Summoned Chaos (11 page)

“Warlock Shifter?” he asked in a voice that sounded like bottled thunder.

“In the sexy, sexy flesh,” I replied with a smile.

The human land mass didn’t react. Just stared cold, calculating eyes at me, then moved to Steve. The man’s face remained passive, but a muscle clenched in his jaw. Probably wasn’t used to looking up at anyone.

“This your guest?”

“Yup. Allow me to introduce my paranormal life-partner, Steve the Minotaur.”

He folded his arms. “I prefer ‘Big Daddy.’”

The man gave the beast the once-over, then waved for us to follow. “This way please.”

“This guy’s a pro,” Steve whispered as we trailed behind. He scanned the surrounding area. “There are at least three more like him watching from a distance. One in the tree behind us has a rifle.”

“How do you know?”

Steve touched his nose and winked.

We passed a row of expensive, foreign cars that cost more than my townhouse, then walked up the wide steps to the main entrance.

The foyer was huge with white tile floors and an enormous chandelier hanging overhead. Fancy, modern art hung on the walls while sculptures that were probably worth more than a small nation’s GDP were tucked into alcoves.

“Swanky,” Steve muttered.

“Wait here,” the meathead ordered, vanishing before Steve or I could respond.

“Quite the charmer, that one,” I said. Steve huffed, but stayed quiet.

I stared at the opulence around me with a critical eye. The house reminded me of the “formal” wing of the Homestead, my affectionate name for my folks’ place. Like that wing, the entrance was built for show. The layout centered on entertaining large groups of people with money or power rather than comfort. The furniture was stiff and pristine, so everyone opted to stand. The crowd milled about, sipping wine and chatting politely.

I also realized that we’d encountered little to no barrier. Yeah, this portion of the mansion was designed for entertaining, not for daily living.

Mr. Charisma returned with the Ambassador.

She was tall and trim with bobbed, red hair that was streaked with gray. Her dark suit accentuated both her height and her trim waist while respecting her age and political position. Bright, blue eyes sparkled behind thin-framed, modern glasses.

She offered me her hand. “Warlock Shifter. So glad you could make it.”

Her grip was firm and authoritative.

“I appreciate the invite, Madame Ambassador.”

She grinned. “‘Ambassador’ is a title for people I work with. You saved my life, so you may call me ‘Carla’ if you like.”

“In that case, Carla, you may call me Marcus since ‘Warlock’ is a title for people
I
work with.”

“Touché.” She turned to my date. “And you are?” she asked, offering him her hand as well.

“Steve.” He swallowed her slim fingers in his massive paw.

“Well, it is a
pleasure
to meet you,” she said, placing her other hand on his. “I haven’t had the opportunity to interact with many paranormals and you’re definitely the first Minotaur I’ve met. If you represent your species, then please color me impressed.”

I blinked in surprise as Steve actually beamed.

Mr. Charisma held a finger to his earpiece, then whispered into Carla’s ear.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you both my undivided attention,” she said, when he’d finished. “I do want to talk to you about the attack as well as learn more about your species,” she added to Steve. “Perhaps we can set something up soon?”

The Minotaur and I both nodded.

“Wonderful. Monica will contact you. As for this evening, there’s an open bar and heavy hors d’oeuvres, so I trust you’ll be able to entertain yourselves. I’ll have Duke come get you when it’s time for the presentation ceremony. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Steve and I shook her hand once more, then Mr. Charisma escorted her to a nearby couple. The tall man in an expensive tux preened while his plastic trophy wife posed like a movie star on the red carpet. Carla had both of them laughing as she waved them indoors.

Steve watched the Ambassador work the entrance. “She’s in her natural element.”

“There’s a reason why some people are successful in her line of work,” I replied.

He grunted. “The paranormal clans are a lot simpler. You and your family are on top until someone bigger or stronger wipes you out.”

“That’s how human politics work too.”

Carla’s guests were a hodgepodge of D.C.’s elite. I spotted a Senator Tentman from Virginia, a handful of state Representatives, and a bunch of senior Councilmembers in their finest robes. Dad was absent, which didn’t surprise me. The man was still trying to clean up the mess Quaos had made at the Homestead. Not to mention, Mom would have preferred cooking to coming to a function like Carla’s.

Having been on the receiving end of a few of Mom’s “casseroles,” that was saying quite a lot.

Still, I wished they were there.

We’d all been busy since the attack, lost in the daily routines of our own lives, but their absence was especially noticeable that evening. Like with Quinn, it left a small void in my chest.

“You okay?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, it’s just—I don’t get a lot of commendations.” When he frowned at me, I forced a smile. “Never mind. Let’s grab a drink.”

“Hell yeah.”

I ordered a vodka tonic while Steve simply requested an entire bottle of Malbec. Give the bartender his due, he didn’t even blink when handing the wine over to the Minotaur. Steve thanked the man and dropped a gold coin into his tip jar. The guy gave the beast an appreciative nod before snatching the coin from the glass container.

“That was generous,” I said as we strolled through the crowd.

Steve shrugged. “Sue me for having a soft spot for bartenders.”

My heart twinged with guilt. Granted, burning down Steve’s bar hadn’t been entirely my fault, but he’d lost his home and all worldly possessions. And all because my Fire Spell had gone haywire. Some of that was due to the heat—pardon the pun—of battle. But even I knew that was a lame excuse.

Warlocks, especially those who specialized in Combat instead of the security branch of Guardian, were supposed be masters over their powers, especially during a fight. We trained to be cool under pressure, capable of operating in austere environments without distraction. It was the hallmark of our specialization.

