Ghost Phoenix (4 page)

“You can have a six-month sabbatical after you help Richard Genet. I promise.”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “Six months? Really?” Argh. Try not to sound so eager, she told herself.

Dad squeezed her hand tighter. “Six months, absolutely.”

“We cannot refuse the Genets,” Grandfather said, pontificating as if his easy chair were a throne.

She stood. Her grandfather believed the Court was real. She could discount that. But her father believed too, and she couldn't discount that. “I'll do this. And I'll take those six months. But I'm not promising anything about when I'm coming back.”

Her life needed to change, one way or another.

“And keep in mind while you're so worried about pissing off these immortals, you might start worrying about pissing me off. I'm the only one qualified to train the next person who inherits the phantom ability. And I won't do it unless I'm sure they have a choice in the matter and that they're not raised to be criminals looting the heritage of nations. This is no way to live.”

It was a dumb last word, but it was the best she could do. All three of them knew she'd given in to her grandfather.

Again.

Chapter Three

William Doyle Antiquities was exactly as Richard pictured it would be.

The firm was located in a three-story brownstone on a quiet street in midtown New York City. The solid wood door with the gilded decorations, the entrance room with all the European antiques on display, and the museum room showcasing swords older than even he was were just as expected.

Tedious.

His host, William Doyle, the current head of the family, clearly was proud of the place. Perhaps it impressed most of their regular clients, especially given these items were rare and valuable. It had been a long time since Richard had viewed a true Knights Templar standard and this one was in fine shape for its age. Marshal would like it, but it was from before Richard's time.

The only element that made the visit worthwhile so far was the young woman in Doyle's shadow, who had been introduced as his granddaughter, Marian. The one said to possess this phantom talent.

Marian's clothes reflected the image her family's company wanted to convey. Her tight skirt and matching gray tweed jacket were almost severe. The white blouse blended in with no sign of personality. Yet she was the most important member of her family firm. Why did she seem so submissive?

That would never do.

She did have rather nice curly hair, which, Richard judged, she had taken some pains to get under control. He suspected that was a continual battle. Once or twice, he caught her bored glance as her grandfather droned on about the Doyle history. The man was boring both of them.

William Doyle wanted to show off. And Marian knew it. Perhaps was even used to it.

She might prove to be interesting after all.

Marshal had waxed poetic about how valuable the phantom power could be. Richard was eager to see Marian demonstrate it. Getting her away from this officious fool was the first step.

Doyle halted at the bottom of the steps to the second floor. Richard hadn't heard what he'd said for some time. It wasn't important.

“Thank you for the tour, Mr. Doyle, but I need to discuss business with your granddaughter now. You must be very busy running this place. I won't take up more of your time.”

Doyle cleared his throat. He knew he was being dismissed.

“As the head of the firm, I must attend all meetings for such an important client, sir, to ensure all is done properly.”

“As a representative of your oldest and most longstanding patron, I must insist on doing this my way. Unless you'd like me to report to the Court that your services are unsatisfactory?”

Doyle stepped back. “I didn't mean to question your judgment. I only point out that my granddaughter is young to take this on alone.”

Marian sighed.

“From my perspective you're just a child yourself, Mr. Doyle. Should I become dissatisfied with Ms. Doyle's services, I'll let you know. Now, let's get to work.”

He motioned for Marian to precede him up the steps. They left Doyle at the bottom. Richard was tempted to turn around to see if the man had his mouth hanging open in shock.

Richard resisted the temptation. That would be unseemly. Instead, he studied Marian, infinitely more interesting. The skirt hugged her backside. She had shapely calves too. A runner, perhaps? Her shoes were flats. Practical. Even less showy than the white blouse, especially since heels would have showcased those lovely legs. She wore little make-up. That might fit with her role as dutiful scion of a stuffy house, but he wondered if this woman had any color at all.

What kind of bathing suit would she wear to a beach? Would she even like the water?

She opened the door to her office. Ah, this was better.

The large picture window behind her desk let in abundant light. The walls were painted a warm blue color. The shelves to the left of her desk were filled with Native American items, along with a few framed photos of someone he guessed was her sister. The desk was modern and reminded him of something from an Apple store.

He strolled over and picked up an arrowhead from one of her shelves. Stone, yes, but the design wasn't too different from the arrowheads of his time.

“Please be careful with that, sir.”

“You seem beat.”

“No, I'm not tired,” she said.

