by Adams, Cat
highly likely that people had been
anticipating her needs and whims since
she’d been old enough to walk, maybe
before. That explained a lot. If that was
the case, she really wasn’t nearly as
annoying as she could have been.
“You brought me here for a reason,
and there are no assistants around, so
you must need to speak with me alone.
Just say whatever it is you need to say.
You won’t offend me. I promise.” I
smiled again to take any sting out of the
words.
She laughed. “Don’t be so sure. I
seem to recall the first time we met, our
conversation didn’t go well at all.”
She was right, of course. I’d accused
her of being unpardonably rude and she
had challenged me to a duel to the death.
Then again, she’d disrupted my best
friend’s wake to sing a torch song. “No,”
I admitted, “but we’ve come a long way
since then.” I didn’t exactly like
Adriana, but I’d seen enough of her that
I’d grown to respect and admire her. I
think she felt the same about me.
“Yes, we have.” She relaxed a bit,
giving me an honest smile. “It’s because
of you that I met my fiancé. Because of
you, I may become queen of Rusland.”
“Will,”
I
corrected.
“You will
become queen.”
She met my gaze. “It’s still may.
Apparently, it depends entirely on you.”
Oh, fuck a duck, I thought, but
managed a much more appropriate,
“Excuse me?”
Adriana laughed, hard. It occurred to
me, belatedly, that like most sirens, she
was a telepath. She’d heard exactly what
I was thinking. Oops.
She laughed harder, until she had to
wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.
“Oh, my. All right, then. I guess you
won’t be offended after all. So I’ll …
spit it out.”
Of course, that was when the servers
appeared. Servers, plural. One carried a
tray bearing a frosted pitcher. The other
was toting a tray of foodstuffs, many of
them blended and presented in tiny
glasses or semiliquids served on
individual plates.
Only when everything was just so and
the servers had disappeared did Adriana
communicate with me. And this time,
rather than speak the words aloud where
anyone might overhear, she spoke to me
mind-to-mind, in the way of the sirens.
There are no assistants because I
have none anymore. Both were killed
two days ago when a bomb went off in
the shop where they were making the
final arrangements for my bridesmaids’
dresses. The shop and the dresses were
completely destroyed, but that is
nothing compared to the loss of life.
The people claiming responsibility
call themselves the Guardians of the
Faith. They’ve made threats. I have
asked my dearest friend to step aside as
maid of honor, because I need you to
be. I know it sounds ridiculous. And I
realize it is on obscenely short notice.
But my mother’s prophet, as well as my
own visions, have told me that I need
you to be by my side—not just as a
bodyguard, but as a part of the
wedding—if I am to be safely wed.
There have been other disruptions
besides the bombing. My jet was
tampered with and crashed. Thankfully
the crew survived. There have been
plots to discredit me in the eyes of
Dahlmar’s people and to create a royal
scandal involving him. There was even
an attempt on my life with poison.
People had died. These fanatics were
serious. But obscenely short notice was
right. The ceremonies were taking place
in …
Less than two weeks. As I said, it is
ridiculous. And I will understand if you
are offended that I did not ask you
sooner. You are, after all, my
kinswoman, and you have done both
Rusland and the sirens honorable
service in the past. I am embarrassed
that it did not occur to me to ask
before. You have every right to tell me
to go to hell, or even challenge me to a
duel.
She was flushed and the hand holding
her drink was trembling just a little. She
was embarrassed. But more than that,
she was afraid. I’d seen her calm and
composed in actual battle conditions.
But she was well and truly rattled now.
That was so not good.
I answered with my mind as well. I
always hate to “hear” my mental voice
because it’s the sharp, bitter caw of
gulls, rather than Adriana’s sweet song
of island birds or her mother’s tinkle of
crystal bells. Of course I’ll help. I’d be
honored to serve as both your maid of
honor and your bodyguard. I’ll need
everything your people have on the
Guardians of the Faith.”
“I’ll have Kar—
She stopped abruptly in midthought. I
felt a flash of pain and sorrow when she
continued. I’ll have someone send the
information
to
your
office
this
afternoon.
