King for a Day, Page 7

  “You’re committing King to have her husband killed,” he whispered back. “No one said that you’re the one who will do it.”

  “You want me to retrieve a hand, figure out how to make it,” I cringed, “alive again, deliver it to some powerbroker guy, then find a serum and kill Talia. All this while looking for King. You see how impossible all of this is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, which is why—”

  “Don’t say it, Mack,” I barked, knowing he was going to mention I should get out now. “What about killing Vaughn?” I whispered again.

  “You need to have him killed to void the deal he claims he has in play with King. You’ll ask Strong to do it,” Mack said.

  The powerbroker guy who wanted the hand? “What? You want me to ask him to…” I quieted my voice. “Off Vaughn?”

  “Yes. You will make Strong an offer he can’t refuse.”

  “What?”

  “Anything he wants in King’s arsenal. Give him the whole damned thing if he wants it.”

  “You want me to give him everything in that warehouse?”

  “It’s an offer he won’t turn down.”

  “So this is your plan?”

  He winced. “Yeah.”

  “And you realize that if we free King, he will kill us for giving away all of his stuff, right?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much.” Mack dialed and held the phone to his ear. “Hey, it’s me. Where are you?” He listened. “Because I need you to take Mia to see Miranda.” He listened for a few moments. “Yes, I know, but we don’t have a choice.” Pause. “Thanks. Oh, by the way. Steer clear of Talia if you happen to see her coming.” He listened again. “I’m in the hospital. She broke a few ribs and some other vital organs, I’m told.”

  Arno was actually having a real conversation with Mack? I thought he never spoke. Maybe he just doesn’t speak to you.

  Mack chuckled. “Thanks, man. And be careful. You know how Miranda is.” He ended the call and looked at me. “Arno will be outside in ten minutes.”

  “He’s ten minutes away?”

  “Guess he didn’t want to go far in case we needed him.”

  So Arno hadn’t run either? “Errr…okay.” I began wringing my hands.

  “You can do this, Mia. Just be firm. Pretend that King is right there with you.”

  I looked down at the tattoo on my wrist and rubbed my fingertips over the mark. It made a little tingle, and I guessed, in some weird way, I always felt like King was with me. Not sure that would make this upcoming task any easier, however.

  “There’s an ice chest in the belly of the plane,” Mack said, “in case Miranda can deliver right away.”

  “Seriously? You keep a hand-cooler handy, ‘just in case’?”

  “What? You don’t expect me to hold the thing on my lap, do you?”

  These people were so very demented. “Air Magic-Hands.” I wiggled my fingers. “Ready for takeoff.”

  Mack laughed and then coughed. “Good luck, Mia.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  3:00 A.M.

  Arno, a stout man with curly, dark hair and dressed in a black sweater and slacks, was not the world’s most talkative person—with me, anyway—wasn’t sure why. However, today he was unusually quiet, answering my questions—like, “Hey, I didn’t know you fly. Where did you learn?”—with a scowl and an incoherent grumble in a foreign language I didn’t recognize. Maybe he was peeved because he preferred driving his SUV. Or perhaps he felt annoyed that I made him swing by my parents’ house (thankfully, no one was home—probably at the hospital) so I could change into my red heels and a black skirt suit. After all, I needed to look less like a hobo and more like a representative of King’s if I were to be doing deals on his behalf.

  In any case, missing Mack’s more outgoing personality, I decided to curl up on one of the large black leather seats in the cabin instead of sitting in the cockpit, to take advantage of King’s stash of fine scotch. Yes, I’d finally eaten a sandwich at the hospital while waiting for Mack to wake up.

  Glass tumbler in hand and wrapped in a warm blanket from the overhead compartment, I flipped open the old journal from King’s chamber. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why King would want me to read this. That is, if it had truly been his intention. Because, yes, the possibility still existed that I’d been dreaming King up. However, if I hadn’t, what would I find in this story? Was it a journal from someone in his past, perhaps? The woman was a Seer, like me, and I remember King once saying that his last Seer had died for disobeying him. Perhaps this was her family’s story?