In the last year, however, I’d struggled with the resurgence of my Skill. Considering my recent spate of collateral damage, I wasn’t exactly a bastion of control. My sloppiness had cost Steve his home, put me in the hospital, and almost made me beat a creature to death. My inability to manage both my emotions and my Skill, especially during a fight, was becoming a problem. One that terrified me because it would only get worse the more I recuperated from the magical atrophy.

Maybe it
was
time to stop trying to prove I could walk this path of recovery all on my own.

Steve grabbed my arm, jerking me to a halt. My drink splashed onto my pants and shoes.

“What the hell?” I asked. He simply pointed to the koi pond in front of us. One more step and I would have been swimming with the fishes. Literally.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Seriously, what’s going on with you lately?” he growled in a voice filled with equal parts concern and annoyance.

“Just a lot on my mind. Like suddenly being semi-famous.”

That part was absolutely true.

“Well get your head in the game, man,” he said. “If what you say is true about the Council wanting you to be their poster-boy, then you need to stop being flaky. More important, I can’t afford to have my dinner date embarrassing me in front of all these uptight humans.”

“You got it.”

I meant it, too.

The Reformation Treaty may have roped paranormals into the union between the Normal and Skilled societies, but most non-human species had remained isolated. The closest they came to integrating, even with each other, was the Underground and only then because my people usually avoided it. But Steve was one of the few paranormals that had willingly stepped across the barrier, choosing to live in my world where he was an outcast. The least I could do was be on my best behavior

And look presentable.

I handed him my drink. “I need to dry myself off. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The two bathrooms on the main floor were occupied, but an attractive caterer pointed me toward one on the backside of the kitchen. I thanked her and trotted through the kitchen, nabbing a few bacon-wrapped scallops from a tray waiting to be taken to the guests. A handful of thick paper towels later, my lower body was as dry as it was going to get.

I was heading back toward the kitchen when I spotted Mr. Charisma arguing with the trophy wife halfway down the hall to my left. My curiosity piqued, I knelt, pretending to tie my shoe as the beefcake pointed to the restrooms. The woman laughed, then wobbled in my direction. She stumbled as she passed, banging open the door to the restroom, and shutting it harder than necessary. Mr. Charisma scowled, then cocked his head and held his finger to his earpiece.

He disappeared through a door to his right.

“A little jumpy, eh, pal?” I muttered. Common sense told me that he was just doing his job, but something about how vehemently he’d redirected the guest made me suspicious. Call it paranoia, but Dad always said a person’s gut was right nine times out of ten. Mine was telling me something was up. I paused—Steve might feel uncomfortable if I was gone too long. I checked my watch, allotting myself five minutes for the detour.

Walking as if I belonged, I strolled easily down the hall, glancing at the art occasionally in case anyone was watching. No one spotted me as I reached the end of the corridor, so I pressed my ear against the door Mr. Charisma had disappeared through. There was no sound on the other side, so I eased it open slowly, peeked to make sure the coast was clear, and slipped inside.

The library was large, but unlike the rest of the house, it felt cozy. Books lined the built-in shelves and reached from the floor to the ceiling far above. A ladder hung from a metal track that ringed the shelves. Near the ladder, a brick, wood-burning fireplace was cleaned and ready for the winter months. Opposite me was a spiral, iron stairwell that led to a large recess where I spotted the back of Mr. Charisma’s head.

Murmurs filtered down to the main floor. The security man turned around.

I tiptoed across the room, ducking behind one of the large statues in a small alcove by the fireplace.

My heart pounded and my hands went all sweaty as heavy footsteps clanged down the staircase. Apparently someone upstairs was listening, because the human meat-missile thumped across the library and exited without hesitation. I released the breath I’d been holding and eased back into the room, but jumped behind the naked plaster man once more when I heard more murmuring from upstairs. The voice was female and it rose in pitch.

I drifted toward the stairwell, pausing underneath it so I could hear the conversation more clearly.

“Alex, please,” Carla said in a weary voice. “Three of my people are dead. It’s a major tragedy, both personally and politically. Any momentum we might have gained is stalled while both sides recover from this. The only positive thing out of the entire situation is that the Delwinn Council is willing to work with us to focus on the heroics.”

A meeting? No wonder Mr. Charisma had shooed the drunken woman away.

Carla paused, started to speak, then paused again. I realized she was on the phone.

“Yes,
of course
I am still trying to help you all,” she finally answered, “but you have to understand my position as well. I’m just the Ambassador to the Skilled, so I don’t have a lot of pull within their organization. These things take time. If we push them too hard, they’ll lock us out for good and we’ll be right back where we started. Yes, I’ll talk with the Elders,
again
. Keep in mind, however, they are going to be extra cautious in the wake of this attack. Alex...Alex, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have to cut this short. Send Monica Father Pierce’s availability and I’ll see if we can set something up. Indeed. Yes, you too.”

Carla hung up, then cursed. “I’ve been telling him the same damn thing for months now,” she grumbled. “You’d think he’d listen.”

“You’re free next Wednesday if you want me to pencil Pastor Rado into your schedule,” a different voice said.

“Thank you, but don’t bother. Alex means well, but our priorities have shifted.”

“Stiff-arming him?” Monica asked.

The Ambassador sighed. “Yes. I feel bad for him. Really, I do. He’s just the messenger. But none of his superiors seem to understand how inherently skittish the Council is. Or that they are just as busy as the rest of us.”

My Spidey-Senses went into high alert. The Council was skittish about a lot of things, but anything that had Carla and this Pastor Rado person lathered up was worth investigating. Especially since she referenced the attack.

“But enough business,” Carla said, firmly. “There’s a party that needs my attention.”