Arc Angel (6 page)

“Pull over,” she commanded. “There.”

Her driver yanked the cab off the road and up into a spot near to the building’s front door.

She turned to look back at the road as the SUV pulled even with them, seemed to slow for a moment, and then drove on.

Immediately the power inside Miranda lowered, like someone turned down a dial from five to one. Her heart still beat like she’d run a four-minute mile, but her physiological reactions were normal now, consistent with the fight or flight effect adrenaline had on everyone.

That had been kind of cool. She’d been totally calm and in control for once.

She reached up to smooth her hair, now sticking up an extra inch at the roots and saw the cab driver looking at her in the rearview mirror, his eyes wide. Her eyes were probably as wide as his.

“I… I just really needed some caffeine,” she said.

Great explanation, Miranda.

But even her lame explanation was easier to believe than the truth.

***

Mr. Brown was not pleased.

“Nothing. You’ve got nothing for me.”

John dropped his gaze to his shoes. “No sir, not yet. We haven’t obtained anything concrete yet.”

“Well, what happened this morning? Didn’t we have a man on her?”

“Two, sir. We followed her to the police station, but we weren’t able to get anything new. We tailed her as she left, but she, um, she spotted our guy. We felt it was best, at this stage, to fall back. We didn’t think you’d want her getting too suspicious.”

Mr. Brown sighed and brushed a fleck of dust off his otherwise spotless desk. “Fine. But we’ll have to step things up. I want to know what that woman is capable of. And I don’t have much time to sit around waiting. Sunday night is approaching, and everything must be ready.”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. How about the fellow in the hospital? The mugger? Have we gotten any information from him?”

“Not much. He described the event as we’d expected. A flash of light and then searing pain. Then he lost consciousness.”

Mr. Brown nodded. “Anything else?”

“Nothing useful. Though he did mention something about getting calls from the tabloids. Apparently he’s been offered a few thousand bucks to tell his story. ‘How I Faced Down Electric Girl’ was, I believe, the proposed title.”

“Well, we can’t have that. I don’t want to share our girl with the world yet. Take care of it, will you, John?”

“Yes sir.”

***

Usually, Kate O’Hara didn’t mind the buzz of the station’s staff room. But today she wanted quiet so she could think about everything she’d just heard.

Miranda James. The young woman was obviously lying, though O’Hara wasn’t sure how to separate the fact from the fiction at this point. One thing was obvious. The girl suffered from a severe case of anxiety disorder. At first, Kate had thought the awkwardness stemmed from simple nervousness at being in a police station, being involved in a crime. But when you factored in the information from her background—her avoidance of phone calls, her reluctance to ever leave her apartment, her seeming lack of any social contacts—the problem was obviously more than simple jitters.

And yet Miranda had managed to walk right up to an armed assailant and confront him. That certainly didn’t fit in with the anxiety disorder. And she hadn’t only confronted the guy, she’d somehow taken him down.

And that was the real mystery.

What had skinny little Miranda James done to knock down a 6’2” man with a gun? Could it have been a lightning strike, like she’d claimed? Maybe. But that still didn’t explain why Miranda had been able to confront the guy when she couldn’t even look Kate in the eye.

“O’Hara!”

Bill Graves, a fellow detective, tossed a newspaper to her, which she deftly caught.

“What’s up, Graves?”

“Check out page five. You’re famous. Another quote from you on the new artifact coming into the museum.”

Great. Just what she needed. More publicity for her work setting up the security detail for the transportation and installation of the ancient Native American artifact that had recently been donated by a private collector. As if the guys in the department hadn’t given her enough shit about the crazy amount of attention she’d already gotten for the high-profile job. At least they’d be done soon. They were moving the piece to its display in the museum today, with the grand opening scheduled for next Monday. Maybe then the guys would quit giving her shit.

She tossed the paper back at Bill.

“Thanks, but my ego is secure. But you might want to check out that story on male-pattern baldness on D2.”

That got a quick laugh and then the buzz moved on to someone else, leaving Kate alone with her thoughts again. Unfortunately, her thoughts were still a muddle. She didn’t know what was going on with Miranda James, but she had a strong gut instinct that whatever it was, it wasn’t over.