“Not tired. Beat. Worn out, in more ways than one. Maybe by your grandfather.” He examined a carved wooden pipe. It smelled like packed dirt. Perhaps that was where it had lain for years before being discovered. “These aren't European.”

“Native American. I have a particular interest in the subject.”

“And not in the European historical objects that are a specialty of your house?”

“I'm well versed in those as well, Mr. Genet.” She cleared her throat. “Please be careful with the pipe. It's fragile.”

“You don't like your family much, do you, Miss Doyle?”

“What?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

He pointed to the framed photo of Marian and the younger woman. “Okay, not all of your family. You at least like your sister, yes?”

“Mr. Genet, please stop—”

“It's your grandfather who's the problem. A true asshole.”

“I was under the impression we would discuss business, not family relationships,” she snapped.

Aha. He'd pushed her enough to get a real emotion out of her. Good.

“Call me Richard.” He settled in one of the two chairs that faced her desk, stretching out his long legs, and gestured at her to take the seat across from him. This would go much better if they talked face to face rather than having her behind the desk.

“Richard, then.” She took the chair, but slowly, wary of him now. “What would ever give you the idea that I hate my grandfather?”

“Hate might be too strong. Trapped by him and the family legacy is more accurate. For example, you office is different from everything else in this building. That's because this room is your escape.”

“Is it?”

“Most certainly. You have considerable lighting in this office, making it open and airy, with no hint of the antiquarian atmosphere of the rest of the firm. Also, there isn't one single thing of European origin in your office. Instead, it's full of your personal interests, which seem to be the opposite of the rest of the Doyles. Whether you intend it or not, you're making a clear statement to separate yourself from your family.”

“Are you sure you're not Sherlock Holmes?” she said. “Though you're dressed a lot differently.”

“So I am.” He smiled and read the degrees hanging on the wall, above the artifacts. Yes, she had the credentials he needed. “So, here you are, dealing with European antiques and listening to the boring dronings of your grandfather.”

“My relationship with my grandfather has no bearing on my ability to help you.”

“If you wish out of this job, say so. Resentment makes for bad relations.”

She glared. “I've said I would do what you required, and I will.”

“Family can warp a person, as I should know. I've been dealing with mine for over six hundred years.”

Her eyes widened. “I can't imagine dealing with my grandfather for six hundred years.”

“Hah!”

“I have heard tales of the Court of Immortals since I was a child,” she added. “I thought they were just tales.”

“You don't believe them?”

“I've never met anyone with a psychic ability save myself and my great-aunt. And the stories about your court are pretty over the top.”

“Someone with your ability should be less skeptical of someone with mine, Marian. Besides, there are plenty of people gifted with psychic talent.”

“Plenty? How many?”

Aha. Now he'd caught her interest. Now he was more than just a job. “More numerous than you'd guess. All immortals are physics, possessed of a telekinetic ability to heal themselves of injuries. It's a type of mental molecule manipulation, just as the Doyle family trait of becoming a ghost manipulates molecules, though in a different way.”

“
Ghost
implies
dead
. I call it a phantom ability.”

“Whatever it's called, it's impressive. A good friend told me it was incredible to see.”

She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “Really?”

Was she so unused to compliments? “Truly. And this friend is not normally given to flowery praise. I would love to see a demonstration.” Marshal was not easy to impress.

“You doubt me?”

“I have to know your limits. We've a lot of a work to do together.” Lives depended on it. “I'm going to stake my life on your capabilities. Can you handle it?”

“Are you saying I'm a coward?”

“Are you?” Interesting. He hadn't meant to insult her but obviously someone had recently or she wouldn't be so touchy.

She stood—no, she snapped to her feet. Yet no sign of emotion showed on her face. The anger came out in her stiff, controlled movements.

Glaring at him, she took off her jacket, revealing a lovely white throat, ripe for kissing. Edward used to tease him about his love of exposed throats. Edward had been less tolerant of his brother's desires to be with women who carried on real conversations.

Edward had liked his woman subservient. Well, Edward had liked everyone subservient. Hell, in Edward's eyes, everyone except the Queen was inferior.

Insufferable, arrogant, charming bastard. For hundreds of years, Richard had been torn between love and hate for his brother. And now that Edward was gone, there was a hole in the world.

Richard had no doubt that Edward underestimating his opponent had led to his death. He was determined not to make the same mistake. He wasn't going to underestimate Marian Doyle. Or trust her, either. Not yet.

Marian walked to the back of her desk to face the window. She held out her arms, as if to absorb the sun, and he watched, rapt, as she become, clothes and all, intangible. It all happened in seconds, until he could see the outline of her but he could also see right through her.

