Spellbound (27 page)

“It's been almost two hours. If you really wanted to go, you'd have gotten your bag already.”

“I—”

“You feel bad because I was obviously upset when you backed out over breakfast. You want to offer to come along, but you're hoping I'll turn you down, because you don't really want to work with me right now. You've had enough of that, and I don't blame you.”

“It's not—”

“Yes, it is. I wouldn't come back to Miami. I kept stalling when it wasn't safe for me to be out there, and you had to stick around to watch my back. I knew you'd stay, and I took advantage of that. I treated you badly. I'm not going to apologize because that won't mean anything. You'll accept it, and I'll say, ‘Whew, glad that's over,' and go right back to treating you like shit.”

He sighed. “You don't treat me like shit, Savannah.”

“Maybe, but I didn't treat you well either. You said I was scared to tell Paige and Lucas about my spells. That I was scared of how they'd treat me, which is the same reason I haven't moved out. You're right. I am afraid if I leave, things will change, and I'm afraid if I'm not a spellcaster, things will change. Yes, I'm scared of losing them, but—” I looked into his eyes. “They aren't the only ones I'm scared of losing.”

I didn't wait to see his reaction. I didn't dare. I hurried to the car. Troy opened the door. He didn't say anything, but I knew he'd heard the whole conversation. He murmured something I didn't catch, something reassuring, as I slid in.

When I looked through the dark-tinted glass, Adam was just standing there. He shifted. Shoved his hands in his pockets. Took one out again almost immediately, rubbed his mouth, then shook his head and walked away.

“Please tell me you aren't going to cry, Savannah,” said a voice from the other side of the backseat.

I jumped and looked over to see a familiar figure nestled in the shadows.

“Paige was right,” she said. “You are taking this spell nonsense hard. I'm surprised. I didn't think you cracked that easily.”

“Go to hell, Cassandra.”

Her perfectly tweezed brows arched. “Did you just tell me to ‘go to hell'?”

“Sorry, but I'm not in the mood, okay?”

“Did you just apologize for telling me to go to hell? Are we quite certain this spell problem isn't actually demonic possession? Where's the clever comeback? The biting quip? ‘Go to hell'? Terribly pedestrian.”

“Do you want me to say it again?”

Her lips twitched. “Perhaps. It's been a very long time since anyone said it to me. Except Aaron, of course. But he says it so often it doesn't count.”

“You just keep telling yourself that.”

The smile broke through. “Now that's more like it.”

She settled back to take a better look at me. Most people squirm under Cassandra's cool, green-eyed appraisals. Even Lucas does, though he tries to hide it. I don't. Cassandra DuCharme is like one of those countesses you see in old movies, always elegant and outwardly charming, before she slams your legs out from under you with a pithy, razor-sharp observation. She's a three-hundred-year-old vampire who's old enough to say what she likes and not give a damn what anyone thinks. In a world where people seem to trip over themselves to be nice, I find her refreshing. Or I do when I'm not already nursing a bruised ego.

“I thought you were in Atlanta with Aaron?” I said. “You didn't turn him over to an angry mob again, did you?”

“That's better. No, Aaron is here. We finished speaking to the vampire who came to him after being contacted by this group. We arrived in Miami this morning.”

“And he's making you sit in the car until he can escape? Or are you hiding here so no one can ask you to do anything?”

“See, a few minutes of my company and you're already feeling more like yourself. Which is why, lucky child, you have earned the honor of my companionship on this little excursion of yours.”

“Ha-ha.”

Another brow arch. “You think I jest? Apparently, you are in need of a minder and I volunteered.”

I saw Lucas approaching and got out of the car, half closing the door behind me.

“Cassandra?” I said. “Tell me you're kidding.”

“Unfortunately, no,” he murmured.

“I heard that,” Cassandra said.

“I'm sure you did,” he said, then we both got in. “Hello, Cassandra.”

