by Keri Arthur
Basically put, but yes. Amusement briefly lit his eerie eyes, but it just as swiftly disappeared. It gives us—and you—a small but important advantage.
It gives me nothing, I shot back. Because I’m not going to help you kill Hunter. Not unless I have absolutely no other choice.
It will come to that point, Markel said softly. You are walking a knife-edge with her now. In the end, she will leave you no other option but to act.
Perhaps, I said, still desperately trying to ignore both the bitter taste of bile and the knowledge that he was right. But, for now, there’s wiggle room.
Those you care about cannot remain hidden and safe forever. They all have lives, and people who depend on them, Stanford growled. It is always better to be on the offensive rather than the defensive.
Better for whom? I said. Not for me. Not at this particular moment in time.
You now have less than twenty hours to find that key, Markel said. What do you think will happen when you don’t hand it over?
That is something I’m actively avoiding thinking about.
Then you are a fool. Stanford thrust a hand through his hair, an action that was violent, frustrated, and had the ether around us spinning away in agitation.
Markel stepped forward and caught my hands in his. His fingers were cool in this place, ghostly, and yet a sense of strength and calm seemed to flow from his touch. It eased the sick sensation of fear but didn’t do a whole lot against the certainty that the confrontation that scared the hell out of me—the very one they wanted—was steamrolling toward me, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it.
I understand your desire to avoid any sort of battle with Hunter, Markel said. Once, I would have done the same. But it cost me all that I held dear, and it will cost you as well if you are not prepared.
My gaze searched his. I saw no lies in the brown depths, only a sorrow deeper than anything I could imagine. I may have lost both my mother and a former lover, but he’d lost a whole lot more than that. Curiosity stirred, but this was neither the time nor the place.
But he was right. Besides, it cost nothing to be prepared. Cost nothing for them to be prepared.
Okay, I said, gently pulling my hands from his. Whatever it is you need to do to nullify Hunter, do it. I’m not guaranteeing I’ll help. Not yet. But if I feel her web closing in any tighter, I’ll need you to be ready.
Markel smiled, though it was still tinged with that haunting sadness. As the saying goes, it is always better to step into a battle fully armed than not.
I snorted softly. And sometimes it is better still not to step into battle at all.
With that I can only agree, Markel said. But I fear fate will give us little other choice.
From what I’ve seen, she rarely does. I studied the two of them for a moment, then added, Is that it?
For now, yes, Stanford said. But be wary of Hunter. She may have given you twenty-four hours to find the key, but there is no guarantee she will actually allow you to take the entirety of that time.
She can’t have what I haven’t got, and she can’t kill me until I’ve got it. And if I repeated that often enough, I might just believe it.
I gave them a nod good-bye, then imagined myself back in my body and got the hell out of there. I didn’t immediately move, however. I just lay on the sofa for several minutes, drawing in air and trying to ease the queasiness still threatening to jump up my throat.
“Here,” Azriel said softly. “Drink this.”
I opened one eye and discovered a can of Coke hovering a few inches from my nose. For normal people, Coke would probably be the very worst thing they could drink to ease a less-than-stable stomach, but I’d grown up on the stuff, and it pretty much ran through my veins.
“Thanks.” I plucked the can from his grasp, then sat up. After consuming several mouthfuls of the brown fizz, I silently filled him in, then added, He’s going to contact a ghost who apparently knows how to stop a maenad. Just in case we need to.
As I believe you said, it never hurts to be prepared. He squatted next to the sofa and brushed some hair away from my cheek. His caress was warm against my skin, and all I wanted was to be taken into his arms and have his heat and strength and love wrapped around me. But that wasn’t a desire I could indulge in right now.
“Perhaps later,” he said, voice wistful. “When we do have the time.”
“When we do have the time,” I echoed, with mock fierceness, “I expect you to do a whole lot more than just hold me.”
“That you can be assured of.” He leaned forward and kissed me. It was a promise, a hope, and one I could only pray the fates would let us fulfill.
My phone rang, and the tone told me it was Stane. I tugged it out of my pocket and hit the Answer button. “Hey,” I said. “Does the fact you’re calling mean you’ve pinned down a possible location for the key?”
“Not as yet, unfortunately,” he said. “Who knew there were so many places in Victoria that were using—or had used—the word ‘palace’ in them?”
“Meaning there’s not even a short list yet?”
“There’s a short list of a hundred. I’m still whittling them down.” He shrugged, his expression bemused. “I can and do provide computing miracles, but some of them take longer than others.”
I half smiled. “I know, and I really do appreciate the effort.”
“So you should,” he said, grinning. “Although it’s not like I’m actually doing anything harder than programming. Speaking of which, another of your requested searches has come up trumps.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Which one this time?”
“It was the one looking for any other property connections between Lauren Macintyre, Genevieve Sands, and John Nadler.”
