Siren Song

10

I was not myself. That’s the only excuse I can give. I tried to be decent company and failed, miserably. Emma understood, trying valiantly to carry the conversational ball single-handedly—telling me about the job she’d landed in New York with Seacrest Artifacts. I tried to listen, but Emma’s voice was just white noise in the background. It was as if there was a vast distance between me and the real world. So while I heard her talking about how her father didn’t approve, that he thought she should finish her degree, I didn’t really take it in. I drank my drink and listened to her rattling on and tried to make interested noises at the right intervals.

She told that it was a great job, working as personal assistant to Irene Seacrest herself. The last person had walked out, so Irene needed Emma to start as soon as possible. She’d be flying out first-class day after tomorrow and staying in one of the corporate-owned apartments until she could find a place of her own. She was really excited. When she paused for a breath, I manage to ask how she’d found the job.

Bruno had recommended her for it. And while she didn’t say it, Emma’s sudden horror and rapid retreat to the bathroom let me put two and two together. Irene. He’d said her name was Irene. Emma was going to be working with Bruno’s baby momma.

I sat at the table, numb. I didn’t know what to think. I’d built a perfectly good life after Bruno and I broke up the first time. I could do it again. Of course I could. But right now, at this moment, I felt as if something essential had broken inside me.

I took another long swig of the salty-sweet frozen concoction in my glass, emptying it. I refilled the glass from the pitcher on the table. Now that was empty, too. Had we been here that long? A glance at my wrist made me do a double take. Not even an hour? Was that right?

I’d get past Bruno’s loss. I knew I would. Why did it hurt so much? He’d only been back in my life for a few weeks. Logically, it shouldn’t hurt this much. Of course emotions aren’t logical. Still, I didn’t have a choice. He was gone. I had to move on. The only way to do that was to keep moving. Winston Churchill had said it best, I suppose: “If you are going through hell, keep going.” I took a deep, steadying breath, letting it out slowly. I could do this. I would do this. Reaching beneath the table, I retrieved my purse from the floor.

Judging from her red-eyed, flying exit, Emma was likely to be gone awhile. If I didn’t distract myself, I’d think. Thinking would lead to feeling. Feeling was a bad idea right now. So I dug through the used tissues and detritus in my purse until I laid my hands on my cell phone.

With the simple push of a couple buttons I was listening to my voice mails. There were a lot. The first was from Kevin, congratulating me on my win.

The next message made me pick up my drink again and slug it down, then start looking for the waitstaff. It was Gran, telling me Mom was in jail again, picked up for driving without a license and insurance. I shook my head with annoyance. “Terrific. Just what Gran doesn’t need.” It would be Mom’s third strike. I doubted they’d offer bail this time, but if they did, even Bubba wouldn’t take her on. She was a flight risk. She was probably going to be spending some time behind bars. I’d need to call Gran back, see if she could come see me during Birchwoods’ visiting hours tomorrow.

There were lots of other messages, none of them urgent. Congratulations on the win. One or two reporters fishing for a story. The last call was from Creede and was less than fifteen minutes old. Stupid cell phone. I hate it when it doesn’t ring.

“Graves . . . Creede. You need to get back to me right away. I’m at the office. We have a situation.” He recited a cell number that matched the phone’s caller ID.

A situation. In my line of work, that phrase never means anything good.

The lump that had settled in my chest eased for a moment as the weight of a looming crisis started my brain clicking. Hallelujah for that. It was probably stupid to be grateful for someone else’s emergency, but I hit the button for callback with something close to eagerness.

“Creede.”

“Graves here. What’s wrong?”

“You have an important client with a situation. You need to get your game face on. I explained your circumstances, offered to take the job. But he swears nobody else can handle this for him except you.”

“Who’s the client?”

“No.”

Okay. Cell lines aren’t secure, but it usually isn’t an issue. If it was now, then there was a serious problem. Great.

My eagerness went away. The last time I’d been in a situation where names weren’t revealed, I’d earned my fangs. Bile rose into my throat and I struggled to swallow it back down. I reached for the pitcher again, trying to drain the few drops left in the bottom. The remaining chips of ice tinked against the glass from how hard my hand was shaking.

