by Cat Adams
At his order, a marksman shot out the glass of the French doors of my office. Another barked command and mages were on standby, ready to raise the perimeter the instant after he fired.
Blinking back tears, I watched him raise the air gun to his shoulder and fire.
The explosion put the one back in Mexico to shame.
They played it full speed. Then they played it in slow motion. They showed it from every angle. I watched in horror, over and over, as the beautiful antique stained-glass window shattered, watched the flamingo-pink upstairs toilet soar through the air to crash in the middle of the street. The bones of the old building were rapidly devoured by flames made more powerful by the curse that had been part of the bomb. My old weapons safe, scorched but upright, smashed through the damaged floors to land intact atop the wreckage, its protection spells keeping it defiant against the worst the witch could dish out, even with the door wide open displaying staples, copy paper, and sticky notes. Damn. Jason was the man of the hour. He’d probably get a ton of new orders for safes—and more power to him.
The new safe didn’t fare nearly so well. What few of my weapons and spell disks I hadn’t brought with me had been utterly destroyed, because the safe that had “protected” them was nothing but scorched and twisted metal.
I downed my drink in a single, long pull and made my way back to the bar.
After my second drink, I retrieved my cell phone from my room and called Dawna. She was a wreck. I wound up trying to calm her down. After all, we were all alive. Even the cat was safe. Then she told me the real problem. Chris had given her an ultimatum. She could marry him, or she could work with me.
Oh, shit. That hurt. A lot. I mean, the man was supposed to be my friend. While I could understand him worrying about her, he was a mercenary, for God’s sake. It was more than a little hypocritical of him to give that kind of an ultimatum.
But she loved him, enough to marry him. I didn’t want to come between the two of them. It would be hard not having her there, cheerful and efficient, helping me get through the work day. Selfish resentment reared its ugly head, and I shoved it down, hard. Dawna deserved to be happy. Chris made her happy. I’d find someone else to work with.
“I understand.”
She sniffled, blew her nose, and said, “He doesn’t get to tell me what to do, Celie. I love him, and I don’t want to lose him, but he doesn’t get to.” Her voice was thick with tears but I could tell she meant every word. “If I let him order me around now, what will it be like after we’re married? If he expects me to understand that he has to go into war zones for his job, he needs to do the same for me.”
Working with me was equivalent to being in a war zone. How sad was that?
“But Dawna…” I tried to find the right words. Chris was perfect for her. They loved each other.
She interrupted me. “I think we’ll be able to work it out when he calms down. We both just need a little time. So don’t call for a day or two, okay?”
I felt terrible. I knew she was right, knew he was right. I desperately wished I could do or say something, anything. But there really was nothing to say. This was their business, not mine. Still, she was my friend, and it hurt me to hear her sounding so wounded.
Two drinks later, I was ready to call Bruno. I had practiced everything I wanted to say … and got his voice mail. Typical. So I left a “We need to talk” message and settled into the recliner. No more news for me. I drank more alcohol and watched mindless television until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
I woke at 3:00 A.M. with a stiff neck and a pounding head. My vampire metabolism had let me down. Usually it keeps me from getting too drunk and prevents me from having even the tiniest bit of a hangover. Tonight, not so much. Then again, I’d drunk quite a bit more than I usually did.
I levered myself out of the chair and stumbled up to bed. Tomorrow … scratch that, today, was scheduled fairly loosely. Just a few gatherings after lunch and another luau tonight.
The gatherings were no big deal. Just a loose group of palace insiders mingling with the queen, Adriana, and Dahlmar. Since it was hot and sunny, nobody commented on my sitting under an umbrella and wearing dark glasses.
Lopaka tried to console me even while she was smiling and laughing at the Rusland ambassador’s joke. I am sorry for your loss, my niece. I know how places can hold memories and emotional attachments. I would be likewise devastated if the palace had been destroyed. I will make your apologies. Please feel free to go to your quarters and have a good cry. It will help.
