
Whisperings: Dead Demon Burning Bright.
Linda Welch.
This digital book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2011 by Linda Welch.
All rights reserved.
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system without prior written permission of the owner of this book.
Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
December 2011.
ISBN: 978-1-4660-9308-9
Smashwords Edition.
Demon, Demon burning bright
in our rituals of the night.
What immortal cast of die
did shape thy soul to yearn for mine?
In what distant deeps or skies,
turns your world of funeral pyres?
On what wings does death conspire?
By whose cloaked hand will we expire?
What did smolder to make your start,
twist such fetid sinews into a heart?
And as that corruption began to beat,
why turn your hand to chain my feet?
Why the scythe - to secure my bane?
In what furnace burns thy brain?
Whose poor soul did you first grasp
within your ravenous evil clasp?
And when you did withdraw your skewer,
why mount their heads upon a mirror?
Did you smile, your work to see?
Did he who made hellfire make thee?
Demon, Demon burning bright,
in our rituals of the night;
What immortal court up high
finds me so cursed that I should die?
Kenneth Paul Jones
Facing the window, the big man stared directly into the blazing yellow orb balanced on the rooftops across the street. His long hair blazed copper and gold against the backdrop of the setting sun. The crisp white T-shirt emphasized his skin tone so it gleamed like pale, polished copper. Legs apart, hands braced above shoulder height on the vertical wood of the window frame, his posture stretched the already tight shirt so it clung, and drew attention to well-defined muscles in back, arms and wide shoulders.
The street was quiet this Sunday afternoon with only a few coffee shops open for business. No traffic spoiled the silence. A melancholy guitar riff from The Club rode the air, softened by distance.
"I had the feeling of standing on the edge of a precipice," he said softly in a smooth, melodic baritone. "If I took one step I would fall into her glacial blue eyes, or shatter at her feet. There was no mistaking her. The pale, luminous skin. The silver-white hair. And those eyes. Her silver-white brows arched as if she constantly questioned all she saw."
His friend sighed histrionically. His cultured accent spoke of the rain-drenched streets of London as he drawled, "I felt the same way when I met her, old chap."
Two inches shorter than the big man's six-six, elegantly attired in a dark gray, silver pinstriped three-piece suit over a white silk shirt, he lounged on an office chair, one gray leather-shod foot propped on his knee as he buffed it with a white handkerchief. Rather than looking at odds with his lean young face, his long, shimmering silver-gray hair stranded with glistening black, pale skin and smoke-gray eyes with pupils like glossy hematite complimented an air of sophistication. He was slimmer than his friend, but padding did not bolster his jacket's wide shoulders. The perfectly tailored ensemble clothed a body ropy with muscle.
"My smile set rigidly under her withering regard and slipped when she spun away and stormed from the Squad Room. She was. . . ."
"Discombobulated?"
The copper-haired man sounded amused. "That, and angry. The flush on her face and neck fascinated me."
"Ah, that beautiful, rosy blush." The gray-haired man studied his handkerchief, glanced around the small office, then tossed the slightly soiled object in the trashcan under the desk. "And she blushes so easily."
The big man swung, putting his back to the window. A broad smile revealed even white teeth. His copper eyes seemed to have captured the sun's light for they shone as if burnished. "And I can think of so many ways to make her blush."
His friend hiked an eyebrow. "I must say, I'm not accustomed to that smug expression on your normally melancholy countenance, Royal."
Royal Mortensen shrugged. "Did you know they call her the Ice Queen?"
His friend frowned thoughtfully. "The Ice Queen? I admit, she can be slightly cool when one first meets her."
"They mean her height and coloring, but she is inclined that way toward certain people, Chris," Royal said wryly.
Christopher Plowman coughed couthly into his hand. "Myself not included."
"That's quite an ego you have there."
"What do you mean? Tiff adores me! And no, you may not frown at me."
"Am I frowning? Are you sure it's not my normally melancholy countenance?"
Chris flipped his hand dismissively. "Pray continue, dear fellow. So, you were drooling over Tiff in the Clarion Police Department?"
"She was magnificent," Royal said, the memory briefly evoking a smile. "I followed her outside. She did not walk; she stamped down the steps, braid beating her spine, swinging on a neck pale and slender as a marble column. I was behind her in a second. I caught her on the sidewalk, where she said she saw me as I truly am, not my human glamour. I asked what she thought I was."
He smiled again. "She said, 'I don't know what you call yourself, Mister Pointy-Teeth. You tell me.'"
"You don't have pointed teeth."
"She assumed I did."
They were born on Earth, but belonged to another dimension. Royal flashed bright, white, even teeth. Chris' teeth were slightly pointed.
"She did not wait for my reply," Royal continued as he walked around the desk, then leaned his hip on the edge and folded his arms over his chest. "She jumped in her car and sped away, leaving me thinking, of course, but do you know why you see us as we are?" His brow creased as he lost his smile. "I went to her home later. Our conversation was . . . interesting. It quickly became apparent she knew nothing of her heritage and little of mine. I decided to stay close to her. Her talent could help me find Lawrence, and when Caesar and Phaid came after her, I became afraid for her safety."
Chris' eyes narrowed. "But you didn't tell her the truth," he accused.
"To what avail?" Royal stood and flung his arms out like exclamations. "Would the knowledge make her happy? No. She would chew at it as a dog on a bone, but unlike a dog, never crack the bone to reach the delicacy inside. If clues to her origins existed, they were buried deep in Bel-Athaer; how could she find and decipher them, a woman to whom our world and people were alien? And the edict is in place for good reasons, my friend."
"Edict, schmedict," Chris responded contemptuously, sounding more Brooklyn than British. "It does not apply to Tiff."
Royal lapsed back on the desk again, supporting himself with the heels of his hands. "I did not know that, and neither did you. I'm surprised, give the strength of your feelings, you did not tell her."
"It was in my mind, but I had a Dark Cousin breathing down my neck. I'm fond of this head; I wanted to keep it on my shoulders. But that's beside the point. You, she trusted. You should have told her."
Royal glowered. "You think I did not know that? Believe me, I agonized over telling or not telling her. But she distrusted our brothers and detested our Dark Cousins." Emotion darkened his copper eyes. "I supposed the truth would appall her. I could not bear to see horror and self-loathing in those beautiful eyes, or frustration when she asked questions for which I had no answers."
He dropped his gaze. "Time passed, spinning me farther from any possibility I could disclose what I knew. I feared the knowledge would drive her from me, for by then I was deeply in love with her. She was in my blood and bones.
"I told myself I had no choice, I must obey the edict. It was an excuse. I knew she would ask why I kept the truth from her for so long when I knew she craved it. She would say my secrecy made a lie of our relationship.
"But my love for her was never a lie."
His voice fell to a few decibels above a whisper. "I did not mean to fall in love. It was not love at first sight. But the first kiss - I tasted her on my tongue and was lost. I wanted to see her pale hair loose and feel it stroke my skin. I wanted to mold my hands to every part of her body. More than that, I wanted to know her soul."
He fell silent. Chris cleared his throat, which sounded dry. "Ah. As I'm sure you know, I have kissed many women, but Tiff. . . . When I felt her lips - glk!"
Chris found himself pinned to the chair by Royal's big hands on his shoulders. Gleaming white teeth set in a kind of rictus-smile were level with his eyes.
"You kissed Tiff?" Royal asked softly.
Appearances can be deceptive. Chris looked lighter, leaner and less dangerous than Royal, but he was still a powerful man and could have broken away. However, when he rolled his eyes up to meet Royal's, he deduced Royal was perplexed rather than enraged. And he had stretched the boundaries of their friendship when he kissed Tiff.
And Royal pinned him to the floor by standing on his feet.
"Royal, have a care. This jacket is pure silk. And those shoes you're flattening are Italian leather, hand-crafted by my man in Piedmont," he said nonchalantly, to all appearances totally unconcerned by the fingers digging in his shoulders.
"Then don't move - you'll scuff them on my soles - and tell me about this kiss."
"A peck of farewell and brotherly affection, I assure you."
"I don't have a problem with you seducing other women, but Tiff is unavailable, and you knew when you kissed her."
"I told you, a peck. For mercy's sake, Royal, stop reading more into it."
Royal released Chris' shoulders, and his shoes, but still loomed, looking down thoughtfully.
Chris briskly straightened his cuffs one after the other. "I will never understand why a Gelpha lord is ridiculously possessive with his women."
Royal turned away. "I am not possessive and it has nothing to do with my position in Lawrence's Court. I treasure Tiff, but perhaps that's a foreign concept to you."
His back was to Chris as he settled in the office chair reserved for clients. He did not see the wistful expression which slid over his friend's face, here and gone in an instant.
Royal's tone deepened ominously as he swiveled the chair to face Chris. "I did not know she is so much more than she seemed, until Orcus came to me. What I knew, or thought I knew; what I could have said -- all became irrelevant."
Chris's eyes changed, seeming to become a flat, darker, murky gray. "The Burning Man."
"Every child's nightmare," Royal said. "I lay on my belly as they carried me on the gurney through Bon Moragh. I was paralyzed from the neck down and raged at my helplessness. From her voice and eyes and posture, I knew the fiend hurt Tiff, but I could not go to her.
"The gurney stopped. From my prone position, seconds passed before I realized the bearers had left me.
"I was alone with Orcus."
Chris licked his suddenly parched lips as he decided whether now was a good time to ask about the defeat of the ancient Dark Cousin Dagka Shan in the bowels of the High House. He knew Royal was seriously injured, and Tiff shot the Cousin. He dearly wanted to hear the grisly details. But Royal looked inward, remembering, and would not appreciate an interruption.
"Flame flickered over him, white, and the glacial blue you find inside crevasse of ice. The color of Tiff's eyes. As I watched, he flared brighter, higher. I could not see what hid inside that pale pyre. He asked if I knew him.
"Close as he stood, I felt no heat on my face. His fire was cold, like the chill of deep winter. I tried to make my voice strong as I acknowledged him, but sounded like a bronchial child.
"He asked me if I would listen, and obey, and I agreed. But my sight blurred, my heart thundered when he instructed me." Royal's voice rose slightly on a note of anguish. "What choice did I have? Obedience to the Burning Man is drummed into our heads and hearts.
"After that day I struggled to maintain my role, the otherworldy lover of a human woman. You cannot imagine how difficult it was, to smile and laugh, and love, as if I had no care in the world. As if we would go on forever. I cherished each moment we were together for I knew the end approached. She would go beyond me to where I could not follow. She would no longer want me. Orcus told me this and he was never wrong. It was as if my heart thrust through my ribs.
"My phone woke me in the middle of the night. An encoded text from Lord Lawrence." A slight, fond smile replaced his agonized expression. "That boy will make a fine High Lord one day.
"I watched Tiff as she slept and decided not to wake her. I could not lie to her again, I could not tell her the truth, so I left." He fell silent for a moment, before continuing with evident distaste. "Orcus, feared and revered throughout our world. Had I known. . . .
"I could not let her fall into his clutches. So I went to him."
"As I know to my cost," Chris said wryly. He looked at Royal with slit eyes. "What did you hope to accomplish?"
"I approached Lawrence first, but a monarch is never alone. His valet sleeps in his suite at night; his guard stands fast outside his door and accompanies him through the day apart from when he is with his advisors. He looked alarmed when I presented myself. I think he feared I would publicly ask him about his text. I made a pretense of a social visit to the Court, and texted him when I left to say I would ply my trade and investigate Orcus. I thought if I could gain admittance to his lair. . . ."
"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way - "
I punched another station.
"We wish you a Merry Christmas! We wish you a Merry Christmas. We wish you a Merry Christmas and a - "
Good grief. Couldn't a single radio station play anything but Christmas carols? I viciously clicked off the radio.
I brought my green Nissan Xterra Pro-4X to a slithering stop, hauled my butt out, slammed the door and trudged through the snow to the front of the plant. Alone on the hill, the hulking place loomed against the backdrop of the western desert. The windows had blown out and flame-blackened bricks surrounded gaping holes. Part of the roof had caved.
Artie beckoned me from inside the loading bay, a shape made hazy by the pale afternoon sun. "Come on, then!"
Fire Marshal Withers handed me a pink hardhat. Pink? Grimacing, I settled it on my head. "Do I need this?"
"No, but them's the rules." He indicated the open bay doors. "Stay on the ground floor, don't go poking around and you'll be fine."
Officer Yales gave me a nod, but didn't suggest accompanying me. Clarion PD knew better.
I nodded and walked up the sloping ramp into what remained of the plant and stood in the half-gloom, sinuses assaulted by the unmistakable reek of burned timber, sodden ash and melted plastic. Part of the second floor had collapsed. I looked up at the jagged hole in the roof where the blackened bones of charred rafters punctured the sky. Melted snow from the heavy fall last night still dripped from the rafters and puddled on the floor. The interior was a chaotic mess. I couldn't identify anything except the huge, fire-blackened furnaces.
Waiting for me, Star and Jerry stood with Artie.
Her mother called her Star, her bright one, her light in a dark night. Unfortunately, mom had a thing for babies, but no patience when they grew older. She kicked Star out the house when the girl was thirteen. Star died in the factory at nineteen.
Jerry had five siblings and a divorced mother who worked two jobs to provide for her children. He graduated from Clarion High and hired on at the factory, proud to contribute a meager wage to the family's upkeep. He died in the basement a month before his nineteenth birthday.
The site has an interesting if macabre history. A sugar factory stood here until it burned down in 1889. Walther and Sons built a smelting plant on the site in 1902. According to the newspaper archives, one of Asher Walther's grandsons had a mental breakdown in 1951. The plant's din covered the noise he made as he chained and padlocked the back and front exits. He tossed Molotov cocktails through four windows as the night shift signed off. Most employees escaped through other windows.
Star and Jerry were in the basement locker rooms, primping for Friday night fun, readying to join their friends and cruise the 'Vard, then hang together at Fuzzie's Drive Thru. Artie worked as night custodian. He went to the basement to chivvy Star and Jerry so he could lock up the building. Fire engulfed the perimeter of the ground floor, smoke choked the air when they came up. They might have stood a chance had they gone back down to the basement and sealed the door. They died of smoke inhalation.
Arthur Winegar is in his sixties, a pale-skinned, bald old geezer in threadbare gray dungarees and a cloth cap. He feels responsible, so tries to mother the youngsters, but you cannot tell a dead person to wrap up in cold weather or remember to wash behind their ears. He was born into another era, so his mothering consists of gruffly telling them to respect their elders, mind their manners and watch their tongues. He means well, but Star and Jerry laugh at him.
I get a kick out of seeing Star and Jerry in their fifties finery. Star wears a tight, white pencil skirt, pink sweater worn backward so the buttons fasten down her spine, black ballet slippers and dainty white socks. Her shining black hair has a pronounced pouf where it meets her shoulders and brows above dark-blue eyes are delicately filled in with black pencil. Jerry looks smart in tailored tan slacks, a cream sweater vest and brown suede shoes. His bright auburn hair stands up in a lacquered wave, freckles spatter his nose and cheeks and he habitually fingers the ends of his sparse sideburns.
I wondered how Artie, Jerry and Star would take to having the fire-blackened ruins razed and replaced with a brand spanking new manufacturing plant when the Humphries family built it three years ago. They were delighted. They were every employee's unseen family, relishing their triumphs and pleasures, mourning their failures and losses, delighting in the gossip.
Unlike Artie, Jerry and Star are not stuck in the Fifties. They wholeheartedly embraced the twenty-first century and enthusiastically discuss what they hear about sex, TV and movie stars. Artie mourns the days of his youth when men were men and youngsters called you sir. He threatens to wash their mouths out with soap and water, which of course sends them into gales of laughter.
Now it was gone. Three fires destroyed three factories.
My friends will not have to wait long till they pass over. Peter Walther pleaded temporary insanity so escaped the death penalty, but his family declared him incapable of caring for himself and admitted him to an expensive, discrete sanatorium in Colorado. He's ninety-eight now; he won't last much longer. When he goes on his way, so do my spectral buddies.
But they were going to moan like the devil now they'd lost their "friends," the plant's eighty-two ex-employees.
Artie jabbed his hand at me. "You took your time."
"Told you she'd come, though, didn't I," said Jerry.
I peered into the depths again. "Where are they?"
Artie cocked his thumb at the west wall. I spotted them in the gloom, a nude man and two nude women sitting on the floor of what was once an office.
Clarion PD neglected to tell me the victims were naked.
The fire was arson and killed young Will Humphries and two employees. Clarion PD asked me if I could discover who lit the fire and killed Selene Humphries' son. I told them I possibly could.
Will, Janice Stacey and Velma Torrence should not have been in the plant. Definitely not in their birthday suits. The fire did not touch them; in the manner of my old friends, they died of smoke inhalation. Smut faintly filmed their skin and hair. They lay face down on the floor as they drew in their last breath of air.
I picked my way over a collapsed girder and a mess of unidentifiable debris between me and the office. They stood when they noticed me, their postures awkward and Will fidgeted his hands, then dropped them to cover his groin.
A scrawny little dude with spindly limbs and rounded shoulders, Will stood shorter than the girls. He turned his head away and stuck his nose in the air. A little on the heavy side and in her late thirties, Velma kept trying to drag her long, straight, red-brown hair down to cover breasts which were already beginning to sag. Her green eyes would not meet mine. Janice wore her ash-blond hair shoulder-length and curled, but her eyebrows were brown, as were her eyes. She had a pouting mouth and cheeks round as apples. Mascara ran down her cheeks. She wept as she died.
"Will," I said. "Janice. Velma."
They didn't ask the usual questions: what happened, why am I here? Artie already told them what they needed to know about their situation, and about me.
Knowing they were alive when ash filled the air gave me a sick feeling. They were terrified, trapped back here by the smoke and flames.
"Did you see who did this?"
Velma took a step toward me. "It was - "
Will's head whipped up and he snapped, "Be quiet!"
Velma flinched.
They knew who killed them, but Will wanted to keep it quiet? Hm. I don't welcome visions of a shade's last moment, but one would be handy right about now.
Ignoring Will, I spoke to the girls. "You can tell me and he can't do one damned thing about it."
"I can make their lives miserable," said Will.
My eyes dropped to his shriveled genitalia. "Yeah, I see how the scenery could get on their nerves. But you're gonna be stuck here together for a good long time even if your killer gets the death sentence. You know how the justice system works. It'll be easier if you get along. Be nice to each other."
"Yeah, him and Jerry can compare freckles." Star came to stand beside me. "I'll tell you."
"You shut up, bitch," Will yelled across the intervening space, except the yell came out a hoarse whisper.
"Yeah? And what you gonna do if I don't, darlin'?"
"I'll . . . I'll. . . ." Will spluttered.
Star folded her arms. "You think your whores would want anything to do with you if you weren't the owner's son?"
"I'm not a whore," Velma wailed.
"Shut up, tramp."
"Keep a civil tongue in your head, young lady," from Artie.
"That's what they called her sort in my days," Star retorted.
Aha. Now I knew how Will and the girls came to be here late at night after the plant closed.
"You're nothing but a pathetic weed," Star told Will coolly.
I didn't think Will's personality attracted the two factory girls and he was not much in the way of looks. Star had him nailed - stick him in a lawn with the other dandelions and he'd be hard to spot. Either they sucked up to the boss' son, or Will browbeat them into their little after-hours romp.
"Star, if you know who did this, why am I in here talking to them?" I waved at the naked threesome. "You could have told me when I arrived."
She shrugged. "That'd be no fun. You'd be in and out like a shot."
I could be on my way home instead of faced with Will's bony body and limp member. But I understood. Star, Jerry and Artie lost their link to the outside world when the plant burned and subsequently closed. I was all they had for now and they would keep me here as long as possible.
"I am mortified," Velma said, sounding so as she stared at Artie, Star and Jerry. "They watched us and they'll never let us forget." She waved one hand at Star. "I know she won't."
"Dead to rights, you little tart," Star said.
Artie threw his hands in the air.
"Stop it," Janice said. She turned to Will. "Why are you defending him? He killed you."
"He didn't know I was here!"
"He knows now. If he's suffering over your death, it's not enough for me. I want him to pay." She nodded at the front of the plant. "He parked out front. I thought Will was gonna shit a brick. But his dad stayed outside."
Officer Yales didn't ask me to make a statement down at the PD. I inwardly chuckled at the notion. A woman who sees ghosts is told by one that the owner's husband started the fire which burned their plant and unknowingly killed his son? Oh yeah, that would look good on paper.
Was Selene involved? If you rule out mischief, revenge and plain stupidity, the motive for arson is usually money. Maybe the Humphries were in financial difficulties and wanted the insurance payout.
Now they'd lost the one thing which really mattered to them.
Clarion PD would pursue my "lead." And they would nab Harmon Humphries. He claimed to be out of the country when the plant burned and proving he was not should be easy enough.
Walking away from the plant, I smiled. I couldn't be at Clarion PD's beck and call now, I had my own cases to pursue, but I enjoyed involvement in an official police case now and then, just like the old days. And I silently gloated when they came to me for help because a case stymied them.
Out the corner of my eye, I saw a tall man with long, glistening copper-gold hair near the lot's entrance. But when I looked in that direction, holding my breath, it was the factory sign and sunlight glinting off the brass lettering.
I swallowed a sigh. At least the plant was a distraction, but over too quickly. Royal had been gone only two days, so why did I feel so . . . uneasy?
The way he left raised my hackles. On the rare occasions when Gelpha business pulled him out of bed at odd hours of the night, if I didn't wake, he woke me so I wouldn't worry. Why not this time? I did come half awake, but I thought he got up to use the bathroom. I went back to sleep. And not a word, a note, a phone call since then. No reassurance he would be back.
I shivered, hunched my shoulders and plunged my hands deep in the pockets of my down coat. Idiot. Royal's fine. Not much can harm a powerful demon.
Not much. But they can be hurt. They can be killed.
Stop it! I chided myself. He's just fine, wherever he is.
I should not call him a demon when I've known for a long time he and his people are Gelpha. Stronger than the average human being, with enhanced senses and the ability to influence us on a sensual, sexual level, demon seemed an appropriate title when I first learned of them.
A smile tickled my lips as I recalled his expression the first time I called him a demon to his face. Now I often say "my big bad demon." People use endearments casually nowadays, but they don't come naturally to me and that is as close as I get.
Damn! I stamped my feet down hard as I walked. I needed to get angry. I needed something fierce and hot in my belly, not the slow, sleety coiling which felt suspiciously akin to anxiety.
I tromped back to the rear lot where I parked the Xterra near two huge industrial dumpsters. Exposed to the strong east wind, snow had formed a top crust which my boots broke through, making walking difficult. An icy sheath bowed pine branches nearly to the ground. Snow mounded about low shrubbery.
The Xterra looked lonely and frosty cold. The inside would be as chilly as the outside. I got in, started her up and drove away, watching the gauge to see when she'd warm up enough that I could turn on the heater.
I tore down the icy road. Even the Xterra's four-wheel-drive couldn't efficiently cope with a three-inch buildup of ice covered in two inches of slush, not at this speed. Enough commonsense lurked on the fringes of my mind that I tapped the brakes a few times before reaching the next bend, but I still took it wide. I took my foot off the accelerator and let the next hill slow me down naturally.
On the flat, I slammed my palms on the steering wheel. "Okay! Enough!"
This was it; enough with being pathetic. If I found Royal at my house when I got home, he could kiss my ass.
Um. I narrowly missed a half-buried pothole as that statement conjured visions in my mind.
"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way."
Unfortunately, I couldn't turn Jack off as easily as the radio. "Jack, can't you sing something else. I hate that."
I don't hate Jingle Bells and We Wish You a Merry Christmas, but they do annoy me. The repetitiveness makes them easy for youngsters to learn, and you won't get a prize for guessing which songs my foster parents made us kids sing when we went door-to-door caroling at Christmas. Some people even enjoy hearing little kids caterwauling tunelessly at the front door during what is supposed to be the season of goodwill.
Remembering Christmas past, I smiled a little. The shelters and foster homes weren't Dickensian institutions, it wasn't all bad, and Christmas was a good time of year. Local charities gave us toys, new clothes and Christmas goodies for the table.
My smiled blanked out. I caused a lot of my problems during my childhood and adolescence. I was rebellious and intransigent, even with Deanna and Craig West, the super-nice foster parents who about busted a gut to make me feel safe and loved. Well, maybe not loved. Loving a kid as difficult as me was near impossible, but I believe they wanted to. They treated me with unending patience and kindness. But, anyhow, Craig was diagnosed with Muscular Dystrophy and went downhill fast. They couldn't cope with his illness and an intractable fourteen-year-old.
I went back into the system and ended up with the guy who proved what an evil, perverted sonofabitch a foster dad can be.
My eyes unglazed and I took in my small hall, the stand where I tossed my keys and wallet, the pegs for my outerwear, the staircase leading upstairs. I finally found a home, the place I was supposed to be.
"Hey!" Jack barked in my ear. "Did you forget something?"
A home complete with pesky roommates. "Huh?"
An insistent beep turned me back to the front door. I forgot to turn off the security alarm again. Royal installed it after someone bombed his apartment and tried to do the same to my house with a nasty device connected to an electrical outlet. If you find a plug half hanging from an outlet, you automatically push it back in, right? Royal did with his coffeemaker. His superhuman hearing detected an odd click, and his speed got him out the apartment ahead of the blast. I would not have been so fortunate, but the bomb squad found the device in my house after Royal alerted them. He said the security system would pick up the smallest movement above Mac-height, but I still made sure the plug was already seated in the socket before turning on an appliance.
And I still looked over my shoulder on occasion.
"I'm getting into the spirit, because we're so festive this year," Jack mocked as he pointed at the ceiling and our single festive decoration.
A bunch of artificial mistletoe attached to a little gold bell. Royal put it up there with the idea he could ring the bell and I'd come running, which I did as fast as my size nines could carry me. Believe me, the reward was worth the effort.
I peeled off my coat as I walked through the hall to the kitchen. The place felt blissfully warm compared to the cold outside. Sitting at my old wood kitchen table, I unzipped my boots and eased them off. I rested for a moment, coat over my knees, and casually glanced at the answering machine. No light blinked to indicate a new message.
"No calls from you know who," Mel sing-songed.
Oh well. "Guess I needn't bother looking then, not with you to tell me."
"You don't have to bite my head off."
Under the table, my Scottish terrier MacKlutzy opened his eyes, lifted his head and eyed me as if to say, You're back? I just noticed. He lumbered to his feet, walked to the pantry and stared as if his eyes had the power to melt the wood which separated him from his food.
"No. Doctor Steve says you're overweight. You're not getting a snack each time I come home, it's bad for you."
He gave me a bright look from his dark-brown eyes and wagged his tail.
"Don't try that on me, little buddy. You heard me. You know what 'no' means."
That got me a curled upper lip and snarl for my troubles. With an audible sigh, Mac settled in front of the pantry, head on his front feet.
I went to the hall and threw my coat at the coat-rack, put my boots in the drip tray beneath, then picked my coat off the floor, shook it and hung it up. Back in the kitchen, I stood at the stove. My fat pink fridge hummed next to the pantry, the round plastic wall clock ticked away the seconds.
I'd trekked mushy footprints through the kitchen. After getting some paper towels from the cabinet beneath the sink, I crawled across the floor on hands and knees, mopping.
"Did you get anything out of them?" Jack asked.
"Yep. Harmon Humphries did it."
"His daddy killed him?"
"I doubt he did it intentionally, Jack."
Jack slapped palms to cheeks. "How awful. The poor thing."
"Don't you dare feel sorry for him." Mel rested hands on hips. "He didn't check the building so he didn't care who he killed."
"It was locked for the night, guys. He had no reason to think anyone was in there. He planted the explosive the day before. He pressed the button from outside."
"What a shame. You can't claim his 'information leading to an arrest' reward," Mel observed.
I realized I stared at the phone with something close to venom.
"Tiff, I said - "
I shifted to eye her from beneath my brows. "I heard what you said."
"But you. . . ." Mel flounced to the table. "For goshdarned sakes, it's only been two days and you're like - "
"And a half," Jack corrected. "Two and a half days."
"I know that!" I rose up on my knees and tossed the paper towels in the bin. "I'm not worried. He's a big boy, he can take care of himself."
"Oh, yes, an exceptionally big boy," Mel said, followed by a sigh. If dead people could drool, her chin would be awash.
"I tell you, when he wears that one pair of tight black jeans. . . ."
Getting to my feet, I gave her a filthy look.
"Put him in a pair of Speedos, I swear I would melt," Jack said.
So would I. Royal in Speedos? Oh. My. God.
Mel exclaimed, "Is she insane?"
She now stood at the kitchen's west windows, watching Sally from three houses down who wore a white thong bikini as she dashed over her lawn to the curbside mailbox. Bear in mind six inches of snow covered the grass, but she did have heavy rubber boots.
I rolled my eyes. "Bet she won't do that when it's ten below."
Jack zipped to the window. "Would you get a load - "
"Jack!"
He half-turned to watch her run back in her house. "What is she doing, wearing that in December?"
"She does it intentionally. She knows you enjoy watching."
"Really? Does. . . ?" His tone went flat. "Ha ha. Hilarious."
"She has a tanning bed, Jack. She likes to look toasted year-round."
Did I expect any radical change in Jack's behavior in the three months after he and his ex-lover got together and declared their gay status? I did, but he'd been in straight mode too long. He still ogled passing women, or women on television, or pictures of them in the newspaper. I made the mistake of saying he could quit the manly act and he got huffy with me. So I shut up. Jack could be who he wanted to be. None of my business.
At the same time, he happily droned on about his ex-lover Dale, back and forth through their years together. The eternal romantic, Mel couldn't get enough, she lapped it up.
Restless, I went through the hall to the living-room, then wished I had not. Royal and I relaxed and cuddled in here. I flopped in the big armchair and propped my feet on a stack of books with worn leather covers. Soft, warm, sage-green fabric surrounded and cushioned me, but I suppressed a shiver. The room felt chilly, the wood-burning stove needed lighting, but that was Royal's job. I'm no good at lighting wood-burning stoves. Silence pressed on me. Why? Royal wasn't here all the time. I should not feel lonely.
I felt lonely because I wanted him here.
I needed a clock. Yes, a clock softly tocking in the background. Or some music. Anything to fill the silence.
I should be used to silence, I've lived alone most of my life. Until Royal barged in, filling my waking and sleeping moments and all kinds of interesting moments in between.
The window filled with the gathering gloom of evening. My gaze lit on the long, slim box propped against the wall next the stove.
I had to do something to occupy my mind. I opened the box and pulled out a five-foot mess of plastic pine branches crushed together. This was a Christmas tree? It was a disaster. A trip to the garbage can would be an act of mercy.
"Guys! I need a hand here!"
Mel hurried in. "With what?"
I held the thing up. "This tree Royal bought. It is a tree, right? I know what they're supposed to be like and this ain't it."
"Sure I'll give you a hand." She thrust her arm through the wad till her hand protruded from the other side. "This one?" She pushed her other hand into the arm of the couch. "Or do you prefer this one?"
"How incredibly funny." I frowned. "Have you ever put one of these together?"
Thus began my education in how to erect, shape and decorate an artificial Christmas tree. My gleeful roommates were delighted to tell me precisely what I should put where, interspersed with sarcasm, including:
"You need a stand."
"Put the end in it. No, the other end."
"It's wonky."
"Lord, it's worse than Charlie Brown's tree. You have to shape the branches."
Finally, I walked a circle around the tree. "Hey, it looks good, doesn't it?"
Royal must have paid a fortune for the tree; it looked real now the branches were fluffed out.
"It's lovely," Mel said. "Now, the decorations!"
"Decorations?" I reluctantly squinted at the other cardboard box, the bigger box, the one overflowing with sparkly bits of this and glowing pieces of that. Royal persuaded me to get Christmas decorations. Rather, he wheedled me into letting him get them. I should have guessed he loves Christmas decorations as six fully loaded Christmas trees are permanently displayed in his living room. "Does it need decorating?"
"Yes, it needs decorating," Jack said long-sufferingly. "You don't have a naked Christmas tree."
"Why not? It's beautiful as it is."
Mel leaned over the box. "They're not here to prettify a brown cardboard box, Tiff."
I squinched up my face. This was turning into a chore. Still, Mel was right, the damned tree should be decorated.
"He put the stuff for the tree on top," Jack pointed out.
That's Royal, nothing if not methodical. The package on top contained a collection of traditional glass ornaments: Santas, trees, stars, what could be elves, reindeer, in shining red, blue, orange, green, silver and gold. I cast my gaze at my roommates, knowing what came next.
"You can't hang a Santa right next to another Santa!"
"Are you really this helpless?"
"If I could get my hands on those, I'd show you how to decorate a tree."
"Where's the angel?"
"Maybe Mr. Hunky got a star."
Mac stuck his head around the doorframe, flattened his ears and disappeared again. He wasn't getting near the chaos. Smart dog.
Jack regarded the tree, which did look lovely dotted with the colored glass shapes, twinkling transparent icicles, glowing golden balls, the whole shebang wound about by a wide, shining gold ribbon.
"It's a mercy he got one already dressed with lights," Mel said. "Imagine the mess you'd make putting those on."
I could imagine. They say you learn something new every day. Me, I'm Christmas tree challenged.
Although I removed the decorations for the tree, the box still bulged. The living room would out-dazzle Santa's grotto if I hung all the sparkling doodads. At least I talked Royal out of decorating the kitchen, and my bedroom. He wanted to hang mistletoe in the bathroom, too.
Jack bent to the box. "I see the tree topper! There's a picture on the side."
I knelt to extract the box from all the other stuff and had to blink hard at the picture on the outside. I carefully eased the angel from the box and her casing of bubble wrap.
She had pale skin, jewel-tone blue eyes, and long, straight, silver-white hair.
I went back to the kitchen and despite my resolve to not call Royal again, picked up the phone and dialed his cell. It rang, and rang.
"Are you trying to call him again?" Mel asked.
I ignored her.
Jack sniffed. "I never liked him."
"I'm sure the feeling was mutual," from Mel. She skimmed one hand over her hair. "He was . . . nice."
Jack made a disparaging noise. "Nice isn't what you mean."
She swept up to him. "Sexy. Hunky. So what?"
"Mm. He was that," Jack said. He caught my gaze and decided to quit while he was ahead.
I wished they would not talk about Royal in the past tense.
Mel twirled to face me. "Anyway, I don't understand why you keep calling him. When I was dating, calling was the guy's job. A girl never called the guy."
The phone clunked in the cradle.
"Get over it, Tiff. You had a good time, he's moved on to greener pastures, that's all there is to it," Jack said with a toss of his head.
I turned on him, ready to lambaste him, but couldn't find the words.
Next morning I drove down Twenty-Second to find all the parking slots on Royal's block taken. I should have expected that at eleven-thirty. Twenty-Second is a favorite for people taking a quick lunch break from work. I found a spot in the Clarion Hilton's parking lot and walked through the brick passage which separates Chauncy's Chapeaus and Bits 'N Pieces, beneath Mallory's Bar and Grill. Royal's apartment is three doors along from there.
The gate across the wrought-iron staircase was locked, so I fished in my jacket pocket for the key ring and separated the heavy, old-fashioned key to the gate from the others. Snow had frozen in little ridges on the whorled pattern on the bottom two steps and the rail felt ice-cold beneath my hand. Protected by the bricked-in stairwell, the higher steps were clear.
Wonderful aromas from the street teased me. Scones and raspberry butter from the bakery would be good. And maybe a loaf of cinnamon-swirl bread.
The oiled lock turned easily. Through the gate and up more steps, I knocked on Royal's front door, hoping against hope he would open it. He'd been away on urgent business, something so important he had to rush off and didn't want to disturb me. He meant to be back by morning, but it took longer than he estimated.
Who was I kidding?
The key ring also held keys to his front door, the office door, his bedroom door and the door leading from there to the roof. They were identical, but he'd had them etched. I put the key marked "F" in the front door lock and turned it, then pushed the door open.
I said his name aloud. My voice echoed from the high ceiling.
I wiped my boots on the mat before bending to take them off. Royal does not appreciate mucky footprints on his polished oak floor.
He'd shifted his furniture along the room when we took fourteen feet of it for our office, but apart from moving the Christmas trees from the east wall to the south wall behind the couch, the basic arrangement had not changed. The fat-bellied Buddha smiled at me from across the room. The black lacquered bar gleamed. The Christmas tree lights were unplugged.
Now thirty-six feet long instead of fifty, the room is still cavernous but voices don't echo as badly. With its high ceiling and brick walls, it still reminds me of a warehouse loft.
Two big cardboard boxes on which Royal had written Xmas Decorations in big red letters sat beside the front door. During our last evening together, he said he'd hang his decorations the next day, then help me with mine.
During our last evening together. I hated the sound of that.
With the sky overcast, insufficient daylight came through the two new windows in the west wall, so I flicked the switch beside the door to turn on the row of lamps which stride along the ceiling.
His living space was tidy, nothing out of place, a few paperbacks neatly stacked on the leather trunk he uses as a coffee table, blue quilted placemats perfectly positioned on the glass dining table. I went in the kitchen. No dirty dishes in the kitchen sink; clean dishes, pots, glasses and silverware in the dishwasher. The glass coffee carafe glistened.
The office was not as neat as Royal preferred. I have my own filing system; a pile of papers here, books and sheets of notepaper there - I know where everything is. I flick a feather duster over my mess now and then.
I went outside and trudged to the top floor. Royal could be up here. He would not hear me in the living room if he were showering.
Dammit, Tiff. Of course he would hear, his demon senses could penetrate the noise made by the shower.
The king-sized bed was made, the quilt smooth, pillows fluffed. In the bathroom, the towels on the rack and his washcloth were dry. He had not used the shower or bathtub today.
Depressed, I returned to the living room, flipped my phone and called Royal's cell again. It rang three times before I noticed the tone sounded strange. It went to voicemail after the fourth tone. I didn't leave another message.
Something about that ring tone. . . . I hit the button again.
This time I listened carefully. Not till the fourth ring did I understand what I heard: two tones, one the outgoing call, another a phone ringing at precisely the same time.
Royal's cell was in his apartment.
I dialed again, keeping my phone away from my ear, concentrating. I followed the ring tone back to the office. Another attempt, and I slowly sat in my chair and opened my desk drawer.
I drew out Royal's shiny black cell phone. "Why did he leave it here?" I asked aloud.
He didn't want to speak to me. Simple as that.
But he could have turned it off, or hid it where I would not find it, or ditched it. Or just plain ignored my calls.
And it was in my desk drawer. This did not make sense.
I flipped open the phone and checked the call log. No outgoing calls, three missed calls, six messages and one text in his mailbox. I called and hung up three times. I left six messages yesterday. I checked the messages anyway. Don't you hate listening to your own voice? I sounded hesitant, whiney: "I hope you're okay. I'm getting just a little bit worried."
This left the text, which I definitely did not send.
I made the first of my six calls at noon yesterday and the text came yesterday afternoon at two. It looked like Royal was here, deleted his phone records, put his cell in my drawer and left. Everything before yesterday afternoon was gone, so he left his apartment before then.
I read the text.
"I expected you this morning. I trust you did not forget our appointment."
Cicero."
Cicero? Who in hell's name is Cicero?
I frowned as I contemplated the message. If Royal knew this man, why did Cicero sign his name when Royal's cell would ID him?
The log said unknown caller. I checked his address book. No Cicero listed. That in itself was odd. Phones nowadays automatically add callers to the address list.
Turning the desktop computer on its swiveling base to face me, I powered up and activated Snoopy. This is Royal's baby, a program which pokes its nose where it should not. I'm far from adept, but I'd logged in from home a dozen times today, hoping to find Royal on there. Royal and I can access Snoopy at the same time from different computers and work together as a team. If that sounds super-technical, it is, and as I said I'm not that good with the program, but I'd know whether Royal and I were logged in at the same time.
Snoopy and I were alone. I sent him prying cyberspace.
I learned something of Roman philosopher Marcus Tullius Cicero, the town of Cicero, restaurants called Cicero's, but I doubted any of it had anything to do with the Cicero who called Royal. The chance I'd find anything was practically nonexistent.
The sequence of numbers told me Cicero's telephone number was not US, but maybe from another country? I dialed it, but got dead air, not even a ring tone.
I leaned back and pictured the evening before Royal left. Nothing unusual happened. We snuggled in the living room and read, then drank hot chocolate floating with marshmallows before going to bed. He took a marshmallow from the packet and flicked it at me; hit me dead on the end of my nose. Naturally, I retaliated. We went upstairs laughing. It was a good evening.
Then he left without saying good-bye.
Things change the longer two people are together. Maybe this was our first silent parting. Still, I didn't fret at first.
I called him when Clarion PD contacted me about the plant. He didn't answer his phone so I supposed he must be out of calling range. No big deal; he'd call me back.
But he didn't.
Now it seemed I had reason to worry.
None of this made sense. Unless. . . . Unless someone took Royal by force and he just had time to toss his cell in my drawer so they didn't take it away from him.
But that didn't explain why his call logs prior to yesterday afternoon were erased, and there was no evidence of a struggle.
I scrubbed at my scalp with frustration, shut down the computer, went through the living room and pushed my feet into my boots. Locking the door behind me, I tromped up the steps to Royal's bedroom again.
With a twinge of guilt, I sat at the roll-top desk, turned on Royal's laptop and went through his files and address book. I did the unthinkable: I checked all his e-mail folders, even the spam, but apart from a few saucy notes from me, they were business related and no mention of Cicero.
I closed the laptop and sat staring at nothing, panic rising in my chest. I had no idea what to do next, if I should do anything. I do not deal well with helplessness.
I left the bedroom, jiggled the doorknob to make sure it was locked and went down to the street, locking the gate behind me.
As I paused outside Bailey and Cognac, I spotted Royal's pickup truck across the street in the residents' parking lot. Intent on the slippery sidewalk, I didn't look that way when I approached his apartment. Now I couldn't miss the big red machine.
Relief flared for a brief moment. He was here, somewhere on the street, in one of the stores, having lunch in one of the restaurants.
Hope blinked out like a blown light bulb - he would have showered this morning if he were here. He was not in the apartment overnight.
But maybe he recently got back from wherever he rushed off to? Royal enjoyed his food and never missed a meal by choice, maybe he went for breakfast or early lunch before returning to his apartment.
My head started to spin as I ran options through. But I knew, deep down, I clutched at straws.
I dashed across the street, earning a honk from two sedans. The truck was locked and powdered with snow. Scratching at the crisp white coat, I found ice beneath. Snow from three days ago had partly melted then frozen overnight; then yesterday's light snowfall covered the ice. The truck sat here for at least three days.
Did Royal drive here from my place three days ago, park, do God knows what for two days, then erase his call logs and dump his phone in my desk drawer yesterday morning? Was he still around? If he took off, where did he go, and by what transportation? I couldn't see him catching a bus or train, or taking a taxi instead of his pickup.
Standing in the parking lot, looking across at Royal's apartment, I wanted to scream with frustration.
I spent the next hour going door to door. He did not go to the bakery for a breakfast Danish, or eat in any of his favorite restaurants. Royal is popular on the street and people notice him, but no one recalled seeing him in the last few days.
I drove home with my mind buzzing, taking me along paths which led nowhere.
I noticed the flag up on my mailbox as I left the Xterra at the curb and plodded up the driveway, so detoured across the lawn to check it, making slushy footprints in the snow.
Two bills and a cardboard mailing sleeve.
I suspiciously eyed the sleeve with a feeling of déjà vu. A similar package led to a mess of trouble three months ago. The last time I received a mailing sleeve, addressed to Banks and Mortensen, it contained the journal of Elizabeth Hulme, an English girl of the Victorian era. This had a return address I didn't recognize, but the journal was sent anonymously.
An image formed in my mind's eye, changed - Janine Hulme as I first saw her in her lovely Las Vegas home became a figure drenched in her own blood.
Would she still be alive, had I not opened the package meant for Royal?
Janine died at the hands of ancient Dark Cousin Dagka Shan, along with twelve more people. And I suppose Hans Stadelmann was a casualty too, as Philip Vance, aka the Charbroiler, stole Stadelmann's ward Jacob and used him to hunt his own people. Stadelmann loved the boy and missed him terribly. Sadly, the old man passed away before Jacob could reunite with him.
Vance thought Jacob was a vampire and I understand why. Jacob, Shan's son, once called Teo Papek, is an ancient Dark Cousin who prefers the night hours and has sharp, pointed teeth like his father.
I still feel guilty for keeping the journal to myself and not giving it to Royal, though how could I know it was specifically sent to him? I doubt anything would have changed if Royal read the journal before I got my hands on it. He would have given it to Dark Cousins Gia Sabato and Daven Clare. They would have understood why the beautiful Gelpha traitress, Maud, sent the journal to Royal, and gone directly to Myanmar. They'd still have found Stadelmann, Jacob, Vance and Gia's lover Rio, and later, Dagka Shan. Shan would have still gone on his mad rampage. But I would not have met Janine, seen Maud die, been involved in an FBI manhunt. Not faced Dagka Shan in the High House.
Not see Janine's face in my dreams.
I came back to real time, opened the front door, disabled the alarm, stripped off my down coat and kicked off my boots. I walked in the kitchen and tossed the envelopes and sleeve on the table. Strident, staccato sounds came from the television, which I left on to entertain Jack and Mel.
I forgot to pick up scones at the bakery and hungry butterflies romped in my stomach, so I opened the refrigerator and peered in the depths. The leftover spaghetti and meatballs still looked okay. I pulled a bowl from the cabinet, dumped the pasta in and put the bowl in the microwave.
I swear he wasn't here a second ago, but now Mac hugged my ankles.
"Not for you, idiot."
Deciding to mope, he went to the backdoor and curled up with his back to me. I puffed out air, opened the pantry and put kibble in his bowl. Microwaves are fast, but my boy cleaned his dish before the oven dinged.
A spicy, meaty aroma suffused the kitchen's warm, humid air. Taking the bowl and a fork to the table, I sat and dug in.
Royal never mentioned any Cicero. Was he human, or a demon? A friend, or business acquaintance? A new case?
As he bent over me, Jack's shriek almost lifted my hair. "Tiff!"
"What?"
"For the third time, can you change the station?"
I slid my weary gaze to the small television on the kitchen counter. Animé. Jack loathed it.