Crap. This shouldn’t be bothering me this much. I’d handled a hundred cases before the one that went bad and I’d fully planned to handle a hundred more after. But what if I couldn’t?

I stole Emma’s remaining drink, chasing the acid back down to my stomach where it belonged. The trouble was, it wasn’t just me. I was used to the threat of death. Been playing that game since I was a kid. No, it was the other people who were pulling out my insides right now. The Ivys and Bob Johnsons of the world who were sacrificed.

For nothing. There wasn’t a single good reason why they died, and it tore out little bits of my soul every time I thought about it. I’d failed to protect them. I was supposed to guard them, even though I knew they would say it hadn’t been my job. But they hadn’t had to be the ones left. The ones to stare into glazed, still eyes that would never see again, or cradle bodies that cooled to the touch the longer you held on and cried.

A big part of me wanted to say “screw it,” to hang up the phone and go curl up in a ball in some dark corner of the world with nothing for company but a bottle of something that would make the pain go away.

Just like my mother had.

Shit.

I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do it. How many would be hurt, how many would die, if I just gave up? Yes, it would be easy, too easy, to walk away. But people need bodyguards and I do know my stuff. Plus, now I had better hearing, better sight, and quicker reflexes. It should be a cakewalk to do personally what I’d often had to rely on gadgets for in the past.

Once I made that decision, the rest was easy. If I was going to keep going, keep living, I might as well start with this difficult case.

Looking on the bright side, someone else’s crisis might take my mind off my own. But even if it didn’t, life goes on. Whether you want it to or not.

“Where are you?” Creede asked.

“Just finishing dinner.” My voice sounded remarkably calm. “I can be at the office in ten or fifteen minutes.” I raised my hand, signaling to the waiter for the check as I spoke.

“Don’t bother. Give me the name of the restaurant. We’ll come to you.”

“Emma Landingham is with me.”

I heard muttering in the background but couldn’t make out the words.

“Get rid of her. We’ll be there in five minutes.” The phone clicked off.

Get rid of her. Gee, how charming. Even worse, having experienced the way Creede drove, I knew they’d be here in four. The waiter I’d flagged approached the table as Emma emerged from the restroom. “Ms. Landingham is leaving, but I have other friends coming. Could you please bring me the bill and a large soda?” Time to get off the sauce. Yeah, it might not affect me like it did my mother, but that could change in an instant. I didn’t want to be hooked if it did.

“Certainly, ma’am.” He turned and hurried off.

“I’m leaving?” Emma gave me a look of alarm. It took me a second to realize she probably thought I was upset about her job.

“It’s not about you working for Seacrest.” I tried to force myself to smile. It felt like my face was breaking and probably looked like a grimace, but it was the best I could do. This wasn’t about Emma. It wasn’t. “I’m glad you found a great job. I know you’ll be good at it.” I blinked back tears and swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. Damn it! I’d been doing so good just a second ago. “Keep in touch. You can always e-mail or text me. I want to know everything. Honest. This won’t change a thing between us.”

“Celia—”

I shook my head mutely, fighting for control. “Really, this isn’t about you. I’ve got to get my shit together, Em. I’ve got a situation at work.”

She paled a little. Hanging around with her older brother had taught her enough “tough-guy speak” to know just how bad a “situation” could be.

“Are you up for that? I mean—,” she stammered, afraid of having misspoken yet again.

I gave her a wry smile. “Doesn’t matter if I am; I don’t have a lot of choice. Creede will be here with the client in just a couple of minutes.” I tried to make light of it. “Nothing like a little panic to take your mind off a breakup. Nine out of ten dentists surveyed said so.”

“Celia—” She stared at me, her mouth moving with no sound coming out, not knowing what to do or say. She knew I was messed up. She’d been around since Bruno and I were together the first time and had watched when I dissolved into Jell-O when he left. That was the thing. It wasn’t that he left me. It was that he left me twice. Both times without even giving me a chance. I could tell that she felt helpless. Emma was my friend. Maybe not my best friend, but dammit, she was trying; I loved her for it.

