license and insurance. I shook my head with annoyance. ―Terrific. Just what Gran doesn‘t
need.‖ It would be Mom‘s third strike. I doubted they‘d offer bail this time, but if they did,
even Bubba wouldn‘t take her on. She was a flight risk. She was probably going to be
spending some time behind bars. I‘d need to call Gran back, see if she could come see me
during Birchwoods‘ visiting hours tomorrow.
There were lots of other messages, none of them urgent. Congratulations on the win. One or
two reporters fishing for a story. The last call was from Creede and was less than fifteen
minutes old. Stupid cell phone. I hate it when it doesn‘t ring.
―Graves . . . Creede. You need to get back to me right away. I‘m at the office. We have a
situation.‖ He recited a cell number that matched the phone‘s caller ID.
A situation. In my line of work, that phrase never means anything good.
The lump that had settled in my chest eased for a moment as the weight of a looming crisis
started my brain clicking. Hallelujah for that. It was probably stupid to be grateful for someone
else‘s emergency, but I hit the button for callback with something close to eagerness.
―Creede.‖
―Graves here. What‘s wrong?‖
―You have an important client with a situation. You need to get your game face on. I
explained your circumstances, offered to take the job. But he swears nobody else can handle
this for him except you.‖
―Who‘s the client?‖
―No.‖
Okay. Cell lines aren‘t secure, but it usually isn‘t an issue. If it was now, then there was a
serious problem. Great.
My eagerness went away. The last time I‘d been in a situation where names weren‘t
revealed, I‘d earned my fangs. Bile rose into my throat and I struggled to swallow it back
down. I reached for the pitcher again, trying to drain the few drops left in the bottom. The
remaining chips of ice tinked against the glass from how hard my hand was shaking.
Crap. This shouldn‘t be bothering me this much. I‘d handled a hundred cases before the one
that went bad and I‘d fully planned to handle a hundred more after. But what if I couldn‘t?
I stole Emma‘s remaining drink, chasing the acid back down to my stomach where it
belonged. The trouble was, it wasn‘t just me. I was used to the threat of death. Been playing
that game since I was a kid. No, it was the other people who were pulling out my insides right
now. The Ivys and Bob Johnsons of the world who were sacrificed.
For nothing. There wasn‘t a single good reason why they died, and it tore out little bits of
my soul every time I thought about it. I‘d failed to protect them. I was supposed to guard them,
even though I knew they would say it hadn‘t been my job. But they hadn‘t had to be the ones
left. The ones to stare into glazed, still eyes that would never see again, or cradle bodies that
cooled to the touch the longer you held on and cried.
A big part of me wanted to say ―screw it,‖ to hang up the phone and go curl up in a ball in
some dark corner of the world with nothing for company but a bottle of something that would
make the pain go away.
Just like my mother had.
Shit.
I couldn‘t do that. I wouldn’t do it. How many would be hurt, how many would die, if I just
gave up? Yes, it would be easy, too easy, to walk away. But people need bodyguards and I do
know my stuff. Plus, now I had better hearing, better sight, and quicker reflexes. It should be a
cakewalk to do personally what I‘d often had to rely on gadgets for in the past.
Once I made that decision, the rest was easy. If I was going to keep going, keep living, I
might as well start with this difficult case.
Looking on the bright side, someone else‘s crisis might take my mind off my own. But even
if it didn‘t, life goes on. Whether you want it to or not.
―Where are you?‖ Creede asked.
―Just finishing dinner.‖ My voice sounded remarkably calm. ―I can be at the office in ten or
fifteen minutes.‖ I raised my hand, signaling to the waiter for the check as I spoke.
―Emma Landingham is with me.‖
I heard muttering in the background but couldn‘t make out the words.
―Get rid of her. We‘ll be there in five minutes.‖ The phone clicked off.
Get rid of her. Gee, how charming. Even worse, having experienced the way Creede drove, I
knew they‘d be here in four. The waiter I‘d flagged approached the table as Emma emerged
from the restroom. ―Ms. Landingham is leaving, but I have other friends coming. Could you
please bring me the bill and a large soda?‖ Time to get off the sauce. Yeah, it might not affect
me like it did my mother, but that could change in an instant. I didn‘t want to be hooked if it
did.
―Certainly, ma‘am.‖ He turned and hurried off.
―I‘m leaving?‖ Emma gave me a look of alarm. It took me a second to realize she probably
thought I was upset about her job.
―It‘s not about you working for Seacrest.‖ I tried to force myself to smile. It felt like my face
was breaking and probably looked like a grimace, but it was the best I could do. This wasn‘t
about Emma. It wasn‘t. ―I‘m glad you found a great job. I know you‘ll be good at it.‖ I blinked
back tears and swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. Damn it! I‘d been doing so good
just a second ago. ―Keep in touch. You can always e-mail or text me. I want to know
everything. Honest. This won‘t change a thing between us.‖
―Celia—‖
I shook my head mutely, fighting for control. ―Really, this isn‘t about you. I‘ve got to get
my shit together, Em. I‘ve got a situation at work.‖
She paled a little. Hanging around with her older brother had taught her enough ―tough-guy
speak‖ to know just how bad a ―situation‖ could be.
