“It was Stonewell,” he groveled.
Annie’s body ached. Her hand no longer bled, though it burned, and the cut across her back stung. She limped to Rathbone, squatted low, and looked him in the eyes. Annie hissed, “You’re done, Rathbone.” She turned to Jack. “He’s all yours.”
Jack yanked Rathbone up by his arm. The wizard tripped, weak and unable to stand. Jack pulled Rathbone around and slapped handcuffs around his wrists.
”You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” His voice trailed off as he led him from the room.
Chapter 33
“Well, this was a nice mess,” Graham Lightner said as his team finished restoring the building to its normal function.
“Sorry.” Annie smiled and stifled a yawn.
“Nice work.” He grabbed her shoulder. “We have a teleport ready to remove his employees. They’re waiting for us at Tartarus. They’ll be in Wing Two. Floors one and three.”
She wasn’t paying attention. She wanted to go home to bed. To Cham.
As Graham continued relaying the plans, Annie watched the bodies being loaded into the truck.
“Does that sound okay to you?” Graham said.
“Yeah. Sorry, Graham. I’m just a little preoccupied. I’m sure whatever you have will be great. I trust you.”
“No problem, Annie. I’ll let you get back to it.” He headed to the truck, poked his head in, counted, and ran back inside the building to oversee his team.
Annie headed to the black sedan that the VAU had teleported for Jack. A handcuffed Rathbone sat sullen and silent. Gibbs and a giant guarded the car.
“Can I talk to him?” she asked Gibbs, though he couldn’t stop her if he wanted to.
Rathbone didn’t look at her. His head was still foggy from the concussion, his face still swollen and raw. His hands were cut and red from shards of glass raining down on him.
“So what did Stonewell have on you exactly?”
Rathbone turned away. Blood had run down the back of his head. His black hair was matted and wet.
“You killed my father, and he held it over your head. Right?”
Rathbone glanced at her and back down. “You’re too smart for your own good. It’ll get you killed just like him.”
“What did Jason discover about you?”
He sat back against the back seat, flinched and closed his eyes. A spell had burned a small spot into his cheek.
“Does it matter?”
“Not really. I’m pretty sure I know why, though.”
“You really don’t. Don’t go searching for the reason. You’ll end up like him.”
You might be right about that.
Annie exited the car before she dug herself into a hole.
*
It wasn’t an easy ride from central Illinois. Jack stopped the car an hour from Chicago at a safe house set up by the VAU. While there, Graham Lightner and his assistant cleaned up Rathbone, repairing the wound on his head, covering up the jinx burn, and healing several cuts and bruises.
When they had completed their work, Graham teleported to Tartarus, leaving Cham and Jack to finish the drive to the FBI building in downtown Chicago. They arrived to an overly enthusiastic crowd. Jack pulled up to the loading lane where additional agents, including his partner Joan, met them. He exited his car, opened the door for Wolfgange Rathbone, and placed a jacket over the suspect’s head.
“It’s better this way,” Jack advised and yanked the man from the car, leading him through the crowd.
Flashes blinded Jack as he strode quickly up the steps with the man accused of murdering Princess Amelie of Amborix. Relief finally washed over him.
Tired and covered in sweat and vampire dust, Jack hoped no one took a closer look at what he brought with him. He hoped the Wizard Guard had the evidence ready; he didn’t know how to explain the arrest of Rathbone on his own.
*
Annie watched Jack on television bringing in the suspect in. Though not yet convicted, Rathbone was already guilty in the public eye. The thought of the handcuffs digging into his skin gave her satisfaction. The wizard spending the rest of his life in a nonmagical prison was the cherry on top.
Her phone buzzed. With a groan, she glanced at the number and answered.
“Hi.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” Ryan’s voice was calm. “How are you?”
“Tired.” Annie rested against the sofa and switched television stations.
“You should be sleeping.”
“Too wired.” A journalist in the field reported on the background of Wolfgange Rathbone, using the information the VAU and Bucky Hart had prepared for them. They had been busy creating the media story prior to Rathbone’s arrest. Annie turned up the volume to get a sense of their work.
“Can I update you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sturtagaard’s being released at midnight. Sarconis will be staked at eleven tonight, if you’re interested in going.”
I’m not.
The report continued about Rathbone, whom the nonmagical media depicted as a highly respected importer of medical supplies. She had to admit to herself that the VAU’s prepared history was impressive. She turned down the volume to concentrate on Ryan.
“No, thanks. I’d like to move on to something else, something happy.”
“Cham, maybe?”
She sensed his smile on the other end and blushed.
“Maybe.”
Please don’t pry.
“Go to sleep Annie. You’ve earned the rest.”
She had showered when she arrived home, changed into pajamas, and sat on the couch, where she had remained for the past three hours. Her muscles ached, and bruises covered her back and neck. She glanced at her feet and decided that she deserved a pedicure.
The silence was unbearable. “Rathbone admitted he killed Dad,” she told Ryan. She paused for a reaction that never came. “What did Dad meddle in?”
“I wish I knew, Annie. He might still be alive if someone else knew.” She shuddered, thinking of her own recently learned lesson: always bring a partner.
