The Eldritch Conspiracy (Blood Song) Page 5

  highly likely that people had been

  anticipating her needs and whims since

  she’d been old enough to walk, maybe

  before. That explained a lot. If that was

  the case, she really wasn’t nearly as

  annoying as she could have been.

  “You brought me here for a reason,

  and there are no assistants around, so

  you must need to speak with me alone.

  Just say whatever it is you need to say.

  You won’t offend me. I promise.” I

  smiled again to take any sting out of the

  words.

  She laughed. “Don’t be so sure. I

  seem to recall the first time we met, our

  conversation didn’t go well at all.”

  She was right, of course. I’d accused

  her of being unpardonably rude and she

  had challenged me to a duel to the death.

  Then again, she’d disrupted my best

  friend’s wake to sing a torch song. “No,”

  I admitted, “but we’ve come a long way

  since then.” I didn’t exactly like

  Adriana, but I’d seen enough of her that

  I’d grown to respect and admire her. I

  think she felt the same about me.

  “Yes, we have.” She relaxed a bit,

  giving me an honest smile. “It’s because

  of you that I met my fiancé. Because of

  you, I may become queen of Rusland.”

  “Will,”

  I

  corrected.

  “You will

  become queen.”

  She met my gaze. “It’s still may.

  Apparently, it depends entirely on you.”

  Oh, fuck a duck, I thought, but

  managed a much more appropriate,

  “Excuse me?”

  Adriana laughed, hard. It occurred to

  me, belatedly, that like most sirens, she

  was a telepath. She’d heard exactly what

  I was thinking. Oops.

  She laughed harder, until she had to

  wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “Oh, my. All right, then. I guess you

  won’t be offended after all. So I’ll …

  spit it out.”

  Of course, that was when the servers

  appeared. Servers, plural. One carried a

  tray bearing a frosted pitcher. The other

  was toting a tray of foodstuffs, many of

  them blended and presented in tiny

  glasses or semiliquids served on

  individual plates.

  Only when everything was just so and

  the servers had disappeared did Adriana

  communicate with me. And this time,

  rather than speak the words aloud where

  anyone might overhear, she spoke to me

  mind-to-mind, in the way of the sirens.

  There are no assistants because I

  have none anymore. Both were killed

  two days ago when a bomb went off in

  the shop where they were making the

  final arrangements for my bridesmaids’

  dresses. The shop and the dresses were

  completely destroyed, but that is

  nothing compared to the loss of life.

  The people claiming responsibility

  call themselves the Guardians of the

  Faith. They’ve made threats. I have

  asked my dearest friend to step aside as

  maid of honor, because I need you to

  be. I know it sounds ridiculous. And I

  realize it is on obscenely short notice.

  But my mother’s prophet, as well as my

  own visions, have told me that I need

  you to be by my side—not just as a

  bodyguard, but as a part of the

  wedding—if I am to be safely wed.

  There have been other disruptions

  besides the bombing. My jet was

  tampered with and crashed. Thankfully

  the crew survived. There have been

  plots to discredit me in the eyes of

  Dahlmar’s people and to create a royal

  scandal involving him. There was even

  an attempt on my life with poison.

  People had died. These fanatics were

  serious. But obscenely short notice was

  right. The ceremonies were taking place

  in …

  Less than two weeks. As I said, it is

  ridiculous. And I will understand if you

  are offended that I did not ask you

  sooner. You are, after all, my

  kinswoman, and you have done both

  Rusland and the sirens honorable

  service in the past. I am embarrassed

  that it did not occur to me to ask

  before. You have every right to tell me

  to go to hell, or even challenge me to a

  duel.

  She was flushed and the hand holding

  her drink was trembling just a little. She

  was embarrassed. But more than that,

  she was afraid. I’d seen her calm and

  composed in actual battle conditions.

  But she was well and truly rattled now.

  That was so not good.

  I answered with my mind as well. I

  always hate to “hear” my mental voice

  because it’s the sharp, bitter caw of

  gulls, rather than Adriana’s sweet song

  of island birds or her mother’s tinkle of

  crystal bells. Of course I’ll help. I’d be

  honored to serve as both your maid of

  honor and your bodyguard. I’ll need

  everything your people have on the

  Guardians of the Faith.”

  “I’ll have Kar—

  She stopped abruptly in midthought. I

  felt a flash of pain and sorrow when she

  continued. I’ll have someone send the

  information

  to

  your

  office

  this

  afternoon.

