Ghost Phoenix (10 page)

Chapter Nine

Richard carried the suitcase down the narrow stairs with ease.

That didn't seem right. He should feel some exertion from it.

Once on the street, the limo driver offered to take the suitcase and put it in the trunk. Richard lifted it as if it were a feather and handed it over. He could tell it was heavy by the way the driver used two hands to get the suitcase in the trunk.

How odd. And how interesting.

Once inside the limo, Marian pulled out her phone from a bag that also carried her computer. “I need to rearrange some things since I didn't expect to be going out of town today.”

“Go for it.” He settled back and wondered how he could test his newfound strength. He squeezed the armrest but let go when he felt the leather cushion begin to give way.

He lifted his hand and saw his finger impressions embedded in the leather. Well. He'd better be careful about how hard he shook hands in the future.

His muscles had not changed. Something else was augmenting his strength. A telekinetic ability? One or two members of the Court had possessed such strength. They had been valuable soldiers but, unhappily, their gift had not shown up in their descendants.

Why, in God's eyes, would such an ability manifest itself in him now? He looked down at his hand, frowning. More power was always helpful, but not if it couldn't be controlled.

“Something wrong?” Marian set down her phone and brushed her finger over his side, where the bullet had gone in. “Does it hurt? Do you need a doctor?”

“Only lost in thought, Angel. And perhaps a little tired. Sit with me.” He put his arm around her shoulder. She stiffened for a second, took a deep breath and relaxed against him.

Ah, very good. She was different from the beautiful, tanned California girls. But those relationships were physical. Holding Marian close felt more precious.

If he desired, he supposed he could kiss her and much more right here. They had time before reaching the airport.

Yet somehow, he thought it would break the spell. He wanted her. But he wanted her not in some rushed coming together. He wanted their first encounter to be binding.

And then what?

He had no idea. He smiled. And that was the best part of it all. Finally, something utterly new to conquer.

Stellar.

“This is definitely the way to travel.” Daz put his feet up on an ottoman and his hands behind his head. He was almost too big for the chair in the plane's cabin. “Nice ride, Prince.”

“‘Richard' will be fine, thanks. Or ‘dude.'”

The teasing was typical of a soldier, Richard decided, but typical didn't apply to Daz any more than it did to Marian. He quickly skimmed the report on his laptop about Daz that Marshal had somehow cobbled together in the last few hours.

Daz's record showed a college degree, decorated service with the U.S. Navy and eventually he'd become the leader of a Navy SEAL team. His credentials were so impressive that Lansing had hand-picked Daz to mentor the firestarter. Daz had a young son, by a woman he hadn't married, but he supported the boy and was living up to his obligation as a father, at least as much as his work would permit.

It was as if a younger version of Marshal existed in the present day. Marshal had learned court manners and politics over the years. Daz could do that, if he ever wanted.

Right now, Richard was less concerned with Daz's courtly manners and more about his manner toward Marian.

Daz handed Marian a drink. From her perch on the couch, Marian took a tentative sip.

“Oh, this is excellent!” she pronounced. “What's it called? Do I want to know what's in it?”

Daz screwed the tops back on the liquor bottles at the bar. “It's called a Girl Scout Cookie and the main ingredients are cake vodka and crème de menthe.” His head disappeared under the bar for a second. When he straightened again, he held a beer.

“Vodka. Oh, God.” But she drank down a full swallow.

“It's the cool new drink,” Daz said.

“Yeah, I tried one of those in college. Fuzzy navel or something. I didn't try it again.” But she smiled to take the edge off the comment.

“Those things were always too damn sweet for me.” Daz drank down a long swallow of beer.

“I bet you put down a lot of beers,” Marian said.

“My share. More than my share.”

There was no way for Richard to break into the conversation. College was a normal human experience this century. A shared experience.

Richard wondered perhaps if he should go to college. No, he had tried that once a long time ago and been tossed out of a history class for disagreeing with the instructor's portrayal of Henry VII, that miserly, cruel man.

Maybe he should've taken a course other than English history.

Marian stretched out on the couch. Daz claimed the chair opposite her. At least he didn't presume to sit next to her. Richard sat crosswise to both of them, pretending to read a “definitive” biography about Rasputin. Richard well knew how wrong “definitive” statements about history could be. But he hoped to gain some nuggets from it. Philip Drake talked of curses, and the legends surrounding Rasputin's death no doubt obscured the reality of things. It was unusual that the Soviets had looked into Rasputin's abilities, but they'd been obsessed for a while with psychics, so that might explain their interest.