She closed her eyes for a second and I
watched as she fought not to sag in
relief. She was royal. Royals are not
supposed to show that level of any
negative emotion, particularly fear. But
she was afraid: angry, hurt, sad, and
absolutely terrified. Then she looked at
me and thought, I am grateful for your
help.
When do you want me to start?
Is tomorrow too soon? The situation
truly is urgent.
I took a brief second to wave good-
bye to my plan to ease back into work,
then answered. Tomorrow will be fine.
Thank you.
I let out a noisy sigh before I replied.
Thank me if it works.
Of course if it didn’t, we’d both be
dead.
4
I wa s halfway to the college before I
realized I’d been an idiot. I’m a
professional bodyguard. I get paid for
putting my life on the line to protect
people. Yet I’d just agreed to guard
Adriana without so much as a word
about charging a fee. Admittedly, there
are families where everyone respects
that the others are professionals and
have to earn a living. My experience
with my family just hasn’t been that way.
Mom uses everybody without the
slightest compunction. I do all kinds of
things for my gran and wouldn’t accept
payment even if she offered. So it
seemed that I’d just volunteered mys
elf
for a dangerous and expensive freebie.
Crap. Apparently Mexico had taken
more out of me than I thought.
Maybe I could pass it off as a
wedding gift. I mean, it’s not like she
and Dahlmar need another toaster. What
does one buy the happy royal couple
anyway? I mean, talk about people who
have everything! Adriana had her own
jet—well,
she’d had her own jet.
Dahlmar had his own country.
Pondering royal gift-giving kept my
mind occupied until I reached the USC
Bayview campus. Once there, I had to
keep a sharp eye out for a parking space.
No luck. If I’d gotten here closer to
noon I’d have stood a chance of finding
a spot someone had vacated on the way
to lunch. But it was 1:15, so the lunch
crowd was back in class. I wound up
driving a few blocks away and parking
the Miata in the lot of my favorite
restaurant, La Cocina. The owners are
friends of mine and they know my car.
They might get annoyed at me for
parking there, but they wouldn’t have me
towed.
Before going out into the sunlight I
slathered myself with high SPF lotion
and grabbed a big floppy hat from the
backseat. I debated whether or not to
take my umbrella, but decided against it.
After all, the paranormal studies
building was in easy walking distance.
With fresh sunscreen and the hat on I
should be able to make it to the building
without burning, if I hurried. Which, of
course, I did.
Despite the international prestige of
the program, the paranormal studies
building itself is nothing special. It’s
r oughl y U-shaped, with the opening
facing the university quad. One wing is
all
classrooms;
the
other,
the
administrative and faculty offices. The
part of the building that connects the
arms houses the big auditorium. The
building’s magical perimeter is one of
the toughest around—one of the benefits
of having lots and lots of mages-in-
training who need to practice recharging
such things.
The first floor of the building has lots
of windows. On nice days like today, the
place is bright and sunny and has a great
view of the manicured lawns and well-
maintained landscaping of the quad. The
public spaces had been redecorated not
long ago; they feature cheerful colors
and welcoming seating areas. The
second floor is a whole different
ballgame. The carpet is charcoal gray
and industrial. The pale gray walls are
marred with chips and marks from years
of heavy use. Metal lockers, built into
some of the walls, have been dented and
battered by generations of students.
Some of the old-style fluorescent lights
were flickering. Maintenance would get
around to fixing them … eventually.
Probably a few weeks after they’d gone
out totally; sooner if somebody fell
down the stairs in the dark.
The graduate assistant offices were in
room 212, at the top of said stairs, in
what had at one point been the storage
room for magical supplies. It was a
good-sized room, but I found it hard to
imagine that more than a couple of
people could work effectively in the
space. But there were six names on the
door, which was completely covered
with a variety of posters and stickers
that appeared to be several layers deep.
I paused to admire my favorite, one of a
train tunnel with the caption, “Due to
repeated complaints about it being too
dim and too distant, until further notice
the light at the end of the tunnel has been
shut off. The Management.”
The door was ajar, so I peeked into
the room, which was beyond crowded
with six desks, six chairs, and an
assortment of personal paraphernalia
and teaching materials. I spotted two
men and a woman, all looking to be in
their twenties, huddled around someone
seated at a corner desk. They were so
absorbed in what was going on that they
didn’t notice that I was standing in the
doorway. As I raised my hand to knock,
a wave of magic poured out from the
group, knocking me back a step as a light
show of rainbows danced in the air.