“I’m tired.” She yawned for emphasis.
“You did well, kid. I’m proud of you. You held it together.”
“Barely. But thanks.” With nothing else needing to be said, Ryan let her go. After she hung up, sleep over took her and she climbed into bed.
Just a little rest.
The last thing she remembered was the bird chirping outside her window as her head touched the pillow.
*
At midnight, the giant guards opened the cell door and let Sturtagaard walk from his prison cell. Waiting for him at the gates were Gibbs and Cham, blocking the exit.
“Freedom is mine,” Sturtagaard said.
“You might want this.” Gibbs tossed the vampire the vial with the third anecdote to the acidiac poison. The vampire swigged the liquid in one sip and tossed the bottle behind him. He smiled and held his arms open. Cham held the second atomie bean out for a reminder.
“We can find you anytime.”
“You won’t need to.”
The gate opened. A restless Sturtagaard slipped around the Wizard Guards. Gibbs and Cham watched the vampire make his way out of the prison grounds. The heavy gates slammed shut; the demon didn’t look back.
There were only two ways on and off the island. When he arrived, the vampire had been teleported. Without any magical being present, his only other option was a small rowboat tied to a five-foot dock. Sturtagaard realized no one was available to take him, so he headed to the boat dock instead. When he arrived, all that waited for him was a rope tied to the post.
“Annie Pearce!” he shouted, assuming it was her idea of a practical joke.
Expecting her to be watching, Sturtagaard called for her again. Crickets sang from the tall grasses, waves lapped against the shore. The vampire, alone and unable to leave the island without getting wet, growled and jumped into
the water to dog paddle his way to freedom.
*
Rebekah spent the day watching the television coverage of Jack Ramsey’s arrest a man named Wolfgange Rathbone for the murders of Princess Amelie and Jordan Wellington.
And where are you, Anne Pearce?
Expecting nothing from an internet search, the journalist only typed in the suspect’s name as due diligence. Hundreds of search results for Wolfgange Rathbone appeared on her screen. Business websites: he was an importer/exporter of goods from India, Egypt, and Madagascar. Celebrity news sites: Princess Amelie was a guest at his home. Political news: Rathbone was an ardent supporter of several known politicians.
Why did he kill her?
That would come in the next several months. Rebekah knew she would be busy researching the man, the FBI, and the other sources to put together a complete story. For now, Anne Elizabeth Pearce would have to wait. Rebekah was convinced she had discovered something big. She now believed that magic existed in the world, but there wasn’t anyone who would believe her. She took her file with all of her evidence and placed it at the bottom of her dresser drawer, piling clothes on top of it.
Buttoning her jacket, she grabbed her computer and her notebook and headed out the door.
*
Cham ran his hands down his pants nervously, wiping off the sweat. He and Annie had been out together before, oftentimes alone, but this was a real date. His hands shook. He took a deep breath, adjusted his tie, and breathed into his hand, checking to make sure he didn’t need a mint, before pressing the doorbell.
Why am I so nervous?
Annie opened the door—a stunning vision before him. Her strapless red satin dress, showed off the curves of her shoulders, her long neck, and her round hips. Her mass of chocolate curls were pulled up, but some cascaded around her face.
“You clean up well,” she said, eyes twinkling. She grabbed his hand and led him inside. He handed her a small bouquet of flowers, the Shasta daisies she loved so much, and stepped into the house.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, though she never once looked at them. Her eyes were on him in his dark suit and tie. Her hand never left his arm.
Zola pulled the flowers from Annie’s grasp.
“Have a nice time.” Zola smiled and shooed them from the house.
Cham teleported Annie to the Signature Room, located on the ninety-fifth floor of the John Hancock Center. His hand rested on the small of her back as they were led to their table along the windows. They towered over the city. Bright lights flashed below them.
“Is this too much?” he asked nervously.
“It’s beautiful.” Annie sipped on her sweet wine and watched her date. Even in the low light, she could see him blush underneath all of his freckles. Her hand shook nervously when she lowered her glass.
“You’re still okay with us?”
“Yes.” She flashed him that smile that made his heart jump. He reached for her hand, and she squeezed back as they watched the city blow by.
Epilogue
September 1: The Day of First Sun
Cyril B. Stonewell waited patiently for the world to forget Amelie, but it would take longer than the six weeks he allowed for it. The stories were still written, pictures were still posted, information could still accessed from anywhere in the world.
Without an answer to why she was killed, the public’s fervent need to know continued to grow. But those who asked would never know about the Wizard Council, the orbs, magic, or what Stonewall planned to do.
Stonewell dragged the man behind him in a sack. The victim slowly woke from his forced sleep and now grew restless inside the bag, so Stonewell dropped it and kicked the man inside until he stopped squirming.
At midnight, he crossed the well-manicured lawn, yanking the body behind him and leaving drag marks across the perfect grass. The royal family of Amborix owned this vast land and had buried their only daughter far from the prying eyes of the world. But Stonewell knew where to find her.
Under a large oak tree where the grass hadn’t fully grown back, Amelie’s casket lay buried. Stonewell dropped the bag, waved his palms across the first layer of loose dirt and floated it to the side.
