Spellcasters (75 page)

“So, you, uh …” Sean said as we stepped onto the elevator, “you’ve got someone with Savannah, right? She’s someplace safe?”

“With friends,” I said. When I saw him hesitate, I added, “Supernaturals.”

“Good, good. I figured that. I tried mentioning it to my uncle, that someone should ask whether she’s being protected, since she’s a potential target. I can’t mention it to Granddad. After … after what happened with my dad, he … well, we aren’t allowed to talk about Savannah. My uncle wouldn’t ask Benicio about her, either. I think they …”

“Would rather pretend she doesn’t exist? After last spring, I’m just as happy if they do.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. I should have kept my mouth shut. Nothing stops a conversation deader than reminding someone that his family is responsible for sending your life swirling down the gutter.

The elevator doors opened. I motioned for Sean to wait as I jotted down an e-mail address.

“This is Savannah’s,” I said. “If you ever want to say hi, introduce yourself, this might be the easiest way to do it. If you’d rather not, I understand.”

He took the paper. “I’ll do that. I’d like to … make contact. It’s not right, ignoring her.” He folded the sheet into quarters and tucked it into his wallet. As he did, he looked down at a tattered photograph in his ID holder. “You wouldn’t have a picture of her, would you?”

“Sure do.” I took out my wallet, and flipped through my card holder, which was filled with photos. “Someday I need to break down and buy a purse-size photo album, like those little old ladies who show you all their grandchildren while you’re waiting in line at the bank.”

I took out two. One was Savannah on her first-ever horseback ride that summer; the other was Savannah, Lucas, and Adam shooting hoops near our place last month.

“Cute kid,” he said, smiling. “Definitely got Dad’s eyes.”

“You can keep that one,” I said, pointing to the horseback photo. “I have it on file at home.”

He thanked me and we said our good-byes.

I returned to our room to find Cassandra and Jaime sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, Jaime reading her latest magazine, Cassandra coiled to pounce the moment I walked in.

“So the killer is targeting Cabal families?” she said. “The Nasts first, and now the Boyds?”

I gave her a very brief rundown of the events to date.

“The grandson of a CEO?” Her frown deepened. “So it’s a revenge crime.”

“Uh, yes. That’s what we—”

Lucas opened the bedroom door.

“Did you get hold of your father?” I asked.

Lucas nodded. “He’s on his way to the hotel with a team. I told him we’ll be arriving shortly, and he’s promised to clear the way for us. That should be simple enough. I suspect anyone with the authority to challenge him will already be out searching for Tyler. Shall we go?”

Cassandra stood and picked up her purse.

“Uh-uh,” I said. “This is very serious—”

“I realize that, Paige. You’re looking for a missing person. A vampire is a far better tracker than a shaman.”

I hesitated and glanced at Lucas. He nodded.

“Good,” Cassandra said. “You can explain the rest of this matter on the way.”

L
ucas had rented a car the morning before, so we no longer needed to borrow Jaime’s. She stayed behind in the hotel room and promised to call if anyone else showed up. Now, normally, if we have a guest in the car, I’ll sit in the backseat. It’s only polite. But Cassandra brings out the rude in me, so I slipped into the front passenger seat and left her to wrinkle her Donna Karan in the cramped rear.

It took us an infuriating forty-five minutes to reach the Boyds’ hotel. Not only was it on the other side of the city, but we hit gridlock in a construction zone and might have been even later if Lucas hadn’t navigated an alternate route down back roads.

On the way, I gave Cassandra a fuller overview. When we pulled into the hotel parking lot, she was still asking questions.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Lucas said. “At the risk of offending you, Cassandra, I must ask that you, again, not reveal—”

“I have no intention of letting them know what I am.”

“Thank you.”

“It might be even better if Cassandra waited here,” I said. “Until we start searching.”

“Good idea. Cassandra, if you—”

The door banged shut. She was already striding toward the building.

“Or maybe not,” I said.

“If we don’t impede her involvement, perhaps she’ll satisfy her curiosity faster.”

“And go home faster?”

He gave a small smile. “That would be the idea.”

Troy met us in the parking lot, then escorted us into the hotel, which looked more like a luxury condo complex than any temporary lodgings I’d ever seen.