But he couldn't concentrate. His angel looked adorable on the couch, her eyes covered by stray curly bangs. The traveling sweats she wore didn't do her justice. They turned her into a blue blob, save for those wonderful brown curls.

“Why did you learn to make such a complicated drink?” Richard asked.

“Gotta keep up with the latest thing girls like.” Daz saluted Richard with his beer. “Stay up with the times.”

“Tradition sometimes has a reason.”

“Really? So why are you a surfer dude instead of the arrogant asshole prince your brother was?” Daz asked.

Richard slammed the book shut. “You want to revisit that argument?”

“No.” Daz shrugged. “I just wondered how you came out so different from him.”

“Surfing is a place where I can be who I am, without questions or interference. It's impossible to explain it to those who don't understand. But I've learned to be myself. Do you surf?”

“Some. I'm more for jet skis.”

“You lack patience.”

“Life is short, at least for some of us.” Daz looked around. “Your court must have some serious money to afford a plane like this. Where does it come from?”

Richard shrugged.

“A hidden royal treasury?” Daz asked.

“Hidden treasure rarely does any good, as it's hidden and can't be put to use. Our wealth is due to good investment choices by those who take the long view.”

“As simple as that?”

“As simple as that.”

“You realize we'll track who owns the plane back to your people,” Daz said.

“I don't care. Your telepath already has a brain stuffed with info about us. And such distrust, Daz. Doesn't it go against the stated mission of the Phoenix Institute to covertly track our court? Alec Farley said he wanted all things in the open.”

“Alec's not an idiot. Beth may have said you're okay but your people backed up what your brother did. I can't ignore that and neither can Alec. Besides, if he didn't try to dig up something on you, Drake would.”

“No doubt.” Drake. Richard wanted a private conversation with that one. Or perhaps combat. One on one, if only to test himself. Someday. He flexed his fingers. His newfound strength might help, if he found time to practice and control it.

“Any other questions?” Richard asked.

“Plenty, but none you can answer right now,” Daz said.

“Because I won't tell you?”

“Because words aren't good answers. It's how people behave that matters. You saved my life today. So I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. And we'll see what happens next.”

Marian burped. Daz laughed.

“I'm so sorry,” she mumbled. “I think one is enough.”

“You don't drink much, do you?” Daz asked.

“No. Maybe once or twice a year.”

“You should relax more often.”

“That's not good for me,” she said.

“It's good for everyone.”

She shook her head and curled on her side, pulling a blanket over her shoulders. “Not for me.” She closed her eyes again.

Poor Angel. Her gift required intense concentration. Alcohol or another drug would interfere with that. No wonder she avoided drinking. But this drink had done her some good, if she could sleep. And it had the added benefit of shutting down her bonding with Daz. Or was it flirting?

Richard wished he could relax as easily as that. But his ability kept him from getting drunk. A closed path to him. Surfing relaxed him but he could hardly do that here.

Before surfing, he had brooded.

No, he must be honest with himself. Before surfing, his response to stress had been to run away. When faced with an untenable situation, he learned to quit the field.

Edward was the Queen's darling. Richard was the lesser, the one never good enough. His brother knew best. So everyone said.

So Richard left, instead of fighting for baby Alec, and wandered, until California.

“So how did the Court take to your surfing?” Daz asked.

“They left me alone. Immortals learn a lot of patience.” Most of them.

“What brought you back?”

Richard tossed the book casually to the floor. Instead of resting, it skittered across the cabin, as if he was angry and had tossed it with force.

Daz snapped to his feet. “Short fuse, prince guy?”

Richard shook his head. “I'm chill.”

“Doesn't seem that way.”

“That's because you're determined to poke at me until I explode.”

“Maybe so.”

“Tell me, is Farley completely in the open with his ability?”

“He hasn't called a press conference or posted an Internet video of him fooling around with fire, if that's what you mean. Though YouTube is probably only a matter of time. He's used his powers in the open enough. There were even vids of the explosion he stopped in New York Harbor. But the resolution was too low to spot Alec inside the fire.”

“Being public doesn't bother him?”

“He likes what he is. How about you?”

Richard snorted. “You want the Court in the open? Hah.” He grinned. Why not? The Queen would love the attention once she accepted the idea, and the cameras would love her if her health ever returned.

Daz swallowed the rest of his beer. “So what did you do in that court of yours for all those six hundred years? Recite poetry to each other all day?”

Chill, Richard reminded himself. “Yes, poetry and literature and history. We learned how to fight, how to acquire wealth, and how to influence events behind the scenes.”

“Like your brother tried to do?”

Back to this? “My brother led from the front lines. That's how he died.” Richard stood. “That's enough. You're condemning my brother and yet how much better are you? You took the contract from Lansing, a man deemed too far gone even by the Court, to keep the firestarter under his thumb. You left the boy in captivity for years.”

