The Eldritch Conspiracy

28

The wedding had been being planned for more than a year with military precision and timing. An army of workers were laboring to take care of even the tiniest details. You would think that there wouldn’t be any last-second preparations required on the final day.

You would be wrong.

That Nellie Standish had been able to get onto the princess’s yacht and that a member of Adriana’s own staff had been compromised had the secret service in a frothing fury. I went to the security meeting and listened as Thorsen went over the schedule for the next day minute by minute, confirming who would be in charge of what and which units where doing what where and when. Air space had been closed off over the capital city for the entire morning. Uniformed police would be stationed along the parade route at ten-foot intervals, providing a very visible presence. Less visible would be Creede, who was coordinating the work of the mages who would create an unseen magical barrier to protect the royals for the entire length of the two- mile procession. The Secret Service agents were doing continuous sweeps for bombs and snipers. Radio announcements and printed handouts asked all citizens and visitors to report anything suspicious.

The sheer size of the endeavor was staggering. And even with all of the preparation, Thorsen and everyone else in the room were fully aware that we couldn’t keep Queen Lopaka, Princess Adriana, and the others completely safe. The route was too open and too long. But everything that could be done was being done by professionals who were the best in the business.

And all this was for the casual part of the program. The procedures in place for the big church wedding in Rusland were going to be even more elaborate.

I was proud to be a part of history in the making. I was terrified of screwing up.

On the Internet, the Guardians of the Faith denounced the upcoming ritual on Serenity, decried Adriana’s baptism as a fraud, and threatened decisive action if she ever dared set foot on Ruslandic soil. They sounded hysterical and crazy. Then again, they probably were. But though the best minds in the security services of three countries tried, they were unable to trace the source of the messages. The bad guys had thoroughly covered those tracks. It was impressive and frightening—they’d spent a lot of time and effort to make themselves untraceable.

On Serenity, every trail connecting to the man who’d tried to kidnap my grandmother held a fresh corpse. Some were obviously victims of foul play. One was an apparent suicide. In the United States, the FBI had found Clarke, murdered with gruesome irony on a standing warehouse set that had been used in the James Bond movie A Place to Die. I was glad I had an alibi for that one, because it was common knowledge that Clarke had been harassing me and that I hated the bastard.

Jan was in the wind and there was still no sign of Okalani. Despite the words of Laka’s seer, I was losing hope of anyone finding her alive.

It was hard. I would save her if I could. But first someone had to find her. Both the queen’s people and the FBI were working with local law enforcement to search anywhere that Clarke had been known to frequent, so far to no avail. Okalani was off the grid and definitely in danger. Knowing that the mess she was in, start to finish, was her own fault didn’t make it any better. Most of our problems are of our own making. Since there was nothing I could do to help her, I tried to put the whole situation from my mind.

The morning dawned bright and clear—something I knew because I watched the sun rise through the French doors of my suite. The procession was scheduled to start at 9:00 sharp and there was a lot to be done before then. And it wasn’t as if I had been sleeping, anyway.

I brushed my teeth, then stumbled to the shower, hoping it would help wake me enough to keep me moving until I got some caffeine. I scrubbed and shampooed, but didn’t dry or style my hair or put on makeup. Both would be taken care of later by professionals—Adriana, Olga, Natasha, and I would all be getting “done” in my big living room. The very best hair and makeup artists in the world had been hired to make sure we looked perfect. I was a little surprised they were letting me dress myself. They must figure I could be trusted to tie on a lavalava. Silly them.

I pulled the dress from its garment bag, laying it across the bed. It was a striking piece made of raw silk in a red so dark it was almost black, with a pattern of glittering silver and gold abstract flowers and contrasting black bamboo. It was dark enough to set off my pale coloring and blonde hair and looked good with the black jacket and matching picture hat I’d be wearing to protect the delicate skin of my face.

Isaac had come through with the solution for my hands and feet: handmade gloves and boots covered in illusion spells that made them look eerily like bare hands and feet—with a perfect manicure and pedicure to match my dress, no less. My skin would be covered and protected, but I’d look like everyone else. I was more grateful to him than I could say.

