the
beaming couple by tossing a few
thousand flowers’ worth of fragrant
petals into the air to fall in a cloud
around them. Flashbulbs went off so fast
that the air turned white.
Fortunately, there were no other
threats. I’m a professional, but I have my
limits. Knowing that someone hated me
enough to plant a bomb likely to kill not
only me, but pretty much anyone within a
full square block, was mind-boggling.
Shock and anger washed over me in
alternating waves as I struggled to wrap
my head around the idea.
How the hell had Angelina Bonetti
gotten a sample of my hair? After the
events of the past couple of years I have
become almost fanatically paranoid
about preventing that sort of thing, for
exactly this reason.
I could only think of one logical
possibility. Well, actually two.
John Creede had lost his siren charm,
which was made from my hair, in our
battle with Glinda. Someone might have
found it and made it available on the
black market. The other choices were
that it had been destroyed … or that it
had been taken to Hell. I didn’t want to
think too much about the latter option. It
was just too frightening.
It was much more likely that Angelina
had gotten my hair from the charm I
made for Bruno. Maybe that was how
she knew he didn’t have it—because she
did.
What worried me more was that
Angelina wasn’t a witch, and Griffiths
had said bio-magical. That little fact
was just sinking into my head. Yeah,
Mrs. DeLuca, Grand Hag of the East
Coast, hates me, but I didn’t think she’d
actually help someone murder me. I
mean, there’s hate and there’s hate.
Besides which, Isabella DeLuca is smart
and subtle. A bomb didn’t seem like her
kind of thing, particularly one that could
be traced back so easily. She’s more the
death curse or poison sort of person.
Griffiths gave me his cell phone and
helped me slip into the courthouse after
the ceremony and before the wedding
photos. Rather than use the women’s
room and risk getting interrupted, I
ducked into the “family” restroom,
which was a single seater and had a
changing table attached to the wall.
My first call was to Alex. If the locals
weren’t in charge, she’d know who was.
Alex picked up on the first ring.
“Detective Alexander speaking.”
“It’s me.”
“Christ on a crutch! Where the hell
have you been? Don’t you ever pick up
your voice mails?” She was almost
snarling.
“Where have I been? Are you freaking
serious? It’s Adriana’s wedding day.”
“But you weren’t supposed to be
going to the ceremony on Serenity.
We’ve been looking everywhere for
you! There was word someone had
predicted your kidnapping so we’ve
been treating you as a missing person.
Bruno is gone. Dawna hasn’t heard from
you for a couple of days. We can’t reach
John Creede.”
Oh, crap. Of course she was worried.
We deliberately hadn’t made my change
of plans public.
“Geez, Alex, I’m sorry. Things
changed and the Serenity Secret Service
kept some details from the press for
security reasons. I’ve been on Serenity
for a few days. I just heard about the
bomb in my building. Are your guys
handling it?”
“Just crowd control. The feds are
taking care of actually setting the
damned thing off. You really need to call
Rizzoli and Dawna—she’s an absolute
basket case.”
I could believe that. “I’ll call her as
soon as I’m done with you.” I took a
deep breath, choosing my words
carefully. “The guy who told me about
the bomb said it wasn’t the terrorists,
that it was personal. He said that they
traced the magical signature to a
particular woman.”
“Did he now? And how did he happen
to get that information?”
“Off the record?”
“Oh hell,” she grumbled. “Fine, off
the record.”
“He’s Queen Lopaka’s fixer. An
informant told them about the bomb, and
he had King Dahlmar’s fixer look into
it.”
She swore colorfully. “Fixers. You
mean
international
spies
and
mercenaries. Jesus, Celia. You are
seriously telling me that you’re in bed
with international spies?”
“I’m not in bed with them.”
“Unh-hunh.” She gave a martyred
sigh. “I’m hanging up now. Call Rizzoli.
I’m sure he’ll enjoy the hell out of
hearing this.”
I called. He wasn’t thrilled to hear
from me, but at least he wasn’t surprised
about where I was. His wife and kids
were obsessing over the whole royal
wedding thing because they actually
knew somebody in the wedding party.
He already knew about Angelina, too.
He was going to tell me—if I ever got
around to returning his call.