"Okay," I grumbled as I got upright. "What do you want to watch?"
I paused on my way across the kitchen. "Not MTV." MTV started Jack rapping, and he could not rap. Thankfully, we rarely heard a mangled syllable from him nowadays.
"The History channel."
I could cope with that. I found the remote on the windowsill and flicked to the right station. Jack pretended to sit on a kitchen chair. Mel drifted in from the hall. I went back to my cooling lunch.
"What's this?" Mel asked as she hung over the package.
"I don't know," I mumbled through a mouthful.
Jack forgot his TV show. "I didn't notice that!"
Mail can be an exciting experience for shades. Anything out of the ordinary is an exciting experience.
I dubiously eyed the package where it lay on the kitchen table.
"I wouldn't open it if I were you," Jack said. He moved a few paces back from the table.
"Remember what happened last time," Mel reminded me.
"Yeah," I agreed. Elizabeth's journal is not something I'll forget in a hurry.
I also recalled that when the package containing the journal arrived, Jack and Mel had a rare time guessing the contents. Jack said it had to be a bomb from someone I pissed off. Not to be outdone, Mel suggested anthrax.
"Or, it could be. . . ." I leaped to my feet. "A bomb!"
I should not joke, the bomb in the kitchen freaked my roommates as much as it did me, but I snickered when Mel and Jack froze.
I put my thumbnail between my teeth and bit down as I walked around the table, checking the cardboard from all sides. Trying to smother my grin, I darted in and whisked it off the table. Jack back-pedaled till he came up against the refrigerator. He stopped as his back-thrust elbow disappeared in the shiny pink surface.
I ripped the easy-open zipper, which was anything but easy, stared in disbelief and dropped the sleeve on the table as if it dirtied my hands.
Mel had both hands over her eyes. "What is it?"
A mass-market paperback. The pale torso of a woman adorned a smoke-gray background. A black briar, the thorns tinted red, girdled her waist and snaked between her breasts. In blood-red letters across the top: GIA'S SONG.
I snorted through my nose. "I don't believe it."
Mel parted two fingers to peer through them. "What?"
I turned the jacket to check the return address. Damn, I did know it. Why in hell's name did she send me her book?
The edge of a piece of cream card stuck from the pages. I held the business card out to Mel.
Jack was beside me. "That's Gia Sabato's first book and her business card!"
She must be crazy, to think I'd want her book.
"Open it!" Jack urged. He hopped about as if tap dancing.
Maybe she put something else in there. I upended the book and shook, then fanned the pages, but nothing fell out.
"He means so we can read it," said Mel.
I slid my gaze sideways at her. "I know what he meant. I'm not interested in her book."
"Maybe not, but we are." She looked at Jack. "Right?"
"Go ahead, read it. I won't stop you," I said unkindly. Why should I spend time turning pages for them when I had other things on my mind?
"You're mean."
They have no hands with which to pick up an object, no fingers with which to feel. Refusing them is akin to denying help to a living, handicapped person. But neither can I give in to all their whims and requests. I would be run off my feet. I'd never have time to myself. My life would be nothing more than an auxiliary part of theirs.
Oh, hell. "Okay, a few pages then."
They were at my shoulder before I could draw another breath. I opened the paperback to the title page.
"She signed it!" Jack cooed.
Well I'll be damned. In elegant, slanting italics: To Tiffany Banks, who should write a book. Gia Sabato.
Mel cracked up. "She wrote Tiffany!"
I scowled at the page. Trust the bitch from hell to deliberately write my full name. "I noticed, Melanie."
I'm not alone in loathing my name. Mel cannot scowl, but she turned her shoulder to me and looked down her nose.
"You could write a book, you know," Jack said as he leaned in.
"About what?"
"Your exciting life and adventures."
I flicked the corner of a page. "Yeah, as if anyone involved would let me do that."
"I don't see why not. It would be a work of fiction."
"No it wouldn't, Jack." I found the first page. "Do you want to shut up and read this or not?"
Every person has their song. It could evoke a memory, happy or sad. It could bring to mind someone, or something they crave but can never have.
I listened to my song on the radio.
"Do you really want to live forever?"
Yes!
\*\*\*
It is time for a change.
Who, at some time in their life, has not expressed that sentiment? Yet I doubt they envisioned the dramatic change of lifestyle I experienced that gray evening in October.
A mist seeped through the door. Note, I say through the door, not through the doorway, for the door was fastened to keep the chill at bay.
The mist solidified, particles drew together. And there he stood. Pale, lazy, hazel eyes. Chestnut-brown hair cut away from his face to fall long in the back and flop over his brow. He wore a blue-gray wool suit over an open necked cream shirt, with navy-blue suede loafers. In his late twenties, absolutely gorgeous, a little pale, but not unnaturally so. My friend, Darrin Call.
Extreme exhaustion can debilitate the body and play tricks with the mind. I was bone weary, and now I was hallucinating. Perhaps I should see my doctor.
I tapped my cigarette on the lip of the ashtray. "Darrin, be a dear and knock next time."
He smiled. "Do not pretend your eyes deceived you."
I looked away, preferring the view through my window to the glow of his eyes. Had his eyes always shined that brightly and I did not notice? "What are you talking about?"
"We call it transmogrification. Long ago, people called it magic."
A magic trick. "Ah, magic," I said, feeling pleased that he provided me with a logical explanation. "You must show me how you do it one of these days. But not now. I'm too tired to concentrate."
He sat on the couch, rested one arm along the back and smiled again. "You admit you did see something inexplicable. What if I told you I altered the constituents of my body so I could pass through your door?"
"Don't be ridiculous, darling. People cannot mist through two inches of wood and steel."
He shrugged both shoulders. "They can if they are a vampire."
I slapped the page and hooted. "Darrin Call!"
"I can read," Jack said.
"Don't you get it? Darrin Call. Daven Clare. She put him in her book!"
"She's in there, why not him too?" Mel said. "She made herself the heroine in her own novel. Clever, isn't it."
"I finished the first page," said Jack. "Get on with it, you two."
We read the first chapter, which took time as Mel is a slow reader. Jack tutted when I closed the book and pushed it aside. "That's all we get, one chapter?"
I jerked my shoulder. "Sorry. I have to be somewhere. You can read more tonight."
"They're not real vampires are they?" Mel asked.
"Positively not." I pressed my palms to the tabletop and pushed to my feet.
Dark Cousins certainly use an arcane ability to charm humans, but it is their only vampire-like trait. Oh, that and their preference for lurking in the shadows.
The reminder of Gelpha and Cousins allure took me back to the last time I experienced it at the hands of an enticing demon with an English accent. Not precisely at his hands, but I know he wanted to get them on me. I pictured Christopher Plowman, his long, silky gray hair threaded with glinting black, his lazy shimmering gray eyes with those remarkable hematite pupils.
However, Mel meant people with fangs who plunge them into human necks and suck their blood. Dark Cousins don't even have the slightly pointed teeth of the Gelpha, those I call demons, and I've seen no evidence they drink blood. They give blood. I believe Gia's blood saved her lover's life, and she administered a transfusion to Royal in the High House infirmary. He came home four days later with only scars as evidence of the terrible wounds Dagka Shan inflicted.
A chill crawled over my flesh as I saw Shan in the bowels of the High House with dead and dying demons lying in their blood. He went through them like a cyclone, unstoppable. Curiosity prevented him killing me, but it was a momentary reprieve. He had me pinned to the ground, about to rip my throat out when I shot him in the head with my Derringer. All the other hairy situations I've got into pale in comparison.
I cleared my throat. "I think Gia Sabato is laughing at us when she writes a book. She puts herself in there to make her readers wonder. Is she, or isn't she? A clever marketing ploy, that's all."
I took my bowl to the trashcan and scraped it clean, then put it in the sink, filling it with water to soak off the crusted-on sauce.
"Where are you going, anyway?" Mel asked.
"The PD."
Jack sounded perky. "You have another job?"
I had to disappoint them this time. "I'm going to Mike Warren about Royal."
I walked through the huge, circular foyer, as always feeling dwarfed by the size and grandeur. The sun decided to invade the interior and pour beams through the high windows in the east wall, splashing yellow pools on the pale marble floor. A handful of people sat on benches around the perimeter.
I went to the duty sergeant's cubicle, but nobody sat behind the glass and wire window, so I waited impatiently, tapping my toe on the floor.
Two young, immaculately attired attorneys came through the tall swinging doors of the courthouse and crossed the lobby, voices stabbing out as if they fought a verbal duel. They spoke too fast for me to understand one word. As I waited, officers and civilians moved through the foyer, in and out of the door which gives access to Vice, Narcotics, and the Gang Division. Missing Persons is down there too. I wanted upstairs, the home of Robbery, Homicide and the Cold Case Divisions. Internal Affairs has a little office tucked in there somewhere.
A voice made me start. "What can we do for you, Tiff?"
Sergeant Bruce had crept in the booth. I leaned on the counter, smiled at him. "Can you buzz up and ask Mike Warren if he can spare me a second?"
"Sure." He slid the window closed so I couldn't hear him speaking. He picked up the phone, punched a button and said a few words, frowned as he settled the phone in the cradle.
Damn, Mike was busy.
But Bruce said, "He's up to his ears, so make it fast."
I gave him my version of a dazzling smile and headed for the escalator. My rubber soles squeaked on the polished tile, people on the benches watched me.
Taking the escalator up, I walked along the hall and into Homicide's Squad room. A familiar buzz of voices and activity washed over me. It did look busy, with some detectives on their phones and the rest pecking away at their keyboards. My gaze automatically went to the wall where Royal's picture once hung.
Mike sat in his office, talking to Detective Brad Spacer and a woman whose strawberry-blond hair fell to her shoulders. He spotted me and beckoned with one hand, an abrupt motion. Even with the squad room separating us, Mike looked harried. Jacketless, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal beefy forearms, the top button of his shirt undone, tie loosened; his naturally florid face shone.
I walked the aisle between desks to Mike's office as Spacer and the woman came out. Her badge said Detective Grace McMullin and she looked ill. Her oval face shone, her blue eyes watered and thin bangs stuck to her forehead. She made eye contact, nodded and went on past.
A terrific honk made me look back to see McMullin blow her nose on a well-used handkerchief.
"How are the ribs, Banks?" Spacer made as if to slap my shoulder, but changed his mind.
"Fine. As if it never happened," I told him.
He looked a question at me, but I couldn't tell him why my cracked ribs healed faster than the average gal's. I got them when Dagka Shan punched me in the gut, denting my armor. Yes, armor, and not the modern kind either; the breastplates I borrowed from the High House armory were medieval.
"Banks, you got three minutes. Get in here," Mike yelled.
I made wide eyes at Spacer, went in Mike's office and settled in the chair across from him. The office was stuffy and smelled faintly of garlic from the garlic chicken pizza carton compacted in the wastebasket.
I didn't think Mike could cram more paperwork into his office, but he'd managed. A row of six cardboard boxes stood beneath the window behind his chair. Piles of papers leaned on both sides of his desk. A stack of file folders on his filing cabinet leaned like the Tower of Pisa; I imagine it shifted a little each time he slammed his door. He used to have a personal printer/fax in here, but I couldn't see it. It could be behind more cardboard boxes topped with more loose sheets of paper in the corner.
Mike's shoulders went down as he hunched over his desk. He always hunches, but it becomes more pronounced when he sees me. Sounding world weary, he asked, "What can I do for you, Tiff?" in a puff of garlicky breath.
I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose. "Not having a good day?"
He rubbed hard at his brow as if trying to smooth away the deeply etched furrows. "Budget cuts. We're undermanned and when I spoke to the Mayor, he told me this joke. You heard the one about the City, the Police Department and the pay raise? You should have heard me laugh. Almost choked. I predict a blue flu epidemic before the month's out."
Not good. The last blue flu, when eighty-percent of the PD called in sick for three days, sent the city into an uproar. If one thing gets me madder than a wet hen, it is how the City cuts the budget for essential programs when funds are short. I crumpled my mouth, rolled my eyes.
"So you can understand I'm under pressure," Mike continued. He pushed a pile of papers to one side of his desktop. "What do you want?"
"To report a missing person."
His hand clenched, creasing the paper on top of the pile. His nostrils flared. "You do have a good reason for coming to me instead of Missing Persons."
Expecting this, I mustered an inner calm. "It's Royal, Mike."
He sat back, hands splayed on the desktop. "Tell me."
After I told him, Mike didn't give me any guff, none of the possibilities for Royal's disappearance he would present to another person in light of the fact Royal was missing only three days. He knew Royal. He knew me and that I don't get wound up without cause.
His gaze dipped to his desk. In the Squad Room, a clatter and someone swore. Someone else laughed. Brad Spacer raised his voice, "No, Ma'am. Osama bin Laden's dead, you couldn't have seen him in the Mall."
"We can't do much, Tiff."
My shoulders sagged. Dammit, I thought he would take a personal interest. I dug my nails in my palms. "He's in trouble. I know it."
"He's not over sixty-five or under eighteen and no suspicious circumstances. You don't even have enough to warrant a Missing Persons Report."
"I don't want to file a Missing Persons Report. How do you think Royal will feel if his name's all over the airwaves?"
"If he is in trouble, he'll appreciate it. But as it stands, we've no reason to put it abroad."
I bit my lower lip and gave him flinty eyes, which made no impression on him whatsoever.
Mike rumbled in his throat, sounding remarkably like Mac. "If suspicious circumstances were involved we could get Forensics to dust his apartment and truck, but a guy leaving his girl in the middle of the night. . . ."
I hooked my arm over the chair's back and swung my head away. He was right. Coming here was a waste of his time, and mine.
"I know. Happens all the time." I rubbed my knee where the denim had worn thin, then met Mike's eyes, letting him see the true depth of concern in mine.
He sighed, eyes half-closed, tented his hands and lowered his brow to them. "The best I can do is put the word out, tell the guys to keep their ears and eyes open, maybe ask a question or two in the right places."
Better than nothing. I'd take it. "Thanks. I'm grateful for anything."
"I'll be in touch."
He kept his head down so didn't see me nod. I stood and walked out.
Near the exit, I paused at McMullin's desk and smiled down at her. "We haven't met."
She came to her feet, putting her eyes level with my chin. "You're Tiff Banks," she said nasally.
"Ah, so my reputation precedes me," I said with a dramatic twitch of my eyebrows. Knowing cops and their sense of humor, she heard some rare tales about me, particularly as what I do makes some of the guys at the PD nervous. An embellishment here, a snide remark there, makes Tiff Banks a less scary person.
She gave me a puzzled frown. "No. Should it? Mike said he expected you." She presented her hand. "Grace McMullin. I transferred in from Vice four months ago."
So I wasn't famous. I made a face at her hand. "Not to be rude, but I don't want to catch whatever you've got."
"Sorry." She wiped her hand on her shirt, as if cotton can sterilize bacteria.
"You don't look good."
"Just a bad cold, but it went to my head. Can't breathe through my nose at all."
I grinned. "On the bright side, I imagine you can't smell the ingrained bouquet of a police squad room."
She smiled back. "Not a whiff."
As I thought.
I fished in my coat pocket and produced a tube of breath mints. "Grace, do me a favor. I forgot to give these to Mike."
"Sure," she said as she took the tube.
"Thanks. I gotta go. Nice meeting you."
"Likewise."
I got out of there fast. Yep, cops have a different sense of humor, and I know how it works.
I pulled to the curb yards short of the Manson place, letting the engine idle. Sure enough, after a minute or two a small stick-thin figure emerged from the privet bushes and headed over the road. She stopped about four feet from the curb, where she died seven years ago.
I accelerated from the curb and pulled up beside her. "Hello, Gillian."
Gillian smiled up at me. "Hello, Miss. Can you see Jezebel?"
I looked at the far side of the street. "No, not a whisker."
Jezebel died two years ago, but I hadn't told Gillian. On the day Gillian died, on her way to school, she saw Jezebel on the far side of the street. She sped after the cat without looking both ways. She didn't see the car heading for her. The paramedics said she never knew what hit her. Gillian's small pixie face wears a permanent smile, because she smiled as she ran across the road after her cat.
I cannot blame the person behind the wheel. The way Gillian darts from the bushes, the driver most likely didn't see her until too late. I do blame them for not stopping, for leaving her little body crumpled in the street.
"She's a bad cat," Gillian stated. "She shouldn't be outside."
"Gilly, did you see Mr. Mortensen's car drive past three days ago, in the middle of the night?"
She nodded, thick black bangs shifting on her forehead. "He had his lights on. You hafta have lights on when you drive at night."
"You sure do," I agreed. "You've seen him leave my house a lot of times -- did he look different, maybe worried? Did he drive fast, like he was in a hurry?"
Gillian spun to face my house, her school backpack smacking her spine. "I can't see his face from here. He stood outside for a minute and looked up at the windows. He drove really slow, like he always does."
"Thanks, Gilly. You get out the road, now."
"I will, Miss. Have a nice day!"
"You too, Gilly."
I drove on. In the rearview mirror, I watched Gillian back up until she disappeared in the bushes.
Think, Tiff. Forget about the truck and cell phone for now. If he's not in Clarion -- though he may well be -- where did he go? He had an appointment with Cicero. Maybe he went there. He could have left in another vehicle, or did the demon dash. Or. . . .
Holy heck. My hands clenched the steering wheel. The Xterra's right front wheel nudged the curb as I swung the car to park in front of my house. Why didn't I think of it before?
Or he walked.
I sat in the car with the engine idling. Jack watched me from the kitchen window.
I waved, pulled from the curb and drove back down the street.
Montague Square is three blocks from Royal's apartment. I regularly shopped there for my favorite blends in Coffee You and Me, and the best bread rolls and sausage in the valley from Valley Market. I saw the door which gives access to Bel-Athaer, but never went near it; I liked to pretend it wasn't there.
It is an old, heavy oak door, perhaps the original. If it ever had stain or varnish, time wore it away. The knob is discolored and dull. There is no keyhole. I took hold of the knob, turned and pushed. To my surprise, the door opened. I sucked in an involuntary breath and twisted to look at the street. The few pedestrians walking back and forth took no notice of a woman entering a building.
If I went in, would I see the entrance to Bel-Athaer?
I'd used the door before, but always with Royal. The first time, he brought me through after rescuing me from his brother Kien. Kien wanted me to give him the High Lord of Bel-Athaer's whereabouts and used a nasty whip to encourage me. Royal killed him.
I went through with Royal, Gia Sabato and Daven Clare the second time and we ended up in Russia to witness the death of a Gelpha traitress so I could question her shade.
The third time, Royal and I went to Bel-Athaer's High House to warn them about a mass-murdering Gelpha, but it turned out to be Dagka Shan.
I pushed the door wider and entered an empty, dusty square room of dull gray plaster walls and concrete floor. There were no locks or bolts on the inside of the door, but something kept it closed to intruders. Gelpha do not have magic at their fingertips, they have technology, but I couldn't see anything.
The door shut behind me with a hollow thump.
Another old wood door in the corner must open to the rest of the building, but the facing door gave access to the passage which leads to Bel-Athaer.
I never asked Royal why an entrance to Bel-Athaer was inside a building. What would happen if someone who should not go in there had to get inside? If I can imagine reasons humans would force an entrance - such as a fire spreading through the block and firefighters breaking open the door - so can the Gelpha. A door which refused to be breached would cause headlines. But once inside, they'd see the door to the passage. What would stop anyone going through there? Is it invisible to someone not supposed to see it? Would it blink out of existence?
Curious, I crossed to the door in the corner. It opened to a large, empty, dusty windowless room with a rickety wood staircase on the north wall. Investigating seemed pointless; it was just a regular room with access to the second floor.
With no reason to linger and before I could deliberate too much, I strode to the other door and pushed it open.
Gareth told me Bel-Athaer was closed to me. It was open now, perhaps it always had been.
Holding the door open, I looked along a wide, straight corridor which dwindled in the distance until lost in shadow. Yet the corridor was not dim, light seemed to emanate from the smooth, creamy tiles on walls, floor and ceiling.
I felt the grain of the wood as my hand tightened on the edge of the door. I wasn't prepared. I had my Ruger in the holster beneath my armpit, my cell phone, nothing more.
I should at least go home and tell my roommates. But announcing I was going to march into Bel-Athaer would worry them and they couldn't help me if I got in trouble, and it wasn't as if I could tell anyone else I meant to venture into another dimension.
And what if Bel-Athaer would not open to me again later today, or tomorrow, or ever? Would I have missed my only opportunity?
I looked over my shoulder at the street door, then returned to make sure it would open. The knob turned easily. I peeped out at the now empty street. Ducking my head back in, I let go and the door shut of its own accord, yet it was not a self-closing door.
Slightly freaky.
Gathering courage, I opened the other door again and started down the corridor. The glowing tiles confused me, creating a kind of optical illusion so distance lost all meaning. Straight as an arrow, the corridor could well go on forever.
I walked fast for fifteen minutes. My sight began to blur, a defense against the glowing sameness of the passageway which by now bore through my eyeballs into my retinas.
Thankfully, I reduced my speed or I would have run headfirst into the wall which blocked the corridor. I stopped, blinking. Not a wall; I faced a door covered in the same creamy tiles. With no doorknob or recess in which to slip my fingers, I put my palms to it and pushed hard.
The door swung open and I strode through. The angry honk of a big, steel-gray pickup made me jump back. Disoriented, I gasped in a breath of air tainted with gas and diesel.
My confused periphery vision spied a sidewalk, but it curved in to the wall on either side of the tall brown brick building I just left. I'd stepped right into a street. I backed up farther till I felt rough brick through the down of my winter coat.
It could be a business district. Buildings of white, red, gray, cream and brown brick, three, four and five floors high, lined a divided avenue straight as a ruler. I imagined the structures were stores, restaurants and business offices. One with a long red canopy could be a theater. A tiered rack of magazines sat outside the big plate glass window of the store on my left. To get a better view and not risk being run down, I walked to my right and hopped up on the sidewalk.
Wispy clouds dotted a pale-blue sky. In the distance, mountains towered over the city. Traffic whipped along in both directions. Men, women and families towing small kids strolled along the sidewalks on both sides of the street, some pausing to check out window displays. A crowd at the crosswalk opposite me waited for the light to change.
I threw my hands up. "Ha ha."
I bet someone, somewhere, laughed their ass off at me. This sure as hell was not Bel-Athaer. Bel-Athaer was a place of rolling green hills, forests and clean air.
Damn. I spun, and barreled into something solid.
I staggered back to keep my balance and looked down at a short, annoyed man who climbed to his feet and glared at me. He bent to pick up his soft, wide-brimmed felt hat and slapped it on his thigh to beat out dust from the sidewalk. Settling it back on his shining amber hair, he continued to glare from glinting sulfur-yellow eyes.
Reality hit me. Fear rooted my feet to the ground. Gasping, a sick feeling in my stomach, I met his eyes across the space separating us.
His face lost a little of its glow. His features smoothed and became expressionless. He spoke slowly, tone flat with no inflection as if he forced the words out reluctantly. "Forgive me, Lady. How may I assist you?"
What the fuck?
Bewildered and intimidated by my surroundings, my head whipped back and forth from the man to the street. I was in Bel-Athaer, but a Bel-Athaer I had never seen or imagined. People on the sidewalk, driving the autos, waiting at a bus stop - oh my god is that a taxi? - were demons.
I tried to speak and croaked an unintelligible sound.
He came closer. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."
Would telling him why I was here get me in trouble? "I'm . . . ah . . . looking for the High Lord's House," I said hesitantly, ready to bolt.
He pointed his index finger at the far side of the street. "The next bus will take you there."
"Thank you," I managed to say. He nodded and walked down the street until he disappeared among other pedestrians.
Take a bus to the High House?
I should have known better than come here. Acting on impulse rarely turns out well for me. But I was here now, slap bang in the middle of a Gelpha city with transportation to the High House at hand. I could go back through the brown building's door and head for home. Or I could take a bus to the High House.
Why did demons have vehicles, anyway? Why not zip to their destination? Maybe demon speed was not used habitually. Perhaps it would result in mass confusion, accidents, injuries when demons slammed into one another.
I walked to the crosswalk and to the other side of the road, marveling when autos stopped for me. I couldn't adjust to the fact that a demon city seemed little different from one back home.
Gelpha at the bus stop watched me coming, but I detected no hostility in their eyes. Curiosity, perhaps? Adults looked away when I joined them, although children peered at me curiously.
People were being well-mannered, even the guy I knocked over. He didn't used the term "lady" as in What the hell do you think you're doing, lady? but as a polite form of address. Once he got past his ire at being knocked on his tush, he didn't seem astonished to see me. They must be used to humans.
Were human beings here commonplace, regular people, or like me see demons as they actually are? Did they have demon friends or loved-ones? Did any live here? Demons live in my world; they have friends, families, businesses and I thought nobody was any the wiser, but maybe some are.
How many human beings knew about Bel-Athaer and kept the secret?
How bizarre, to see a small host of demons patiently waiting at a bus stop. They wore a strange miscellany of attire. One man's long, carrot-colored hair stuck in all directions from beneath a brown porkpie hat. His black suit was too tight, the sleeves and pants too short. He nonchalantly leaned on a silver-topped walking cane. A woman with smoldering saffron hair in an intricate braid and loop design wore a short crinoline skirt in glowing autumn colors and a black waistcoat, and nothing on her feet. The child who held her hand wore pink velvet PJs. Others wore attire I see in Clarion: Tshirts, jeans, modern suits, dresses, skirts, etcetera.
Their clothing was a lighter weight than mine. The temperature was milder here. Heat built beneath my down coat.
I arrived at the back of the queue. A small boy said, "Mumma, why doesn't - ?"
She bent over, her long, waving cinnamon and steel hair washing over her cheek. "Hush, Simmy, we'll talk about it later."
I tried to pretend I stood at a bus stop in downtown Clarion, although I rarely use a bus. I felt conspicuous and nervous down to my toes. With a show of nonchalance, I watched traffic cruise past as if standing with a crowd of demons at a bus stop was nothing out of the ordinary. Cars, trucks, minivans were similar to those back home, with small differences. They rose higher off the ground, the wheels were a fraction out of proportion to their size; they had fat buttons on the doors instead of handles and no license plates. They sure didn't sport emblems or insignia which read Ford, Dodge, or Toyota. I did spot odd symbols in metallic colors on the hoods. The buildings across the road bore something similar above the doors or stenciled on the windows. Gelpha writing?
Funny, it looked familiar. I could swear I saw it before.
A smallish blue bus chugged to a stop, the doors concertinaed open, but nobody got off or on. I craned to look over the people in front of me.
They parted like the Red Sea. One by one, they turned to me.
My eyes edged right to left. I didn't know what to do. Then a demon with glittering brown hair done up in a topknot turned remarkable peridot eyes to me, smiled, and gestured at the bus.
I poked my chest with an index finger, a question in my eyes because I couldn't force the words out. Me? I should get on first?
He nodded. I cleared my throat, gave him a wavering smile in return, walked to the bus and climbed in.
What in God's name was going on?
All seats were occupied, so I moved along the aisle to the back, pretending not to see how passengers looked me over. Straps hung from the ceiling, so I grabbed one. My need to hang onto something had little to do with the way the bus lurched as it drove off. I was in Bel-Athaer, using Gelpha public transportation, surrounded by demons with hair and eyes of every imaginable hue.
I had to be insane or hallucinating.
"Lady?"
I lowered my gaze to an elderly Gelpha. Her shimmering blue eyes smiled into mine as she struggled to get upright, but the bus took a turn which put her off balance and she plopped down. Wisps of silvery-blue hair came free of a pretty wood barrette and dusted her neck.
Come on, Tiff. You can do it. Open your mouth and let the words out. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, dear. You can help me up and sit yourself down here."
The elderly don't stand for young people where I come from. As I opened my mouth to politely reject her offer, a male voice from behind me said, "No, please, take mine."
I glanced back at a tall young demon with spiked cerise-pink hair and stared for a few seconds. His black leather pants and jacket adorned with loops of silver chain, the clunky black elevated boots, the black T-shirt, made me think punk. Put rings and studs in his ears, nose and lips, stick him on a street corner in downtown Salt Lake City and I'd not know him for a demon, provided he kept his silver-mist eyes down.
I smiled, hitched one shoulder. "Thanks, I'm fine."
Okay, this went beyond courtesy and was creeping me out.
As we rolled along, I reflected that Gelpha transportation was not as smooth as ours, or maybe the roads were rougher. I had to keep a tight grip on the strap and the back of a seat or be tossed from one side of the aisle to the other. The old lady and young man had distracted me and we were now in another part of the city. I silently cursed for not watching and remembering the surroundings as we traveled. Getting back to the door when I didn't know how posed a problem.
We were still in what could be a commercial district. Various buildings sported signs of carved wood, etched glass, metal, or neon with the peculiar characters. But after taking several turns, we segued into an area of what looked like small markets and apartments, then drove past rows of individual homes. They had front yards with lawns and flowers and architecture I recognized from back home. The air coming through the bus windows smelled fresher.
Back home. A small thrill of dread worked down my spine, driven by the notion coming here was monumentally stupid.
This was the Bel-Athaer I expected to see when I burst from the corridor.
The bus drove along a rural lane flanked by vast meadows of long, fading grass, rolling hills, hedgerows, trees bunched together here and there. No houses; no construction of any style.
The demons chattered. From the lilting cadence of their voices, they were excited. Why did they head to the High House? Did they work there?
Then I caught a few words.
I moved to stand next the seat in front of me. "Excuse me, what did you say?"
A small, waif-like woman with a pixie face and huge turquoise eyes pushed her teal hair behind her ear and smiled up at me. She lifted the paper she held in her hand. Rolled into a tube, I couldn't see what was on it except some squiggles similar to those on their autos and signs. "We are discussing the High Lord's grand tour. Eleven days away now. The last grand tour, in his grandsire's time, was before my birth. All will see him, young and old. All may approach and speak with him." She cocked her head on one side. "We live in exciting times."
I smiled, nodded and moved away.
Lawrence would meet his people, which meant his full power was upon him. Last I knew, he was still secluded in the High House and only his councilors and personal staff knew he lived there. That my fellow passengers knew of him indicated he had been publicly presented to his people.
The bus decelerated, then came to a shuddering stop. I followed the person in front of me. The seated passengers politely waited till we exited, then trailed behind us. The driver tooted his horn and away went the bus.
I didn't see the High House and it is hard to miss. The demons already moved along a wide lane walled by low, unruly hedges. Trees drooped over with branches like reaching hands. The path was sunken hard-packed dirt, as if thousands of feet had worn it down to below the level of the bank. I started along, enveloped by a musky smell I associate with fungus and damp forest mulch, yet the ground was bone-dry and foliage wilted. Dust powdered my boots and the hem of my jeans.
The pink-haired punk demon fell in beside me. We walked in our own space, the other demons no closer than ten feet ahead and ten feet behind.
"Why do they keep their distance?"
He smiled. "They are well-mannered."
"And you're not?"
His smile widened into a grin. "I am curious, and I can tell my friends I walked at your side."
A dozen questions milled in my head, but I didn't ask them. I dare not say anything to make the demons wonder why I was here.
The temperature climbed. My feet felt hot and sweaty in my heavy winter boots. I wanted to take my coat off, but doing so would reveal my gun. The Gelpha would not take kindly to an armed human approaching their High Lord.
Tiny, pleasurable gasps came from the demons ahead. I stopped walking, but saw nothing alarming. The punk boy and the demons behind us also stopped moving.
I started off again, and the boy made a pleased sound which was echoed seconds later by the demons behind me.
"What's happening? Are you in pain, are they?"
His head snapped up. "Pain? The opposite, Lady. This close, we feel the High Lord's aura, his power. This is why we came. And perhaps Lord Lawrence will make an appearance."
Royal said the Gelpha would feel Lawrence's presence when he came to full power.
"I see." I asked my companion, "How do you feel his . . . power?"
His brows came together quizzically. "You don't know?"
Oops. "I mean, how does it feel to you. It's different for me." He knew nothing about humans if he thought we could sense the High Lord.
"Ah." He faced ahead and drew in a deep breath of air, held his arms out expansively. "Here, so close . . . it is as if his presence clings to me." He dropped his arms and smiled shyly. "Really, I cannot describe it except to say it is the most delightful of sensations. It tells me that at this moment, the High Lord welcomes me."
"At this moment," I mused. "What if he didn't welcome you?"
His tone went flat. "I hope never to experience that."
The path curved to the right. I saw white through the trees. "Is that the High House?"
He nodded. "But it is still some distance."
I groaned. "I don't know whether I'll make it." I felt as if I baked inside my coat. I turned my face up to the washed-out, sunless blue sky seen between the tree branches. Where did the dratted heat come from? "I bet a cab service would make a fortune out here."
"All men approach the High House on foot. No exceptions."
"Boy, thanks for that. You made my day."
Two memories came to me. The first time Royal brought me to the High House, when I asked why we couldn't beam in there - I meant flash in using demon speed - Royal told me nobody beamed into the High House. Then, when we came here to warn Lawrence and the Council about Dagka Shan, Royal said - and I will never forget this - "You remember when you asked why we can't beam into the High House? Somebody just did."
Shan ignored the prohibition against Cousins in Bel-Athaer. He was in the High House. After arguing with the councilors, Royal, I, and several demon teams went after the Cousin. We found him. He killed some and critically wounded others in our team, including Royal. I got off lightly with a few cracked ribs.
The young demon's chuckle brought me back to the present.
So damn hot! My thick sweater clung to my back. Could I remove my coat and shoulder holster at the same time without anyone seeing my Ruger?
Then I recognized the scenery. Over on my right - surely Royal and I raced over that grass and past that copse when we came to the High House with Gia and Daven, again when we came to warn the Council of Dagka Shan?
"I'm taking a shortcut. Nice meeting you."
He frowned as he followed my gaze, then shrugged. "It is your prerogative, Lady. Well-wishes to you."
He looked like a punk but sure sounded formal.
I twitched my lips and put on speed to reach a break in the hedge before him. I had to turn sideways to squeeze through and spiky twigs caught at my coat, but I made it without snagging the fabric.
I congratulated myself on getting this far despite feeling as if someone slapped me on a hibachi. I didn't have to explain my presence. People here treated me as a novelty, but were gracious. I hoped leaving would be as uncomplicated.
I increased my pace across an expanse of wild grass to a low mound which stretched from the hedge to the beginning of a forest. More mounds ran in waves nearly up to the High House. I saw the portico through which Royal and I entered the House, but the rest of the building showed as white patches through the trees which fronted the length.
I climbed the mound feeling unlike myself. I'm a mountain girl, I hike twice a week in warm weather, I'm familiar with rough, steep terrain and high altitude. Now my face burned and I breathed heavily. I felt like a wimp.
So I held my head high, strode down the mound, over the grass, up the next mound and over the top. See, Tiff Banks is no wuss, a little heat doesn't bother her.
And fell over a body.
I landed on hands and knees, but shock made me tumble on my butt. Bodies around me, lying singly, in pairs, in groups of three to six. They lay on their backs or stomachs, or curled on their sides. Except for small spaces between them, a blanket of people obscured the grass, they were that close to one another.
Just as I decided there had been a massacre outside the High House, the body I tripped over growled at me.
Other bodies lifted their definitely living heads. I had not barged into a crime scene; they relaxed as they waited for Lawrence to make an appearance.
I rose on my knees, sure my face was bright red from more than the heat. "I'm sorry. I didn't see you there."
As I scrambled upright, the demon tossed long, brilliant red hair from his eyes and snarled, "What have you got on your feet, rocks?"
But his anger vanished as he looked up at me. In fact, he seemed appalled. "I do beg your pardon, Lady. I'm sure you trampled me accidentally."
I exaggerated a wince. "So sorry."
There didn't seem to be anything else to say, so I continued to the High House, carefully avoiding people. None moved, but they watched me with their glittering eyes.
I stepped from the grass to the dirt path. Phew.
Now what? Guess I should boldly go where no idiot has been before. Except I had been here before, and I was an idiot. How stupid can you be, marching into a foreign dimension inhabited by men and women who are faster, stronger and more conniving than you. I bet a Gelpha child could take me down with no problem.
I went up the two shallow steps, gratified to see the door hung open so I didn't have to knock and wait as a petitioner.
Inside, demons packed the great hall wall to wall, all eyeing me. From their dress, these were the nobles of Lawrence's court. The gems on their clothing, their wrists, ankles, fingers and adorning their hair added glitter to match their eyes and metallic hair.
I shrank inside. All those eyes on me. They didn't blink. Faces expressionless, the demons didn't move a muscle; so still, they could be images painted on the air.
An arched opening directly across from the entrance led to hallways and small vestibules and eventually to the outside. I didn't know where the other archway at the bottom of the staircase went. The pale, gleaming walls stretched to the next floor. No couches or chairs for visitors to rest their weary bones on, no elegant tables or accent pieces. The hall was a formal waiting room bathed in light from tall windows along the left wall.
A woman peeled from the others and glided over the polished floor. She stopped in front of me and did a little dip, a kind of curtsy. With her arms held out from her sides, her sleeves hung from wrists to floor, the ends pooling with her bright-yellow gown where it bunched on the pale tile. Her straight black hair swung over her cheek as she lowered her head. Black eyes glinted below sable lashes.
"How may I help you, Lady?" she asked in low, musical tones.
I spoke through the lump lodged in my throat. "I'm here to see the High Lord."
She smoothly rose, head still down. "He is engaged with his Council. If you would care to - "
"Great. I know the way." I started toward the throng. Oh shit please let me pass! I couldn't barrel through a horde of demons who refused to move.
They moved aside, opening a jagged path which meandered across the hall to one of the staircases which wind up the walls to the next floor.
I went up the stairs. I'd never liked these stairs. Imagine what looks like an inch-thick coat of perfectly lucent wax over marble; they look as if arcane magic holds water in place over them. I put my palm flat to the wall, but didn't feel secure. At the top, in the gallery, I leaned over the carved wood railing to see demon faces staring up at me. I turned my back on them and strode down the long hall to the Council Chamber. The bulk of my Ruger clung to my ribs, making me feel I wasn't completely helpless.
I stopped at the closed double doors to draw a breath deep through my nose into my lungs before I slapped my hands on the wood panels and pushed.
I stood in the Council Chamber with its silken chocolate walls which seemed to ripple if I moved my head. The dripping chandelier cast a mellow golden swath over the demon councilors who regarded me with hooded eyes. Lawrence sat in a throne-like chair on the dais at the back of the circular room. He was taller than I remembered and his glossy chestnut hair now bore a metallic sheen. His eyes were dark, gleaming bronze. His features were sharper, too, with a high, proud nose and swooping brows. How old was he now? Eight? He looked all of twelve.
I didn't recognize all the councilors. The guy with black hair whose gently mounding stomach fascinated me last time was absent; also Darja, she of the aging face, young woman's body and fading salmon hair. I didn't remember the others well, but enough to know they were not here. Only two of the original councilors remained: Gareth, and the white-gray haired woman. Six male Gelpha were new to me.
The half-circular table was gone. The councilors no longer faced Lawrence, they sat in two straight lines running diagonally from the dais, their high-backed wingchairs positioned so they could see most the room by turning their heads. Each chair had a small table beside it, on which I saw long-stemmed glasses and small dishes. The Council had gone casual.
The arrangement bothered me. They should be facing Lawrence, not sitting with their shoulders to him.
"Miss Banks," Lawrence said, voice deeper than last time we spoke, "how nice to see you."
The expression in his eyes did not match the rising lilt of his words, but I couldn't read the steady gaze he laid on me.
"To what do we owe this pleasure," Gareth asked.
"I'm looking for Royal."
Gareth lifted his glass from the table and regarded the lilac liquid as his brows met in a perplexed frown. "Ryel is not here. Did he say he would be?"
Clenching my hands to fists, I shifted uncomfortably on my feet. "I haven't seen him nor spoken to him in days. He up and . . . disappeared."
A demon with glinting gold eyes and helmet of burnished pewter hair lopped off at his ears shifted in his chair. "He could be anywhere. Why come to us?"
Tension made my stomach ball up. "You can sense him, can't you? You can find him if he's in Bel-Athaer. If he's not here, I'll know to narrow my search to my world." Yeah, as if finding Royal when he could be anywhere on Earth would be a breeze, but easier than searching two worlds, if I could take Bel-Athaer out of the equation.
His lips ticked as if he found me entertaining. "We can detect individuals among the comparatively few in your world, but here, among millions of our people?" He casually rubbed one finger back and forth over the chair arm's brocade upholstery. "I believe you have an idiom . . . a needle in a haystack?"
"But you'd know whether he were in the High House, right?" I said, hearing the desperate note in my voice.
"He's not here," Lawrence said, watching me with a guarded expression.
I breathed in deeply through my nose, willing my heart to stop thudding erratically. Don't panic, Tiff, you know more than you did five minutes ago. And, you're fine, they won't hurt you.
Time had passed since I pitted my wits against demons. Now, in their stronghold without Royal's protection, I knew how deeply I feared them. They could do anything to me, and nobody back home would know. I could disappear without a trace; my Xterra, parked on the street in Clarion a clue which would lead the police nowhere.
Sweat dampened my scalp and drizzled down my spine.
"You were brave to venture here," the woman said.
I lifted my chin, summoned bravado. "You think so?"
"A lone, helpless female. . . ," she mocked, her gaze washing over me as she let a disdainful breath sigh out.
Only one thing to do when faced with super-beings who can beat you to a pulp and not break a sweat. Get pissy.
I answered her sneer for sneer. "You're making a grave mistake if you believe I'm helpless. It'd take more than you to bring me down."
"Indeed?" She snuffed through her nose.
"Yeah, indeed." I smiled unpleasantly and moved my hand to my hip, which brought it nearer my Ruger. "Don't believe me? Get your bony ass up out that chair and - "
Gareth's voice barked out. "Miss Banks! Imeld!" He moved to stand between us. "This is unseemly."
I swung on him. "You people sure have short memories. Who found Lawrence and sent him to you? Who shot Dagka Shan? And - "
A hiss of distress interrupted me as a councilor flinched.
"Yeah, Dagka Shan, one of those Dark Cousins you don't like talking about," I continued relentlessly. I'm damn sure I prevented Shan wreaking murder and mayhem on the Gelpha, and I may well have saved the High Lord's life. My voice dropped to an undertone. "You owe me."
"Miss Banks, it is not that we refuse to help you, we cannot tell you what we do not know," Gareth said.
"Yes, regretfully we cannot point you in Ryel's direction," a demon with long, waving lemon hair said testily. He flapped his hand at the door. "Gareth will take you back to the Way."
I squinched my eyes. "The what?"
"The Way. The road which links our plane and yours."
"The ways between worlds, huh? How original," I murmured.
I expected more from the Council. I thought they would probe me about Royal's disappearance, how long he'd been gone, why I felt the need to come to Bel-Athaer to find him. It seemed to me they more than took my announcement in stride. They were altogether too calm, indifferent. They didn't ask the right questions. They barely asked anything.
I could almost smell the stench of deceit. As I stood before the councilors, I imagined it as a fog filming my limbs.
Gareth hurried forward, lips scrunched sourly, hand outstretched as if to take my arm, but I wasn't through yet. My eyes flicked to Lawrence. I saved your life, twice!
The councilors watched me so did not see Lawrence make eye contact and shake his head as if he desperately tried to convey a message with his narrowed, glowing bronze eyes. My senses quivered, a butterfly flit in my stomach. I was ready to push the councilors, shove my questions down their throats till they vomited out answers, until Lawrence gave me that warning look.
My questions died before they became words.
Lawrence stood and stepped down from his chair. "I'm sorry we can't help you, Miss Banks." The councilors stood as he walked the open space between their chairs. "I'll walk with you."
When I last saw Lawrence he exuded confidence and not a little superciliousness. Now his shoulders were tense, he kept his gaze on the floor. I turned as he came to my side and walked with him from the Council Chamber and along the hall, the councilors trailing us.
"Lawrence," I began in an undertone, but without looking at me he again shook his head.
Frustrated, I pressed my lips together. Lawrence was warning me to keep my mouth shut and he wanted me gone, fast.
He let me walk on the inside of the staircase, for which I was grateful. Through the tall windows, I saw the sea of people on the grass.
The demons in the hall below watched our descent. They made obeisance as Lawrence moved among them, the men bowing from the waist, the women dropping to deep curtsies. Lawrence dipped his chin at this one and that.
Outside the door, he held his hand to me, so I gripped it. "It's always nice to see you, Miss Banks," he said. "I hope Ryel's home when you get back."
I intended to protest my expulsion from Bel-Athaer before I knew anything worth knowing, until I felt his hand in mine. I disguised my surprise with a tepid smile. "I hope so."
Gareth came to my side. "I will walk with you to the bus stop."
I smiled at Lawrence again. He didn't return it, but focused on my eyes before turning away.
The demons who waited outside scrambled upright. Lawrence lifted his hand to them, then crossed the path to the grass. Gareth and I left the High House and started along the lane. A few people headed our way and they moved aside to let us through. Gareth faced ahead as he strode along, as if he did not see them.
I felt as if the heat would press me to the ground. To hell with it; I would frizzle up before much longer. I shrugged my coat off and folded it over my arm.
I looked back to see Lawrence walking among his people. He stopped to speak to one, moved on to another. He was tall for his age, but small beside the adult Gelpha.
"You did not have to hide your weapon."
I threw Gareth a sideways look. "You knew I carry?"
"You always do."
Huh.
He linked his hands behind his back. "I truly am sorry we cannot help you. Wallace is right, although we can sense one or a few of our brethren in an area populated by humans, locating Royal among the multitude of our own people here is impossible. But I will spread word I am looking for him and hope he hears of it, or someone has seen him."
"Thank you."
He acknowledged my thanks with a nod.
"Does the name Cicero ring a bell?" I asked, hoping to take him by surprise.
Apart from his eyes darkening, he controlled his expression. "Indeed it does. Cicero is one of our Seers."
Some names in Bel-Athaer obviously have a capital letter, like High House, and the Lady. If I weren't mistaken, so did Seer. "Our?"
"He serves the High House."
Gorge Ligori - Clarion's resident demon before Lawrence made him return to Bel-Athaer - mentioned a Seer, way back when Royal and I found Lawrence at Gorge's apartment. It was another of those things Gorge and Royal didn't want to talk about; in fact, it sent Gorge into an agitated snit.