  She closed her eyes for a second and I

  watched as she fought not to sag in

  relief. She was royal. Royals are not

  supposed to show that level of any

  negative emotion, particularly fear. But

  she was afraid: angry, hurt, sad, and

  absolutely terrified. Then she looked at

  me and thought, I am grateful for your

  help.

  When do you want me to start?

  Is tomorrow too soon? The situation

  truly is urgent.

  I took a brief second to wave good-

  bye to my plan to ease back into work,

  then answered. Tomorrow will be fine.

  Thank you.

  I let out a noisy sigh before I replied.

  Thank me if it works.

  Of course if it didn’t, we’d both be

  dead.

  4

  I wa s halfway to the college before I

  realized I’d been an idiot. I’m a

  professional bodyguard. I get paid for

  putting my life on the line to protect

  people. Yet I’d just agreed to guard

  Adriana without so much as a word

  about charging a fee. Admittedly, there

  are families where everyone respects

  that the others are professionals and

  have to earn a living. My experience

  with my family just hasn’t been that way.

  Mom uses everybody without the

  slightest compunction. I do all kinds of

  things for my gran and wouldn’t accept

  payment even if she offered. So it

  seemed that I’d just volunteered mys
elf

  for a dangerous and expensive freebie.

  Crap. Apparently Mexico had taken

  more out of me than I thought.

  Maybe I could pass it off as a

  wedding gift. I mean, it’s not like she

  and Dahlmar need another toaster. What

  does one buy the happy royal couple

  anyway? I mean, talk about people who

  have everything! Adriana had her own

  jet—well,

  she’d had her own jet.

  Dahlmar had his own country.

  Pondering royal gift-giving kept my

  mind occupied until I reached the USC

  Bayview campus. Once there, I had to

  keep a sharp eye out for a parking space.

  No luck. If I’d gotten here closer to

  noon I’d have stood a chance of finding

  a spot someone had vacated on the way

  to lunch. But it was 1:15, so the lunch

  crowd was back in class. I wound up

  driving a few blocks away and parking

  the Miata in the lot of my favorite

  restaurant, La Cocina. The owners are

  friends of mine and they know my car.

  They might get annoyed at me for

  parking there, but they wouldn’t have me

  towed.

  Before going out into the sunlight I

  slathered myself with high SPF lotion

  and grabbed a big floppy hat from the

  backseat. I debated whether or not to

  take my umbrella, but decided against it.

  After all, the paranormal studies

  building was in easy walking distance.

  With fresh sunscreen and the hat on I

  should be able to make it to the building

  without burning, if I hurried. Which, of

  course, I did.

  Despite the international prestige of

  the program, the paranormal studies

  building itself is nothing special. It’s

  r oughl y U-shaped, with the opening

  facing the university quad. One wing is

  all

  classrooms;

  the

  other,

  the

  administrative and faculty offices. The

  part of the building that connects the

  arms houses the big auditorium. The

  building’s magical perimeter is one of

  the toughest around—one of the benefits

  of having lots and lots of mages-in-

  training who need to practice recharging

  such things.

  The first floor of the building has lots

  of windows. On nice days like today, the

  place is bright and sunny and has a great

  view of the manicured lawns and well-

  maintained landscaping of the quad. The

  public spaces had been redecorated not

  long ago; they feature cheerful colors

  and welcoming seating areas. The

  second floor is a whole different

  ballgame. The carpet is charcoal gray

  and industrial. The pale gray walls are

  marred with chips and marks from years

  of heavy use. Metal lockers, built into

  some of the walls, have been dented and

  battered by generations of students.

  Some of the old-style fluorescent lights

  were flickering. Maintenance would get

  around to fixing them … eventually.

  Probably a few weeks after they’d gone

  out totally; sooner if somebody fell

  down the stairs in the dark.

  The graduate assistant offices were in

  room 212, at the top of said stairs, in

  what had at one point been the storage

  room for magical supplies. It was a

  good-sized room, but I found it hard to

  imagine that more than a couple of

  people could work effectively in the

  space. But there were six names on the

  door, which was completely covered

  with a variety of posters and stickers

  that appeared to be several layers deep.

  I paused to admire my favorite, one of a

  train tunnel with the caption, “Due to

  repeated complaints about it being too

  dim and too distant, until further notice

  the light at the end of the tunnel has been

  shut off. The Management.”

  The door was ajar, so I peeked into

  the room, which was beyond crowded

  with six desks, six chairs, and an

  assortment of personal paraphernalia

  and teaching materials. I spotted two

  men and a woman, all looking to be in

  their twenties, huddled around someone

  seated at a corner desk. They were so

  absorbed in what was going on that they

  didn’t notice that I was standing in the

  doorway. As I raised my hand to knock,

  a wave of magic poured out from the

  group, knocking me back a step as a light

  show of rainbows danced in the air.