Chapter 7

The rest of the drive to Bryce’s had been uneventful and quick. Miranda spent the time going over what had happened with the black SUV. Had they actually been following her? Is that why the power had kicked in? Had she, or Arc Angel, or whatever, somehow sensed danger? And even worse, was that how it would be from now on? Get spooked by something innocuous and go all “lightning girl” again? What would happen if a squirrel ran in front of her, for god’s sake? Would she zap the poor sucker?

And what had happened to her back there anyway? She’d never had symptoms of schizophrenia, but maybe she ought to look into it. It had truly seemed like there was another… consciousness inside her. And it had talked to her. Was that typical? Did the voices usually talk to each other? Maybe she should go see a doctor.

As stressful as her thoughts were, at least they kept her from worrying about meeting Bryce. Until now, when they were through the gate and parked in front of his mansion.

Okay, it probably wasn’t a mansion, but it was definitely imposing. The house sat back hundreds of yards from the development’s gate and the nearest house. It loomed over her, all weathered brick and gleaming windows, surrounded by an enormous expanse of wooded lawn. She could smell a hint of fresh water on the air, confirming her suspicion that they were very near one of the area’s lakes. The whole scene screamed old money, even to a small-town girl like Miranda.

She sat there, looking at the house. She hadn’t even taken off her seatbelt. She couldn’t do this.

She had to do this.

Somehow, she found the courage to pop open her seatbelt and reach for the door handle. She managed to mumble “please wait” to her driver and climbed out of the cab.

Miranda headed up the stone walkway leading to the enormous house as if she were on the way to her own hanging. It took a 30-second pep talk before she managed to push the doorbell.

As the jangle of the chimes faded, a large man, grey haired and broad shouldered, pulled open the door. She’d been expecting Alfred from Wayne Manor, but his imposing stature and stern expression reminded her more of Nick Fury. However, his greeting erased any doubt as to his role.

“You must be Ms. James. Please come in. Mr. Campion is waiting for you in the library.”

Miranda took a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm her nerves and stepped inside the house. The man started across a gorgeous parquet floor, but the beauty surrounding her overwhelmed her, and she stumbled to stop. She stared. No, not just stared, but gawked. Everywhere she turned something else caught her eye. The winding wooden staircase, gleaming in the morning sunlight. An enormous still life of vibrant, luscious fruit. An elaborate metal grille full of curlicues to cover an elevator door.

The grey-haired man waited at the end of the foyer. Once she remembered his existence, Miranda flushed and hurried over to him. What a country mouse she must seem! But the man’s politely neutral expression remained in place, which comforted her a little. He ushered her down a hallway and into an enormous library, and then discreetly disappeared. The library captivated Miranda even more than the foyer had. Leather bound books covered one of the side walls, crawling up to ceiling level. One of those ladders on tracks so you could get up to the very top rested at the end of the shelves. A large wooden rolltop desk, the kind with tons of small slots, drawers and cubbies dominated the other wall. A sleek laptop sat on its broad top, a splash of modernity oddly out-of-place in this luxuriously old-fashioned room. But the focus of the room was an enormous ornate stone fireplace with two huge leather chairs set in front of it, an oriental rug pulling the whole sitting area together.

“I take it you think the room is… acceptable?”

Miranda started. She’d been so distracted by her surroundings that she hadn’t even noticed the man sitting in one of the leather armchairs. Bryce Campion. She’d recognize him anywhere, if only for his amazing wavy hair.

“I… I’m sorry. What?”

“I know what you’re thinking, and no, there isn’t this much money in comic books. My parents own the house. It’s been in the family for generations. The Latimers—my mother’s family—were some of the first settlers in the area.”

Though she’d been admiring the house’s beauty, not its price tag, his comment still made her squirm. “It’s… l-lovely.”

Ignoring both her discomfort and her remark, Bryce Campion lifted a dark brown bottle with a colorful label and drank deeply. A small silver tub full of ice and additional bottles sat on the end table next to him.