“I’ll be fine, Emma.” I stood up and gave her a hug. Honesty compelled me to add, “It just may take a while.”

She sighed and gathered up her things. “Fine. I’ll go. But be careful. And I’ll be watching the mirror for you.”

Ah, the mirror. After Vicki’s death, Dr. Scott had given me back a magically crafted mirror that had been my final birthday gift to her. It was a very powerful focus. Since I’m no clairvoyant, it was useless to me, so I passed it on to the person I thought Vicki would want to have it. Emma might only be a level four, but with a focus that powerful she’d probably be able to keep an eye on me.

I made a little face. I didn’t want to offend her, but that wasn’t a good idea. “I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want any client confidentiality issues.”

Her eyes rolled expressively. “I know how to keep a secret.”

“Please?”

She gave me a long look but didn’t answer, just sighed and left. Whether that meant she would or wouldn’t keep tabs on me I had no clue. I trusted her, but there are legal and ethical considerations.

More important, I’d never forgive myself if I dragged her into the middle of another one of my problems. She’s an adult, but to me she’s always been Warren’s baby girl and Kevin’s little sister. They’d never forgive me if anything happened to her. Whether the constant crises in my life were generated by the death curse, my career, or just bad luck didn’t really matter as far as this went. My life was dangerous. I didn’t want her getting hurt.

I hadn’t been able to protect my sister, and I might never know for certain whether or not Vicki’s death was a direct result of the mess that had ended with the demon being vanquished in Anaheim. But they were both dead, and I didn’t want to lose Emma. So I’d be careful. Of course Emma would probably like that about as much as I would.

Ah well. She’s been mad at me before. Would be again. It’s that kind of relationship.

I didn’t have long to think about it because just then three very familiar men walked into the restaurant. The minute I saw them, I knew I was in trouble.

King Dahlmar of Rusland is an attractive man. Not young, but holding up well, with dark good looks and more than his share of charisma. All of the other times I’d seen him he’d been expensively dressed, impeccably well groomed, and surrounded by the extremely big, threatening men who are the royal equivalent of the Secret Service. Tonight he was incognito, wearing a pair of cheap jeans of such a rich indigo blue that they almost glowed. Vertical and horizontal creases screamed “fresh off the shelf.” A bright red Mickey Mouse Disneyland T-shirt, sneakers, and the sort of cheap sunglasses made famous by ZZ Top made him look like a tourist who’d lost his luggage. He also looked as if he hadn’t slept in far too long—his face was pale and haggard. But the oddly cheerful clothes and his poor physical condition couldn’t hide the rage in his every move. At his side was the retainer who’d saved my butt a few weeks ago and who’d been trying to reach me ever since: Ivan. He was injured. I could tell because he was moving oddly from pain and trying not to show it. Been there, done that.

Pain or no, he was all business. He scanned the room, looking for threats, keeping his body between Dahlmar and the restaurant patrons until he was reasonably sure they were safe. Creede did the same on the king’s other side.

Looking at them, I knew that this was real, serious trouble: trouble I was probably not equipped to handle. For all of ten seconds I thought about leaving, saying no and walking away.

But King Dahlmar’s intervention was probably the only thing that had kept me from being locked away for the rest of my life. I owed him. And everything I’d seen, everything I’d read about him, had told me he was a good man and a great king for his people.

“Ms. Graves.” Dahlmar slid into the booth across from me and finally took off his sunglasses, revealing dark circles under his eyes that made him look like he’d been beaten.

Creede took the next table over, far enough away that I couldn’t feel his magic but close enough that I couldn’t help but smell his cologne. The last thing I wanted to do was enjoy the scent, but my nose wouldn’t cooperate with my injured heart. He just flat smelled good. It actually started to piss me off.

I shook my head to clear it and saw Ivan move to stand at the pay phone near the bathrooms, where he could discreetly cover most of the room. It’s exactly what I would have done and it eased my anger, leaving my head sort of empty. Numb was a good place. I decide to ride it for as long as I could.

“Your Majesty.” I forced myself to smile. “May I recommend the egg drop soup or the kung pao chicken? They’re quite tasty. You look like you haven’t eaten for a while.”