“Hello, Lucas. Not going to apologize for that rude comment?”

When he didn't answer, she smiled. “Very good. A marked improvement.”

He turned to me. “Cassandra is coming to L.A. to accompany you on your lead. Then you'll accompany her on hers.”

“Because she needs a minder . . . or she'll wander off in one of her end-of-life fogs.”

“See?” Cassandra said. “I told you she'd do better with me around.”

“What's the lead?” I said.

“A supernatural contacted the council, through Paige. A half-demon named Eloise, who reported seeing Anita Barrington in L.A., with someone supposedly recruiting for this movement.”

“Anita Barrington?”

Cassandra's brows arched. “And they say I don't pay enough attention to council records. Elena worked with Anita during that silly portal business.”

“Right.”

I remembered the case now. Anita Barrington had been a witch that the werewolves used as a resource while investigating a portal alleged to have freed Jack the Ripper in Toronto. As usual, the truth was far more mundane. The guy it freed was a Victorian immortality quester—Matthew Hull. Anita Barrington was also an immortality quester, and had helped Elena find Hull. Until she had a final encounter with her mortality.

“Didn't she die during that investigation?” I said.

“Being dead doesn't necessarily stop anyone from causing trouble,” Lucas said. “As you well know.”

I lowered my voice to a mock-whisper. “Do you mean Cass? You know she hates being called dead. She's in an altered state of parasitic existence.”

“All right,” Cassandra said. “You can stop feeling better now.”

“I was referring to your recent run-in with Leah, Savannah,” Lucas said. “But, if you read the file, you'll notice that Anita Barrington's death was only presumed. She was found to be missing from her shop and there were signs of a struggle and an inordinate amount of blood left behind.”

“Duh, obviously she's still alive,” I said. “Don't you ever watch mysteries?”

“I'd point out that real life rarely emulates the movies, but in this case, you may be right. While the walking dead and long-lost identical twins are intriguing possibilities, it's more likely that Anita simply didn't die, despite Matthew Hull's claim that he killed her.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with Cass—” I stopped as a memory pinged. “Anita Barrington was an immortality quester with an unhealthy interest in vampires. Matthew Hull was convinced he'd solved the immortality puzzle, and it had something to do with vampires. He tried to kill Zoe.”

Cassandra sniffed. “And the fact that he failed is proof of the man's incompetence.”

“I like Zoe,” I said. “She's fun.”

“Vampires are not supposed to be fun.”

I glanced at Lucas. “Could we call Zoe in on this? She knew Anita. I'm sure she'd come, and I'm sure Cassandra would be much happier if she stayed in Miami. I know I would be.”

“Keep that up and I'll start to feel as if you don't want me along.”

 

 

Sean met us at the airport in L.A. He must have been expecting Cassandra, because he didn't look surprised. Then again, if Sean ever is surprised, he doesn't show it. People question our grandfather's decision to make Sean heir to the Nast Cabal. It's true that Sean lacks the usual CEO qualities—the cutthroat ruthlessness of our father or the manipulative charm of Benicio Cortez. But he has a quiet genius for business and a basic decency that makes him the kind of leader people respect, like, and trust. Whether he'll ever actually become CEO is doubtful, though, for the reason Cassandra brought up before we even left the terminal.

“So, have you come out yet?” she said to Sean as we headed for the exit.

I sighed. Lucas sighed. Sean only chuckled, and said, “The fact that I'm still working for the Cabal would suggest not.”

“You're underestimating your value to them, as I've told you. And you're overestimating the importance they'll place on your sexual orientation.”

“No, I don't believe I am,” he murmured.

“Then they are being ridiculously narrow-minded and old-fashioned. If they want you to produce sons for the business, science can solve that. If homosexuality makes them uncomfortable, they need to get over it. Do you know how many changes in mores and values I've seen over three centuries? I've adapted. So can they.”

“You know, Cass,” I said, “as much as I'm sure Sean
loves
having this conversation with you again, it's really not something you need to bring up five seconds after saying hello.”

