a sixties rehab.
Now we had a shower and a matching oversized tub in flamingo pink. They exactly matched the pedestal sink and toilet. The wallpaper was candy-cane striped in pink, silver, black, and white. It was loud but undeniably eye-catching. It occurred to me that I could now afford to change it if I wanted. The thought was startling. I looked around again. If the design magazines I’d seen in the rec room at Birchwoods were any indication, this look was coming back in vogue. And I had to admit I really did like the candy-striped paper. The air felt lighter suddenly, as though the room itself had breathed a sigh of relief. I smiled and started to dig through the cupboards.
I keep travel sizes of my toiletries at the office. My hours are so weird that it just makes sense for me, so I was able to get cleaned up and dressed in something more comfortable and less wrinkled than the skirt and top I’d slept in.
Zipping open the gym bag, I found the lavender and white tracksuit my gran had bought me for my last birthday. Thinking of Gran made me sad. She was probably having a really hard time. God knows Mom has her flaws, but my gran loves her as only a mother can. Getting picked up again meant serious jail time. The good news, Mom might dry out, get into AA. But I’d gotten my siren blood through her. If Dr. Marloe was correct—and I was pretty sure she was—sirens do not get on well with other women. Locking my mother in jail with hundreds of other women would be a recipe for disaster, no matter how richly she might deserve it. I wondered if we could use the Americans with Disabilities Act to mitigate her sentence. I didn’t know, but I could at least mention it to my mother’s attorney. Once she had one.
Once I was presentable, I went into the office and ate. I was just finishing when I heard the gentle double whump of a walker on stairs. Damn it, Dottie!
“That had better not be Dawna’s new assistant coming up those steps. We have an agreement. No stairs,” I called out.
There was a pause and I was almost sure I heard soft laughter. “I’m going slow.”
I growled with the last bit of chocolate mocha in my mouth. “I’ll come down.”
Jumping out of my chair, I hurried out the door and down the hall. Dottie had stopped at the second-floor landing. Her walker could be used as sort of a chair when turned backward, and she was sitting comfortably, the light from the stained-glass window painting her with a vibrant rainbow of colors.
I sat on one of the steps facing her. “You said no more stairs.”
“No.” She smiled beatifically. “You said no more stairs. I simply didn’t argue.”
That wasn’t how I remembered it, but she might be right. Even if she was wrong, I knew she’d just blame the faulty memory of old age and do what she wanted. I was beginning to realize just how hardheaded she could be and wondered if hiring her had been the best idea after all.
“I’m the boss,” I reminded her.
“Yes, dear, you are,” she said in a tone that clearly said I wasn’t—or that even if I was, it really didn’t matter.
“I suppose you’ve already made this trip once, bringing up my breakfast?” I gave her a stern look.
“No, that was Bubba. He insisted that if he did it, nobody would notice. If Mr. Creede had known you were right next door, asleep on the floor—well, you know he’s quite taken with you.”
“John was here?” It was a stupid question. But I’d only just had my coffee. I didn’t know what to think about the rest of her comment. But it did make me think well of Bubba that he hadn’t said anything.
She nodded. “Along with the client and his bodyguard. They spent the night. Ron seemed to recognize the man with Mr. Creede. Bubba said he was gushing over the man, which I got the impression was unusual.”
I found myself chuckling. I couldn’t help it. I probably should’ve guessed that John would bring Ivan and the king back here. The wards are excellent. I make sure of that. If King Dahlmar had enough money for a decent hotel, he wouldn’t be running around in a souvenir T-shirt and a cheap pair of no-name-brand jeans. Tha
t this hadn’t occurred to me before meant that I’d been further off my game than I’d thought. I’d needed a good night’s sleep.
“You needed your rest. Are you feeling better? I’m so sorry about your beau, dear. I didn’t mean to snoop, but I did want to know how the court case was going—”
She looked like a softer version of Gran. I couldn’t help but offer her a sad smile. “That’s all right. I know you meant well.” Clairvoyants. You can’t stop ’em looking. At least with most of them there was a chance they’d be wrong. But in Dottie’s case, like Vicki’s, it was a damned small chance.
“Thank you for understanding.” She sighed. “So few people really do.” Her expression grew even sadder than mine. It made me wonder about her family. Were they dead, or did they just never get around to seeing her, like Vicki’s parents?
“I saw something just a few minutes ago, too.” She sounded mournful.
“Yes?”
“I’m not certain. It’s just an impression. But . . . I really think you need to check on your grandmother.”
My stomach tightened, but I kept my voice calm. “I’ll do that.” I rose to my feet. “Anything else?”
“Not right now.”
“All right. But Dottie, I mean it. No more stairs. Promise me, right here and now.”
She gave me an impatient look. “If you don’t want me taking the stairs, you’re going to need to move down to the first floor.” She stood, flipping up the little seat and turning the walker around. “There are too many secrets in your life and Ronald is far too interested in things that are none of his concern.”
I watched her go down the stairs. It was a slow, painful process, but she made it safely. Once I knew she was all right, I dashed up the stairs to my office to give my gran a call.
She didn’t answer on the house phone.
It could mean nothing at all. But I just couldn’t get over Dottie’s expression, the tone of her voice. I set the phone down, debated with myself what I should do. I was probably already in deep, deep trouble with Jeff for not being back at Birchwoods. But I had to know that Gran was all right.