He grimaced. “No. I haven’t.”

“Well, the food here is quite good. And you need to keep your strength up to deal with whatever is going on. I’m guessing it’s your sons?”

He sighed heavily, absently tapping his knuckles against the table. “My son Kristoff has staged a coup d’état. I escaped with my life, thanks to a core group of my men. Rezza did not.” There was a pained pause. Rezza was . . . had been the crown prince. Kristoff was the younger son. While Rezza had been more hard-core religious than his father, they both shared a deep love of their people and truly believed they knew the best way to lead the country into the future. Kristoff didn’t have a deep love for anything except himself. More to the point, he was stupid. Even his father admitted it. Stupid people make bad rulers.

I opened my mouth to voice my condolences, but he waved me to silence. When he spoke again, his voice was flat, inflectionless. Just the facts. “Thus far, no word has leaked out and Kristoff has been using demon spawn as impostors to maintain an appearance of normalcy. As he is neither cunning nor strong enough to manage something like this on his own, there must be someone else behind this.”

I knew all about demon spawn. The products of humans breeding with demons, they were born without souls and with the magical abilities of their demon parents. A spawn could change into an exact replica of anyone, right down to the cellular level. My last job—the one that left me with fangs—had been to guard Prince Rezza. Only it wasn’t Rezza but a demon spawn. I’d been really angry when I’d talked about this in group. I’d guarded a demon spawn . . . how laughable! Guarded it against what? An angel? That was about the only thing that could hurt them.

I shook my head with both weariness and frustration. Kristoff didn’t realize what kind of dynamite he was playing with. He might think he was in control, but it was an illusion. A demon spawn will turn on you in a red-hot minute. “So they’ve taken your country from you and you don’t even know who the villain is.”

“Yes. But our advantage is that they must kill me and make it look like an accident. I don’t plan to give them that opportunity.”

“Why do they have to kill you? They’ve got the country. You’re on the run and powerless. Rezza’s dead. Why not just announce that Kristoff’s in charge? There wouldn’t be much you could do about it.”

The waiter started toward our table, carrying a water glass and a menu for my companion. As he came near, Dahlmar’s expression changed, as if a switch had been hit. One minute angry, deposed monarch; the next, pleasant dinner companion. While a part of me had always known a ruler needed to be a good actor, it was disconcerting as hell to watch.

King Dahlmar listened to the list of daily specials with apparent cheerfulness before ordering exactly what I’d suggested when he arrived.

The instant the waiter left, Dahlmar’s smile disappeared. His expression was grim. “You don’t understand politics, Ms. Graves. I’ve gained enough international favor that he doesn’t dare simply exile me. My allies will intervene. For example, my iron ore contract with France depends on reserves that only I know the location of. No, he needs the respectability of a seemingly honest inheritance.”

“Again, why?” I took a sip of my water. He didn’t touch his. “It would be just as easy to claim to the world that you’d snapped and he had to take the throne.”

He thought carefully before answering. Until that moment I don’t think he’d slowed down enough to just think things through. He’d been on the run, desperate, with too much happening. In those circumstances you react. He’d done well thus far. He was still alive. But if he seriously wanted to get his throne back, he needed to stop reacting and start thinking. Even then the odds against him succeeding were ridiculously long—and probably getting longer by the minute as Kristoff settled in.

After a long pause, the king nodded. “First, my people wouldn’t believe it, even if the leaders of other countries did or pretended to for their own purposes. Kristoff is disliked by the upper class. Also, I am a popular ruler and many of the more moderate clerics would not condone patricide and fratricide. And we have many opportunities now, with the wealth from the natural gas reserves. We even have a vote on the UN Security Council.”

“So, you go to the U.S. government, ask for asylum, make them go public.”

He shook his head sadly. “It is not so simple. It may be that your government will feel that Kristoff would be an easier monarch to deal with. He is a simple soul, much like his mother. Wave shining objects in his face and he will follow blindly.”

I gave the King a dark look. I like to think that, regardless of which party is in power, my country wouldn’t buy a despot like a new handbag.