When I was dressed, I went downstairs to join the others. I’d accessorized with a boatload of concealed weapons as well as the ruby-and-diamond earrings and bracelet that I’d used to have Gilda spy on Olga and Natasha for me—not because I needed their special properties, but simply because they were the best match for my outfit.

I was directed to a tall stool, where an elderly woman with close-cropped curls and skin the color of café au lait whipped a black plastic cape over my shoulders and began using a wide-toothed comb to detangle my hair. It took a bit of time. I have a lot of hair.

“It’s a bit windy today, and I understand you want to wear a hat, is that right?” she asked. There was no censure in her voice.

“Yes. I need to protect my skin.”

“In that case, why don’t I pull it over to one side, and arrange it in curls trailing over your shoulder?” She combed it into place, to give me an idea of how it would work.

“I like that.” I smiled at her.

I sat still, letting her do her thing with a variety of pleasantly scented hair products, a blow dryer, and a pair of tortoiseshell combs. All the while I wished fervently for a cup of black coffee. I can function without caffeine in the morning, but I’m never happy about it.

The stylist was working with the curling iron when Hiwahiwa arrived at the head of a parade of servers pushing carts laden with food and drink—everything from capers to caviar, bagels with cream cheese to scrambled eggs, English breakfast tea to—oh joy and rapture—coffee. It smelled glorious. They even brought me a Sunset Smoothie that must have been made from Juan and Barbara’s recipe. It was all I could do to sit still and let the hairdresser finish what she was doing instead of pouncing on the tray like some ravening beast. I’d have to brush my teeth again to get rid of the garlic and onions, but the coffee and the wonderful food were worth every second.

“All done.” She turned the stool around so I could get a look at myself in the mirror behind the bar. “What do you think?”

I looked great. Even without makeup. “Wow.”

“You have great hair,” she said as she whisked off the cape. “Now go eat. When you’re done they’ll want you down the hall for makeup.”

“Thanks, so much.” I wished I could tip her, but I hadn’t brought down my purse. “Um…” I tried to think of an apology that didn’t sound lame, but couldn’t think of a thing.

It was as if she read my mind, or maybe just my uncomfortable expression. “Don’t worry about it,” she assured me. “Everything’s been taken care of. Tips and everything.”

I enjoyed my breakfast while my hairdresser worked on Natasha. I half expected Hiwahiwa to approach me with word about Laka or Okalani, but she didn’t. Most likely, there wasn’t anything to say. Still, I was glad to move to the next room and put some distance between us.

“I’m going to use a base with the heaviest sunscreen available,” the makeup artist assured me as she swept another little capelet over my shoulders. This one was hot pink and marked with the logo of her company. The color was an almost exact match for her short, spiked hair and perfect manicure.

“I appreciate that.”

“My name is Brenna.”

“Celia.”

“I know.” She smiled, showing straight white teeth. “Now try to relax.”

I tried, but wasn’t very successful. It was weird having somebody paint makeup on me. I didn’t like it. Still, I couldn’t argue with the result. When she stepped aside so I could see myself in the mirror, I was stunned.

That was me? Wow. I had a moment of pure ego—which was deflated the minute I got a look at my cousin, seated nearby.

Everybody says brides are radiant, and Adriana was. Her long red hair was held to one side by pearl-encrusted combs carved from abalone shells; it fell in a cascade of curls over one shoulder. The lavalava she wore was dark gold, cream, and yellow, and was tied in a way that showed off her dangerous curves. The cross King Dahlmar had given her the night before nestled in her ample cleavage; the colors of the dress picked up the topaz in the necklace and her topaz-and-pearl earrings.

The makeup artist hadn’t needed to do much for her. Adriana had amazing skin and she was so excited and happy that cosmetics were almost redundant—almost.

Natasha and Olga were both looking lovely as well. I studied myself again in the mirror and was pleased with what I saw. Today I could hold my own with the other bridesmaids, and that was good, because even if the bride was going to be the center of attention, I’d be in lots of the wedding photos, and the event was being televised all over the world. Too, there’d be press photographers taking shots for all the international print media.

There was a light tap on the door.

It was time to go.

The drive from the guest house to the parade route was surprisingly quiet. Nobody bothered making small talk. I didn’t mind. I was enjoying staring out the window at the milling throngs of happy people waving and shouting congratulations as we drove past.

