by Cat Adams
“Thank you.”
“Again, it’s my job. But you’re welcome.” She bowed and let herself out.
There was a lot to explore, all of it gorgeous and still comfortable enough to make you feel like you could put up your feet and unwind. I found Bubba in the TV room doing just that, watching football highlights on the big screen. Beside him were half a dozen empty beer bottles and a big bowl of buttered popcorn.
“Yo, Graves.” His greeting lacked its usual warmth.
“Yo, Bubba.” I walked behind the wet bar and opened the fridge. It was fully stocked with several different varieties of beer, juices for mixing drinks, and a few cans of soda. I grabbed one of the latter, flipped open the top, and went to make myself comfortable on one of the bar stools.
He didn’t say anything, keeping his eyes glued on the game. Shit. Well, I could either sit here and let him give me the cold shoulder or grab the bull by the horns.
“Bubba, I’m really sorry about the Mona. I told you I was into something bad, but I didn’t expect it to be that bad.”
“It’s not the boat.” He dropped his feet to the floor, rose, and went behind the bar to get another beer. Twisting the cap off, he tossed it toward the waste can . . . and missed. He never misses. He was drunk. Holy crap. Bubba can hold his alcohol. He must’ve had a lot of beer—more than the empties indicated. Still, his feet were absolutely steady as he came around the bar and took the stool next to mine.
“How many years have we known each other, Celia?”
He was using my first name. Not good.
“A few.”
“You’ve been to my kid’s birthday parties, helped me pick out Mona’s anniversary gifts.”
This was going nowhere good. “Yeah.”
“And you never told me you’re a princess? That you have your own freaking secret service detail?”
I interrupted him before he could get any more outraged. I needed to nip this in the bud. I’d thought he was pissed about the boat. This was worse. He thought our entire friendship had been based on a lie. “I know. How weird is that?” I shook my head in disbelief. “I’m a bodyguard and they give me bodyguards?”
He opened his mouth, but I waved him to silence.
“Bubba, you’ve met my gran. You’re my mom’s bail bondsman, for Christ’s sake. You’ve seen the house where I grew up. I didn’t hide anything from you. Until Vicki’s wake, I had no idea any of this shit existed. I swear it to you.”
“But—”
“I didn’t even know I had siren blood until after the vampire bite. If the bat hadn’t tried to bring me over, the talents wouldn’t have manifested and none of this would’ve happened. To be honest, I didn’t really believe the woman when she told me I was siren royalty. I mean seriously, that is so . . . Disney.”
Surprised, he choked a little on his beer but managed to swallow it. “Oh, God, I’m picturing you starring in that movie—the one Sherry likes so much.”
Sherry was his daughter, eight years old and every inch the little princess down to her rhinestone tiara and pink tulle bedroom. She had her daddy wrapped around her little finger and had made him watch The Princess Diaries with her over and over again.
I rolled my eyes, but it was mostly for effect. He was grinning like an idiot. Thank God.
“Can it, Bubba.”
He started humming. I didn’t know the theme song for the movie, but I’d be willing to bet that was what it was.
I grabbed the first thing I could reach on the bar—one of those little foil bags of roasted nuts—and flung it at him. He caught it in midair, giggling like a lunatic. He ripped it open, still chortling. It took him a minute or two to settle down. I didn’t mind waiting. We were going to be all right. I was glad. I don’t have enough friends to be willing to lose one over something stupid.
He ate a few nuts with a chaser of beer. I sipped my soda.
“I called Mona, told her what happened.”
Oh, shit. Mona was gonna kill me. “Maybe it’s a good thing I’ve got those secret service types.”
He choked again and this time he wound up coughing. I patted him on the back. A useless gesture, but I was pretty sure he didn’t need the Heimlich.
Tears were flowing from his eyes. “Oh, God, Graves, don’t do that to me.”
“Sorry,” I apologized meekly.
He shook his head. “I told her about the imp. How you stood toe-to-toe with it, damn near bare-ass naked, and fired a One Shot of holy water down its gullet.”
