by Jenn Stark
Only in darkness can you see the stars...
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As the Tarot incarnation of Justice, tracking down the outlaws of the psychic community and delivering them to Judgment is Sara Wilde’s business...and business is good.
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Now a rival syndicate known as The Shadow Court seeks to impose their own brand of justice, restricting magic to only the richest and most influential psychics, while stripping power from all the “undesirables” along the way. Their top priority? Hit Sara Wilde, guiding light of psychics everywhere, where it hurts…
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Right in the heart.
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From the crackling fires of Burning Man to Sara’s even more incendiary high school reunion, the path is never more twisted than when you follow The Wayward Star.
The Wayward Star
Wilde Justice, Book 5
Jenn Stark
For Misti
Run with the stars, beautiful girl.
1
In war, some battles you win, some you lose. And some you never stop fighting.
“The Nazi ratlines,” I muttered, staring up at the grandly elegant mansion nestled against the lush forest primeval in the foothills of the Swiss Alps. “I wouldn’t have thought they’d lead through here.”
“That was, you’ll agree, exactly the point.”
Beside me, Nigel Friedman scanned the walkway outside the ostentatious private castle with a faint air of refined censure, one of his most well-developed abilities. The Brit was dressed appropriately for the party at the multibillion-dollar home, his compact, special-ops-trained body encased in a well-cut dark gray suit and a snow-white open-necked shirt. Beside him, I felt woefully out of place, though for once it wasn’t because I was underdressed.
On the contrary, I was perfectly presented for this shindig in a red Chanel bandage dress and high-heeled boots that were definitely not meant for walking. All part of our cover as guests of the Odermatts, an excessively rich and moderately psychic power couple who threw fancy parties for fancy people about once a month at their mountain-bound fortress of excess.
The soirées usually drew the crème de la crème of Connecteds—seers, intuitives, readers, and magicians of some renown—whose bank accounts were as well developed as their psychic gifts. Before today, the Arcana Council had never responded to one of the Odermatts’ invitations. However, times, they were a-changing. Whether we liked it or not.
Besides, there was something to steal here. After all my years of artifact hunting, often on the shadowy side of the law, that always appealed.
“The psychoactive tracer is pinging into red, and a measure of intense psychic radioactivity is present on-site as well,” Nigel murmured. “It’s the same electrical signature we were able to identify from the Nazi uranium cubes recovered in Virginia. We can only hope the Odermatts haven’t opened their cubes as well, or it will make transport a lot less fun.”
I grinned. “At least you’ll never be scared in the dark again.”
Nigel ignored me, another one of his consummate skills. I wasn’t truly worried about us going nuclear, though. Back in the States, the Council’s head technical whiz kid, Simon, had assured us at length that the level of radioactive material in the famed Nazi artifacts we were searching for was negligible. That wasn’t their true threat.
The uranium cubes smuggled out of Nazi Germany had made history twice over. First, as the incentive that had helped propel the United States into the nuclear research race on a quest for who could develop the atom bomb fastest. Then as a startling discovery, only a few years ago, that those cubes had been merely props. Decoys and propaganda to make the Third Reich’s technology appear first-rate. After the cubes’ nuclear worth had been debunked, modern science had jeered, neo-Nazis had slunk away muttering, and everyone had had a good laugh. The uranium cubes sank once more into obscurity.
Then, within the last few weeks, one of them had been examined by a scientist with a certain measure of psychic skills. Using his Connected abilities, he realized that something didn’t quite square with these cubes. Specifically, they did possess power. Staggering power. Just not the kind of power anyone had understood.
An elegant squeal ahead of us drew my attention, as two thirty-something women bristling with diamonds embraced with all the affection of half-starved piranha.
“I’m not noticing any other artifact finders here,” Nigel murmured beside me. “Are you?”
“Nope, or much in the way of bodyguards. Nobody’s expecting to get bilked tonight, least of all by us. Which…presents some intriguing possibilities.” I eyed the two women, noting the flash of Byzantine earrings that dangled from the brunette’s ears. Along with their obvious material worth, they glinted with arcane power.
Nigel followed my stare. “Not the mission,” he reminded me. “We’re not here to engage. We watch, we learn, we fetch the cubes and leave. That’s it.”
“Killjoy,” I muttered.
It hadn’t taken long for a collection of the Nazi cubes to make their way to the Arcana Council, a collection of sorcerers, seers, and conjurers dedicated for thousands of years to the idea of balancing magic on Earth. Much like our role here tonight, the Council never officially engaged with anything. We were like the United Nations of magical peacekeeping—never taking sides, always watching to make sure nobody got too strong for their own good.
The Council’s style of sideline quarterbacking had worked relatively well for millennia, but new threats were coming out of the woodwork, challenging the place of magic on Earth and who should be controlling it. Worse, a disturbingly high number of Connecteds had started—some quietly, some not so quietly—assembling storehouses of magical gewgaws, whozits, and thingamajigs like the Nazi cubes we were hunting tonight, all with the apparent intention of preparing themselves for a Magical Throwdown to End All Throwdowns.
