Reluctant Adept: Book Three of A Clairvoyant's Complicated Life (24 page)

I remember,
I told him, giving him a smile that sprang from my heart.
The pain was driving me over the bend and you saved me.
"Thank you."

He almost shrugged it off as nothing. He'd done what anyone would do when a friend was suffering.

Because our minds were open to each other, I heard his feelings on the matter. But after he realized how much his small yet significant effort meant to me, he reconsidered his dismissal and, instead, returned my smile. "Anytime."

After a moment, he cleared his throat and then leaned forward, pinning his forearms on his thighs, left hand clasped atop his right wrist. "Now then … the prophecy."
Come
.

At his invitation, I entered his mind and parsed his thoughts, translating them aloud for Red's benefit while Tíereachán occasionally interrupted to offer a more accurate version.

Even now, settled into estrangement,

our people divided

and our strength diminished,

the seeds of our future are sown.

Planted by greed

under the guise of protection,

in our sylvan haven's fertile soil

they take hold.

So it will be

for scores of seasons hence.

We abide from afar,

while our worlds drift apart,

forced to watch

as our issue grows and stumbles.

One traitorous act

conceives demonic claim,

endowing the gifts which the One

shall wield like no other.

An adept by birth, a magus by chance,

past seed descended,

the One will straddle worlds,

walking between to redeem the lost.

Yet not magic nor power

but benevolence of heart

shall bind the One to the crown

and a mate unfettered,

the ruler who will rise from duplicity

to reunite our people,

to defend our sylvan home

at the converging, unholy dawn.

And in our time of need,

our prior glory will be restored,

rekindled by the One,

even as worlds collide.

The prophecy complete, Tíereachán leaned back and evaluated me with an inquisitive eye.

"You must admit, it fits much of what has transpired," Red observed.

It was an effort to avoid rolling my disgusted gaze to the ceiling. "Sure, I guess … if you squint real hard."

"There has been no other adept since the prophecy was issued," Tíereachán said. "You are the first, and the timing is right. We stand at the unholy dawn, the dawn before this world and Hell converge. 'An adept by birth, a magus by chance.' Lire, you are the one—
Anóen
—our next adept, the one who will walk between worlds and rekindle our prior glory. There is little doubt."

Anóen.
This wasn't the first time I'd heard that term. I shook my head. "The convergence you're talking about is a few years out, both you and Kieran have said so. The demons still can't come here unhindered. Until then, anything could happen."

I glanced at Red, who sat atop the cushion back to my left, his pudgy legs dangling over the edge. "Red and I talked about this only a month ago. Divinations are notoriously malleable. Even the smallest disruption along the timeline can alter the outcome. Just because your oracle's portent seems to fit my current circumstance, right this minute, doesn't mean anything. Someone else could come along next week. I could lose my powers … or incinerate myself or … or— " Frustrated, I threw up my hands. "Or I could end up on Mars while trying to sidestep across town!"

An infuriatingly patient smile slid over his lips.

Seeing that my argument had zero effect, I huffed, "I don't get how you can be so obstinate about it. You both know, the only reason I can do the higher dimension trick is because my building's djinn happened to take me there first. Half the stuff I do is out of sheer desperation." I lanced Tíereachán's continued amusement with a pointed glare. "How is it that you and Kieran know with one hundred percent certainty that I'm an adept? Do I smell like pancakes or something?"

He snorted. "You do smell delicious," he said with a grin, finally getting a word in edgewise, before his face fell back to seriousness. "But no. Anyone with intimate knowledge of another adept would know. Your essence, your magic, even your aura, all resonate with a tremor that is distinct. From my first breath in your presence, I suspected, but I knew you were an adept for certain when I touched you, as did Wade."

"And yet you chose to bind yourself to me," I observed. "What was it … 'benevolence of heart will bind the One to the crown and a mate unfettered?' I notice the oracle didn't say 'soulbind,' just 'bind.'" I examined him. "I know you don't believe that you're the long awaited ruler. I've heard your thoughts on that score. So, knowing the prophecy, why'd you do it? Why tie yourself to me?"