Yeah, yeah. Don’t quote history to me. Let me have my delusions of honesty and fair play. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Perhaps I am wrong. But there are things your government does not know about . . . weapons that I would prefer not to divulge and that I do not want to fall into the hands of the unscrupulous.”

His face was studiously impassive. “Are we talking about the kinds of weapons I think we’re talking about?” As in the Russian nukes that had gone mysteriously missing last fall or maybe some of the very specialized biological curses I’d heard of that didn’t even bear thinking about.

“Let us say that should Kristoff’s backers discover the location of and gain access to the weaponry that was at my disposal, there is the definite possibility of a third world war.”

Oh, fuck a duck . . . twice.

I’d been right. This was out of my league. Way, way out of my league. “Why come to me?”

“I believe you may be the only person I know who has the appropriate contacts to handle the situation.”

If he thought that would enlighten me, he was wrong. I don’t have government connections. I don’t even want government connections, despite what Ren had intimated earlier.

Seeing my lack of understanding, Dahlmar continued. “My son is being controlled by a woman. I believe her to be a siren.”

Oh, shit. Well, that certainly explained why me. He probably didn’t have any other siren contacts. They’re notoriously reclusive. I might be his only option, but he had a right to know the truth—that I wasn’t a good option. “I may have siren abilities, but I don’t really know any sirens. And those I do know have made it clear I’m not their favorite person. In fact, they’re going to have a hearing to determine whether or not they’ll let me live or destroy me as an abomination.”

He gave a fierce smile, baring his teeth. “Perfect.”

I raised an eyebrow at him in inquiry because, for the life of me I couldn’t see an upside.

“Ivan is a mage. Before the coup, he had his suspicions about this woman. She was too secretive, too careful to make sure none of my people saw her. It sent up a”—he searched for the right phrase—“red flag. He managed to obtain a few of her hairs and used them to create a protective charm that enabled him to escape her influence. With a simple spell, it can be used to identify her if we are in her presence.” Dahlmar didn’t explain how he’d escaped being influenced. I was betting the omission was intentional. And boy, did that make me curious.

Using the amulet to track the culprit might work. But somehow I didn’t think the sirens would be wild about my bringing Dahlmar and Ivan to their island to track down and kill one of their own. Assuming, of course, I could even find it, or that I was willing to let the king use me that way.

“If she’s not there?”

“Oh, but she will be.” His smile was predatory and quite chilling. “There are not very many sirens in existence to begin with. Your siren ancestry being activated by a vampire is something so strange and so dangerous that I’ve no doubt every one of your kin will be called to this hearing. She will be there. And so will we.” His voice was compelling, and despite his weariness and the silly clothes, I could feel the power and force of his personality. I honestly didn’t think it occurred to him that I might, say, refuse him. It was both a strength and a weakness, this royal arrogance. I’d seen this in him before. But even as we’d spoken, even though he seemed to be him, I needed to be sure. I needed to be careful. Because I have been fooled before. See the previous notes on spawn.

“How do I know you’re you?”

He blinked at me, completely dumbfounded.

“I’ve dealt with spawn who wanted to take your crown before. Who’s to say you aren’t another one? After all, King Dahlmar is at a very public finance conference.”

“He is the impostor. I am not demon spawn.” He puffed up, taking offense.

“Yes, well, obviously you would say that.” I didn’t add the “duh” because it was just too insulting. “So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to leave this restaurant and in exactly twenty-four hours I will meet you at the place where you and your men delivered my sire’s head to me. If you’re you, you’re bound to remember that. When you get there, you’ll have to cross the line of protection and I’ll be dousing all three of you with holy water. You pass the test, we’ll talk.”

He looked irate and opened his mouth to argue, but I didn’t let him.

“Look. You need food and rest and more of a plan than just ‘find the siren and kill the bitch.’ I’ve got things to do, too. So . . . twenty-four hours. Nothing critical is likely to happen in your country before tomorrow, and Creede will keep you safe until then.” The waiter came up with Dahlmar’s food. I’d timed it perfectly. I rose as the waiter began setting dishes on the table in front of the king. Ivan was glowering at me from his spot in the telephone nook. Creede was looking very thoughtful. They were probably them. Probably. I’d find out tomorrow.