We arrived at the starting point exactly on schedule. Stepping out of the car into the bright morning sun was like stepping into a pool of thick, burning magic. It hurt. I’d known about the protective spells everywhere, but ow, ow, ow. Damn. And it was going to be like this for the long, long walk to the courthouse. I’d have to really fight not to wince the whole way—and wouldn’t that look special on the front page of every paper in the world?

The procession probably looked casual, but of course that was an elaborate illusion. Everything had been planned to the last nuance. Adriana and Dahlmar were at the head of the group, walking hand-in-hand. The queen would be directly behind them, escorted by Gunnar Thorsen. If there were any concerns about whether she was strong enough to walk a couple of miles so soon after being released from the hospital, no one I knew had dared voice them. Truthfully, she looked good, and it wasn’t the makeup, either. Being so close to the ocean and back on her home island seemed to be doing wonders for her. She was beautiful in bright turquoise, her golden hair left long and loose so that it fell past her shoulders in shining waves. We three bridesmaids were next, with our escorts. Mine was Griffiths, who looked terrific in traditional long shorts and a flowing white shirt. Igor followed—with Baker at his side, which gave her a reason to stay close to me. I noticed that she and Igor were smiling at each other in a genuinely friendly manner. Hmmm.

I settled my hat on my head, activating the little spell disk that insured it wouldn’t fly off, even in a gale-force wind. Griffiths stepped forward, extending his arm. I took it and we began the stroll to the courthouse steps.

For all the expense, trouble, and elaborate planning, the actual ceremony at the courthouse would only take about fifteen minutes. It boggled my mind. I wondered what the cost added up to per minute, and decided I really didn’t want to know.

We walked down a wide brick street that had been strewn with flower petals of various colors. It smelled fantastic, and probably felt wonderful for those going barefoot. Somewhere, someone on the Internet was probably decrying the waste, and someone else was totting up how many flowers had been denuded to make this happen. But it was beautiful, and I took deep breaths, enjoying the fragrance as I turned from side to side and waved at the crowd.

“You do not know, do you?” Griffiths spoke softly, keeping a smile on his face as he waved cheerfully to the people on our right.

His voice hinted at something amiss. I forced myself to keep smiling, even though I felt a chill of foreboding. “What?”

“Your business associate has not called?”

“I left my phone in my room.” I’d figured it would be rude to leave it on during the morning’s events, so I decided not to even carry it.

“Ah. I see.”

My smile had probably gone brittle. Waving to the cheering crowds on the left, I whispered, “Is anyone dead?”

“No.”

“Maimed?”

“No.”

“Then just tell me.” Military jets roared overhead in formation. I looked up. The crowd looked up. Despite the ooohing and ahhing of thousands of voices, vampire hearing, activated by my rising level of tension, let me hear Griffiths clearly.

“Because of all of the various threats against Adriana and the sirens, my king has had me put intelligence feelers out throughout the world. An informant brought us word of a threat to a siren in Santa Maria de Luna. He had helped plant a bio-magical bomb in the upstairs bathroom of a Victorian office building.”

My stomach lurched. “Shit.”

“I sent my people to check it out. The device they found involves both explosives and powerful curses and was linked to your DNA by strands of your hair. It is a particularly nasty piece of equipment. The bomb squad is on their way. But, based on the photos my colleague has sent me, your police are not going to be able to disarm it. They will insist on a controlled explosion.”

My smile faltered and I gripped his arm tightly so that I wouldn’t stumble. My building. Damn it. Damn, shit, hell, crap, fuck! Swearing internally helped me fight back the tears that stung my eyes. I loved that building. I’d loved it since the day I’d seen it while looking for office space, long before Vicki had left it to me. Yes, it was just a thing, but it was my thing. It was unique. And we’d just gotten Ron moved out.

This was why Dottie had taken the cat, had had my things sent away, had looked sad. She knew but, like Vicki, couldn’t tell. Because if she had, we might all be dead; our searching for the bomb might have set it off.

I took a deep, shuddering, breath. I could handle this. Nobody I loved was dead. Nobody had been badly hurt. I’d rebuild if I could, or find another office. I could deal.

Griffiths waited until I had myself fully under control. “There is more.”

