The Eldritch Conspiracy

19

My flight would leave at 2:00 P.M. from a private airstrip not far from town. It was probably an hour’s drive from the office. Since it was private, I’d be able to pack whatever weaponry I cared to bring. I could strip the safe bare if I wanted. I was going to take spell disks, my guns, various ammunition, my knives, and some One Shot brand squirt guns filled with holy water. I probably wouldn’t need the special loads on Serenity; there are no monsters on the islands. Well, there aren’t supposed to be. But we’d be going straight from Serenity to Rusland, and I might need them there, so I needed to pack them now if I wanted them later.

I would also have time to meet with the client who’d been on the books since the day I got back in town.

I could hear Ron and Dawna arguing the moment I climbed from the car. So help me God, if I hadn’t had to go to the bathroom so bad I would’ve climbed back in and have Griffiths drive us somewhere else. But the morning rush hour had offered up bumper-to-bumper traffic and I’d drunk two large mugs of coffee. So I steeled myself and entered the lion’s den.

“I’ve had it!” Ron is not a small man. He towered over Dawna, even in her heels. But she stood toe-to-toe with him, not giving an inch. Years of putting up with his crap had finally come to a head. I could tell that from across the room. Ron was an idiot if he didn’t recognize it. “That woman is a menace.”

That woman? That would be me. It always is.

“All right, what’s up?” I asked. Baker had entered ahead of me and Griffiths was behind. They both kept one hand close to their sidearms, ready to act as backup, but they didn’t need to. On my worst day I could handle Ron without breaking a sweat. He’s a big bully, but there’s no substance to it.

He whirled around at the sound of my voice. “You!” He pointed a meaty finger at my face.

“Yep, me. Now, what’s the problem?” There was an edge in my voice you could shave with. Like Dawna, I had pretty much reached the end of my ability to put up with Ron’s abuse.

“I’m moving out! I can’t take any more of this. Terrorists! There are actual terrorists after you, with bombs. You being here endangers all of us.” He started to move forward, to try to use that big body to intimidate me, but Baker suddenly appeared just in front of him. She wasn’t aggressive; she barely even seemed to move. But she stopped him cold.

“Okay,” I said in a perfectly pleasant tone of voice. Because, truthfully, imagining Ron out of my hair really was just so incredibly pleasant.

He stood there, blinking a little as if we’d startled him. “Okay?”

I sighed. “Ron, actual terrorists have made viable threats. Any sane and rational person would get as far away from that as possible. I’m a little startled to find out you’re rational, but hey, good on you.” I heard a soft snort of what might have been suppressed laughter. Griffiths, I think. I didn’t look. If I did, Ron would notice and we’d have more of a fuss on our hands than we already did. “You want out of your lease, I’ll let you out. Hell, if you can get moved out by the end of the week and leave the place clean, I’ll not only give you back your deposit, I’ll refund this month’s rent as a gesture of good will.”

It took him a few seconds to take that in. He’d won. But he was Ron, and he was an attorney, he had to push for just that little bit more. “My moving expenses—”

“No.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. “No.”

I turned aside and moved around both him and Baker, to the reception desk where Dawna had resumed her usual seat. I was not going to argue. If he took the offer, fine. If he didn’t, he was a fool. Either way, I was finished with it, and him. “When’s my client due?”

Behind me, Griffiths gave a polite cough.

Apparently, I’d been too involved to notice a new arrival. Just great. Peachy. I pasted a smile on my face and turned to greet the newcomer. Points to me, I was even able to hold on to the smile when I saw who it was.

Angelina Bonetti.

Oh, hell. This was so not my day.

“Ms. Bonetti.”

“You know my name.” She wasn’t happy about it. Her eyes had narrowed, her voice polite but chilly. She’d expected to surprise me, have the advantage.

“Bruno showed me your picture.” Oh, she didn’t like that, not a bit. It showed. Apparently he was supposed to keep her from me, like some deep dark secret. The woman he’d always hold a torch for, someone to be ashamed of still having feelings for. And maybe he would have kept her a secret—if I hadn’t found the picture. Or not. Because he’d had the whole day to plan our date. To clean up. Why keep an incriminating photo around if he was embarrassed?

I forced myself to keep smiling. “I understand you were his high-school sweetheart. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll be with you in just a minute.” I gestured toward the lobby. I didn’t stay to see if or where she went. Whatever was going to happen next could wait. I was going to the bathroom. Now.

As I was washing up, I took stock of myself in the mirror. I was wearing a nice black suit with a white blouse. My hair was pulled back and my face was made up in my usual business-appropriate way. My bone structure has always been a little harsh, but that became more apparent after the bite—and even more so since I’d dropped weight in Mexico. I’ve learned to keep the fangs hidden most of the time. My skin doesn’t glow green unless I’m vamping, which isn’t often anymore. I could hold my head up at any business meeting in the city. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hold a candle to Angelina Bonetti.

I’ve known some gorgeous people. Vicki Cooper, my best friend since college, was the daughter of a pair of A-list movie stars, and was so beautiful that when she went out in shorts and a tank top she could actually stop traffic. Seriously, I honest-to-God saw a guy almost wreck his car because he was staring at her.

Angelina left Vicki in the shade. She’d grown into the face I’d seen in the photo. She was still petite, tiny even, but with dangerous curves that were emphasized by the crossover cut of the sapphire-blue dress she was wearing. The jewels she wore at her throat, wrist, and ears were sapphires as well, with just enough diamonds to add a little sparkle. Her long, dark hair had been swept back and to one side in a casually messy braid, a style that emphasized a heart-shaped face dominated by huge, doelike eyes and full, red lips.

She was overdressed for a simple business meeting and I doubted it was accidental. How I reacted would determine if she got the upper hand.