"How do you know of Cicero?"
I looked up at the pale sky. A few clouds scudded along, but still no sun. One must be up there to produce this heat. "He left a text on Royal's cell phone."
Silence ticked by, then he asked, "Indeed? What did he say?"
"Something about Royal being late for an appointment."
Gareth strode along, hands clasped behind his back, gaze dead ahead. "Curious."
"Where do I find him?"
He smiled thinly. "Cicero? You do not, Miss Banks."
I felt the familiar prickling heat of my temper rising. "Why ever not?"
"As all know, he values his privacy. Ask all you wish, no person here will divulge his location."
"Not even you?"
"Not I, not anyone," he said with finality not to be budged. "But I will contact him. Perhaps Ryel is with him as we speak."
"Can you do it now?"
"I'm afraid we do not just pick up a telephone and call him. I will send a message as soon as I return to the High House."
"If that's the best you can do, thanks. But you can call me, right?"
"You can rely on it."
I didn't press further. After saying good-bye to Lawrence, I itched to be alone. "Gareth, you can head back, I know the way. I promise I will get on the bus."
"I am sure you will, but you do not know where to get off."
He had a point. The street could be anywhere in the city. I didn't know the name of the stop.
Then how. . . ? "How come I came out in the middle of town? When I came here with Royal we landed somewhere near the High House."
"Gates are stable but the Ways can fluctuate."
"Gates? Ways?"
"I thought Ryel would have told you - Ways are passages between your world and mine. A Gate is the door to a Way."
Had I stepped into a science fiction movie?
Or maybe not. Einstein and Nathan Rosen published a paper which expanded on Einstein's theory of relativity, saying that implicit in the general relativity formalism is a curved-space structure which can join two distant regions of space-time through a tunnel-like curved spatial shortcut. They called it the Einstein-Rosen Bridge. Science fiction writers call it a worm hole, which travelers use to move from one area of space to another, though they avoid some which are unstable because they could end up anywhere.
"These gates - are there many?"
"To our knowledge, upward of fifty."
Wow. "I bet most are in cities." Royal told me most Gelpha gravitate to highly populated areas in my world.
He gave me an appraising look. "Indeed, most are."
My thoughts tripped along, reminding me of another journey. "Okay, so Gates can't move but Ways can? Is that how we got to Russia when we used the same door in Clarion, but went directly to Kazan instead of Bel-Athaer?" We went to where Gia, Daven and Royal intended.
"The Cousins can manipulate the Ways between so they shift to different Gates."
So that's what he meant when he said the Ways can fluctuate. Gia and Daven moved a Way so it led to a Gate in Kazan, Russia. Given the Gelpha prohibition against revealing anything about the Cousins, Gareth surprised me. I didn't bring it to his attention.
He increased his stride, his heels kicking up dust. "Come, the bus is already here," he said, indicating the small blue vehicle with his hand.
"One more question. Why did you let me into Bel-Athaer?"
"We can no longer keep you out."
"Why not? What changed?"
He gave me an enigmatic smile, faced forward and walked faster.
There are people who present an argument as to why they won't or can't answer you, and there are those who clamp their lips together and refuse to say another word. Demons fall under the latter category.
I hefted a sigh and trailed after him, deep in thought. Something did not add up, a whole lot of somethings.
Gareth waited at the idling bus. Taking my time, I continued to stroll.
"I told the driver where you disembark," he said when I reached him.
He gallantly offered his hand to help me into the bus. I ignored it.
The bus labored along the country road. I sat at the back, six seats between me and three Gelpha at the front. Covered by the high back of the seat in front of me, I opened my hand on the small piece of paper Lawrence palmed me, folded small to conceal in a boy's hand.
I smoothed it out on my knee, a piece of eight by ten ruled paper, the facing side covered in large, handwritten Gelpha symbols. One edge was ragged - did Lawrence rip it from a book?
Why?
I turned it over and read the writing on the other side: "I beg you, kill the Burning Man before he kills me. PS: Find Gorge.
I read it twice more before the message penetrated. I tried to find some other meaning in the words, but couldn't. Lawrence feared for his life, so reached out to me. Not his advisors. Me. And he didn't mince words; he was specific about how I should deal with this Burning Man. No please help me. He got right to the point. Kill.
And what about Gorge? I felt bad that I never asked after Gorge the two times I visited the High House - three times now. I assumed he wasn't with Lawrence because he played no part in the boy's official duties. Did he return to Earth? He was less than enthusiastic about living in Bel-Athaer; Gorge would rather have stayed in my world. Was he missing, like Royal?
The Burning Man. Why did that prick my mind?
My fingers contracted, but I stopped short of crushing the note.
I closed my eyes to summon recollection of the evening I returned home to find Jack and Mel glued to the window in the backdoor. They saw what Jack described as a fire, and I decided was a firecracker. "It looked like a man, burning," Mel said.
I found nothing out there. No spent firework, no charred grass, no smell of gunpowder. My roommates saw something in the backyard; they're not delusional, but they are drama queens who delight in anything remotely exciting and have been known to let their imagination get the better of them. I let it go.
Now I wondered, was there a connection?
God damn you, Tiff, of course there's a connection. There always is.
This sheet of paper . . . was it the only paper available when Lawrence wanted to print a quick note, or did he use this piece for a reason? With another kid, I'd say the former, but Lawrence was smart and I did see that Gelpha script somewhere. If only I could recall where.
I folded the note and put it in my pocket.
I gazed at the countryside idling past, a warm breeze through the windows played with wisps of loose hair on my forehead. I had no idea what to do. Lawrence couldn't trust his Council or he would go to them for help, not secretly pass me a note. I knew one demon who could help me, and he wasn't here.
I walked in the hall to find Mac waiting near the door and raised voices in the kitchen.
"You don't own the TV!"
"I didn't say I did. I merely want to watch something more sophisticated than malnourished girls draped in ridiculous costumes."
"You like Cirque du Soleil for the acrobatics? You don't fool me," Mel huffed. "You want to ogle virile young men in leotard."
"Hey, Mac." I turned off the alarm, leaned on the wall, slid down till I sat on the floor and scratched behind Mac's ears. "Can you see and hear them? Or do you feel their thunder and lightning?"
He gave me a slitty-eyed scowl, but leaned into my hand. I doubt I'll ever know whether Mac sees my roommates, but he knows they are here and he doesn't care for them. This time, when normally he scuttles to the pantry the moment I come home, their bickering drove him from the kitchen.
"It just lasts half an hour," Mel pressed.
"Thirty minutes I could do without."
Sighing, I heaved to my feet, peeled my coat off and hung it on the peg. I sat on the bottom step of the staircase to take my boots off. Shrugging out of my shoulder holster, I removed my Ruger and hung the holster, then went in the kitchen carrying my gun.
"There you are!" from Jack. "I want to watch Channel 4!"
"What's stopping you?" I crossed the kitchen to put my Ruger in a drawer. Closing the drawer, I eyed Jack thoughtfully. "Hm, couldn't be something to do with the fact you can't turn it on, could it?"
"That's right, rub it in." Jack fluttered his hands. "You've established, yet again, we're wholly reliant on you. Now turn the damn thing on!"
I opened the pantry door, got Mac's little ceramic bowl and filled it with kibble. "Yeah, as if that's gonna make me jump. A few pleases and thank yous would go a long way."
"Please," Mel said. She spun on Jack. "I said it first! I get to watch Channel 5!"
"What's on Channel 5?" I bent to put the bowl on the floor. Mac magically materialized next my ankles and dove in.
"A fashion show." Mel whizzed to the television and stared at the blank screen with hands clasped at her breast as if praying to the god of fashion. "You'll love it."
"I will?"
She brought her hand up to her face and cupped her chin, looking me over. "In your case, it'll be educational."
I plucked at my thick cable knit sweater. "I'd like to see you outside wearing one of those New York City outfits when temps drop below zero."
"I don't remember what cold feels like, but I'm sure it was nasty. Anyway, they're previewing next spring's fashions."
Living with Jack and Mel taught me patience, but also puts pressure on me. I'm judge, jury and executioner all in one. And whatever I do, I'll miff one of them. So, Cirque du Soleil or a catwalk show?
I pulled a diet cola from my old pink refrigerator. The tab popped with a hiss. We already watched Cirque last week, but Mel had not seen a fashion show in a long time, and she did love them.
Mac left his now spotless bowl and ambled to the backdoor. I opened it for him and stood there, looking at the fruit trees' frosted branches, the scrub oaks' tangled gray limbs with their dusting of snow, the thin white blanket covering the grass. Chickadees flitted from bird feeder to tree, each taking a single sunflower seed to crack on a branch, then back for another. Junco and towhee rooted for fallen seed beneath the feeder and rummaged noisily under the scrub oaks' ghostly branches. Making tracks, Mac chugged to an apple tree and lifted his leg.
Leaving the door cracked so Mac could push back in, I went to the small television, turned it on and clicked to Channel 5.
Jack groaned, "You hate me."
I winked at him. "Aw, live a little, Jack."
Nose in the air, he sniffed. "You think you're funny, don't you." He sighed as he lowered his rump to a kitchen chair, seeming to sit on it.
Icy air seeped through the open backdoor. I shivered, and reconsidered my beverage of choice. Coffee or hot chocolate sounded good for a cold day such as this.
Yeah, hot chocolate. Better yet, get into my nightshirt and snuggle under the duvet with a big mug of hot chocolate and a good book.
I sighed. I had things to do. No daytime snuggling for me.
I used the landline to call Gorge's manager Perry Wick. No, Gorge was not there. Perry last saw him in August. If I wanted to talk to Gorge, he'd be back in January to do the annual tax reports and help with inventory. No, Perry didn't have a way to contact Gorge. Was it urgent?
"No. Just wondered how he's doing. I'll see him next month." I rested the phone in the cradle, turned my spine to the counter and chewed on a hangnail.
What did I have? Royal is God only knows where. Lawrence wants me to find Gorge, but gave me no clue to his whereabouts. Someone he calls the Burning Man is trying to kill Lawrence. Maybe the person Jack and Mel saw in my backyard? Lawrence didn't want his Council to know he gave me that note. I think the kid's scared.
Something up with the new Council. The new informality of a formal people mired in tradition. That they changed their seating arrangement so they no longer face Lawrence smacks of disrespect.
I hefted a mighty sigh and pushed away from the counter. I tried to erase anxiety for Royal from my mind. Obsessing helped neither me nor him when it didn't get me anywhere. Maybe a solution would pop out of nowhere if I concentrated on something else. It has happened before. I opened the fridge, tried to decide what to eat for supper, but nothing in there appealed.
I poked in the pantry and came out with a packet of precooked rice and veggies. I had onion, garlic, eggs and spices. Fried rice sounded good. I tore the packet so steam could escape as it cooked, put it in the microwave and watched a skinny girl wearing a white paper bag contort along the catwalk as the rice heated.
Mel had the tips of her fingers to her lips. "Oh, would you look at that," she gushed.
"Is that tulle?" Jack leaned over the table. "Chiffon?"
My heavy skillet came from the cabinet and onto the stove. I sprayed it with oil. The burners on the old stove take a long time to heat so I chopped the onion while I waited. The microwave dinged.
I had to get back in Bel-Athaer. I might have let the Council's disinterest pass, if not for Lawrence. He didn't want me to push them about Royal. Why? Was Royal involved in whatever made Lawrence fear for his life?
The Burning Man?
I fried the onion first, scooped it out and cracked two eggs in the pan. I stirred them briskly as they solidified. When they were set, I added the rice, onion and minced garlic, mixed it and listened to it sizzle.
But where to start, where to go? I would be on my own. I had one clue. Cicero. I couldn't hang around waiting for Gareth to contact me, if he ever did.
A dash of red pepper and ginger. I added soy sauce and stirred it all together.
Would the Council try to stop me? Could I help Lawrence?
"Oh my god! Fried rice!" Jack exclaimed reverently. I hadn't noticed him at my shoulder.
I waved the spoon under his nose. "Want a taste?"
He said a word beneath his breath and went back to the table. I'm not sure, but it may have rhymed with witch.
Royal was a grown man and Lawrence a child. I should be using what resources were at my disposal to help Lawrence, but I didn't have any. Without Royal, I didn't know who to trust, if I could trust anyone.
And I needed him here to eradicate the hollow ache of impending loss taking root in my belly.
I got a fork, a big ceramic bowl from a cabinet, filled it with rice and took it to the table. Mac barreled through the backdoor and leaned against my ankle, peering up at me through long brindle-black brows. I got upright and closed the backdoor, taking the bowl with me so my little friend didn't feel compelled to jump on the chair and sample my supper. I plopped down so hard, the chair creaked as if in pain.
I have felt helpless before, too many times to count, but now the addition of hopelessness made it daunting, will-sapping. How could I, a stranger, search out clues in a world of which I knew so little, with no place to start? I doubted I would get anywhere marching into Bel-Athaer and asking the first person I met the whereabouts of Cicero, not after what Gareth said about the Seer.
I lifted my head to see Royal across the table from me. His hair blazed in the evening sunlight coming through the big west windows. Pale copper gilded his skin. His richly hued copper eyes sparkled with mica in their depths. His smile. . . .
I blinked him away, wanting more than anything to see him there, real, not an image conjured by my anxious imagination.
No longer hungry, I pushed my bowl aside.
My head sank in my hands. Wondering what happened to Royal was an ache in my chest. Now I had to discover if Lawrence's life was at risk and how I could protect him. And Gorge, too. If finding Royal was beyond my capabilities, how was I supposed to find Gorge?
I hoped inspiration would jump out at me as my gaze drifted through the kitchen, until it settled on Gia Sabato's book.
Book. Gorge.
My spine straightened. "Well I'll be damned," I said to the room at large. I knew where I saw that Gelpha writing. Gorge's book.
Royal and I were at Gorge's apartment over his antiques shop. Gorge settled Lawrence into bed. He came back in the living room and got a book from a bookcase with a glass door. He said something about Lawrence wanting a bedtime story and held the book up for us to see. I saw the title, Tales of the Brothers Grimm, and beneath it symbols which I took for decoration. It was Gelpha script.
I sucked on my lower lip. Did Lawrence use that page for a reason, or merely incidentally? The latter, I decided. Lawrence couldn't know I noticed the symbols on Grimm; I barely glimpsed them, and forgot them till now.
Gorge no longer lived in Clarion, but he still owned the Emporium and used the apartment when he returned here to check on business with his manager. Chances are, he left his furniture and possessions in place when Lawrence insisted he live in Bel-Athaer. I could see Gorge wanting his old home kept as it was, as a refuge when life at Court became too much for him.
I had to check it out.
One of Clarion's favorite myths claims secret tunnels snake beneath the oldest parts of downtown. A documentary was made, and the idea used in a movie, a television series and at least two works of fiction. If asked, those who live and work downtown will either deny there are tunnels, or swear they've been in them, but do so with a wink or twinkle in their eyes so you don't know what to believe. Downtown Clarion is a tourist attraction and a little mystery can be good for business.
The truth? No secret tunnels, but there are cellars, many of them warrens of passageways and small rooms. Chinese railroad workers who settled in Clarion set up opium dens down there in the late 1800s. The cellars came in handy during Prohibition as Speakeasies and strip joints. Merchant/owners knocked holes in the connecting walls to facilitate deliveries, and in doing so created block-long labyrinths which hindered the law when it came calling. Local mobsters used them for various purposes. Many a man went down there in one piece and left in pieces, if you know what I mean.
Now, in this era of heightened security, most are blocked and some are unsafe. One runs under Royal's apartment block, but I would have to break into Bailey and Cognac to get in, and it is blocks away from Gorge's Antiques Emporium. But I did know a way into the cellars half a block from the antiques shop, an old hotel which until earlier this year catered to the down but not quite out, now locked down and boarded up. The owner had to close when a chunk of ceiling on the third floor fell in, and work on it had not started yet. It didn't have an alarm system, either.
The Emporium had an alarm system, but only on the doors and windows, no motion detectors inside. No problem. I would not enter by a door or window.
The Milford is on the corner of the block with the front entrance facing south on Twenty-Second and west service entrance on Portsmouth. The alley in the rear is dark and narrow, the width of a sidewalk. It stank of vomit and rotting vegetables from two overflowing garbage cans. As I expected, the boards over one window were loose at the bottom and swiveled aside. The glass had been knocked out. The place might be unsafe, but that didn't stop bums and junkies from using it. Their presence didn't worry me and if I left them alone they'd do the same. I pulled a pair of thin, neoprene gloves from my back pocket and eased them on. Would not do to leave fingerprints.
Climbing through the window wasn't difficult for a person of my height and I landed in a small scullery. I grimaced and pinched my nostrils with two fingers -- someone had emptied their bladder in the rust-stained sink. My flashlight's beam found empty tin cans and liter soda bottles on the floor with other trash I refused to look at too closely.
Street light slid through chinks between boards on windows and the front entrance, so I turned off the flashlight and cautiously walked through the ground floor. Appliances loomed in the kitchen. A tiny body scuttled along a shelf in the big pantry and dropped to the floor. Mice don't normally bother me, but I swallowed a squeak of surprise just the same. Dust sheets covered furniture in the lunchroom. I returned to the hall leading to the foyer, past the back staircase winding up on my left. Thin rays and dots of light spackled the floor, walls, a doorway, the stair's banister. I went in the foyer, past the long desk and age-mottled mirrors, into the big communal room, then out again. I stood, listening, but the old hotel was silent.
I know the location of most cellar entrances. Royal once spent I don't know how long researching and mapping them. He thought they might be useful one day, but he never imagined the purpose I put them to today.
I turned my flashlight back on before opening the door to the storage closet under the rear staircase, and braced for claustrophobia. I'm not a classic claustrophobic, but you don't have to be to dislike small, dark, enclosed spaces. I eased in a deep breath before shutting the door behind me. Don't think about it, get it over with.
Dust and small pieces of trash covered the trapdoor. I kicked the trash away, knelt and positioned my flashlight on the floor so the beam shone on a heavy padlock.
Royal taught me to pick locks. Why would a law-abiding homicide detective need that skill? Tsk tsk.
The padlock, thick with grime, determinedly fought my lock-picking skills, but just as I decided to go home for bolt cutters, the thing finally cooperated.
The wood protested and dust fell in fibrous clumps as I heaved up the trapdoor. I lowered it to the floor so it would not crash down. Squatting, I braced myself. The cellars are windowless, no place where light can seep in. Perhaps some of them have electric lighting, but I didn't know which. I shuddered as I imagined walking in unrelieved darkness.
I first experienced true darkness during my one visit to Castor's Cave. After walking between stalagmites and stalactites, ascending and descending metal stairs, admiring the giant caverns carved by miners using hand tools and oil lamps in the 1830s, I and my fellow adventurers stopped in the last, gigantic natural cave. The guide gathered us in, reached back to a breaker switch on the wall. . . .
And turned the lights off.
I literally couldn't see my hand before my face. I lost all sense of direction. I saw nothing, absolutely nothing but darkness black as pitch; its weight suffocated me. A voice swore and yelled at the guide to turn the goddamn light back on! Now! It was my voice. I was too angry to be embarrassed when the light came on.
When I got outside, I marched to the information kiosk and complained. The brochures give you no warning of what to expect, nor the posters on the kiosk, and none from the guide before we entered the last cave. What if that black nothingness brought on a panic attack? Oh, wait, it did. Mine.
No, I don't like places dark as these cellars.
My light showed me dusty wooden steps. No one had been down here in a long time. The thoughts you usually have when you're about to step into a deep, dark cellar crossed my mind. Were there rats? Would the ceiling fall in on me? Would someone sneak in the cupboard and close the trapdoor, or jam the cupboard door so it would not open again?
I went down anyway.
The old wood rail felt too fragile beneath my hand, but the stair was solid. The air tasted of brick dust. I shone my light on the floor before me as far as the beam reached, then swung it back and forth over the old, crumbling brick wall on my right.
My flashlight was pitifully inadequate, but not to worry. I unclipped my handheld rechargeable spotlight from my belt and locked it into floodlight mode.
The ceiling was eight inches above my head and the old-brick passage felt too confining. I faced east. I'd pass beneath the adjoining buildings and come to Gorge's store if I kept going. The cellars ran in a straight line under the block and this passage against the outer wall did not deviate, leaving no margin of error.
Dust puffed under my shoes. I shone my spotlight through a doorway on my left and saw a corridor made of tilting wooden walls scattered with doors either side. The walls in the next cellar were brick which fell short of the ceiling by five feet or more, and more doors, one open, but I didn't go down there to investigate. The next cellar was one room the width and length of the building above with a wood staircase leading up to a small platform and door. The door to the next cellar, Gorge's, was locked. This could mean Gorge stored stuff down here, or was justifiably protective.
I'd wear down my lock picks at this rate.
After several minutes fiddling with the lock, I stood beneath Gorge's Antiques Emporium.
I walked through the doorway on my left into another passage running parallel, beyond that a wall punctured by three doors. Rotating ninety degrees, intending to first try the door farthest on my left, an exceedingly hard object struck my shoulder. I dropped the spotlight; it clunked and rattled and went out. Swallowing a yelp, I scurried backward and hit the wall, hard. My Ruger filled my hand as if by magic. Back to the wall, I listened for movement, holding in panicked breathing loud enough to pinpoint my position.
Nothing.
I couldn't stay here, but moving took willpower. I needed light. The spotlight had landed on the button and turned itself off. Pulling my flashlight from a right side pocket with my left hand was awkward, but I didn't want to switch my gun to my left hand. The second I had it, I clicked the switch and swept the thin beam to my left.
I sagged. Way to go Tiff. I'd walked into an old, slender, spiral iron staircase tight against the west wall, the way up to Gorge's shop.
I retrieved the spotlight, which fortunately still worked, put the flashlight in my pocket, the Ruger in its holster, but kept the gun's safety off.
I tested each step as I went up the spiral staircase, aiming the spotlight at them and the ceiling. Loosened by the vibration, tiny specks of rust stuck to my glove and dropped on my hair. At the top, light held tight, I tried pushing the trapdoor with one hand, which did nothing, not a tremor. So I laid the spotlight on the step and tried two hands. The door shifted a fraction, and I mean a fraction.
Okay. This is not gonna work.
The step at the top was more the width of a small landing, making descent from above easier. With some grunting and cussing, I concertinaed till I lay on my back with my knees tucked against my chest. I had to twist and hang half off the step with my head dangling to get the soles of my feet on the trapdoor. Taking in a deep breath, I pushed.
The door heaved up an inch.
Damn. It wasn't locked, but I bet Gorge put a piece of furniture on top.
I shoved up again, and again, and each time the door went up a fraction but weighed so much I had to let it slam down again.
The edge of the step dug into my spine painfully. My hand hurt from gripping the railing. I took a moment to rest and wipe sweat from my face before it ran in my eyes.
Something was going to give, dammit, either the door or my legs.
I twisted so I could grasp the railings with both hands. Then I put all my energy into power-kicking the trapdoor.
The trapdoor went up and over. It hit with a crash and I nearly slid off the steps.
I rested a moment before getting upright and climbed through the square opening.
Streetlight sent fractured beams through the plate glass windows and into the store's twilight depths, reflecting off glass display cabinets and old silver, picking out colored metallic threads in upholstery, making them bright as a demon's hair. Gorge had a lot of clocks on display, from tall, distinguished grandfathers to delicate, inches-high gilt and marble creations. I stood in the middle of the shop, breathing heavily, as they tocked up and down the scale.
The trapdoor was propped on a Georgian oak and gilt armchair fallen on its side.
The place was a maze, one of those stores you're afraid to walk through lest you knock over and break a valuable objet d'art. My fingers brushed a chaise lounge. I sat here, Gorge's clocks ticking maddeningly, as I waited for Royal to come downstairs from Gorge's apartment where they spoke to Lawrence.
I remembered . . . on that day, I decided to trust two demons.
I left the spotlight on the floor and used the flashlight. With elbows tight to my sides, I eased between furniture and cases to the other end of the room and a heavy velvet curtain on the back wall. Holding it aside revealed the door to Gorge's apartment.
Which, of course, was locked.
Picking a lock requires two hands. I knelt on the bare board floor, head on an angle, flashlight tucked under my chin, trying to keep the light on the lock as I worked. It opened with a loud clunk which made me momentarily freeze.
An enclosed staircase behind the door led up to a small landing and the entrance to the apartment. I crept up there, though I didn't expect to encounter anyone. But I had to go through the lock picking thing again when I reached the top.
Finally in the apartment, I shone my flashlight around. The living room looked the same as last time I was here. Antique furnishings, naturally, positioned so daylight from the big bay window would illuminate their finer aspects. The etched glass shade on the ceiling light was Victorian, as were two table lamps adorned with tassels and glass crystals. Two square, slightly worn Oriental rugs placed side by side covered the floor but for a six-inch margin of polished oak board.
A tall oak display cabinet with four glass shelves held objects through the ages, from seventeenth-century snuff boxes and Regency inkwells to nineteenth-century cigarette and cosmetic cases.
I went directly to the book cabinet.
Yep, you got it, another lock. But this baby popped open without a murmur.
Brothers Grimm. Brothers Grimm. Ah, there you are. You'd better be worth it.
I eased the book from its slot and opened randomly to see a page of Gelpha text complete with indents and paragraph divisions. Flipping through, the book seemed to be separated into chapters.
Two more books next it were also written in Gelpha.
The covers were black faux leather, with English titles stenciled in gold letters, but the Gelpha symbols or letters, whatever they were, were hand-inked. Inside, strong black thread in tiny, meticulously spaced stitches sewed the cover together.
Tales of the Brothers Grimm, The Hobbit, and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Fairy tales. Bedtime stories.
I sucked on my lower lip. Gorge felt more comfortable reading to Lawrence from a Gelpha book than its English language counterpart, and I could come up with several good reasons for disguising the books. Maybe this was a dead end.
Mouth twisted, I shook my head. I have a knack for finding clues in apparently unrelated details and information, and I knew this book was significant.
The handwritten paper Lawrence gave me - his handwriting? Could the book help me decipher it?
I moved the books so the gap on the shelf was not obvious, and left the apartment with Brothers Grimm.
I locked the apartment door and the door at the bottom of the stairs, and considered the fallen chair. I heaved the heavy piece up and shifted it so the back legs were next the trapdoor. Would Perry notice? I bet he would. But perhaps he'd think a customer moved it. If he suspected a breakin through the cellar and called the cops, nothing was missing from the shop and I hadn't left fingerprints.
I zipped the book inside my jacket, collected the spotlight and locked the cellar door before I left. The repositioned chair would be a mystery the manager never solved.
Unless he found Gorge, and Gorge rushed here. Knowing Gorge, he'd check every inch of the shop and his apartment. The missing book would send him on high alert, but he had no reason to suspect I took it.
There again, if Perry found Gorge, it was one less thing I had to worry about.
"What's that?"
"It's a book, Mel," I told her dryly.
Jack's voice dripped with sarcasm. "You're not serious." He flung his hands up. "Why, it is. You're right! That squarish thing with a cover and writing on it is a book! The depth of your perception astounds me at times. Why, if you - "
"Okay, Jackson, enough." I tapped the item in question with two fingers. "I'm thinking."
"Touchy again, are we?" Mel said from over by the window.
"When is she not?" Jack drifted to my shoulder. "Touchy and thinking. How does she fit thought and emotion together in such a small space? I didn't think the typical female brain worked that way."
"Hey, Mister, watch it!" Mel joined Jack. "Another book we won't get to read, I suppose."
Distracted, I flipped the book open. "Be my guest."
They perused the page while I finger-doodled on the inside cover. They would have to admit they couldn't read it any minute now.
"Hm. Interesting," Jack finally said.
I twisted on the kitchen chair. "You understand it?" Oh my God! What a break.
I squinted at Jack. "But how?"
Up went his chin. "Did I say I could read it? I meant those squiggles look . . . interesting."
"One of these days," I intoned as I slumped back.
But the book had not defeated me. Yet. I flipped my cell open and dialed.
Lance Praeger is ex-Cia. When active, his specialty was cryptography. The Gelpha characters were a written language, not code, but Lance was my best bet.
He picked up after the third ring. "Tiff. To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?"
Always nice to know you're on someone's Caller ID. "Hi, Lance. How you doing?"
"Busy."
Okay, short and sweet, then. "I'm on a missing person's case, a teen girl. Her Mom found a sheet of paper in her room, but didn't recognize the language it's written in. Then she found a printed book with identical writing. She thinks her daughter used the book to create a code, you know, like kids do in their diaries."
"So their parents can't read them."
"Yeah, that. Can I fax you the paper and a few pages from the book?"
His sigh had weight. "As I said, I'm busy. Take it to the PD. They have people can figure out a kid's code. In fact, you have to turn it over to the cops if it's evidence in a missing person's case."
"I will. Later. Lance, I promise, you want to see this."
A pause, then, "Okay. Send it over. As long as you know it's not a priority."
I bet it would be when he saw it. "Fine. You'll have it in a few."
The phone went dead. I grabbed the book and sheet of paper, went through the hall and upstairs to my bedroom. I copied what could be the book's preface, then fed the pages and Lawrence's page into my fax/copier. Hopefully it would be enough. Lance is ornery and if I sent too much he'd likely scowl and toss it to one side without looking.
That done, I went back downstairs, thinking of Royal again. Maybe he was in Bel-Athaer, maybe not. It was a long shot, but perhaps Cicero knew something which could help me find Royal. I'd have to track down the Seer without the Council's help.
Jack and Mel had disappeared, no doubt sulking in their rooms. Disconsolate, I took my seat at the table, letting my gaze drift around my familiar kitchen.
I needed backup, someone who knew Bel-Athaer. Someone who was a match for demons.
My gaze settled on Gia's book. She was in Clarion.
Don't go there, Tiff.
I got nowhere else to go.
You can't trust her.
But she owes me.
So do Lawrence's councilors, and see how far that got you.
Lawrence looks older than his age and perhaps Gelpha mature earlier than human children, but he is still a child. He asked for my help and by damn he'd have it. But in two worlds, I had no resources at my fingertips, nobody to whom I could turn for help. I had to find Royal for Lawrence's sake as much as for mine.
I surged to my feet. Hands braced on the tabletop, I leaned over the book and stared at it a long minute before taking Gia's business card from between the pages.
As I neared Bayle Court, I remembered my surprise when Gia told me she and Rio kept an apartment there as a convenience for when he visited his family in Clarion. Bayle is across from the railroad tracks, near The Salvation Army and Saint Margaret's Mission homeless shelters. Many homeless, who must leave the shelters in the morning, hang about the street all day long. They gather in knots outside a small Mexican market, hoping someone who wants cheap labor will drive up and hire them for the day. They squat with their backs to the walls, possessions around them.
Not a location you would expect a best-selling author to occupy. But maybe that was the point.
Men and women made their way to the shelters as the sun touched the horizon. Muffled in layers of clothing, they toted huge duffel bags or laboriously pushed shopping carts which held their life's possessions along the icy sidewalks. Some watched me drive past, but most kept their eyes on the buildings ahead where they would find a meal and bed for the night. I saw a few dogs. Homeless people care for their pets; they will go without food so their little friends can eat.
I know what it is to walk the streets on bitterly cold nights. It keeps the blood circulating and a little warmth in your body. I know what it is to dig in dumpsters and wait in alleys for restaurants to throw out uneaten food. Scared they would turn me in to Child and Family Services, I avoided shelters during my years of homelessness.
I pushed the memories away. Didn't want to think about it.
Bayle Court is a cobbled square surrounded by brown brick buildings three floors high. Windows of all sizes are protected by iron bars or grills. The large display windows on the ground floors are boarded over now. Gia's apartment was above what was once an industrial cleaning supply store.
That she happened to be here when I needed help seemed opportune, almost as strange as her sending the book and business card.
I parked at the curb, locked the Xterra and made for the entrance on the side of the building. A strong wind channeled by the tall brick structures gushed down the Court; it picked up dust and trash, sending it skittering along the sidewalk. I pressed the doorbell. Soft footsteps approached behind the door.
Rio Borrego opened the door and moved back. His plain, long-sleeved blue T-shirt, molded to a nicely muscled chest, was tucked into blue jeans hung low on his hips. He closed the door as I came inside and passed him.
"Miss Banks, welcome," he said. His smile, a flash of white teeth, lit up his entire face. "I never thanked you for saving my life."
I'd seen Rio Borrego twice; a dying, brutalized young man in a bathtub, and again in a dim motel room. Now, for the first time, I saw him with the benefit of bright electric light, a handsome, dusky-skinned Latino with dark slanting eyes and high cheekbones. With his long black hair pulled back in a tail, the gang tattoos crawling up his neck to below his ear were faded stained-glass colors, a contrast to the black letters inked on his knuckles.
"I didn't do all that much."
He smiled again as he indicated the staircase with a sweeping hand. I went before him, our feet making the old, uncarpeted wood creak. A door at the top of the stairs stood ajar; I pushed it open and went through.
I expected a huge, sumptuous apartment, but entered a small, sparsely furnished studio dimly illuminated by a small ceiling lamp. Tall, narrow windows in the west wall looked over the street and railroad tracks beyond. A green leather couch and loveseat separated by a heavy, dark, marble-topped coffee table sat next to a small kitchen with maple cabinets and a breakfast bar. A king-sized bed with a black satin spread and two bedside cabinets perched on a square platform a few paces away. Notebooks, paper, reference books, laptop, printer and miscellaneous office supplies littered a large desk behind the couch. A closed door near the bed must lead to a bathroom.
She sat on a stool with her spine to the breakfast bar, dish and fork in her hands. Her long black hair, glossy in the mellow light, was drawn back from her porcelain-pale face and gathered on the crown of her head by a turquoise-blue and green enamel barrette. As I stood between the loveseat and windows, suddenly at a loss, she swung the stool so she could put the plate on the counter, then swung back with a red napkin in her hand. She delicately patted the bright-red material on the edge of her bright-red lips.
Her eyes are black below thin, arched black eyebrows. You don't see they are actually dark brown until you are close to her. I never wanted to get that close to her again.
On a turquoise background, a shimmering dragon crawled up her form-fitting, ankle-length, sleeveless dress, its rich gold and blue scales curving over her hip, winding up her torso over one breast to the high Oriental collar, the tail circling her nipped in waist. Gold and onyx earrings swayed on her lobes and wide gold bangles jangled on her wrists as she put the napkin on the counter, crossed her legs and folded her hands together on her knee.
She focused on me and I changed my mind. I didn't want to be in this shadowed room with Gia Sabato. "I interrupted your supper. I'm sorry. Why don't I take off and come back later. Or tomorrow if you'd prefer," I blurted.
"No, please stay. We were about to have dessert. Would you care to join us?"
"Uh, no thanks." I stuck my hands in my pockets and backed up.
She slid off the stool, walked past the counter and opened the fridge. "I made chocolate bombé. Are you sure you don't want a taste?"
Rio sauntered past me and joined Gia in the kitchen. They rubbed shoulders as he delved in a cabinet for dishes and she found a knife to cut the bombé.
Dessert with Gia Sabato? I couldn't get more uncomfortable. This was so not what I expected.
"Please take a seat." She leaned into Rio and spoke too low for me to hear. A second later he came around the counter with a loaded plate in his hand and sat on a stool. Gia came back empty handed. She sat in the loveseat and looked up at me.
I perched on the edge of the couch and unbuttoned my quilted jacket.
Gia lifted her chin and smiled; the small, knowing, mirthless curve of deep red lips which haunt my dreams and makes gooseflesh pebble my skin.
"What?"
"Do you still believe you can draw your gun before I take it away from you?"
Heat prickled up my neck and stained my cheeks. I couldn't claim I unbutton my jacket for another reason, and I should know better. Her buddy Dark Cousin, Daven Clare, once took my gun right out my hand. I deliberately spread my fingers on my knees.
"What, no comeback, Miss Banks? You disappoint me."
"I thought I'd give you a break."
She smiled again as she shifted back on the loveseat. "As pleasant as they are, I think we can dispense with the formalities. Why are you here?"
Behind her, Rio leaned forward as he forked a wedge of bombé into his mouth.
"Lawrence is in trouble and I can't find Royal," I began.
I told her the little I knew and what I suspected. I didn't hold anything back. I finished by handing her Lawrence's note. "This Burning Man, I think Mel and Jack saw him in my backyard earlier this year."
Finally she said, "Well, that is a fine puzzle." She gently gnawed on her lower lip.
"I. . . ." I had to swallow to go on. "I don't know what to do."
She looked me squarely in the eyes.
I shifted my gaze to her nose. Happily, although I have no more resistance than another person, I do know when a demon tries to beguile me and can shake out of it. However, a Dark Cousin's mojo can suck me in if I'm not careful. Gia proved that the first time I met her. She asked to meet me at my house and I agreed. I wondered at the incongruity, for I never saw a client at my house. I believed she planted a compulsion in my mind, but Royal refused to discuss the notion, or the Dark Cousins. Later, I understood she cast a geas on both me and Royal. He could not speak of them to me. I didn't understand at the time. We nearly parted ways because of it.
I will never forgive Gia for what she did to us. Coming as it did on the heels of my encounter with the demon Phaid, when he tried to make me quiescent, make me want him, Gia's use of her ability had a sickening impact.
She put her head on one side. "Why do you come to me with this?"
My fingers were clenched like talons on my knees; I forced them to relax. "I'm going back to Bel-Athaer, but I don't know where to start. I need someone who knows Bel-Athaer and the people, who can guide me and be my backup."
"Me?" She leaned over her knees, hands clasped on them, then lifted one hand to fan her face. "I hardly believe what I hear."
I was poised to walk out. I must be mad, coming here for help "I helped you find the Charbroiler, and Rio. Think of it as returning a favor."
"Well, yes, I am grateful for what you did, but. . . . Enter Bel-Athaer, break the pact. . . ." She lofted one dark eyebrow. "I would need a singularly good reason to do so."
"The High Lord is afraid, and I don't think Lawrence is one to jump at shadows."
"And he has reason. Orcus, known as the Burning Man, is a mysterious figure, the Gelpha bogeyman. He's rarely seen, but death follows in his footsteps when he makes an appearance. Cicero is relatively benign, yet both work for the High House and surely collaborate. However, I cannot interfere in Gelpha politics."
"Politics? Since when has a little boy in danger been political?"
"Since the little boy became High Lord of Bel-Athaer."
"Then help me find Royal. Or at least tell me where I can find Cicero and how to get there."
Rio set his plate on the counter, slid off the stool and came to stand behind Gia. His hand rested on her shoulder; he squeezed gently.
She reached across her breast to lay her hand over his. Her voice dropped, a musical hush, a lullaby. "Give me a reason, Miss Banks."
Hadn't I given her enough? What did she want from me?
As I watched the small, mesmeric motion of her fingers caress the back of Rio's hand, I knew the feel of his skin was familiar as the breath in her lungs. I heard again the utter desolation in her voice when it appeared he was dead, how she bit through her lower lip until bright blood beaded there.
Memory took me back to a smoke-choked street, broken glass powdering my hair and shoulders as flame gouted from Royal's apartment. The cold which took over my body, as if ice sheathed me, the desolation of knowing I would spend the rest of my life without him.
I drew in a slow breath, let it seep out and looked at Rio. "Because you love him. Do you remember how you felt when you couldn't find him?" Remember the despair as it built, day by day, hour by hour, then minute by minute until you thought of nothing else but how life would be if you never saw him again.
She stared at me. I waited out the silence, until her lashes dipped over eyes gone true black. "Yes, I remember."
Her mouth softened. She turned her head to Rio, smiled. "I would tear the world apart for Rio. Would you do the same for Royal?"
I made to reply, but she stiffened and held her hand up, palm out. "Someone is outside."
Rio tried to move away but Gia's hand tightened on his. She spoke to him over her shoulder. "No, my love. He's Gelpha. And. . . ." She frowned as if listening. ". . . he's gone now."
I half rose. "Royal?"
"No. I did not recognize him." She tipped her head on one side. "Were you followed?"
"I'm pretty sure not by a human, but a Gelpha. . . ." With the way they can move, I'd not spot a demon trailing me.
Had I not half expected it, I would not have seen her leave. She moved in a blur of air, the door whisked open, banged against the wall and she was gone.
I shivered. Rio calmly went back to the kitchen for more dessert.
"Doesn't it freak you out when she does that?" I asked him.
He shrugged before he bent to pull the bombé from the fridge. With his head in there, his voice sounded hollow. "Yeah, but I don't let her see. It'd bother her."
And we can't have dear Gia bothered, can we, I thought sourly.
She came back before I could open my mouth again. The door closed softly and she returned to her seat.
"I lost him, but he will not escape me again should he follow us."
I lifted away from the couch. "You'll help?"
"Perhaps." She jogged one shoulder, made a moue. "You have not answered my question."
I didn't have to ponder my reply. "I would happily tear the world apart to find Royal."
She nodded. "Good. Who knows, it may come to that."
She rose up, walked to the windows and looked down on the street. "Cicero lives on Burch Mountain. I will take you to him, but you must do as I say."
My spine went rigid. "What do you mean?"
"Bel-Athaer can be dangerous for humans." She twirled on her heel to face me. "I cannot guarantee your safety, but the odds are in our favor if you do what I tell you."
For Royal, this is for Royal. And I should be grateful she'd take me to Cicero because I doubted I'd find him myself, even if she gave me directions. "Okay, within reason."
I wanted to slap my mouth. I agreed to put myself in the hands of a Dark Cousin.
She walked to the door and opened it. "Tomorrow morning, nine, at the Gate in Montague Square."
I got to my feet. "Any idea how long we'll be away? Do I need to make arrangements for my dog?"
"We'll reach Burch Mountain in two days if all goes smoothly."
I nodded as I passed her. "Thank you."
She nodded back and shut the door in my face.
I sat in the Xterra outside Gia's place and waited for Janie to answer her phone.
"Janie speaking!"
"Hi, Janie. It's Tiff. Can you take Mac for a few days?"
"What do you mean by a few days?"
Gia said two days to reach Cicero. Two days, and two back? But what if we had to go elsewhere afterward? I had no idea how long I'd be gone.
"A week?"
"I can do that."
My tension eased with relief. Mac would be okay. I didn't know what I would do if Janie couldn't take him. "Thanks so much, Janie. I'll bring him tomorrow morning, eight-thirty."
Janie would keep him longer if she had to. If this went bad she would adopt the cantankerous little beast rather than hand him to a stranger, and she would never take him to the animal shelter.
"I'll see you then. Must rush; it's supper time for the pooches."
I closed my phone, tucked it in my jacket pocket and started the Xterra. The engine sounded a little sluggish from the cold, but she warmed up quickly. I pulled away from the curb and into traffic.
The street lights flashed in the corners of my eyes and I'm sure that's why tears pricked them. It had nothing to do with the crazy mixture of emotions which surged through me. Fear for Royal, relief Gia agreed to help, trepidation for what came next. I dreaded this expedition. People speak of a sense of doom - I felt it on a purely gut level, as if I naively ran toward an escapade from which I might not return.
I glanced up at Royal's windows as I drove past his block.
And saw a diffused glow.
My foot hit the brake. Luckily nobody drove behind me or they'd be up the Xterra's rear. The car idled as I hunched to see through the windscreen, not sure I didn't imagined what I wanted to see. But yes, the lights were from the living room, shining through the open door to our office, and the gate stood open.
I eased the car to the curb and put my hand on the door, but it stayed there as all my old inhibitions resurfaced. Royal was fine and had been all along. He'd been off doing his own thing, getting away from me, he didn't want to be with me any longer. That's why he didn't answer his phone. Leaving his cell in my drawer was nothing more than a mistake. He didn't want me, but didn't have the guts to tell me.
What did I do wrong? Because it was always me, wasn't it. I should be surprised we lasted as long as we did. I took my hand from the door. I'd survived broken relationships before. I'd get over it.
I blinked up at the light owlishly, eyes wide so they would not tear up.
The moment passed. I came to my senses. Don't be a drama queen, Tiff. My hands tightened on the steering wheel. Royal would have an explanation when I got up there. His face would come alight when he saw me, arms clasp me to him so tight I could barely breathe.
I scooted from the car and slammed the door. In seconds, I stood at the bottom of the wrought iron stair, brushing my hand over the black letters etched in our copper sign.
Banks and Mortensen. Private Investigators. Partners.
I trotted up the steps, past the office door and paused in front of his apartment entrance to catch my breath. A ribbon of light showed beneath the door. It swung open as I reached for the knob.
He stood in the glow of the half dozen ceiling lamps, their light picking out glittering strands in his hair. His mouth widened in a dazzling smile as his arms spread in welcome.
Disappointment clogged my throat. Then I scowled. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Christopher Plowman took my hand and pressed the back to his lips. "Mon amour, je tombe à tes pieds comme l'adoration."
I don't know what he said, but how he said it made me a little weak in the knees.
I stared at his bent head with something like horror. I barely knew him, and Royal didn't tell me much. Chris was British to the bone when I last saw him in his Boston hotel. The sleek Gelpha briefly lived in England and decided to become an English gentleman; he embraced the concept wholeheartedly. Now, not only must I deal with him breaking into Royal's apartment, I couldn't understand a word he said.
"Don't tell me, you decided you're French now?"
His lids lowered over smoke-gray eyes with glistening pupils. "Cosmopolitan, my dear," he said in that low, slow, lazy drawl which made my stomach flutter pleasantly.
I tried to free my hand. His grip tightened. I glared. "Loose it or lose it, bud."
He sighed heavily and released my hand. "So lovely, yet so cruel."
All Gelpha are beautiful and Chris is no exception. Not lovely like Gorgeous Gorge, and he does not have Royal's sheer masculinity. Chris is tall, slender and elegant. He carries himself with an air of sophistication and total self-assurance, and totes an ego the size of Texas.
"What are you doing here?"
He flipped one hand to indicate the room. "It's adequate for my needs and unoccupied at the moment."
I leaned in. "How do you know that?"
He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. "Oh, yes, closer, my Lovely. Closer." He pulled a deep breath through his nose as if sucking in my scent. "You smell wonderful."