Wave, smile, turn. Wave, smile, turn. My movements were a little mechanical, but the audience probably wouldn’t notice. “Of course there is.” I didn’t bother to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

He gave the tiniest nod of acknowledgment. “My people have traced the magical signature and have found out who created this bomb and hired the man to plant it.”

“The terrorists?”

“No. A woman. A human. Her name is—”

I didn’t even have to guess. I finished the sentence for him. “Angelina Bonetti.”

His eyes widened, his eyebrows rising. “You are not surprised.”

Oh, I was surprised. I’d known Angelina was jealous. But a bomb? Really? How over the top was that? Still, in a weird way, it made sense. If she was going to kill me, now was the perfect time, and with all of the Guardian of the Faith crap going on, a bombing of my office would likely be written off as an act of terrorism. The terrorists might even lie and take credit for it, which would make the police less likely to look for any other culprits.

Beautiful and smart, she was quite the adversary. If it hadn’t been for the informant, she would probably not only have succeeded in killing me, she’d most likely have gotten away with it.

The knowledge was both shocking and frightening. But it also made me mad. She’d tried to kill me. She actually tried to fucking kill me. So much for not being much of a threat to her.

“I’m smiling, Griffiths, but heaven knows what people are reading in my mind.”

He squeezed my arm reassuringly. “That is why I am walking with you. I’m blocking your mind from outside reading or attack. Your thoughts are your own until this is over.”

It was a relief to hear. “Thank you.” Now I could be angry and hurt and terrified and still pretend for the public and the cameras that everything was fine. Everyone would think I was happy while in fact, I felt a level of rage that, if not held in check, was likely to bring out my inner monster. I managed to control it. But it wasn’t easy.

As a consequence, the ceremony was something of a haze to me. I was there. I did my part, but I don’t remember anything specific. Adriana and Dahlmar made their public declarations of love and fidelity, then kissed on the steps of the courthouse amid deafening cheers. We all made happy-happy in our lavalavas, and congratulated the beaming couple by tossing a few thousand flowers’ worth of fragrant petals into the air to fall in a cloud around them. Flashbulbs went off so fast that the air turned white.

Fortunately, there were no other threats. I’m a professional, but I have my limits. Knowing that someone hated me enough to plant a bomb likely to kill not only me, but pretty much anyone within a full square block, was mind-boggling. Shock and anger washed over me in alternating waves as I struggled to wrap my head around the idea.

How the hell had Angelina Bonetti gotten a sample of my hair? After the events of the past couple of years I have become almost fanatically paranoid about preventing that sort of thing, for exactly this reason.

I could only think of one logical possibility. Well, actually two.

John Creede had lost his siren charm, which was made from my hair, in our battle with Glinda. Someone might have found it and made it available on the black market. The other choices were that it had been destroyed … or that it had been taken to Hell. I didn’t want to think too much about the latter option. It was just too frightening.

It was much more likely that Angelina had gotten my hair from the charm I made for Bruno. Maybe that was how she knew he didn’t have it—because she did.

What worried me more was that Angelina wasn’t a witch, and Griffiths had said bio-magical. That little fact was just sinking into my head. Yeah, Mrs. DeLuca, Grand Hag of the East Coast, hates me, but I didn’t think she’d actually help someone murder me. I mean, there’s hate and there’s hate. Besides which, Isabella DeLuca is smart and subtle. A bomb didn’t seem like her kind of thing, particularly one that could be traced back so easily. She’s more the death curse or poison sort of person.

Griffiths gave me his cell phone and helped me slip into the courthouse after the ceremony and before the wedding photos. Rather than use the women’s room and risk getting interrupted, I ducked into the “family” restroom, which was a single seater and had a changing table attached to the wall.

My first call was to Alex. If the locals weren’t in charge, she’d know who was.

Alex picked up on the first ring. “Detective Alexander speaking.”

“It’s me.”

“Christ on a crutch! Where the hell have you been? Don’t you ever pick up your voice mails?” She was almost snarling.

“Where have I been? Are you freaking serious? It’s Adriana’s wedding day.”

“But you weren’t supposed to be going to the ceremony on Serenity. We’ve been looking everywhere for you! There was word someone had predicted your kidnapping so we’ve been treating you as a missing person. Bruno is gone. Dawna hasn’t heard from you for a couple of days. We can’t reach John Creede.”

