Spellcasters (48 page)

“When can we leave?”

“Sunday. Savannah could spend the night at Michelle’s, and we’d return Monday evening.”

“Sounds—” I stopped. “Savannah has an orthodontic appointment Monday afternoon. I’d reschedule, but …”

“It took six weeks to get it, I know. Yes, I have it marked right here. Three o’clock with Doctor Schwab. I should have checked before I asked.” He paused. “Perhaps you could still come along and leave early Monday morning?”

“Sure. That sounds good.”

The words came out empty, the elation that surged only a moment ago drained by this sudden glimpse of my future, calendar pages crammed with orthodontic appointments, Saturday morning art classes, and PTA meetings stretching into eternity.

On the heels of that thought came another. How dare I complain? I’d taken on this responsibility. I’d wanted it. I’d fought for it. Only a few months ago, I’d seen the same snapshot of my future and I’d been happy. Now, as much as I loved Savannah, I couldn’t deny the occasional twinges of resentment.

“We’ll work something out,” Lucas said. “In the meantime, I should mention that I took advantage of a brief recess today to visit some of Chicago’s lesser-known shopping venues, and found something that might cheer you up. A necklace.”

I grinned. “An amulet?”

“No, I believe it’s what they call a Celtic knot. Silver. A simple design, but quite elegant.”

“Sure. Good … great.”

“Liar.”

“No really, I—” I paused. “It’s not a necklace, is it?”

“I’ve been told, on good authority, that jewelry is the proper token of affection. I must admit I had my doubts. One could argue that you’d prefer a rare spell, but the jewelry store clerk assured me that all women prefer necklaces to musty scrolls.”

I rolled onto my stomach and grinned. “You bought me a spell? What kind? Witch? Sorcerer?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“What?” I shot upright. “No way! Don’t you dare—”

“It’ll give you something to look forward to when I get home.”

“Well, that’s good, Cortez, ’cause God knows, I wasn’t looking forward to anything else.”

A soft laugh. “Liar.”

I thumped back onto the bed. “How about a deal? You tell me what the spell does and I’ll give
you
something to look forward to.”

“Tempting.”

“I’ll make it more than tempting.”

“That I don’t doubt.”

“Good. Now here’s the deal. I give you a list of options. If you like one, then you can have it when you get home if you tell me about the spell tonight.”

“Before you begin, I really should warn you, I’m quite resolved to secrecy. Breaking that resolve requires more than a laundry list of options, however creative. Detail will be the key.”

I grinned. “You alone?”

“That goes without saying. If you’re asking whether I’m in my hotel room, the answer is yes.”

My grin broadened. “Good, then you’ll get all the detail you can handle.”

I never did find out what the spell was, probably because, five minutes into the conversation, we both forgot what had started it and, by the time we signed off, I crawled under the covers, forgetting even the most basic nighttime toiletry routines, and promptly fell asleep, my curiosity the only thing left unsatisfied.

C
ome morning, I bounded out of bed, ready to take on the world. This would have been a positive sign had I not done the same thing every morning for the past two weeks. I awoke, refreshed, determined this would be the day I’d haul my ass out of the pit. I’d cook breakfast for Savannah. I’d leave a cheerful message of support on Lucas’s cell phone. I’d jog two miles. I’d dive into my website projects with renewed vigor and imagination. I’d take time out in the afternoon to hunt down season-end tomatoes at the market. I’d cook up a vat of spaghetti sauce that would fill our tiny freezer. The list went on. I usually derailed somewhere between leaving the message for Lucas and starting my workday … roughly around nine
A.M
.

That morning, I sailed into my jog still pumped. I knew I wouldn’t hit two miles, considering I’d never exceeded one mile in my entire running career, which was now in its fifth week. Over the last eighteen months it had come to my attention, on multiple occasions, that my level of physical fitness was inadequate. Before now, a good game of pool was as active as I got. Ask me to flee for my life, and we could be talking imminent heart failure.

As long as I was reinventing myself, I might as well toss in a fitness routine. Since Lucas ran, that seemed the logical choice. I hadn’t told him about it yet. Not until I reached the two-mile mark. Then I’d say, “Oh, by the way, I took up running a few days ago.” God forbid I should admit to not being instantly successful at anything.

That morning, I finally passed the one-mile mark. Okay, it was only by about twenty yards, but it was still a personal best, so I treated myself to an iced chai for the walk home.

