Power Play (Amanda Byrne Book 1)

by Kimberly Keane

  What would occur should I decline?

  I didn’t want to cut her off completely—it seemed only fair that she be given some context for what she was experiencing. And I was starting to like talking with her. “I’ll consider your questions and decide which I will answer, but I would expect the same from you.”

  I propose that we share information, but if the information is too powerful, we can each decline to answer.

  “What’s the difference between that and what I just suggested?”

  Your proposition supposes that each question will have to be weighed before it is answered; the assumption is that each question provides too much power unless otherwise decided. My proposition supposes that we will answer each other’s questions unless one of us feels we would be sharing power inappropriately; the assumption is that most questions would not provide too much power.

  “Why the sudden change?”

  She fell silent.

  “You went from being hesitant to share any information with me to—how did you put it?—something about assuming the answers to most questions won’t provide too much power. Why?”

  Much like you had no wish to offend last night, I wish the same now.

  “Offend me. It won’t be my first time.”

  I am accustomed to assessing plays of power quickly and can determine with ease if an answer would be powerful. The time it would take your mind to think through the permutations would be significant.

  I was used to negotiating with entities who had a far larger view of the world than I did, and she was no different. She would know what information was inherently more powerful, and she was getting the better bargain. But the time and effort it would take me to get the information elsewhere would be significant. Having the access to ask her, an entity as old as time, questions on a moment’s notice was worth it. “I’m okay with that. Now, about the curse, I’d like to know how I can destroy it.”

  Death.

  “Yes, death. How can I kill it?”

  No, not its death, your death. You would need to bind it to yourself so it couldn’t take another host.

  “That was helpful.” I scrubbed at my face and looked at Randy.

  “What was helpful?” he said.

  “If I bind it to me and die, it dies.”

  “That’s not an option,” Miriam said.

  “Hallelujah,” I said.

  “It really is weird to hear only one side of the conversation,” Randy said.

  I held up a finger again. “Urd, can I communicate with you without talking aloud?” I said.

  Yes. I can hear your thoughts.

  “All of them?” I spoke aloud again.

  Yes.

  “Lovely.”

  “More bad news?” Miriam said.

  “Not bad, just something I hadn’t thought through.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Urd can hear every one of my thoughts.”

  “As one who can hear every one of everyone’s thoughts, I can tell you it’s not terribly interesting. Most people think about what they’re having for dinner or to remind themselves to pick up the dry cleaning. Most of the other thoughts are judgmental and mean.”

  “I can only hope mine are inconsequential and not terribly judgmental,” I said, and I held up a finger again to let them know I was going to spend some time with Urd.

  How can I destroy the curse without dying myself?

  You can bind it to another and kill the other.

  Let me try this again. How can I destroy the curse without anyone else dying?

  You could bind it to an animal and kill the animal, although I don’t know if the boon Eir granted you limits you to humans.

  I’d prefer to just kill the damned curse.

  A curse of this sort has unusual properties. It is magical and, thus, can’t be killed by mundane means. But it has also been given life and, therefore, can’t simply be broken like a spell.

  So, for it to die, its host must die.

  Yes.

  I stewed for a moment as I listened to Randy and Miriam’s conversation. My eyes moved back and forth between them.

  “Any luck?” Randy asked me, noting that I’d returned to them.

  “Not much. For it to die, its host has to die. Urd said that I may be able to bind it to an animal. If I can, the binding would probably be limited to what I can do, and I’m not sure if the thing is strong enough to break it. Eir granted me the ability to bind it to a person, and I don’t know if that would extend to an animal.”

  “Let’s go find an animal and find out,” Randy said.

  “I’d like to see if Linda’s ceremony gives us another option. I’d hate for something to die only to find out that the curse can break my binding and take another host.”

  “Are you nuts?” Randy said. “Let’s get rid of this thing now.”

  “I’m protected until I need another dose from the Well of Destiny. There’s little chance I’ll have another option, but I’d like to try everything before I pronounce a death sentence.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Randy said.

  “Don’t bother,” Miriam said. “She won’t listen.”

  Randy and Miriam shared a sad smile, and both shook their heads at me.

  “Hey, I’m not that bad.”

  Miriam pressed her lips together and raised an eyebrow at me. She looked at my midsection, where the curse had situated itself, even though I knew she couldn’t see it in this realm. “Really?”

  “So, I should have let Peter die?”

  “No, but you should have let it take Mr. Bradley.”

  “It didn’t want him. It went for you.”

  “I’m sure we could have made him look tasty,” Randy said.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re not helping.”

  “Yes, he is,” Miriam said, and her gaze became intense. “You’re worth it.”

  “But not at the expense of another life.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s a life.”

  “And it’s your life.”

  Before I could respond with the line I knew she expected—we’d had this discussion on many an occasion—Randy reached out and touched the back of my hand.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “Sometimes you are worth more than someone or something else.”

  My eyes suddenly burned, and I pulled my hand back from him. I shook my head and teared up when I tried to reply, so I grabbed my water glass. I held the water in my mouth before forcing it down. The argument would have to end there.