He smelled of citrus and ginger, cool compared to Royal's hot spicy scent. Silk-smooth, shoulder-length hair of shimmering gray and glistening black strands draped the wide shoulders of an impeccably tailored dark-blue jacket, a match for sharply creased trousers. A black silk shirt opened at the neck. From the material and cut, I could tell his outfit cost a bundle, including the shining black shoes, heavy silver bracelet watch and thick silver band on his index finger.
I moved back. Plowman stood high on the list of people I did not trust since the day in Boston when he tried to influence me in front of Royal. "What do you know about Royal?"
He inched one shoulder up. "I keep my ear to the Gelpha community. I heard vague rumors you went to the High House and asked about Royal. You seem to have misplaced him."
"So you zipped to the States to see for yourself?" He must have used the Ways to get here this quickly.
"I thought to hire a good private investigator. Are you busy at the moment?"
I tucked my chin in my neck. "You think I'm not already doing my damndest to find him?"
He reached for my hand again. When I glared, he mockingly threw his hands to shoulder height. "Do come in and relax, my dear. You are cold. Let me rub those icy fingers in my hands. I will have you warm in a jiffy."
"I'm fine. My hands are fine," I said, ticked to the nth degree. I marched past him and in the living room, and stopped near the big leather travelling trunk. Chris closed the front door with a soft click.
My gaze swept the apartment and stopped at the mess in the kitchen, the counter littered with Chinese takeout cartons and a pizza box. He sure ate a lot in the brief time he'd been here. Dinner plates, utensils, an empty wine bottle and used wineglass sat on the table. He'd spilled food on the board floor and not cleaned it up.
He came to sit on the couch. Unbuttoning his jacket, he casually cocked one knee over the other, tugged at his cuffs and draped his arm along the couch back. He took his time looking me over. "Do you always dress down? You would be stunning in attire a little more . . . glamorous."
"And you'll be stunning in the next cab outta here," I snapped back. "If you have bags, you better pack them."
He brought his arm down and studied his nails. "Oh, I think not." He met my eyes. "You need help. I am here to provide it."
My hands went to my hips. "I have help. I don't need you."
"Don't go with her, Tiff." His gaze became intense. "She is dangerous. She has an ulterior motive."
Flabbergasted, my lips moved but nothing came out. I bet I looked like a fish with its mouth pulsing.
My brain went ping! "You were outside her place! Did you follow me?"
"Fortunately. Tiff, do sit down."
"Nope. Not staying long enough." I twisted and headed for the door.
With a burst of demon speed, he barred my way before I could blink. Leaning on the door, he crossed his arms over his chest.
I started to seethe. "Don't make me do anything you'll regret."
A spark lit in his eyes. "Promises, promises."
Ulterior motive? I eyed him narrowly. What did he know I didn't? I swung and went back to the couch in front of the Christmas trees. He sauntered over and sat on the other couch opposite me. I eased down, sat with my knees together, hands clasped on them.
"So what is this ulterior motive?"
"I have no idea. But she has one. The Cousins don't care about Royal."
"I know. I helped her out a while back; she's returning the favor."
His eyes rolled. "You actually believe that?"
Did I? I didn't want to think about it, and I did not want him to plant more uncertainties in my mind. "I've made my decision. Let's talk about something else. You heard what I told Gia - what do you know about Cicero?"
He stroked the soft leather of the couch. "Nothing more than he is one of the High House's Seers."
"And Orcus?"
"My parents threatened me with him when I was a child. You know: behave, or Orcus will come for you," he said "Unfortunately, he's no mythical monster. He's very real and someone to be avoided at all cost."
"Why does he work for the High House, if he's so nasty?"
"Like Cicero, he's a Seer."
"What do Seers do, predict the future?"
"They seem to know . . . everything. They provide intelligence to their House. In this time of unrest, it is primarily rival House's Machiavellian plots." Chris now held a white handkerchief with which he polished his silver cufflinks. "Cicero has uncovered many a spy or traitor in the High House. He also advises and guides the High Lord."
"Isn't that the Council's job?"
"It is, but Cicero has the authority to veto the Council's acts or legislation and enact his."
I silently whistled. "One powerful dude, then. Do you know where he lives?"
"I can discover where in Bel-Athaer he resides."
I humphed. "But that'll take time and Gia already knows."
"Tiff, Tiff," he crooned melodramatically. "Royal won't thank me for letting you go with a Dark Cousin. My way will be slower, but safer."
I rose to my feet. "Listen up, noodle-brain. It's all arranged and you're not included. I gotta go. And clean the place up before you leave."
"Before I leave? I'm not going anywhere, Tiff." Then he stared past my shoulder as a small frown formed between his brows. "Excuse me, are you suggesting I clean up?"
"Won't clean itself and Royal keeps it neat."
"I would not know where to begin. My staff take care of my domestic needs and I presumed you tend to Royal's." He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. "After all, you take care of his other needs."
I shook my head in disbelief and went in the kitchen. He ate the toppings off three slices of pepperoni pizza but left the crust. What a child. He'd demolished three cartons of Chinese, but prawn and ginger, white rice, spare ribs, beef in black bean sauce, and chicken chow mien congealed in open cartons. And a box of spring rolls.
He'd better clear it up. Royal would have a conniption if he found his kitchen in this state, but I would not touch it. Not my mess.
I didn't hear him move, but he stood close behind me. "Can I tempt you?"
I inched away. "That? It's disgusting."
"I didn't mean the food."
Oh boy, talk about hot and heavy, and I don't mean just his demon heat on my back or breath in my hair. I slued around him and made for the door.
The damn man barred my way again. He spread his arms as if to embrace me. I stopped him with a stiff index finger to the chest. He sighed.
"Good-bye, Mr. Plowman," I said firmly.
Before I could move my hand, he trapped it again. His heat flowed over my hand, up my arm and blossomed in my breast. I wrenched my hand loose and tried to squelch the tingling in places which should not tingle. Not for Chris Plowman, anyhow.
"Au revoir, ma chere. Until we meet again."
"Yeah. Whatever."
He opened the door for me and I swept out, chin in the air and a flutter in my chest.
Oops! Almost forgot. I turned back. "Do demons. . . ." I blushed - out of the mouth, foot. "I mean, do Gelpha have their own language?"
Lounging on the door frame, he laughed. "It's quite all right." His tone deepened. "It's our sizzling passion and our hot, hot bodies."
My mouth dried. I couldn't pull my gaze from his. "What's. . . ? What are you talking about?"
"Why you call us demons. Understandable, given our hot - "
"Ok!" I dragged my eyes down and focused on his chin. "Do you have your own language?"
"Naturally. Many."
"But the people in Bel-Athaer who spoke to me used English."
"No doubt they were being polite."
"And writing?"
"As many as there are languages, although so similar that apart from variations in spelling and local slang, they might as well be one. Not surprising as they derived from a single, archaic form of the written word."
"Okay, thanks." I turned on my heel and started down the stair.
"Can you not linger a little longer?"
"Nope," I said over my shoulder.
"But . . . how does one operate a dishwasher?"
I grinned and kept going.
Lance's tone could not have been drier. "You don't know your ancient Chaldean, Banks."
"It's Greek to me."
"Don't be facetious, I'm not in the mood."
"So it's . . . Chaldean?"
"Yeah. Babylon. Nebuchadnezzar. Way back in five-hundred-something BC. Chaldean."
I made a face at my phone. "Oh, that Chaldean."
"I suppose you can be forgiven your ignorance." Lance cleared his throat. "The single sheet. You want my opinion? The girl wanted to give her teacher heartburn. It's homework."
As my brain said, it could be a sheet torn from a notebook, homework or a class assignment, my mouth said, "She sure went to a lot of trouble to mess with her teacher."
A scritch scritch scritch. I decided Lance was scratching his scalp. "I gotta admit, she's a smart girl.
"The book, though, that's something else. It's a modern edition. Why does someone write sci-fi in Chaldean, and what publisher prints the dang thing?"
"Did you say sci-fi?" Surely I misheard him.
"See what you think. I'll fax it right over."
I'd rather have a digital file I could save on my Mac. "Can you e-mail it as an attachment?"
"Here she comes. Just so you know, the Chaldeans used a full alphabet so it's a verbatim translation, words even you can understand. And Banks, don't waste my time again."
"Sorry, Lance. Thanks, Lance. You're a doll, Lance."
If he said anything more, I didn't hear. I snapped my phone shut and raced up the stairs.
I read Lance's translation of the handwritten sheet first. Yeah, homework or some such, but you don't know your history, Lance. This was demon history.
"Who rules House Styl. Who did they succeed? With which Houses are they closely allied and why?"
"Lord Hesper is Lord of Styl. He took the Seat after his sister Bellane died. Styl allies with House Pentmora and House Kragh because they share a border."
"What name did Barack de Gabon's troops bestow upon him at the Battle of Whent?"
"Barack de Gabon's troops called him Barack the Berserker."
"For what is Wyreth Crag infamous?"
"Geraldi Bon Hamun held Wyreth Crag against House Lambeth for sixteen days with ten men to protect the women and children who escaped when Bon Hamun was overcome during the Battle of Clideth.
I scrolled down to the "sci-fi" and scanned the page.
"You must understand that Bel-Athaer is one of many dimensions that occupy the same position or plane. How can that be, you ask? You have risen from and looked down upon the world. You see its shape, the oceans, the continents; the great Black Sea, the blue cliffs of Bede, the Pandar peninsula. It is solid. You harvest its bounty. Yet those of the plane they call Earth also look down upon their world.
"You may try to deny this impossibility. You may ask, how can Earth exist? It is not above us in our sky. It is not deep in the bowels of Bel-Athaer. But it is real, this land which should not be.
"If there is a scientific explanation, it is beyond us at this stage of our development.
"This we know. Nomadic tribes walked the Ways between, dimension to dimension, adapting their bodies to accommodate each environment. Unlike natural evolution, they controlled their metamorphosis to quickly become acclimated and flourish on the bounties of the dimension in which they dwelled. In bands small and large, they bided in the Otherworlds until they tired of the novelty and moved on. A clan lingered in this land they named Bel-Athaer, pleased with its beauty. They were here when the Ways between closed and separated them from their kin.
"They discovered that one Way remained open to them, and hypothesized this could be because the two planes are similar. They investigated the second plane and therein found life suitable for their purpose. They took this life and enslaved it. They adapted their form so they could breed with it. They named themselves Mothers. Thus were born the Gelpha, offspring of the Mothers and the children of Earth.
"The Gelpha grew in number and bred one with another. These Gelpha evolved and eventually became what we are today.
"We are not ageless, age and disease take us, and our ability to influence Men is a remnant of the Mothers' power. We are altogether remnants of what the Mothers became when they were trapped in Bel-Athaer."
I'm glad my feet were on the floor or what I saw would have blown my socks off. I stopped breathing and stared at the paper till the words blurred and ran together.
Is this what I think it is?
My heart hammered. The skin on my arms looked like a plucked goose. I blinked hard, went back to the beginning and started again, this time reading slowly, absorbing every word, then read on.
"Over the ages we multiplied and were slaves to the Mothers. But we rose and challenged their authority. Although they do not die a natural death, they can be killed. When we slew two Mothers, the tribe capitulated. They are few and we are many. In time we could have killed them all. We made a pact. They left Bel-Athaer to live in Earth and can return only with the permission of the High House, a request granted only after lengthy deliberation.
"What follows is the accumulated lore of our people, passed generation to generation by word of mouth. These tales of the Mothers cannot be substantiated, some may be fallacy or exaggeration, or have changed over time with the telling, but we believe they represent what we suffered and how we gained our freedom."
Finally, I put the paper down and tried to decide how to react. Laugh? Crumple the papers and toss them in the trash? I couldn't. I've seen too much strangeness in my lifetime to pretend I read fantasy. And I knew the Mothers were still here.
No wonder demons refused to speak their makers' name, a name synonymous with everything the Mothers were not. They used one they considered more appropriate: Dark Cousins.
This was it, the answer to questions which plagued me since I first met Gia Sabato and Daven Clare, heard the name Dark Cousins and knew they must be related to Gelpha.
I leaned back in the chair as I shook my head in awe. Man, oh, man. Fantasy movies I've watched paled compared to the reality of Otherworldly creatures really abducting, enslaving and breeding with human beings to populate another dimension.
Yes, I should laugh. A rational person would. Laugh, and agree with Lance's conclusion this was a sci-fi novel. But I see dead people and I love a man from another dimension, and I've always known he's not human. I've walked the Ways between worlds.
When I had the time, I'd take Lance a big box of donuts. Hell, I'd take him out to supper, get him drunk, then ask him to translate the rest of the book. Whatever it took. I'd even pay him.
I smoothed the paper with my palm. Chaldean. Chris said Gelpha writing derived from an archaic form; was this it? Did the Cousins come to my world back in BC and adopt early Chaldean as their written word?
So much came together, I wonder my brain didn't implode.
"We heal at a rate your mind cannot encompass," Gia said as we sat in the High House's infirmary. Healing your body must be easy when you control the process.
Gorge, when we talked in his apartment: "Tradition has a depth of meaning only those who were slaves could understand."
The reason demons, Dark Cousins and humans were so similar, at least externally. Internally was anyone's guess. Why Gelpha hated, fought and banished Dark Cousins, and still feared them.
"We are altogether remnants of what the Mothers were."
Remnants. Gelpha are fast, but not as fast as Mothers. Almost as strong. Both have heightened senses. I pictured their differences, minor differences, really. I would not be surprised if Cousins glittered way back in the beginning. Perhaps they had bright metallic hair and pointed teeth.
Dagka Shan and Teo-Papek had very sharp teeth. I thought Jacob's teeth were filed into shape, but they weren't. They were a vestige of a heritage he chose to keep.
I heard Gia: "We change with the times, Miss Banks." But Dagka Shan and Jacob existed in the depths of primitive Burma. They did not change to blend with modern society.
Memory swept me back to the infirmary again. "We heal. It is a natural biological function. We do not die easily."
Holding up the paper, I found the sentence: "Unlike natural evolution, they control their metamorphosis."
This is why Shan did not die when he was buried beneath Nagka. They controlled their bodies as I control my car. Extraordinarily accelerated healing - they morphed their damaged organs into healthy ones.
And Jacob wasn't stuck as an adolescent boy, he wanted to be one.
I think I took it all calmly. The revelation was little more bizarre than being kidnapped and taken to another world, killing a demon assassin in my backyard, defeating a psychotic Cousin in the High House.
But the information was useless. It contained no clue to what happened to Royal. It didn't tell me why Orcus wanted to kill Lawrence.
No, Lawrence didn't deliberately give me that piece of paper. Like his people, he would not want me to know what Dark Cousins actually are. He didn't realize he gave me the connection which linked the symbols I saw in the Gelpha city to this book, and woke a memory. I imagined him bent over a notebook as he painstakingly penned the questions and his answers in Gelpha. He hears I'm coming to the High House, he wants to get a message to me, so scribbles his little note and rips out the page. He'd tell his tutor he ruined the page, tore it out and threw it away.
Another flash of enlightenment hit me. He wants a bedtime story. Gorge didn't read Lawrence a fairy tale, he gave him a history lesson.
Oh, Gorge, what have you done. Unknowingly broken a major Gelpha taboo, that's what.
I created a new folder: Demon 101. What I knew about the Dark Cousins until then, all I'd obsessed over, was locked in my brain, but I could save this on my computer. After all, anyone would think they read fantasy if they saw it.
Not that anyone would see it, unless I didn't return from Bel-Athaer. Clarion PD would eventually go through my possessions if I disappeared.
I saw Mike, head sunk in his hands. "What has she gotten herself into this time?"
I slapped the desktop. I refused to sink into morbidity. I would come home. But, not surprisingly, I had misgivings.
I was going into Bel-Athaer with the mutha of all Mothers.
God help me.
Royal smiled wryly. What was I thinking?
Commonsense and logic became obsolete when he fell in love with Tiff. Little else mattered. When he had to obey the High House, knowing he risked his relationship with her, it chafed like an inflamed wound.
He made a grave mistake. He should have told Tiff and let her decide for herself. If she left him, so be it, but she should make the choice, not let Orcus decide for her, for them.
He should have stayed with her, not let her out of his sight, but Lawrence's message roused an uncontrollable passion to confront the man who deceived him and threatened what he held dear, his woman and his Lord.
Royal grunted as he pulled up until his chin touched the door's horizontal frame. Rivulets of perspiration ran down his naked, gleaming torso. Every muscle screamed in protest as if about to rupture his skin.
Taking in a deep breath, holding, letting it seep out, he let himself down, then dropped to the floor.
It was a comfortable prison, as prisons went. A little cluttered for his taste, with a fully stocked bar, television, music, books, plenty to while away the time. He had all the average couch potato could wish for, except his freedom.
The walls closed in on him. The sound of the clock ticking away the seconds became so irritating, he wanted to rip it from the wall. The television was a big, blank, watching eye.
He unbuttoned his Levi's, eased them and his briefs down over taut, muscular thighs, peeled off his socks and went in the bathroom, one hand untying the leather cord which bound his hair.
Why did Orcus hold him? Ryel Morté Tescién, obedient servant to the High House who did as commanded. The man did not know why Royal sought an interview; for all he knew, Royal did everything asked of him, including deny the woman he loved. What gave him away?
Fool, he told himself. Orcus foresaw your coming and motive. He was ready for you. You walked into a trap.
He used the Ways to get near as possible to Orcus' lair, then went swiftly. Orcus' minions awaited him. They were polite but firm. Their master was occupied but would be available later. He was shown to a guest room. This suited him admirably. He could take a look around later when all was quiet. But they locked him in.
He could not break through a steel-reinforced door. He had tried in the depths of night when he hoped no person would hear.
He saw only the man who brought his meals twice a day.
Stepping in the shower cubicle, he twisted the control until the water reached body temperature. Hands braced on the tile, he bent beneath the deluge. Water pounded his head "Oh, Tiff, what have I done?"
He let out a frustrated yell muffled by the jetting water and pounded one fist on the tile. He would lose his mind if kept here much longer.
Closing his eyes, he felt her long, slim fingers slide over his water-slicked back, circle to his chest, roll his nipples. The length of her slippery body lay along his spine, buttocks and thighs. She held to him so tightly, a hair could not come between them. Her hands came together and slid down his belly.
Gasping, fumbling for the faucet, he braced for the shock and turned the water to cold.
Chickenshit, she said in his mind.
I miss you, he told her.
Straightening, Royal began his ablutions as ice-cold water sheeted him. He doubted Orcus would see him now. He had to break out, go to Tiff and tell her the truth. Water blurred his eyes. Where to begin? The first time he saw her and said nothing? Later that evening when he went to her house, and said nothing? When they made love for the first time, and he said nothing? He would be forever damned in her eyes however he couched his words.
Then so be it. As long as she was safe. . . .
He'd take her to a place where Orcus could not find her. Then . . . Lawrence. How could he help Lawrence? He needed proof to substantiate what Lawrence had told him in the text.
He turned the water off, stepped from the shower to the cool tile floor and took a large, soft towel from the rack. Drying off took seconds as his warm skin performed most of the job for him. His hair took longer. He used the same method as on Tiff's hair, smoothing hanks between both hands.
He went into the bedroom for clean clothes. How considerate of Orcus to provide them. He would have left them in the closet, but had worn his clothes for three days and could bear them no longer.
Now, instead of annoying him, he watched the clock, willing the minutes to pass. His meal would arrive soon.
Did Orcus' men wield arcane powers? He'd discover soon enough.
A soft clunk as a key turned in the lock. His shoulders bunched beneath his shirt.
The young man who entered was tall as Royal but lacked his bulk. A brown robe tied with rope at the waist covered him from neck to ankles. His hands were occupied with a silver tray bearing dishes, silverware and a large glass. He did not seem particularly alert. After all, Royal was the model of decorum, and no person dared attack Orcus' aides; to do so was tantamount to attacking their master.
Royal rose to meet him with a smile. "Will he see me today?"
The man visibly tensed. "He may find time later, my Lord," he replied in a low, gruff voice.
Royal nodded pleasantly. "I understand. The burden of his duties weigh heavy upon him. Please tell him I await his pleasure."
The man relaxed. He took one pace nearer Royal, the tray held out to him.
Royal took the tray in one hand, but seemed to fumble so it tipped. The dishes slid off. Crockery and glass exploded on the floor, food splattered.
Royal acted chagrined. "I'm terribly sorry!"
As the man gawked at the mess in dismay, Royal swung the tray and clipped him on the side of his head. To his surprise, the aide flew across the room, his spine hit the wall and he bounced off, landing in a sprawl on his face.
Baffled, Royal approached the man cautiously, wondering if he faked unconsciousness. He'd hit the man hard, but expected the blow to temporarily incapacitate, not render insensible. Alert, he felt for a pulse, then gently turned him.
He sat back on his heels, stunned to see the young face disfigured by a shattered cheek, ruptured eye and bruised forehead.
Royal hesitated with indecision. He regretted wounding the fellow this severely, but could not linger and forgo this chance to escape.
He sprang to his feet, opened the door and looked along the deserted corridor. He did not sense another person in the complex but that did not surprise him. You could not sense Orcus' presence or that of an aide as you could a brother or sister Gelpha.
He hurried along the corridor, around the corner and found himself face to face with Orcus.
"Oh, Ryel. What have you done to Joshua?"
Royal refused to fall to his knees. He stood tall, but Orcus was the Burning Man - Royal's nerves quivered within his flesh. What ghoulish creature hid inside the flames?
"Move aside and I will leave peacefully."
"Return to your room, Ryel."
"Why do you hold me captive?"
"I may still need you."
"For what purpose?" Royal growled.
A laugh came from the flames. "As bait."
Royal thrust past him. His shoulder hit soft, resilient flesh.
Colored lights flashed behind Royal's eyelids. Every nerve ending sizzled as if short-circuited. His heartbeat increased, so rapid he could not breathe. He thought his heart was bursting. His muscles became loose and he fell into darkness splintered by stars.
Mel and Jack stared at me, aghast. Their expressions told me nothing as those never change, but their posture and overall tautness mirrored their distress.
"I thought you should know."
"In case you don't come back?" Mel wailed.
I flared my eyes. "Course I'll be back, dummy."
Jack's knuckled hands went to his mouth. Wordless, he gazed at me with a stricken expression, the one he wore as he died. Jack doesn't silence easily. My roommates were not bolstering my confidence in the upcoming expedition. The opposite, in fact.
Mel shook her fist at me. "I can't believe you're going there with that woman, or whatever she is!"
I could say the same. Maybe it was a bad dream and I'd wake in a sweat. Pinch me, someone.
"I know, Mel. But I need her." I squeezed the bridge of my nose with my fingers. "I've got nobody else."
"You could wait a little longer. Maybe he'll be back tomorrow," Jack said. "And where will you be? Off with Morticia Addams."
"I wish. But I don't think so, Jack. He's in trouble. The text on his cell is a clue."
I heard Royal say, That's my girl, best detective in the American North West.
I went to the refrigerator for a diet cola and stowed it in my backpack. A bar of milk chocolate went in my back pocket. I like to be prepared.
No sense delaying. I had to take Mac to Janie and get back to Montague Square by nine. I went in the hall and took Mac's leash off the peg, which brought him trundling to me with a bright look in his brown eyes. He even wagged his tail.
I bent to slip the Martingale collar over his head, straightened up and turned to say bye to my roommates. They were no longer in the kitchen.
They hate good-byes. So do I.
If I was going to be emotional, I should do it in private. I gathered Mac to me, one arm beneath his barrel chest, the other supporting his hind quarters. He struggled a little, then settled into my embrace. Mac is not the cuddly type.
"Mac," I whispered in his ear. "You know I love you, right?"
He grumbled. I hugged him tighter and buried my nose in his brindle-black fur until he grunted in protest.
I towed him into Janie's office, the racket from dogs in the kennel overwhelming. Mac stopped at the door, ears perked, deciding whether to be enthusiastic about other dogs in the vicinity or miffed I took him there.
Janie runs a nice facility. Unlike most kennels where the staff go home in the evening and are only there to feed the animals on weekends, Janie lives on the premises. Each dog has a comfortably sized room with an outside run attached, and Janie lets the dogs out in a communal play area for part of the day. She knows which dogs can go in together, and with Mac, that's important. She could be in trouble if he jumped on some little furry puff of a dog.
Janie is a petite woman in her early forties who wears her birch-brown hair cropped to within an inch of its life and always has a smile in her hazel eyes. I'm so accustomed to seeing her in worn, hair-covered jeans and sweatshirt, I didn't recognize her the time I saw her at the market wearing a smart two-piece suit. You'd never believe that small, neat body can put a boisterous Rottweiler on its back.
I spotted her in the dog play area so went through the office and out the backdoor. Now came the worse part, at least for me. We went into the kennels, where I had to keep Mac away from the cages and the dogs yapping at him. He balked when we came to his kennel. He saw the open door and knew what happened next.
I had to pick him up, put him inside and quickly close the door. And see my baby with his nose pressed between the bars and a look of betrayal in his eyes.
I squatted and touched his wet black nose with one finger. "I'll be back. See you later, Mac."
I say that each time I leave the house or take him to the kennel. I tell him I'll return and I always do. So he'd believe me this time, right? God, I hoped so. Leaving him felt worse than leaving Jack and Mel. He couldn't tell me his thoughts or feelings, but his eyes said it all.
"Okay. Enough. Suck it up, Tiff," I said to the empty car as I drove along Janie's drive to Pineview Canyon.
The snow's brilliance dazzled me so I put my sunglasses back on. The canyon road was clear but for a big black pickup, but it was far enough behind me that I had plenty of time to whip into the right lane and drive west to Clarion.
Sunk in gloom, I left my foot off the accelerator and let the decline take me down. If you know the canyon, when to give your car a little gas on the flats, when to ease off, you can coast down most of it and not have to apply your brakes.
Clint stood behind the wall which follows the Snake River down Pineview. He waved. I waved back. A quarter mile on, I flapped my hand at Dave and Mindy who squatted on an ice-frosted boulder in the middle of the river.
So many dead people in the canyon.
I glanced in the rearview mirror. The hotshot behind me came down fast, too fast. He'd have to wait; I don't increase my speed for anyone and he couldn't overtake till we hit the next flat.
Pineview Canyon is beautiful at all times of year. In some places it is wide enough for a dozen or so homes to sit on the riverbank and cluster among the scrub oak farther back. On other stretches, there is barely space for two lanes and the Snake River flowing parallel. It is a riot of color in spring and summer when wild flowers bloom on the gentler slopes below where the rock face soars, and trees stretch their branches from their precarious hold on the vertical gray, white and ocher sides. Tourists come from all over the state to see the fall foliage. Now, with snow on the ground, sparkling along branches, gathered in the irregularities on the canyon walls, it was a winter wonderland.
The road took me past Graymist. The parking area behind a row of aspen was nearly full. They must be hosting a function as the old restaurant is seldom busy in winter. The rambling white clapboard building hums in summer when patrons enjoy dining out on the decks which jut over the river. The canyon wall towered behind it, so high I couldn't see the rim unless I leaned forward and took my eyes off the road, which I was not about to do.
Past the restaurant, the canyon closed in as I approached the mile-long Narrows with nothing between me and the river but a low, eroded stone wall which had collapsed in places. The County was working on it and had erected barricades at the gaps, but they would not stop a speeding vehicle busting through.
The pickup was right up my rear now. Likely some young ace short on intelligence, thought nothing could touch him, not even the laws of gravity. The pickup had huge tires, jacked-up suspension, a row of lights above the windshield and a cage over the grill. It looked like a demolition derby candidate. The windows were tinted too dark to be legal. I couldn't see the driver.
I concentrated on the road.
The impact seemed to suck me back in my seat then throw me forward. The seatbelt clamped my chest, the steering wheel spun through my hands. My sunglasses slipped off my nose and dangled from one ear. The tires juddered along rather than rolled as my car headed for one of those ineffectively barricaded gaps. With the smell of burning rubber coming through the air vents, I grabbed the steering wheel and forced it left. For a moment I seemed to be hung up on something, then my girl busted free and we spun back across our lane. I jerked the steering wheel right and mashed the accelerator pedal to the floor. All in a matter of seconds during which my mind stopped working and instinct took over.
It was no accident. The pickup rammed me, tried to push me through the break in the wall. I'd have gone straight in the furiously churning river.
I ripped off my sunglasses, threw them on the passenger seat and glanced in the rearview mirror. The monster had fallen back but came in again now, outsized tires churning slush, throwing it up in sheets. So close it loomed over me, the massive grill filled my rear window.
Holy Mother, he was coming after me. What is wrong with you? Did he see me wave at thin air and think I gave him the finger? Some motorists are quick to take offense and road rage has terrible consequences.
Praying the impact did not damage anything vital and thankful the County did an excellent job keeping the road clear of snow and ice, I kept my foot down. The Xterra shot away, putting feet then yards between me and the pickup. I resisted the impulse to keep my eyes on the mirror and concentrated on the winding road, watching for stray ice slicks.
I've told people I can drive the canyon with my eyes closed. As I entered the Narrows, where the river goes underground and the rock walls loom inches from the road, I knew the inanity of that statement. Fast as I drove, I wonder my car didn't take those bends on two wheels. I became terrifyingly aware of how the rock bulges a few feet above the road in some places, how sharp the bends are.
My fairy godmother must have waved her magic wand. A big double-bed gravel truck inched around the second bend, taking it wide, covering its lane and a quarter of mine. I curse those big trucks, the canyon road is steep and too narrow for them, more so in the Narrows where rock juts about eight feet above the road in some spots. This time I was glad to see one of the behemoths. The pickup was wider than my Xterra; it had to fall back and let the truck through.
Hugging the canyon wall, I came abreast of the big truck.
I dare not look up, but I bet the driver had a fit. The gray steel side whipped past inches from my left side mirror. I didn't intend to drift to the right, it was an involuntary reflex - a crack as my right side mirror scraped the wall and snapped off. My knuckles were white as I tried to keep the Xterra from bouncing off either the truck or the rock face.
My knowledge of the road and faith in my vehicle got me through the Narrows. I popped out the other end like a cork out a bottle. I picked up speed on the flat. Fifty-five. Sixty.
I shot through a wider stretch of the canyon where anglers liked to park on the twenty feet of snow-covered dirt on my right during summer. I checked my mirror as I neared Elk Lodge, its steeply pitched, snow-covered roofs and deep eaves peeking through a stand of pine. Could I turn down the road which runs beside the big log structure and whip into the rear parking lot? No. The pickup driver would see me if he came out the Narrows in the next few seconds and I would be trapped. Would he come after me in a public place? I daren't risk it. I needed more distance from him.
I checked my mirrors yet again. The pickup nosed around the bend a quarter mile behind me. Sweat stung my eyes.
Ahead, the canyon zigzagged for a quarter mile before it became Thirteenth, a straight, smooth road to downtown Clarion, where the pickup driver would have an unimpeded view of me and where I went. But if I could take either the north or south exit before Thirteenth out of sight of my pursuer, he would not know whether I left the road or went onward, until he got on Thirteenth and didn't see me ahead.
I slalomed around the next bend, hit my brakes and slued crazily onto Ridgemont, a poorly paved road which winds between two sandstone buttes. I took the first right off Ridgemont, a left to Pine Crest Lane.
Then I was among pine, aspen and wood-framed homes. I pulled into a dirt road shielded from Pine Crest by a thick mat of pine and scrub oak and cut the engine. Forehead on the steering wheel, I felt I could breathe properly for the first time since leaving Janie's. I clenched my hands on my knees to still the trembling.
Someone tried to kill me.
I should call Clarion PD, but they'd want me to go down there and fill out a report and I couldn't blow my chance to get into Bel-Athaer with Gia.
God only knew who tried to run me off the road. I surely didn't. Maybe it wasn't a matter of road rage and the assassins were after me again. The notion made my stomach turn over.
I'd planned to go home and get a cab to downtown. I told Wanda I'd be out of town for a few days and asked her to get my mail and papers in. She already had my key. My bag was already in the car. I timed it so I'd go from the garage to the cab, and not have to go back in the house and another haranguing from Jack and Mel. I'd taken care of everything.
But the black pickup might be waiting for me if I went home now.
I hooked my cell from my back pocket and called Ted Crossley.
Calling in favors can be an asset when you are a private investigator. Clarion does not have any long-term parking garages, but Ted would punch a new twenty-four hour ticket for me each morning he came on duty and saw my Xterra in The Bancroft's parking garage. He directed me to a corner spot on level three.
"Thanks, Ted. I appreciate it."
He waved me through. "No prob, Tiff."
Bless him for not asking why I wanted to leave my car here.
Ted's mom Jean died three years ago. The autopsy ruled accidental death when her car went off the road as it crested Gallaway Peak. Ted didn't believe it. His mom was a careful driver who in her time had driven all over the world and never got a ticket or been involved in an auto accident. Ted suspected her husband of two months and half her age arranged her murder. He never liked nor approved of Peter. His mom invested a bundle in new hubby's fledgling company, but Peter's dream became a nightmare when his venture flopped and Jean refused to give him another penny. Ted figured Peter wanted Jean's money, which he would inherit if she died before him. But Jean's car wasn't tampered with, drugs or alcohol were not found in her system and the medical examiner found no health-related cause of death. And Peter had an alibi.
The simplicity of Peter's plan awed me. He knew where Jean headed that morning. He drove to Gallaway before her and waited. Jean drove along Route 21, as always keeping to the speed limit, but too fast to stop when Peter jumped in the road in front of her, too fast to avoid killing the man she loved, unless she swerved off the road and over an eight-hundred foot drop. His alibi? His business partner cracked when Mike Warren started in on him.
I found out later he set up a champagne breakfast in a pretty little grove off the road. If she managed to stop, he would say, "Surprise!" and she'd respond, "Peter! You nearly scared me to death!"
I wish she hit the bastard. Then his shade would be lingering on Gallaway.
Jean spent her days and night sitting under the trees, or following the path her car took, down to the crash site, up to the road. "It was lovely last spring," she told me. "I didn't know so many wild flowers grew on the mountainside here."
I talked Mike into dragging Peter up there. It was one of those rare times Mike was in a good mood so humored me. He already had Peter's written confession after his partner fingered him, so I don't know what reason he gave to have Peter revisit the scene. I was too busy watching poor Jean to care. She didn't believe Peter deliberately ran her off the road till then. Peter didn't know he confessed to his wife as he corroborated where he hid as she drove toward him, whereabouts on the road he ran in front of the car. He didn't see her as she stood before him, wringing her hands in distress.
In the dim parking garage, still sick inside, I scooted my butt out the Xterra and checked her over. The left side from rear door to rear lights had buckled, pulling the roof down at a drunken angle. The left rear fender was pushed into the wheel well. And no side mirror. It could have been worse. I could be in the Snake River.
With no idea what to tell my insurance agent, I decided to think about it later.
My breath caught in my throat when a car climbed the ramp from the second level, but it was a Honda heading for level four. I took my backpack from the passenger seat, locked the Xterra and took the concrete stairwell down to the street.
I glanced over my shoulder on and off as I walked to Montague Square, but no sign of a jacked-up pickup with dark windows.
Cold nipped my nose and my boots left icy footprints in new snow as I trudged along, hands deep in my pockets. My Ruger in the angle-draw holster snugged my side. The backpack containing a few essentials shifted between my shoulder blades. A change of socks and underwear, a lightweight hoodie, toothbrush and toothpaste, hairbrush, and travel size deodorant, body wash and shampoo. Our cases often took me and Royal out of town so I always had plenty travel size personal hygiene minis on hand. I also packed my Derringer, a flashlight and lock picks. And I had Lawrence's note. I had been through two home invasions, one when demons trashed the place, again when assassins planted an explosive device - maybe I was paranoid, but I worried about whoever was after me this time breaking in and getting their hands on Lawrence's plea for help. Paranoia is not always a bad thing.
Temperatures had dropped below-freezing overnight, but recalling the heat in Bel-Athaer I did not bundle up. The chill penetrated my sleeves and I wished I had my insulated hat with flaps which cover the sides of my face. My cheeks felt cold and chapped.
Gia leaned back on the saddle of a bullet bike, glossy black hair pulled into a tail at her nape. The maroon leather fitted-jacket and pants molded to show her graceful curves. The maroon, thigh-high, flat-heeled leather boots clung to her shins like a second skin. The color matched her bike. She looked stunning, damn her.
I paused on the sidewalk, staring. I sensed an oddness, a wrongness, when I met Gia and Daven Clare. When I heard their name, Dark Cousin, I concluded they were another type of Gelpha, demons who didn't glitter, and persisted in the belief until I read Gorge's book. Now, I tried to detect anything abnormal in Gia's appearance, anything alien, as if now I knew, I should perceive a difference. But she was the same as ever. Attractive, but not beautiful. An awesome figure, lovely hair, and eyelashes which could sweep crumbs off a table. And if I were a guy, I bet her mouth would work like a suction cup.
"Are you coming, Miss Banks?"
Swinging a helmet with an opaque visor by the strap, she watched me approach. Another helmet rested on the bike's saddle. You bring two helmets for a reason.
"We're riding that thing?" I hate bullet bikes. Too many died in Pineview Canyon as a result of collisions involving bullet bikes.
She smiled, a cat lapping cream.
About to ask why we didn't use what I fondly call the demon dash, I changed my mind. Dark Cousins can move as fast as Gelpha, but I would have to cling to her. And perhaps dashing through Bel-Athaer, where demons do not normally dash, would attract attention as well as risk colliding with other speeding demons. Who knew?
By the way, when I say "fondly," it is sarcasm. Having my insides churned to mush is not my idea of a good time, nor is fighting to not throw up afterward.
I grimaced as my gaze ran over the gleaming machine. I would have to angle my body along her back. I hate bullet bikes.
She tried to pass me the helmet. I shook my head. "I don't use helmets, they restrict the vision."
"They are also an excellent disguise."
She had something there. I took the helmet. "I think someone tried to kill me."
"Think?"
Her expression became pensive as I told her about the pickup.
She ran her fingertip along her lower lip. "I wonder . . . could it have to do with our little venture?"
"It came to mind." I swung the helmet back and forth. "But Royal and I put a few people behind bars. They're still there as far as I know, some on death row, but they have friends and family."
She took up her helmet and placed it on her head. "We should go, quickly."
I felt dampness on my cheek. Tiny flakes drifted down from the cloud-laden sky, tiny flakes which would settle and build up on the frozen ground. The sidewalk was already treacherous. The roads were a mess of slippery sludge where the plows laid down a mixture of salt and sand on packed snow and ice.
I had so many misgivings about this adventure, so I determinedly strode to the bike before I could change my mind.
A familiar rumble made me glance along the street as I lifted the helmet to my head. You cannot mistake a Harley and by the sound, it went way too fast for the slick roads.
The rumble increased to a ground-shaking roar I felt in my teeth as Chris Plowman turned the corner and hurtled down the street on a big old Harley Shovelhead. Wearing mirrored shades, shimmering gray hair a stream of liquid mercury threaded with glittering black, he was, I admit, a truly delicious specimen of manhood and the few woman abroad obviously agreed. Heads turned and mouths widened in appreciative grins. The Harley logo decorated the heel and side of his black riding boots. Skintight black leather pants clung to his thighs, the black leather jacket hung open over a light-gray T-shirt and momentum pressed a silver crucifix to his chest. He looked wild, dangerous and utterly masculine.
He pulled up and kicked the stand down. The bike tilted to one side, the crucifix swung on its long chain and his hair settled over his shoulders. I will not pretend I didn't experience a pleasant squirm as his thigh muscles tightened to bear the weight of the big machine.
In his expensive suits, I had not noticed the width of his shoulders, his slender waist and tapering hips, the muscular thighs. And tight as those pants were, they left little to the imagination.
Oh my.
What does it say about me that on the brink of waltzing into alien territory to find my man, I ogled another? Hey, a gal can look, and sometimes her body totally ignores her brain as it yells, down girl.
"There you are, ladies," he drawled smugly. He turned his face up. "Lovely day for a ride."
I eyed the bike appraisingly. Matte black, in pristine condition, care had been lavished on the machine. "Eighty-three?"
If I had imagined Chris Plowman on a bike, it would be a new custom job, not an old bone-rattler. Shovelheads are ornery beasts. They leak oil and something is always going wrong with them. Did he know that, or buy it purely for the macho image? Still, he would have someone else work on the thing; I couldn't see him tinkering with it.
Mind you, I never imagined him in anything other than a tailored suit.
He fondled the high handlebars with long, smooth strokes, eyes twinkling as a pleased smile curved his lips. Snowflakes settled on his hair and melted, glittering like diamonds before they evaporated. "You know your Harleys."
Watching the caressing motion of his hands, a blush climbed my throat.
"What do you want?" Gia's voice out-chilled the low temperature by several degrees. "You are conspicuous."
I agreed. Exotically handsome, in clothing more suitable for summer cruising, he stood out. I was poorly clad for the climate in my white cambric shirt, stone-washed jeans and brown lace-up boots, but I also wore a thick fleece vest which I'd stow in my backpack when we arrived in Bel-Athaer.
Chris sounded surprised by Gia's question. "I'm coming with you." He placed his palm on his chest as he turned his gaze to me and declared dramatically, "I swear, fair maiden, I will protect you with my life."
I tweaked up one eyebrow. "Huh. Go back to your fancy hotel in Boston, Plowman. I don't need your protection."
Gia tilted her head to one side, eyeing him with consideration. "No. Let him come, he could be of use."
I couldn't imagine how, except to get in our way, but I had agreed to follow her lead. However, I was not pleased.
Chris, on the other hand, couldn't have been happier. He beamed at me, managing to look superior at the same time.
"We will keep a low profile, blend in." Gia's eyes drifted over him appraisingly. "If you can manage it."
"You wound me, my Lady," he replied, trying to appear offended but not succeeding. His expression seemed to permanently be one of droll amusement. "I have just the thing." He pulled a blue and beige bandana from inside his jacket, folded it and tied it around his head. The bandana hid most of his amazing hair but did nothing to disguise the rest of him.
"Hm," Gia hummed. "It will have to do."
"Fine." I slammed the helmet on my head and stood next to him. He hiked an eyebrow at me.
"I'm riding with you. Any objections?" I would rather ride with him than draped along Gia's back. I could sit upright and keep at least a few inches between us.
"The length of your body crushed to mine, your arms about me? Far from it."
"Crushing will not be involved."
Gia shook her head slightly as if bemused as she pushed her bike to the plain, weathered wood door. Following her, Chris winked at me. They paused there, eyeing me expectantly, so I went past them, turned the knob and pushed the door open. It swung in silently.
The street was miraculously empty at that precise moment. I stood aside and Gia and Chris quickly rolled their bikes through. I followed and closed the door with a gentle push.
The room seemed smaller with the two bikes in there, and colder. We faced the Gate, entrance to the Way, the same I took to Bel-Athaer, the one which led me to the middle of a Gelpha city.
With a jog of her head, Gia indicated I should open the Gate. I pulled in a steadying breath. My pulse pounded in my ears, the sound of surf on the shore. Did I really want to go charging off to Bel-Athaer with a Dark Cousin and an egotistical Gelpha?
Oh well, another shit-crazy thing to add to my list.
I pushed the door and held it open. Gia went through first, then Chris. On the other side, in the corridor, I let the door close and the soft click sounded final.
I had to get my stupid imagination under control.
Gia swung a long, slender leg over the bullet bike and started it up.
The roar about knocked me back. The Way vibrated. I thought the ceiling would come down. Chris straddled the Harley. He spoke but I couldn't hear with my hands over my ears. "What?"
He patted the seat.
They meant to drive along the Way? They were crazier than me! Sure, the corridor was wide and straight, but one deviation and we'd hit the walls.
I shook my head. He nodded his. Gia took off with a squeal of rubber.
Chris engaged the stand and got off the Shovelhead. The roar of Gia's bike still rattled the corridor as she dwindled in the distance. He took my wrists and pulled my hands away from my ears. "Tiff, you have to get on the bike," he said, mouth so close his breath washed over my ear.
"We can't drive along here!"
"The only way to travel, Sweetness." He let go my wrists and mounted the Harley.
I grumbled to myself, but got behind him. Letting him come along had better be worthwhile. I rested my hands lightly on his shoulders and made sure our bodies didn't touch. I would rather we had a couple of feet between us, but the seat didn't allow that.
He brought the Harley to life, gunned it and started off. Then the devil pulled a wheelie. I squeaked and dug my fingers in his shoulders as I began to slip backward. I'd have punctured flesh if I wore my nails long.
The wheel thudded down before gravity tore me off the bike. In a death-defying move, I let go his shoulders and spread my palms on his chest, which pulsated beneath my hands. Was he laughing? Smug bastard.
The passageway became a blur, so I closed my eyes.
I relaxed after a minute or two. Warmth radiated through me. It seemed I had not felt that special demon heat in an age.
The bike shot into thin air with no warning. We soared over turf and dirt four feet below, then the front wheel dropped and we hit with a crunch which went through my body from ankles to the top of my head. I clung to Chris as I bucked off the seat; a second later I rammed down so hard I thought I broke my tailbone. Dust burst from the ground and enveloped us. We skidded, the bike keeling over, but Chris wrestled it upright. We slalomed twenty feet before he brought it under control.
We pulled up beside Gia. She sat up on her bike, removed her helmet and shook her hair to send it flying about her face. Her grinning face.
The gleam in her eyes, the laughter in them, a flush to her cheeks. She was having way too much fun.
My arms tightened on Chris as I saw we were mere feet from the uneven rim of a vast, mile-wide gorge.
He patted my clasped hands. "There there, my Lovely, you're perfectly safe." Muscles expanded beneath my fingers as he chortled. "Hold on tight."
I couldn't have held tighter and not cut him in two.
Where the sun hit the far side, trees, shrubs and grass clung to the crumbling sandstone until shadow creeping up from the depths lapped over them. Gia walked to the brink and gazed down. I would not go over there if you paid me. I had no desire to see how deep the gorge plunged.
The air felt heavy, sullen. Distance turned the terrain to misty, faded colors beyond the gorge.
I slid sideways off the saddle. "What the hell! Did you know we'd come out here?"
Gia smirked. "This Gate is nearest our destination. Is something wrong?"
You evil bitch. "Not a thing."
Grinning, Chris stood beside his Harley. I swung on him. "And before you laugh at me again, remember if I throw up it'll be down your back."
He warded me off with upraised hands. "Laugh at you? I would not dream of it, Sweetness."