  I read the next few entries, and the woman went on and on about the hate she felt for Draco on their wedding day. As an act of defiance toward everyone there, she’d decided to look at Draco’s brother, Callias, when she spoke her vow at their wedding. I have to say that I felt no pity for her. It was one thing to love the other brother, but to hate Draco for wanting her? For being a kind person? It didn’t seem right. And it seemed that with every page, the woman’s irrational hatred only seemed to grow. I wanted to stomp on her toes when I read how she did, in fact, scratch her new husband’s back on their wedding night and how she laughed at him when he winced in pain. What a horrible bitch. Was this supposed to be my heritage or something? I hoped not, because the next part of the story brought new meaning to the word “cruel.”

  Tonight, the gods have finally answered my prayers. Callias has realized that we are supposed to be together. It was yet another day of outdoor celebrations and festivities to honor the gods before the harvest when Callias cornered me in the storeroom and kissed me. It was everything I had ever dreamed of. And when I held his manhood in my hand and stroked him, I knew it would be fast for him. “Yes,” I told him. “Do it. Plant your seed in my belly before your brother has a chance.” My words ignited him—oh, he is such a fiercely competitive man—and he took me quickly right there. He told me that it was his mistake for not fighting for me. He told me that he would make things right.

  Tonight, I will sneak away and meet him again under the stars. I will savor every moment with him, of his ruthless strength, of the fierceness in his pale gray eyes when he takes me. I will make him swear his words tonight, swear before the gods that he will make things right. I will not spend my life tethered to Draco. Weak, disgusting Draco. I don’t care if he is ruler. There can only be one king. King of my heart. King of my soul. King of me. Callias.

  “King?” My eyes lifted from the thick beige pages, and a cold chill pounded its way through my body. Was this the story of King and his Seer?

  I flipped the book over and looked at the back page, then at the front. But this book had to be over a hundred years old.

  My brain began to itch, once again looking toward the impossible to make sense of it all. If Talia and Anna were over one hundred years old, and King provided them with serums to stay young, then could it be possible…?

  I remembered that King once said he was “too old” for pretenses. But the man didn’t look a day over thirty-five. And he certainly didn’t look like Talia or Anna, who both mutilated what I imagined were once beautiful faces with excessive plastic surgery. But if King had gifts, ones that no normal person had, and he’d spent his life in pursuit of powerful “tools,” as he liked to call them, then it could be possible. He could be much older than he appeared. It would explain so much about him—his apparent lack of modern-day civility, his enormous collection of art and artifacts.

  “What are you King? What is this book?” I whispered aloud, scratching my head.

  “Enjoying the story?” said King, who sat next to me.

  I jumped in my seat. “Holy shit!” I screamed.

  Arno came back into the cabin in a hurry. “What happened?”

  “He can’t see me.” King looked amused and popped an unlit cigar in his mouth. An unknotted black bowtie hung loose around his neck, and he had his white shirt unbuttoned past his collarbone, exposing a bit of his collar-like tattoo. “Tell him to go back to fly
ing the plane.”

  I blinked and looked at King, unable to believe my eyes. “What are you doing here?” I whispered.

  “I am wondering why you screamed,” grumbled Arno, thinking my question had been directed at him.

  “Tell Arno to go back to flying the plane,” King repeated and crossed his thick arms.

  I looked up at Arno. “Sorry. I thought I saw a spider, but it was just a ball of lint.”

  Arno shook his head and went back to the cockpit.

  I turned to King. “How are you here, King?”

  He smiled. “I’m not.” He took my hand into his lap. His skin was warm and firm, so real. “You are simply very talented at imagining me.”

  “This is crazy. I’m crazy.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I believe you might be. Then again, most Seers are.”

  “I need this to end. I need you to go away.” Because the clock was ticking, and the real King was going to need me to find him—if he was still alive—just as soon as I got myself out of hot water, obviously.

  “I’ll go,” he said, “just as soon as I talk you out of going to see Miranda.”

