Dime Store Magic (66 page)
That morning, I sailed into my jog still pumped. I knew I wouldn't hit two miles, though, considering I'd never exceeded one mile in my entire running career, which was now in its fifth week. Over the last eighteen months it had come to my attention, on multiple occasions, that my level of physical fitness was inadequate. Before now a good game of pool was as active as I got. Ask me to flee for my life, and we could be talking imminent heart failure.
So as long as I was reinventing myself, I might as well toss in a fitness routine. Since Lucas ran, that seemed the logical choice. I hadn't told him about it yet, though. Not until I reached the two mile mark. Then I'd say
"oh, by the way, I took up running a few days ago." God forbid I should admit to not being instantly successful at anything.
That morning, I finally passed the one mile mark. Okay, it was only by about twenty yards, but it was still a personal best, so I treated myself to an iced chai for the walk home.
As I rounded the last corner, I noticed two suspicious figures standing in front of my building. Both wore suits, which in my neighborhood was
extremely suspicious. I looked for Bibles or encyclopedias, but they were empty-handed. One stared up at the building, perhaps expecting it to morph into corporate headquarters.
I fished my keys from my pocket. As I glanced up, two girls walked past the men. I wondered why they weren't in school—dumb question in this neighborhood but I was still adjusting—then realized the "girls" were at least forty. My mistake arose from the size differential. The two men towered a foot above the women.
Both men had short dark hair and clean-shaven, chiseled faces. Both wore Ray-Bans. Both were roughly the size of redwoods. If there hadn't been an inch of height difference between them, I'd have sworn they were identical twins. Other than that, my only way of distinguishing them was by tie color. One had a dark red tie, the other jade green.
The men stood on the opposite side of the apartment doors and, as I drew closer, both turned my way.
"Paige Winterbourne?" Red Tie said.
I slowed and mentally readied a spell.
"We're looking for Lucas Cortez," Green Tie said. "His father sent us."
My heart thumped double-time and I blinked to cover my surprise.
"Fath—?" I said. "Benicio?"
"That'd be the one," Red Tie said.
I pasted on a smile. "I'm sorry, but Lucas is in court today."
"Then Mr. Cortez would like to speak to you."
He half-turned, directing my gaze to a king-size black SUV idling just around the corner, in the no-stopping zone. So these two weren't just messengers; they were Benicio's personal half-demon bodyguards.
"Benicio wants to talk to me?" I said. "I'm honored. Tell him to come up to the apartment. I'll put on the kettle for tea."
Red Tie's mouth twisted. "He's not coming to you. You're going to him."
"Really? Wow, you must be one of those psychic half-demons. Never met one of those."
"Mr. Cortez wants you—"
I put up a hand to cut him off. My hand barely reached the height of his navel. Kind of scary if you thought about it. Luckily, I didn't.
"Here's how it works," I said. "Benicio wants to speak to me? Fine, but since I didn't request this audience, he's coming to me."
Green Tie's eyebrows lifted above his shades.
"That's not—" Red Tie began.
"You're messengers. I've given the message. Now deliver."
When neither moved, I cast under my breath and waved my ringers at them.
"You heard me. Shoo."
As my fingers flicked, they stumbled back. Green Tie's eyebrows arched higher, not because the jolt hurt, but because it was sorcerer magic. Witches didn't use sorcerer magic… at least not any witches these two were likely to know.
Red Tie recovered his balance and glowered, as if he'd like to launch a fireball at me, or whatever his demonic specialty might be. Before he could act, Green Tie caught his gaze and jerked his chin toward the car.
Red Tie settled for a glare, then stomped off.
I grabbed the door handle. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an arm grab the door. I looked up to see the other bodyguard—the one with the green tie. I expected him to hold the door shut, so I couldn't go inside, but instead he pulled it open and held it for me. I walked through. He followed.
At this point, any sane woman would have run for her life. At the very least, she would have turned around and walked back out onto the street, a public place. But I was bored and such boredom had a detrimental effect on my sanity.
I unlocked the inner door. This time, I held it open for him. We walked to the elevator in silence.
"Going up?" I asked.
He pushed the button. As the elevator wheels squealed, my resolve faltered. I was about to get into a small, enclosed place with a half-demon literally twice my size. I'd seen too many movies not to know how this could turn out.
Yet what were my options? If I ran, I'd be exactly what they expected: a timid witch-mouse. Nothing I did in the future would ever erase that. On the other hand, I could step on the elevator and never step off. Death or dishonor? For some people, there's really no choice.
When the elevator doors opened, I walked in.
The half-demon followed. As the doors closed, he took off his sunglasses. His eyes were a blue so cold they made the hairs on my arms rise. He pressed the STOP button. The elevator groaned to a halt.
