Phoenix Contract: Part One (Fallen Angel Watchers Book 1) (5 page)

“How is he?” Aiden asked. She climbed shakily to her feet and staggered toward the pair. Magnus’ presence made her uneasy. She did not trust him.

“He’s unconscious,” Magnus said. “I’ve called for an ambulance.”

“You know how to use a cell phone?” Aiden asked, faintly astonished.

Magnus shot her a sour glance and then grinned. “Very funny.”

Aiden crouched beside her mentor and placed a gentle hand on the old man’s smooth brow. “What’s wrong?” she asked. She lacked medical training and had no explanation for the priest’s inexplicable unconsciousness. “He was okay before I passed out.” She regarded the Celt with pointed suspicion.

“His heart is weak. The beat isn’t normal. It’s as if part of his heart has stopped working. He may be having a heart attack. I’m not sure...” Magnus trailed off, clearly unfamiliar with fear and worry.

“He keeps nitroglycerin in his pocket,” Aiden said, sorting through the priest’s coat until she located the tiny yellow bottle. She pressed her fingers to Matthew’s throat and discovered an alarmingly weak pulse. It fluttered beneath her touch like a baby bird. Biting her lip, she twisted the top from the bottle and slipped a tablet into the priest’s mouth.

She glanced at Magnus. “How long ago did you call?”

“It’s only been a couple minutes,” he said.

A long silence ensued, so uncomfortable it itched.

Aiden broke. “How do you two know each other?”

“We’re old friends, Matt and I.”

“I see,” Aiden said, so very skeptical. “I’ve known Matthew my entire life. He raised me, and yet I’ve not heard him mention your name even once before tonight.”

“I met Matthew long before you were born,” Magnus replied. As it happened, the Celt’s voice adopted the quality of a bourbon brogue, smooth as silk when he made an effort. His smile constructed a deliberate mystery, taunting her with the implications. “If it’s any consolation, I’m not around all that much. Believe me, I’ve heard him mention your name many times. He’s very proud of you, Aiden.”

Aiden sighed. She couldn’t accuse him of lying, especially in the face of logic and overwhelming evidence. The minutes ticked by.

The silence drove her up the wall. “Are you really House Shemyaza?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Where’s that ambulance? It’s taking forever.”

“It’s coming,” Magnus assured her. But another minute passed, and no predicted siren sounded.

Magnus turned his head slightly to the side in the barest of movement, almost imperceptible. The Celt grew still, unnaturally immobile, a predator waiting.

Aiden’s heart labored as if in the final leg of a long, long race. “What is it?” she whispered.

Magnus released a held breath in a low hiss and became animated again. “His heart has stopped.” Magnus reached for the priest.

With a surge of panic, Aiden reached for Matthew also. Her fingers scrambled, searching for a pulse. She didn’t find one. Her thoughts raced, trying to recall the procedure for CPR, but she drew an absolute blank.

A second later her perfect memory supplied what she needed. Aiden scooted beside Matthew in order to apply CPR. She locked her hands and leaned forward to begin compressions, but a hand gripped her shoulder and pulled her away from the priest. “What do you think you’re doing?” Aiden cried out in anger, shocked by the Celt’s betrayal. She rebounded, going for Matthew again.

Magnus shoved her aside. “Saving his life.” The Celt laid his hand over Matthew’s heart, crouching over the priest like a great cat on limbs bent with inhuman dexterity. “You can’t die, old friend. Not yet.”

“Leave him alone!” Aiden shouted. Her tears fell freely. She started to rise, to snatch his hands away, to tear him from Matthew, but she knew she would fail—Magnus was too damned fast and strong.

“Come back,” Magnus commanded. A growl resonated from his throat, a deep reverberating roll of anger and power, held in check at a meditative hum. With a single utterance, he created music which traversed every known scale, rich in sound, layered in meaning, beautiful and soulful. The cloak beneath Matthew’s head rippled and writhed in a frenzy.

“Come back, old friend.” A flash of red emanated from Magnus’ hand, and the light spread and swathed Matthew in an aura of crimson. It was blood, brilliance. The energy flowed from Magnus and entered Matthew, and the entire transference lasted less than five seconds.

Matthew’s body convulsed, jerking on the pavement. The priest’s eyes opened, and he sucked down a loud draught of air. Then his upper torso heaved forward into a sitting posture. Magnus caught his shoulders.

“Magnus? Is that you?” Matthew said. His weak voice shook. His hands groped outward, a blind man searching for human contact.

Magnus caught Matthew’s hands, offering the empathy his friend sought. “It’s me.”