I put one hand on my hip and gave him attitude. "Okay, enough. My name is not sweetness, or lovely, or anything else along those lines."
He made a half bow. "As you wish, fair Tiffany."
Ooh. I wanted to swat him alongside the head. I fought the impulse; he'd zip out of reach if I tried.
A windowless, yellow adobe hut with brown-tiled roof and a wood door with heavy hinges squatted behind us. Not an imposing structure, but none of the Gates were. A black paved path the width of a footpath looped from the door and off to our left, paralleling the gorge until it dropped behind lower terrain. The ground rose again far in the distance and a lowlying shadow which could be anything spread over the horizon.
A vast, undulating plain of yellow grass dotted with foliage-topped buttes stretched behind the hut. The wiry grass and stark terrain reminded me of some areas of Wyoming, except no mountains. The pale sky seemed to go on forever. I'd never seen a sun here, but the daylight had to come from somewhere, didn't it?
"I thought we'd come out in a city."
"Communities grow around or near active Gates. This Gate was last active, briefly, over two centuries ago," Gia said. "Come, we should go."
Gareth was right, the Cousins could manipulate the Ways, which Gia did to bring us close to Burch Mountain. If the shadow across the horizon was a mountain range, we still had some way to go.
I had to get out of my vest before I started sweating. I slipped my backpack off. Folded and rolled, the vest just fit inside.
"Miss Banks!"
I twitched, turned back to Gia and Chris and slung my pack over my shoulders.
On the Harley again, I sat back away from Chris. The wind channeled around him as we roared along and I enjoyed the air seeping beneath the visor to bathe my face. The passenger saddle put me a few inches higher than Chris, so I was glad of the visor as protection against bugs. He didn't have a helmet; he'd get plastered. Or maybe Bel-Athaer didn't have bugs. I didn't notice any before, but I wasn't looking.
I enjoyed the ride at first, deciding nothing could be better than the feeling of being unencumbered, the thrill of tearing along at high speeds. I imagined perching behind Royal, holding on tight. Would he get a bike if I made the suggestion? What could be better than clinging to Royal's broad back as we tore along?
I could think of a few things, but they are private, if you get my meaning.
We rode for hours until the novelty of driving through Bel-Athaer paled. The monotony of the landscape became wearying. My mind twisted this way and that: Royal, Lawrence, the High House Council, that pickup. Perhaps I'd have survived the river if the Xterra landed right side up and stayed that way, but for some mysterious reason known only to Murphy's Law, autos which go into the Snake tend to land on their roof after tumbling down the bank. Did the driver know that? Did he or she want to kill me, or scare me near to death?
We were nearer the smudge on the horizon, which resolved into a forest backed by a low mountain range. Not the scarps of my Wasatch Range, but mountains nonetheless. Narrow streams wound through the plain to merge into a broad, shallow river. We were higher now, imperceptibly climbing mile by mile. The gorge had petered out five miles back. The path widened and became a paved road.
The sky darkened as the hidden sun sank toward the horizon.
We crested a hill and rocketed down the far side, a long, nearly vertical drop. I didn't expect that. I clung to Chris again, fingers fisting his T-shirt. The wind caught his whoop and carried it away.
Christopher Plowman enjoyed my discomfort far too much.
The path took us down to a dry gulch. Chunks of rock had tumbled from the bank to the road, which made for an interesting ride as Gia and Chris slalomed to avoid them. We came up out of it before too long.
The land became hillier and I saw signs of civilization: a broken fence, a derelict shack. Then, off to our right, a fence in good repair, water troughs for livestock, even a few cows in the distance.
They had cows in Bel-Athaer?
The land both sides of the path rose in increments until we drove between banks and I could not see much beyond them, the sky and a treetop here and there. And bugs do populate Bel-Athaer, nice big juicy ones. I wouldn't be able to contain my laughter if bug goop smeared Chris' face when we stopped.
Ahead, Gia had stopped on the brow of a hill and sat on her bike looking onward. The Harley spluttered to a stop beside her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
We were above a greenish-brown, bowl-shaped vale and a small community of perhaps three hundred densely clustered buildings, with more fanning from the hub in a sparser pattern. The road we followed led down, and another led away on the other side of town. I spotted what could be a town square, except on the outskirts, not in the center as they are normally.
"Are we going down there?"
Gia replied. "It's market day. We can buy food and ask about somewhere to spend the night." She flipped up her visor. "You are hungry, aren't you?"
Now she mentioned it, I was starving.
We slowly puttered down the hill.
Buildings on three sides hemmed a fifty-foot-square area of brown cobblestones, the fourth side open to the small grass field into which we drove and parked behind four poplar. A row of automobiles sat in the field, with more parked in the square. Enticing aromas hung in the still air. Charred meat and grilled onions mingled with the scent of flowers. Gelpha milled about, dress as always eclectic, yet they moved sluggishly and their faces were inanimate, even those who haggled at the cloth-draped stalls with their red, white and yellow striped awnings.
Houses and shops fronted the square, whitewashed brick, black terra cotta shingles with deep eaves, wood doors and wood-framed windows painted red or brown, dormer windows upstairs; some had bay windows on ground floors. Flowers overflowed pots which hung from the eaves or inside porches and mounded in planters beneath ground floor windows.
Was what I saw in Bel-Athaer identical to that on Earth, or a kind of facsimile. Did I smell beef and onions? Were the buildings made of brick coated in whitewash?
When I focused on the nearest small house I saw paint peeled from the window frames and doors, the whitewash was wearing thin, showing shadowy brick beneath. Flowers were wilted and flower borders overgrown. Cobwebs hung in porch corners and the undersides of window sills.
I felt skittish as I stood at the outskirts of the village and market. No accompanying burr of voices, no children's laughter. The village gave me a bad feeling.
Gia turned to Chris. "Go in there and inquire about accommodation for the night. And get us something to eat."
So that's why she agreed to let him come with us. A human and Dark Cousin, we couldn't be seen, we had to keep the dratted helmets on, but Chris could openly move among the Gelpha.
I wanted to explore the village and sit down in a restaurant or café, but we would appear odd doing that with our helmets in place. Anyway, we couldn't eat with our visors down unless we sucked liquid through a straw.
Chris gave Gia something between a grimace and a small smile and walked into the square, wending between stalls with long, smooth strides.
Right through a woman who stood on the edge of the field.
She wore a pink ankle-length dress decorated with cream lace and embroidery on the hem. A long black knitted shawl draped her shoulders and folded over her breasts, baring long white sleeves but hiding most of her red blouse. Her beautiful primrose-yellow hair hung in two braids. She stood very still, gazing at me, or past me to the countryside. Her face seemed familiar, but I'd never seen her before.
Her frozen face. And the red on her blouse was blood.
No, I had not seen this woman before, but I've seen that expression too many times. I was thankful twilight and the visor hid my face as I let my gaze wander over the square and saw other Gelpha with red blouses, or red shirts. I saw men and women with rope burns scoring their necks. I saw those with cut throats and black powder burns where bullets had punched through skin.
My hands went to the straps of my backpack and clenched, hard. Hard as the fist which squeezed my heart. I walked from beneath the poplar. Gia's fingers pinched my wrist and pulled me back.
"What do you think you're doing?" She noticed my expression. "You look like a ghost."
"No," I murmured. "But they are. More than half of them are dead. What happened here?"
She didn't answer, so I presumed she didn't know.
"We need to get in closer. Come on."
"I cannot. Gelpha sense one another -- you know that - but I am a blank slate to them. If they don't see me, they don't know I am here. But if they focus on me and feel nothing, that in itself will tell them what I am."
Mel and Jack went berserk when Gia came to my house to talk about Rio's disappearance. Thinking she was a dead person encroaching on their territory, they tried to attack her. Later, thoroughly embarrassed, they said she had no essence, she seemed lifeless. I forgot about that till now.
When Dagka Shan went to the High House, the Gelpha knew someone broke through their security and guess he was a Dark Cousin because they sensed neither Gelpha nor human.
"But you go ahead if you must," she continued. "Just be careful, don't draw attention to yourself."
I fumbled at my helmet's straps.
Gia pinched me again. "No. Keep it on."
I swallowed a yelp and glared at her hand. "Why? Nobody hassled me when I went to the High House."
"And I'm sure the High House will be interested to know you're wandering around Bel-Athaer."
She was right.
I took in the perimeter, trying to find a dead person I could speak to covertly.
I walked the short distance to the edge of the square and stopped beside a brown sedan. Chris stood at a stall, talking to the stallholder as he pointed at this and that.
A woman with brown threading her short scarlet hair approached me. Through the visor, I met her big brown eyes.
Figures in tight-fitting, all-enveloping black clothing walked through a cluster of maybe twenty men and women who stood in the middle of the square. Off to one side, a man-shape covered in blue-white flames stood in the open back of a car very like a Jeep. One of the figures pulled a woman from the crowd by her upper arm and pushed her toward the Jeep with a hand on her back. She stumbled several times and kept glancing around at the fifty or so spectators who lined the square.
They stopped at the Jeep. She looked up at the towering flame-washed specter, speaking and violently shaking her head. A moment after she stopped speaking, the black figure behind her tangled its fingers in her long black hair and forced her head back. Its other hand came up, silver flashed, and she fell away, a crimson torrent pulsing from the seam in her smooth throat in time to her heart's last beats.
Minutes passed. The ghoul in black stood motionless, as did the blazing apparition. I stopped breathing. Then a flurry of movement as the black-clad figure bent, seized the dead woman by her ankles and quickly pulled her away to the edge of the square.
I watched the same scene repeated. Garrotes slipped over heads and around throats. Blunt-barreled pistols were put to foreheads and fired. The villagers waited, motionless, for their turn to speak. Some sobbed, or stood with eyes closed. None ran. Spectators on the perimeter watched with dull eyes. The bodies piled up.
People toppled, slumped to the ground, graceless, boneless, lives snuffed out in an instant. And not one watcher protested or tried to stop the carnage.
The vision left me as abruptly as it came. I gasped, drew in a huge gulping breath as I slumped on the car's trunk.
It had to be Orcus, the Burning Man.
Dear god. This creature ordered the death of so many I couldn't count them. Why? Was he even a man?
I swallowed what surged up my throat. Swallowed again. I couldn't keep it down. Another second and I'd throw up. I pressed the back of my hand to my lips and breathed deeply through my nose.
I rushed back to Gia. When she eyed me inquiringly, I only managed to say, "Yep, dead people, a lot of them."
She nodded her chin in Chris' direction. "Hush. Tell me later."
Holding two small brown paper sacks, Chris was in animated conversation with another stallholder. At least he was animated; the stallholder merely watched him and seemed to reply in monosyllables.
So this was what threatened Lawrence, an apparition, a man of flame who ordered an army of faceless killers. I had to find Royal before Orcus made his move on Lawrence.
Did the monster watch my house those months ago?
"I can't stay here," I whispered.
Gia nodded as Chris joined us. "Change of plan. We go on."
"Just as well." He frowned. "This is not a happy place and as far as I can discover, the accommodation is primitive."
"Damn right it's not a happy place," I all but spat.
"The merchant was surly and remained so when I exerted my considerable charm." Chris' mouth pulled into a taut grimace. "I have never worked so hard for a smile."
You won't get one here. I could not wait to get away.
We stopped a few miles on and sat on the grass next the road beneath a tree's spreading branches. I removed my helmet with relief, enjoying the air. Warm, humid, it was air and I had not felt it on my face for hours.
"What was that place?"
Chris shrugged.
"Dun Falmor," Gia replied.
Goggles around his neck, Chris sat with me and Gia. He took five small, white paper packages tied with brown twine from a sack. Tutting to himself, he picked at the twine until he had it untied, unwrapped the parcels and flattened the paper away from what they contained. I waited for my portion with interest. Although no longer hungry after what I saw in the village, I'd not tasted Gelpha food before.
"This," he said, pointing a long, strong forefinger with manicured nails, "is the local specialty."
I squinted. Round pastries? He also bought tiny pink-frosted cakes and the other sack held three black glass bottles.
I took two bites of a warm, flakey pastry filled with a spicy mixture of dark, shredded meat and vegetables in a red sauce. It was good, and so were the cakes which tasted similar to Red Velvet cakes. The drink. . . .
I hacked, coughed, spluttered. "What the Sam Hill?"
"Sip it," Chris instructed.
"Not on your life!" I corked the bottle and dropped it on the grass. The lukewarm amber contents looked inviting, but tasted like something I keep under my kitchen sink with the other cleaning supplies.
Gia rose up, went to her bike and came back with a flask, which she presented to me. "Here."
I gratefully slugged back a few gulps of water, tepid, but at least it didn't take a layer off the inside of my mouth. "Thanks. What is that stuff?"
Chris lounged back on one elbow. "Griffin's Ale, a fine vintage."
"Huh!" I scoffed. "If griffins piss, I bet one shot it in that bottle."
"You are so refreshing, my dear."
"Which can't be said about that garbage."
He smiled as he let his head hang back, hair a wide, glistening ribbon down his back, and looked up at the tree branches. "G, R, Y, P, H, O, N," he spelled out. "Gryphon, not griffin. The High Lord's father. I believe it was first brewed to celebrate his birth."
The High Lord's father? Lawrence's dad, the missing heir. One of the missing heirs, because both Lawrence's father and grandfather disappeared. From what Royal told me, Gryphon was a child when his parents took him into hiding in my world. Why they never reemerged to claim the High House, and why Gryphon fathered Lawrence and vanished again was a mystery the Gelpha would dearly love to solve.
I lay back, hands beneath my head and watched leaves spiral down from the tree, drifting back and forth before settling. One landed on my waist. I pulled one hand from under my neck to pick up the leaf and gently rubbed my fingers over it, then saw Chris watched the motion of my fingers with the tip of his tongue protruding from his lips. I dropped the leaf.
He stared intently from eyes gone smoke-gray.
Cut it out! I told my disloyal libido. I rolled on my stomach, angry with myself. I should be thinking of Royal, not going all gooey at a look from another demon's eyes.
I rolled to my knees and up on my feet, went to the tree and spread my hand on the corrugated bark. It felt no different from bark back home. Apart from the manmade features and inhabitants, and the damn elusive sun, this world was little different from mine. How could that be?
Speaking to Gia in a low voice, Chris indolently lounged on the grass. Their voices murmured. He laughed lightly. He seemed relaxed around Gia, but that was his persona; the charming gentleman, always at ease.
When Royal and I, Gia and Daven went to the High House, the Gelpha bristled with indignation and what I perceived as hatred. I thought we had a fight on our hands. But Gia's black gaze settled on them and they backed down, intimidated. Now I knew why.
Mothers.
Gia jerked me from my reverie. "Come, we should find lodging before night falls."
Lights already twinkled from Dun Falmor behind us. Gia and I donned our helmets, Chris his goggles, we mounted the bikes and rode on. I twisted my head to watch the town disappear, wishing I had been able to speak to one of the townspeople and ask why Orcus killed them.
The air became chill. I leaned on Chris' back, my arms beneath his armpits, hands on his chest. The cold didn't bother him.
One of his hands folded over mine and patted. "It won't be long," he said as velocity carried his voice past me.
A second later, his hand no longer patted; it stroked, his long, smooth fingers running back and forth over mine. I should pull my hand away. I should sit up straight. But I huddled against his back, holding on tight. I knew it wasn't Chris; it was his delicious demon heat. It reminded me of Royal and I missed it, I missed him. But for now, a familiar, encompassing warmth soothed and warmed me and I didn't want to let go.
Our headlamps pierced the night. Shapes reared around us; I couldn't tell if they were ruins or natural monoliths. Windows in solitary houses far on our right shone yellow. We passed a farm, the outbuildings and house illuminated by strategically placed lamps atop tall posts. Ahead, in the middle of nowhere, light from a good-sized town made the sky above orange.
Gia pulled up and Chris braked to ease in beside her. The Harley idled, sputtering. What was clearly a large community sat on the flat plain. Red, yellow, white and orange lights twinkled in dark shapes which looked black in the twilight.
Gia and Chris cut their engines at the same time. The dead air settled over us, silent but for a low, distant burr. Traffic, if I were not mistaken.
"What do you think?" Chris asked Gia.
"It will have to do. We can circle and come in on the other side. I remember a few hostels in a less than desirable sector; basic, but we can slip in unnoticed."
Chris would have sounded offended but for the lilt to his voice. "Surely you jest, dear Lady. I, go unnoticed? Why, the locals will - "
Gia effectively cut him off by igniting her bullet bike.
He sighed theatrically, making sure I heard, before bringing the Harley to life, gunning the engine and following her.
We came to a crossroads and turned right. The road widened as we followed it in a wide loop bearing left around the town. Intermittently placed street lamps sprang up. We passed a big plant lit up like a nova, the stink of sulfur in the air. I turned my face the other way to avoid the glare which made me squint.
We angled nearer the town, in seconds at a crossroads where five roads met. We turned left. More lamps lined the road now. We were soon on the outskirts. We passed a small strip mall, darkened stores with metal grills over doors and windows.
Another turn and we rode between small, two-story, dilapidated buildings. Even in the dim light, I saw peeling paint and graffiti on walls. A few Gelpha moved along the sidewalk, striding with deliberation, hurrying to their destination. Others stood outside buildings, talking, or sat on the edge of the sidewalk with their feet in the gutter.
I would not call it a slum, but it was rundown, seedy.
We sped along, the bikes' roar amplified by canyon-like streets. I couldn't tell what we passed; I couldn't read the Gelpha characters on the walls and doors and saw none of the universal, identifying signs familiar in my world.
We pulled up outside an anonymous building. From the depth of the entrance, I judged the walls were thick; they looked something like adobe. Pale yellow light shone from gaps surrounding shutters on large windows. A foyer lay beyond the open door. At first my noise-deadened ears heard nothing, then faint voices and music seeped in, and I smelled a sweet, smoky aroma I could not identify.
Chris went inside but rejoined us in a jiffy, two keys jingling from his fingers.
In the small, rectangular foyer, a single warm orange ceiling light cast a lambent glow over the muscular demon behind the desk, bright enough to pick out the glinting strands in his hair and the swirling copper pattern in the camel-brown walls, but not dispel the shadows in the corners. The desk sat against the wall on our left, beyond that a wood staircase crept up till it turned to the right and out of sight. Beyond the desk, a hall led from the foyer to a door through which pale yellow light shone. The clatter of utensils and dishes, voices chatting and that smoky aroma pointed to a place which served food.
I cannot say Gia and I were inconspicuous as we followed Chris in the hostel wearing motorcycle helmets and visors. The Gelpha at the desk didn't take his eyes off us.
Gia sped to the desk, a shadow shape moving through the foyer. She seemed to reform out of the air, leaned in to bring her face close to the Gelpha's, and just like that she laid a geis on him. I presumed that's what she did, because his eyes slid aside and concentrated on me and Chris, as if Gia were not there.
His eyes drilled my back as I followed Chris up the stairs.
were on the first floor, facing across the corridor left of the stairwell. Chris handed Gia a key, but his simmering gray eyes were on me. "If you need anything. A foot massage. A - "
"Yeah, yeah, I know where you are." I was in no mood for his inane chatter. I followed Gia, closing the door behind me.
"This is . . . ah . . . basic," I observed as I perused the room.
Two single beds with thin, off-white covers sat side by side, a small brown table between them. Wooden pegs marched in a row on the dingy tan wall next the door. The floor was worn wood boards. Places on the walls were smeared, as if someone attacked them with a damp cloth but gave up after a few swipes. A single bare light bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling. That was it. At least the door had heavy bolts top and bottom.
A single door, the one we came in. Our room didn't have a bathroom.
I pulled the helmet off and dropped it on the nearest bed. My head throbbed with a dull ache as I scratched my scalp, which itched with sweat. I wanted nothing more than to unbraid my hair and stand under a hot shower. I sat on the edge of the firm mattress and gave it the bounce test. It barely gave, and the springs creaked.
"Okay, so Dun Falmor had a crowd of dead people and I saw who killed them. It looked like a man covered in flames, and his men did the deed."
Wearing her helmet with the visor flipped up, Gia stood near the door. "Orcus." She shrugged one shoulder. "But we are here for Cicero, not the Burning Man. Forget what you saw."
Forget? She had to be kidding. My mouth thinned as I gave her a sour look.
She brought the visor down and put her hand on the doorknob. "I'm going back out to look around. I won't be long. Stay in the room." She fastened the helmet's chin strap. "Do you need anything before I leave?"
I parodied a wince. "Yeah, the facilities."
The helmet nodded. "Very well. I will accompany you."
So we were girlfriends going to the bathroom together? I made to follow her, but she didn't open the door.
I reluctantly regarded my helmet. Right. Have to be anonymous. But I hated to wear the thing again. I opened my backpack and found my hoodie. Putting it on, I tugged the hood down so it all but hid my face.
Gia nodded. I followed her through the door. Chris's door came open and he stuck his head around the frame.
I sighed. "We're going to the bathroom."
"If you need any help. . . ," he said with twinkling eyes and wicked grin.
I shook my head in mute irritation. Did he never let up?
Gia led me to a door farther along the corridor, stood aside and gestured for me to enter. It did have a sign on a square piece of wood on the wall, but in that Gelpha script. Chaldean?
The bathroom surprised me. I expected an unsavory facility dingy as the foyer and our room, but it was spacious, with gleaming white tile floor and walls. A white ceramic commode and big, deep oval tub faced me. A pipe with shower head angled from the wall above the tub and a transparent shower curtain could be pulled around. A wood stool and small table were the only furnishings.
No towels. No washcloths. No guest soaps, shampoos and lotions. Travelers in Bel-Athaer must carry their own.
I brought my mini-products but did not think about towels.
At least a roll of toilet paper hung on a wall holder. I did what I had to and rejoined Gia, who leaned against the wall beside the door. A floorboard protested loudly beneath my foot as we walked back to our room. Feeling uncharacteristically edgy, I almost froze in place. The corridor was too dim. The deeply recessed doorways looked like dark hollows.
Gia stayed outside when I went in our room. "Bolt the door. I'll bring something to eat when I return."
The damn room didn't even have a window. With nothing to do, I pushed my hood back, lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I dozed, struggling awake each time I started to nod off.
I remembered the chocolate bar and shifted to ease it from my back pocket. It had gone soft, but I ate it anyway. Sitting up, I found my diet cola in the backpack, but the can felt warm. Did they have ice here? I'd ask Gia when she returned.
After what seemed hours, but had to be less, I decided to brush my teeth. I wasn't hungry, I would not eat whatever Gia brought, and my tongue refused to stay away from the film on my teeth.
The tiny bottle of shampoo caught my eye as I took toothbrush and toothpaste from my backpack.
Royal enjoyed helping me with my hair. I went into something akin to rapture as he dried it with the demon heat of his hands. My sight blurred. I imagined him behind me as I sat between his knees, a skein of hair sliding through his palms. I felt his breath on my bare neck.
I had to stop slipping into daydreams of Royal. It helped neither him nor me.
I pulled my hood low on my forehead, slid the bolts aside and closed the door behind me as quietly as I could. Getting to the bathroom, brushing my teeth and leaving took less than five minutes.
Standing squarely in the middle of the passage, legs apart, a man blocked my way. I did not mistake him for a guest.
Clad in tight-fitting black from head to toe - slippers, pants, long-sleeved shirt - an attached hood covered his head and a mask or piece of material his lower face. I couldn't even see his eyes. Only his pale hands showed. He moved lithely as he slid along the corridor toward me. Closer, I saw a black strap stretched from his shoulder diagonally across his chest to his waist.
His left hand went behind his back, his right over his right shoulder. Completing the Ninja effect, he lifted his hand, bringing with it a long, gleaming, slightly angled blade.
Uh oh.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I crouched, brandishing a toothbrush in one hand and tube of toothpaste in the other.
Then he looked up and I saw his pale-blue eyes. Human. I can hold my own against humans.
I threw the toothbrush and toothpaste at him.
And he ducked! What Ninja ducks dental hygiene products? They must not teach defense against that type of lethal weapons in his dojo.
Underestimating your opponent may be your last mistake. I swore and rocked sideways as his blade slashed out, but the edge sliced into my upper arm. With a yelp, I slammed against the wall and my hand automatically clamped on the wound. Blood oozed between my fingers.
He joined both hands on the sword's hilt, raised it high and came at me.
I had seconds to notice the way he held his sword, the tendons on back of his hands standing out, skin leached of color from the strength of his grip. A downward cut is hard to pull out of if you put as much power into it as this guy did. Efficient if your victim is paralyzed by terror or pain, or tied down, not so much if they are nimble. This guy was not a pro, but I was injured and stunned that he managed to cut me. I was finished if I waited for the blade to descend. I tried to believe the sting in my arm which would soon blossom into pain was not there, nor the blood running down inside my sleeve to the back of my hand.
Attack often is the best means of defense and surprise is a huge advantage, so I moved a second before he reached me and brought the blade down on my head. Clasping my hands, bobbing down, I ducked beneath his left arm and twisted behind him, and put all the power I could muster into elbowing him in the kidneys.
His back arced into the blow, his arms jerked up. I shoved him into the wall with my shoulder. He had the wherewithal to twitch the blade aside before it cut his face, and his shoulder caught the brunt of the collision.
He turned and swung before I could close in and go for his sword arm, sweeping the sword in a wide arc which brought the tip perilously near my ribcage. I skipped back.
He swept the sword again as he came for me. Moving back was my only choice. I needed a weapon, but I only had my empty hands.
A door on my right opened. I dodged toward it and barely missed a cut meant for my nape. Another black-clad figure who had materialized behind me cursed as his long blade struck the door frame and lodged there. The door slammed before I could reach it, but as I headed in that direction anyway, I rammed into the new guy. His wrist hit the heavy doorknob, his hand came open. His sword hung from the doorframe.
I didn't go for the sword; I would not know what to do with it. I swiveled past Ninja Two and ended up with my back to the wall a few feet behind him but still on the wrong side; he stood between me and my room.
My peripheral vision caught another black shape coming at me kitty-corner. Jesus Christ! Where were they coming from? They seemed to slip from crevices, like roaches.
Lucky for me they weren't adroit. I collapsed and tumbled to the other side of the corridor as Ninja Three swung his blade. It slashed over my head and this guy struggled to keep his balance.
Nope, despite the swords and mysterious black outfits, these guys were not professionals. Ninja One's overhead hack when he could have got me with a sweep or stab told me that. A real Ninja would have had me at the beginning. I was fortunate they didn't carry guns. Mine would come in mighty handy right now.
Inept or not, three men with nasty, shining blades now surrounded me in a half circle, pinning me to the wall.
Red smeared the floor where I had rolled. Blood slicked my palm and fell in micro droplets to the floor. I felt the pain now, as if a hot iron had been plunged into my flesh. I tried to push it away again and concentrate on the men who surrounded me. I would not die in Bel-Athaer.
Then Chris was among them.
I have seen Gelpha fight before. They flow, silently, effortless as a slow-flowing stream, or fierce and furious like raging rapids. Clad in nothing but his leather pants, Chris went through my Ninjas as if every movement were choreographed. I leaned on the wall, transfixed by the fluid beauty of his body in motion. Dipping, spiraling, swaying aside, sliding between them. A blade flew away and clanked to the floor, a body toppled and fell. A straight-armed blow with the flat of his hand sent another into the wall; he rebounded and landed curled on his side. The third tried to turn on the shadow at his back, but the shadow's arm snaked around his throat and lifted him off his feet.
It was over in minutes. Three men lay face down on the floor, disarmed, one unconscious, the other two stirring feebly. They were human; they didn't stand a chance.
A head popped around the wall at the top of the staircase. The hostel manager. Thank you, Jesus! Next second, he was gone.
A blur, and Chris pushed me through the bathroom door which seemed to have opened magically. Trying to regain my balance, I staggered as the door banged behind me.
"Lock it," Chris said through the door.
Lock it. Yes, lock it. My hand closed on the doorknob. I stared, willing a lock to magically appear. How can I. . . ? My gaze slid up to the bolt at the top of the door. I reached and engaged it.
Chris drawled, "Come, gentlemen. Let's dance."
I had to calm down. I slumped against the door, taking in shallow breaths, trying to slow my ferociously beating heart. My shoulder burned but no longer dripped blood.
A thud, grunts, the soft whisper of scuffling feet. Then silence.
"You can come out now."
I drew the bolt and flung open the door. Chris' arms closed around me and pulled me tight to smoldering skin smooth as marble. His scent flooded over me, citrus and ginger. I felt the steady rhythm of his heart, looked into eyes gone satin-gray. His low, slow voice soothed, "There, there, Tiff. I have you now. You're safe."
His arm covered my wound and it burned from his body's heat, but it actually felt good, like a hot pad on a strained muscle.
I hated the way my voice trembled. "Where are they?"
A muscle in his jaw ticked. "Where they can't bother you again."
I became intimately conscious of the lean muscles beneath his naked skin, the strength of his arms. I pulled back.
"Oh well," he said with a gleam of white teeth, "it was fun while it lasted." His expression turned serious. "Come, we can't stay here."
He suddenly moved back and raised his arm. "What's this?"
My blood smeared the underside of his arm, his armpit and ribs.
"Um. That would be me."
"You're hurt!" Storm clouds boiled in his eyes.
Before I could blink, I was off the floor, in his arms, hurtling along the corridor. The door to my room banged open with such force, I noticed a crack running vertical to the door frame as he sat me on the edge of the bed. His hands were on my waist, peeling my hoodie up, when I found enough breath to protest.
"Stop right there!"
All seriousness, Chris narrowed his eyes. "If you wish."
His hands blurred and my sleeve fell away either side of my arm. Still joined to the shoulder, he had neatly separated it lengthwise.
I held my arm out from my side. "Oh, yuck."
The Ninja guy's blade had sliced open three-inches of skin. It looked like an envelope flap which needed gluing. And my arm was red down to the wrist, with drizzles spread over the back of my hand in a thick web.
"I'll be right back."
I managed to tear my gaze from my arm, but he had disappeared.
I checked my arm again. At least it had stopped bleeding and I didn't appear to have lost much blood despite the stain on my sleeve. The weakness creeping through my body was shock. My hoodie, though, was ruined. I could take the sleeve off altogether, and the other one, and use it sleeveless. You can buy them made like that anyway. Who'd know I didn't follow fashion, if I managed to get the stains out the rest of it?
"Tiff."
Dazed, I looked up. Chris stood over me with a small white box in his hands.
"How do you feel?"
"Okay." I jogged my arm up and down. "But you ruined my hoodie. I was thinking, though, I can - "
"You're in shock." His eyes softened, his voice lost its hard tone and gentled. "Relax, my Sweet and drink this." He held a small brown bottle out to me.
I squinted at the bottle. "Why? It's not that Gryphon's Piss, is it?"
A smile tweaked his lips. "No, it's not Gryphon's Ale. Something more powerful to dull the pain, because I'm afraid I'm going to have to hurt you."
I took the bottle and sniffed. It smelled like seaweed stranded on the beach after the tide recedes. "You're going to hurt me how?"
"I'm going to suture the wound."
He sat on the bed next to me, opened the box and took out a small jar, gauze pads, roll of white, wattle-weave bandage, a long, sharp needle, a reel of brown thread and tiny scissors.
I upended the bottle and swallowed the contents. And spent the next half minute trying not to gag it back up.
I bet I looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights as I watched him try to thread the needle. "Can I have a Band-Aid instead?"
"Afraid not." He beamed as he managed to get the thread through the eye. "There." He peered at me. "How do you feel now?"
I suddenly felt peculiar, as if someone novocained my entire body. Lethargy flowed through me. My shoulders relaxed. My head kept wanting to flop on one shoulder. "Fine. I feel . . . fine."
Did I just slur? I couldn't tell. "Where did you get that stuff?"
Chris uncapped the small jar. "From the manager."
"Same one who was up here and looked the other way?"
"They don't get involved in this part of town, which is why he didn't ask why I need the first aid kit."
"He needs a - sonuvabitch!"
Chris pulled thread through the first stitch. The sneaky bastard had stuck me when I was distracted. The stuff in the bottle made me woozy but I still felt that first stitch. Yes, stitch. He sewed me up. A distant part of my mind wondered how bad it would be without the booze - or whatever it was - to numb the pain. Unfortunately, the numbness wore off before Chris finished tacking my skin together.
Then he slapped some ointment on.
God almighty! I wonder I didn't go through the ceiling. My eyes popped wide, then flooded with tears. My nose chose that moment to run. When I found my breath, I used my other sleeve to mop up unladylike fluids.
By then, a neat bandage circled my arm. "There."
I eyed him inquisitively. This was a day for surprises and Chris not the least of them. A sophisticated roué, a crazy biker, an efficient, no-nonsense medic. And I saw the true concern in his eyes.
I kind of liked this side of Chris Plowman. Not that I'd admit it.
I touched the dangling end of my sleeve. "Rip it off, will you. And while you're at it, take the other one off too."
"I can sew it." Chris held up the needle.
I flapped the soggy material. "No thanks. This is going in the trash when I get home. I'd wash it but it won't be dry before morning."
He replaced the supplies in the tin. "Take it off and I will personally launder it for you."
I lofted one eyebrow. "You can't use a dishwasher but you can launder?"
He gave me a pitying look. "You obviously don't know many gentlemen, my dear. But you would not, in Royal's company. A gentleman does not perform menial household tasks, but he does know how to care for his wardrobe. One never knows when one will be stranded without one's valet."
"How awful for one! Hand me those scissors and I'll cut the damn things off."
He tore both sleeves off so fast I didn't feel them leave. Then he took the cover off Gia's bed, folded it and snugged it over my shoulders. He put his arm around me. "To warm you up, you understand," he said, the old drawl back in his voice.
I closed my eyes and reveled in the demon warmth which seeped through the cover.
Okay, enough. I'd fall asleep in his arms if I didn't move now. I shifted, parted my reluctant eyelids. "I want to be alone, get some sleep. You should take the kit back and get some sleep yourself."
"We could lie down together here. I'll keep you warm through the long, lonely hours," he murmured in my ear.
"That's what I'm afraid of," I muttered under my breath. I pushed his arm off my shoulders.
He got the hint. I felt twenty degrees cooler when he eased away and rose to his feet accompanied by a deep, tragic sigh. The bed creaked, reminding me of the unyielding mattress.
He took up the first aid kit. I followed him to the door so I could bolt it behind him.
He stood in the corridor, wearing a winsome expression. "Are you sure?"
Right then his door opened and a beautiful Gelpha with glossy cornflower hair waving to her waist and falling over her naked, perky breasts peeked out. "Thank the Lady you are - " she began. Then she lifted wide, cerulean eyes and flushed beneath her pale copper complexion. She ducked back in and slammed the door so hard I'm surprised it didn't explode.
I snorted through my nose. "You didn't waste much time. We've been here, what, three hours?"
"I'm sure she'll understand if I ask for a rain check."
"That's what you call getting rid of one woman so you can bring in another?" I could barely contain my laughter. "Pu-lease, don't expect me to be a corner of your love triangle."
Mock indignation brightened his eyes. "You think so little of me."
I tucked my chin in my neck. "Darn tootin'."
"It's not my fault. I don't invite their adulation." He spread his arms and assumed a theatrical stance. "They are attracted to me like a hummingbird to nectar, a doe to the mighty stag, salmon to their spawning - "
I cocked an eyebrow. "I think you'll find the stag pursues the doe, not the other way around."
I spun on my heel and went in my room.
"I will stand vigil outside your door."
"Oh wow, my very own knight in shining armor," I deadpanned.
For a moment, as we bantered, I forgot the attack, but it hit me full force as I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling again.
I saw the dead of Dun Falmor fall before me. Black-clad figures brutally slew the townsfolk at the orders of the Burning Man.
The men who planted a bomb in my house wore tight-fitting black. My roommates identified them as human males.
A dark night. Mel insisted she saw a burning figure in my backyard.
A chill swept my limbs, turning them icy. I pulled the thin coverlet up to my chin. Tonight was not the first time Orcus tried to kill me.
I sat up, stretched to reach the backpack at the foot of the bed and withdrew my Ruger. It was a reassuring lump beneath the hostel's thin pillow.
I woke to a god-awful ruckus, groping for my Ruger before my eyes were more than slits. The ceiling lamp swung violently, slashing the room with constantly moving bars of light and shadow, flickering like an old-fashioned black and white movie.
I fought free of tangled sheet and bed cover, came up on my knees, and ducked as Gia's bed flew over my head. It hit the wall and exploded. The metal headboard and springs clanged on the floor as giant wooden splinters speared the room like missiles.
Gia flew at a tall, muscular man all in black. They slammed together body to body. The big man should have crushed Gia's slighter figure, yet she held, straining against him. Her mouth opened in a grimace. Time stopped. I held my breath. Then Gia fell back. I saw the knife in his hand as she went down.
She lay in a jumble of limbs, long night-black hair over her face.
The man grasped the back of his hood and pulled it over his head. The mask came off with it. Royal smiled, a glitter of pointed teeth.
I brought my gun up. "You're not Royal."
That smile again. "Why do you say that?" his familiar voice asked.
"Your teeth."
He laughed, as unpleasant as his smile. "These?" He gestured at his mouth with the bloody knife. "I got rid of the caps. I don't need them any longer."
A hole opened inside me and the future I dared imagine poured out, a wailing storm of loss and grief. My dreams tossed in that gale, crying out for me to save them, to believe in them.
He loomed over me. He looked bigger, and terrible; eyes glassy, vicious. The light still swayed above his head, one moment blurring his face with murky shadow, the next illuminating a stark, prominent landscape of harsh angles. "Do you know," he said, "what we use them for? Why our teeth are sharp?"
I shook my head, whispering, "No."
The knife dipped at Gia. "Ask her."
"I can't. She's dead," I gasped out.
"And so are you," he said as he came at me.
I woke sitting upright, drenched in sweat, my gun in both hands. My lungs stuttered for air, my eyes swam, tears on my cheeks.
On her knees, Gia watched me from where she perched on her bed. "I hope you don't intend to use that on me."
I let the Ruger fall on my bent knees.
"A nightmare?"
My voice sounded gritty. "Something like that."
"Chris told me you had . . . visitors. I decided to let you sleep." She unwound one leg and climbed off the bed, then moved to stand over me. "But I should check your shoulder. Do you have a fever?" She held her hand out palm up, as if to feel my forehead.
I flinched away and slid off the bed. I had to get out of the room where shadowy reminders of my dream gathered in the corners. Staggering to the door, I pulled my hood over my head.
Outside in the corridor, I leaned on the wall and wiped my face with my fingers. My chest still heaved. My shoulder pulsed with pain.
"What is it, Tiff?" Chris said.
He stood beside me, barefoot, now wearing midnight-blue silk pajama bottoms. Where in hell's name did he get those? He came closer and I pressed to the wall. I didn't want him or Gia with me. I needed to be alone with the memory of my dream.
His hand fell on my shoulder. "What happened? Did you and Gia fight?"
I shook my head mutely, then managed to say, "Only a dream. But it was damn real."
He gently squeezed my shoulder. "Perhaps sharing will help."
The trauma of the nightmare still held me. I couldn't shake the images which pounded through my head. I don't know why I told him.
I don't know how I ended up leaning on his chest, hands loose at my sides, cheek on hot, smooth skin. His arms were around me, his hands swept up and down my back in a slow, soothing motion. My tiny inner voice said it wasn't right, to let him hold me again. But it felt good.
His smooth, lulling voice was balm to my ears and calmed my thudding heart. "Don't worry. You're safe. I won't let anything harm you."
As I relaxed, I distantly wondered if he used his demon charm on me, and didn't care. I relished the demon heat of his body as it enveloped me, the strength of his arms.
The motion of his hands changed; they molded my shoulder blades, traced my spine, bathing me in penetrating heat. His breathing became heavy, hot on my neck as his hair flowed over my shoulder. He cupped my buttocks and pulled me tight into him. My own breathing coarsened. He was aroused, and something sweet, warm and treacherous swelled deep in my groin.
"There, Sweetheart," he crooned.
The endearment, from him, hit like a splash of cold water in my face. I put my palms on his chest and pushed. "Don't call me that!"
He lifted his hands from me. "Damn me, I forgot it's his pet name for you."
Pet name? Royal called me sweetheart the day we met, before I became it in truth. My heart thrilled each time he used it. Sweetheart. An ache of longing rose from my chest to my throat. Royal, where are you? I need you.
Chris swung so his back pressed the wall. He inhaled deeply.
After a moment, he said, "Dream therapists say our minds pluck images from our memories and insert them in our dreams as reflections of our desires, fears and uncertainties. Supposedly, our subconscious is trying to tell us something. For example, being attacked stems from feelings of anxiety. Your anger, fear, or jealousy can manifest as a threatening figure. Nightmares are your unconscious trying to get your attention when you're deeply troubled."
I brushed the back of my wrist over my forehead. "Well yeah. I am deeply troubled. I was attacked by a threatening figure, three of them in fact."
"So your dream makes perfect sense. Gia. An attack by a man in black. Those men tried to kill you. You're afraid and you're not confident Gia can protect you."
"I asked her to take me to Cicero, not protect me."
He went on as if I had not spoken. "But why, in your dream, did Royal betray you. Do you not entirely trust him?"
"I. . . ." I bit my lower lip. "I trust Royal to do what he believes is right."
"But not always what you think is right."
Wait a minute! Was this leading to you don't trust Royal but you can trust good ol' Chris? I angled my eyes up. The merest quirk lifted one side of his mouth.
"Listen, Sigmund, it was a nightmare."
"I'm sure you're correct."
"And what's between me and Royal is none of your business."
A door opened. I pulled my hood up and ducked my head as someone walked past us and on down the stairs.
"In truth, dreams are inexplicable. I dream of sex all the time."
I bet. "That's supposed to signify . . . what?" I grumped.
"However often, I can never get enough. Sometimes, a dream is just a dream."
He turned to me. His index finger sculpted my cheek, traced my jaw and stopped its exploration in the soft hollow at the base of my neck where it burned, an ember on my skin. "Sweet Tiff, have pity, assuage my needs."
I revolved away so he didn't see my smile. "You disgust me."
"Ah well." He made a face. "I bid you goodnight then."
He crossed to his door and rapped with his knuckles. "Cherise, my love, are you still awake?"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Where were you last night? You said you wouldn't be long."
"If I remember correctly, you asked me to take you to Cicero, not protect you."
I said the same to Chris, so I couldn't complain.
"Does it matter? You seem to be in one piece."
"If not for Chris. . . ."
"I thought he would be useful."
The way she said it made suspicion fritter along my nerves. "Did you know someone would come after me here?"
She hesitated before saying, "No."
One word, yet said with reluctance. I was not reassured. "What aren't you telling me?"
She laughed. "Many things, Miss Banks. Many things."
Gia's comb rippled through her long black hair. Cosmetics perfectly enhanced her features. Lacking a reflective surface, I had to guess how I looked. With wisps sprouting from my braid, eyes puffy, lips dry, I felt like a hag.
"Helmet on," she said, sounding far too perky for this early in the morning. "We'll arrive at Burch Mountain before dark if we leave now."
In the warm morning air, we left the city by a different road. The black surface stretched ahead for miles, gradually tapered by distance until it merged with the surrounding countryside. We followed a winding river as it moved between dry clay banks, gathering shallow streams to it. The fringe of the mountain range was clearly visible now, green hills and rocky outcrops climbing to bare peaks higher than I had estimated.
We passed small towns, villages, hamlets, scattered homes, riding through a vast agricultural area. No breeze stirred acre after acre of tall, golden grain. Cattle stood together listlessly.
We stopped on a high overlook midmorning. Chris produced more paper-wrapped packages, these containing sweet, chewy fruit and grain bars. Gia had more water which she shared with us. I would have killed for an ice-cold diet cola.
The land dropped away on the other side of the road. Far below, the river carved through a magnificent vista of purple corrugated hills. Tiny yellow wild flowers grew on the verges and the grassy hill which rose at our backs. I smelled their sweet perfume and pictured the colors on my mountain valley in spring. It seemed so far away.
Chris and I were still nibbling the cereal bars when Gia walked up the hill behind us and over the crest.
Chris cocked his head. I nodded. Side by side, we traipsed up the hill through long grass and over patches of dirt strewn with tiny pebbles.
Gia stood with hands loose at her sides. She half turned her head at our approach, but I don't think she saw us.
The land before us dipped slightly, then leveled. I drew in a quick, pleased breath. Curvaceous crystalline structures of all shapes and sizes spread over the plain in the distance. Some bulbous, others thin as icicles, they glowed with pearly light. Pyramids, squares, rectangles, globes, soaring towers with flat or pointed roofs. Slender jewel-tone spires of garnet, sapphire, emerald, amber and amethyst rose among the buildings, if that's what they were. Sparkling strings joined one structure to another; they looked like strands of spider web beaded with dew. I couldn't take it all in.
My eyes were filled with beauty. "It's amazing. Who lives there?"
"Nobody, now," she said so softly I barely heard her.
"It's . . . exquisite."
Gia turned and the sadness in her eyes pierced me. "It is indeed."
"Where did they go? Why would anyone leave such a beautiful place?"
She lifted her chin. "You ask too many questions. Come. We have a long way to go," she said curtly.
She walked away without another glance. Chris followed, I lagged behind, walking backward, until I had to turn or fall down the hill.
Gia strode down the hill, spine stiff, shoulders squared, head erect. As I watched, her shoulders slumped, she crossed her arms to hug herself and bowed her head.
I'm going back out to look around.
Did she come here last night? With the hostel so close, how could she resist?
I think I saw an abandoned Dark Cousin city.
We did not climb the slopes but followed their line until we angled into a canyon of bare rock and pockets of gritty soil, the road weaving between stunted trees and low prickly shrubs. The road became half its former width then suddenly was no longer there; only an oft-used trail continued onward.
The mountain rose over us like an old snaggled tooth. Trees did not cling precariously, mountain growth did not sink roots in grooves and cracks; it was barren and forbidding. We drove for miles until we reached a rift where the canyon's sides angled up and outward, with huge boulders mounded at the base. The Harley decelerated and stopped next to Gia's idling bullet bike. The unexpected cessation of motion pushed me against Chris' back. I sat with my hands on his shoulders. They cut their engines.
"Well, my Lady, here we are," he said softly into the still mountain air.