I winced at the none-too-subtle hint.
“Sorry, it’s been nuts and we’re on
security lockdown here.”
“Your life is always nuts. Curled up
in a corner yet with loaded weapons?”
Ouch. He was right, but saying so
wasn’t exactly tactful. Still, part of the
whole friendship thing is putting up with
the other person’s foibles. Dom and I
might have started out as business
acquaintances, but we’d been through a
lot the past couple of years. Somewhere
along the way he’d become one of my
friends.
So I ignored the verbal jab and
changed the subject. “Have you picked
Angelina up yet?”
My question was met with silence. A
long, meaningful, silence. Unfortunately,
I didn’t have a clue what it meant.
“Dom, are you still there?”
“Yeah, she’s in custody now.”
There was something weird about his
inflection when he said it, a tiny bit too
much emphasis on the last word. I was
about to push him to try to get more
information, when there was a pounding
on the bathroom door.
Oh, hell. I should’ve known. I
couldn’t have five full minutes to myself.
There simply wasn’t room for it in the
day’s schedule.
“Princess, are you all right?” Baker
didn’t sound worried, but she wasn’t
happy, either. “They’re looking for you
&n
bsp; for pictures.”
“I gotta go, Dom—” I started to ask
when it would be a good time to call him
back, but he cut me off by saying “No
problem” and hanging up. Hmnpf.
Something was very definitely fishy.
“Princess?” Baker repeated.
“I’m fine,” I assured her as I was
opening the door. “I was just making a
couple of calls.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’re needed for
photos. Any other calls you wish to
make”—her expression made it clear
that it wasn’t acceptable to do that in the
middle of a royal wedding—“will have
to wait.”
The woman at the door sounded like
Baker. She looked like Baker, complete
with steel gray suit, tasteful pumps, and
ear piece, but I didn’t see Igor or
Griffiths behind her. That was odd
enough that I reached into my jacket and
withdrew my One Shot with its holy
water.
“Extend your hand, please.”
She didn’t argue, didn’t even blink,
just offered her hand. I sprayed. It was
her. “Where’s Griffiths? I need to give
him back his phone.”
“He has already joined the rest of the
party.” She said it politely but still
managed to convey her urgency and
frustration. “We’re running behind
schedule.” She led me down a long
marble hallway with hardwood doors
spaced at intervals.
I was inconveniencing everybody and
throwing off a schedule that had been
timed with exquisite care. It was
unprofessional of me. “I’m sorry. But
Griffiths told me about the bomb in my
office and I wanted an update.”
She almost stumbled—apparently she
hadn’t known—but when she spoke, her
voice was rock steady. “A bomb?”
“Your people didn’t miss anything,” I
assured her. “It was planted after we
left. It had a DNA trigger.”
We took a sharp right turn down a
narrow hall that led to one of the
building’s back exits. Bringing her wrist
to her mouth, Baker spoke into her wrist
mic. “I’ve got her. She’s safe.”
Now, yes. But for how long?
29
Sirens live a very long time. They aren’t
all that fertile and they very seldom
marry. So there aren’t a lot of royal
weddings or births, and when either
occurs, it’s a huge historic event. The
photographer was making sure there was
an extensive record of the events. There
were pictures with Dahlmar and Adriana
sitting on chairs that were vaguely
thronelike, the rest of us arrayed in a
semicircle behind them. There were
photos of them kissing. There were
group shots, individual shots, shots of
the various couples. There were so many
shots, in fact, that I would’ve been happy
to do a little shooting of my own. But I
tried to be a good sport about it and I
smiled at the camera until my face
muscles ached.
But
all
things
end
eventually,
including royal photo shoots. When this
one did, we piled into various
limousines and drove in a motorcade
back to the royal compound, through
streets filled with drunken revelers.
I stayed close to Adriana and kept a
close watch on Olga during the luau that
was the reception. And while the food
and the free-flowing drinks looked and
smelled amazing, I didn’t taste them.
While people ate, a steady stream of
performers put on a fabulous show that
included
amazing
dance
numbers,
exciting singers, and exquisite music. I
paid zero attention. Only after the bride
and groom left the reception to enjoy
some time alone was I able to relax. I
chose to do that by having Baker and
Griffiths escort me back to the guest
house so that I could have a little time to
myself.