As I rounded the last corner, I noticed two suspicious figures standing in front of my building. Both wore suits, which in my neighborhood was extremely suspicious. I looked for Bibles or encyclopedias, but they were empty-handed. One stared up at the building, perhaps expecting it to morph into corporate headquarters.

I fished my keys from my pocket. As I glanced up, two girls walked past the men. I wondered why they weren’t in school—dumb question in this neighborhood, but I was still adjusting—then realized the “girls” were at least forty. My mistake arose from the size differential. The two men towered a foot above the women.

Both men had short dark hair and clean-shaven, chiseled faces. Both wore Ray-Bans. Both were roughly the size of redwoods. If there hadn’t been a one-inch height difference between them, I’d have sworn they were identical twins. Other than that, my only way of distinguishing them was by tie color. One had a dark red tie, the other jade green.

As I drew closer, both men turned my way.

“Paige Winterbourne?” Red Tie said.

I slowed and mentally readied a spell.

“We’re looking for Lucas Cortez,” Green Tie said. “His father sent us.”

My heart thumped double-time, and I blinked to cover my surprise.

“Fath—?” I said. “Benicio?”

“That’d be the one,” Red Tie said.

I pasted on a smile. “I’m sorry, but Lucas is in court today.”

“Then Mr. Cortez would like to speak to you.”

He half-turned, directing my gaze to a king-size black SUV idling just around the corner, in the no-stopping zone. So these two weren’t just messengers; they were Benicio’s personal half-demon bodyguards.

“Benicio wants to talk to me?” I said. “I’m honored. Tell him to come on up. I’ll put on the kettle.”

Red Tie’s mouth twisted. “He’s not going up. You’re going over there.”

“Really? Wow, you must be one of those psychic half-demons. Never met one of those.”

“Mr. Cortez wants you—”

I put up a hand to cut him off. My hand barely reached the height of his navel. Kind of scary if you thought about it. Luckily, I didn’t.

“Here’s how it works,” I said. “Benicio wants to speak to me? Fine, but since I didn’t request this audience, he’s coming to me.”

Green Tie’s eyebrows lifted above his shades.

“That’s not—” Red Tie began.

“You’re messengers. I’ve given the message. Now deliver.”

When neither moved, I cast under my breath and waved my fingers at them.

“You heard me. Shoo.”

As my fingers flicked, they stumbled back. Green Tie’s eyebrows arched higher. Red Tie recovered his balance and glowered, as if he’d like to
launch a fireball at me, or whatever his demonic specialty might be. Before he could act, Green Tie caught his gaze and jerked his chin toward the car. Red Tie settled for a glare, then stomped off.

I reached for the door handle. As the door swung open, a hand appeared over my head and grabbed it. I looked up to see the green-tie-wearing bodyguard. I expected him to hold the door shut, so I couldn’t escape, but instead he pulled it open and held it for me. I walked through. He followed.

At this point, any sane woman would have run for her life. At the very least, she would have turned around and walked back out onto the street, a public place. But I was bored and such boredom has a detrimental effect on my sanity.

I unlocked the inner door. This time, I held it open for him. We walked to the elevator in silence. “Going up?” I asked.

He pushed the button. As the elevator gears squealed, my resolve faltered. I was about to get into a small, enclosed place with a half-demon literally twice my size. I’d seen too many movies not to know how this could turn out.

Yet what were my options? If I ran, I’d be exactly what they expected: a timid witch-mouse. Nothing I did in the future would ever erase that. On the other hand, I could step on the elevator and never step off. Death or dishonor? For some people, there’s really no choice.

When the elevator doors opened, I walked on.

The half-demon followed. As the doors closed, he took off his sunglasses. His eyes were a blue so cold they made the hairs on my arms rise. He pressed the Stop button. The elevator groaned to a halt.

“You ever seen this scene in a movie?” he asked.

I looked around. “Now that you mention it, I think I have.”

“Know what happens next?”

I nodded. “The hulking bad guy attacks the defenseless young heroine, who suddenly reveals heretofore unimagined powers, which she uses to not only fend off his attack but beat him to a bloody pulp. Then she escapes”—I craned my head back—“out that handy escape hatch and shimmies up the cables. The bad guy recovers consciousness and attacks, whereupon she’s forced, against her own moral code, to sever the cable with a fireball and send him plummeting to his death.”