"You ever seen this scene in a movie?" he asked.
I looked around. "Now that you mention it, I think I have."
"Know what happens next?"
I nodded. "The hulking bad guy attacks the defenseless young heroine, who suddenly reveals heretofore unimagined powers, which she uses to not only fend off his attack but beat him to a bloody pulp. Then she escapes—" I craned my head back "—out that handy escape hatch and shimmies up the cables. The bad guy recovers consciousness and attacks, whereupon she's forced, against her own moral code, to sever the cable with a fireball and send him plummeting to his death."
"Is that what happens?"
"Sure. Didn't you see that one?"
His lips curved in a grin, defrosting his icy gaze. "Yeah, maybe I did."
He leaned back against the wall. "So, how's Robert Vasic?"
I hesitated, startled. "Uh, fine… good."
"Still teaching at Stanford?"
"Uh, yes. Part-time."
He smiled. "A half-demon professor of demonology. I always liked that." His smile widened. "Though I did like it better when he was a half-demon priest. Not nearly enough of those around. Next time you see Robert, tell him Troy Morgan said hi."
"I—I'll do that."
"Last time I saw Robert, Adam was, like, twelve. Playing baseball in the backyard. When I heard who Lucas is dating, I thought, that's the Winterbourne girl. Adam's friend. Then I thought, whoa, how old is she?
Like, seventeen, eighteen… ?"
"Twenty-three."
"Man, I'm getting old." Troy shook his head. Then he met my gaze.
"Mr. Cortez isn't leaving until you talk to him, Paige."
"What does he want?"
Troy arched his brows. "You think he'd tell me? If Mr. Cortez wants to relay a message in person, then it's personal. Otherwise, he'd save himself the trip and send some sorcerer flunky. Either way, half-demon bodyguards are not in the know. The only thing I do know is that he
really
wants to talk to you. He'd rather talk to you on his own terms but…" Troy shrugged. "I've been with the guy for twelve years. If he wants to talk to someone badly enough, he doesn't stand on ceremony. If I tell him you won't come to him, he'll probably come to you. The question is: are you okay with that?"
"I am."
"Then I'll see what I can do."
The moment I stepped into my apartment, I had to fight the urge to throw shut the deadbolt and cast the best lock spell I knew. The comparison between Cabals and the Mafia was as old as organized crime itself. But it was a bad analogy. Comparing the Mob to a Cabal was like comparing a gang of teenage neo-Nazis to the Gestapo. I was about to meet Benicio Cortez. And to my shame, I was afraid. Not because he was the head of the world's most powerful Cabal, but because he was Lucas's father.
Everything that Lucas was, and everything he feared becoming, was embodied in this man.
When I'd first learned who Lucas was, I'd assumed that, having dedicated his life to fighting Cabal injustices, Lucas wouldn't have any contact with his father. I'd soon learned it wasn't that simple. Benicio phoned. He sent birthday gifts. He invited Lucas to all family functions.
He acted as if there was no estrangement. And what did Lucas do? When the phone rang and Benicio's number appeared on the caller ID, Lucas would stand there and stare at it, and in his eyes I saw a war I couldn't imagine. Sometimes he answered. Sometimes he didn't. Either way, he seemed to regret the choice.
So now I was about to meet the man. And what did I truly fear? That I wouldn't measure up. That Benicio would take one look at me and decide I wasn't good enough for his son. And the worst of it? Right now, I wasn't sure he'd be wrong.
A single rap at the door.
I took a deep breath, walked to the door and opened it.
My heart jammed into my throat. For one second, I was certain I'd been tricked, that this was not Benicio but the Cortez son who'd ordered my death in a dark storage room four months ago. I'd been drugged and, coming to, the first thing I'd seen were Lucas's eyes—a nightmare version of them, a deep brown somehow colder than the icy blue of Troy Morgan's stare. I hadn't known which of Lucas's half-brothers it had been.
I still didn't know, having never told Lucas what happened. But now I stood staring into those eyes, and the steel in my spine turned to mercury.
I had to grip the door handle to steady myself.
"Ms. Winterbourne."
With the voice, I heard my mistake. The voice that day was riveted in my skull, words bitten off sharp, staccato and bitter. This man's voice was velvet-soft, the voice of a man who never had to shout to get anyone's attention. As I invited him inside, a harder look confirmed my error.
The son I'd met had been in his early forties, and this man was another twenty years older. It was an understandable mistake, though. Smooth some of the deep etched lines on his face and Benicio would be a carbon copy of his son. Both men were wide-shouldered, stocky and no more than five nine, in contrast to Lucas's six foot, rail-thin physique.