I nodded and took her advice. Adriana and Dahlmar watched me leave, their faces reflecting their concern. They nearly followed me, but Lopaka pulled them aside and I could see by their reactions that she was telling them the news. Then I closed the door behind me and disappeared into the cool, quiet palace.
I didn’t drink any more alcohol. I had vowed long ago not to allow myself to go down the same path as my mother and crawl into a bottle. But it was a temptation. A strong one.
Instead, I went to the well-guarded beach and sat in the shade, looking at the horizon and listening to the waves and the seagulls.
By the time of the luau, I was sober and clear-eyed. Adriana kept the conversation away from me, allowing me to be visibly present yet stay at the edge of the gathering, satisfying those who noticed such things. I drank smoothies made with seasoned pig drippings instead of beef. Not bad, I suppose, but not up to La Cocina standards. At least the fruit juice was nice. Mango, pineapple, and pomegranate. Tasty.
I knew I had to overcome the loss of such a big part of my life, and fast. Or at least wall it off somehow.
Because tomorrow we were off to Rusland for round two of the wedding.
30
There are a lot of things I don’t like about being connected to the royal family, but I’ll give them credit, they know how to live. Everything is top of the line—the food, the wine, and the transportation. First thing in the morning, my luggage and I were shuttled by limo to the tarmac of the private royal area of the local airport. Once there, I boarded the queen’s signature plane—the siren equivalent of Air Force One.
It was beyond nice. Everything was designed to be elegant, efficient, and comfortable. In addition to full access to the common spaces of the cabin, I’d been given a small room for my private use. All of the furniture was built in so that it wouldn’t fly around in the event of severe turbulence and so well-designed that it seemed spacious. It was decorated as both a lounge and an office and the couch could fold out into a bed. The walls were dove gray, the carpet navy blue, and the furnishings combined those base colors with gleaming, black-painted wood and white and chrome metal accents.
I settled in at the built-in desk. The queen had offered me use of the satellite phone and I was happy to take her up on it. My goal was to get the insurance claim process rolling on my office building—not that I had a lot of hope of succeeding. If past experience was anything to judge by, the insurance company would do everything it possibly could to get out of paying the claim. I’d just bet that something in the “Force Majeure” clause would apply. Terrorist attack? Check. Act of War? Check. Sabotage? Check. Maybe I could sue Angelina Bonetti in civil court—if she had any money, that is.
It could just be that I have bad luck. But I didn’t think so. Death curse? Check.
Forty-five minutes into the flight, after the fifth full cycle of elevator music on hold, I was finally transferred to a live person.
“We’re Reliable, the company you can trust, Meagan speaking.”
The teenage daughter of my insurance agent, Meagan was spending her summer working as her father’s receptionist, as she had the two summers before. She could charm your socks off when she wanted to. Unfortunately, she almost never did. Today she was bored and angry. I could hear it clearly in the little sneer she put in her voice.
“Meagan, it’s Celia Graves.”
She perked up at that. “Ah, Ms. Graves. I’ve been expecting your call. I’m so
sorry about your building. Let me put you through to my dad.”
Ed Winters handles the insurance on my home, the office, and their contents. He’s in his early forties, already nearly bald, and nearly as wide around as he is tall, but that doesn’t keep him from thinking he’s a ladies’ man. For all I know, he may be. The last time I’d visited in person he’d flirted with me shamelessly—after his daughter had left the room. It had been awkward enough that I was glad to be filing the claim over the phone. At least this way I only had to suffer through yet another repeat of the elevator version of “All You Need Is Love” until he picked up the phone.
“Celia, hi. Ed here.”
“Ed, I need to make a claim on the office building and contents.”
“Of course you do. Saw it on the news. Pretty scary stuff. Glad you’re all right though.” Lord, he sounded cheery enough to make my teeth ache. Nobody should be that chipper first thing in the morning.
“We were lucky. No one was hurt.”