  Chapter Twelve

  The smell of alcohol was trumped only by the cologne that many seemed to bathe in. Groups of people in bright colors stood around the ballroom laughing and talking. Between the clothing and the ostentatious displays of red and gold, I wanted to find my sunglasses. I briefly considered forgoing the social and leaving the spectacle behind for the blessed tranquility of my room. Instead I squared my shoulders, roused my inner social butterfly, and dove in.

  An hour later, my smile was becoming less than authentic. I didn’t know if I could have the same conversation yet again with another group of people, so I wasn’t upset when I had to excuse myself a few too many glasses of water later.

  After an exhaustive search through the never-ending opulence of the hotel, I found a ladies’ room. Even the bathrooms were lush and inviting and, wonder of wonders, quiet. I spent a good long while washing my hands and trying out the available lotion and mouthwash. I wondered if people ever considered vacationing in one of the bathrooms. Probably not—most folks came to this town to paint it red and give themselves permission to do things they wouldn’t allow themselves to do anywhere else. Good to know I could be boring in all locales.

  I couldn’t hide out forever in luxury, even if it was only a bathroom, so I headed back to the mixer with a promise to myself that I’d stay for no more than another hour. Networking was only worth so much of my time.

  “Excuse me.�
�� A man touched me gently on the shoulder and pulled me from my thoughts. Momentary surprise overtook me when I noticed we were eye to eye. I was wearing heels, but that made me, at best, five foot four. I rarely met any women my size; men my size were almost unheard of. He was broad through the shoulders and so muscular that I could see the lines of his well-formed arms through the button-up shirt he wore. His salt-and-pepper hair looked purposefully mussed and his dark brown eyes were wide. Nervous energy rolled off him, annoying but not strong enough to breach my shield.

  “Would you happen to know where the psychic social is?” he said.

  “Yes, I’m headed back there myself. I can show you.”

  He glanced at my half-empty glass. “May I buy you a drink?”

  “No, thank you. I’m drinking water.”

  “Water then.” Before I could stop him, he headed off to the nearest hotel bar. I thought about leaving and heading back to the mixer without him, but I’d said I would show him where it was. I berated myself for immediately placing him in the solitary space best known as the friend-zone. He wasn’t unattractive. Then I reminded myself that I didn’t date or sleep with people I was likely to run into during the course of my work. I’d discovered the hard way that working is so much more difficult when it is done with old flames, especially when the unruly emotions I had to deal most with were my own. So, I waited, despite my lack of enthusiasm. As I reached out to take the water from him, a black wave rose through his aura, and I froze. I watched it, and despite the amorphous shape, I got the impression it was looking around. I didn’t want to breathe for fear it would disappear. I didn’t reach toward it psychically, but anxiously waited to see if anything it threw off would resonate with my talents. Nothing. It stood apart from him, as if his emotions, his very essence, disappeared. As if he were a void, a black hole, exactly like Miriam had described Mr. Bradley. I had to introduce this guy to her! I accepted the water, thanked him, and headed to the ballroom, sipping politely at my drink. I engaged him in conversation, hoping I could keep his attention until I could introduce him to Miriam.

  “What’s your psychic specialty?” I said.

  “I’m not psychic.”

  “Then what brings you to the social?”

  “A client asked me to meet with someone attending the conference in hopes they can help him.”

  “You’re a private investigator then?”

  “Not quite, but I’ve done that before. I do unusual work. It’s hard to explain.”

  “I’ve been there.” I smiled and tripped over a nonexistent bump in the carpet.

  He caught me with an arm around my waist and pulled me up against him. I grinned at him, wondering what had gotten into me. Although I wasn’t the poster child for grace, simply walking across a room had never been difficult, and I never wantonly flirted with just anybody.

  I tripped again, and the gentleman righted me. My sight blurred and twisted, causing my stomach to riot.

  “I’m not feeling well.” My voice sounded far away.

  “Let me help you.” He half carried, half walked me through the casino. Somewhere amid the poker machines, I went under.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I opened my eyes slowly and squinted against the glare of fluorescents. The harsh light reflected off the too-white walls. It smelled like paint, new carpeting, and antiseptic. I was a little dizzy and confused, like I’d had too much to drink. I tried to lift my arm to shield my eyes from the damned lights, but it stopped short of my face. I tugged it toward me and heard a clink as it stopped short again. I frowned and tried the other arm. Shit!

  The narcotic curtain fell away, and I looked around wildly, the lights still too bright, and tugged, frantically trying to get my arms free. I kicked and heard the same clinking sound as something bit into my ankle. What in helheim? Where was I? Why couldn’t I sit up? My throat closed, and my heart felt like it was going to explode. I heard noises—grunts and quiet squeals followed by yells, bellows, and screams—and was surprised when I realized it was my own voice.

  Someone entered the room and held my arm down, their face blurring against the brightness. A sharp prick caused another scream to erupt from me until it lost momentum and died as a terrified squeak in the back of my throat. My vision swam, and I lost consciousness again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I climbed back into the world, opening my eyes and trying to blink the heaviness of my lids away.

