The Eldritch Conspiracy (22 page)

A man suddenly appeared beside me. As he stepped into view, I realized I had seen him sitting at the table when Adriana and I had entered the room and I had instinctively “cased” the joint. So, family, friend, or member of the wedding. But clearly, more than just that. He bowed slightly to King Dahlmar. “If I may?”

The king gave a curt nod. “Please do.”

Who the hell is this?
The way he spoke to Dahlmar made it obvious he was with the Rusland contingent. He reminded me a bit of the late, and sincerely lamented, Ivan, King Dahlmar’s personal bodyguard. Ivan had been one scary SOB. A mage of considerable skill, Ivan had once gotten his king safely out of an attempted coup and out of Rusland without a scratch. This man was cut from the same cloth, only better-looking—tall, dark, and very handsome. His hair was cut close to his head; there was a touch of gray at each temple. He had a square jaw, penetrating hazel eyes, and the kind of aristocratic bearing that made me wonder if he was a royal cousin. I knew from Baker’s briefing that the king’s best man was a friend from his childhood. Perhaps this was that man.

Most people in Natasha’s position would have moved or reacted by now—protesting the accusation, arguing her innocence—even if she was guilty. Instead, the bridesmaid was a prettily dressed-up doll with nobody home in her eyes.

Still holding the water glass, the man moved with liquid grace around the table until he was standing over Natasha. I felt power rise in a warm, liquid rush as he began murmuring. There was a sharp flare of heat and a sound like a gunshot. Natasha stiffened in her chair and shrieked something in her native language.

He spoke, his tone one of complete command. I didn’t have a clue what he said, but I could tell he wasn’t talking to Natasha. Somehow he’d trapped the person controlling her and was forcing him or her to answer questions using Natasha’s mouth.

“Damn it. I have
got
to learn Ruslandic,” I muttered softly. Dahlmar overheard and began translating, speaking so quietly I don’t think anyone else could hear.

“Igor used Natasha to form a link to the witch who had taken use of her body. The witch swears she was not trying to kill Adriana, that she is not connected to the Guardians of the Faith.”

I thought furiously. “What did she put in the glass?”

“Igor?” Dahlmar demanded.

The mage barked the question in Ruslandic. Natasha screamed again, twisting and turning in her seat as though pinned in place.

“Peanut oil,” Igor answered.

Adriana paled a little.

I turned to her. “I take it you’re allergic to peanuts?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “But it wouldn’t have killed me.”

Natasha shouted something that I didn’t understand, but suspected was along the lines of “See, told you.”

“What would happen?” Igor asked.

“I’d break into hives. They are miserable, and last for days.”

“And wouldn’t you look just lovely in all your wedding photos?” I noted sarcastically.

It was a petty, catty, and very feminine thing to do. At that moment I believed what the witch had said. The Guardians of the Faith were into bombs and shoot-outs, maximum carnage, maximum press coverage: in short, terror. This was the exact opposite. It had all the signature markings of the usual siren bullshit. If this witch, whoever she was, was jealous of Adriana for any reason, and she’d touched that peanut oil, even one drop might be deadly to Adriana. I didn’t say this out loud. The fewer people who knew, the better. After all, I’m siren enough to have to worry about it.

“King Dahlmar, is there a woman in your past, a witch, who would have reason to be jealous of Adriana?” I asked in an undertone.

Dahlmar was shaking his head, but Igor—how had he heard me?—answered. “Irina. Duchess Irina Turescheva.”

“That was over long before I met Adriana,” the king protested. Adriana remained silent, staring intently at Natasha.

“For you, perhaps. For her, not so much, I think.” Igor turned to Natasha. “Irina Turescheva,” he called, then spoke firmly in Ruslandic. King Dahlmar had stopped translating. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a cell phone, dialed a number from memory, and began barking orders into the phone. He’d had to raise his voice, Natasha was screaming herself hoarse and thrashing back and forth in the chair. She gave one last shriek, her eyes rolling back into her head, and collapsed.

Igor muttered something that was probably an obscenity as his hand shot out, checking for a pulse in Natasha’s neck. Apparently he didn’t find one, because he swiftly moved her to the floor and began CPR compressions. I went down on my knees next to her head to help.