“That’s a blessing,” he agreed. Then, muting his tone to regret, he continued. “But Celia, there’s something you need to know. There’s an exceptions clause in the policy.”
Of course there was. I waited, steeling myself for the inevitable.
“The policy isn’t valid for acts of war. Since the president declared War on Terrorism…” He let the sentence tail off.
I silently counted to ten. A loophole. He was trying to get out of the claim on a loophole. Well, not this time. I smiled and there was steel in my voice. “The bomb wasn’t planted by terrorists. Have you looked at the police report?” I didn’t bother to keep the satisfaction out of my voice. I’d been a dutiful customer of the insurance industry in general, and his company for years, paying my premiums on time, every time. But let me try to make a claim and they’ll find a reason to deny it.
He spluttered a little. “It wasn’t? But the news…”
“Nope. This was personal. A jealous woman did it. Ever seen that show Snapped?”
He harrumphed at that. “Fine. Well, be sure to submit police reports and any proof you may have of that to us in writing with the completed claim. I’ll send you the appropriate forms. What’s your e-mail address?”
I was still on the phone with Ed until after we’d landed in L.A. I was going over the claim forms with him item by item. We were just wrapping it up when I heard a light tap on the door. Bruno poked his head into the room.
I remembered then that we were picking up several people while we refueled, to take to the ceremony. “Can I come in?”
I waved for him to come in as I spelled out my address for Ed for the second time. That finished, I was able to say good-bye to my agent and hello to my boyfriend.
Bruno looked so good. He was wearing new black jeans with a black dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up slightly to show muscular forearms. His belt was black leather, chased with silver runes that almost seemed to move as they caught the light. His dark hair had been recently cut, so it was a little shorter than I like, and there were traces of gray showing at the temples. He carried a duffel, black leather and suede in a patchwork pattern.
He stood in the middle of the room, looking at me, his posture uncomfortable and uncertain.
“Hi.” I put the phone in its cradle and stood up to give him a hug.
He set the duffel on the floor and returned my hug with a fierce one of his own. “When you didn’t call I was afraid—,” he said, stumbling over the words. “You were already pissed about the body bind, and after what Angelina did…” I stopped his stammering with a kiss.
I looked him straight in the eyes, willing him to believe me. “The Angelina thing is not your fault. You didn’t lead her on and I don’t blame you.” I tried to lighten his mood with a bit of a joke. “As to the binding, well, I’ll just have to take my revenge for that later.”
He winced but didn’t argue. Actually, while I’d never have admitted it, there’d been so much going on I’d completely forgotten the whole body binding incident until Dawna had reminded me. That probably meant I’d already forgiven him. Still, she was probably right. It wouldn’t hurt to let him try to make it up to me, and it might keep him from doing something stupid like that again. I gestured toward the couch. We sat, his arm wrapped around me. I turned toward him, resting my head on his shoulder, and felt the tenseness of his muscles start to ease.
He kissed the top of my head, then started talking, his words soft and filled with sadness. “I’d hoped that Angie had gotten your hair somewhere other than from my mom, but the more I thought about it, the less likely that seemed. So I called home and spoke to my mom, had her check the siren charm I’d given her. Angelina had tampered with it and several hairs were missing. Mama turned the evidence over to the feds, but I doubt they’re going to use it.” The bitterness in his voice was cutting.
“Why?”
He closed his eyes for a second. Then, taking a deep breath he steeled himself, opened his eyes, and told me the bad news. “Angelina is going into witness protection. She plans to testify against my brother Mike and cousin Joey.”
Oh, hell and damnation. This so sucked. Yeah, Joey and Mike are bad guys. I get that. They were probably long overdue for a stretch in the slammer. But Angelina was getting off? Without so much as a slap on the wrist? That sucked. My office was downtown. What if the bomb had gone off during a weekday—how many innocent people would she have killed?
Joey and Mike were mobsters. They were also Bruno’s family. I held him close, trying to ease the hurt I knew he was feeling, but was too proud to show.