  “Good afternoon,” a man said from one of the chairs against the far, still too-white wall. I knew him. At least I thought I knew him. He had no color around him, nothing showing me what he felt. I reached out for my gift, and pale colors shimmered briefly before slipping from my grasp. I fumbled for it, juggling it without ever being able to fully hold onto it. The colors, a pale facsimile of themselves, faded in and out with every try.

  I felt lost without them, bereft. The world became two-dimensional and surreal, as if none of it really existed. Gods, I had forgotten what it was like to be blind. To have no idea what others felt. What their reactions might be. My thoughts became frantic, trying again and again to bring my gift back to me, until I finally resigned myself—it was gone. I jerked with frustration, and the bite of the restraints brought me back to some semblance of myself.

  I studied the man’s physical features. Balding. A few years shy of middle age. Starting to gain a bit of weight. And finally, I recognized him.

  “Michael Bradley.” My words were slurred.

  He chuckled.

  “What? How? Why?” I fumbled for the right question.

  “I don’t lose,” he said.

  “What?”

  “My wife.”

  “I don’t understand. Your son, he’s okay, right?”

  “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.

  I furrowed my brow. Where was I? Why was Mr. Bradley here? I looked around. It looked almost like a hospital, but the floor wasn’t the typical linoleum.

  “He has nothing to do with it.”

  “Who? To do with what?” I said. When he didn’t answer, I sat quietly and tried to hone my mind to the edge I was used to.

  “What were you trying to gain when you took my wife from me?” he said.

  My brow was still furrowed, and I shook my head. What in helheim was he talking about?

  “Your angle,” he said.

  Memories came back slowly. We’d saved his son. I took the curse. And there was something else. Ah, yes, we’d removed the spell from his wife. Oh dear gods, he’d found out. And now I’d been kidnapped and was tied to a bed. What the hell did he want to do to me?

  Tension knotted in my throat and I pushed it down. Breathe. In. Out. Still, my throat wanted to close, and I had to close my eyes and uncurl my fists one finger at a time. I counted to ten. Waited one more second, and opened my eyes to find Mr. Bradley looking down at me, instead of seated in the chair across the room. I startled backward, felt the restraints catch my limbs, and banged my head against the bars on the bed.

  “What’s your game?” he said.

  “Game?”

  He slapped me, and my face tingled where his skin touched mine. I waited for it to hurt. The sting intensified, but it didn’t really hurt, especially not compared to the headache I’d recently gotten rid of, which reminded me of Urd. I’d forgotten she was with me.

  Urd?

  I thought I heard her in the distance, but couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  “Stop being dense. I want to know your angle, your game. Why did you help my son and free my wife?” Mr. Bradley said.

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I furrowed my brow and shook my head as much to try to figure out what to say as to show him I had no idea what he was getting at.

  He slapped the other side of my face. That one hurt, but faded to a sting quickly.

  “I don’t have a game,” I said, and mentally called out for Urd again. Still no answer.

  “Everyone has a game. What were you looking to get? Money? Power?” />
  Oh! He thought I wanted to blackmail him or something like that. “I don’t want anything.”

  Confusion briefly ran across his face, and then he sneered. “You’re one of those.”

  “One of what?”

  “Weakling. Do-gooder. Bleeding heart.” He turned away as if he couldn’t bear the sight of me. “You people are the worst. You only do it because it makes you feel good. At least be honest that you’re only in it for yourself.” Mr. Bradley pivoted to face me and put his weight into the next slap. The impact caused my body to rise, and the restraints cut into me. My cheek burned and then throbbed. I tasted blood and sucked my lip into my mouth to stop the bleeding. That one hurt. I bit back tears. I didn’t want to cry; I’d been doing that far too much.

  “You promised.” Another man’s voice came from the back corner of the room.

  I started and then turned my head as far as I could. I found a short, powerfully built man leaning up against the corner with his arms and ankles crossed. He also looked familiar.

  “We have an agreement.” He looked me over slowly, his gaze reptilian. The point of his tongue peeked out from between his lips and pulled back again. He too had no emotions and no aura. What in helheim was going on?

  “She’s fine,” Mr. Bradley told him. “And the agreement was that you get her after I’m done with her . . . if she survives.”

  The powerfully built man pushed himself away from the wall. “Then give me a taste.”

  Mr. Bradley looked back at me and smiled his cold smile. He held his hand up close to my face and I recoiled from it as much as I could. Something frigid, something I couldn’t see, brushed my face and retreated. I gasped, trying to pull back even more. After a long moment, Mr. Bradley looked back at the other man and nodded once. “Five minutes. No blades. And you’re to return her to normal afterward.”

  Mr. Bradley stepped back, and the man dropped the bars on one side of the bed. It tugged my arm and stretched it uncomfortably. He sat down and leaned over me, inhaling deeply through his nose. He shuddered ecstatically, and his eyes rolled back in his head.