The Eldritch Conspiracy (Blood Song)

by Adams, Cat

  the

  beaming couple by tossing a few

  thousand flowers’ worth of fragrant

  petals into the air to fall in a cloud

  around them. Flashbulbs went off so fast

  that the air turned white.

  Fortunately, there were no other

  threats. I’m a professional, but I have my

  limits. Knowing that someone hated me

  enough to plant a bomb likely to kill not

  only me, but pretty much anyone within a

  full square block, was mind-boggling.

  Shock and anger washed over me in

  alternating waves as I struggled to wrap

  my head around the idea.

  How the hell had Angelina Bonetti

  gotten a sample of my hair? After the

  events of the past couple of years I have

  become almost fanatically paranoid

  about preventing that sort of thing, for

  exactly this reason.

  I could only think of one logical

  possibility. Well, actually two.

  John Creede had lost his siren charm,

  which was made from my hair, in our

  battle with Glinda. Someone might have

  found it and made it available on the

  black market. The other choices were

  that it had been destroyed … or that it

  had been taken to Hell. I didn’t want to

  think too much about the latter option. It

  was just too frightening.

  It was much more likely that Angelina

  had gotten my hair from the charm I

  made for Bruno. Maybe that was how

  she knew he didn’t have it—because she

  did.

  What worried me more was that

  Angelina wasn’t a witch, and Griffiths

  had said bio-magical. That little fact

  was just sinking into my head. Yeah,

  Mrs. DeLuca, Grand Hag of the East

  Coast, hates me, but I didn’t think she’d

  actually help someone murder me. I

  mean, there’s hate and there’s hate.

  Besides which, Isabella DeLuca is smart

  and subtle. A bomb didn’t seem like her

  kind of thing, particularly one that could

  be traced back so easily. She’s more the

  death curse or poison sort of person.

  Griffiths gave me his cell phone and

  helped me slip into the courthouse after

  the ceremony and before the wedding

  photos. Rather than use the women’s

  room and risk getting interrupted, I

  ducked into the “family” restroom,

  which was a single seater and had a

  changing table attached to the wall.

  My first call was to Alex. If the locals

  weren’t in charge, she’d know who was.

  Alex picked up on the first ring.

  “Detective Alexander speaking.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Christ on a crutch! Where the hell

  have you been? Don’t you ever pick up

  your voice mails?” She was almost

  snarling.

  “Where have I been? Are you freaking

  serious? It’s Adriana’s wedding day.”

  “But you weren’t supposed to be

  going to the ceremony on Serenity.

  We’ve been looking everywhere for

  you! There was word someone had

  predicted your kidnapping so we’ve

  been treating you as a missing person.

  Bruno is gone. Dawna hasn’t heard from

  you for a couple of days. We can’t reach

  John Creede.”

  Oh, crap. Of course she was worried.

  We deliberately hadn’t made my change

  of plans public.

  “Geez, Alex, I’m sorry. Things

  changed and the Serenity Secret Service

  kept some details from the press for

  security reasons. I’ve been on Serenity

  for a few days. I just heard about the

  bomb in my building. Are your guys

  handling it?”

  “Just crowd control. The feds are

  taking care of actually setting the

  damned thing off. You really need to call

  Rizzoli and Dawna—she’s an absolute

  basket case.”

  I could believe that. “I’ll call her as

  soon as I’m done with you.” I took a

  deep breath, choosing my words

  carefully. “The guy who told me about

  the bomb said it wasn’t the terrorists,

  that it was personal. He said that they

  traced the magical signature to a

  particular woman.”

  “Did he now? And how did he happen

  to get that information?”

  “Off the record?”

  “Oh hell,” she grumbled. “Fine, off

  the record.”

  “He’s Queen Lopaka’s fixer. An

  informant told them about the bomb, and

  he had King Dahlmar’s fixer look into

  it.”

  She swore colorfully. “Fixers. You

  mean

  international

  spies

  and

  mercenaries. Jesus, Celia. You are

  seriously telling me that you’re in bed

  with international spies?”