“I vaguely remember that one.” It had come about after a search on Pénombre Manufacturing—the company that supposedly owned the old warehouse in Maribyrnong in which we’d found a sorceress’s lair—hadn’t revealed any actual connection to either Macintyre or Sands. It had, however, revealed a different connection between the two women, in that twenty-eight years ago, Sands invested in a property that Macintyre subsequently purchased. Then, five years ago, Sands had sold the property, and it had ended up in the hands of one John Nadler—another of the identities Lauren had taken. As Tao had noted at the time, around and around the circle went.
“Well, it revealed a number of properties across both Victoria and New South Wales that at least two of Lauren’s aliases have owned over the years.” He hesitated, grimacing. “Unfortunately, it also revealed a connection between several of them and another name I think you might be familiar with.”
Kiandra’s warning—that someone in my life was not what they seemed—rose like a ghost to taunt me. I’d hoped against hope that she’d read things wrong, that there was no wolf in sheep’s clothing hiding in the closet of anyone I knew. I guess I should have known better.
Resignedly—wearily—I said, “Familiar how?”
“As in, it’s one Michael Judd.”
It took a moment for the name to register, simply because Michael Judd was not a name I’d ever used for him. He’d always been simply Mike—the accountant who looked after all the tax stuff for both me and the café, as well as my mom’s former lover.
But he couldn’t be the traitor. It had to be a coincidence. He’d loved my mom, damn it, and he’d been with her for as long as I could remember—for as long as I’d been alive.
And yet . . . I remembered the uneasy feeling I’d gotten when I’d read his note inviting me to dinner. Remembered the steely calculation so evident beneath the outrage when I’d gently suggested that maybe he was seeking to fill the void of my mother’s loss with a deeper—though not sexual—relationship with me.
Damn it, no! It couldn’t be Mike. Mom had been a psychic of formidable power and there was no way in hell she would have been fooled for long if Mike was not what he’d claimed.
Do not forget we are dealing with a powerful sor
ceress, Azriel noted softly. Even your mother could have been fooled by one such as Lauren.
Mike isn’t Lauren. Surely to god we hadn’t been that fooled.
I’m not saying he is, but if there is a connection between them, then the possibility of it being a coincidence really is only slender.
Because chance hadn’t played a very major part in this whole mess so far. I briefly closed my eyes, then said to Stane, “What sort of connection are we talking about?”
“Legal only, at this stage,” he replied. “At least from what I can see. He acted as a financial adviser to Genevieve Sands—”
“The real Genevieve or the fake one?” I cut in.
“It’s beyond even the scope of my computers to answer that one,” Stane said, voice dry. “Though it was over fifteen years ago, so the possibility is there that he advised the real one.”
“It may be beyond the scope of your computers, but maybe not beyond that of the coroner,” I said. “When they autopsied the bits of Sands they found after the bomb blast, was there any indication just how long she might have been frozen?”
“Hang on a sec.” He spun away from the vid-phone’s camera and for several seconds there was silence. Then he reappeared. “The report said she’d possibly been frozen for somewhere between five and eight years.”
“So it’s entirely possible Mike was dealing with the real Genevieve.”
“Entirely possible,” Stane agreed. “But don’t forget to factor in his other connections—namely one Jim O’Reilly and an M. R. Greenfield.”
“As in, Michael Greenfield, the registered owner of Pénombre?”
“The very same one.”
And around and around the threads went. Fuck it, when were we going to get a break from the shit being flung at us?
Stane hesitated, then added, “Do you want me to do a background check on your Mike?”
If Mike was involved, then doing a check on him might well be akin to closing the barn door after the horse had bolted. Still, it wasn’t like we had any choice. “I guess it can’t hurt. In the meantime, I might ring him.”
“Do you think that wise?” Stane frowned. “It might achieve nothing more than alerting him that you’re on to him.”
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take, because we’re running out of time.”
Stane grunted. “I’ll make the background search a priority. Meanwhile, be careful. I’d hate to have to find another source of the best bubbly in town.”
I snorted. “You could, as has been suggested before, buy it yourself.”
His expression became one of shock, though amusement gleamed brightly in his eyes. “Wash your mouth out with soap, woman! I never buy anything.” He paused. “Except the perishables. When it comes to meat and chicken, I do prefer to know and trust the source.”
Suggesting that many of his sources weren’t trustworthy. But then, it was the black market we were talking about. “Contact me the minute you get anything vital. No matter what the time.”
“Will do.”
He hung up and I raised my gaze to Azriel’s. “Do you think he’s right—is it too much of a risk to ring Mike?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. You do have a legitimate reason to ring—a past connection with a building we are investigating. If he is not involved with our sorceress, then there is no problem.”
“But if he is, he might well run.” I paused and swung my legs off the sofa. “Maybe you need to be there. That way, if he does bolt, you can track him.”
He raised his eyebrows. “That is a good idea, although surely if he is connected to Lauren, it would be one they would be aware of and prepared for.”
“If there is any sort of shielding or protection against your presence, it would be within the offices.” I thrust to my feet, unable to stand still. “But you don’t really have to be present in his room. You could hang about the outside of the building and see if he reacts in any way—like suddenly deciding to leave.”
“And if he does?”