We stayed like that until the announcement came over the intercom. “This is your captain speaking. Please stow all personal items and fasten your seatbelts. We are preparing for takeoff.”
It was a long flight. I didn’t mind. Bruno and I rarely got a chance to sit and talk in private, without any life-threatening crises or other interruptions. It was wonderful. I even took a nap, curled up next to Bruno, who entertained himself by reading.
He kissed me awake when the plane finally landed. We disembarked at 10:38 P.M., later than originally scheduled, having been forced to reroute to avoid bad weather over the Atlantic. The motorcade was waiting and the road to the palace was lined with cheering spectators waving flags or holding candles or pictures of the happy couple. It was almost as if the common people were trying to make up for the actions of the terrorists by giving Adriana an even warmer welcome than they would have otherwise. Assuming Dahlmar hadn’t arranged the whole thing for the reporters. I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s a cagey one and he’s ruled long enough to know the power the press has over the minds and hearts of the people.
When we arrived, the palace was brilliantly lit and buzzing with activity. It looked just like a storybook prince’s castle. There were elaborate architectural details, servants in elegant livery. Everything had been made absolutely perfect in honor of the ceremonies. For a long moment I just stood staring in wide-eyed wonder. I mean, yes, I do get to see some pretty fancy places guarding the rich and famous. But this … this was just … wow. It was the kind of memory you store away for a lifetime.
Creede was standing at the top of the castle’s front steps. When he saw me with Bruno, I thought I saw a flash of anger cross his face, but it was gone so quickly that I might have imagined it, replaced by a façade of bland professionalism.
I had to admit he looked good, as he had the night of the dinner on Serenity. As always, I was drawn to his honey-colored eyes, though I noticed that his warm, light-brown hair was getting a little long, almost breaking into unmanageable and, in Creede’s opinion, unmanly curls. The golden highlights in his hair seemed more prominent than usual and I realized he’d gotten a little tan during his time on the sirens’ island. He was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit, paired with a starched white shirt and striped tie.
“Bruno. Celia.” He didn’t smile and his tone was frigid. Still, what had I expected? We’d broken up badly and I was standi
ng in front of him with the man who’d been his chief rival. But it hurt just the same. I couldn’t just turn off my feelings for him, much as I might want to. I forced myself to put a good face on it and gave him a pleasant greeting, as did Bruno.
“Princess.” Baker appeared at my elbow, saving us all from further awkwardness. I had no idea how she’d gotten here. I hadn’t seen her on the plane. But here she was, and her timing was impeccable. She was calling me by title because everyone was watching. I could sense it. “If you’re ready, I can escort you and your guest to your rooms.”
“Our luggage?”
“Has been taken to your suite.”
I nodded and took Bruno’s arm while Creede watched with narrowed eyes. “Cool. Lead the way.”
She led us through rooms and hallways that were, not surprisingly, palatial: polished marble floors, towering pillars leading up to intricately patterned and gilded ceilings. Original oil paintings by the great masters hung on the walls, recessed alcoves held sculptures by Michelangelo, Rodin, and others whose work I was too unschooled to recognize. The artworks were displayed beautifully and looked completely unprotected. But looks were quite deceiving. I could feel the spells guarding the individual pieces from yards away, burning so hot against my senses that they stole the breath from my lungs.
“Celia, are you okay?” Baker stopped in her tracks, her eyes a bit wide.
“Fine,” I gasped. “Let’s just get away from the art gallery, okay?”
“Right.” She moved forward again, picking up the pace. The pain didn’t abate until the hallway finally opened up into an expansive chamber where a huge, curving staircase climbed three stories. The room was lit by three crystal chandeliers, each bigger than my car. Light sparkled from dangling crystal teardrops the size of my head, shooting rainbows over polished marble floors, walls covered in pale blue-green watered silk, and the thick Oriental rug that covered the center portion of the staircase.