  “I’m not in bed with them.”

  “Unh-hunh.” She gave a martyred

  sigh. “I’m hanging up now. Call Rizzoli.

  I’m sure he’ll enjoy the hell out of

  hearing this.”

  I called. He wasn’t thrilled to hear

  from me, but at least he wasn’t surprised

  about where I was. His wife and kids

  were obsessing over the whole royal

  wedding thing because they actually

  knew somebody in the wedding party.

  He already knew about Angelina, too.

  He was going to tell me—if I ever got

  around to returning his call.

  I winced at the none-too-subtle hint.

  “Sorry, it’s been nuts and we’re on

  security lockdown here.”

  “Your life is always nuts. Curled up

  in a corner yet with loaded weapons?”

  Ouch. He was right, but saying so

  wasn’t exactly tactful. Still, part of the

  whole friendship thing is putting up with

  the other person’s foibles. Dom and I

  might have started out as business

  acquaintances, but we’d been through a

  lot the past couple of years. Somewhere

  along the way he’d become one of my

  friends.

  So I ignored the verbal jab and

  changed the subject. “Have you picked

  Angelina up yet?”

  My question was met with silence. A

  long, meaningful, silence. Unfortunately,

  I didn’t have a clue what it meant.

  “Dom, are you still there?”

  “Yeah, she’s in custody now.”

  There was something weird about his

  inflection when he said it, a tiny bit too

  much emphasis on the last word. I was

  about to push him to try to get more

  information, when there was a pounding

  on the bathroom door.

  Oh, hell. I should’ve known. I

  couldn’t have five full minutes to myself.

  There simply wasn’t room for it in the

  day’s schedule.

  “Princess, are you all right?” Baker

  didn’t sound worried, but she wasn’t

  happy, either. “They’re looking for you

&n
bsp; for pictures.”

  “I gotta go, Dom—” I started to ask

  when it would be a good time to call him

  back, but he cut me off by saying “No

  problem” and hanging up. Hmnpf.

  Something was very definitely fishy.

  “Princess?” Baker repeated.

  “I’m fine,” I assured her as I was

  opening the door. “I was just making a

  couple of calls.”

  “Well, I’m afraid you’re needed for

  photos. Any other calls you wish to

  make”—her expression made it clear

  that it wasn’t acceptable to do that in the

  middle of a royal wedding—“will have

  to wait.”

  The woman at the door sounded like

  Baker. She looked like Baker, complete

  with steel gray suit, tasteful pumps, and

  ear piece, but I didn’t see Igor or

  Griffiths behind her. That was odd

  enough that I reached into my jacket and

  withdrew my One Shot with its holy

  water.

  “Extend your hand, please.”

  She didn’t argue, didn’t even blink,

  just offered her hand. I sprayed. It was

  her. “Where’s Griffiths? I need to give

  him back his phone.”

  “He has already joined the rest of the

  party.” She said it politely but still

  managed to convey her urgency and

  frustration. “We’re running behind

  schedule.” She led me down a long

  marble hallway with hardwood doors

  spaced at intervals.

  I was inconveniencing everybody and

  throwing off a schedule that had been

  timed with exquisite care. It was

  unprofessional of me. “I’m sorry. But

  Griffiths told me about the bomb in my

  office and I wanted an update.”

  She almost stumbled—apparently she

  hadn’t known—but when she spoke, her

  voice was rock steady. “A bomb?”

  “Your people didn’t miss anything,” I

  assured her. “It was planted after we

  left. It had a DNA trigger.”

  We took a sharp right turn down a

  narrow hall that led to one of the

  building’s back exits. Bringing her wrist

  to her mouth, Baker spoke into her wrist

  mic. “I’ve got her. She’s safe.”

  Now, yes. But for how long?