Daz stood. They circled each other.

“You don't know what it was like.”

“The hell I don't! Lansing offered money and prestige, and a chance to do battle, so long as you followed orders. And you followed those orders well, until the firestarter called you out.”

“Fuck you.” Daz tossed his beer bottle across the plane cabin. It hit the floor and rolled harmlessly under a chair.

“You stood at your supposed best friend's side and whispered words that kept him a captive. What makes you better than my brother?”

Now they were just two feet apart. Marian's quiet breathing was the only sound in the cabin.

“You don't know squat about what happened between me and Alec.”

“And you know nothing of what happened between me and my brother or the Court.” Richard flexed his fists. He wondered how much damage his punches would do with his new strength.

Daz raised his arms, ready.

They would battle. On an airplane, thousands of feet in the air, with his angel slumbering between them. And with him possessing this strange new strength that was, as yet, was untested.

Edward would have fought.

Still the same, eh? Richard shook his head. “This is idiotic. Go have another beer, Montoya.”

Richard walked past Daz and picked up Rasputin's biography, which was wedged against the bar.

“You're just giving up?”

“Not worth it, especially if injuries prevent you from being an effective bodyguard tomorrow.”

“You're assuming you'll beat me.”

“I know I'll beat you.” Richard settled in the chair again, staring at the words on the page, not reading them.

“Oh, screw it.” Daz grabbed another beer. He flopped back down in the chair.

That was by far the most interesting thing his new recruit could have done. If Daz backed down because he thought a fight might have gotten him kicked off the mission, he was smart. If he'd done so because he really thought a fight over this was ridiculous upon reflection, well, even smarter.

Some battles did not need to be fought. If Daz understood that, he was rare among soldiers.

“Just remember one thing, Prince,” Daz said. “Alec's my friend. I fight at his side because I want to, not because I'm under orders.”

“You're here of your own choice,” Richard said in a mild tone.

Daz saluted him with the beer. “I've sworn to watch your back. That doesn't mean I'll be your friend.”

“I'll try recover from that trauma.”

“Can I sleep now?” Marian said.

Chapter Ten

The three of them sailed through customs on their arrival in France, their progress sped along by Richard's charm and impeccable French.

Her French was good but the American accent remained, branding her a foreigner, no matter how polished. Richard spoke French as a native. “My Aquitaine is gone,” he'd said yesterday, implying that he'd lived there after his supposed death in the Tower of London. How long ago had that been?

Checking into the hotel and renting a car went smoothly. It should. That was her job. Richard was pleased at the hotel suite, especially with the three rooms. Cost was not an object to a man with access to a private jet.

A quick break for lunch from a local restaurant and they were refreshed enough to head out for the meeting with Lord Romanoff.

Richard and Daz hardly spoke during the drive. Oh, she'd heard their argument last night and wondered if Richard was jealous. But he seemed more angry about his brother than trying to lay claim to her.

He'd done that already, by calling her his angel.

Marian drove the car up the winding, sand-strewn driveway to Lord Romanoff's home. He had chosen a mansion atop the cliffs of Normandy for his new home. A strange place for a Russian exile, but perhaps settling in a home in a place so unlike his native country was the point.

Especially since Romanoff clearly wanted to establish his new identity, even if only in his own mind.

She parked at the bottom of the long trail that wound from the side of the mansion to the front door. She suspected Romanoff liked to see how his visitors handled their trudge to his front door. Supplicants coming to consult the master.

She hoped Richard wouldn't make trouble by challenging their source of information.

She wasn't worried about Daz. He knew when to be silent and when not to be. And he missed very little. While the customs agents had been checking them through, Daz had been watching the crowds, including who came through what door.

It was good to have him around. She trusted him. He was solid and real. And he made her laugh.

As they reached the front of the home overlooking the sea, Richard turned and walked toward the cliff's edge. Daz looked at her. She shrugged. He rolled his eyes. Richard did what Richard wanted. That was clear to them both.

Richard stopped at the cliff's edge and stared across the English Channel. She walked and stood next to him, glad she had worn sensible shoes. She'd almost worn heels—Romanoff liked being around well-dressed women—but her natural inclination for comfort won out. Heels would have been no good on this gritty soil.

Waves crashed against the sharp rocks at the base of the cliff. She had to shout to be heard over the wind.

“Have you seen this view before?”

“Long ago.”

“Is this what made you want to surf?”

“God, no.” He backed off from the cliff and the sound of waves faded. “The air here is dank and dark and full of secrets. I began surfing in sunlight and happiness.” Richard smiled. “In that, I was much like any other arrival in California.” He shook his head. “I never thought to be back here.”