From the outside of Tyler Boyd’s second-floor suite, one would never guess a murder had recently been committed there or that a crime-scene team was ripping the room apart. Only when the door opened did the noise within escape.

Two men were working in the living area, one taking photos and the other running a handheld vacuum over the sofa. A third man appeared from a back room, carrying what looked like a laptop case. He exchanged a hasty hello with Lucas, then hurried out the door.

The murdered half-demon guard lay sprawled across the remains of the coffee table, covered in glass shards and wood splinters. His head was twisted to the side, face fixed in a grimace. I fought the urge to look away from that dead stare. Beside me, Cassandra leaned over the corpse, eyes studying it with detachment. I tried to emulate her, to see this body not as a person but as a piece of evidence.

At first I thought the guard’s throat had been cut. Then I saw a length of wire draped over his neck and realized he’d been strangled with it.

“Our coroner believes that was done postmortem.”

Benicio’s voice came from behind us. He looked at Cassandra. His gaze passed over her with curiosity, and perhaps a little interest, but when we didn’t introduce her, he didn’t ask. Maybe he trusted Lucas’s judgment. Or maybe, knowing his son’s eclectic collection of contacts, he didn’t want to ask.

“Dennis has already made some preliminary observations.” Benicio called the security chief from another room. “Dennis? Would you please share your findings with Lucas and Paige? And answer any questions they might have?”

“Of course, sir.” Dennis motioned to the dead guard. “We think he was approached from behind and possibly injected with something. That would explain why he didn’t fight back.”

“Didn’t fight?” I looked at the shattered table. “Oh, I see. The damage is from him falling.”

“Falling very hard.” Lucas knelt and prodded a black chunk by the guard’s hand.

As I crouched I caught a familiar scent, one that brought back memories of Girl Scout summer camp. Burnt firewood. Pieces of charred wood surrounded the guard’s clenched hands.

“An Aduro,” I said. “He grabbed for the table as he fell and burned it, meaning he wasn’t dead when he collapsed.”

Cassandra examined the wire embedded in the guard’s neck. “No blood.”

“Which indicates it was done postmortem,” Dennis said. “Plus the fact that it’s unlikely anyone could have garroted a man his size, with his powers.”

“What about Tyler?” I said. “Did he escape or was he taken?”

Dennis waved us to the bathroom. We stepped inside. Benicio stayed in the doorway, looking on. Across the room, a slight, red-haired man examined the window ledge with some kind of electronic scanner. The window itself was broken. There were a few bits of glass on the inside, but most presumably had fallen out.

Lucas turned around to look at the broken doorjamb. “So either Tyler was in here when the killer arrived, or he managed to get in here before being attacked. Then the killer broke into the bathroom, but—” Lucas turned to the window. “Tyler was already gone, out that window. Simon? Any indication that the killer staged the window break?”

The red-haired man shook his head. “No, sir. There are blood smears on one shard. I’ll need a sample from the Boyds’ lab to match it, but the DNA is definitely from their family, so I’m assuming it’s Tyler’s. There are no signs of struggle or blood in the bathroom. I found Nike prints on the ground below, imprinted hard, indicating someone jumped from this window.”

“So we’re assuming Tyler fled,” Lucas said. “That’s logical. I doubt the killer would take him out of the hotel. Too risky. He’s always killed on-site before. He’s not likely to change his methods now.”

Benicio’s cell phone rang. After a few clipped words, he hung up. “Tyler’s been found.” He saw my expression and added, “He’s alive.”

“Was he chased?” I said. “If he was, then the killer could still be in the area—”

“He’s not,” Cassandra said. “He’s moved on.”

“What?”

The barest eye-roll, as if her conclusion was so simple it shouldn’t require an explanation. “He’s a hunter. He strikes at the easy targets. When they’re no longer easy, he finds another.”

“So you think he chased Tyler—” I began.

“The moment the boy escaped, your killer abandoned him. As Lucas said, he kills on-site. He’ll hang a girl in a tree or drape a boy over a car, but that’s only for outrage value. He’s a hunter. He kills them where he finds them, and he kills efficiently. When that other attack was interrupted, he left the boy alive rather than risk discovery. He’s not about to chase this young man through the streets of Miami.”