Fortunately, the Arcana Council loved nothing more than collecting random arcane flotsam and jetsam, especially if it kept it out of the hands of bad actors. This kind of arms race played right into our hands.
Which brought us to the not-so-fuzzy dice the Nazis had collected. Once Simon and his gang of tech heads had cracked open the cubes and examined their uranium interior, the truth had surprised us all. These cubes may have held no value in the nuclear war, but they were a game changer for those choosing sides in the coming global thermo-magical confrontation. Properly triggered, a few of these cubes could create a metaphysical blast that would wipe out all psychic abilities within a 2500-mile radius. Not a big deal if they got dropped in the middle of the ocean, maybe, though the dolphins would be pissed. But in a heavily populated metro area…it could be bad. Really bad. The fallout could potentially change the nature of magic forever.
Or so we feared. Nobody knew the exact damage we needed to control, because nobody had detonated these little cubes of joy yet. It gave a whole new meaning to rolling the dice.
To make things more fun, hundreds of these cubes were believed to exist, in various strengths, and we’d only recovered about fifty so far. If we knew about these Nazi cubes and their magical fallout potential, chances were good others did as well. Simon had pinpointed this location as a likely spot for some of the most intense cubes, so here we were.
“Put on your happy face,” Nigel warned. “We’ve got eyes on us.”
I dutifully managed a bright smile as we joined a line of guests walking up to the palatial mansion, each of its windows glowing with light in the early evening dusk. It was remarkably pretty—pristine, almost—and seemed incredibly wrong.
“Nobody has any clue about what went on here after World War II?” I asked.
“The trail never got this far,” Nigel said. “Most of the European ratli
nes were designed to smuggle out people, the more notorious the better. Homes that merely served as storehouses for artifacts, artwork, and the random scientific detritus of the failed government were interesting only as far as the artifacts and artwork went. The rest simply didn’t matter. And, too, the Odermatts have lived on these grounds since the Middle Ages, and their ties to other political families throughout Europe have been tested over centuries. Nobody knew they were Nazi sympathizers, and nobody bothered asking too many questions. After the war, there was plenty of recovery work to do without opening random doors to see what skeletons lay behind them. Much of this area was devastated.”
I took in the stunning mansion again. “Yeah, I can tell they totally suffered.”
Nigel turned and regarded me critically, lifting his hand to tuck a wayward hair behind my ear. “Inside voice,” he reminded me.
I grudgingly kept my mouth shut as we made our way up the line and into the house. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t stroll in the front door of a house I planned to case, but tonight, subtlety wasn’t needed. The Odermatts might not have been high-level Connected, but their wealth evened the playing field, and they practically shimmered with the arrogance of the entitled elite. Plus, they were beyond delighted to have a member of the Arcana Council at their little party. These people were friends—in the way that wasps have friends—of a long-time compatriot of mine, Jean-Claude Mercault. He’d made formal introductions for me and assured me of a warm welcome.
That warm welcome now strode toward us, setting all my nerves on edge.
“Justice Wilde. Nigel Friedman. So good of you to grace our modest home with your presence.”
The man who made this falsely humble remark paused regally in front of us, resplendent in his dark tuxedo, blond hair, and shrewd hazel eyes, his aristocratic face arrested with interest as he glanced over Nigel and me. I was confident in my clothing. I’d been dressed by the best. But I still breathed a tiny sigh of relief as Count Augustine Odermatt continued with enthusiasm. Clearly, we’d passed the believability test.
“It is my deepest honor to share the evening with you,” he said. “Please. My house is yours.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, trying to look as innocent as possible. It was a struggle, but people saw what they wanted to see—and in the Arcana Council’s acceptance of his invitation, Augustine Odermatt saw a high psychic society coup, nothing more. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt us.
Nigel and I entered the house and were immediately ushered toward a series of ballrooms, each accessorized by elaborate bar setups and string quartets. Men in tuxedos, women in tasteful cocktail attire, some of the doyennes rocking floor-length gowns. Nigel strolled off to secure us both drinks, and his face was unusually grim as he returned to me.
“This is a very odd guest list,” he said. “I can’t figure out if it’s intentional or opportunistic.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t recognize these faces from your past client roster?”
I arched a brow at him. “I generally preferred the anonymous clients. They paid much better.”
“Well, it’s an impressive Who’s Who of Connected glitterati, many of whom are eyeing us with decided speculation. I’m curious to know if they consider the Council a threat or a potential collaborator.”
I snorted—then was forced to pause and truly consider the question. Nigel had a point. My personal circumstances had certainly changed of late. Not all that long ago, I would have been hired by these people to find them treasure or artifacts, whatever they coveted most. Now they might be thinking I could help them in an entirely different way.
“What’s in it for Count Odermatt?” I asked. “Some of these people are his competitors.”
Nigel shrugged. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. He definitely doesn’t think you’re here to steal his baubles, though. We’re not being watched by his security team, so far as I can tell.”
“Let’s try to keep it that way.”
“Justice Wilde! And Mr. Friedman. What an unexpected surprise.”