She floated several feet into the air. Oddly, she seemed to have more curls in her hair in this state. She slipped through the window and outside. He rose, fascinated, and walked closer. She hung in midair just outside the window, light streaming through her, looking like an angel captured in stained glass. He drew in his breath.

In the blink of an eye, she passed back through the window, into the office, and an ordinary mortal stood before him once more.

The healing ability that kept him from aging was subtle. Telepathic ability was similarly quiet. He had fought a firestarter to the death a few hundred years ago. That had been a spectacular battle.

But he had never seen any ability to match the sheer awesomeness of Marian Doyle becoming one with the light.

He smiled. “You looked unearthly. Angelic. Awe-inspiring. Stellar.”

“Thank you.” She walked back to her chair, picked up her jacket and put it back on. Her curls were definitely more pronounced now. “So, I may assume that was a satisfactory demonstration of my abilities?”

She did not put her hands on her hips but she might as well have. It was a silent
told ya so
.

“But what happens if someone looks up from the sidewalk and sees you, Angel?”

She shrugged. “What will they say? That they saw a ghost for a few seconds? No one would bat an eyelash in New York.”

He smiled. “True.”

“So, what's made the Genets call on the Doyles for the first time in years? What can I do for you, Richard?”

Oh, so many things. He wondered if she could turn him translucent, so he could walk on air too. What would it be like to become a phantom on a surfboard, high on a wave?

He must find out once this quest was over.

William Doyle opened the door and strode in without waiting for an invitation.

She stood, smoothing out her jacket. “Grandfather, you're interrupting.”

Doyle ignored her. “Mr. Genet, is all to your satisfaction?”

“No, because you're interrupting. As I believe I made clear, my business is with your granddaughter, not you. But perhaps an office is too stuffy a place to discuss the job with her.” He held out his hand to his newfound angel. “It's a beautiful day, and I have a longing for fresh air. Will you come with me, Marian?”

“Yes.” She smiled far too sweetly at her grandfather as she took his hand. Her palm was warm, real, substantial.

She was no ghost or phantom.

“Thank you,” she whispered to him as they left William Doyle in their wake.

“You are so very welcome, Angel.”

Chapter Four

Marian decided, whatever her frustrations with her work, the last few years were worth it for the look on her grandfather's face as Richard Genet put him in his place. Twice.

And Richard's whisper of
Angel
in her ear was a nice bonus.

He radiated enough charm and presence enough to be an immortal royal, though he certainly didn't look like a lost medieval English prince. No, he looked like a California beach god kissed by the sun.

Even on the streets of New York City, even dressed in a simple light-blue T-shirt, hoodie and khakis, he was turning heads.

He offered her his arm as they crossed the street. She took it, flattered when she should be wary. He was a client and she barely knew him. Instead, she was tongue-tied and off balance.

After several blocks of silent companionship, Richard stopped at the bottom of the steps to the New York Public Library. He tucked his hands into his pockets and stared at one of the stone lions, intent, as if the animal could stare back at him.

“Have you been here before?” she asked.

“A few times.” He shifted his gaze to the steps that led up to the main entrance of the library.

“If you tell me you helped construct the building or sculpted the lion, I'll know you're pulling my leg,” she said.

“It's not my style of lion.” He smiled, apparently accepting her tease in good humor. “It does always amaze me that people keep building these kinds of monuments. At least this is one is devoted to institutional memory.” He shook his head. “Let us go sit in the park.”

It was early on a weekday morning. Bryant Park, an oasis of calm in the midst of the midtown skyscrapers, was nearly deserted. The restaurant was closed, the carousel silent and the public tables and chairs almost completely empty.

Richard chose a table in the middle of the park and pulled out a chair for her.

“Thank you. I seem to be thanking you a lot today.”

“You are quite welcome for all of it.”

He folded himself into the chair. The sunlight streaming in from behind them caught the blond bleached into his hair by the sun and wind. No wonder he wanted to take a walk. He needed to be outdoors, not inside a stuffy office. His tanned face contained some age lines, primarily around his eyes. If he were an ordinary person, she would have guessed his age between thirty and forty.

Richard Genet wasn't ordinary. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and relaxed into the wire mesh chair.

“You spend a great deal of time outdoors?” she asked.

“Yes. I live in California, near the ocean.”

He would fit right in with the movie stars. “Do you surf?”

“Every day. Do you?”