The Shovelhead tilted on its stand. Chris cocked one leg over and slid off the seat. Gia already stood beside her bike. I slid my stiff limbs to the ground. We three walked to the rift and looked through.
A valley bound by peaks spread before us. Shelves of smooth rock surrounding the circumference made giant's stepping-stones. The valley floor was only about a hundred feet below and fairly level except where broken by rock formations. Trees all but hid the grass, sand and patches of stony ground. A small stream white-watering over boulders ran diagonally from one side to the other.
The trail forked. We could go down to the valley floor or along a wide ledge which wound out of sight around the rim.
"Look yonder," Chris said, pointing along the ledge.
The trail disappeared and reappeared as it followed the towering walls. Across the valley, a black, oval shape marked the mountainside.
"What is that? A cave mouth? He lives in a cave?"
"Now we walk," Gia said. But first she and Chris pushed their bikes behind a boulder.
We took the ledge, the bleak mountainside looming over us. Gia and Chris walked close to the rock face and kept their eyes on the valley. We walked for twenty minutes.
Gia stopped. "Mr. Plowman and I can go no farther," she said as she pointed down at the valley floor.
I moved away from her to peer down and didn't see anything different at first. Four giant rocks rose from a clearing in the trees, more trees and smaller, blockier rocks beyond. Then I spotted smoke spiraling up. What I at first took for small rocks were manmade structures built of gray mountain stone.
I looked back to see Gia bear left, leaving the trail where an outcropping bulged from the mountainside. Chris followed her behind the concealing rock. Wondering where we were going now, I went after them.
We walked into a slot canyon, the smooth, towering walls no more than five feet apart and curving high overhead until mere inches separated them.
"Now we wait while you talk to Cicero," Gia said.
"Maybe he's not home," I said, hoping like hell he wasn't. I suddenly had no inclination to talk to Cicero.
"He's here."
My legs went leaden as if all my weight sank to my ankles. I didn't want to go on, yet did not understand my reluctance.
Gia pulled pins from her hair; it tumbled down her back in a black waterfall.
I slipped my backpack off and rotated my shoulders to loosen the kinks.
"A village lies farther ahead," Gia said.
"Yeah, I saw it."
"It belongs to Cicero's people, thus to Cicero. They serve him but don't live with him. The Seer values his privacy too much to allow that. One of his minions is with him now."
"Won't they sense us?"
"No. The Seer and his people do not have that ability. If we hide, nobody will know we are here."
"They won't?" Chris said as if he disbelieved her.
"Yeah. Aren't they all-seeing etcetera?" I added.
"You will have to trust me on this," Gia said, with a pointed look at Chris.
"Okay." Two of them, three of us. We could handle Cicero and whomever if this went the wrong way.
A cool breeze lapped us, the first I felt in Bel-Athaer. It shuffled Gia's hair on her shoulders and shivered over my scalp. Easy to think it was an omen telling me to get the hell out of here.
Now I was here, here was the last place I wanted to be.
"Forty-eight hours," she continued.
"Forty-eight. . . ." I stopped before the sentence finished forming. "Hell, you're not coming with me."
"I see you missed the part where I said Plowman and I will wait for you. This is as close as we can safely go."
I regarded them with a scowl.
"Miss Banks, a word," Gia said. She beckoned with one hand and walked farther back into the canyon.
She looked back down the rock chute to where Chris waited. Beyond him, the canyon's rectangular entrance framed a small section of the valley.
"What do you know of motherhood?"
That stymied me for a moment as my brain tried to wrap around both question and concept. Motherhood? I'm the first to admit my idea of mothering is warped by my experiences in foster care homes. I know women who have kids, but I'm not privy to what goes on in their homes, how they care for their children. "Not much."
"A mother loves her children. If they rebel, she puts her foot down, perhaps she uses a little intimidation, or threats. But she loves them; she does her best for them. There may come a time when she must go outside her immediate family for help."
She paused as if expecting something from me.
"Um. I guess so."
"And don't believe all you hear. Motives can be misunderstood. History is not always as written."
God, I was tired of her going all enigmatic on me. "Why do you always speak in riddles?"
"But you're so good with riddles."
I glanced behind me. Although Chris stood back from us, with his enhanced hearing he surely heard Gia. Yet his face was a perfect blank. No surprise, nor awe, not even curiosity. He knew the underlying message in Gia's words, as I did not.
I turned back to her, but she had disappeared. I hate when she does that, too.
Chris joined me. "A kiss for good luck?"
His sheer gall amazed me. "You call yourself Royal's friend, yet coming on to his girl is okay?"
"You don't belong to Royal." His gray eyes turned dreamy, drawing me into them. "A woman belongs to no man. She is the perfect art form, beautiful, with the heart of a warrior. A woman meets, overcomes and survives challenges that would shrivel a man in his boots. A woman," his fingers trailed down my arm and closed on my wrist, "is not a possession. She is a jewel to be cherished."
I knew it was a load of malarkey, but my pulse sped anyway. I wanted to lean in and let all my weight hang in his arms. I wanted to cup his smooth face, trace the shell of his ear with my fingers, put my lips to where his pulse beat in the hollow of his throat. But a smidgen of sanity knew my attraction was for what he represented, not the man himself. Tall, abnormally fast and strong, with skin which burned me.
Royal.
Expression wistful, he put his hands on my shoulders and gazed into my eyes. "Whatever happens in there, I am your friend, and would be more if you allow. I will wait for you."
His face closed with mine very slowly and I gazed, mesmerized, as I saw only his eyes. The softest touch of his mouth, a baby breath, then firm and mobile, his tongue probing, teasing, parting my lips. He kissed me unhurriedly. I felt sucked into some sultry, languorous place where only he and I existed. His slightly pointed teeth didn't bother me as his long demon tongue caressed mine. It was a kiss to make a girl swoon.
I could have kissed him back. I could have fallen into him, enveloped by his heat, swept up by his scent, enchanted by the promises his mouth and body made. It would have been so easy.
But he wasn't Royal. Royal's kiss breathed life into me.
I stepped back, hauled back, and slapped his face. Astonishment kept him immobile long enough for me to backhand his other cheek.
"Swine," I accused. "You think I don't know what you did?"
Cheeks glowing, he flashed his pointed teeth. "I kissed a beautiful woman and took pleasure in the experience."
"You used your whatever you call it on me."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"I'm sure you do."
"Just a little, my Sweet." He brought our faces close again. "It didn't take much, and don't tell me you didn't enjoy it."
I did, and I still would have enjoyed his lips if he'd not beguiled me. "Don't try it again," I said huskily against his mouth.
He drew away. His lips hitched in a smile. "I wouldn't dare."
I got my Ruger from my backpack and tucked it in the back of my waistband, slung the backpack over my unwounded shoulder. A little dizzy with dread, anticipation and the lingering sweetness of Chris' lips, I took the first step.
I looked back once. Chris leaned on the rock, one leg crossed over the other. He saluted, then blew me a kiss from puckered lips.
Distance on a mountain trail is deceptive. A half mile as the crow flies developed into a dusty three-mile hike. I walked faster as I neared the cave - Cicero's text said he expected Royal, perhaps Royal was here. Perspiration dampened my back, neck and hollow between my breasts when I glimpsed wide, deep, smooth stones steps leading up to a cave mouth like a circle with the bottom sliced off, and six square openings in the wall above.
Gray stone buildings with flint tile roofs sat on the valley floor. Some, girdled by low rock walls, with paths leading to their doors and tiny flowerbeds, could be homes. Others were tall three-floor structures. Yet more were half-hidden by trees. Smoke spiraled from chimneys. No paved streets, but wide pebble paths wound and crossed to connect the buildings. Several paths led to green or yellow fields and a large pond.
I watched for a few minutes, but nothing moved in the cave's entrance, nor in the openings. Resettling my backpack, I trudged up the steps and inside.
Smooth, pale, lustrous pearl-gray, the walls curved to meet overhead. I touched the near wall with my fingertips; so smooth it could have been mechanically carved, or channeled by a stream which flowed here for centuries. I followed the tunnel as it wound, until I came to a staircase which ascended inside a stairwell with an arched ceiling. I went up.
I came out in a room big as a cathedral with high, ribbed ceiling. A dozen slim, looping stone arches either side of me separated it into three areas. I stood in the middle section and looking through the arches on my left saw square openings in rock walls six feet thick. Daylight misted through them, and I guessed the hazy green and brown was the valley below.
Even the floor gleamed as if polished.
A tall figure clad in a white, floor length, all-enveloping hooded cloak came through the arches. A curved chin which made me think male, a pale mouth, but the drooping hood hid the rest of his face.
"Cicero?" I asked.
He unfolded his clasped hands, lifted them and unfastened the cloak's clasp. The silky fabric slithered from his head, slid off his shoulders and fell to pool on the floor behind him.
Tall as me, wings of silver-white hair fell either side of his pale face and back over his shoulders. Pale-blue eyes regarded me from beneath arching silver brows. His white, straight, round-necked robe covered his arms to his fingertips and touched toes which peeped through the gem-encrusted bands of his sandals. He looked familiar.
He looked like me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Smiling, he spread his arms wide in welcome. "Hecate."
I half spun, moved to my right as I reached back and pulled my Ruger, clicked the safety off and pointed it at the stairwell before you could yell, she has a gun! But no one stood behind me. Still in a defensive posture, I turned my head to keep the guy in my line of vision.
He moved two paces nearer, cupped hands held out to me placatingly. His voice, low and harsh, seemed too deep for his slender frame. "Hecate, as your parents named you, goddess of magic, the night, moon, and ghosts," he said gently.
Gray feathered his hairline and his smile made fine lines fan from the outer corners of his eyes.
"Hecate Bon Moragh."
Panic fluttered in my chest.
"I am your uncle, child. Your mother - "
"No." I shook my head as if to disperse a swarm of gnats. I didn't want to hear. I didn't want to know. After years of wondering, I was afraid. "Is Royal here?"
His voice cooled. "Ryel is not here."
"He didn't make it?" My gaze darted frantically about the cavern. "But you expected him, right? If he's not here yet, he. . . ." Crushed, I lost my voice. I'd hoped to find Royal here, and it would be over. No more searching, no more worrying.
"I don't expect him, Hecate. He has no reason to come here."
Irrational anger boiled in me, I tasted it as acid on my tongue. "What the fuck are you saying? You sent a message to his phone."
He shook his head, hair rippling on his shoulder in a silver-white wave. "I did not message him."
"Then - "
"I messaged you."
My mind went blank. "I don't understand." The barrel of my gun angled toward the floor.
Then I did. My voice grated. "There are these things called invitations. You write on them and mail them out. Or you send an e-mail, or. . . ." I paused to shoot him a poisonous look. "Or send a text. That text on Royal's phone was for me. You had him leave it where he knew I'd find it. Why didn't you contact me? Why make me come here?"
Hands now clasped at his waist, he came closer. "I know you are confused, Hecate, but all will be made clear." He smiled. "Come with me to my apartments where we can speak in comfort."
I moved back. "Not another step till you tell me where Royal is." I brought my gun up. "And don't call me that. My name is Tiff."
His lips firmed, then he nodded. "Tiff, then. For now. I do not know where Ryel is." He waved one hand dismissively. "We planned this meeting, he understands why it must happen this way, but his participation is over. He could be anywhere in Bel-Athaer or the human realm."
"Well goody for him. How about you explain why it has to happen this way, and what the hell it is."
He dipped his head, hair bunching on his shoulders. "I know this is difficult for you. Please, let us go where we can talk."
All this way for nothing. I shook my head. "I'm leaving. Don't try to stop me."
"Tiff, I can tell you everything you want to know. The questions you have asked yourself. Will you walk away from that?"
Bile seared my gut. I was tricked, duped into coming here. I wanted to storm out, just to show them they couldn't manipulate me, though I wasn't sure who they were.
But maybe it wasn't all for nothing. I was here and stupidity is not my middle name. I wanted to know how a human man - my uncle? - came to be a Seer in Bel-Athaer. And if he could tell me about my parents. . . .
Think, Tiff, think. What evidence do you have he's your uncle? None, but he sure looked a lot like me.
I swallowed a hard nodule in my throat. He was human; he didn't have the speed and strength of Gelpha or Dark Cousin. He'd have a fight on his hands if he tried to keep me here. I'd listen to him, then get the hell out.
I nodded abruptly.
He sucked in a small, sharp breath. "What is wrong with your arm?"
I glanced at my arm. The bandage was still white but for a tiny red dot and my arm barely stung now. "Don't worry about it. If you want to talk, let's go."
He held out his hand. "Come."
He turned and walked away, confident I would follow. His silver-white hair hung halfway down his back to where two blue leather cords cinched it tight; from there it fell to his ankles.
He went through one of the arches. "I call this the public room. I am told it's intimidating." He turned his head to wink at me. "Which is the desired effect. I meet the occasional visitor here."
He liked to intimidate visitors? Well, he didn't intimidate me.
Okay, so a little.
He walked slowly, perhaps to let me catch up with him, but I stayed ten paces behind and kept my eyes sharp. Yellow globe lights recessed in the walls six feet apart brightly illuminated a square passageway. I would see anything coming at me.
We passed several wooden doors. The passage split, going left and right. We turned right. Cicero's sandals scuffed on the floor, his long hair swayed. An odd little sound made me realize he muttered under his breath. No, he sang a melody to himself, a breezy little tune I didn't recognize.
He seemed completely at ease. I felt wired from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.
We reached four closely spaced doors and stopped at the first. He unlocked and opened it. "My suite." He stood aside and ushered me in.
Obviously an office, with a large black desk on a square of worn, faded carpet in the middle of the room, a wood filing cabinet off to the side against the paneled wall. Stacks of papers, books, a small, square container with pens and pencils, a tray holding a coffeepot and a mug covered most of the desk's surface. Books packed floor-to-ceiling, bookshelves. Pale wood paneling extended into the deep window embrasure in the third wall; unlike those in Cicero's public room, this window was glazed.
"Tiff?"
My stomach lurched; his voice held the same questioning lilt as Royal's when he spoke my name.
The room had another door in the left side wall; it stood open and Cicero waited in the room beyond. He moved aside to allow me through.
It would be a cozy room in winter, when subzero temperatures frosted landscapes on the windowpane and a blazing fire reflected off the dark-gold paneled walls. A pair of brown slippers nosed from under one of the two fat mulberry-colored armchairs either side of the fireplace. A small sofa with a tile-topped coffee-table in front sat beneath the glazed window and a high, narrow table stood kitty-corner across the room. A laptop rested on a footstool. A television perched on a chest of drawers.
A door in the side wall stood slightly ajar. Cicero had a suite of connecting rooms.
He sank into one of the chairs beside the fireplace. "Please, be comfortable. I have so much to tell you."
I sat facing him, holding the Ruger on my knees. Damn, we were so alike. In appearance, anyway.
A tap at the door brought me to my feet, gun held with both hands.
Cicero made a down motion with one hand and smiled reassuringly. "It is my assistant, Thomas." He lifted his voice. "Enter."
A boy wearing a thigh-length green robe bustled into the room. Perhaps fifteen, his silver-white hair hung loose to his waist. He had my pale skin and pale-blue eyes, but a round, sweet face. He carried a silver tray with a pot and two dainty cups, a bowl and tiny jug. I gawped, unable to stop my jaw dropping.
"No," Cicero said. "Thomas is not of our immediate family."
"But he. . . ."
Cicero's soft tone was meant to calm me. "I know. Patience, my dear."
I swallowed, and sat again. Patience is not one of my virtues.
Thomas put the tray on a small table beside Cicero's chair, bowed, and busied himself closing heavy drapes over the window.
"Milk, sugar?"
I blinked. "What is it?"
"Tea. Black tea. I think you will enjoy it."
"Milk, two sugars."
"Supper is almost ready, Sire," Thomas said.
"Very good, Thomas. I'm sure Tiff is hungry, as I am." He nodded at the boy. "That's all for today. I will clean up. Give your mother my regards."
Thomas bowed, gave me a shy smile and scooted from the room.
"There, we are alone now. Drink your tea, dear one."
I took the cup he offered and sipped. He'd added too much milk but the right amount of sugar.
He plunged right in. "My sister, your mother, was Cassia Bon Moragh, your father Galenus Son Brun. Cassia and I worked together as Seers to the Bon Moragh. Galenus was my strong right-hand."
I licked dry, chapped lips. "Was?"
"Your parents died when you were a year old."
I felt as if a fist closed on my heart. I never knew them, they should mean nothing to me, yet. . . . my mother, Cassia, my father, Galenus. Despite the nagging of my ingrained suspicion, warning me not to believe everything Cicero told me, my blood sang, my bones thrummed. Family. My eyes blurred as I watched the man who called himself my uncle.
With a pang, I saw myself tucked in one of the deeply upholstered armchairs either side of the fireplace, reading, my toes in the thick-pile carpet, a mug of hot chocolate on the little table next the chair.
I bit my lower lip. Now was not the time to get mushy.
"Bon Moragh?"
"The High House. Son Brun is a close ally."
"Why did you call me Bon Moragh if my father's name was Son Brun?"
"We don't follow the traditions of Earth. Here, the child takes the name of the more influential House."
Enthralled, I put my cup on the table and leaned in. "Were you and my mother always Bon Moragh?"
"Yes, but not of the Court. We came from an altogether lowly family. That changed when our gift manifested. Galenus met Cassia at the High House and followed us when we made our home here." He smiled as if at a memory. "They were good, those early years.
"They took you to see your grandparents. They discovered they were pursued. They were near a Way, a portal to the other sphere, so took you through and left you where they hoped you would be safe. They meant to retrieve you, but. . . ."
"I thought. . . ." I swallowed. Goddammit, I was too emotional. "I thought they came from Canada."
"Why?"
"I was found in a dog basket, the blanket was made in Canada."
"I know nothing of that."
I went to the church years ago. I saw the big bins outside for donations left after hours. I tried to imagine a tall, white-haired woman pulling out a basket, a blanket, to disguise her child and perhaps for a little protection from the elements. But it is all but impossible to imagine a person you have never seen.
"I was born here, in Bel-Athaer." I rallied. "Who killed my parents?"
"Seers from a rival House; rather, their acolytes."
"Why? You guys work together, don't you?"
His brow creased. "Interesting. How did you reach that conclusion?"
"I was told when Lawrence was born, every Seer had a vision of the birth. It made me think . . . I don't know . . . you have some kind of network."
"If there is a network, it is of spies. I learned of Lawrence's impending birth and notified the High House, but as I said . . . spies. Before long, every Seer in the land knew." His mouth quirked. "I don't know how the tale of simultaneous visions spread."
"You have them, though."
"We will speak of that later. First things first." He smiled. "Hec . . . Tiff, all will be revealed in due course.
"Now, where was I? Ah. The Gelpha are an archaic people. Yes, we enjoy the trappings of the modern world." Cicero's sweeping hand encompassed the room, the television and laptop. "But we are still a feudal system and obsessed with power. All Houses fall under the dominium of the High House, the High Lord or Lady, but they are rivals beneath the veneer of civility. The restraints came off when the High Lady died. If our young High Lord cannot put the Houses beneath his heel. . . ." He shook his head; his mouth tightened. "Poor lad, I fear for him. His role is burdensome for one so young, and perilous. Anything could happen."
I disliked his hard, cold tone when he spoke of Lawrence. A familiar knot settled in my stomach.
A tinny ding mingled with the alarm bells chiming in my head.
"Ah, dinner is ready." Cicero stood and put his cup on the small table. "Come. Thomas will be most upset if we let the food burn."
I followed him through the next door to a small kitchen, old and a bit worn as if used more than the other rooms, with a small stove and refrigerator, sink but no dishwasher. A pale wood china hutch held a few cups and dishes. A table with two matching chairs occupied the middle of the room.
Cicero took oven gloves off a hook by the stove and bent to open the oven door. I rested my Ruger on my knees as he brought a steaming dish to the table in his mittened hands.
"I don't understand. You said your talent manifested - does it come to everyone in our family? How did we end up in Bel-Athaer working for Gelpha in the first place? And Thomas, you said he's not in our immediate family. Are we related?"
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Our likeness - yours, mine, Thomas' - confuses you. It is a family trait, but we are a far-flung family. We number in the thousands and all are related, albeit distantly." He put the dish in the middle of the table and sat in the facing chair. "And no, not all have our ability."
Seated opposite me, he opened and closed his mouth as if unsure of what to say. He pulled on his earlobe, looking thoughtful. "Tiff, to explain your heritage, we go far back in time to when the Dark Cousins came to Bel-Athaer. It is a long story and - "
"I know about the Mothers, if that's what you mean."
His eyes flared. "How do you know this?"
I didn't want to get Gorge in hot water. "I can't tell you."
Piqued, his pale brow furrowed, but smoothed when he smiled. "I will earn your trust. You will tell me one day."
Not likely. "What about us? How did we get to be here?" I prompted.
His gaze turned up to the low ceiling. He pursed his lips, sucked them in, met my eyes. "Niece, do you hate the Gelpha?"
Hate the Gelpha? What was this leading to? Did I want to know?
"I see you have considered it."
I had, many times. I didn't trust demons, but I didn't hate them. All nationalities have their good and their bad and I don't judge all by the few I meet. Hate is a powerful emotion, ultimately personal. I've hated only one person, and had good reason to, in my opinion. I suppose if every member of a single nation committed unspeakable acts with enjoyment, if they were unremittingly evil, I would hate them.
"I don't hate them, not as a whole, but I don't trust Gelpha far enough to throw them. And some are rotten to the core." Royal's brother Kien and his clan hunted down and killed little boys in their search for Lawrence. "Sure, a lot of humans are no different, but Gelpha shouldn't be in my world, not with the power they have over humans if they choose."
He nodded. "And Dark Cousins?"
"I. . . ." I eyed him narrowly. "They intimidate me. I know they can pretty much do what they want and I can't stop them. That scares me. And when I think what they did, took humans and bred them as if they were livestock, I. . ." I looked past him, ". . . I despise them."
My gaze settled on him. "Why do you ask?"
He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Curiosity."
"Are you going to tell me about us?"
Another shrug. "You and I, my dear, are the result of an experiment. The Mothers found those who saw apparitions, the spirits of those who died in violence. It interested them. We were another breeding program, but we were allowed to breed pure. We did not lie with Mothers or their progeny, their Gelpha offspring, only with our own kind. On average, one in a hundred can see the dead, but a rare few have the mettle to serve as Seer."
A heaviness settled in my stomach. "When did . . . how long?"
"We have been here for centuries, my dear."
The room was warm, yet a chill slid over me. I tried to wrap my brain around it. So I was right, human beings did live here and had done for a very long time.
"This comes as a shock to you."
I slowly shook my head side to side. "It should. Maybe it will later, when I have time to think." I always felt different, but so do a lot of kids and teens. I felt like an oddity when I began to see dead people. To learn I came from another society in a different dimension was icing on the cake. "Right now, though, I'm too busy trying to stop my brain going into overload."
"If you would like to take a minute."
I blinked him back into focus. "No. I'm fine."
Not exactly fine, but Cicero's latest revelation changed nothing, not my past, nor my future. I wasn't a kid anymore. I'd finally grown into my skin. I knew my place in the world and it was not this world.
"What does seeing dead people have to do with being a Seer?"
"Everything, my dear, everything."
"Like, give me a clue?"
His lashes dipped. "You will know soon enough, when your training begins."
Training? I made big eyes. "I can't wait. And what kind of training might that be?"
"To emotionally and psychologically prepare you for your role." His eyes lit up. "But you are already halfway there. You will breeze through."
"Why - ?"
He cut me off. "Patience, dear one. Patience."
I huffed through my nose. So much for answering all my questions.
"Can you tell me why we see dead people?"
"We don't know, we can only hypothesize." He laid his arms flat on the table. "Perhaps it is genetic. We pass the condition to our children, they to their children."
"But I was all grown up the first time it happened to me."
"As we all are. I wonder if it is a defense mechanism so we are not overwhelmed during our childhood."
"Makes sense. But I hadn't been a kid for a long time."
"I also wonder if, when the time is right, we meet a deceased person who somehow resonates with us."
I pushed the conundrum aside for now. I had other questions.
"Did we live here, with you?"
"Yes." His gaze softened again. "You were a sweet child. You rolled around on the carpet which now lies beneath your feet."
I didn't remember this place. But when I stood in the valley and didn't want to go on . . . did my subconscious warn me? Did baby Tiff see something which frightened her long years ago? And for all Cicero's tender gaze and nostalgic tone, he didn't bust a gut to bring his beloved niece home.
"How long have you known about me?"
"I found you when you were three. I considered making myself known when your talent rose, but you seemed happy in the human sphere."
Happy! I wanted to shriek.
So my place in his family meant nothing until recently, though he knew I saw dead people. Now, he wanted me. Because I had the mettle to be a Seer? "What changed your mind?"
"A Seer requires more than raw talent. When you slew Phaid then vanquished the ancient Dark Cousin, then I knew! You are a Seer to the bone."
I defended myself. How did that make me Seer material? I didn't want to be a Seer in Bel-Athaer. I wanted this business over so I could go home. But I knew instinctively I could not tell my uncle that. Not yet.
Cicero waved at the dish. "I believe this is one of your favorites."
Lasagna heavy with cheese. I tried to smile, but it slipped off my face. Where the hell are you, Royal?
"Tiff, let us move past this."
"What do you mean?"
"Ryel did what is best for you and Bel-Athaer. You will forget him and become what you are meant to be."
Never. "Do you read minds, too?"
"I see you are sad. I am sure he is never far from your thoughts, but you will put it behind you, niece. Look to the future."
Cicero beamed. He scooped a big slice of lasagna from the pan and on my plate. I poked at it with a fork as he told me children of our family go to their House's Seer when old enough to leave home. He called them aides, a nicer word than servant. His aides lived in the village below his cavern.
I lent him half an ear, because then, then I remembered.
I pushed my plate away. "I understand you work closely with another Seer. Orcus. The Burning Man."
His brows sprang up. "Indeed I do."
"Somebody tried to kill me. I think it was him."
Now his eyes widened, then crinkled as he smiled. "I can assure you, it was not Orcus."
He pushed his chair back, rose, and came around the table to me.
And blue-white flames licked over him.
I'm glad I didn't have a mouthful, I might have involuntarily spit it out. The fine hairs on my arms stood up. I'm sure my eyes were wild.
Cicero and Orcus were the same man.
Although I couldn't tell what happened inside that pillar of fire, I think Cicero mistook my expression for he sounded smug. "Impressive, isn't it. But don't be afraid, my dear, it is an illusion."
A blazing arm lifted from his body and waved, as if to demonstrate. "A simple projection."
The fire blew out as if he turned off a switch. "Technology is a wonderful thing," he said gleefully.
He held his hand out and shook his sleeve back. A thin wire snaked between his thumb and index finger to a button smack dab in the middle of his palm. He turned his hand to show me how the wire ran from his splayed fingers, over his wrist and up his arm. Then he pushed his foot from beneath his robe as he lifted the hem. "Look closely."
Throat dry, I studied his foot. A wire ran over his ankle to one of the large, glowing jewels on his sandal.
"A marvel, is it not? My master bequeathed it to me, he who was Seer before me. The wire goes up my sleeve, down my body to the projector in my shoe. I activate it with the button. Incredibly simple."
My voice reflected the numbness in my heart. "The long sleeves and robe hide it."
"Correct! I must hold my robe away from my foot and not move, which is somewhat limiting."
"We're not strong and fast as Gelpha, we don't have their hypersensitivity, but we have to live with them," I said leadenly. "We need an edge. All the mystery, the isolation, instilling fear in people, it's to protect us."
"Right again! You are a delight, my dear one." He fished in a hidden pocket and produced a small metal box with two prongs on one end. It looked like a stun gun. "And there is always this if they prove obstinate."
"Who proves obstinate?" My voice went cold, dead. "The people of Dun Falmor?"
His delight in me blinked out. "What do you know of Dun Falmor?"
"I stopped on the way here. I can see dead people, remember? I saw you there, through their eyes. I saw your assassins murder them."
"It was necessary, for the High House, for Bel-Athaer. You must trust me," he said stiffly.
No. I will never trust you. "And I'm supposed to say, sure, Uncle, if you say so. Why did you send your assassins after me?"
"I what?" He took one step to me and he did seem shocked. But he stopped when he saw my Ruger aimed at his belly.
And he grinned. "You are ready to shoot me."
"Ready, willing and able."
"I was right, you are my heir!"
"You have a strange way of welcoming me. I stopped overnight at a hostel on the way here. Three Ninja wannabes attacked me. They wore the same get-up as your guys. They were human. Before that, men planted a bomb in my house. My roommates saw them. They fit the description. And someone tried to run me off the road the other day."
"I did not try to kill you!" He eased back. "I repeat, you are my heir. Why would I want you dead?" His shoulders sagged. "A rival Seer sent his acolytes. I am so sorry. I should not have let my desire to see you overcome commonsense."
My gun wobbled. I lowered it a fraction, but kept my finger in the trigger guard. It looks like a man, burning. "You were in my backyard. You know I live with dead people who'd describe you, so you hid in the flames."
He wound his hands together. "I should have sent my people, not looked on you in person. I was observed, my interest in you validated."
"But the men who planted the explosives in my house, that happened before you came."
"That night was not the first time. I have watched you on and off since you were a child." He frowned miserably. "I thought to avoid discovery by inviting you here rather than fetching you -- it is why I contacted you through Ryel and not directly - but you were already an object of interest. Others deciphered the threat you pose to them as a new rival. They tried to stop you reaching me."
His face brightened. "But you are safe now. Here, in our home, none can touch you. My warriors will accompany you when you go abroad to fulfill your duties as Seer. I never travel unattended, and neither shall you."
He seemed confident I'd join him and I wasn't ready to disappoint him. I would be cautious with this man who called me his niece, let him believe I went along with his plans. I didn't know enough about him and what I did know didn't thrill me. His comments about Lawrence made my hackles rise.
"So your interest in me piqued theirs, these other Houses. They figured out who I am."
"Unfortunately. They thought you were nothing more than another half-blood until then."
My brows shot up. "Half-blood?"
"Before I explain, your assimilation into our society will be less problematic if you come to terms with the fact Earth is no longer our home and will never be again. When I speak of Earth and its inhabitants, it is of an alien dimension. We are children of Bel-Athaer, not that old world."
Not on your life, bud. I nodded, but only to indicate I heard him. I didn't care where I was born, Bel-Athaer was not my home.
He took his seat and settled back, making himself comfortable. "You know the people of Bel-Athaer mate with those in the other dimension. The children of these alliances are commonly called half-bloods. The policy regarding them is simple: do not acknowledge them, leave them to their human lives. What would it serve to tell them one of their parents came from another dimension, eh? They would suffer the turmoil which now churns in your breast, if indeed they believed. Their mother or father did not know with whom they consorted. The mere concept would overwhelm them."
Worse than how I felt now. At least I had a basic grounding in Bel-Athaer.
"Only their physical appearance and, for some, their ability to see the dead mark children of our lineage. Both of your parents were pure-blood, but the Court, not knowing your history, assumed you were a half-blood. They do not understand what makes a Seer. They know only a small percentage of true-bloods and half-bloods can interact with the dead, but believe only true-bloods have the qualities required by a Seer. Which will cement your position as my successor when I reveal your heritage."
I pictured the demons I saw on the way to the High House, how they treated me. "The people I met when I went to the High House to ask about Royal, they were awful polite, almost deferential. Did they know what I really am?"
"The commoners know nothing of half-bloods, whatever their parentage. They do not even know the High Lord has a trace of human blood in his veins. They looked at you and saw a Seer. They were in awe of you."
I rubbed my brow where a headache built like a measured drumbeat. "So all this time, since I first came here, the Court kept quiet about what I am, or what they think I am. Not only the Court, everyone I met?"
My mind skipped back to the beginning, when I met Royal. Caesar and Phaid and Royal's brother Kien. The demons in Royal's ancestral home Morté Tescién. Gareth. The lords and ladies of Lawrence's court. The councilors.
My brain tried to freeze as a question I did not want to ask crept insidiously into my mind. I had to ask, although I already knew the answer. "And. . . ." A fluttering in my chest. "Did Royal know?"
I locked my gaze with Cicero's and saw eyes dewy with compassion. "Yes, Ryel knew. Do not be hard on him. I know the desire to tell you drove him to distraction. The High House decreed that enlightening half-bloods is imprudent and Ryel is ever the obedient servant. And he acted in your best interests."
His gaze drifted, pensive. "The High House is mired in tradition which, I fear, no longer serves our modern nation. Tradition put a child raised in the other dimension on the Seat. I pray the boy is up to the challenge." He shrugged.
My uncle and his cavern home took on a surreal quality as a phantom pain gnawed beneath my breastbone. I wanted to be alone, sink into misery in private.
He picked his fork up and dug in as if he'd not turned my life upside down. "You're not hungry, my dear?"
I pushed my dish away. "I'm sorry. What I want is to get cleaned up."
"How remiss of me. I'll show you your room. You will find what you need there. I know the day has been long and exhausting, and I really should attend to your arm."
I shook my head. "It's doing okay. No swelling, no redness. The bandage should stay on for now."
We went through his den to his office, to the passage and angled across to a door on the other side. He pointed back to a facing door, the fourth belonging to his suite. "That is my bedroom."
His bedroom was directly opposite where he put me. How cozy.
He opened the door and ushered me inside. The room was too masculine for my tastes, but the huge bed looked comfortable and a door opened to a bathroom with roomy shower.
"The guest suite, rarely used and rather generic. I'll get some of my people up here tomorrow to prepare one of the larger suites for you. Do you want any input on the décor, or does it matter?"
"Yes, I would." I pasted on a smile, trying to appear interested and enthusiastic about living here.
Cicero preceded me into the bathroom where he pointed out the cabinet stuffed with fluffy towels, a miscellany of personal hygiene products, and where the extra toilet paper was kept.
I rejoined him back in the combination bedroom/living room.
"How many people do you have?"
"A few more than two hundred."
"The village doesn't seem that big."
"The younger girls and boys and my little army live in dormitories. We have ten family homes. We also grow, manufacture and process most necessities you find in a self-sufficient village." He went to the door. "I'll clean up the kitchen, then I will away to bed. If you need anything or want to talk, remember my bedroom is across the way. If not, sleep well and I shall see you in the morning."
The door closed with a soft click. My smile bled away. Eyes closed, forehead pressed to the door, I slumped. Alone, at last.
I peeled my hoodie off, put my Ruger and Derringer on the bedside table, tossed my backpack and hoodie on a couch smothered in fat pillows and sat on the edge of the bed. The pain was still there, familiar as an old friend, or enemy, an ache I felt before long, long ago. I knew what would happen if I let it conquer me. It would become the hole which opened when I dreamed Royal betrayed me. Everything I was with Royal would seep out.
He knew. All along, he knew. He and Cicero planned this.
I pushed my slumped shoulders up. No. I refused to give up on Royal. If I knew one thing, he loved me. I heard it in his voice, saw it in his eyes, felt it in his touch. I once told myself I should look at life through Royal's eyes and now was the time to do it, the eyes of a Gelpha and the man who loved me, as I loved him.
Although I knew in my gut I couldn't believe everything Cicero told me, some of what he said about Royal made sense. The Court knew seeing dead people didn't necessarily make me a Seer and they thought I was some kind of mongrel to be kept in the dark about my ancestry. Royal was a member of the Court and as a Gelpha lord was bound by their laws. Maybe he'd have ignored the law, except he knew how I'd feel - I would spend the rest of my life yearning for the whole story, the who and wherefore. I could see him deciding to keep my identity to himself, knowing the truth would drive me crazy.
So far, so good.
Then Cicero enlightened him, and they planned to bring me here so my uncle could tell me the truth. Okay, I could see that too, at a stretch. If Royal thought my future lay in Bel-Athaer as a Seer who served his people, he might, just might, go along with it.
Except. . . . one thing still puzzled me. The cell phone. Why in the office?
And then I had it. I jumped to my feet and began pacing, back and forth beside the bed.
If the phone was left at my house, Jack and Mel would see who put it there. They'd tell me.
They'd tell me it wasn't Royal.
The person who put the phone in my desk drawer wanted me to think Royal left it. He couldn't do that in my house where my roommates would see him, as he saw them.
Dammit. Cicero or one of his minions left the phone. Cicero got Royal out of the way somehow, and planted the goddamn phone!
I swung around and grabbed up my Ruger. If you need anything or want to talk, my bedroom is across the way. Goddamn right I needed something. I needed to put a bullet in his goddamn. . . .
I stopped my feet as they took me to the door, stood with the gun hanging in my hand, sucking in deep breaths. Calm, Tiff, calm. Don't forget Lawrence.
The negative way in which Cicero spoke of Lawrence set my teeth on edge and my uncle was a bad man. He was Orcus, the Burning Man. Lawrence had reason to fear for his life. But I couldn't shoot the High House's Seer. Seers served the Gelpha for centuries; they would not believe me if I marched in and told them what their precious Seer was really all about. I needed proof.
You're an investigator, so investigate.
I put my gun on the bedside table. On impulse, I opened the tall closet. Two pairs of blue denim jeans. Two Tshirts, white and navy-blue. I checked the tags; all in my size.
And a long white robe, like Cicero's.
I sat again to unlace my boots and pull them off. Shedding the rest of my clothes on the way to the bathroom, I dropped them on a plastic stool in one corner. A tall mirror on the wall made me pause and gaze at my reflection. Hecate.
After using the commode, I turned the water on and adjusted the temperature before stepping in the shower.
Bliss.
Water pounded my head and dashed against my body as I unraveled my braid. I closed my eyes, turned my face up to the water and reached for the soap. As I lathered up, I went over what Cicero told me. My uncle and I were human with no superhuman abilities. Except, we saw dead people. How did he use that in his capacity as Seer to the High House? He denied he possessed other abilities, but did he? Abilities I did not?
I pressed my forehead to the smooth tile. What a fucking adventure. Watching people die in Dun Falmor. Attacked by assassins. I didn't expect any of this when I left Clarion with Gia and Chris. Certainly not finding an uncle.
I rinsed off, washed my hair and rinsed it twice. I got most of the water out but my hair continued to drip as I walked in the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed, toweled out more water and began the laborious process of brushing and braiding.
My rolled socks and underwear went in the backpack. Putting on clean underwear felt better than it ever had, and my clothes didn't reek, yet. I ignored the clothes in the closet.
Time to do a little investigating.
I sat for a while, giving Cicero plenty of time to settle down and fall asleep. Now I could think, try to fit the pieces together, wonder about which were missing. His words circled in my head. He told me so much, yet too little. I couldn't process all of it at the time. I still couldn't.
I began my search with the room, which yielded nothing. Paperback and hardcover books stuffed a long, tall bookshelf against the wall near the bed. The books, though, were printed in Chaldean. Titles on a stack of CDs next a small stereo system were the same, and I had no inclination to listen to music. Nothing in the bedside table's small drawer, or the king-size armoire.
Now to check out the rest of the place and be alert for trouble as I did. I doubted Cicero would let me go without a fuss if he knew what I thought of him and his plans for me. When I left, I might have to do it the hard way.
I smiled grimly. I might have to shoot him after all.
I tucked my Ruger in the waist of my jeans, Derringer in a hip pocket, found my lock picks and flashlight in the backpack and put my hoodie on. I didn't need it in the warm confines of Cicero's home, but it hid my guns.
Cautiously easing the door open a crack, I listened to the silence before stepping outside and closing the door behind me. Five wary paces took me across the corridor to Cicero's bedroom door. I stood for a long minute with ear pressed to the wood until I detected gentle snores from within.
We were alone, my Uncle and I, and he slept. Lacking a Gelpha's sharp hearing, he would sleep on if I didn't blunder into something and make a noise.
I went back along the passage we traversed to reach his suite. None of the doors were locked. Going through another suite of rooms took me longer than I liked and yielded nothing of interest.
Another room contained canned foodstuffs on shelves and dry goods in barrels on the floor. In another, twin rows of large filing cabinets. The files were handwritten in Chaldean, but I went through them, just in case.
I started back the other way an hour later, passing mine and Cicero's bedrooms. The passage swung right. I walked for half an hour and probably covered a mile. I was about to give up when I came to a wall. But not a dead end; the wall had been built across the passage, with a big door slap dab in the center.
I pressed my palm to the wall, then the door. Odd. Why a wall and door made of lead? Molding and putting them in place had taken some doing.
I smiled. Lock picks, flashlight, a standard lock, no problem.
I had to work at the door, but at least Cicero used old-fashioned locks in his home, not keypads. I don't know how to bypass a keypad, although Royal does.
I pulled the door shut behind me but didn't lock it. I stood in a tunnel of unevenly hewn gray rock walls; an arched ceiling curved above my head. The absolute silence and cool, dry, stale air made me think of old bones lying quietly in their grave. The drop in temperature brought on a shiver.
I walked on. The tunnel bore to the left and took me to a door of metal bars. I folded my fingers around two of the bars and pressed my face to them. Globes on the ceiling gave out a muted glow, barely enough light to lift the darkness. The wall appeared to change farther along; I saw a dull, metallic sheen.
I scratched my head. What the hell?
The lock was clean and well-oiled; it came open without protest.
I stared along the tunnel's length. The walls did change, to thick, dull metal bars. I stopped at the first bar and looked into a cell of bars on three sides, the rock wall in back making the fourth. The first in a row of adjacent cells, it was clean, bare of any furnishings and empty. An amber globe high on the back wall hardly penetrated the gloom. Hands on the bars, I half turned to see over my shoulder. This cell mirrored one on the opposite side of the tunnel and likely those beyond.
I went on. The floor seemed to absorb all but the slightest sluff of my boots heels. I passed the next empty cell, and reached one with an occupant.
At first, I didn't understand what I saw, until I pressed the button on my flashlight and directed the beam through the bars. It picked out the glitter of metallic hair.
The woman sat with her back to the stone wall, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. My light sheened over long violet hair which sparkled like a fairy's wings. She brought her hands up quickly as my flashlight dazzled her. I turned the beam up so it shone above her head. It still caught the glimmer of her hair.
I squatted, glanced back at the gate to make sure I had not been discovered, then back at the woman. She kept her hands cupped over her face, covering eyes, nose and mouth. Pale skin with a hint of color on face and hands. Eyes sparkled between her fingers.
"Hello," I whispered.
She didn't move.
"Can you hear me? My name is Tiff. Who are you, why are you here?"
She lowered her chin to her knees.
"Please, talk to me."
She shuffled to face the wall.
This woman was a prisoner. I fingered my lock picks. I could let her out, but I'd have to shoot her if she attacked me.
I stood slowly, knees creaking. More cells ahead on both sides. I turned to face the one behind me and saw movement.
Watching me, a male demon stood with his back pressed to the wall. I scuttled over there.
He shaded his eyes with his palm when my light fanned over him. The glow reflected the glint of his eyes and scintillating strands of hair, copper and gold. My heart leaped in my throat. "Royal?"
My heart slammed back into my chest. He was too lean to be Royal.
He, too, turned his back on me.
Then I got it. They took me for a Seer.
My voice sounded like a plea. "I'm a stranger; I'm not part of whatever's going on here. You can talk to me. Who are you? Why are you here?"
Useless. He would not turn to face me.
I sighed audibly and went on. The cell next his was empty. An elderly woman squatted in the opposite cell. Altogether I passed fourteen cells, seven on each side. Five were occupied. Five Gelpha who refused to acknowledge my existence.
Perturbed and not a little annoyed, I walked on.
The passage split. I went right, but decided to head back if it split again. That's all I needed, to get lost.
A huge wood gate blocked the passage.
Weariness dragged me down. I needed rest, and maybe Cicero rose from his bed early. I had another day before Gia's deadline and I meant to make the most of it. Maybe I could go through Cicero's office and sneak a peek at his laptop. I'd come back here tomorrow night.
A tall, gangling boy, all arms and legs, chubby cheeks and shy smile, Thomas ducked his head as he took my plate.
"Thank you, Thomas. Delicious. You are becoming quite the chef," my uncle told him.
"Thank you, Sire." Thomas lifted his head briefly to flash a smile. "The culinary books you brought are excellent."
Mexican today. Chicken enchiladas in green chili sauce with sour cream and diced green onions. Cicero had watched me while I ate in my kitchen; he knew my favorite foods.
It didn't taste the same. No doubt the basic ingredients available in Bel-Athaer differed from those on Earth. It was still good. Pity I didn't have an appetite.
The day about murdered my patience. I couldn't let my uncle know I found the Gelpha captives and putting on a bright face made my facial muscles ache.
Cicero attended to business after breakfast, so I was alone all morning. But when I opened his office door, Thomas had the laptop on his knees. He looked up with an inquiring smile.
I grinned back. "Just wandering, getting my bearings."
Damn and hell. I didn't dare prowl the passageways with Thomas nearby.
Cicero and I went to the village in the afternoon. It was a pleasant place, a little haven in the middle of barren scarps. We walked among slim trees with fresh green leaves. Pale grass on the outskirts reached my shins, whispering over my jeans like soft feathers. Metal rang on metal in the distance. Though I wasn't hungry, the aroma of freshly baked bread made my mouth water. Two larger one-level structures nearer the mountainside would be the dormitories. A few small, sturdy buildings sat beneath the trees. A cow lowed from inside a big barn. A rooster led eight hens across our path; he paused to ruffle his wings and squawk at us menacingly.
Cicero introduced me to his people, who came from the houses, and dormitories, the mill, workshops and whatever; perhaps two hundred men, women, youths and children. Some of those from the dormitories wore black, Ninja outfits minus hoods. Adult men and women were tall -- I'd say between six-two and six-six - and all had silver-white hair and pale-blue eyes. They wore their pale hair in various lengths and styles. None looked like me and Cicero.
They couldn't have been more obsequious. You don't act that way for love of someone, you do it from fear.
"Am I related to any of them," I asked as we climbed the terraces back up to the cave mouth.
"Distantly, as we all are. Regretfully, we are the last of our line." Cicero patted my shoulder. "We'll find a husband for you one day in the future. Perhaps you will bring more Seers into our family."
I couldn't believe he said that.
"They are from families allied to the High House. By tradition, they serve the Seer for five years, but many stay longer. Two here were aspirants."
"Ones who didn't make the cut?"