He sounded awed and it made me blush. It sounded a lot more impressive than it was. Honest truth, I hadn’t had a lot of choice. I mean, it was a frickin’ boat. It wasn’t like I’d had anywhere to go.
“You know what the wife said?” He was chortling now, his big body shaking with mirth.
“What?”
He imitated his wife’s voice as best he could: “ ‘Very impressive. But tell me something, Bubba. Why was Celia running around your boat naked?’ ”
“Oh dear.”
17
I could so get used to this. The bed was heavenly, with the perfect soft-to-firm ratio and sheets with a thread count so high they ought to cost as much as my car.
My suite was elegant and gorgeous, and since the security was so good, I’d felt perfectly fine leaving the French doors to the balcony open so that I could listen to the waves and smell the ocean breeze.
I woke to a light tap on the bedroom door. “Who is it?”
“Creede. You decent?”
“Hang on a second.” I jumped from the bed and pulled on one of those ultra-thick terry-cloth robes you can only find in the really high-end hotels. Belting it tight around me, I called out, “Okay, come on in.”
The door opened and Creede stepped inside. Once again, everything that was him preceded ahead of his body and I fought not to shiver. He took a long look around, taking in the solid oak cabinets, dresser, and built-in desk equipped with a top-of-the-line computer. The curtains were dark gold, the color a perfect match for the carpet, which had also been color-coordinated with the cream-, gold-, and brown-checked comforter. There were half a dozen throw pillows in brown and gold, although at the moment most of them were piled in the far corner of the room rather than on the bed.
A conversational group was arranged at the other end of the room, all of the furniture expensive, comfortable, and color coordinated. The final touch was a beautiful abstract oil painting that used all of the colors in the room. It was huge, taking up most of one wall. It was gorgeous, the kind of thing I could stare at for hours, noticing more and different details. It probably cost more than the house I was buying from my gran.
Creede did a slow turn, taking in the sights. “Nice.”
“It is, isn’t it? Yours?”
“Oh, it’s not bad. But it’s not like this or Dahlmar’s. Then again, I’m not royalty.”
He was trying to sound casual, but he was tense. I could see it in the tightness of his shoulders, the way he kept flexing his hands. He looked a little worse for wear. There was a big bandage on his cheek. His jeans were gone, replaced by a pair of drawstring sweatpants, his nice blue polo shirt by one of Bubba’s T-shirts. It was black and showed a slavering bulldog with the caption Who’s the bad dawg? So very Bubba.
He gave me a long, appraising look. “You have clothes?”
“I sure as hell hope someone’s going to find me some. The lavalava’s nice, but you can only wear something like that so long.” I gestured toward his ensemble, “And somehow I don’t think Bubba’s loaners would fit me.”
Creede wandered over to take a seat on the couch. I took the love seat directly across from him, curling my legs up onto the seat beside me. It was worth it to me to stare him square in the eyes. “Thanks for banishing the imp yesterday.”
He scowled. He was a tough guy and I’d just broken rule one of the Certified Tough Guy Manual. I’d said “thanks.” You don’t do that.
He cleared his throat uncomfortably and I was
n’t sure if it was just because I’d said “thanks.” “Seemed the least I could do under the circumstances.” Which was the acceptable way of saying “thanks” to me for my part in the rescue.
“So, what have I missed?”
“Quite a lot really. I’m not even sure where to start.”
He shifted his weight and there was a tension to his posture I didn’t like. Something had gone wrong. I didn’t know what. I wasn’t sure whether it was important. But something had definitely gone wrong. I raised my brows, encouraging him to spill. He did, sort of.
“Queen Lopaka met with King Dahlmar. Privately.”
I wasn’t certain why that was bad. But it did seem a good time to bait John about the charm I’d learned he made. “I’m surprised he’d be willing to talk to her without a protection charm. I wouldn’t have thought he’d trust her not to screw with his mind.”