―Are you up for that? I mean—,‖ she stammered, afraid of having misspoken yet again.
I gave her a wry smile. ―Doesn‘t matter if I am; I don‘t have a lot of choice. Creede will be
here with the client in just a couple of minutes.‖ I tried to make light of it. ―Nothing like a little
panic to take your mind off a breakup. Nine out of ten dentists surveyed said so.‖
―Celia—‖ She stared at me, her mouth moving with no sound coming out, not knowing what
to do or say. She knew I was messed up. She‘d been around since Bruno and I were together
the first time and had watched when I dissolved into Jell-O when he left. That was the thing. It
wasn‘t that he left me. It was that he left me twice. Both times without even giving me a
chance. I could tell that she felt helpless. Emma was my friend. Maybe not my best friend, but
dammit, she was trying; I loved her for it.
―I‘ll be fine, Emma.‖ I stood up and gave her a hug. Honesty compelled me to add, ―It just
may take a while.‖
She sighed and gathered up her things. ―Fine. I‘ll go. But be careful. And I‘ll be watching
the mirror for you.‖
Ah, the mirror. After Vicki‘s death, Dr. Scott had given me back a magically crafted mirror
that had been my final birthday gift to her. It was a very powerful focus. Since I‘m no
clairvoyant, it was useles
s to me, so I passed it on to the person I thought Vicki would want to
have it. Emma might only be a level four, but with a focus that powerful she‘d probably be
able to keep an eye on me.
I made a little face. I didn‘t want to offend her, but that wasn‘t a good idea. ―I‘d rather you
didn‘t. I don‘t want any client confidentiality issues.‖
Her eyes rolled expressively. ―I know how to keep a secret.‖
―Please?‖
She gave me a long look but didn‘t answer, just sighed and left. Whether that meant she
would or wouldn‘t keep tabs on me I had no clue. I trusted her, but there are legal and ethical
considerations.
More important, I‘d never forgive myself if I dragged her into the middle of another one of
my problems. She‘s an adult, but to me she‘s always been Warren‘s baby girl and Kevin‘s little
sister. They’d never forgive me if anything happened to her. Whether the constant crises in my
life were generated by the death curse, my career, or just bad luck didn‘t really matter as far as
this went. My life was dangerous. I didn‘t want her getting hurt.
I hadn‘t been able to protect my sister, and I might never know for certain whether or not
Vicki‘s death was a direct result of the mess that had ended with the demon being vanquished
in Anaheim. But they were both dead, and I didn‘t want to lose Emma. So I‘d be careful. Of
course Emma would probably like that about as much as I would.
Ah well. She‘s been mad at me before. Would be again. It‘s that kind of relationship.
I didn‘t have long to think about it because just then three very familiar men walked into the
restaurant. The minute I saw them, I knew I was in trouble.
King Dahlmar of Rusland is an attractive man. Not young, but holding up well, with dark
good looks and more than his share of charisma. All of the other times I‘d seen him he‘d been
expensively dressed, impeccably well groomed, and surrounded by the extremely big,
threatening men who are the royal equivalent of the Secret Service. Tonight he was incognito,
wearing a pair of cheap jeans of such a rich indigo blue that they almost glowed. Vertical and
horizontal creases screamed ―fresh off the shelf.‖ A bright red Mickey Mouse Disneyland T-
shirt, sneakers, and the sort of cheap sunglasses made famous by ZZ Top made him look like a
tourist who‘d lost his luggage. He also looked as if he hadn‘t slept in far too long—his face
was pale and haggard. But the oddly cheerful clothes and his poor physical condition couldn‘t
hide the rage in his every move. At his side was the retainer who‘d saved my butt a few weeks
ago and who‘d been trying to reach me ever since: Ivan. He was injured. I could tell because
he was moving oddly from pain and trying not to show it. Been there, done that.
Pain or no, he was all business. He scanned the room, looking for threats, keeping his body
between Dahlmar and the restaurant patrons until he was reasonably sure they were safe.
Creede did the same on the king‘s other side.
Looking at them, I knew that this was real, serious trouble: trouble I was probably not
equipped to handle. For all of ten seconds I thought about leaving, saying no and walking
away.
But King Dahlmar‘s intervention was probably the only thing that had kept me from being
locked away for the rest of my life. I owed him. And everything I‘d seen, everything I‘d read
about him, had told me he was a good man and a great king for his people.
―Ms. Graves.‖ Dahlmar slid into the booth across from me and finally took off his
sunglasses, revealing dark circles under his eyes that made him look like he‘d been beaten.
Creede took the next table over, far enough away that I couldn‘t feel his magic but close
enough that I couldn‘t help but smell his cologne. The last thing I wanted to do was enjoy the
scent, but my nose wouldn‘t cooperate with my injured heart. He just flat smelled good. It
actually started to piss me off.