“By moved on, you mean—” I looked at Lucas. “To another member of a central family. That’s what Esus said. With Joey Nast, he reached the top level, and he’ll stay there now.”

Cassandra nodded. “Anything else would be a regression. However, with each step he takes, he makes it more difficult for himself. He’ll need to take advantage of every possible moment when security might be lax, such as—”

“Such as when the Cabals believe the killer is stalking another victim. When they’re all out searching for him. Lucas? Who are the other teens? Are there any in your family? Nephews—”

“I have an eleven- and a twelve-year-old grandson,” Benicio said. “Hector’s boys. I tripled their guard as soon as Griffin’s son was killed, and I’ve moved them to a secure location outside of Miami. As for others, Lionel St. Cloud has one boy, Stephen. He’s eighteen. Then there are a few more teenage Nast grandsons, and Frank Boyd has several nephews around Tyler’s age.”

“Stephen St. Cloud,” Lucas said. “He’s already hit the Nasts. If he can’t get to a Cortez, he’ll go for a St. Cloud.”

“I’ll call Lionel—”

“Where are they staying?” Lucas asked.

Benicio hesitated, finger poised over his phone keypad. “The Fairfield over in South Beach. Just wait while I—”

We were already out the door.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us what you were thinking?” I said, twisting in my seat to glare at Cassandra as Lucas pulled away from the hotel parking lot.

“But I did.”

“You knew the killer had moved on the moment you saw that Tyler had escaped, but you said nothing. Then, when you did bother to tell us he’d moved on, you had to be prodded to explain what you meant by that. This isn’t a game, Cassandra.”

“Isn’t it?” she said. “Your killer might disagree.”

“You know what I mean. You should have told us immediately, warned us—”

“So you’d have left a few minutes earlier? I intended to explain myself, Paige. I simply didn’t see the need to rush.”

“You—”

Lucas glanced over, telling me to ignore Cassandra, but I couldn’t.

“A young man might be dead and you didn’t see the need to rush!”

Her green eyes met mine, sculpted eyebrows arching. “Well, if he’s dead, there’s certainly no reason to hurry, is there? If you mean that you
might have saved him had I told you sooner, I can hardly imagine that sixty seconds would make a difference one way or the other. Yes, a young man is in danger. Yes, he might die. Tragic, but certainly nothing that doesn’t happen every hour of every day.”

“Oh, well, then that makes it okay.”

“I didn’t say it did, Paige. I was merely pointing out that death is a tragedy but, ultimately, an unavoidable one. You can’t save everyone, as difficult as that may be for you to accept.”

“I’m not—” I snapped my jaw shut, swallowed the rest of the sentence, and forced myself to face the windshield again.

Lucas’s cell phone rang. He handed it to me.

“Paige Winterbourne,” I answered.

A slight pause. Then Benicio asked, “Is Lucas there?”

“He’s driving. Did you get in touch with Lionel St. Cloud?”

Another pause, as if considering whether to insist I pass him over to his son. “Yes, I called him, and he tried to call Stephen, but there’s been no answer. Both of Stephen’s uncles came to search for Tyler, but we did manage to find a cousin still at the hotel. He reports that Stephen’s room is locked and no one’s answering the door. Now, Paige, I’ve dispatched my search team to the Fairfield. They may be a few minutes behind you, but they will be there quickly. I—” He paused. “The killer may still be at that hotel. I don’t want Lucas going inside.”

“I understand that,” I said. “I can ask him to stay out while I go in, but—”

“I mean for you to both stay out, at least until you’re accompanied by the search team. An extra minute or two isn’t going to make much difference.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said. “But I’m not willing to take that chance. Just tell your team to hurry and meet us inside.”

I pressed the disconnect button. As I was passing the phone back to Lucas, it rang. He reached over and turned it off.

After another minute, we moved into the center lane. To our left stood a large Spanish-style villa. A discreet sign near the palm-flanked drive announced we’d arrived at the Fairfield.

T
he Fairfield wasn’t nearly as opulent as the Boyds’ hotel, though I suspected the price was still at least double what we were paying. It had that kind of graciously understated atmosphere that doesn’t come at an understated price. Stephen St. Cloud’s room was on the third floor. When the elevator was slow in coming, we took the stairs.