  “I’m not doing this. I’m not debating with you. Leave.” If I was making him up, why couldn’t I make him go away?

  “She is more ruthless and disturbed than Vaughn,” King argued. “She’ll smell your fear from a mile away.”

  It was a chance I had to take. “Either I try, or I lose everything.”

  “I realize you’re doing this because you think you’ll save your family, but ask yourself this: Why hasn’t Vaughn come after your brother, Mia? Or your parents, for that matter? And if you ran, what makes you think Vaughn would go after them then?”

  “I don’t know.” It was a good question, actually.

  “Haven’t you ever wondered why Vaughn never came after you or your parents to begin with, when Justin was on the run?”

  “Vaughn had his men attack me,” I pointed out. “And Justin said that Vaughn threatened all of us, which is why he agreed to help Vaughn trap you.”

  King shook his beautiful head. “No, Mia. You were attacked. But you do not know by whom.” He was right, actually. When Justin had supposedly gone missing with his crew, I went to Mexico City to find out what the people at the embassy knew. From there, I’d planned to go to Palenque to meet with the local police. I never made it that far. Some men threatened me in my hotel room within one hour of arriving in that city. They told me to go home. Even the woman at the embassy, Jamie Henshaw, had been pushing for me not to come to Mexico. They’d all wanted me to stay away, not to come looking for Justin.

  But who sent them? I was never really sure.

  “As for Vaughn threatening your family,” King scratched his scruffy black whiskers, “this is what Justin said. Are you so certain your brother is telling the truth?”

  Of course I was! I turned my head to say something, but King was gone. His vibe, however, stuck in the air, and I swore I could smell him even in my hair.

  Holy crap, King. Was that you? I was certainly beginning to think it was. If that was the case, then why wouldn’t he just say so? Why all the mystery?

  I shook my aching head. Maybe it wasn’t real. King wouldn’t just pop in and out like that, knowing your life is in danger.

  Or would he?

  Whatever the case, I prayed King wasn’t dead. We were all screwed without him.

  ~~

  Arno and I stood on the doorstep to Miranda’s large Tuscany-style home overlooking the Hollywood hills, waiting for someone to answer the door. Fearing that I’d look like a coward, I’d insisted that Arno stay in the SUV—yes, he’d had one waiting for us at the airport, and he’d made me sit in the back—however, he wasn’t having it.

  “I can’t believe you wanted me to come here in my jeans and Skechers. Can you believe this place?” It was over-the-top gorgeous with large palm trees, fountains, arched doorways, etc.

  I rang the doorbell a second time and prayed to God she was home instead of off doing whatever evil crap she was into.

  Finally, a man answered the door. He wore only a pair of snug black underwear, and his body was chiseled from top to bottom. His brown hair looked flattened on one side like he’d just rolled out of bed.

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost 4:00 a.m. Yeah, a little late. Or early. Depends on one’s lifestyle, I suppose. In any case, I was in King’s world now, where the rules of politeness were of no concern to anyone. That included showing up at someone’s house at this ungodly hour.

  “Hi. Um, is Miranda here?”

  He scratched his groin, and that’s when I noticed the marks all over his muscled arms. Bruises and deep scratches. “Who are you?”

  I held up my wrist and put on my toughest face. “I am here on behalf of King. He’s sent me with a deal, one she’ll want to hear.”

  His mouth made a half-frown. “Wait there.” He slammed the door in my face.

  I turned to Arno and let out a breath.

  “They are watching you.” His eyes flashed to the security camera above the doorway.

  I straightened my back and flung out my hip, trying to play the part of someone who carried the full weight of King’s authority.

  Several minutes passed, and I was about to ring the doorbell again, but that’s when it hit me. King wouldn’t bother being polite. He’d walk in like he owned the damned place.

  I sucked in a breath. Be King. Show no fear.

  “Wait here,” I instructed Arno. “I mean it.” I opened the door and walked in. The place was dark inside, so I flipped on all the lights. The living room, a decorating monstrosity of gold and white everything, was to the left, a large staircase with gold tile to match the foyer was in the center, and a formal dining room—huge gold table—was to the left.