She shook her head. “I've never tried.”

“Not a particular interest, or do you hate it?”

“It's never come up.”
I would learn if you agreed to teach me.
He must look gorgeous in a wetsuit, on a surfboard, about to take a wave, the sun and wind at his back.

Thank God she hadn't said that out loud. She cleared her throat. “Mr. Genet, you haven't explained what you need my talent for yet.”

“Richard. You agreed to call me that earlier.” He gave her that movie-star smile again. “So, tell me, Marian, how many enemies do you or the Doyles have?”

“Excuse me?” What had she done wrong? “Enemies? None that I know of. Why would you ask about that?”

“Not many enemies, then, as I thought. Good. It confirms that the man following us is after me, not you.”

“Someone's following us? Where?” She began to turn her head, wishing she hadn't just sounded so stupid.

“Look at me.” He held up his hand. “I prefer him not to know that we know he's there. And I doubt you would spot him, in any case. He's very good.”

“How did you spot him?”

“I've had centuries of examining human behavior. It's an advantage.”

Just as he had sized her up by studying her office. “Why is this person following you?”

Her fondest hope had been that despite the client, this job might be normal or, at least, without danger. Instead, she had a gorgeous, supposedly immortal royal prince sitting across from her, blithely explaining that someone was following them.

Richard crossed his arms over his chest. “I'm not entirely sure what he wants. My best guess is that it's possible our stalker has something to do with a business enterprise run by my brother.”

“Can't you have your brother deal with it, then?”

“Unfortunately not. My brother is dead.”

“Dead? I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” she said, “wasn't your brother also immortal?”

“Being immortal only means I won't age. We can be killed. He was killed several months ago.”

“You think the man following us is the one who killed him?” She clutched the arms of her chair tighter, fighting the growing urge to bolt. Anyone who could kill an immortal prince was more trouble than a thousand customs officers.

“The man following us could be my brother's killer or associated with those who killed him, yes.”

“Richard, I'm an excellent historian and I have considerable resources to locate various items in Europe, but I'm not equipped to be thrown into the middle of some sort of immortal blood feud.” That sick feeling of dread, the same as in the airport, was back in the pit of her stomach.

“Blood feuds are ridiculous.” He sighed. “I'd intended to leave my brother's death alone and finish my quest before dealing with all that. But, apparently, it's not to be.”

“Do you want me to go while you do this?”

He stood. “Stay, please. You may be of some service.”

“How?”

“We can't head off to Europe with an enemy lurking in the shadows behind us.”

She swallowed back the nasty taste of fear. “What do we do?”

“For now, watch and wait and talk about the work I need you to do.”

“What if he does something?”

“I can handle it. But no sense acting before we know which way the wave breaks.”

His casual pose gave away no sign he was disturbed. She folded her hands on her lap. There was no real reason to be afraid, even if she knew she was in over her head. She could turn phantom and no one could hurt her.

She cleared her throat. “What do you need me to find for you, Richard?”

“Rasputin's corpse.”

“What?” She sat forward, her hands flat on the table. “Of all the things you could have said, I didn't expect that.” She shook her head. “You're asking the impossible. Rasputin's body was burned by the Bolsheviks and his ashes scattered.”

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“It's true that in the chaos of war and rebellion, sometimes reports are wrong, but the destruction of Rasputin's corpse isn't a rumor, it's something established by respectable historians.” But the Soviets were known for obscuring truth.

“You're intrigued, Marian.”

“You must have information I don't. What is it?”

“The Court's sources say Rasputin's body was relocated from a public grave before the rebellion succeeded in toppling the czar. The body was spirited out of the country, unknown to but a few. The Bolsheviks vented their anger on an anonymous corpse.”

“I suppose that's possible, especially if your source is good.” She took a deep breath. “But why do you want Rasputin? Did he mean something to a member of your court?” Some people collected rare corpses. Creepy but occasionally lucrative to the Doyles. How disappointing if Richard was one of those people.

“The Court's scientists want to examine Rasputin's DNA.”

“Why?”

“You're familiar with the Mad Monk's history. Guess.”

That was a test. If she flunked, would he refuse to hire her? That would be a way to get out of this job filled with immortals and someone stalking them. But…

“Rasputin was rumored to have true healing powers. That's why Empress Alexandra depended on him, because she needed him to treat her son, Alexei, who was a hemophiliac. If that's true, that would make Rasputin a psychic, like me or you.”

“Not like us,” Richard snapped. “I can heal myself but not others.”