“I can’t see,” Matthew said. The frail hand contracted with all of the priest’s strength.

“Give the magic time to work,” Magnus said. His compassionate and kind expression—the most humane Aiden had ever witnessed—changed her opinion of Magnus irrevocably for the better.

“Magic?” Matthew repeated, blinking blind eyes. “Magnus, what have you done?”

Magnus lowered Matthew to the ground. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re going to live a while longer.”

Matthew gasped, sucking in air, living each breath. “Aiden!” He turned his head, searching for his daughter. “Aiden, child? Are you here?”

“I’m here.” Shedding countless tears, Aiden reached out and captured Matthew’s left hand, taking it from Magnus. “I’m here.”

Matthew struggled to sit. “I’d like to go home.”

“Lie down,” Magnus said. “We’ve called for an ambulance. You need to stay still.”

“Father,” Aiden breathed. Finally, she believed her beloved mentor would live. She felt deflated and drained. Her tears ran freely down her cheeks.

“Aiden, I owe you an explanation. I’m so sorry—”

“This isn’t the time,” Magnus interrupted.

“Don’t talk,” Aiden said, shushing Matthew. “He’s right. This isn’t the time.”

“Magnus, tell me what happened. Please?” The priest wheezed, holding his sides. He began to say more, but the distant wail of a siren split the air.

“Father, he did something to you.” Determined to warm him, Aiden cradled her mentor’s chilled hand between her own.

“What?” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

“Your heart stopped. You were dead,” she said. “He put his hand over your heart and used magic to bring you back. Crimson light like fire...”

Matthew blinked and focused on her. “Power,” he said. “Magnus must’ve—” The rest of the priest’s faint words were lost in the howl of the ambulance which pulled into the parking lot like a great aggressive beast, lights flashing. It stopped, and the siren cut short mid-wail.

A disbelieving laugh tore from the priest and degraded into a wracking cough. “Why, why would he bring me back?” Matthew gasped, grasping her hand. His confusion and anguish broke her heart.

“You don’t want to live?” she asked in a tremulous voice.

“No. No. That’s not what I meant!” Matthew exclaimed, aghast that she’d think such a thing. He struggled to explain. “It’s just— We’d discussed this. I told him to let me go when the time came. Aiden, listen carefully. I need for you to contact my lawyer. She has my will and my power of attorney. I have a do not resuscitate order.”

Aiden gave an angry shake of her head. “Shush, save your strength. No more talk of dying.” Medics swarmed from the stopped ambulance. “Over here!” she called, signaling to the rescue personnel.

“Maybe you should—” She turned to speak to Magnus, but the Celt had vanished. “Go,” Aiden finished.

Matthew chuckled. “It’s never hard to get rid of Magnus. Getting him to stick around is the hard part.”

“Hurry up or we’re going to be late.” Troy held the door for Katsue.

“Yes, God forbid we keep Desdemona waiting.” Katsue did not spare her partner the sarcasm.

Troy glanced at Katsue. He rolled his eyes and bit back a grin, obviously humoring her. Katsue had been grumpy and disagreeable since the cursed sword burned her hand. Troy had been overly solicitous, which only fed her bad mood. The vicious cycle irked her.

The night before, Aiden’s phone call from the hospital, which advised them of Matthew Bunson’s heart attack, had been icing on the cake. The pair shared a mountain of worries, including Thrash’s continued absence. Their enclave was already small enough without members being MIA or incapacitated.

They entered the archeology building’s northeastern stairwell, one of four located in each of the structure’s corners. Along the cinderblock walls, the concrete stairs turned every half-story. The cold, damp, and drafty area was far preferable to the deathtrap of an elevator. Troy led the ascent, his heavy steps echoing
thud thud thud
in counterpoint to Katsue’s stiletto heels which produced a brisk
click click click
.

“We should be on our way to the hospital, not wasting precious time with pointless meetings,” Katsue grumbled. “Aiden’s already been there over six hours by herself. She needs someone to relieve her.”

“As soon as we hand over the sword, we can go,” Troy replied in a soothing tone.

Katsue harrumphed with dissatisfaction.

The first and second floors of the building housed faculty offices and classrooms. The third and fourth floors belonged to collections and held historical artifacts and art from many eras and cultures. The fifth floor served as the domain of the enclave’s elders—the Watchers—Desdemona Leromenos and Matthew Bunson. The sixth floor, their ultimate destination, contained the student library and a suite of conference rooms.