He caught her looking at him and tipped his bottle toward her, one eyebrow raised, silently offering her a drink. She shook her head. He shrugged, took another swallow, and began to roll the bottle between his hands as he studied her.

Immediately, her usual symptoms kicked in: her pulse quickened, her breathing became irregular, and an inordinate amount of blood traveled to her face and neck, most likely leaving the typical big red splotches. She wanted to disappear, to fall through the floor and be gone, or to run from the room, from the house. But his sharp, knowing gaze pinned her here, trapping her. She looked around the room again, but the magnificence she’d been admiring moments before had turned into a mere blur of color.

Just when she thought she couldn’t stand his scrutiny for another second, Bryce shrugged again. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the matching chair across from his.

She still didn’t want to be here, but anything was better than standing in front of him, being inspected. She hurried over to the chair and sank into it, promptly tucking her legs under her and huddling down into her hoodie. Now that she’d sneaked out of the spotlight, she felt calmer and bold enough to sneak a few looks at her host while he stared at the unlit fireplace.

He was a gorgeous man, but he looked different than he had the last time she’d seen him. Of course that had been in an interview posted on the web after Comic-Con three years ago. Most people changed at least a little in three years. But Bryce looked… tired. Maybe a little thinner. His faded black Eagles t-shirt hung loose on his frame. But his brown curls still flopped endearingly across his forehead. And his blue eyes were as sharp as ever, she discovered, as he turned to face her again.

“I take it you think I’m… acceptable?”

When Miranda finally made the connection to his earlier question, she ducked her head in shame; her already-burning cheeks became scorching. Was he mocking her? Or… flirting with her? How could you tell? She didn’t dare say anything, sure that whatever came out would be the absolute wrong response.

“Relax, I’m only teasing you.” His tone, light and cheery, should have put her at ease, but Miranda thought she sensed a touch of… something behind the charm. Of course she knew as much about interpreting tone of voice as a Pekinese did about programming in Basic. She decided to take his reassurance at face value and get on with it. Unless she managed to have this conversation, this conversation would never be over, and she really, really wanted it to be over. Sitting in a well-appointed library with Bryce Campion ranked much higher on her stress-o-meter than sitting in the police interrogation room.

She forced herself to make eye contact for a split second and to smile. She had a feeling her smile came out looking either too big or too small, but Bryce didn’t seem to have a problem with it.

He leaned forward and rested his arm on his knee. “So, you’re a hard woman to find, Miranda.”

She spoke before thinking. “You’re not exactly easy to find yourself.”

He sat back in his seat, his sharp blue eyes twinkling. “And have you been looking for me?”

And there came her blush again.

“N-n-no. I mean, yes. S-sort of. I just mean that you’ve stopped going to the c-conventions. The last few years.”

God, make her stop.

Bryce cocked his head. “You’re a con-er? Have we met? Maybe at GenCon, in Milwaukee?”

She shook her head even as she blurted out, “I bought a ticket for your luncheon.”

Way to look schizophrenic, Miranda. Idiot.

“But you didn’t go?”

She shook her head again, not daring to open her mouth.

“Why not?”

Damn. Simple gestures couldn’t cover that one.

Okay, Miranda, keep it short and sweet and, aw hell, true.

“Too many people.”

Bryce looked at her for a second, his expression decidedly neutral, then nodded.

Was that a good nod? A bad one? Did he think she was crazy or immature or what? Flustered by trying to interpret his strange signals, Miranda accidentally opened her mouth again.

“Why don’t
you
go anymore?” she asked.

Double idiot. What happened to getting through the conversation quickly?

For the first time since she’d walked into the library, Bryce Campion lost his air of smooth confidence. His lips dipped in a frown, and he stared pensively into the cold fireplace.

Silence was Miranda’s constant companion, her comfort and friend. But Bryce’s silence didn’t evoke the usual comfort. For the first time she could remember, she knew that another person’s discomfort outweighed her own, and she took no pleasure from the strange feeling. She wished she could take her question back, just suck it back into her mouth where it belonged. She wanted the confident Bryce back, even though he intimidated the crap out of her. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, to restore the status quo, when Bryce shifted in his seat and looked at her, self-assured smile firmly in place.