“You need his DNA to find out how to heal others? But if members of your court are immortal, who needs to be healed?”

Richard avoided her gaze and looked across the street, where taxis were pulling up to the hotel. “The Court is always interested in ways to unlock psychic gifts, and the gift of healing others is incredibly rare.”

“Rasputin had daughters, and at least one of those daughters had children. Why not ask for a sample of their DNA, if that's what you're interested in? They'd be much easier to locate.”

“I'm glad you have information on the family already committed to memory.” Richard looked at her this time. “Rasputin didn't pass on his abilities to his children, therefore they are missing the quirk of DNA that led to his healing and other abilities. I need his DNA and no other.”

“Other abilities? He had more than one?”

“He could create explosions. My information indicates he caused the massive explosion in Siberia in 1908.”

“Holy crap. A psychic can do that?” She sat back in the chair. “Here I thought my gift was powerful. Maybe it's a good thing he was killed.” She muttered the last sentence.

“Nothing to worry about. We have only to deal with his corpse and not the man himself.”

She took a deep breath and stood. No, hadn't she just vowed a day ago not to go down the rabbit hole? Handsome prince or not, this was enough. This chaos was exactly what she wanted to avoid. She wanted something normal. Ordinary. Something that didn't break the laws of several countries.

“I owe you for putting my grandfather in his place, Richard. But I admit, between the person following us, the people out there who killed your brother and a search for a corpse that may not exist, I don't think this is the job for me.”

“You're refusing me?” He stood to face her.

He sounded more puzzled than angry.

“Yes. This is way over my head.” She braced herself, ready for Richard to pass judgment on her as a coward. He'd be right too.

“You underestimate yourself.” He stepped closer to her. “You are more than your fear. I need your knowledge. I need your help, Angel.”

Again, he said
Angel
in the sexiest whisper.

“I'm a coward.”

“I know cowards. You're not one.”

What was she afraid of? Losing control. Yes, exactly. She could easily be bowled over by Richard.

He put his hand on her arm. “I'll make you a deal. Follow my lead now and if you're still reluctant after today, then I'll leave you alone. You have current sources in artifacts of Russian history, yes?”

“I do.” She knew exactly the expert they needed to consult.

“And if we find the corpse, I'm going to need your special skills to smuggle him into the United States. Just give me a chance.”

He stepped closer again, and she felt of the pull of a sun's gravity.

She blinked. “All right.”

“Stellar,” he said in a California surfer accent.

She smiled. “So now what?”

“Our watcher has had enough time to become complacent.” He closed his hand around hers.

She felt like blushing. And she had no doubt Richard knew the effect of his physical touch on her.

“How have you hidden yourself for six hundred years if you possess this kind of magnetic charm?”

“California helps. There are beautiful people everywhere there. No one like you, of course.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. The brush of his lips against her skin only made things worse because it felt so good.

“Now we get our watcher to reveal himself.”

“How?”

“The easiest way would be to make him think you're in danger.”

“What? Why would he care?”

“If he comes to your rescue, he's a man with some morals. We might be able to discuss things rationally with him and his people. I told you, I hate blood feuds. I meant it.”

“What if he's not a good guy?”

“Then he's no doubt an enemy and I'll have to take some precautions to protect us before we leave on our quest.”

“Precautions such as?”

“Leave that to me.” Richard led her toward the carousal, still quiet this early in the morning. “Tell me, what are the limits of your power? Can you survive being hit by a car, for instance?”

“If you're thinking of pushing me in front of a car to draw him out, forget it.” She shook her head. He caught on fast to the possibilities inherent in her gift. “I probably could survive, but I won't take the risk.”

“Why not?”

It wasn't an accusation of cowardice, only a request for more information.

“What I do is psychic manipulation of molecules and atoms. The more molecules in motion, the harder it becomes to maintain the phantom state. The window I walked through in my office was unmoving. The air that I walked on moved a little, but I could handle that. But a car is going at a good speed and it's heavy. So that means a lot of molecules—from me, from the car, from the air, from the driver of the car—going every which way. I could survive if it was a small car, but it would be unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?”

“Like a million nasty needles against my skin. The more mass moving through me, the sharper the needles get.”

“Ah. Not a good idea, then.” He frowned. “Does that mean you can't turn intangible in water?”

“I can if the water is relatively still. It becomes exponentially more difficult once it's in motion. Water molecules are heavy. They slam into you.”

“Don't I know it. I'll have to teach you how to surf in the normal way, then.”

Teach her to surf?