Both of us froze as we heard a voice that had become seared into my limbic system over these past few months, evoking an immediate, viscerally negative response outstripped only by damp Spanx. With a jackal’s smile and a feral glint in his pale blue eyes, the slender, blond-haired Jarvis Fuggeren strolled up to us. European jet setter, arcane black market drug dealer, and international moneyman, Jarvis was also quite likely the front man for the Shadow Court, a rival syndicate of Connecteds who’d recently made a bid to become Arcana Council Enemy Number One. We hadn’t quite proven that last bit yet, but seeing him here did not make my day.
I inclined my head. “Jarvis. I didn’t expect to find you anywhere in public for a while.”
“Truly? I would think you should expect me anywhere it is interesting to be. Which certainly would encompass anywhere that you are, Justice Wilde.” He gave me a deferential half bow.
So many accusations sprang to my mouth, I nearly gagged. I wanted to throttle the guy, but I couldn’t. I was Justice of the Arcana Council, and justice needed proof. Furthermore, any concession that Jarvis was driving me crazy with his damned near-impenetrable shadow organization would be foolish. I had to play it cool, here. Frosty with icicle sparkles. Even if it killed me.
“Always a pleasure,” I assured him instead. “Are you only in town for the day?”
“I’m afraid so. My duties are never-ending—much like yours, I’m sure. I’m here to drum up support for one of the many causes I hold so dear. The Odermatts were kind enough to give me a forum to state my case.” He pointed to one of the multimedia displays set up around the room—it seemed that screens were ubiquitous everywhere now, even for the rich and psychic. One screen displayed a tracery of supply-chain lines through central Europe. The image was branded with a company logo that I recognized as a front for technoceuticals—drugs laced with psychic-activating components. Another screen showed apparent recent coverage of a coastal city devastated by a hurricane, with a clearly concerned man in a white lab coat speaking to a reporter. Yet a third screen appeared to be pitching a time-share for an exclusive community somewhere very expensive and very tropical. Hopefully not the same resort that’d been flattened by the hurricane.
Jarvis caught me lingering on the screen that captured the aftermath of the brutal storm. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” he asked. “Despite all we can do in today’s age, humanity remains so fragile. It always feels like we should do more. Could do more, if only we bothered ourselves to care.”
“Uh-huh.” I tried to appear interested in Jarvis’s blather as the lab guy’s name flashed beneath his image, Dr. Sebastian Rindon. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. On the screen, Dr. Rindon continued to express deep concern, his brow furrowed intently above his safety goggles, and I glanced back to Jarvis. “So will you, then? Bother yourself to care?”
Jarvis spread his hands with a benevolent, all-encompassing gesture that took in the rest of the room. “Care about people who can make the world a better place, the True Connecteds whose abilities and resources truly matter? I can think of no higher calling. You showing your solidarity with the Odermatts, Justice Wilde, goes a long way to encouraging the generosity of everyone attending this gathering. You should be commended for coming here tonight. You are welcome, despite the lowly circumstances of your upbringing. Unlike the madding crowd of so many of the Connected community, scraping along with party tricks and sleight of hand, you are special. You belong.”
I curled my lip. This was exactly why I hated parties like the Odermatts’—and people like Jarvis Fuggeren. They didn’t make me want to belong. They made me want to throat punch someone. Both for my own sake and for the sake of those Connecteds whom Jarvis and company were so absolutely certain didn’t belong.
Watch, listen and learn, I reminded myself. Don’t engage.
That dictate had served the Council well for thousands of years. Why did
it now feel so wrong?
Nigel coughed discreetly. “Herr Fuggeren, I should tell you that our host has been valiantly trying to capture your attention for the past ten seconds—”
We both shifted our focus to Odermatt, whose smile broadened as he caught our eye. The man did appear a little desperate, though that could have been due to the harpy next to him, who gripped a tumbler of what I assumed was vodka while she stared at us with accusing eyes.
“Madame LeGrieux,” Jarvis murmured, sounding only slightly put out. “You’ll excuse me. She can be so persistent. But I do look forward to speaking with you again.”
Nigel and I watched him slither away, and I gripped my clutch purse with perhaps a little more force than necessary. “Let’s get this over with.”
With my stalwart Brit standing at an angle to block me from prying eyes, I unsnapped the beaded bag and dipped my hand inside, riffling the deck of Tarot cards. I’d drawn the cards on hundreds of former occasions while competing against Nigel, of course, which made drawing three out now almost nostalgic. I frowned as I glanced at the first card. Maybe a little too nostalgic.
“Kids?” I asked. The Six of Cups was one of the few cards that featured children, and was all about focusing on memories of the past, fondness optional. “Are there children’s rooms in this mausoleum?”
Nigel frowned. “Not that I know of. What else could it mean?”
I ran through the gamut. “Events of your past, memories, nostalgia, childhood, children or teenagers, early schooling—like kindergarten and primary grades…” I blew out a breath. “Another option is any room given over to history, but that’s a little too on the nose. That’ll only be the starting point.”
His lips thinned. “Agreed. And the others?”
“Five of Swords and Lovers,” I said, scanning the cards before slipping them back into my clutch. “So you win, but you’re not happy about it, and…”