I shook my head to clear it and saw Ivan move to stand at the pay phone near the bathrooms,
where he could discreetly cover most of the room. It‘s exactly what I would have done and it
eased my anger, leaving my head sort of empty. Numb was a good place. I decide to ride it for
as long as I could.
―Your Majesty.‖ I forced myself to smile. ―May I recommend the egg drop soup or the kung
pao chicken? They‘re quite tasty. You look like you haven‘t eaten for a while.‖
He grimaced. ―No. I haven‘t.‖
―Well, the food here is quite good. And you need to keep your strength up to deal with
whatever is going on. I‘m guessing it‘s your sons?‖
He sighed heavily, absently tapping his knuckles against the table. ―My son Kristoff has
staged a coup d‘état. I escaped with my life, thanks to a core group of my men. Rezza did not.‖
There was a pained pause. Rezza was . . . had been the crown prince. Kristoff was the younger
son. While Rezza had been more hard-core religious than his father, they both shared a deep
love of their people and truly believed they knew the best way to lead the country into the
future. Kristoff didn‘t have a deep love for anything except himself. More to the point, he was
stupid. Even his father admitted it. Stupid people make bad rulers.
I opened my mouth to voice my condolences, but he waved me to silence. When he spoke
again, his voice was flat, inflectionless. Just the facts. ―Thus far, no word has leaked out and
Kristoff has been using demon spawn as impostors to maintain an appearance of normalcy. As
he is neither cunning nor strong enough to manage something like this on his own, there must
be someone else behind this.‖
I knew all about demon spawn. The products of humans breeding with demons, they were
born without souls and with the magical abilities of their demon parents. A spawn could
change into an exact replica of anyone, right down to the cellular level. My last job—the one
that left me with fangs—had been to guard Prince Rezza. Only it wasn‘t Rezza but a demon
spawn. I‘d been really angry when I‘d talked about this in group. I‘d guarded a demon spawn
. . . how laughable! Guarded it against what? An angel? That was about the only thing that
could hurt them.
I shook my head with both weariness and frustration. Kristoff didn‘t realize what kind of
dynamite he was playing with. He might think he was in control, but it was an illusion. A
demon spawn will turn on you in a red-hot minute. ―So they‘ve taken your country from you
and you don‘t even know who the villain is.‖
―Yes. But our advantage is that they must kill me and make it look like an accident. I don‘t
plan to give them that opportunity.‖
―Why do they have to kill you? They‘ve got the country. You‘re on the run and powerless.
Rezza‘s dead. Why not just announce that Kristoff‘s in charge? There wouldn‘t be much you
could do about it.‖
The waiter started toward our table, carrying a water glass and a menu for my companion.
As he came near, Dahlmar‘s expression changed, as if a switch had been hit. One minute
angry, deposed monarch; the next, pleasant dinner companion. While a part of me had always
known a ruler needed to be a good actor, it was disconcerting as hell to watch.
King Dahlmar listen
ed to the list of daily specials with apparent cheerfulness before
ordering exactly what I‘d suggested when he arrived.
The instant the waiter left, Dahlmar‘s smile disappeared. His expression was grim. ―You
don‘t understand politics, Ms. Graves. I‘ve gained enough international favor that he doesn‘t
dare simply exile me. My allies will intervene. For example, my iron ore contract with France
depends on reserves that only I know the location of. No, he needs the respectability of a
seemingly honest inheritance.‖
―Again, why?‖ I took a sip of my water. He didn‘t touch his. ―It would be just as easy to
claim to the world that you‘d snapped and he had to take the throne.‖
He thought carefully before answering. Until that moment I don‘t think he‘d slowed down
enough to just think things through. He‘d been on the run, desperate, with too much
happening. In those circumstances you react. He‘d done well thus far. He was still alive. But if
he seriously wanted to get his throne back, he needed to stop reacting and start thinking. Even
then the odds against him succeeding were ridiculously long—and probably getting longer by
the minute as Kristoff settled in.
After a long pause, the king nodded. ―First, my people wouldn‘t believe it, even if the
leaders of other countries did or pretended to for their own purposes. Kristoff is disliked by the
upper class. Also, I am a popular ruler and many of the more moderate clerics would not
condone patricide and fratricide. And we have many opportunities now, with the wealth from
the natural gas reserves. We even have a vote on the UN Security Council.‖
―So, you go to the U.S. government, ask for asylum, make them go public.‖
He shook his head sadly. ―It is not so simple. It may be that your government will feel that
Kristoff would be an easier monarch to deal with. He is a simple soul, much like his mother.
Wave shining objects in his face and he will follow blindly.‖
I gave the King a dark look. I like to think that, regardless of which party is in power, my
country wouldn‘t buy a despot like a new handbag.
Yeah, yeah. Don‘t quote history to me. Let me have my delusions of honesty and fair play.
He raised his hands in mock surrender. ―Perhaps I am wrong. But there are things your
government does not know about . . . weapons that I would prefer not to divulge and that I do