One of the men said, “What the…” in
a tone that made it clear he hadn’t been
expecting what he’d just seen.
“I’ve been working on this artifact for
over a year now. Every time I feed it
with my blood, it charges a bit more.”
Bruno’s familiar voice was completely
calm and patient, despite the fact that
he’d just sliced himself open. Of course
his magic had probably healed the cut
almost instantly. The knives I use are his
work. Every day for five years he’d bled
himself to create a pair of knives, which
my best friend Vicki had then given me
as a gift. Five years. He’d made the
weapons because Vicki was a level nine
clairvoyant who assured him that having
those knives was the only way to save
my life. She’d been right. Still, the
dedication, the sheer love it took to
create something like that floored me
every time I thought about it.
“It can be drained if it comes into
contact with another, more powerful,
artifact. Not likely, since this is a mirror.
But the Isis Collar drained a pair of
knives I’d worked on for five years,
sucked them completely dry in a matter
of minutes.”
“The Isis Collar is just a myth.” The
big blond guy stepped back, putting his
hands on his hips—an aggressive pose. I
recognized the expression on his face.
He wanted trouble and was looking for a
fight.
“It is now.” I smiled as I spoke,
making my voice light, trying to defuse
the tension in the room. “When Isis took
it home to wherever it is goddesses live.
But I assure you, it was real.”
“Celia!” Bruno leapt to his feet and
the others scattered out of his way. He
was across the room in three bounding
steps, sweeping me into his arms to give
me a kiss that left me breathless and
blushing, my heart pounding like a trip-
hammer. “I have missed you.” He swung
me around so that we were facing the
others, his arm protectively around my
waist.
“Guys, this is Celia Graves. Celia,
these are some of the GAs I work with.”
He pointed to the scowling blond. “Jan
; Mortensen,” he said, giving the name the
Nordic pronunciation, then continuing
the introductions. “This lovely lady is
Trudy Cook.” Trudy was pretty and
petite, a redhead with a round face and
clouds of curly hair that probably drove
her crazy, but looked really good. The
smile she gave me was a little forced. I
didn’t need to be a telepath to figure out
she wasn’t happy about Bruno’s reaction
to me. It wasn’t just the siren thing,
either. No, I’d have bet a fair amount of
money that Trudy had a real thing for
Bruno DeLuca.
Well, I didn’t blame her, not even a
little. After all, Bruno’s tall, dark,
handsome, charming as hell, and a
powerful mage. The cherry on top is that
he has a real sense of joie de vivre. He
sings show tunes and cabaret numbers in
the shower. He can dance and he knows
more dirty jokes than anyone else I
know.
A lot of folks are misled by his
lighthearted side and his heavy New
Jersey accent. They think he must be dim
or a bit of a thug. In truth, he’s very
smart and absolutely dedicated to his
craft. Which was why he’d been
accepted
into
Bayview’s
doctoral
program … and how he’d convinced Dr.
Sloan to be his advisor.
“And this”—Bruno gestured to a
smaller black man whose close-cropped
hair was going prematurely gray—“is
Gary Jefferson.”
“Hi, Celia.” Gary gave me a smile
that was a lot warmer and more genuine
than Trudy’s. “Bruno’s told us a lot
about you. Glad to finally meet you.”
Gary might be glad to meet me and
Trudy might be reserving judgment, but
Jan, very obviously, was not at all
happy. He gave me a frigid look down
his patrician nose. While the others were
dressed very casually in worn T-shirts
and cargo pants or faded jeans, Jan wore
an untucked blue-and-white striped
dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to
show just a hint of the tattoo decorating
his left forearm. It was obvious that shirt
had been pressed and starched and the
cuffs adjusted just so. It was a look
straight off of the runways, as were the
jeans with both knees deliberately torn
out. Of course I got the feeling
everything about Jan was deliberate.
I decided to ignore Jan and to focus
on the others. I turned to Gary. “Thanks.
It’s good to meet you, too.”
Gary smiled, then his expression
quickly grew serious. “So, I’ve gotta