I detected a hint of resolve, of something he expected to happen, but before I could make sense of it, his shield slammed down, shoving me from his mind and cutting off his clear thoughts.

I recoiled, shocked. "What the—? You don't think it matters … because …" I blinked as I replayed what he'd been thinking. Somehow, he knew, without a doubt, that our connection was moot. I knifed out of my seat and jammed my fists on my hips. "Damn it. What are you hiding from me?"

I watched him intently to little avail. His expression was as closed as his mind.

"You needn't concern yourself, my dear," he replied, plucking at an invisible speck on his sleeve and then smoothing the fabric. "Merely another prophecy that's not worth considering, right?"

I took a breath, ready to tear into him, but my phone rang, vibrating inside my back pocket and breaking my concentration with the wild notion that it was Kieran wanting immediate rescue. I peered at the screen. Not a Seattle-area number.

After spending half a tick berating myself for being a heartsick moron, I considered the long string of unfamiliar numbers. The last time I'd received an international call it was from an antiquities dealer in France. Was 354 France's country code? I couldn't remember.

Ever since the sidhe insinuated themselves into my life, I'd been neglecting my duties at Supernatural Talent and Company. Two weeks ago, I arranged for a leave of absence with my partner Jack, but eventually, I had to find a way to balance things. Jack and I had spent the last ten years building ST&C into the success it was today. No way was I giving that up. Besides, I loved what I did for a living. Appraising antiques by using my clairvoyance to uncover their varied histories was my calling, and I missed doing it.

I swiped to answer before the call went to voicemail. "Lire speaking."

After a brief hesitation, a smooth male voice, tinged by a slight Northern European accent, queried, "Ms. Devon?"

I didn't give my cell number to just anyone, so the fact that he didn't use my first name had me regretting not letting the call go to voicemail. I wasn't in the mood to deal with a telemarketer.

"Speaking. Who's this?"

"To a limited few, I am known as Roman, although, at this stage, I imagine such a fact means little to you," he replied smoothly. "Miss Devon, you have sent me a rather … provocative collection of photographs."

I heard rustling through the earpiece, followed by muted scrunching sounds, as though he'd leaned back in his leather chair to get more comfortable. "I must admit, if you hadn't mentioned knowing Diedra in your charming correspondence, I might have dismissed it as yet another shameless attempt to draw me into some imbecilic YouTuber's five minutes of fame." In spite of sounding crisp and cultured, his menacing tone left little doubt about what might happen to someone with such aspirations.

Even if his reference to my letter hadn't clued me in to the fact that this was the vamp—excuse me,
strigoi
—domn, his mention of my friend Diedra seemed to confirm it. She and I had been friends at Coventry Academy from the time she arrived partway into my junior year (both of us being clairvoyants bonded us from the get-go) and we'd kept in touch over the years. From what she'd said in our e-mail exchanges, she was the primary administrator for a small strigoi clutch and even migrated with them—six months in Patagonia and six months in Iceland. Since strigoi didn't trigger our magic, it was a clairvoyant's ideal job, provided you could tolerate living with little sun exposure and being surrounded by creatures who viewed you as a potential food source.

However, the mention of my friend didn't guarantee that this man was the domn. He could just as easily be an underling or, even, one of Nathan or Lorcán's cronies.

My research had turned up almost nothing about the strigoi leader's identity. Even his birth name seemed to be a closely-guarded secret. All public records referred to him as 'the domn' with little other information. The Wikipedia page wasn't much better. Topped with 'This article needs additional citations for verification,' the useless entry consisted of a five-line paragraph imparting the fact that the leader's commanding title came from the Romanian word 'domn,' which was derived from the Latin 'dominus' and translates to 'lord' or 'ruler.' Go figure. An image search had turned up various stills of actors portraying vampires, random people in Halloween costumes, and dozens of blurry, clandestine snapshots, mostly of dark clothed men, but in one case, a woman. That I insisted on imagining the domn as a man offended the feminist in me, but I couldn't seem to stop myself.