Troy carried the cursed sword in the duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Katsue’s covetous gaze strayed to the bag often, especially when she knew her partner wasn’t looking. Under the moist cotton bandages, her right hand throbbed with pain due to second degree burns. Her palm bore a brand in the shape of the dragon hilt. The emergency room doctor had prescribed painkillers which Katsue refused to take because they dulled her senses.

You are unworthy.

Katsue still heard the sword’s voice in her head—feminine, cold, and haughty. The rejection stung. She resented the summation of her worth, taking it as a deeply personal insult. It also left her feeling oddly shamed. So far, she had told no one, not even Troy, of the voice she had heard in her head. Troy already thought her weakened. She didn’t need him assuming she was crazy too.

“It’s a waste to just turn it over for study,” Katsue complained. “They’re going to lock it in a safe where it’ll gather dust.”

They reached the fifth-floor landing. Troy stopped and turned to face Katsue. The stairwells were self-contained, and the heavy metal doors opened with a great clatter. They were alone in the stairwell, their conversation private when he faced her, his body language tense.

“We’ve been over and over this. This
thing…
” Knuckles white, Troy held up the duffle bag and gave it a shake. “This thing is too dangerous to keep. The smart thing to do is lock it up.”

Katsue’s eyes flashed. There were times when she hated Troy as much as she admired him. His misplaced nobility could be a downright liability. The cursed weapon had been an object of contention since he’d pried it from her unconscious fingers and taken custody. Their reactions to the weapon were as different as their natures. The sword fascinated Katsue and repelled Troy. The thought that the sword might accept Troy where it had rejected Katsue killed her.

“It’s a waste,” Katsue repeated. “It’s got real power. We just need to figure out how to use it. There are so many monsters out there that need killing—”

“It’s evil.” Troy locked gazes with her in a contest of wills.

Katsue’s jaw set. She refused to back down. “You don’t know enough to say that.”

Finally, Troy threw up his hands in disgust. “There’s no reasoning with you.” He ended the argument with a sharp cutting motion and turned to resume his upward march.

Katsue glared daggers at her partner’s back and followed. “Damn it! I’m the one who got burned.”

On the sixth floor, Troy and Katsue wound their way through a maze of towering bookshelves. Many of the library’s collection were rare editions or first run prints, valuable books kept under lock and key. The rest sat on the stacks, gathering impressive amounts of dust.

Morning sunlight filtered through the grimy glass of tall, vertical windows, and ceiling-mounted fluorescent fixtures provided additional light. However, even with optimum lighting, the library remained too dim for reading between the rows. A prospective student would have to crouch directly beneath a light and angle the book just right to decipher a page.

Katsue’s nose twitched like crazy, and she blinked rapidly. She fought as long as she could before a sneeze finally tore free.

“Gesundheit.”

Following another sneeze, Katsue replied with a watery, “Thanks.”

Troy reached the designated conference room first. He opened the door, and his considerable bulk blocked her view of the interior. “Good morning, Watcher,” he said. Then he stepped aside and revealed the trim figure of Desdemona Leromenos.

Desdemona cut a severe figure in a plain, gray wool dress and practical shoes. The Grecian woman was imposing in the manner of royalty. Her entire face was thin-profiled from her hawkish nose to her clenched lips. Her eyes were as black as her soul. Her brow formed a “v” over the “v” of her chin. She wore her ashen hair in a tight coif from which not a single stray strand escaped.

“Good morning, Alastors,” Desdemona greeted them with cool deportment. Stance stiff and regal, the elder woman faced a window with her back to the door
.

“Good morning, Watcher Leromenos.” They spoke in unison—Troy with respect and Katsue resentment.

She despised Desdemona with a passion, so it shafted her pride to show the matron the required deference. However, tradition made anything else absolutely unacceptable.

Curious, Katsue approached Desdemona and looked out the window. The grime-encrusted glass obscured the view of the quad below. A contingent of ROTC, one drill instructor and perhaps twenty student soldiers, performed their daily drills on the lawn below.

“I watch them every morning at this time,” Desdemona said. “When I was a girl, living with my mother in our home in Greece, soldiers would march past our home. I would hide behind the curtains in the front window and watch them. How bold! How brave and noble they were in their uniforms, marching in step. Oh, they were truly heroic. How I adored them. The sound of their boots was like thunder.”

“Was this during the Second World War, Watcher?” Troy asked. He hooked a chair with his foot, pulled it out, and dropped into his regular seat. He set the duffle bag on the floor beside him. The large, rectangular conference table sat eight comfortably, ten people if they crammed together. The ends of the table were reserved for the elders. Typically, Troy sat beside Katsue on one side, Thrash and Aiden on the other.