  Okay, now what? What would King do?

  Besides throw up on her disco-gold furniture? He’d help himself to a drink or something.

  I entered the dining room and did, in fact, find an antique bar in the corner. I grabbed a tumbler from the cabinet, poured myself a…I wasn’t sure what from a crystal decanter, and then leaned back against the bar. I hoped to God I looked like a total self-centered, arrogant, powerful bitch, because my knees felt like Play-Doh.

  “Who the hell are you?” The woman had bleach-blonde hair pulled into a ponytail on top of her head and wore pink silk pajamas. She couldn’t have been taller than five feet and didn’t look a day over twenty. This was Miranda? The Miranda?

  I tried not to look surprised given that despite her size and age, whatever she’d done to Mack had resulted in extreme emotional and, perhaps, physical pain for the poor man. And from the look of her boy-toy’s arm, she was doing the same to him.

  Maybe she had acquired the same “ability” as Talia—superhuman strength.

  Doesn’t matter, Mia. Show no fear. I jerked my head at her and took a sip from my glass. Ick. It was cognac. “What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for five minutes, and I’ve got shit to do.”

  Miranda’s brown eyes narrowed. “It’s four in the fucking morning. Who the hell are you?”

  I casually slid up the sleeve of my white blouse and showed her the “K” on my wrist.

  She rolled her eyes. “What the hell does he want now? I told him I’m done making deals with him. It’s too risky.”

  I wondered if this wasn’t the first time King had requested her to partake in a Vaughn-related deal. If not, I wondered what King might have traded.

  Focus, Mia. You have to convince her to get that hand.

  Ick. Hand.

  Don’t think of it as a hand, but as your key to salvation.

  I smiled, trying to mimic how King smiled when he was about to let you dig yourself into a deep, dark hole, when he knew more than you did. Which was just about all the time.

  Miranda looked at me and tilted her head. “Oh no. What?”

  I took another sip. “King wants you to sneak into Vaughn’s trophy freezer and look for that arm
he lost. If it’s there, King wants the hand.”

  “What?” She started to laugh. “Is he out of his fucking mind? Vaughn won’t let me near his precious freezer. No deal. But tell King I heard about the party. If only I could’ve been there to see the look on Vaughn’s face when King ripped off his arm.”

  Oh my God. These people were so very twisted. But thankfully, it did appear that Miranda hated Vaughn as much as I did, so that was something in our favor.

  I chuckled, trying not to sound fake. “Yeah. It was priceless.” It was the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen.

  “That’s right. It was you!” Miranda pointed at me as if I were a famous celebrity. “You were the one Vaughn cornered in the bathroom.”

  I nodded and casually set my glass down on the counter, trying not to remember how that a-hole held a knife to my ribs and then shoved his hand between my legs. Sick pig. “I don’t think an arm was sufficient penalty. Neither does King.”

  “What would be?” She lifted her brows and flashed an interested grin.

  “A head might suffice.” And I meant it. Disgusting pig had intended to violate me, and would have if King hadn’t shown up.

  “You’re serious?” Miranda’s smile faded away.

  I nodded then looked at my watch. “It’s four-ten in the fucking morning. Do you think I came here just to drink your shitty cognac?”

  She looked at her feet. I seriously couldn’t believe I was getting away with behaving like such a…prick.

  “Head for a hand. Yes or no, Miranda?” I asked, doing my best female impersonation of King.

  She looked up at me. “What’s the time limit?”

  Shit. I had to think about it. I had no idea when the hand needed to be delivered or how long it would take to make it “work” if I were lucky enough to find whatever “tool” King used to do the trick.

  “You have six hours,” I replied, a complete stab in the dark.

  Something shifted in her demeanor, and her eyes narrowed a bit. “Why so fast?”

  I literally felt the power balance shift in the room. Oh no. I messed up. But what did I do wrong? Because I suddenly felt like a person hanging on the rail of the Titanic, trying desperately to stay away from the icy waters below. Stay calm. Stay calm. Look for the lifeboat.