“But that wouldn't be as much fun,” Sean said.

“It's not about fun,” Cassandra said. “It's about making an important observation that I don't think can be made nearly often enough. Until he does something about it, I will continue to make it at every opportunity.”

“Don't worry,” I said to Sean. “Her semi-immortality clause is expiring.”

“And you accuse me of making impolite observations?”

“Just leveling the playing field. You've been dying for years now, Cass. At this point, I figure I can safely bring it up because it's obviously not happening soon. You're too damned stubborn.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

 

 

Yes, Sean was gay and yes, it was supposedly a secret. Cassandra only knew because she'd figured it out. She said it was obvious. It's not . . . or he wouldn't be able to hide it from a Cabal filled with people watching his every move.

Sean is a slender version of our dad—tall, blond, blue-eyed, and very good-looking. He used to wear his hair longer, tied back for work, but when he neared thirty, he decided he was past the ponytail stage and cut it off. He dresses well for work, but prefers casual wear. He's quiet and even-tempered. He likes sports and live theater. He listens to new rock and old blues. If you really want to lay out every gay stereotype, I'm sure he fits some of them, but so would everyone else. Stuffing people into boxes is for those who have issues about their own box.

Cassandra figured out that Sean is gay because she pays attention. She'd noticed that he never checked out women on the street or talked about who he was dating, and she'd drawn her own conclusions from that. She's a predator. She's always paying attention, even when she pretends otherwise.

W
hen we reached the car, Sean's driver was there with two vehicles.

“That's for you and Cassandra,” Sean said, pointing at an older model BMW. “Discreet enough in L.A. Lucas and I have a meeting with Granddad so I thought you two would want to head off on your own.”

“Just point us in the right direction,” I said. “I take it we'll be dodging Nast security?”

He shook his head. “There is no official investigation to dodge. Launching one would suggest our grandfather has some doubts regarding who took the boy. He needs to hold off until Lucas denies Benicio's involvement. Then he'll launch one to prove it. Until then, he has simply secured the crime-scene.”

“Don't you love politics?” I said.

“Quite,” Cassandra said. “I enjoy watching mortals chase their petty distractions, desperately and foolishly bent on convincing themselves that their actions will have meaning after their flesh has dried to dust.”

“I wasn't asking you.” I turned to Sean. “So if they've secured the scene, can't I get in?”

“You can. I've made arrangements. You'll also find a folder in the car with all the details so far. Call me if you have any questions.” He turned to Troy. “Are you staying with Lucas or guarding Savannah?”

“My orders say Lucas,” Troy replied. “And in this case, my orders are right. While Savannah could use the shadow, mine is too large for an unobtrusive investigation. Ms. DuCharme will be playing the role of bodyguard today. Vamps may not have superpowers, but they make good shields and excellent cannon fodder.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra said.

Troy grinned. “Anytime, ma'am.”

 

 

I drove while Cassandra read the file. That plan lasted as far as the gate before I pulled over, handed her the keys, and grabbed the pages.

“I need the six o'clock news version,” I said as we switched seats. “Not the CNN commentary.”

“How dull.”

“Yep.”

I read aloud as she drove.

Each Cabal has a resident clairvoyant. It's a rare but invaluable power. Clairvoyants can't actually see the future, but they have the power of remote viewing. They can see the world through the eyes of their target. The best can also read a target's emotions and combine that with the remote viewing to predict actions.

The catch? By the time a clairvoyant is that good, he or she is well on the road to madness. The human brain isn't equipped to deal with that level of stimulation. Your average clairvoyant family produces only just one member with powers every few generations, which explains why Cabals employ only one of each. Add in the fact that working for a Cabal substantially increases the use of one's powers, speeding them faster toward madness, and you can see why getting even one isn't easy. Cabals either have to kidnap them or establish a relationship with a clairvoyant family.