It was well past midnight, and the wizard soon grew tired. Even with magic, the removal of earth exhausted him; he expended so much magical energy to unearth the coffin. Three hours after he began, the cement tomb was finally visible. His short, fat body was drenched in sweat, and loose dirt covered his expensive suit. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he left behind a streak of new earth on his face.
Inside the sack, the prisoner began to struggle again. His muffled voice shouted from the bag, screaming obscenities in a language Stonewell didn’t understand. The man, attempting to escape, scratched against the rough bag; his legs kicked out as if he could break through. Stonewell glanced at the indigent and threw a jinx at the moving mass, immobilizing him. He bent over his victim, checking for a pulse. The blood needed to be fresh.
Returning to his hole, Stonewell held his palms upward and raised the heavy cement lid. It floated up and over, landing on the grass with a thud. Below him, the coffin—still shiny, almost pristine—lay untouched by air or time. He jumped beside the casket and raised the lid where Amelie lay, an already risen vampire. The silk lining had been shredded as she had fought for her freedom for so many weeks. She lay inside, her eyes angry and cross.
“What took so long?” she asked.
“I know, love. It couldn’t be helped.” He smiled and took her hand, helping her from the coffin.
“I’m hungry.” Her purple lips pouted against pale skin that glowed in the moonlight. Her hair was wild and knotted from tumbling about in the coffin. It hung from her head. He wanted to run a brush through the golden locks, to clean her up like the princess she once was. But Amelie would no longer respond to warmth or human kindness, and from this moment forward, she would only exist to satisfy her primal urges of the vampire race.
“I’ve brought you your first blood.”
He climbed from the hole, slipping once before pulling his legs up and out, and trudged to the victim, removing him from the bag. The man’s gray eyes, red from too much drink, barely registered the woman who jumped from the hole in the ground and sauntered over to him, her hips swaying inside the bright green dress.
Hungry for many weeks, the young vampire knew nothing about the sensuality of the kill. She only knew hunger. As she lunged for her prey, the man struggled against her newly acquired strength but the former princess easily subdued him, sinking her never-used fangs into his neck. The warmth passed her lips as she sucked the blood from him, only then realizing the ecstasy. A moan escaped her as she writhed against her first victim. When she depleted him of the last of his blood, Amelie tossed the corpse to the ground, stepping over him and walking to the man who saved her.
“My master,” the vampire whispered. She smiled coyly before averting her eyes to the ground. Stonewell smiled, believing the princess was happy to feel alive again. She touched the back of her head.
“Did they notice, my dear?”
She shrugged.
It was unlikely that even Annie Pearce had detected the bite marks beneath Amelie’s golden hair.
“They did a fine job. Fine job, indeed.” Stonewell smiled again as they walked from her empty grave.
“I’m so hungry,” she said, pushing her body against his.
Her breasts and hips curved against him. Heat rushed through him as her every touch aroused him.
“I will find you someone to eat. Come, my love.”
“No,” she said, pulling him toward her. Confusion and fear lined his face.
“Now, my dear. I’ll fetch you someone new. Le-let’s go,” he stammered.
But Amelie no longer felt compelled to listen. Pulling him to her like a rag doll, she pulled his neck to her mouth and sank her fangs deep into his neck without ceremony.
He cried out, “No! My love, no!”
Life faded
from his eyes. Cyril B. Stonewell’s body slumped against Amelie’s cold body as she sucked from him all that he had.
Prologue
1920
Hot, dry heat parched Reuven’s body. He took a long swig of water from the crock at his feet as sand and dust blew from the west, coating him in a layer of grime. Setting the jug back in the sand, he wiped his brow, leaving a streak of clean skin across his forehead. At only seven in the morning, the desert thermometer read eighty-nine degrees.
He rested a tired arm on the shovel handle and leaned in, surveying the dig site that covered several acres of desolate desert. Busy men worked in their assigned squares of the cordoned-off grid, charged with removing the earth in hopes that a great treasure lay hidden beneath their feet. Sand and rock flew in the air, landing on growing piles on the outskirts of the dig area. The man-made hills were visible for miles against the flatness of the valley.
Sweat dripped from Reuven’s forehead, collecting under his chin. He took another wipe from his dirty rag and bent over for another swig of nearly warm water.
Catching the watchful eye of the foreman, Reuven returned to his digging and plunged the shovel into the earth, eradicating another layer. He loosened the dirt, lifted the heavy pile and tossed it to the ever-growing hill beside him.
Familiar with every inch of his small square, Reuven doubted anything lay beneath the sand other than more sand. Over four weeks into the excavation, nothing had been discovered: no bones, no shards of clay, no baskets or treasures.
It’s a desert, after all, thought Reuven as he tossed another shovelful of sand over his shoulder.
Though he knew he was lucky to have work, Reuven hated the job. The living quarters were rough—crowded tents that held in the heat and the stench of body odor. Hard labor left his muscles seized and tired by nightfall; the sun burnt and leathered his skin, leaving him looking older than his twenty-five years. But the money meant that his family could thrive, so Reuven returned every morning to continue the dig.
Wizard Hall Chronicles Box Set Page 33