  29

  Sirens live a very long time. They aren’t

  all that fertile and they very seldom

  marry. So there aren’t a lot of royal

  weddings or births, and when either

  occurs, it’s a huge historic event. The

  photographer was making sure there was

  an extensive record of the events. There

  were pictures with Dahlmar and Adriana

  sitting on chairs that were vaguely

  thronelike, the rest of us arrayed in a

  semicircle behind them. There were

  photos of them kissing. There were

  group shots, individual shots, shots of

  the various couples. There were so many

  shots, in fact, that I would’ve been happy

  to do a little shooting of my own. But I

  tried to be a good sport about it and I

  smiled at the camera until my face

  muscles ached.

  But

  all

  things

  end

  eventually,

  including royal photo shoots. When this

  one did, we piled into various

  limousines and drove in a motorcade

  back to the royal compound, through

  streets filled with drunken revelers.

  I stayed close to Adriana and kept a

  close watch on Olga during the luau that

  was the reception. And while the food

  and the free-flowing drinks looked and

  smelled amazing, I didn’t taste them.

  While people ate, a steady stream of

  performers put on a fabulous show that

  included

  amazing

  dance

  numbers,

  exciting singers, and exquisite music. I

  paid zero attention. Only after the bride

  and groom left the reception to enjoy

  some time alone was I able to relax. I

  chose to do that by having Baker and

  Griffiths escort me back to the guest

  house so that I could have a little time to

  myself.

  Getting away from the crowds was a

  huge relief. Now that I wasn’t on duty I

  wanted a couple of stiff drinks, some

  food, and to have a good cry.

  My beautiful office was probably a

  pile of rubble by now. I was likely to be

  treated to constant replays of the

  “controlled detonation” once I got home.

  I didn’t want to see it.

  Baker and Griffiths walked me to the

  door. After checking with the guards on

  duty to be sure that no one had come in

  the building in our absence, and that all

  of the visitors and servants had left, I

  was given the all clear to enter.

  Normally I get a real jolt crossing the

  spell barrier at the threshold of the guest

  house. Today, not so much. When I gave

  Baker a look of inquiry, she smiled.

  “Our mages came up with a special

  barrier with you in mind. Any other

  paranormal creature will get hit hard.

  But the perimeter is keyed to recognize

  you. We got the idea from the man who

  manufactured your weapons safe.”

  I found myself grinning. How very

  cool. Then I remembered that the safe

  was in my building. The grin died.

  I needed a drink. More than that, I

  need to get stinking drunk, to the point I

  didn’t care.

  The guest house is big, and normally

  pulsing with life. Even when I am the

  only guest, the place is full of servants.

  Tonight, it was echoingly empty. The

  usual staff had been given the night off

  for security reasons. I moved through

  silent halls that led to the living room,

  my footfalls sounding loud in my ears.

  Hitting the light switch, I noted that the

  hair and makeup experts had cleared out,

  leaving the room spotless. Stepping

  behind the bar I reached into the

  minifridge and grabbed ice and some

  orange juice. To my delight, I found that

  the cooks had left me a plastic container

  of frozen au jus. I shook my head a little.

  Good thing I wasn’t going to be staying

  on Serenity much longer. I could get

  used to having staff around who

  anticipated my every whim.

  I popped the lid off of the au jus and

  stuck it in the microwave to cook while I

  mixed myself a stiff screwdriver in a tall

  glass. Once everything was ready, I

  settled into a comfortable chair with a

  good view of all the exits. A quick touch

  on the remote and the big-screen

  television came to life.

  I flipped to CNN. I shouldn’t have.

  Not

  until

  the

  second

  or

  third

  screwdriver.

  B
ut

  there,

  in

  high

  definition, was my building, with a

  banner beneath it saying “filmed

  earlier.”

  I

  watched

  in

  horrified

  fascination as an officer in a blue FBI

  windbreaker wrapped hair around a

  ball, taped it down, and loaded the ball

  into an air gun. He broke a spell disk

  over the gun. I couldn’t see the rune on

  the disk, but I was betting it was for

  distance and accuracy. He had a straight

  shot, but was quite a distance from the

  building.

  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.