“Then you come and get me, and we’ll question the bastard together.” My gaze met his, my expression grim. “If he is involved, then it’s more than likely he’s been there from the beginning.”
Which meant his relationship with Mom might have been nothing more than a sham. That he’d been using her just as much as Lucian had used me. And as much as I didn’t want to believe that, I couldn’t escape the possibility of it, either.
“It would seem the threads of the Aedh’s deceptions go far deeper than we had imagined.” Azriel’s voice was grim.
“Don’t they just.” I leaned forward and kissed him. “Be careful out there.”
He smiled but didn’t say anything, simply disappeared. I took a deep, somewhat quivery breath, then called Mike and walked over to the window as I listened to the vid-phone ringing. There was a brief pause in the dial tone; then Mike appeared on the screen. I didn’t actually know how old he was—he looked to be in his early forties, but I knew, from various things Mom had said, he was a lot older than that. His hair was black and short, the dark curls clinging close to his head like a helmet. His eyes—a clear, striking gray—seemed to hold aeons of knowledge behind them, and for the first time since I’d known him, I wondered if they actually did. Dark sorcerers had the power to extend life through blood magic, and this dark sorcerer had been involved with an Aedh who knew the magic of an entirely different world.
“Risa.” His voice was deep and as aristocratic as his features. “This is a lovely surprise. I do hope there’s nothing wrong.”
I hoped there wasn’t, either. “I just wanted to ask you a question about a property.”
“One you wish to buy?”
“No.” I hesitated, not sure of the best way to broach the subject. He’d been in my life—or, at least, my mother’s life—for as long as I could remember, and while I didn’t want to upset him if he was innocent, I also needed answers.
He frowned. “I’m an accountant and investment adviser, not a real estate agent, but I shall nevertheless do my best to answer it.”
“But you have assisted clients over the years to purchase properties, haven’t you? I mean as investments.”
“Well, yes.” He paused, frowning. “Why do you ask?”
“Because,” I said, thinking fast, “a friend is interested in purchasing a couple of rental houses, but an in-depth search on them revealed a few paperwork oddities. He saw your name on one of them and asked me to ask you about them.”
“If there were paperwork oddities, my dear,” he said, frown increasing, “I’m sure they would have been picked up by the appropriate authorities at the time.”
“Well, apparently they weren’t.”
“How odd.” Despite the frown, there was little in the way of confusion in the steely depths of his eyes. Nor was there any sign of wariness, guilt, or any other sort of emotion. And it was that very lack that made me uneasier than any actual emotion could have.
But was I reading things into his expressions—or lack thereof—and looking for a reason to believe his guilt because of what Kiandra had said? Maybe. I mean, a few tenuous links did not a villain make—but they couldn’t exactly be ignored, either.
He added, “What properties are we talking about?”
I hesitated, then said, “One was a little terrace in Argyle Place in Carlton, and the other was an apartment in Greeves Street, St. Kilda.”
“Good rental locations, both of them.” His expression was thoughtful. “But neither property immediately rings any bells. How long ago were these discrepancies?”
“He didn’t actually say.” I shrugged. “But a while ago, I think. He’s basically just dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s before he lays his money on the line.”
“And he hasn’t a solicitor? Surely that’s what they’re supposed to do?”
“Well, yeah, but he’s one of those thorough types who likes to double-check everything himself. Look, I’m sorry to have bothered you, but I said
I’d ask—”
“My dear Risa,” he said, voice grave, “you’re not bothering me. I told you once before, if you ever need anything, I’m here. I do not intend to go back on that, even for a request as odd as this.”
“Well, if you could just check your files and see what information you might have on either of those properties, that would be fabulous,” I said. “But don’t go to too much trouble if the information is difficult to get to. It’s not that important.”
“I have to keep all records for seven years for tax purposes,” Mike said, with a half shrug. “So if the information is within the files I hold here, then you may have it.”
There was nothing in his manner that spoke of suspicion. Nothing that spoke of guilt. It made me feel bad for suspecting him, but, at the same time, I couldn’t escape the notion that there was something going on. “Thanks again, Mike.”
“Anytime.” He hesitated. “You do remember we’re having dinner tonight, don’t you?”
I blinked. We’d agreed to meet for dinner, but I couldn’t actually remember anyone suggesting tonight. Sure, time was something I hadn’t had a great grip on lately, what with everything else that was going on, but my memory wasn’t that bad. Not yet, anyway.
“You’ve forgotten,” he added, when I didn’t immediately answer. “If you can’t make it, I understand—”
“No, it’s okay,” I said, though it wasn’t. The very last thing I needed to be doing right now was wasting time going to dinner with my mom’s ex. At the same time, could I afford not to go? Especially if he was somehow involved with Lauren?
“If I can find the files,” Mike added, “I’ll bring them along. I can’t, of course, allow you to take them away, but I can bend client confidentiality rules enough to let you look through them.”
“That would be fabulous.” I hesitated again. “When and where shall we meet?”
“There’s a new restaurant that just opened on Smith Street that Beatrice recommends I try—Winter’s, I believe it’s called. I can get her to book us a table for seven, if you’d like.”