The world narrowed to the three of us. CPR doesn’t look like hard work, but it is: the physical labor of the compressions, the effort of breathing for two people. I was feeling light-headed by the time the EMTs arrived, and Igor looked beat. But when they hooked the machine up and gave her a shock, her heart started beating on its own and she took a deep, gasping breath.

“Oh thank God,” I whispered. I sat on the floor, knees bent, not wanting to move. Igor used the table edge to haul himself upright, then extended a hand to me. I took it, grateful for the help.

“I will go to the hospital with her,” King Dahlmar announced. “And we must call her father.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Igor bowed. Pulling himself together, he led his king out the door after the paramedics. With Dahlmar gone, I didn’t have to wait to be seated. I fell into the nearest chair.

Adriana gave me a long, penetrating look.
So much for your being useless.

22

B
y the
time I went to bed that night, I knew that Natasha was going to be fine. She’d need to rest for a couple of days but the doctors swore there’d be no permanent damage even though she’d been used in a tug-of-war between a pair of powerful magic wielders. After Dahlmar, Igor, and Natasha left, the dinner party quickly broke up. I saw Adriana to her room and left her with trusted bodyguards, then returned to my rooms. A few minutes later, Helen Baker brought me a tray of delicious, nutritious liquids.

The next morning, after a blissfully uneventful breakfast, the bride and groom adjourned to a morning-long interview with the royal biographers, which was to be followed by an afternoon photo shoot. I was left to my own devices.

First, I called Alex. I doubted the police had had any luck tracking Okalani, but I wanted to be sure. If they needed a bio sample for a magical trace, I’d get one for them. Unfortunately, my call went straight to voice mail. I left a message, promising myself to try again later.

I was tense, so I decided to go for a run. With enough clothes and sunscreen I should be okay if I stuck to the shady trail that wound through the compound and adjacent nature preserve.

So I gave my security team a couple of minutes’ warning, started out with a few stretches, then Griffiths, Baker, and I headed out.

It was so good to feel the wind in my face. I was wearing a silver-gray jogging suit with long sleeves and full-length pants, and a baseball cap with my ponytail pulled through the back. Coconut-scented sunscreen protected my face and hands. I felt the tightness in my body ease at the steady, rhythmic movement.

Griffiths and Baker kept pace with me easily. They were fully armed and alert. So was I. If we compared weaponry, I was betting it would be a close tie. I don’t think any of us really expected any trouble but we didn’t let down our guard. Natasha might not be the only person being controlled by someone on the outside.

The trails were absolutely stunning. Serenity is naturally lovely, with lush foliage in every shade of green and a rainbow-hued array of flowers and exotic birds. By the time we finished the run, I was relaxed yet fully alert, ready for whatever the day would bring.

After the run, I took a quick shower—so did Baker and Griffiths, who were briefly replaced by two other members of the Siren Secret Service—and the three of us headed to the far side of the island so I could find a dressy lavalava for the wedding.

It was early afternoon and I was on my third or fourth shop when Baker started acting uneasy. She kept tapping her fingers restlessly against her leg and checking her watch.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. It’s just this feeling I’ve got … not a vision, not even a premonition exactly.”

“You’re a prophet, right? Like your mother?” Baker’s mother had been Pili, the queen’s own prophet. Pili had sacrificed herself to close the demonic rift months back.

“Yes. And I know that we have to get to Ms. Peahi’s apartment and get her out of there. Right now.”

Gran? Why would Baker have a vision about my grandmother?

I hurriedly put the clothes I’d been gathering back on the rack. I’d already found a dress for the wedding and a spare for other events. I could get by without anything else. “Let’s go. But you’ll have to lead. I’ve never been there.”

Baker hit a number on speed dial on her cell phone and advised her people where we were headed. Our driver took us through the commercial district, where the streets were crowded with tourists, then into more residential neighborhoods, which were quieter.

We soon left the prettier neighborhoods behind and drove into an area that looked like it was badly in need of renovation. When we pulled up in front of one building, I was shocked.
This
was where my gran was living? The place was worse than a dump. Baker opened the lobby door and the scents of old urine and rotting fruit, masked nauseatingly by room deodorizer, hit me like a punch to the gut.