“Revisiting the past can be difficult.”

“You're good to me, Angel, putting up with my brooding. Enough. Come, we'll see if your fake Russian lord can help us.”

“He's not going to help if you call him a fake,” she said.

“Likely not.”

Daz fell into step behind them as they hit the marble steps, the last part of their “assault” on Castle Romanoff. The sea winds whipped at her hair some more. For once, she was grateful for curls rather than straight hair. The wind could only do so much damage.

Richard looked like some mythic figure as he turned the corner and was backlit by the sun rising over the ocean. What the hell was she doing, fantasizing about him? Okay, so she was his angel. She took that to mean she was a sort of special creature to him. A precious possession, perhaps.

Not his love, just someone to flatter and pet. Else he would have made a move in the limo on the way to the airport. She had never wanted to do something insane like rip off his clothes as much as on that ride to the airport.

It would have been so worth it. But then she'd have had to face the inevitable break-up. Immortal princes must have their pick of women. Aside from her ability, she was nothing special. It was better to keep it as a fantasy.

The three-story mansion looming above them was whitewashed. Dark boards framed the windows and doors and several chimneys dotted the roof. Maybe not such a strange place for Romanoff, after all. Russians seemed fond of romance, and this was definitely a romantic, if sometimes bleak, place.

Daz looked behind them. “This is near where the allies sent paratroopers behind lines for D-Day.”

“Yes,” she answered. “How did you know?”

“Military history and tactics classes. That operation was one of the first organized air drops. A lot went wrong. But a lot went right.”

As they reached the mansion's front entrance, framed by an overhang, Richard gestured to her.

He wanted her to take the lead, then. She knocked and the door opened instantly. They were ushered in by Jean-Marie Claudet, a middle-aged woman dressed in business casual. Marian had to give Romanoff credit, he could've hired a beautiful young thing—male or female—to decorate his home. Many older collectors did, whether the person had the skills or not to do an executive assistant job.

“I did not expect three to visit the lord. He was expecting only two, Miss Doyle.”

Claudet was no decoration. She was Romanoff's gatekeeper.

Richard smiled. In his perfect French, he explained that their third party was to ensure their security in these troubled times, a sentiment that he knew Madame Claudet agreed with, as safety was paramount to her employer too.

By the end of his little speech, Claudet only nodded. “I would ask, however, that Monsieur Montoya remain here. My lord doesn't like to receive visitors in groups.”

Marian gave points to Claudet for standing her ground even a little bit under Richard's charm.

“That's okay,” Daz said. “You meet with the lord, I'll stroll around the place and make sure it's safe.” He grinned at Claudet.

While she'd handled Richard's charm, Claudet seemed less sure if Daz was trying to be charming or threatening. “Please remain on the first floor,” she ordered.

“No problem.”

Claudet still glanced back as she led them down the hallway, uncertain of what Daz might do. Did she think him a clumsy oaf? If so, she wasn't as good a judge of people as Marian had thought.

She tapped Richard's arm. He tilted his head.

“Whatever else you do in that study, don't make fun of it,” she whispered.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Just don't.” She should've explained. But an explanation wouldn't do it. That study had to be seen to be believed.

Claudet opened the double doors to reveal Romanoff's inner sanctum.

Marian had been here several times and she still struggled to keep a straight face in the Jungle Room.

A cheetah pattern filled the walls. Zebra-stripe throw rugs covered the floor. Framed gold records lined the walls. A stereo system dominated one corner of the room.

The
pièce de résistance
of the whole room was in the other corner: a full-size mannequin, under protective glass, of Elvis Presley wearing an authentic 1970s-era white jumpsuit.

“Doesn't he look grand, Marian?” Romanoff said in English. He put his arm around her shoulder and led her to Elvis.

This was new. “He's perfect for the room.” And that was the absolute truth.

“And I have you to thank for him!” He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her on both checks.

“How so?”

He held her at arm's length. “The referral you provided was perfect. He found this for me.”

She blushed. He was a round, medium-sized man, but his personality was larger than life. Romanoff was not unlike Richard in his very strange way. He belonged in some outlandish tale.

“You're welcome.” At least Romanoff had not grown the Elvis sideburns he'd been contemplating on her last visit. That was a relief.

“And who have you brought me?” Romanoff asked as he let her go. “A beach bum?”

“This is Richard Genet and, yes, he's from California. He has an interest in a particular Russian artifact that has been lost.”

Richard shook Romanoff's hand with a straight face. “I see you are as enamored of a particular American time period as you are with Normandy,” Richard said.