Oh, crap. Of course she was worried. We deliberately hadn’t made my change of plans public.

“Geez, Alex, I’m sorry. Things changed and the Serenity Secret Service kept some details from the press for security reasons. I’ve been on Serenity for a few days. I just heard about the bomb in my building. Are your guys handling it?”

“Just crowd control. The feds are taking care of actually setting the damned thing off. You really need to call Rizzoli and Dawna—she’s an absolute basket case.”

I could believe that. “I’ll call her as soon as I’m done with you.” I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. “The guy who told me about the bomb said it wasn’t the terrorists, that it was personal. He said that they traced the magical signature to a particular woman.”

“Did he now? And how did he happen to get that information?”

“Off the record?”

“Oh hell,” she grumbled. “Fine, off the record.”

“He’s Queen Lopaka’s fixer. An informant told them about the bomb, and he had King Dahlmar’s fixer look into it.”

She swore colorfully. “Fixers. You mean international spies and mercenaries. Jesus, Celia. You are seriously telling me that you’re in bed with international spies?”

“I’m not in bed with them.”

“Unh-hunh.” She gave a martyred sigh. “I’m hanging up now. Call Rizzoli. I’m sure he’ll enjoy the hell out of hearing this.”

I called. He wasn’t thrilled to hear from me, but at least he wasn’t surprised about where I was. His wife and kids were obsessing over the whole royal wedding thing because they actually knew somebody in the wedding party. He already knew about Angelina, too. He was going to tell me—if I ever got around to returning his call.

I winced at the none-too-subtle hint. “Sorry, it’s been nuts and we’re on security lockdown here.”

“Your life is always nuts. Curled up in a corner yet with loaded weapons?”

Ouch. He was right, but saying so wasn’t exactly tactful. Still, part of the whole friendship thing is putting up with the other person’s foibles. Dom and I might have started out as business acquaintances, but we’d been through a lot the past couple of years. Somewhere along the way he’d become one of my friends.

So I ignored the verbal jab and changed the subject. “Have you picked Angelina up yet?”

My question was met with silence. A long, meaningful, silence. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a clue what it meant. “Dom, are you still there?”

“Yeah, she’s in custody now.”

There was something weird about his inflection when he said it, a tiny bit too much emphasis on the last word. I was about to push him to try to get more information, when there was a pounding on the bathroom door.

Oh, hell. I should’ve known. I couldn’t have five full minutes to myself. There simply wasn’t room for it in the day’s schedule.

“Princess, are you all right?” Baker didn’t sound worried, but she wasn’t happy, either. “They’re looking for you for pictures.”

“I gotta go, Dom—” I started to ask when it would be a good time to call him back, but he cut me off by saying “No problem” and hanging up. Hmnpf. Something was very definitely fishy.

“Princess?” Baker repeated.

“I’m fine,” I assured her as I was opening the door. “I was just making a couple of calls.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’re needed for photos. Any other calls you wish to make”—her expression made it clear that it wasn’t acceptable to do that in the middle of a royal wedding—“will have to wait.”

The woman at the door sounded like Baker. She looked like Baker, complete with steel gray suit, tasteful pumps, and ear piece, but I didn’t see Igor or Griffiths behind her. That was odd enough that I reached into my jacket and withdrew my One Shot with its holy water.

“Extend your hand, please.”

She didn’t argue, didn’t even blink, just offered her hand. I sprayed. It was her. “Where’s Griffiths? I need to give him back his phone.”

“He has already joined the rest of the party.” She said it politely but still managed to convey her urgency and frustration. “We’re running behind schedule.” She led me down a long marble hallway with hardwood doors spaced at intervals.

I was inconveniencing everybody and throwing off a schedule that had been timed with exquisite care. It was unprofessional of me. “I’m sorry. But Griffiths told me about the bomb in my office and I wanted an update.”

She almost stumbled—apparently she hadn’t known—but when she spoke, her voice was rock steady. “A bomb?”

“Your people didn’t miss anything,” I assured her. “It was planted after we left. It had a DNA trigger.”

We took a sharp right turn down a narrow hall that led to one of the building’s back exits. Bringing her wrist to her mouth, Baker spoke into her wrist mic. “I’ve got her. She’s safe.”

Now, yes. But for how long?