We walked across matted brown carpet so filthy it was sticky. The sound of a squalling baby carried clearly through the paper-thin walls, as did the blaring of a television news program rehashing the investigation into the terrorist attacks.

There were no elevators. We climbed a steep, narrow staircase up to the second floor, where I saw my grandmother’s name on the door of apartment 210, a bare three steps from the top of the stairwell. I stared at the dirty door with its shiny new deadbolt, my vision blurring with tears of anger and frustration—anger that my gran had been reduced to this, frustration that she’d kept it from me.

Strong emotions bring out the vampire in me, particularly when I haven’t eaten. So while the smells squelched any hunger pangs I might have had, my inner beast was very close to the surface. My eyes shifted into vampire focus, so that I could see each tiny hair on the back and legs of the little gray spider lying in wait in a web attached to the far corner of the hall ceiling. I could clearly hear every sound and movement in the building.

So I was able to hear the front door opening on the floor below, the rapid breathing and pounding heart of someone in a hurry. I smelled my grandmother’s distinctive perfume mixed with the heady scent of fear—fear that made my mouth water.

She started up the steps, her breath almost sobbing in her chest, as the door opened again, bringing with it the scent of an unwashed male.

“She’s coming, and there’s someone stalking her.” My words were a sibilant hiss as my fangs extended, making speech more difficult. The derringer I’d tucked into my boot top was in my hand, though I didn’t remember drawing it. I was edging toward the staircase when a strong arm grabbed hold of mine. I turned, hissing, but Griffiths didn’t flinch. He jabbed his finger in a silent order for me to stand behind Baker, then moved smoothly down the stairs before I could argue. Baker stepped forward to block me.

There was a muffled scream and the sharp scent of chemicals and the temperature dropped like a rock. Ivy was here. Gran was in danger and my baby sister’s ghost was here to help if she could. I pushed past Baker, but before I’d gone down more than two steps I heard the sounds of a brief struggle, then silence, except for the ambient noise of the building and harsh breathing.

“It’s over.” Griffiths’s voice was calm and his breathing was steady. Apparently he’d been able to subdue the attacker without so much as breaking a sweat. Then again, he’s a big guy. A big, tough, well-trained guy. When I reached the ground floor, I saw that he had bound the bad guy with spelled cuffs and was using his ever-trusty cell phone to dial for an ambulance and backup. My grandmother was lying at his feet.

I was kneeling next to my gran’s unconscious body before the second word had left Griffiths’s mouth. I pulled her against me, getting her off of that nasty, disgusting floor. The chill of Ivy’s presence settled around me as I held Gran close and checked her for injuries. Her breathing was steady. Her heartbeat was slowing back to normal. She was going to be all right. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks and twisted to look at her attacker.

“You!”
he snarled, then spat at me. The wad of saliva missed my face, thanks to my excellent reflexes. The phlegm left a trail of slime as it slid down the wall behind me.

Only the fact that I had my grandmother in my arms kept me from lunging at the bastard and choking the snot out of him for what he’d done to her. Staring across at him, I realized that he looked familiar, but only vaguely, like someone I’d met once, briefly. Then again, maybe he just had one of those faces. Average height, dark blond hair, and ordinary features; built like he worked out, but not excessively. He wore ordinary jeans and a plain red T-shirt. The only thing out of the ordinary about him was the mark on his forearm—a tattoo in the shape of an elaborate, colorful cross in vivid green, red, and gold. I felt the magic from that mark and realized the tattoo was camouflage. He’d taken a binding oath.

I found myself snarling, rage coloring every syllable I uttered. “What did you swear, and who did you swear it to? Why were you trying to kidnap my grandmother?”

His eyes blazed with pure hatred. If looks could kill, I’d be dead in my boots. But they couldn’t, and glaring was all he could do, bound as he was by both handcuffs and magic.

“I will tell you
nothing,
siren witch.”

“Oh, you’ll talk.” Griffiths’s smile was absolutely chilling. “You’ll tell us everything we want to know.”