The strigoi leader was utterly enigmatic—the Keyser Söze of the undead. (And even more vicious than the fictionalized crime boss, if rumor was to be believed.) The fact that my caller had given me an actual name made me highly suspicious.

I opened my mind to Tíereachán, so he could 'hear' the call.

After a disapproving sniff, the man added, "Your childhood friend has assured me, however, that you are smarter than the average human and, one would hope, in possession of an adequate sense of self-preservation. Although, she did acknowledge she hasn't seen you in over ten years."

He paused, and I could all but see him buffing his finely manicured nails against the lapel of his multi-thousand-dollar custom-tailored suit.

I refused to be intimidated by a voice on the phone. I erased the image and replaced it with a rumpled, overweight blond, sitting on his couch, clad in ratty pajamas.

Tíereachán snickered, and the unexpectedly boyish sound almost pressed a giggle from my throat. I shot him a warning look.

"So, Miss Devon, before we proceed, I will give you this one opportunity to apologize for wasting my time, otherwise, I suggest that you be sure of your facts. If you did not take these photos, then you must be supremely confident in whoever did. It won't be their existence on the line, should I discover that these are, in fact, doctored."

Tíer's amusement vanished. I could practically feel the heat of his ire radiate through my mind at the speaker's minacious warning.

"You're threatening me?" I laughed. "Isn't that a little counterproductive? Nathan and the rest of your minions already have my friends enthralled and at their mercy. I'm pretty sure killing me totally defeats the purpose of last night's blackmail and hostage taking, since it'll be hard for me to do your pal Lorcán's bidding if I'm dead. Just saying."

The forbidding silence on the other end of the connection didn't impress me. What was this guy's game? Everyone knew the domn's power over his subjects was nothing short of omniscient. He was their supreme ruler in all ways, connected to every single strigoi through their blood. They could do nothing without his knowledge. His absolute authority and unwavering enforcement of their strict laws was how the vamps had managed to stay under the radar for so many years and why, back in the day, they weren't subjected to the infamous Department of Paranormal Affairs ID program. Of course, the going joke was that the strigoi PR department could have gotten Nixon reelected for a third term.

Although it was true that the strigoi enforced their laws with a severity that rivaled Singapore, everyone in the magic community knew they policed their public image with equal fervor, which meant any criminal wrongdoing was covered up with the efficiency of a well-funded, far-reaching crime syndicate. Witnesses were nonexistent—either strigoi saliva guaranteed their silence or the grave did.

"Your lack of response isn't exact— "

"You are the clairvoyant who aided my Alexei sixteen years ago, are you not?" he asked sharply.

The abrupt change of subject stopped me short. Sixteen years … Did he mean the strigoi cursed boy I knew from Coventry Academy?

"If you mean Alex, the one everyone called Hacker— " I stopped short before I overfilled my mouth with my foot and said, "Yeah, we were at school together."

Even at a youthful and true seventeen, it had been clear to everyone that the newly-turned strigoi was a computer genius. He'd been known by a couple other nicknames, too, but 'Hackervamp' was the most flattering. Thank goodness it had been the one to slip out. I reminded myself to think before speaking.

"He told me that you were one of the few people who possessed any integrity at that school."

I blinked. "He did?" I chuffed out a breath. "I can't imagine why."

I'd been a shy, awkward, socially inept freshman with few friends. I couldn't fathom why Alex, a senior at the time and a favorite target for all the popular girls' ogling, would say such a thing.

"You came to his defense and kept him from making an egregious mistake. It is something he has not forgotten."

That's right
…
I hadn't thought of it in years. I'd threatened the school bully with revealing an embarrassing secret of his if he didn't stop harassing the blond vampire.

"Skyler," I sneered. "Yeah, I remember. The guy was a jerk. He got off on giving all the vam—I mean, all the strigoi—a hard time because he knew they couldn't do anything about it."

If a strigoi so much as touched any of the students, they'd be expelled. It was too dangerous to do otherwise. Plenty of students possessed more powerful magic than those affected by the strigoi curse, but because of their powerful saliva, superhuman strength, and varied gifts, the strigoi were held to a higher standard. It wasn't fair, but it was the way things were.