Creede smiled, a swift baring of white teeth. “He didn’t.” But he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate and I didn’t feel like pushing. Not when he was in this mood. “And while they were doing détente, the sirens interrogated Bobby.”
Bobby must have been the only surviving attacker. Talking about him, Creede’s voice was too flat, too matter-of-fact. We’d finally hit the sticking point. Thank God. The suspense had been killing me. I tried to think what the problem was and it occurred to me. Bobby was the name of one of the guys who’d come with Miller to the restaurant. It had to bother Creede that someone he knew, had worked with, had tried to murder him. But I was betting that wasn’t all of it. I tried to meet his eyes, but he wasn’t looking at me. He gazed out the French doors, as if the sky and sea were utterly fascinating.
“A woman, probably a siren, was manipulating Miller magically. It’s tied back to Dahlmar and his problems. Apparently she figured with you in the hospital and out of the way, he’d come to us for protection. So she screwed with Miller’s head, turned him against me.”
Whoa. So Miller’s rage-filled betrayal was against his will? That moved the whole issue from simply sad to criminal. “Did they find out who it was?”
Creede looked at me then, his eyes as cold and hard as Arctic ice. “No. He told them everything else. No problem. But when they tried for that, they hit a block.”
I cringed at the razor-sharp edge in his voice. I’ve heard of psychic blocks. They were never good. “What happened?”
“It broke his mind. Left him a drooling idiot.”
I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say. I mean, yeah, he’d been trying to kill us. But there are worse things than death and I’d count what happened to him as one of them—and I hadn’t known the guy. Creede had.
“Why didn’t she just influence you both not to take the case? That would’ve been easier.”
He gave me a haunted look. Reaching beneath the neck of his shirt, he pulled out an amulet—a feather tied to a small sack with silver wire and what looked like a suspiciously familiar long blond hair. “She couldn’t.”
“So you did come to visit me just so you could hijack my DNA, didn’t you—you bastard.”
He shrugged, not admitting but, more important, not denying. “Ivan had one like this. They’re hard as hell to make and it’s a constant drain on my power.” He gave me a fierce look, filled with pride. “I may not be Bruno DeLuca, but I managed it. I managed to repower Ivan’s so Dahlmar could have his little chat with Queen Lopaka safely.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t like that they’d taken the charm from Ivan’s dead body, but I also didn’t like Creede making one from my hair. But it wasn’t my call. All’s fair in the bodyguard game. I’d have done the same in reverse. Ultimately, it was practical. King Dahlmar needed protection from the sirens. Ivan didn’t. Not anymore. But I didn’t like it.
“I first guessed what you were when we were guarding Cassandra. Her reaction wasn’t normal, even for her. So I stole some of your hair from your hairbrush in the bathroom at your office. Made myself one of these as insurance for whenever you were around—just in case you were more than you appeared to be.”
I didn’t like that. But it was also my own fault. I’d been careless, leaving things out in the open. Yes, it was my office. But if Creede could get bio samples, so could other, less savory types. Note to self: start locking the hairbrush and toothbrush in the safe.
“I don’t know how the siren knew she couldn’t manipulate me, but she did.”
“Could she have come by the office? Sensed it on you then?”
“Maybe,” he admitted, “but I think I’d have noticed.”
I shook my head. “Not necessarily. It’s a big building, with a lot going on. Miller might not have felt the need to tell you about the meeting. Hell, she might have forced him not to.”
“Maybe,” he repeated. Silence stretched between us for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he spoke again, his voice harsh, angry. “I was going to use magic to trace the hair in the amulet Ivan made for Dahlmar to find which siren is behind all this.”
“And?”
“The spell didn’t work.”
“Maybe she wasn’t in range.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. From what they tell me, anybody who’s anybody was here for the hearing.”
“But that doesn’t mean they stayed after the ceremony was over. I know a couple of them can teleport and there’s an airport on the west half of the island. If I was working security, I’d have gotten everybody important off-site as fast as I could once the demon showed.”