Romanoff grinned. “I spent some time in America in the 1960s and early 1970s. On vacation, of course.” He winked at her.

Since all signs pointed him to being a former KGB agent, she didn't find that particularly funny. But at least Romanoff was in a good mood.

“Do you like Elvis?” Romanoff asked Richard.

“I loved his music in the Lilo and Stitch movie. I have the soundtrack on repeat in my home,” Richard said.

“Disney!” Romanoff raised an arm in the air, his finger pointed at the ceiling. “They have done wonders for the King with that movie. I love them for it.” He waved at the furniture. “So, come sit, and tell me what you would know.”

A former Russian KBG agent being in love with all things Elvis was one thing, but an immortal prince who watched Disney's childrens' movies?

I swear, this is my last client, ever.

Richard took the one easy chair, a thing of leopard spots, and occupied it like a throne. “Lord Romanoff, I'm interested in acquiring Rasputin's remains.”

“Hah!” Romanoff barked a laugh. “You get right to the point. But nothing remains of Rasputin, I'm afraid. Are you sure your client's brain hasn't been sun-bleached, Marian?”

“Are you certain nothing remains of Rasputin?” she asked.

“You doubt me?
Tsk, tsk
.” He looked at Richard. “Our Mad Monk was pulled from his burial place in a park in St. Petersburg and burned by revolutionaries in 1917. There's nothing left of him.” He leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “Though there is some information that points to an erotic museum having a portion of his body.”

“What portion?” Marian asked.

“His penis,” Romanoff said flatly.

That would have the DNA Richard wanted, she thought.

“I doubt that's part of Rasputin.” Richard waved a hand, dismissing the information. “My sources claim the corpse that was pulled from the small chapel by the revolutionary troops was not Rasputin at all.”

“Really?” Romanoff mumbled something in Russian, far too low for Marian to hear. She thought it was some insult to charlatans and fools.

“Yes, really,” Richard said. “One of his followers or perhaps even Rasputin's wife took his body and moved it long before then. Possibly to prevent the very indignities that happened to the replacement corpse, among other reasons.”

“What other reason could there be to change the Mad Monk's resting place?”

“Now you're teasing us, Lord Romanoff. You know why.”

Romanoff smiled. “I do know why, Marian. But I wanted to know if you do.”

Richard sighed. “Rasputin's body, if still available, would surely be a religious icon of some sort.”

Romanoff snapped his fingers. “Rasputin's cult died with him, though I recall one of his daughters also claimed healing powers. And then she moved to America and went into circus entertainment. Which is absolutely where that family belonged. Religious icon. Bah. People are far too obsessed with him.”

This from the man who had a nearly religious devotion to a dead rock and roll singer, enough to create a shrine to him.

Thank God she didn't say that out loud.

“Much of Rasputin's abilities do seem like smoke and mirrors, like a circus act.” Marian needed to settle Romanoff down. Richard had challenged him, though quietly, and Romanoff hated it.

“My information also claims that Rasputin's abilities may have been real,” Richard said.

And there went her chance to settle Romanoff down.

Romanoff laughed. “Ah, I see, you are one of those kind of treasure hunters. A true believer.” He stood and went to his liquor cabinet. “The worst kind. The most dangerous kind.”

He poured a glass of Kentucky bourbon.

Richard walked over to the liquor cabinet and put out his hand. Romanoff poured him two fingers of bourbon. Richard knocked it back without a flinch. He set the empty glass down on the cabinet.

“I'm a true believer in the information I have, Romanoff,” Richard said. “Considering the research the Soviets did in parapsychology, even your own people were of my mind.”

“Fools and charlatans, like Rasputin himself.” Romanoff tossed back his glass and emptied it. He muttered something that sounded like
durachit
. That was
fool
or
idiot
in Russian.

“I'll humor you, beach bum. So, tell me, where does your information say the monk's corpse is located?” Romanoff asked.

“I have no exact location. That's why I've come to you. You're the expert in these things, Marian says. And I trust her opinion, so I trust your information. Whether the Mad Monk was a charlatan is ultimately immaterial. I need to find his corpse. And that penis won't do. It's not his.”

Romanoff stroked his beard and stared at his Elvis mannequin. Richard glanced at Marian. She put a hand to her lips to signal that he should remain quiet and let Romanoff decide what to say.

The exile knew something, Marian decided, or he would have thrown them out already. And it was odd to see him drink. Despite the reputation of Russians, Romanoff never drank in her presence. Until now. What if Drake was right about a curse? What if curses were real by virtue of some sort of psychic ability?

“What will you do with the body if you find it? Put it on display?”