"Precisely."
I often shifted my gaze to the mountainside, but saw no indication Gia and Chris lurked up there. If they were here, they hid themselves well.
Now we sat at the table in the kitchen again. Thomas put small glass dishes in front of us. "Sorbet," he announced.
I spooned up the icy pink concoction, letting it melt in my mouth before it trickled down my throat. "Wonderful, Thomas."
Cicero stood, letting his napkin fall on the table. "I must return to my business of this morning. I'm sorry to leave you alone so much, but this was unexpected."
"That's okay, Unc." I swung my gaze to the sink. "I'll help Thomas with the dishes then go. . . . Is it okay if I take a wander?"
His expression momentarily tightened. "You may, but some areas are unsafe and others . . . you would do well to avoid until your training begins. You'll know when you come upon them."
I would not be here for any training. I had to meet Gia's deadline. I needed her to get me to the High House, or at least near it, as she couldn't show herself there. Proof or not, I determined someone would listen to me. I would be gone tomorrow.
The evening seemed interminable. Over hot tea and cookies, Cicero gave me a lesson on Gelpha politics, which seemed to be about who could gain what by betraying whom. He spoke of my parents and grandparents, but the telling was . . . clinical, a recitation of names and places. I wanted to know whether they wanted me, loved me; if my mother rocked me to sleep in her arms at night. But I couldn't ask.
Finally, he said goodnight and retired to his room. I sat on the bed for an hour. Despair unexpectedly made me sag. I learned so much, but not Royal's whereabouts.
I listened at Cicero's door before following the corridor.
Along the passage, through the door, the gate, I moved quickly down the tunnel, whispering to the men and women behind bars. They stood with their backs to me, shadows draping them. "Hello. It's me again. Have you seen a tall man with copper-gold hair? His name is Royal. Ryel Morté Tescién."
Spiders walked up my spine. My gut told me these people were illegally imprisoned, but I couldn't risk freeing them.
I wanted to shout at them, I mean you no harm, I am not a Seer! I left them reluctantly. If only they would talk to me.
The tunnel split again. How far did these tunnels go inside the mountain? Ample space to hide many secrets. The more I could unfold, the more I took to the High House. One thing, give me one solid piece of evidence.
Tension made my breath rasp. Had Cicero hidden Royal in the depths of the mountain?
Arriving at more wood doors, I pressed my ear to the first and heard nothing, but my nose detected a familiar odor.
The stink of decaying blood.
Images flashed through my mind: Royal's body splayed on a hard rock floor. My hand trembled as I worked on the lock. I dropped the pick twice. I pushed open the door and entered a short passage, and saw another gate of metal bars.
The room beyond was twelve by twelve at a guess. The fetor assaulted my nasal passages. A small round hole in one gore-stained wall let in a pittance of light. Old blood on the floor too, so much and so thick it formed ridges around a grate. A man hung in chains from the ceiling by his wrists, his feet inches off the floor. Long gray hair laced with jet hung in tangled, sweaty hanks. He wore a . . . well, I suppose it was underwear; it looked like a pouch on two pieces of string.
"Kill me and get it over with. I can't hang about here all day," he croaked, followed by a light laugh.
"Chris?"
"Tiff, is it you, my Sweet?"
"How did you get here?" I asked his crotch.
It twitched. My gaze shot up to find his eyes on me.
"The lengths to which I go, to bring that beautiful blush to your skin." His attempt at a smile became a wince.
I squatted to work on the lock.
"I feared for you and I've never seen a Seer, so I boldly marched in and demanded to see you. The man was charming."
"I bet," I grunted as I fought the lock's mechanism.
"I believe he was quite taken with me."
"So taken with you, he locked you away nice and safe."
A heavy sigh. "His men caught me with my pants down."
"Really."
"Yes, really. I was doing the necessary behind a rock when they came on me."
I had to press my lips together real tight. "Where was Gia?"
"Hiding."
Naturally. Don't tell me she couldn't whip out and put the whammy on Cicero's men like she did the hostel manager.
The tumblers cooperated. I came upright and pushed the door open. The room was empty but for Chris and a convenient chair. Tucking my lock picks in a back pocket, I made a face as I entered the room. I've walked in blood before. Believe me, it is not a pleasant experience and hell to get out the soles of your boots.
"You hesitate while I dangle?"
My gaze swept to where it should not. Dangle was not the word I'd choose.
Blood crumbled under my soles. Crime scene footies would have been nice. I lifted the chair by the back, took it to where Chris hung and positioned it on his right side. When I climbed on the chair and stretched to reach his wrist, we were a hairsbreadth away.
His scent washed over me, citrus and ginger with a hint of sweat and male musk.
Tongue protruding, up on my toes, I attacked the manacle. When it clicked open he dropped with a yelp to hang from one wrist, but he swung the other arm around my neck and managed to plant one foot on the chair.
His musculature, beneath silken skin, felt hard as granite. Silver-gray eyes gone languid gazed into mine; glassy hematite pupils pierced me. He licked his lips, long tongue slowly sweeping top and bottom.
I rolled my eyes. "You never give up, do you."
"I've never met such resistance. You are an enigma, Sweetling."
"Nope. A gal who knows a conman when she meets one. You wouldn't be interested in me were I interested in you."
I climbed off the chair and looked up at the manacle as I chew my thumbnail. This would take some maneuvering.
Chris had to hop up and down to keep his feet on the chair as I nudged it to his other side. I climbed on the chair and again we were closer than friendly acquaintances should be. Unlocking the manacles as his body pressed against me put obstacles in my proximity, tempting me to put my knee in his proximity.
But we made it to the floor and I helped him stagger from the room, clutching him around the chest as he clasped my shoulders.
We rested against the wall. "You can let go now," I suggested.
"I don't know how to show my appreciation, but give me time, I'll think of a way."
"I was looking for Royal." An idea snapped into place. "You came up!"
"Not quite." He looked sidelong at me. "But I'm sure with a modicum of encouragement. . . ."
"Asshole. I meant, Cicero said unexpected business came up. You were it."
His teeth flashed white. "How inconvenient of me."
"What happened to your clothes?"
"The intent is to demoralize. Take a man's clothes, he feels less of a man. Perhaps it has that effect on those who already lack confidence in their masculinity but I, on the other hand - "
Ducking from beneath his arm, I accidentally elbowed him in the ribs, nipping that conversation in the bud before it evolved into an oration of his manliness. "Let's go. I'm not through yet, but I'll show you the way outside. And we gotta be quiet when we get near my uncles apartment. If he sees us he'll - "
"Your uncle?"
"Cicero."
"That explains a lot!" he exclaimed as he walked through the outer door.
I tapped the sides of my boots on the wall. Ugly black flakes fluttered from my soles to the floor. "Does, doesn't it." I scowled. "Pity nobody told me earlier."
But he was no longer with me. I turned, and saw him a few paces down the tunnel. "Hey, you're going the wrong way."
He wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. "Cicero held me in a cell down here when they brought me in. When his men moved me to this delightful haven, we passed a door. You and I should take a look."
Anxious to keep moving, I jigged up and down on the balls of my feet. "There are a lot of doors here. Come on, Plowman!"
"Cicero came out with a tray as I was dragged past. He was smiling. For a moment, when the door was open, I felt. . . ." He jerked his head. "This way."
He walked away. I noticed his stint hanging from the ceiling had not impaired his fluid grace, and from the rear he appeared to be stark naked apart from a string around his waist. Men should not have buttocks that tight. Or calves.
I splayed my hand on the door's surface. "Why lead?"
Chris stood back. "We can't sense one another with lead between us. Petitioners do come to Cicero. He wouldn't want it known he has Gelpha under lock and key. I think he has an important guest in here, one he tends to personally."
"Royal." There went my heart again, pounding too fast.
"Only one way to find out."
The key must be large; the mechanism was big, and my lock picks were designed for smaller, modern locks. Sweat sheened my upper lip as the mechanism clicked.
Chris pushed the door open and we found ourselves in a lead-lined room, with another lead door ahead. Doors behind doors were all the rage here. I went to work on the lock. Chris stood behind me.
I climbed to my feet. I barely heard Chris say, "A kiss for luck?"
Not on your life, bud. I shoved the door open, so eager I could hardly breathe.
Disappointment made me step back into Chris.
A small round window in the lead wall provided ventilation, and candles on a battered desk and bureau gave off light which flickered in the draft caused by the door opening. Blankets heaped a single bed with metal head-and footboard. Small, the room held the bed, desk and bureau with space to walk between them. A cloth draped what looked like an old-fashioned commode in the corner. A tall demon wearing a tan ankle-length robe and dark-brown sleeveless over robe sat at the desk as he wrote on a sheet of cream paper, long deep-chestnut hair curtaining his face.
"Twice in one day?" the man said, voice laden with ennui. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Sire!" Chris said, and fell to his knees.
Huh? I never imagined the day when anything made Chris Plowman do that.
The man brought his head up and pushed his hair from his face with one hand. He frowned at Chris. "Who are you?"
Chris kept his head bowed. "Your humble servant, Sire."
He put his pen on the desk. "Indeed, yet you come here with her?"
The rancor in his voice had such weight, the blood left my face.
He rose and paced two menacing steps toward me. Bronze eyes shadowed by heavy brows regarded me coldly. "Get out. Take your man and go."
Chris' voice rose. "My Lord, you do us an injustice. We are here to liberate you."
"You hold your tongue. Do you think me so naïve I would trust a Seer?"
No wonder he hated me at first sight.
"A. . . ." Chris' gaze shot to my face. "You can't be a Seer. Seers are not half-bloods."
"It's a long story and we don't have time. I'll explain later."
Another pace and the man intruded in my personal space. "You are either very brave or very foolish. I know you have no true power."
He knew that about Seers? I brought my hand from my pocket. "No, but I have this."
"A little gun."
"This little gun is a double action Derringer. It carries two thirty-eights and I only need one to take you down."
His face twisted in a silent snarl, but he stayed put.
Chris had not got past the guy's earlier statement. "Seers don't have power? That's ridiculous. We've relied on their power for centuries."
"Yeah, and that's the problem." Carefully watching the tall, threatening figure, I toed Chris' hip. "Gonna tell me who this is?"
"I'm not sure."
"Then why are you groveling?"
A trace of the man I knew blossomed in his eyes. "I don't grovel, my Sweet. I pay homage." He tipped his head up to regard the towering demon. "You are too young to be Lawrence's grandsire."
The demon drew himself up. I was wired to the max, so maybe imagination made me think an air of authority wrapped him like a cloak. "I am Gryphon."
"Holy shit," I said to the High Lord of Bel-Athaer.
Chris flowed to his feet. "My Lord, you're making a mistake. If Tiff says she's no Seer, she is not."
"Pah! You think to deceive me?"
I blew out a frustrated breath. "Enough! I've lived my entire life on Earth. I discovered I'm Cicero's niece yesterday. He tricked me into coming here. I am not a Seer and never will be. I'm looking for my partner, Royal . . . I mean Ryel Morté Tescién. Your son Lawrence is in danger. Now will you listen or do I walk out and lock the door behind me?"
I saw him trying to process, but all he came up with was, "House Morté Tescién is my enemy."
"Royal left there to work for the High House a long time ago. He's loyal to Lawrence," I said.
"My Lord, you must listen!" Chris tried.
Gryphon sneered, his dark eyes glittering. "You disgust me, consorting with - "
Chris lost it. "Of all the pig headed. . . ." His voice dropped to a slow drawl. "How long have you moldered away in here? Obviously your brain has atrophied, old boy. We're trying to save your arse. And your son's. Your son is in danger. Do you know you have a son? Do you care?"
Gryphon's shoulders dropped. "Yes, I know my son is in danger."
We'd been here too long. "Chris, we're going."
"We can't leave him here."
"We can't force him to come with us either."
I lowered the gun and eased it in my hip pocket. Then I raised my hands to shoulder height. "We'll leave the door open. If you want to stay, that's your choice. Come on, Plowman."
I backed out. Chris' eyes flicked from me to his High Lord. Then he shrugged and came after me.
Gryphon watched us. I could see he had second thoughts from the way his eyes darkened, reflecting an inner turmoil. I didn't blame him for not trusting us.
He followed us out.
Chris and I pushed the door closed. I knelt to relock it with my picks. Gryphon watched, stance alert, doubtless poised to run. A large, powerful demon stood behind me, and that made me edgy. I doubted Chris could subdue him if he attacked us.
A few seconds to untie the small metal toggle from my hoodie. I pushed it inside the big lock and used a pick to work it down. The mechanism would jam when Cicero tried to open the door. If we managed to escape without detection, the Seer would not know Gryphon was gone till he got inside the cell. It bought us a little time.
"How do you know Lawrence is in danger?" Chris asked as we crept through the outer door and he shut it.
"Cicero told me his plans for Lawrence and delighted in the telling. At times, I think he keeps me alive only to torment me."
"How long has he held you?"
"He took me the day after Lawrence's birth."
I glanced up at the tall demon lord. "I thought you left before Lindy knew she was pregnant."
He grabbed my wrist. "You speak of Coralinda as if you knew her."
Eyeing him angrily, I wrenched my wrist from his grasp. "She came to me after she died. Lawrence was missing; she wanted me to find him and find him I did. If it wasn't for me and Royal, Lawrence would be dead, not High Lord of Bel-Athaer."
He dipped his head. "If so, you have my gratitude."
If so? Chris opened his mouth. I slit my eyes and shook my head. I didn't care if Gryphon disbelieved me and arguing was not worth my breath. Chris got the message. He glared at Gryphon but said nothing.
Gryphon shook his head slightly. "I held Lawrence in my arms. We were happy, Coralinda and I. I was born and raised in Cincinnati. I knew who I was; I had no interest in the High House. I anticipated an uneventful life with my small family. But the Seer. . . .
"The Seers have risen above themselves, they crave the power of a Lord. Of them all, none is more vicious and merciless than Cicero. He hungers for the High House and thus dominion over Bel-Athaer. He wanted to place someone he could manipulate on the Seat, but they must be a legitimate claimant. Who better than a true High Lord by right and blood, a young boy easily misled? But Lawrence is not a malleable child, he refuses to obey the Seer and therefore is his antagonist, not his ally. Now I am free, I will not let him die by Cicero's hand."
He cast a look at Chris. "You are fortunate as I to escape him. What he does to his captives, how he uses them . . . it sickens me."
The old blood in Chris' cell still stuck in the deep grooves of my soles. "That room is a torture chamber."
"Indeed. His captives endure unspeakable torment."
"Why does he do it?"
"For their secrets. If they die before speaking, he questions their spirits."
I stopped walking. "You're mistaken."
"He had me watch one such execution, the torture and the death. Then he appeared to question the corpse. He told me I should expect the same one day in the future."
My feet were rooted to the floor.
Until Dun Falmor, I saw only one Gelpha shade. Unlike the shades of humans, who seem to take their own sweet time materializing, Maud rose at the moment of death and lingered briefly. A violent death did not keep her here, nor that her executioner still lived. I thought those rules applied to all Gelpha shades, but the shades in Dun Falmor were still there some time after they died or we'd have seen evidence of the massacre. But, if like Maud, all rose seconds after they died. . . .
Like Maud, Cicero's victims rose immediately after being tortured and killed. Unlike Maud, they did not immediately pass over. I imagined them, confused, no doubt still terrified, reliving the last terrible moments of their life, their defenses down. Cicero batters them with questions. They reply.
Dun Falmor. When the villagers didn't give Cicero what he wanted, he had them killed and questioned their shades.
My shoulder hit the wall. I leaned into it, head turned to press my brow to the cool rock as the truth hammered me. My kind Uncle found me when I was three. He watched me, but didn't think I was what he needed, so left me in ignorance. Until I did something to make him believe I have what it takes to be a Seer.
I killed, and he thought I did so without compunction.
"Tiff." Chris grasped my shoulder and shook it. "I'm sure hearing your own flesh and blood is despicable is a blow, but we must keep moving."
The power of the Seers. They didn't predict the future, or see events outside their sphere of influence. They killed people for their secrets. "I swear I didn't know."
Another shake. "We'll talk about it later."
I pushed away from the wall. My lips felt numb. "Yes, you're right, let's get out of here."
I wished Cicero had left me alone to my life. He brought me here because he thought I was like him: cold, callous, merciless. Sourness rose in my throat.
We came to the cells, and the captives stood at the bars, hands grasping them, faces pressed to them so hard there would be welts. What did Cicero want with them?
Their voices ran the length of the corridor. "My Lord, my Lord," they sang as we stood at the first cell.
"We can't leave them here, but breaking them loose one at a time will take hours," I murmured.
Gryphon raised his voice, which didn't worry me as Cicero couldn't hear us in the depths of the mountain even if he were awake. "I wish nothing more than to return you to your homes and families, but time is short. I must quit this place before the Seer wakens and summons his people. But I will return with an army to free you."
"And from which pocket will you pull that?" Chris asked. He'd definitely gotten over his awe of Gryphon.
"I will ask my son. We can hie to Bon Moragh and back before morning if we leave now."
Yeah, they could, using demon speed.
"Surely you'll take the Seat?" Chris asked.
"No." Gryphon shook his head so his long dark-chestnut hair thrashed his shoulders. "Lawrence is High Lord. I hope he will accept my guidance and friendship, but I do not want the Seat."
"Hm," Chris hummed. "Are you up for the challenge? Boys his age are precocious as it is, and you'll pop in with, 'Hello, I'm your dad and I want to be your best friend.' May not go down too well, my Lord."
"It doesn't matter," I spat vehemently. I glared at Gryphon. "If you stay with Lawrence, you be his father, not his friend, his father."
Chris' brows arched. I scowled and walked away.
Gryphon said a few more words to his people, but I heard them as a murmur. I was unexpectedly, abruptly furious. I met plenty of kids in foster care whose parents decided to be best friends instead of parents, letting their kids do what they wanted even when it wasn't good for them; looking the other way, making excuses. Kids need rules, structure, balance and a whole lot of love and understanding.
Gryphon had the opportunity to be a father and give Lawrence everything I never had. He'd damn well better not throw it away.
I decided to leave the gate and door unlocked in the unlikelihood we had to beat a hasty retreat. You never know.
Knowing we approached the most dangerous leg of our escape, we three exchanged meaningful looks, then crept along.
I decided what to do. Meeting Gia's deadline was no longer an issue. I would go to the High House with Gryphon. I wanted to see their faces when the hereditary High Lord walked among them; although they'd never seen him before, they would know him, as Chris had. I wanted to see the councilors' awe. I wanted to see them cowed by a ruler way more powerful than young Lawrence.
"Chris, are you going home, or with Gryphon?"
I caught the edge of his smile. "I'm going to the High House. Wouldn't miss it for the world."
"I'm going with you."
He dipped his chin in his neck. "Not a good idea, my love."
I touched his arm. "You get to take me. I'll have to hang on to you, real tight," I whispered.
"Now that is an offer I can't refuse." He stopped, turned to me and opened his arms. "It will be my pleasure, Sweetness."
"Not here. Outside."
We neared the last corridor. "No more talking, okay? You and Gryphon head out. I'll get my stuff and be on your heels."
I didn't worry about their waking Cicero as they passed his bedroom. Demons move silently, as if their feet are winged.
And here we were. Chris blew a silent kiss in my direction. I rolled my eyes and opened the door to my room.
Inside, I grabbed my backpack off the couch and put my lock picks and flashlight in there. I was about to stuff my hoodie inside when I knew something was missing. I pulled my stuff out; down vest, underwear, the mini-products, lock picks, flashlight, the Ruger's shoulder holster. I couldn't find Lawrence's note. Maybe it fell out and got lost in the couch?
All the fat pillows left barely enough empty space in which to sit. I picked one up and hugged it to my chest as I moved the others, sliding my hand between and behind the seat cushions. I felt the brittleness of paper and pulled out the note.
Then I froze.
I brought the cushion to my face and inhaled deeply, the scent of sandalwood and amber.
I strode across the corridor holding my Ruger. I seethed, so enraged I risked bursting a blood vessel. Cicero lied to me. Royal was here. He sat on that couch, maybe slept in that bed.
Uncle and I were finally going to have that conversation and it would not be pleasant for one of us.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Royal knew his eyes were open yet he saw nothing. Had Orcus exacted revenge, blinding him as he may have blinded Joshua?
He closed his eyes and tentatively rubbed the lids. When he opened them again he saw a gray blur which slowly resolved into vertical lines.
He was in a cage.
He sat on an unyielding surface and he was naked.
He was cold. The instant he knew that, he began to shake uncontrollably. He clasped his hands and squeezed, but still he shook and his teeth chattered.
"Do not worry," a voice said. "It is an aftereffect of the narcotic. It will pass. Try to relax, Ryel."
He turned his head with effort, managed to say, "Darja?"
Bars on this side, too. And beyond them, bathed in the same dim, amber light which barely illuminated his cell, Darja squatted near the bars. Most of her long fading-salmon hair had loosened from the elegant chignon and feathered over her face and shoulders, leaving a small topknot which looked somewhat ludicrous. She wore a short, gray sleeveless shift which exposed her graceful neck and fell to her bare thighs. The low light refracted off her hair, creating a glow which illuminated her features.
At least she was more or less decently clad. Royal wore a leather clout, nothing more.
He shuddered violently. "They drugged me?"
"Relax, or your muscles will seize."
He tried, drawing in deep breaths, imagining his body loosening, starting at his toes, upward to his head. Warmth gradually crept into his limbs. His teeth stopped chattering. He could breathe properly again.
"How long?"
"Two days."
He delved in his muzzy memory and recalled coming partly awake several times; cool liquid sliding down his throat before he sank into oblivion again.
Now his vision had cleared he saw the totality of his predicament. Bars and a wall imprisoned him.
Darja came up from her squat and settled down again next to the bars which separated them. "What did you do, Ryel, to earn Orcus' ire?"
Royal inched over there. "I was a fool." He leaned back on the wall, let his skull rest on it. "Lawrence. . . ." He stopped - how much did Darja know? Could he trust her?
"Ah, Lawrence."
He felt a weight on his chest. "Is he well?"
Darja scooted back until she mirrored Royal, seated with her back to the wall. "I hope so, Ryel."
"Yet you fear not. What happened, Darja?"
"It began innocuously. Lawrence took an active part in Council meetings; he asked the right questions and made insightful suggestions. We were encouraged by his perception. All well and good, until the day he said no. He vetoed a proposal."
"It is his right." Royal frowned. "This proposal. . . ."
"Ah, therein lies the rub. Gareth presented it, but it came from Cicero. He wanted us to increase the national tax."
Royal considered the ramifications of increased taxes. Bel-Athaer was a feudal system, not a democracy. Each House cared for its own in the areas of commerce, travel, healthcare, and other necessities of modern life. It worked remarkably well. And each House owed fealty to the High House, which it provided with coin and manpower. In return, the High House settled disputes, financially bolstered lesser Houses when times were hard and stepped in during emergencies.
And times were hard. "Lawrence was right."
"Aye. The Houses would not stand for it, specifically those in the south, which only now begin to recover from the drought that took their crops last summer. Our tenuous peace would not last." Darja smiled. "But can you picture our faces, Ryel? A Seer's proposals are not queried, much less vetoed. And here our young High Lord did exactly that.
"Gareth reminded Lawrence the proposal came from Cicero, which made it more an order than a suggestion. Lawrence said he did not care."
She sighed deeply. "A month later, he did it again. He came to me not long after, convinced some person meant him harm. There were accidents and near-accidents. Lawrence's filly collapsed as he rode. An autopsy found oleander in its stomach, and it was thought some well-meaning child fed the horse over the paddock fence. The rail on his balcony had come away from the foundation, but he saw it before he made the mistake of leaning on it. He slipped when descending a stairwell and only his valet's quick thinking saved him from a nasty, perhaps deadly fall. We found common cooking grease on the step.
"We increased Lawrence's security detail, but he became unhappy and nervous. Then he came to me again. He said the Burning Man paid a visit. He made subtle but unmistakable threats. We called the Council." She shook her head. "How could we have been so naïve?"
"What happened?"
She shook her head again, dropped it on her bent knees so he had to lean into the bars to hear her words. "The meeting lasted for hours until we were exhausted. None dared call Lawrence a liar, but some tried to persuade him he was mistaken. He remained adamant. We went around in circles and decided to reconvene the next day." She lifted her head to meet his eyes. "And the next day, Orcus summoned us to the Chamber and accused me, Haddon, Carlylse, Veron, Worscht and Brismal of treason. We were arrested and brought here."
"But not Gareth and Imeld. What was their position?"
"Imeld was uncharacteristically reticent. Gareth's input was, basically, we trod on dangerous ground and should proceed with care." A slight hitch of her shoulder. "I cannot believe they are collaborators."
"Gareth?" Royal snorted lightly, shifted his weight. "Never. His dedication to the High House is legendary."
He knew little of Imeld, but he did know Gareth and had for many a long year. Gareth was his mentor when he came to the High House. Gareth had somehow avoided arrest. Lawrence had one ally in the High House.
Weariness seeped into Royal's bones. Did what had happened with the Council matter if he could not escape his prison? He had never bowed to defeatism, yet the bars were solid and Orcus held the key.
"Lawrence made me proud, Ryel," Darja went on. "He showed such spirit. Publicly confronted by the man who threatened him, he did not quail. He demanded proof of the Council's treachery. Orcus said it was not what we had done, but what we would do. He said our actions would rip Bel-Athaer apart. His predictions have never been wrong. Lawrence had no choice but to consent."
Royal frowned fiercely. "Do our Seers acts against our best interests?"
"Not only they. Every Seer in Bel-Athaer grasps at power and has for decades, and our people suffer at their hands. What Cicero told us is most illuminating. He is one to gloat. He has ruled the High House from behind the scenes since the High Lady died. He cannot control Lawrence as he wishes, so plans to get rid of the boy and rule openly."
"Cicero and Orcus are cohorts," Royal said, stating the obvious. Although Cicero was a Seer in his own right, he could not match the Burning Man's power. As Orcus' trusted right-hand man, he spoke on his master's behalf, conveying his advice to the High House. Orcus appeared when dire circumstances required his personal attendance. The two had worked together since Cicero's inception.
Darja released a small, bitter laugh. "They are one and the same, Ryel. Two personas of one man."
Shock leached some of the color from Royal's face. Then, as he digested Darja's revelation, his eyes became stormy. We thought the High House ruled Bel-Athaer, when all along it has been one man. Rage scoured his throat like acid.
"How long have you known?" he growled.
"When he brought us here." Her hand curled around a bar. "Seers have ever been mysterious, feared creatures. As Cicero he is a friendly, sympathetic figure, and if those he questions do not respond, the Burning Man steps in. Orcus wields awe and terror as a weapon."
Royal's hands clasped his upraised knees, fingers digging in flesh, feeling bones beneath. Fury etched his face into a semblance of his features, a taut mask humans would call demonic. "He is not the first Burning Man. My father spoke of one, and my grandfather. Has it always been this way, one man posing as two? Why does no person know of this . . . perfidy?"
"We never suspected." Darja made a sound of disgust. "Cicero said only High Lords and Ladies are privy to the secret, but Lawrence is the first in over fifty years with no one alive to tell him. To him, Cicero is a benign advisor, the Burning Man a creature he should rightly fear."
Royal made to speak, but a sound caught his attention. Voices? He stiffened. Yes, voices, faint but unmistakable. And one of them. . . .
He shot to his feet and launched his body at the bars. He roared, "Tiff!"
"Ryel, what is it?"
He spun and walked back to the wall. "Tiff is here. I heard her."
He pushed from the wall, propelled himself across the small space and rammed his shoulder into the bars. The limb went numb at first but pain soon seared through it.
"These tunnels extend for miles, they are a labyrinth. Sound is distorted. You are mistaken."
"No." Royal readied himself. "Tiff is why I came, Darja. The Burning Man wants her, she is his niece, a full-blood Seer."
He ran into the bars again. And again.
"Stop! Ryel, you will injure yourself!"
Darja stood at the bars which separated them, hair falling in a tumble to partly obscure her face. Royal's gaze went to the small topknot still secured on her head. He showed his teeth but it was not a smile. "Darja, you have something I need."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I would spontaneously combust if I didn't cool down. I needed all my wits about me. I stopped outside Cicero's door and pulled myself together.
I tapped on the door. "Uncle, are you there?" Uncle, dear, come out so I can knock you to next Sunday. I needed him in the passage where I had room to move with nothing to get in the way.
Heavy snores rumbled inside the room, so I rapped harder. "Uncle! I need to speak to you!"
The snoring changed to grunts and unintelligible words.
"Uncle!"
"Hecate? Is that you, child?"
"Can you come out here? I need an urgent word."
Shuffling, then the door opened. Bleary-eyed, Cicero wore black silk pajama bottoms; long silver-white hair in two braids hung down his naked chest.
Not giving him time to marshal his thoughts, I said urgently, "Can you come with me?"
Brow creased, he joined me in the passage. "What is wrong, my angel?"
I took my arm from behind my back and aimed the Ruger. "Where's Royal? What did you do with him?"
"Ryel? But as I - "
I moved in and clipped him alongside the head with the barrel.
He staggered back to the wall, hand going to his head. His expression was a picture.
I imagine my expression was quite something, and my voice was a low growl. "Don't lie to me! I didn't even break the skin and it's nothing to what I'll do if you keep it up."
His eyes went cold. "You are ill, Hecate. Return to your room and we'll talk further in the morning."
"The name is Tiff, and you'll answer me or be in a whole heap of pain." My eyes were cold as his. "I know Royal was here."
His hand dipped in his hip pocket and came out with a small metal box.
I skittered back. He took one pace forward.
"Don't do it," I warned.
He smiled unpleasantly. "I am disappointed, Hecate. I had such high hopes for you."
Call me mad, cruel, bitter, but don't call me unfeeling. I had feelings, loathing for this man and what he'd done. Anger, but not the hot ire of moments ago; this was cold, calculating. He'd tell me what I needed to know. I'd make him.
"I see," I said, and shot him in the kneecap.
The crack seemed to rattle the mountain, but it was my shaken equilibrium protesting the noise. Blood and gristle exploded from his leg. Darn. Now I had blood on my jeans as well as in the soles of my boots.
Cicero screamed and collapsed. The stun gun hit the floor; I kicked it away.
He sat against the wall. I stood over him as he stared at his bloody, shattered knee and whimpered.
"Tell me where Royal is or I'll give you a matching set."
He lifted a terrified, tear-dappled face, opened and closed his mouth. He couldn't speak. I intuited this was the first time someone hurt him, the first serious pain he ever felt.
I didn't recognize my voice, so cold and heavy I wonder the words didn't freeze and drop like slugs of lead as they came out my mouth. "Shock takes the edge off, but you'll know what pain feels like in a minute or two." I shifted my aim. "Tell me, or I swear I will shoot."
"I did not summon Ryel, I don't know why he came. Nonetheless, his arrival here was opportune," he gasped urgently, words tripping over one another. "With him in my hands, I devised a plan to lure you here. I took his phone, planted it and sent the text."
"Yeah, I already figured most of that out. Then what?"
His eyes glinted cruelly. "I had him taken away, to a place you will never find. He's lost to you, niece. You will never see him again."
I had my gun at shoulder height, pointed at the ceiling. Now I brought my hand down and shot his foot. Blood sprayed one leg of my blue jeans. I didn't flinch.
"He's here!" he shrieked as he squeezed his thighs together, as if that would stop a bullet. He jerked his head. "Down there, there are cells. The keys are on the table beside my bed."
"Did you hurt him? And before you answer, know every lie will be another bullet in your hide."
"He is unharmed, I swear."
I believed him. He didn't possess the inner resolve to lie while in that much pain. My legs felt weak as relief almost downed me. Royal was somewhere in the depths of the mountain.
I wanted to tear off immediately, but had to secure Cicero. He was going to the High House with me. And I had a question for him, one I needed to ask while we were alone.
He sobbed quietly now. For a moment the sound and his agonized expression tugged at my heart. I reminded myself this man did worse to his victims than shoot them in the foot.
I hunkered down. "All you Seers, do you operate in the same way, kill people to get their secrets and pretend you're prophesying?"
His voice was rusty with pain. "Yes, every one of us."
"Even. . . ?" The words stuck in my throat. I had to clear it and try again. "Even my parents?"
He nodded.
I felt ill all over again. My parents were killers, like Cicero and every Seer in this goddamned world.
I would not contemplate it now. I stood, wondering what I could use to tie up Cicero.
"What are you going to do with me?" he croaked.
"You're going to the High House with me, Plowman and Gryphon."
He blanched. "You have Gryphon?"
"Yeah. You see, I already looked around your little paradise and found a few things people will want to know about." I stepped around him, but not near enough he could grab me. The keys first, then something to tie him.
"Niece," he whispered.
I met his eyes and didn't care for what I saw in them; they were alight, and a pained smile tightened his mouth.
"Before you take me to the High House I would have you know something more of our history."
"Go on," I said warily.
"When I told you of Bel-Athaer, the Mothers and our ancestry, I knew you made assumptions and reached erroneous conclusions. I chose not to enlighten you for the time being. Your feelings for Gelpha and Mothers made me wonder if my disclosure, on top of everything else, would traumatize you. I felt sure, if I could keep you here, we would bond to the extent you would be more receptive. You were not ready for the truth then, but you shall know now."
My mouth went dry. I got that I really don't want to hear this feeling again. He seemed too pleased with himself, satisfaction clearing the haze of pain from his eyes.
He spoke deliberately; he didn't want me to miss one word. "Listen carefully. I told you the Mothers found and bred us. I let you believe they took us from Earth, fresh meat for their experiments. Not so - our forefathers were already here. The Mothers became aware of an anomaly in their breeding plan, failures, a new hybrid strain more human than their Gelpha children. They did not glitter, their teeth were square. They had not the speed and strength of Gelpha, the ability to confuse the minds of others. Without fail they were tall, pale skinned, white-haired and blue-eyed. We were gathered together and held, segregated from our brethren while the Mothers studied us. They discovered these children had a unique ability. Some of them could see the dead."
In a heavy silence, a sound escaped my lips, a low note of denial. I felt as if I'd been kicked in the gut.
He nodded, self-satisfied, drinking in the moment, enjoying my response.
My mouth came open; I couldn't seem to bring my lips together.
Gia's laughter belled in my head as I told her, I don't want your blood in my veins.
You understand so little, Miss Banks.
Dagka Shan snaked toward me, head jogging side to side. I have never seen your kind before.
We were demons? I was a demon? And not any old demon, a deficient one, a failed experiment. Even the mighty Mothers couldn't get me right.
I can find you, wherever you are, Royal once told me. I thought he meant we had a bond which drew him to me, but he sensed me as he did other Gelpha, because I was one of them.
"We are not human, Hecate. Any morsel of humankind we retained bled from our veins long ago," Cicero continued, voice heavy with malice. "We are Gelpha, dear niece."
His spite cleared my head. I glared at him ferociously. I refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how I felt. I didn't know how I felt. My mind was not capable of dissecting his announcement.
I pushed away the numbness trying to take over my brain and faked a laugh, shrugged. "Well isn't that typical. I get to be an alien without the benefits. Super strength would come in handy right now, so I could twist you into a pretzel."
I bent over him, chuffed out another laugh, spoke low, my jaw so tight it ached to speak. "You sadistic bastard. Is that your best shot?"
"Tiff!" Royal said.
I straightened as if invisible strings attached to my skull yanked me upright and twirled me on my toes. There he was, wearing nothing but a fearful scowl and a ridiculous little pouch. In a situation electric with tension, Royal naked was still enough to make my head spin. My gaze zeroed in on how the small piece of leather barely contained him. Then I saw the ugly, discolored splotches on his shoulders and arms. He was pale, the skin around his eyes dark, as if bruised.
I turned on Cicero, finger tight on the Ruger's trigger. "You said he was okay."
"I did it to myself, trying to escape the cell." Royal said.
My lip curled. "He just saved your ass," I snarled at Cicero.
You know those scenes where a man and woman joyously run to each other and everything slows down? Not Royal and I. He blurred, and we slammed together with such force, my bones felt the impact.
His fingers were in my hair, tracing the contours of my face, circling my neck, closing on my shoulders, sliding to my waist. "Tell me he did not hurt you."
"I'm okay," I murmured into his hair as I held tight to his shoulders.
He went still. His hand rested on my arm below the bandage. "Your arm!"
I could do nothing other than grin. When I was a kid, a stepmom told me if I made a face for too long it would freeze that way. I could cope with wearing a grin for the rest of my life if Royal were with me. "It's nothing. I'll tell you later."
He kissed me, and the ground dropped away from my feet. Royal and I, lips and tongue, suspended in a void, clinging. We were together again, and nothing mattered beyond that.
He eventually put me back on my feet. As I had countless times before, I let his strong arm take my weight, knowing he would not let me fall. His warmth bathed my skin.
"How did you escape?"
He grinned, brought his other arm up and brandished two long hairpins before my eyes. "After I all but battered myself unconscious, I noticed Darja had these."
"The councilor?"
"We have to get her out, Tiff. Get all of them out."
"We could have a bit of a problem there, my friend," Chris said from behind us.
I turned in Royal's arm to see Chris and Gryphon, and Cicero. The Seer had dragged himself along the floor toward the outside, until Chris and Gryphon blocked his escape.
"We heard a firearm," Gryphon said.
"That would be me," I said brightly. At that moment, I didn't care if I was human or other, what my parents were, how Cicero tried to use me. I cared only that Royal was here, safe, with one arm curled around me.
We joined them. Cicero had not gotten far; he lay on his face at the end of a bloody swath which made a trail from his bedroom door.
Royal saw the stun gun. His body tensed with anger, then he picked it up and threw it at the wall. The small box came apart and fell in two distorted pieces. He put his arm around me again, but his heat did not banish the chill which swept over me and doused my elation.
He thought I defended myself, and I'd never tell him I cold-bloodedly shot my uncle to get what I wanted from him. I couldn't bear to see disappointment in Royal's eyes.
"People are coming from the village. They heard gunshots," Chris said.
We could stay and fight, but could we take down all of Cicero's people? We could zip out of here, but his men would go crazy when they found their Seer gone and blood outside his bedroom.
"We can't leave the captives to them."
"We have no choice," Gryphon spat.
We needed that army Gryphon meant to recruit.
Tiff, you can be so dense. We had a cave full of demons and I knew where Cicero kept the keys to their cells. I focused on Gryphon. "Your Lordship, you don't have to find an army, we already have one."
Including Gryphon, fifteen Gelpha wearing bits and pieces of Cicero's clothing stood on a broad ledge overlooking the valley. I suppose turning up at the High House wearing next to nothing would cause a stir.
Fifteen! Or sixteen if I included myself.
While Chris and Royal moved deeper into the mountain, I got what I needed from Cicero's suite. I had a plan, but whether I could bring it off was another matter.
Two more demons, a young woman with curling ginger hair and a white-haired, black-eyed teen boy came from the cave mouth and made their way down to where we stood.
I didn't see Gia, but I'd bet my last cent she was still here, watching to see how her scheme played out. I wanted to talk to her, but she wouldn't come here while demons surrounded me.
I wandered over to a crevice not far from the cave mouth with the idea of slipping inside. It was another slot canyon, the bed not much wider than my body if I kept my arms tight to my sides, and it led upward.
Gia could come to me up there, if she wanted to.
I looked over my shoulder. Gryphon watched me.
"Gotta go do the necessary."
He frowned. "Can you not use the facilities inside?"
"I wouldn't go back in there if you paid me."
I guess he bought it. He didn't stop me when I slipped inside the canyon.
It was rough going, the incline became steeper, twisting this way and that, and pebbles and tiny stone chips rolled under my boots. The air felt like the inside of a furnace. After traipsing for five minutes, I knew I had to go back soon or someone would come looking for me.
The canyon abruptly opened out and I stood on a ledge, the mountain at my back, the valley spread before me. I wiped my face with my sleeve and ran my fingers through sweat-damp hair.
It was a dead end. The ledge appeared to continue between two mountain spurs, but a giant boulder stoppered the gap.
Gia stood on the boulder. She leapt to the ledge and came toward me.
I scowled. "Hello Mommy dearest."
Then I was elsewhere. Gia let go of me, I fell on my butt and it hurt. Flustered, I grabbed for an anchor and clutched handfuls of moss.
Old aspen and pine towered above us. We were in a tiny, mossy, shaded glade through which a rivulet trickled over smooth white pebbles. Lovely place for a picnic but not one to land in on your backside. Gia leaned on a tall sapling.
"Sorry about that," she said, not sounding so. She tapped one finger on the side of her head. "Gelpha super-duper hearing, remember? Do you want them to know I'm here?"
"Thanks for the warning before you whisked me off to Never-Never Land."
Releasing the moss, I heaved to my feet and rubbed my backside. My voice soured with sarcasm. "So you didn't know Cicero is also the Burning Man? Tsk tsk. You out and out lied, about everything."
Her lips twitched. "You have never told a lie, Miss Banks?"
I'm no angel, I've lied. But they were little lies and hurt no one. I don't understand how anyone can look you in the eyes and blatantly lie about something which majorly impacts your life.
"Not over something this important." But I let it go; she wouldn't debate ethics. I glanced around the glade. "Where the hell are we?"
"Where they cannot hear us."
She pursed her lips, watching me speculatively. "Mommy dearest? I take it Cicero told you."
Something in the region of my heart lurched. Although she had lied and connived to get me here, my gut told me she didn't lie now. Those few words made Cicero's disclosure immutable.
"You appear to be taking it well. Or are you? You are difficult to read at times, Miss Banks."
"I'm trying not to think about it."
She folded her arms, bent her head and studied her booted foot. "You are what you are."
"Did you know since the beginning?"
"The day we met? Not immediately. You piqued my interest, so I watched you and discovered I was not the only one. I can put two and two together. Finding your connection to Cicero took a little longer."
"But you could have told me a long time back," I said through my teeth. "You planned this all along. You know what I am, what Cicero wanted from me, that I'd not go along with it. It's why you were in Clarion and agreed to bring me here, why you took me to Dun Falmor so I'd see what kind of man my uncle is, what he's capable of. It's why you used the bike. You could have demoned us to Cicero in a flash, but you wanted an excuse to stop at the village. How long have you waited to bring the Seers down? You couldn't do it yourself; who'd believe a Dark Cousin, a Mother, rather than their Seer?"
She maneuvered me right from the beginning. The package with her return address so I knew she was in Clarion, conveniently at hand to help me. The business card with her phone number. Give me a reason, Miss Banks . . . so I thought I had to talk her into it. Did the reason I gave surprise her?
"Something had to be done. The Seers manipulate the Gelpha, pitting House against House. Not only Cicero, every Seer in this land. But Cicero wanted more, to rule Bel-Athaer through the High Lord. You were perfect. I knew your sensibilities would not let you walk away once you knew the truth."
"Did Chris know about this? He turned up on his bike at the right time." I blinked. "You knew he listened outside your apartment. You went after him. Either you asked him to come along or he talked you into it."
"Nobody talks me into anything, Miss Banks."
"He whisked the assassins out the hostel before I could rip off one of those masks and see they looked like me. You didn't want me to know before Cicero told me. I had to hear everything from him so there could be no mistake, no suggestion you influenced me."
Another thing Gia's good at is changing the subject. "You mean to fight the villagers?"
I shook my head. "Just make them think twice about coming up here till we can get everyone out, then we'll zip off to the High House."
"Don't fail me."
Was that a threat? "Or what?"
She got in my face and said softly, "Or I will be very disappointed."
And I was back, head spinning, trying to keep my balance so I didn't fall and bruise my already tender posterior.
I walked back to the cave, pondering what I meant to do when we got to the High House.
Gryphon was watching for me. I flashed him a smile.
Royal and Chris came from the cave supporting another, blanket-wrapped demon. Sadly, not wanting to spare the time to find their clothes - if Uncle had not destroyed them - they had also helped themselves to Cicero's. Royal is broader than the Seer, so the white muslin shirt and sleek navy pants fit very snugly. Chris could be a buccaneer in a white silk shirt open to his navel, sleeves billowing at his wrists, shiny brown leather pants tucked into black, thigh-high leather boots.
The other demon wrestled free and rushed straight at me. I tensed, but relaxed when I recognized him. The next second, he threw himself on me. The short, slender demon draped over me, arms around my neck. He loosed a sob into my ear and shuddered.
I had forgotten Lawrence asked me - ordered me - to find Gorge. I patted his back, spat out a strand of long, bright golden hair. "Calm down, Gorge. You're safe now."
"Pull yourself together, old fellow," Chris said.
Gorge shuddered again. "Awful. It was just awful, Tiff. I didn't think I would get out alive."
"I suppose Cicero kidnapped you because you're close to Lawrence." I eased Gorge's arms from my neck. He was an acquaintance, not a bosom buddy. I don't know why he hung all over me as if hugging a life preserver. "He thought you have too much influence."
Gorge rolled his eyes as he tugged the blanket back around his shoulders. "As if. His little lordliness goes his own way and nothing I say makes a difference." He suddenly dropped his blanket to knuckle my shirt. "Is he all right?"
Gorge resented Lawrence ordering him to Bel-Athaer, but he loved the boy, as Lawrence loved him.
"He's fine, Gorge." I opened his fists and pushed him away. Gorge, like Royal and Chris before they commandeered Cicero's clothes, wore next to nothing. I tried not to focus on Gorge's package. "Pick your blanket up. With your thin skin, you'll get cold."
Heat beat at me and I wished the breeze would return. I felt heavy all over.
Bound hand and foot, gagged and wrapped in his bed sheet, Cicero lay behind us. Royal had bandaged his foot and knee so he would not drip blood.
I felt a tiny pang. If only he was the uncle I wanted him to be.
Cicero's black-clad warriors watched us from the valley bowl. Other villagers lingered near their homes. If they weren't certain something bad happened to their Seer before, they were now, with Gelpha lined up outside the cavern, looking down on them.
Royal spread his arms.
I grinned at Chris. "Sorry, old chap. Maybe next time."
Royal's arms closed on me.
"Yes, another time, Sweetness," Chris said as Royal demoned me away.
Did I imagine the bitter sting of regret in his voice?
"The Seer does not zoom in," Royal said.
"He can't, can he. What does he do, drive here?"
"He comes on foot, like everyone. I imagine someone drops him off."