  One of the men said, “What the…” in

  a tone that made it clear he hadn’t been

  expecting what he’d just seen.

  “I’ve been working on this artifact for

  over a year now. Every time I feed it

  with my blood, it charges a bit more.”

  Bruno’s familiar voice was completely

  calm and patient, despite the fact that

  he’d just sliced himself open. Of course

  his magic had probably healed the cut

  almost instantly. The knives I use are his

  work. Every day for five years he’d bled

  himself to create a pair of knives, which

  my best friend Vicki had then given me

  as a gift. Five years. He’d made the

  weapons because Vicki was a level nine

  clairvoyant who assured him that having

  those knives was the only way to save

  my life. She’d been right. Still, the

  dedication, the sheer love it took to

  create something like that floored me

  every time I thought about it.

  “It can be drained if it comes into

  contact with another, more powerful,

  artifact. Not likely, since this is a mirror.

  But the Isis Collar drained a pair of

  knives I’d worked on for five years,

  sucked them completely dry in a matter

  of minutes.”

  “The Isis Collar is just a myth.” The

  big blond guy stepped back, putting his

  hands on his hips—an aggressive pose. I

  recognized the expression on his face.

  He wanted trouble and was looking for a

  fight.

  “It is now.” I smiled as I spoke,

  making my voice light, trying to defuse

  the tension in the room. “When Isis took

  it home to wherever it is goddesses live.

  But I assure you, it was real.”

  “Celia!” Bruno leapt to his feet and

  the others scattered out of his way. He

  was across the room in three bounding

  steps, sweeping me into his arms to give

  me a kiss that left me breathless and

  blushing, my heart pounding like a trip-

  hammer. “I have missed you.” He swung

  me around so that we were facing the

  others, his arm protectively around my

  waist.

  “Guys, this is Celia Graves. Celia,

  these are some of the GAs I work with.”

  He pointed to the scowling blond. “Jan

 
; Mortensen,” he said, giving the name the

  Nordic pronunciation, then continuing

  the introductions. “This lovely lady is

  Trudy Cook.” Trudy was pretty and

  petite, a redhead with a round face and

  clouds of curly hair that probably drove

  her crazy, but looked really good. The

  smile she gave me was a little forced. I

  didn’t need to be a telepath to figure out

  she wasn’t happy about Bruno’s reaction

  to me. It wasn’t just the siren thing,

  either. No, I’d have bet a fair amount of

  money that Trudy had a real thing for

  Bruno DeLuca.

  Well, I didn’t blame her, not even a

  little. After all, Bruno’s tall, dark,

  handsome, charming as hell, and a

  powerful mage. The cherry on top is that

  he has a real sense of joie de vivre. He

  sings show tunes and cabaret numbers in

  the shower. He can dance and he knows

  more dirty jokes than anyone else I

  know.

  A lot of folks are misled by his

  lighthearted side and his heavy New

  Jersey accent. They think he must be dim

  or a bit of a thug. In truth, he’s very

  smart and absolutely dedicated to his

  craft. Which was why he’d been

  accepted

  into

  Bayview’s

  doctoral

  program … and how he’d convinced Dr.

  Sloan to be his advisor.

  “And this”—Bruno gestured to a

  smaller black man whose close-cropped

  hair was going prematurely gray—“is

  Gary Jefferson.”

  “Hi, Celia.” Gary gave me a smile

  that was a lot warmer and more genuine

  than Trudy’s. “Bruno’s told us a lot

  about you. Glad to finally meet you.”

  Gary might be glad to meet me and

  Trudy might be reserving judgment, but

  Jan, very obviously, was not at all

  happy. He gave me a frigid look down

  his patrician nose. While the others were

  dressed very casually in worn T-shirts

  and cargo pants or faded jeans, Jan wore

  an untucked blue-and-white striped

  dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to

  show just a hint of the tattoo decorating

  his left forearm. It was obvious that shirt

  had been pressed and starched and the

  cuffs adjusted just so. It was a look

  straight off of the runways, as were the

  jeans with both knees deliberately torn

  out. Of course I got the feeling

  everything about Jan was deliberate.

  I decided to ignore Jan and to focus

  on the others. I turned to Gary. “Thanks.

  It’s good to meet you, too.”

  Gary smiled, then his expression

  quickly grew serious. “So, I’ve gotta