Getting away from the crowds was a
huge relief. Now that I wasn’t on duty I
wanted a couple of stiff drinks, some
food, and to have a good cry.
My beautiful office was probably a
pile of rubble by now. I was likely to be
treated to constant replays of the
“controlled detonation” once I got home.
I didn’t want to see it.
Baker and Griffiths walked me to the
door. After checking with the guards on
duty to be sure that no one had come in
the building in our absence, and that all
of the visitors and servants had left, I
was given the all clear to enter.
Normally I get a real jolt crossing the
spell barrier at the threshold of the guest
house. Today, not so much. When I gave
Baker a look of inquiry, she smiled.
“Our mages came up with a special
barrier with you in mind. Any other
paranormal creature will get hit hard.
But the perimeter is keyed to recognize
you. We got the idea from the man who
manufactured your weapons safe.”
I found myself grinning. How very
cool. Then I remembered that the safe
was in my building. The grin died.
I needed a drink. More than that, I
need to get stinking drunk, to the point I
didn’t care.
The guest house is big, and normally
pulsing with life. Even when I am the
only guest, the place is full of servants.
Tonight, it was echoingly empty. The
usual staff had been given the night off
for security reasons. I moved through
my footfalls sounding loud in my ears.
Hitting the light switch, I noted that the
hair and makeup experts had cleared out,
leaving the room spotless. Stepping
behind the bar I reached into the
minifridge and grabbed ice and some
orange juice. To my delight, I found that
the cooks had left me a plastic container
of frozen au jus. I shook my head a little.
Good thing I wasn’t going to be staying
on Serenity much longer. I could get
used to having staff around who
anticipated my every whim.
I popped the lid off of the au jus and
stuck it in the microwave to cook while I
mixed myself a stiff screwdriver in a tall
glass. Once everything was ready, I
settled into a comfortable chair with a
good view of all the exits. A quick touch
on the remote and the big-screen
television came to life.
I flipped to CNN. I shouldn’t have.
Not
until
the
second
or
third
screwdriver.
B
ut
there,
in
high
definition, was my building, with a
banner beneath it saying “filmed
earlier.”
I
watched
in
horrified
fascination as an officer in a blue FBI
windbreaker wrapped hair around a
ball, taped it down, and loaded the ball
into an air gun. He broke a spell disk
over the gun. I couldn’t see the rune on
the disk, but I was betting it was for
distance and accuracy. He had a straight
shot, but was quite a distance from the
building.
At his order, a marksman shot out the
glass of the French doors of my office.
Another barked command and mages
were on standby, ready to raise the
perimeter the instant after he fired.
Blinking back tears, I watched him
raise the air gun to his shoulder and fire.
The explosion put the one back in
Mexico to shame.
They played it full speed. Then they
played it in slow motion. They showed it
from every angle. I watched in horror,
over and over, as the beautiful antique
stained-glass
window
shattered,
watched the flamingo-pink upstairs toilet
soar through the air to crash in the
middle of the street. The bones of the old
building were rapidly devoured by
flames made more powerful by the curse
that had been part of the bomb. My old
weapons safe, scorched but upright,
smashed through the damaged floors to
land intact atop the wreckage, its
protection spells keeping it defiant
against the worst the witch could dish
out, even with the door wide open
displaying staples, copy paper, and
sticky notes. Damn. Jason was the man
of the hour. He’d probably get a ton of
new orders for safes—and more power
to him.
The new safe didn’t fare nearly so
well. What few of my weapons and spell
disks I hadn’t brought with me had been
utterly destroyed, because the safe that
had “protected” them was nothing but
scorched and twisted metal.
I downed my drink in a single, long
pull and made my way back to the bar.
After my second drink, I retrieved my
cell phone from my room and called
Dawna. She was a wreck. I wound up
trying to calm her down. After all, we
were all alive. Even the cat was safe.
Then she told me the real problem. Chris
had given her an ultimatum. She could
marry him, or she could work with me.
Oh, shit. That hurt. A lot. I mean, the
man was supposed to be my friend.