“Yes, during the war.” Desdemona’s distant gaze stared into another time and place. Watcher Leromenos often succumbed to moments of reverie when it came to the past, especially her childhood in Greece.

Anger burned in Katsue’s eyes. Her jaw clenched, and her hands fisted. Desdemona’s penchant for romanticizing the past always got on her nerves, especially when it came to World War II. The Leromenos family had weathered the conflict virtually unscathed due to their wealth and political climbing.

“My Japanese American family was interred at a camp in Salinas, California by the government,” Katsue said, her tone acidic.

Troy turned his head and gazed at Katsue with sad, sympathetic blue eyes.

Desdemona cast Katsue a brief glance. Her lips curved with brief amusement, and she turned from the window. “What happened to your hand, Ms. Ishimura?”

“I burned it by accident. Forgot a potholder and grabbed the handle of a hot pan,” Katsue said, providing the lie she had rehearsed. She shot Troy a glance, daring him to contradict her.

Her partner looked unhappy but otherwise kept his mouth shut.

“You should be more careful,” Desdemona told her primly.

Katsue sealed her lips and accepted the criticism without a word.

Desdemona indicated a chair. “Let’s begin the meeting. Sit.”

Fuming, Katsue took a seat across from Troy. Doing so served the dual purpose of demonstrating her displeasure with him while bringing a sense of balance to the table. To have assumed her usual place beside him would have served to further emphasize the absence of Thrash, Aiden, and Father Bunson.

Desdemona assumed a seat at the head of the table. “Aiden won’t be joining us. I assume you’re both aware Father Bunson’s been hospitalized following a heart attack?”

In unison, they responded, “Yes.”

“I need to inform you that Father Bunson’s angioplasty was successful, but his condition is still considered critical. He will remain in the intensive care unit until his physician deems him fit enough to be transferred.”

Troy and Katsue shared a worried glance. The jovial priest was a favorite among the younger members of the enclave. Matthew had spent the last year in England, and his unscheduled return had taken them all by surprise. News of Matthew’s illness was equally unexpected and troubling, especially since he had always enjoyed robust good health.

“Aiden is in attendance, and I have his room information if you wish to visit,” Desdemona concluded.

Katsue opened her mouth to respond, but Troy beat her to the punch. “We’ll head over there after the meeting.”

Desdemona responded with a curt nod. “Very well,” she said. “Moving on. Have you made any progress in locating Thrash?”

Katsue’s eyes narrowed. “No, he’s still missing.”

“How long has it been now?” Desdemona asked.

“Eight days.” Troy’s voice and expression were perfectly bland.

Desdemona regarded Troy with cool detachment. “Do you think he’s dead?”

Silence fell. Troy and Katsue exchanged a troubled glance. The old woman so easily voiced their unspoken fear. To name fear was to give it power. Through mutual accord, Katsue and Troy had refused to discuss the worst-case scenario. Instead, they had indulged in a determined search for their lost comrade. Hours wore into days, and the days blurred together. Their hope eroded, and the expectation of a bad ending had grown until the weight of it dragged them down. They were both exhausted, close to collapse.

“No,” Katsue said firmly. “He’s still alive, maybe hiding somewhere. Albinos don’t just kick it without somebody noticing. If his body turned up, our contacts on the police force and at the city morgue would let us know.”

Desdemona gave Katsue her cool regard and then pursed her lips. “True enough.”

“We’ve looked everywhere it makes sense to look,” Troy supplied, “and a few places it doesn’t. He’s nowhere to be found.”

Troy didn’t elaborate and explain how they’d been at it for days. They had checked out every conceivable bar, club, and friend who might possess a lead on Thrash’s whereabouts. So far they had turned up absolutely nothing. Both Troy and Katsue were exhausted with tempers short and nerves on edge.

“Have you found anything at all?” Desdemona demanded. The Grecian woman was infamous for her intolerance of incompetence—whether real or perceived. She liked answers, neat and orderly explanations, and quickly grew impatient with anything else.

Katsue bit her lower lip and shifted her gaze to her partner. She stared at him, making it clear she would not be the one to speak of the sword.

Troy quirked his brow and then reached under the table for the duffle bag which he placed in front of him. “Only this,” he said.

“Continue.” Desdemona made an imperious gesture with her hand.

“This was in Thrash’s possession before he disappeared.” Troy unzipped the duffle bag and removed the rectangular sword case. He set it carefully upon the table and pushed it toward Watcher Leromenos.