“Maybe you’re right.” He leaned back into the couch, looking tired and more than a little depressed.
“Speaking of Dahlmar, where is he?”
“He’s sleeping in and Bubba’s on the door.” Creede’s face darkened, his disapproval patently obvious. Well, yeah. Bubba was probably still drunk, but it wasn’t like the king was a . . . wait a minute. I abruptly realized what the problem probably was. “Creede, have you been guarding Dahlmar?”
“Well, of course. Somebody had to.” The implication being that I hadn’t. That’d I’d been screwing around while he did all the work. Um, no. Time to disabuse him of that little notion.
“Creede, before we met up at PharMart, did Dahlmar actually hire you? Sign any paperwork like, oh, I dunno, a contract? Give you any money?”
It took a full ten seconds for that to hit him. When it did, Creede’s face was a sight to behold. His eyes widened and he opened and shut his mouth two or three times as he tried to come up with something appropriate to say. Poor baby.
I let out a small chuckle. I wasn’t really laughing at him, but . . . well, yeah, I guess I was. But he’s been in this business a lot longer than I have. To make such a rookie mistake deserved a little teasing. “Of course not. Because he doesn’t have any money. If he did, would he be running around in a frickin’ Mickey Mouse T-shirt? Oh, he’s probably got money stashed somewhere, but unless he goes to the U.S. government and claims asylum, he can’t get to it—and the second he does, the opposition will be able to track him.”
Creede just stared at me, so I continued. “I came on board your little operation for one purpose: to introduce him to the sirens. I did it as a freebie because he pulled all sorts of major strings to keep me from being locked up. Now he’s here. He’s met the sirens. My job’s done. Don’t be thinking I’m your backup or anything. You’ll be disappointed.”
“So you’re not protecting him. He’s on his own?” Creede didn’t exactly sound judgmental, more curious and embarrassed.
I sighed. “Oh, I’ll probably help his ass. I like him. Besides which, the people he’s up against are using spawn and maybe full-out demons and are probably the same people who put a death curse on me. But he’s safe enough here. He doesn’t need me watching him. Queen Lopaka isn’t going to let anything happen to him. I need to get what information I can and rest up while I’ve got the opportunity. Question is, what are you going to do?”
Creede grew thoughtful. “People think they’re
using demons, but it backfires and before long the demon’s using them—they’re an open door to our world.”
“Yup.”
“George Miller was my partner for years and my best friend longer than that. Somebody connected with this used him and destroyed him.”
I nodded.
“I’m in.”
“I figured as much. But why don’t you let Bubba go back to bed?”
“I’ll do that.” Creede grinned. “Poor man has a helluva hangover. You should’ve warned him not to try to keep up with you now that you have an unfair advantage.”
“I was drinking Coke and he was pretty far gone before I even got here. I’m not thinking he’s loving the whole lap of luxury thing.”
“Whereas you, Princess, seem to be doing just fine.”
“Don’t make me throw peanuts at you.” I pointed a finger at him in warning and was rewarded with a puzzled look. I laughed it off. “Never mind. Private joke. But you need to get out of here. I’ve got to dress and get something to eat. I went to bed late, but it’s been close to four hours—”
“Right. Wouldn’t want to wind up a snack. I’ll go.” He rose. “But if magic isn’t going to help us find our siren, how are we going to track her down?”
I sighed and stood, following him to the door. “Do you really think we’ll have to? She wants me dead, wants Dahlmar dead. I figure all we’ve got to do is stay in one place.”
“You think she’ll try again.”
I lifted one shoulder, mostly in defeat. “Don’t you?”
We stood there staring at each other for a long moment, him in the doorway and me with one hand on the door. Tension appeared between us, fully formed, like that moment when he pulled his hand away from my leg. There was fire in the back of his eyes—real fire. The strongest mages always have a flicker of magic that you can see when you stare deep. Bruno’s eyes had always sucked me inside until that flame surrounded me. Even as a human I could feel his magic, but when I was a vampire it had blown me away.