“She’s trying too hard. That means she’s nervous.” My reflection smiled at me. It wasn’t a happy smile. But I stiffened my spine, dried my hands, put a quick, glossy shine on my already pink lips, and went back to the lobby by way of the kitchen, where I fetched coffee for myself and my guest.

Baker was coming down the stairs as I entered the room. She gave me a brisk nod to let me know the office was clear. I acknowledged the gesture and turned to my client. “Ms. Bonetti, if you’d like to come upstairs? I hope you like coffee.” I extended the cup to her. “It’s black, but I have cream and sugar available in my office if you’d prefer.”

“Black is fine.” She stood, smoothing her dress with an automatic gesture before taking the cup from my hand. God, she was tiny. I felt awkward and huge standing over her. Normally, this kind of thing doesn’t bother me. Hell, Dawna had to be about this woman’s size. So what was the problem?

Attitude. Which meant I needed to adjust mine. Stat.

Baker took the lead up the stairs; Angelina, Griffiths, and I followed. The stairs to the third-floor office are steep. I’m used to them, and I knew the agents worked out. And it seemed Ms. Bonetti did, too, because she made it to the top without getting breathless or spilling her coffee. Point to her.

As we climbed, I remembered the night I’d gone to the winery in the Napa Valley for the debut of the new wine John Creede had helped create. Before that evening, Dawna, Emma, and I had spent several days in a spa. I’d been pampered and patted, trimmed and manicured. Hair extensions, smoking dress, and perfect makeup.

It took me a few minutes to channel the Celia I’d been that night, but by the time we reached my office, I was the woman John’s assistant had mistaken for a model. Point to me.

We took our seats, me at my desk, Angelina in one of the matching wing-backed visitor chairs. Baker and Griffiths waited outside the closed door.

“So.” I smiled with saccharine sweetness and grabbed the bull by the proverbial horns. “Shall we sharpen our claws, or should we just cut to the chase? I’d prefer the latter. I’ve got a lot to do today.”

She didn’t even blink. “I want him back.”

Wow, that was direct. I took a sip of my coffee before answering. “I’d say that’s up to him.”

“He wouldn’t be with you at all if it weren’t for you using your siren magic on him.” Her words were crisp, her back rigid. It was obvious that she was furious, and I hadn’t done a damned thing. I hadn’t deliberately worked siren magic against Bruno and I’d taken measures to protect him, but I couldn’t help having my siren abilities work against me with Angelina. It made me uneasy, since jealousy can be used to kill us.

I shook my head. “Nice try. But I gave him a charm that counteracts siren magic.”

“He doesn’t wear it.”

She stated it as a fact. There was no doubt in her voice, none, which I found very interesting indeed. She knew about the charm. Bruno might have told her, but I doubted it. No, I’d lay my money that Bruno’s mother was the source of her information. It made me wonder if talking was all Mama had done. The charm had been made with my hair—hair that could be used in all sorts of spells: tracking spells being first among them. Assuming, of course, someone was a witch or mage with a certain level of ability. Bruno’s mother is such a witch. He comes by his talent naturally.

“Not my fault. Not my problem. We got involved and were engaged before the bite. I was no more siren than you when he gave me a ring.” I took another sip, trying to look casual.

“You’re not even faithful to him. You expect him to share, of all things.” She was practically spitting out her words. Funny, now that she was getting angry, she wasn’t nearly as attractive. She looked cold, hard, and capable of almost anything.

“Why did you come here?”

“I wanted to see what I was up against. Now that I have, I realize I shouldn’t have worried.” She rose to her feet, using rage and posture to make herself more imposing. “Good-bye, Princess,” she hissed.

I stayed right where I was and kept my voice bland as butter. “Good-bye, Ms. Bonetti.”

I watched her sashay out. She didn’t slam the door because of the agents standing outside. But she would’ve. Bitch. A beautiful bitch, but a bitch nonetheless.

Meeting with her probably hadn’t been smart, but hey, not my fault.

“Whatever.” I shook my head. At some point I was going to have to really think about what had just happened—probably talk it over with Emma and Dawna. But right now I had an unexpected hour to myself and I had all sorts of uses for it.

I spent the time productively, going over the schedule of wedding events, looking for a spot to shoehorn in my party. It seemed that my best choice was the night of the rehearsal dinner on Serenity. The notice was so short it was practically breathtaking. There was no way was I going to get a venue. They’d all be booked up. I suppose there was probably a suitable room in the palace. It was a palace, after all. But what kind of party happened in the bride’s home?

I looked around, trying to come up with some inspiration, and found it. The office. This building was secure. It was historic and elegantly furnished. There were multiple bathrooms and a kitchen. If Ron took me up on my offer (and he would—there was no way he’d miss a chance to save a buck), there was a good chance he’d be out of the way. We could put a bar in the lobby and the buffet in the conference room, and have a DJ and dancing in the empty offices.

It might just work.

Holy crap. It really might.

I called Baker and Griffiths in to review the plan with them. They immediately started poking holes in it.

“No caterers. There isn’t enough time to do background checks on their staff and drivers,” Baker stated.

She was right, of course. Small caterers wouldn’t have the facilities to do something this quick. Big ones were, well, big. “Crap.”

“You could use staff from the royal kitchens,” Griffiths suggested.

“There are all sorts of laws about importing food,” I pointed out.

“True,” he agreed. “But if they come over today, they could buy and prepare the food here.”

Baker grinned; her smile lit up her face, taking years off of her appearance.

“What?” Griffiths and I chorused.

“I am picturing Chef Antoine’s reaction to working in an office kitchen.”

The two of them laughed. Apparently it was an inside joke. Whatever. “Do you think it’s workable?”

“Call the princess. She’s in charge. If she agrees to it, we will make it work.”