"What about when he masquerades as Orcus?"
"I don't know. He appears in the House and summons who he wants to meet, then dismisses them. I hear the High House is riddled with hidden passages."
"Or Cicero comes, and Orcus magically appears. I don't imagine the Seer is followed if he wanders around. He goes to where he wants to receive whomever, lights up, and calls for them."
"You could be right."
"Why is it always so freaking hot here?" I pulled the cloak's neck away from my skin.
Royal, Gryphon and I had discussed how we could get inside the High House without a fight. They eventually came around to my way of thinking. Naturally, Royal didn't like my plan. He wanted to zip me back to Clarion, but I was adamant.
We made a procession as we walked along the lane to the High House. I led, and everyone else followed. Gryphon wore a special, lead-lined hooded cloak he took from Cicero's apartment. He had used the cloak before. Cicero made him wear it when the Seer took him captive. He seemed to disappear when Cicero smuggled him to his lair and the cloak shielded him from other Gelpha. They did not sense their High Lord move among them on his way to Burch Mountain.
Cicero folded over one of Royal's broad shoulders, an anonymous bundle that didn't bother to twitch and groan anymore. He'd worn himself out.
I wore Cicero's white cloak and kept my head down.
No Gelpha on the grass this time, but a few loitered at the entrance. Seeing them, Royal made a noise in his throat.
"Guess this is it, huh?" Nervous as all get-out, I tweaked up one side of my mouth in a pseudo smile. "Okay. Here goes."
More demons stood in a knot at the open doors when we reached them. I kept my head down and strode at them, and they parted to let us through. No sound broke the thick silence in the huge reception hall. We walked to the staircase and no one tried to stop us. Even though Royal came behind me with a blanket-wrapped object over his shoulders. Even though a tall figure in an enveloping black cloak walked behind Royal, and behind him came nineteen demons, eighteen of them disheveled and one swaggering in his pirate outfit. Even though six of them were banished from the High House.
Eyes lowered, the demons fell back in short order. They mistook me for Cicero.
I went upstairs slowly, measuring my pace so I didn't appear to be in a hurry, or fall over the edge of those goddamned steps. Lawrence had better be in the Council Chamber. I didn't fancy traipsing all over the High House looking for him. And maybe the Seer should magically know the young High Lord's whereabouts.
We came to the doors; I pushed them open and went in.
Lawrence and his councilors had been warned. Hair glittering in golden light cast by the multilayered chandelier, they waited stiffly in their formal wear: bright, perfectly tailored and bejeweled pants and waistcoats over shimmering shirts, with jeweled sandals or pumps. Even Gareth, who I was accustomed to seeing in sharply tailored suits, and once in jeans and sweater, wore a lavishly embroidered and jeweled, blue and teal waistcoat, the pattern of a peacock's plumage, and loose navy satin pants. Lawrence, in pearly cream tights and a short burgundy-red jacket, feet in low, cream suede boots, stood in front of his chair, his advisors beside theirs. No plates and glasses on their little tables this time.
Gareth's lids flickered a few times but his expression remained neutral. The others were not as controlled. They gaped at my entourage.
Lawrence's eyes widened with delight and relief when he saw Gorge, but he held his position.
White-gray-haired Imeld nervously cleared her throat. "I don't understand, Sire. Why do you bring the traitors before us?"
Darja came forward. "We were never traitors."
A stocky demon all in black, mulberry hair in a hundred tiny braids, said, "Gareth, do you know what is going on?" His eyes seemed to flash red as he glared at Darja.
Gareth joined his hands at his waist. "I am sure the Seer will explain," he replied smoothly.
I caught a pointed look from Royal from the corner of my eyes. Oh, shit. You're on, Tiff.
I pushed the hood back.
Gareth's eyes became slits. "What is this? Where is Cicero?"
The white cloak was not an ordinary piece of clothing. The material felt slick where it had been treated to provide a reflective surface. I pressed the button in my palm to activate the silent projector. Flames flickered to life and swept up me until I became a tower of flame.
I enjoyed the councilors' expressions, they were so varied. Except Gareth, who continued to stare through half-open eyes.
A second later, "It's a trick!"
"Where is the Seer?"
"How dare you!"
I cast my eyes down and saw my body inside the flames. Looking through them, my view was a little distorted. The demons saw a pillar of flickering blue/white fire.
I had one hell of a time getting the contraption properly wired. The projector looked peculiar on my lace-up winter boots; I threaded a shoelace through to keep it there. I couldn't move my feet or let the robe's hem flap over my boot. I'd blink on and off like Christmas lights.
I pressed the button. The flames died.
I don't know who said what. I waited for someone to make the move I expected. I hoped Imeld would be the one, but a slim, blond demon came at me. Well, not at me. He tried to sidestep, but I reached out and zapped him in the chest.
I pressed the stun gun against him as his eyes rolled up and he twitched like a marionette. I never used a stun gun before and didn't want to do him any permanent damage, so I let him go after five seconds. But five seconds is a long time to have electricity course through your body. He collapsed to his knees and kind of hung there, looking at the floor.
"Yes, it's a trick," I said. "A trick your Seers have been using I don't know how long." I pointed the stun gun at my boot. "The flames are a projection and this little tool gives you a nasty jolt."
"Lies!" Imeld dramatically cried to the ceiling. "You use human technology but the Seers' power is real."
I didn't raise my voice. "Bullshit. I'm Cicero's niece, by your reckoning a full-blood Seer and I know he pulled the wool over your eyes; he showed me. Seers have no powers. They can speak to the dead; that's where they get the information they pass off as some arcane foreseeing, if they can't torture it from the living."
The ex-councilors moved to bunch around me. "It is true, Imeld," Darja said.
"Naturally you support her, we expect nothing less," the stocky demon responded.
Royal bent to lay Cicero on the floor, from about three inches above. The Seer groaned as he made contact. Royal went on one knee and peeled back the sheet. As the Council watched, aghast, he ripped Cicero's gag off.
He surveyed them with angry eyes. His tone sent shivers over my shoulders. "Here is your Seer. Ask him to raise the fire now."
Cicero closed his eyes.
Royal stood. "He imprisoned me, as he did my friend," he said as he canted his head at Chris. "He takes our people and tortures information from them. He took your loyal councilors and replaced them with his sycophants. He wants your Seat, My Lord."
Lawrence walked from among his councilors until he faced me. "Cicero and Orcus are one and the same?"
"Your advisors will confirm there have been two Seers at the High House since your great-great-grandsire's time. But there was only one, posing as two," Royal said.
Lawrence cast his gaze at Cicero. "He's powerless?"
"Smoke and mirrors," I said.
Imeld's red satin pants billowed around her ankles as she closed the distance which separated us. "Do not listen to her, my Lord," she said urgently.
A haunted look came into the boy's eyes.
I whispered. "Trust me."
His head came up. He eyed Imeld imperiously, then raised his voice. "The Seers misled us, they're tricksters."
She grabbed Lawrence's wrist and spoke low. "You will tear Bel-Athaer apart. Your people love their Seers. They will hate you for this."
Love their Seers? No, they feared them. I hissed, "Don't you get it? Seers aren't oracles, they are cold-blooded killers."
Head down, Lawrence said softly, "Unhand me, Lady."
It was as if the eight-year-old stepped back and the High Lord of all Bel-Athaer came forward. Again, I recalled the time Royal and I came here with Gia and Daven. Lawrence looked them up and down and said, "I have heard of the Dark Cousins. I thought them tales to scare young children." He used the same tone: cool, unemotional, but with a knife-edge of power.
Imeld dropped his wrist and backed away without another word.
"Enough," Gryphon said. Removing his cloak, the tall demon came forward. He stood before them, glimmering eyes piercing as an eagle's. He bowed to Lawrence. "I bear witness. These creatures you call Seers are murderers and charlatans. They care nothing for your subjects, only for power and privilege. I know this because Cicero Bon Moragh held me against my will these past eight years."
The councilors dropped. Their knees smacked the floor. A few groaned.
Only Gareth sank down gracefully and quizzically eyed Gryphon.
Lawrence met Gryphon's eyes. He lifted his chin and looked along his hawk-like nose. "Who are you?"
Gryphon's throat worked as he swallowed. He glanced at me. I nodded.
"My name is Gryphon. Lawrence, I am your father."
"I want you to know," Gryphon was saying, "I loved your mother. I would be with her still if not for Cicero."
"She's dead," Lawrence said flatly.
"Cicero told me. I still mourn her passing."
"I don't want to be High Lord," Lawrence said, but he did, I saw it in his eyes. He had been trained for the position and trained hard. He expected to rule, and now didn't know what to make of this man who could take it away from him.
"I am sorry, Lawrence." Gryphon knew what went through his son's head. He gripped Lawrence's shoulder with one hand. "I regret laying this burden on you, but you will bear it. The people have already accepted you."
Lawrence peered into his father's eyes, seeking truth there. Apparently he found it; he nodded before taking in a deep breath.
"We cannot let word of what happened here today escape the High House. The Seers are rivals, but who knows, they may ally against us rather than submit," Gryphon said.
After the shock of Gryphon's appearance wore off, Lawrence did his best to calm the councilors' ensuing outbursts, reassuring them the innocent had nothing to fear. They didn't seem reassured to me. They were terrified. Was Royal right, Cicero replaced the old councilors with his toadies?
Now Lawrence beckoned Royal to his side. "Take them to the east wing. I'll . . . my father and I will question them."
"Lawrence," I said, "Cicero told me spies infiltrate the Houses. We should keep this close for now."
Unsurprised, he nodded solemnly, said to Royal, "Use the door behind my chair and don't let anyone see you."
"My Lord!" from Gareth. He held his hands before him palm to palm, like a prayer which matched the plea in his eyes.
Lawrence's expression softened. "I'm sorry, Gareth. Go with the others for now."
As the councilors were herded behind Lawrence's chair, I saw Imeld's expression. If looks could kill, I'd be stretched out on the floor. I quashed a shiver.
Two councilors hoisted Cicero between them. He didn't look in my direction.
Lawrence came to the middle of the room and stood beneath the chandelier. "I have an idea," he began tentatively. His gaze settled on me.
I winked at him.
His eyes briefly sparkled, but he kept his expression serious and continued in a firmer voice. "We have to take every Seer at the same time so word of what we're doing doesn't get out. No warning, we turn up and grab them."
The High Lord's persona warred with that of an excited child. "Covert ops! Isn't that what you call it, Miss Banks?"
"Yeah, covert ops." I grinned back at him.
"Will five to a team be enough? If they say they're delivering a message from me, they'll get a private interview. Can five overpower a Seer?"
"Seers are just men, though they may have tricks up their sleeves, like Cicero's stun gun. But yes, they can do it."
"The Seers' people are loyal, they must not know what we do else they come to his defense," Darja said.
"Details," from Gryphon. "Fear not, my son, the Seers will be in your hands before the week is out."
"Miss Banks?"
I turned to find Lawrence and Gorge behind me.
"Thank you, again." With a grin, his eyes flicked to Gorge, back to me. "After all you've done for me, now you bring Gorge home, and. . . ." His gaze darted back, over his shoulder to where Gryphon spoke to Royal. "I'm glad to see Ryel. I messaged him and he replied he'd investigate Orcus, but that's the last I heard from him. I wanted to warn you when you came here, but I didn't have time to write much. I knew you'd find help, but I never dreamed it would be my father."
"It was a coincidence." Huh, as if I believed that. Gia led me every step of the way. I would tear the world apart for Rio, would you do the same for Royal? I did not tear a world apart, but I set it on its ear.
Lawrence lowered his voice, said in a confidential tone, "I believe the Cousins are controlling the Seers, or working with them."
I wished I could tell him the truth. "What makes you think that?"
"They've always helped us, guided us. Something turned them against us. If not the Cousins, who?"
"They don't work for your benefit, Lawrence; haven't for a long time. Will you believe me when I say you're wrong? The Seers acted alone."
"I don't know, Miss Banks. We banished the Cousins but we've let them use the Ways a few times when there was a good reason, like when they went to Russia with you and Ryel because that man was killing my people and theirs." He paused, went on with a faint flush on his bronzed complexion, "And I wanted to see what they looked like."
I grinned at the memory of Lawrence's snooty reception; it certainly put Gia in a snit. "You were rather rude to them, Lawrence."
"I know. They didn't look like anything special. I thought the stories were exaggerated, till Shan came. If he came here without permission, what's to stop them coming and going as they please? Maybe they do it all the time. They could be here right now and we wouldn't know."
I tried to smile again but my mouth refused to cooperate. I tried to come up with a reasonable argument, but said, "Don't worry about it, Lawrence."
"I have to, Miss Banks. I'm the High Lord."
The conversation made me uncomfortable and I had a hard time meeting his eyes, so I let my gaze drift across the room. Gryphon watched Lawrence from where he stood near the door.
"He says he'll abdicate the Seat," Lawrence said.
"How do you feel about that?"
"I want to rule, but it's his, isn't it."
"Not if he doesn't want it."
"Perhaps he should. I'm . . . I'm only a boy."
But he wasn't only a boy. He possessed innate power when he chose to wield it. I grasped his shoulders and gazed into his shining brown eyes. "You were meant to be High Lord. It's your destiny. Your father doesn't want it, but he gave your people a worthy successor. He gave them you, Lawrence. Your councilors, your father, are here for you. You're in good hands now."
He pushed his shoulders up, gave me a measuring look. "I think I am."
As I dropped my hands, he grabbed my right and turned it palm up to reveal the button. The High Lord's burden seemed to lift from his shoulders and a child with ardent, sparkling eyes smiled at me. "Can I try it?"
"Sure."
He pressed the button; the flame rose about me. Lawrence laughed; his fingers came through the flickering blue-white flames to brush my shoulder.
"This is what frightened us, illusion?" Darja said.
"Can I put it on? Will it fit me?" from Lawrence.
I smiled. "We can make it fit. But you'll have to excuse me while I find somewhere private to take the damned contraption off."
I turned my hand and held his. "Lawrence, about the Dark Cousins. Don't believe everything you read." I remembered what Gia said. "History can be rewritten."
But as Royal and I left the Council Chamber, I looked back at Lawrence, pierced by a qualm. I heard Chris say, "She has an ulterior motive." I saw Gia's expression as she gazed at the abandoned city. She lied so easily to get what she wanted. The ancient, devious Mothers had all the time in the world to scheme and see their plots reach fruition. Was the Seers' downfall one tiny facet of a far-reaching plan?
Royal and I walked over the grass away from the High House, taking the same route we used the first time he brought me to Bel-Athaer. He said we could do the speed-demon thing in a moment as we were unlikely to run into anyone in this direction.
"Can we go to your apartment? We should talk, and I don't want to with Mel and Jack listening."
"Of course."
Why didn't he at least hold my hand? Apart from whisking me here, he had not touched me since our boisterous reunion in the cavern.
"I told Lawrence he's safe now. Is he?"
He walked beside me, hands limp at his sides. "I don't know, Tiff. We stirred the hornet's nest. Our people may bow to the High Lord, but not all will believe him. The Seers held positions of trust. We relied on them. You can't wrench that out from under and not expect strife."
I nodded glumly. "I know." I slid my gaze at him. "Have I made things worse?"
"Don't be an idiot. And stop taking it all on your shoulders. You were not the only player." He stopped, faced me. "Are you ready?"
He had to hold me now. I joined my hands behind his neck, breathing in his spicy sandalwood and amber scent. I smiled into his face.
He didn't smile back.
"Royal, what is - oof!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I thought we'd be under Royal's sheets by now. We sat in the office with the desk between us, where he steered us when he saw the mess in his kitchen and smelled the odor.
Apparently Chris did not figure out how to use the dishwasher.
I hadn't had time alone with Royal to speak of what Cicero said to me. Now I sat quietly as he told me what I already knew.
When he finished, and sat facing me, lips compressed in a tight line, I said, "You were wrong, you should have told me. Every person has the right to decide their destiny. But I understand, I do. You thought I was a half-breed."
"Half-blood."
"Same difference. My life is complicated as it is, you didn't want to pile that on my shoulders too."
Why did I feel as if I hammered a brick wall with my skull? He didn't believe me. Not surprisingly, he thought I'd be furious. I can't say I was happy about what he did, and didn't do, yet I understood his motives when I looked at it from his perspective. And maybe I've outgrown young Tiff, her fears, insecurity, anger and distrust. Everyone has to grow up eventually.
"I do understand."
"Do you? Because I feel monumentally craven."
"Why?"
"At first, I believed it was for your own good, but I said nothing as time passed because I dreaded losing you."
Aw. "We're not clichés in a romance novel, Royal."
"I don't understand."
"If we were, I'd be saying, 'oh no, he deceived me, it was all a lie, he never loved me!'"
I waited. No response. "You're supposed to say it wasn't a lie," I said dryly.
Eyes narrowed, brow creased with remembered pain, he said fiercely, "Tiff, when I left you that night, I knew what humans mean when they say their heart is breaking."
He held my gaze, sucking me into his polished copper eyes. He swallowed hard. "You are so much more than I imagined. You spoke of destiny. You cannot fulfill yours in this world."
Something painful welled in my throat. "What do you mean?"
He picked up a ballpoint pen and clicked the end. "Lawrence wants you on his Council."
I pushed up to hunch over the desk. "When did this happen? He didn't say anything to me."
"He asked me to tell you and help you get your affairs in order before you leave."
I leaned back in the chair, cocked my ankle over the other knee. "You mean go live in Bel-Athaer? That ain't gonna happen."
"Please consider carefully, Tiff." Click. "Cicero was a wealthy man: property, investments, etcetera, as well as a good chunk of hard cash. Lawrence stripped him of the lot, it belongs to you now. In addition, you have the High Lord's favor. You can have power, influence. You can do so much for Bel-Athaer."
I didn't ask if he wanted me to go. His eyes and posture told me otherwise. How can eyes say so much? Longing, despair, regret. Love. He sat so tense, the sinews in his neck and backs of his clenched hands stood out and that muscle in his jaw jumped so fast I wanted to kiss it better.
"Bel-Athaer needs you and you will give up an incredible opportunity if you stay here."
I eyed him carefully. "You'd be with me, right?"
"No doubt we would see each other on occasion, when I came to the High House on business," he said stiffly.
"If I accept the offer, I virtually end our relationship."
"You would be so far above me, I would not see you for the clouds."
How stinking poetical.
Damn demon and his damn sense of duty. I wanted to grab him and kiss him so thoroughly he couldn't breathe. He felt duty bound to tell me I should work for Lawrence, to stress it was in my best interests to accept a position of power, to claim my so-called birthright - birthright? What a joke - but did he want me to? No. Royal believes in the greater good, be it taking me to the execution of a mortally wounded woman before her time so she tells her secrets, or risking the woman he loves leaving him.
To try and talk me out of leaving because he didn't want to lose me would, to his way of thinking, be selfish because he did want the best for me. He would give me up if I'd be happier and more fulfilled elsewhere. I couldn't get mad and brush that aside as if it meant nothing.
So I decided to be gentle with him. I pushed up from the chair and went around the desk. Sliding my behind along the desktop, I sat on the edge with my legs between his knees. "It's up to me, huh?"
He glanced away, hand toying with the pen. "I'm sorry."
I bent over him. "Sometimes your head is so far up your ass." Smiled as his eyes shot back to me. "Now listen up and listen good. I know who I am. I'm a homegrown, small-town, all-American girl who carries a gun and happens to see dead people. I'm right where I want to be. I'm not going anywhere. You have a problem with that?"
He opened his mouth; I covered it with my palm, then leaned down and replaced it with my lips. I put everything I had into that kiss. His lips softened on mine.
I pulled back and gasped in air. "I repeat, do you have a problem with that?"
His body had relaxed, his hands unclenched. "No, none at all." Eyes dark, he stared into mine as if he tried to penetrate my soul.
He cupped my cheek with one big, warm palm. "I missed you so much."
I leaned in again until my breath played over his lips. "Prove it."
I saw the wicked glint I'd missed terribly, the look which made my blood sing. He pulled me onto his lap so my legs straddled his thighs.
He nuzzled my neck. "I missed you in every way imaginable."
I wriggled. "Mm, I can tell."
He concentrated on unbuttoning my shirt. Remembering past times, I felt relieved he didn't rip it off.
I wriggled again, then settled into a leisurely sway. Oh my. I seemed to have forgotten how to breathe properly.
He held my waist and put me on my feet. I pouted. He chuckled. Pouting is not one of my skills.
Taking our time, we undressed each other, hands drifting over skin as it was bared. The thick column of his neck, his shoulders, his mounded chest and pebbled nipples, the long lines of bones upholstered in flesh and muscle. The curve of his buttocks and thighs as I eased his jeans down. I tasted him, the spiced honey of his skin. I tangled my hands in his heavy hair as he held me under my buttocks and lifted me off my feet.
My legs circled his waist, he throbbed against me.
He took us down to the carpet.
"Ah, this is why you had a thick-pile carpet installed in an office," I murmured.
I showed Royal how much I'd missed him. He showed me how much he missed me. Then he showed me again, and again.
In the circle of his arms, limp as an overcooked noodle, I looked through my lashes at sparkling copper orbs.
He smiled like the Cheshire Cat and purred, "My turn."
Still in a sweet, lethargic daze, I stopped at the bottom of the staircase and looked up at our office window.
"Want a ride, Sweetness?"
I jerked around. I had not noticed Chris Plowman sitting on his Harley outside Bailey and Cognac's door.
I glanced at the window again. No sign of Royal, but I bet he knew a demon stood in the street below his apartment.
"Nah. I'll walk."
"You'll walk all the way home rather than ride with me?" He clasped his hands over his heart. "I am crushed."
"My car's two blocks away."
He made beetle brows. "I'll settle for two blocks with your arms about me."
"Are you heading back to Boston?"
"You're trying to sidetrack me."
"So you're not heading back to Boston?"
"I'm thinking of selling up and returning to England." He tilted his head. "As old as Boston is, it still lacks a certain . . . je ne sais quoi. The time has come to return to my roots."
I rubbed my nose with the back of my hand to smother a snort.
Despite the possibility I may have wiped something nasty on the back of my hand, Chris took it and pressed his lips to my skin, eying me from under his lashes. "If you desire a more passionate wooing than Royal can provide, lift your voice to the stars and call my name."
I opened my mouth to debate the suggestion he could outdo Royal in the passionate wooing department, then decided keeping it closed was prudent.
His expression became introspective, serious, yet he said nothing more. I realized he waited for me to ask the obvious question, so I did.
"You could have told me."
His lips hiked on one side; he snorted softly through his nose. "No, I couldn't."
"She put a geis on you?"
"She promised to, if I wasn't a good little boy."
I let it go at that. Perhaps, without his free will, Chris would not have been able to help me as much as he did.
After nuzzling my hand again, he gave me a soulful, heartbroken look. "I will dream of you."
I watched him drive down the road and out of sight, shimmering gray and ebony hair a streaming banner.
Why did I think this was not the last I'd see of Christopher Plowman?
I paid Janie and waited in the outer office while she retrieved Mac. He limped on his front right foot when she brought him in on a leash.
I went down on my knees. "What happened?"
Janie leaned her elbow on the counter and scratched behind her ear. "Don't worry, nothing more than a bruised shoulder. I took him to Doctor Steve. The X-ray's going on your bill."
With his ears back, Mac held his foot off the ground pathetically. Look, mommy. Look at my poor widdle foot. "Okay, but what happened?"
"Mac being Mac. You know he has a Napoleon complex. He decided to tackle a Great Dane. The poor thing didn't know what hit her. Darcy's such a sweet girl, she didn't know how to cope with thirty pounds of Mac attached to her back leg. I got him off, but he got away from me and had another go. So she sat on him."
"She. . . ." I convulsed with laughter.
"He suffered a blow to his dignity more than anything else. The shoulder is nothing to worry about and he was walking fine till you arrived."
Typical. Still, my boy wanted me to know he had a terrible time at the kennel and deserved a treat. I always carry liver treats when Mac rides with me.
"How did he get in with a Great Dane?"
"I was taking him back to his kennel, Anne was bringing Darcy out for exercise."
"Okay. It happens."
I gathered Mac up. After thanking Janie, I took him to the car. He didn't appear to have any problem with his foot when a tiny treat rolled off the seat and he jumped to the floor to get it, nor when he leaped back on the seat for the next course.
"You big fake," I reached back to rub under his chin.
Driving down Pineview Canyon, I thought of the big black pickup, how it tried to run me off the road. I'd ask Royal if word I am not a Seer and would not work for the High House could be spread through Bel-Athaer. Maybe then I could forget about assassins.
Deciding to not give my neighbors something to gossip about, I parked my damaged Xterra in the garage,
Funnily enough, Mac's injury reappeared when I wanted him to jump out the car, so I carried my wounded boy into the hall.
Jack and Mel would be waiting. "And now the fun begins," I said in an undertone as I lowered Mac to the floor and unlatched his leash. He limped in the kitchen, and then all evidence of a doggy-crippling injury disappeared again. It mysteriously healed when he got near the pantry door.
"So that's how it's gonna be," I said to him.
Jack swooped on me. "Get the phone!"
I slipped the backpack off and put it on the table. "It's not ringing."
"He means the messages." Mel heaved a sigh to make a sumo wrestler proud. "Please check the dang thing before he drives me out of my mind."
"Which wouldn't take much," from Jack.
I went to the phone on the counter. Five messages. I hit the button.
"Don't bother with those, skip to the last," Jack breathed in my ear.
I tipped my head at him. "You sound kinda . . . moonstruck."
Mel put one hand on her cocked hip and did the little head-shake thing she does when she is exasperated. "Guess why."
Jack all dreamy. Phone message. I hit skip four times till I got to the last message and the voice I expected.
"Hello, honey. I'm heading for Saint George. Everything's packed and ready to go. I'm driving down with the movers. Thought I'd stop in Clarion on the way there, it'll be next Wednesday. How about it? Tell Tiff to call me." The voice became hushed. "I can't wait."
Silence.
"Wait for it," Jack said.
I waited. I knew Dale hadn't finished.
Laughter from the answering machine. "I can see your face, Tiff! Anyway, hope Wednesday is convenient. Let me know ASAP. Thanks."
Ha ha. Interesting, how Dale went from skeptic to believer in a huge way. Fine for Dale and Jack, not for the sucker who had to communicate with Jack and relay his words to his ex-lover. I hoped Dale never spoke of our sessions to anyone. He swore he wouldn't, but slipping up and unintentionally breaking a promise happens all too often.
"Good thing he can't see her face," Mel said.
"Don't you love his sense of humor?" Jack enthused. "Tiff, stop scowling, you'll get permanent ridges on your forehead."
"So he's finally moving to Saint George," I said.
"In the same state," Mel said in a flat voice. "Doubtless he'll be here most weekends."
Dale recently bought a little Cessna so flying from Saint George to Clarion was a hop, skip and jump.
Jack slapped one splayed hand over his mouth. "Most weekends!" he exclaimed through his fingers.
Not if I had anything to say about it, and I did. I reached for my backpack.
Jack dropped his hands. "Wait! Aren't you going to return his call?"
"I'll get around to it. It's only Friday."
A hard object hit my shin: Mac's skull, which he uses like a battering ram. I pushed him away with my foot and went to the pantry. One full bowl later, Mac was a happy camper.
I went for my backpack again, then changed my mind. I should call Dale, if for no other reason than to shut Jack up. I could see him getting wound up for a tirade from the way he fixed me with his unchanging expression and tapped his foot rapid-fire.
Dale picked up straight away. I said he could drop by next week, but call me first to make sure I was home.
I went for my backpack yet again, visions of long, hot showers and fresh clothes in my head. Maybe a nap?
No such luck.
"Hold it there, sister," Mel said, suddenly in my face. "You're not going anywhere till you tell us what you've been up to."
Resigned to my fate, I sat on a kitchen chair, hugged my backpack, and told them.
When I finished, Mel said, "Do I sense a little poignancy?"
My mouth twisted. "I guess so. For a few minutes there, I hoped Cicero was the family I never had. Didn't last long. A nice dream, but I should know better by now."
"Don't beat yourself up for hoping," Mel said. "You're only human."
I stared with my mouth open, then started laughing. I laughed until it verged on hysteria. I slapped my hand over my mouth so I would not laugh myself silly. Good grief, girl, you're a demon! A different kind of Gelpha. The reason for my pale skin and hair, my ability to interact with the dead. And my height, when I always thought God wanted another basketball player.
Mel and Jack hovered, postures radiating anxiety. I squelched my laughter.
"Any morsel of humankind we retained bled from our veins long ago."
Baloney. Royal has more true humanity in his little finger than many humans I know. Gelpha are just another kind of people. The good old U.S. of A is not called a melting pot for nothing; everyone came from elsewhere, even Native Americans migrated here from Asia at the end of the Ice Age. A little strange blood hardly amounts to anything among all our interwoven bloodlines. I'm American. I haven't changed. I'm still the same Tiff Banks I've always been. The difference is I know where I came from.
Were my forebears the Mother's repressed slaves, or rebellious children? Gia wanted me to believe the Mothers cared for their children, yet they only now stepped in although the Seers operated for centuries. They didn't worry that Seers killed a person here and there if it benefited the Gelpha as a whole, but drew the line at their trying to take over as rulers. History can be rewritten, Gia said. Maybe the Mother's version of love did not encompass freedom. Anyhow, the truth was lost in time.
It boils down to this: I don't care. The Gelpha are still alien to me, I am not part of their world. I only care about one demon, the rest. . . . Well, the rest can go to Hell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Another cup of coffee, or take my shower now? I sat in the kitchen wearing my pink chenille robe, feet encased in fuzzy, ankle-high slippers, trying to find the energy to move. Jack and Mel watched Saturday morning cartoons. Mac snoozed in a patch of sunshine near the backdoor. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the background noises, buzzes, squeaks and honks as Toons did their thing; the aroma of good coffee and the kitchen's moist warmth.
Okay, Tiff, this is it. Drag your lazy butt off the chair and upstairs. Shower, then more coffee, then breakfast. And I had to go downtown to find a Christmas present for Royal, with absolutely no idea what.
Upstairs, I stripped and dropped my undies down the laundry chute. The shower beckoned me.
Should I get rid of my treadmill? I hadn't used it much in the past year. It took up space. I could move the small television into my bedroom.
"Are those rug burns?"
By twitching to the side, I barely avoided walking through Mel as I swung around. "No they're. . . ." I glanced down. They were rug burns, all up my left thigh and hip. "Dammit, Mel! Stay out of here!"
She sat on the commode. "Why? We're both women."
"I don't care. This is my private place. You are banned."
"Yeah, like your bedroom and the living room. We'll be confined to the basement at this rate."
I went to the cabinet to get fresh towels. "Not true. Asking you to stay out the living room tomorrow night is a special request."
"Hm. What do you have planned in there? Something involving Mister Hunky?"
I grinned into the mirror. I hoped Mister Hunky enjoyed tomorrow night. I reckoned he would.
"Okay, I'm leaving." Mel heaved a sigh and rose to her feet. She blinked out like a blown light bulb.
She and Jack did that more nowadays, I reflected as I brushed my teeth. I preferred their walking through the house like living people, else I never knew when they'd appear and disappear.
I ran the shower and stepped in. Steam billowed up, water close to scalding scoured my skin. Soaping up, with a smile on my lips, I carefully dabbed at the rug burns. I didn't know Royal and I were that boisterous.
I trotted downstairs wearing roomy, worn, comfortable old track pants and brushed cotton sweatshirt. Going in the kitchen, I paused to look at the green and white tiled walls, the flaking window frames, my bubblegum-pink 1950s refrigerator and huge old gas stove. The big wood kitchen table needed a new coat of paint, but this time I'd strip off the old paint and sand the wood first. Maybe I'd paint the chairs while I was at it.
Yes, I belonged here, in my cozy kitchen, not the High House, not Bel-Athaer.
Royal said I had money and property now. Could I sell it, or ask Royal to sell it on my behalf? Could I get my hands on Cicero's wealth though I didn't live in Bel-Athaer and turned down the High Lord's job offer? Maybe I'd pay someone to remodel the kitchen. I'd keep the fridge. I like how my diet cola goes icy.
But I doubted Gelpha used American dollars, and didn't see how their money could be converted to U.S. currency.
Mac met me at the pantry door. Breakfast is a big deal for Mac when he's gone without food for eight hours. I don't know how he survives.
"You poor mite," I told him as I dipped his bowl in the kibble bag. "You're all skin and bone."
"Breakfast?" Mel chimed as she danced into the room. "I don't suppose you're having bacon by any chance?"
Bacon sounded good. Eggs over-easy, bacon and toast.
I will never understand the allure food has for my roommates. They cannot taste it, obviously. But they cannot even remember the taste or smell. Why is it such a big deal that they go gaga? Thank the Lord they cannot salivate.
"Bacon!" Jack all but shrieked. "We haven't had bacon in an age! You'll make it crispy, won't you, Tiff? You know, with the fat browned."
Mel bounced on the balls of her feet. "Can we have strawberry preserves on the toast? And don't burn it this time."
See what I mean?
I opened the refrigerator. "No bacon, but I see a nice, big, fat ham steak."
I got my heavy cast-iron skillet, dish and silverware from the cupboard, eggs from the pantry, butter and preserves from the fridge. The ham steak was thick, so I poured plenty of cooking oil in the skillet and set it on the big burner.
I capped the oil, replaced it in the pantry and stood over the stove while the oil heated.
A rush of air rocked me on my heels.
With a smile which could only be called predatory, Gareth said, "Hello, Miss Banks. Or may I call you Tiffany?"
His appearance was so shocking, I forgot how to move. In the blink of an eye he had me off the chair, held against his chest, my back to him, his arm around my neck. I instinctively grabbed his arm and dug in my nails. It was immovable, an iron band. I lifted one foot to stamp on his, but he shoved his knee in the back of my thigh.
Mel and Jack shrieked in unison.
Mac barked sharply, then came across the room, teeth bared, snarling like a mountain lion.
Mac is all fur and fury, but he was overmatched this time. "No, Mac! NO! Down, boy. DOWN!"
He stopped on the last "down." Rumbling to himself, he lay on his belly. But he didn't put his chin on his paws; he waited, alert, steadily growling under his breath.
"I'm glad you did that. I like dogs," Gareth said.
Dragging me with him, he moved back. I struggled and he put pressure on my neck till my trachea hurt. I went limp.
Gareth sat on a kitchen chair with me on the edge wedged between his knees, arm still around my neck.
"What's going on, Gareth," I asked with difficulty. This wasn't a social visit. People who mean you well don't half-strangle you.
Jack and Mel were doing what they always do when extremely upset: they careened about the room. They were speaking, but so fast I couldn't understand them.
"I want to talk to Ryel."
"The phone's over there."
"No, that won't do. He will sense me soon. I want him to see I have you, and know I will kill you if he does not do as I say."
Mel screeched, "No, no, no, no, no!"
They were helpless. They had to watch whatever Gareth did to me and could not prevent it. If he killed me, I'd join them, here in my kitchen for endless years.
"Let me guess. Lawrence didn't let you go, you escaped."
"I was a warrior before I joined the Council." His arm flexed. "Don't worry, I harmed no one."
Gareth was a traitor. I swallowed against the restriction on my adam's apple. "What do you want Royal for?"
"Ryel will be my ambassador in exchange for your life. I humbly request a full pardon and to be allowed to live out my days quietly on my estate."
I struggled; it did nothing but restrict my breathing. "Never happen, Gareth." The High House would never pardon Gareth.
Gareth's arm loosened from my neck. His palms fitted to the sides of my head. "I can snap your neck in an instant. Ryel will go to the High Lord rather than see you dead."
"It won't work! Don't you see that?"
"The request is a pretext for an audience with the young High Lord," he said calmly. "Ryel will kill the boy." His arm went around my neck again. "Bel-Athaer will dissolve in chaos. The Seers will save the day."
My mouth went dry. "They're under arrest, or will be soon."
"But not for long."
"Gryphon will take over."
"He made it known he does not want the Seat. He hid for years, shunning his people. He did not want to serve them. They will not accept him." Gareth sniffed. "What is that smell?"
The skillet. The oil was still heating up. I slid my eyes sideways and saw the air above the skillet shimmering. My pulse sped - a distraction, one Gareth could not ignore.
"I don't smell anything."
I had to keep his full attention on me till the time was right. "Gareth, you were loyal to the High House. What changed?"
He snorted. "My loyalty has always been to Cicero. My family has served the Seer's interests for generations. Cicero and I were friends during our youth in the High House."
"But Seers are - "
"Silence, Miss Banks."
I listened to Mac's sullen, throaty growl and the tick of the wall clock. I ached at the thought of Royal having to choose between me and Lawrence. If one of us had to die, whatever Royal decided would destroy him.
It wouldn't come to that if I escaped Gareth. The oil would ignite any moment now.
I had to get Mac out the way. I stared at first Jack, then Mel, looking each in the eyes. I dipped my gaze to Mac, then back to my roommates; went through the process again, and again, brow creased in concentration, trying to give them a message I could not speak aloud.
Finally. "What?" Jack asked.
"She wants us to do something," from Mel.
I put a pained expression on my face, dipped my eyes at Mac, up to them.
"She wants us to distract the dog!" Mel exclaimed.
"You want him out the way?" Jack asked.
I hoped relief showed in my eyes. With my jaw on Gareth's arm, I didn't dare twitch a muscle to speak or nod.
Jack zoomed up to us and edged in front of Mac. "Hey, fur ball!" He scooted behind Mac, around again, this time flapping his arms like a retarded chicken.
Mac sat up. He turned a circle, trying to follow Jack with his eyes as my dead roomy zipped around.
Mel joined in. She bent over Mac. "Come on, you nasty little animal."
Mac's lips curled back. He snarled and came up on all four feet.
"Pussy!" Mel shrieked. "Miserable, mangy excuse for a dog!"
Mac lunged, but Jack and Mel shot across the kitchen to the west windows. Stubby little legs pumping, Mac whirled and went after them.
Stay there, Mac. Good boy. Stay there.
Jack and Mel kept him occupied, yelling, jumping around him. Snapping and snarling, he spun in circles.
"What is wrong with your dog?" Gareth asked.
"Maybe he smells a rat."
The oil burst into flames with a whump!
I felt Gareth tense as his head turned. "What have you done?"
"I was making breakfast when you burst in."
He stood, taking me up with him, then shoved me away. "Put it out!"
I stumbled, held my throat with one hand. There would be bruises later. If I had a later.
The best way to put out a grease fire is with a lid. Lacking that, baking soda can be used, although more than I had on hand is needed. I pointed at the top cabinet. "We need baking soda. A heap of it. It's in there."
He reacted how anyone would when faced with a fire. It became the first order of business. He reached up to the cabinet.
Fast as a demon can be, any chance of outwitting him was slim. But I had one opportunity and I took it.
Two paces, and I was at the stove when Gareth took the box of baking soda off the top shelf. I grasped the skillet handle with both hands, tipped, and swung. The burning oil fountained between us. I averted my face, but reflexively looked back when my hand stung and saw a strip of skin peel back, turn brown and fly away.
The oil splashed on Gareth's hair, face, neck and shoulders. He dropped the baking soda as instinct made him lift his hands, but he couldn't touch himself as the oil ate his skin and clothes like acid. The pain must have been terrible.
I swung the skillet backhand and he was too consumed by pain and shock to avoid the blow. The heavy iron cracked the side of his head. Eyes rolling up, hands reaching for me, he went down.
I stood over him, skillet poised, but he didn't move. Lying on his side, he was out cold. He looked dreadful, with ugly third degree burns on his face and neck. A little blood had leaked through his blue-gray hair.
Panting, I eased down to sit cross-legged behind his head. If he came to, I'd bonk him again.
I inspected the angry welts on the backs of my hands and wrists, the small hole in my sleeve where the oil burned through. I'd feel the pain when the adrenaline rush wore off. I needed treatment, but not at the risk of another person seeing Gareth if I called the paramedics, or leaving him here when I drove to the emergency room. I didn't have anything strong enough to bind a demon.
Mac's bark sounded hoarse. He still lunged at Jack and Mel but with less energy. They ignored him, which I imagine took the fun out of it for him.
"Mac, hush now," I said wearily. A neighbor might come over to investigate if he kept barking.
He fell silent but for harsh panting. After a minute, he trotted to his water bowl and drank, then lay down under the kitchen table. A second later he got up and trundled to me. He paused at Gareth's hip, sniffed, curled his lip and lifted his hind leg.
"Don't you dare!" But only because I'd have to clean it up.
Mac gave me an ugly look, but in an about-face lay down with his chin on my thigh. He sighed and closed his eyes.
Jack slumped on one side of me, Mel on the other.
"I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted," Jack said.
"Your poor hands!" Mel exclaimed.
Now was one of the zillion times I wished I could touch them, put my arms around their shoulders and squeeze. "Thanks, guys. I couldn't have done it without you."
"Because you wouldn't risk frying the rat in hot oil," from Jack.
Mac lifted his head, gave a halfhearted growl under his breath and let it sink on his paws again.
"Yeah, that, and it kept Gareth distracted long enough for the oil to ignite." I grinned at Jack. "You were great."
"And what - "
"And you, Mel," I said quickly. "I couldn't find better roommates if I advertised."
A whirlwind punched open the front door and tore through the house, creating a vacuum which whisked papers and small objects off the tabletop and counters.
"You took your time," I told Royal before he swept me off my feet.
I clung to him, arms clenching his neck, legs around his waist, his face buried in my shoulder.
He eased me to the ground, but kept his arms around me as we looked down at Gareth.
"I would not have believed it," he murmured.
I hugged him tighter. "I'm sorry."
"So am I."
Regret saddened his voice. Gareth trained him. He was a youth when he left his home to serve the High House and met Gareth, the House's most dedicated servant. All that time . . . a lie. I felt a little sad myself. I liked Gareth and trusted him more than any other demon. Shows I'm not the greatest student of human nature. I mean Gelpha nature.
"What are you going to do with him?" I asked. Royal would not call the cops.
"I'll take him to a place he cannot escape. What happens to him is the High Lord's decision."
Poor Lawrence. His first judicial action as High Lord, decide the sentence of a man he'd called friend.
Snowflakes circled and drifted in the light cast by streetlamps. Snow melted on Royal's hair and slicked his face as he stood on my stoop wearing a heart-stopping smile.
Both eyebrows shot up as he regarded me, in my robe, hair loose down my back.
His eyes flipped to the ceiling where the mistletoe had hung. "You took it down?"
"Moved it."
"To where?"
"You'll see."
He sniffed. "I don't smell dinner."
"It's prepped and ready to go." I ran my tongue over my lower lip suggestively and spoke slowly. "You won't believe how fast it heats up."
His eyebrows made arcs above twinkling copper eyes. "I sense we are not talking about roast turkey and potatoes." He reached out, ran his finger down my cheek then behind my ear, hooked a tress of hair and twirled it around his fingers. "I should not have teased you when we first met. I created a monster."
"This isn't a tease." With both hands, I grasped his collar and pulled him in till our mouths were a fraction apart. "I promise, it's something you can really make a meal out of."
His big hands gripped my waist and crushed me to him. I wonder how his heavy brown leather coat restrained what reared up between us. Speaking of monsters. . . . Whew.
I resisted the urge to fan my face with my hand and instead released his collar. "Just one sec," I inched back from him. "Wait right here."
I backed up, went in the living room and closed the door on his perplexed face.
The lamps were off, but I'd managed to light the wood-burning stove. The flames danced behind the glass and cast warm orange light over the walls. The Christmas tree twinkled in the corner. I don't own a bearskin rug, so I spread my duvet in front of the stove and threw down the toss pillows off the sofa. A bottle of Chardonnay sat in the ice bucket, two long-stemmed wineglasses on the hardwood floor. I unbelted my robe and let it drop. Shame I didn't have some slinky, elbow-length gloves to cover the dressings on my hands.
I picked up the sprig of artificial mistletoe with its golden bell. Holding it over my head, I opened the door.
Royal beamed a wide, delighted smile.
It was, after all, Christmas, and I hadn't given him a present.
I gave the mistletoe a little shake so the bell tinkled and tried for a Mae West accent. "Hey, big boy, you wanna come in here and jingle my bell?"
Friend and mentor, necessary harasser, LK. I couldn't manage without you. My developmental editor Sharon. My trusty beta readers Don, Karen, Maureen, Meagan and Shirli. Kenneth Paul Jones -- he whipped out the awesome verse for Demon Demon Burning Bright in a matter of minutes and on the spur of the moment. The fabulous Indie Chicks for their friendship and support. And of course Whisperings readers who let me know they want more.
Books by Linda Welch
Whisperings Novels:
Along Came a Demon
The Demon Hunters
Dead Demon Walking
Demon Demon Burning Bright
Anthology:
Indie Chicks. 25Woman, 25 Personal Stories.
Coming in 2012:
A Whisperings Mystery: Demon on a Distant Shore
Meet the Author
Linda Welch was born in Hampshire, England. She lived in Idaho, California and New Mexico before settling in Utah. She now lives in a mountain valley, more or less halfway up the mountainside, with her husband and Scottish terrier. She is not tall and silver-haired and does not see dead people. What she does see are moose, deer, fox, raccoon, skunk, wild turkey, a huge bird population and a ridiculous amount of snow. When not writing and depending on the season, she is usually walking her Scottie, filling the bird feeders, futilely attacking the weeds in her garden or shoveling out after a snowstorm. Dead Demon Burning Bright is the fourth book of her Whisperings series. You can visit Linda at http://lindadwelch.com
Linda is working on the next Whisperings: Demon on a Distant Shore.
Demon on a Distant Shore
Tiff and Royal take a case in a far off land. Tiff finds England very confusing. For one thing, Brits use a knife and fork the wrong way and they do not speak the same language. Then there is the case itself: finding their client's long-lost relative is not as simple as they supposed, and as usual, Tiff is distracted by dead people who could use her help. And in ancient Little Barrow, only Tiff can see a creature of myth and magic as it cries out in pain.
When bullets fly and Tiff is the target, she again wonders why wealthy Patty Norton of Boston came clear across the country to hire Banks and Mortensen instead of some hotshot investigator. With the unwilling assistance of some decidedly uncooperative ghosts, she'll figure out what's really going on, and bring peace to a demon on a distant shore.
Table of Contents