“Is that what happens?”

“Sure. Didn’t you see that one?”

His lips curved in a grin, defrosting his icy gaze. “Yeah, maybe I did.” He leaned back against the wall. “So, how’s Robert Vasic?”

I blinked, startled. “Uh, fine … good.”

“Still teaching at Stanford?”

“Uh, yes. Part-time.”

“A half-demon professor of demonology. I always liked that.” He grinned. “Though I did like it better when he was a half-demon priest. Not nearly enough of those around. Next time you see Robert, tell him Troy Morgan said hi.”

“I—I’ll do that.”

“Last time
I
saw Robert, Adam was still a kid. Playing baseball in the backyard. When I heard who Lucas is dating, I thought, that’s the Winterbourne girl. Adam’s friend. Then I thought, whoa, how old is she, like, seventeen, eighteen …?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Man, I’m getting old.” Troy shook his head. Then he met my gaze. “Mr. Cortez isn’t leaving until you talk to him, Paige.”

“What does he want?”

Troy arched his brows. “You think he’d tell me? If Benicio Cortez wants to relay a message in person, then it’s personal. Otherwise, he’d save himself the trip and send some sorcerer flunky. Either way, half-demon bodyguards are not in the know. The only thing I do know is that he really wants to talk to you, enough that if you insist on inviting him upstairs, he’ll come. The question is: Are you okay with that? It’s safe. Hell, I’ll come up and stand guard if you want. But if you’d feel more comfortable in a public place, I can talk to him—”

“No, that’s fine,” I said. “I’ll see him if he comes up to the apartment.”

Troy nodded. “He will.”

T
he moment I stepped into my apartment, I had to grip my fists tight to keep from slamming the door and throwing shut the dead bolt. I was about to meet Benicio Cortez. And to my shame, I was afraid.

Benicio Cortez headed the Cortez Cabal. The comparison between Cabals and the Mafia was as old as organized crime itself. But it was a bad analogy. Comparing the mob to a Cabal was like comparing a gang of teenage neo-Nazis to the Gestapo. Yet I feared meeting Benicio, not because he was the CEO of the world’s most powerful Cabal, but because he was Lucas’s father. Everything that Lucas was, and everything he feared becoming, was embodied in this man.

When I’d first learned who Lucas was, I’d assumed that, having dedicated his life to fighting the Cabals, Lucas wouldn’t have any contact with his father. I soon realized it wasn’t that simple. Benicio phoned. He sent birthday gifts. He invited Lucas to all family functions. He acted as if there was no estrangement. And even his son didn’t seem to understand why. When the phone rang and Benicio’s number appeared on the caller ID, Lucas would stand there and stare at it, and in his eyes I saw a war I couldn’t imagine. Sometimes he answered. Sometimes he didn’t. Either way, he seemed to regret the choice.

So now I was about to meet the man. What did I truly fear? That I wouldn’t measure up. That Benicio would take one look at me and decide I was’t good enough for his son. And the worst of it? Right now, I wasn’t sure he’d be wrong.

A single rap at the door.

I took a deep breath, walked to the door, and opened it. I saw the man standing there, and my heart jammed into my throat. For one second, I was certain I’d been tricked, that this was not Benicio but one of his sons—the son who’d ordered my death four months ago. I’d been drugged and, coming to, the first thing I’d seen were Lucas’s eyes—a nightmare version of them, their deep brown somehow colder than the icy blue of
Troy Morgan’s stare. I hadn’t known which of Lucas’s half-brothers it had been. I still didn’t know, having never told Lucas what happened. But now, as I stared into those eyes, the steel in my spine turned to mercury and I had to grip the door handle to steady myself.

“Ms. Winterbourne.”

As he spoke, I heard my mistake. The voice I’d heard that day was riveted in my skull, words bitten off sharp, staccato, and bitter. This one was velvet-soft, the voice of a man who never has to shout to get anyone’s attention. As I invited him inside, a harder look confirmed my error. The son I’d met had been in his early forties, and this man was another twenty years older. It was an understandable mistake, though. Smooth some of the deeply etched lines on his face and Benicio would be a carbon copy of his son. Both men were wide-shouldered, stocky, and no more than five seven, in contrast to Lucas’s tall, rail-thin physique.