by Jackie Ivie
“And his business is...?”
“I was just about to ask. De Crecy? Why are you calling, please?”
“I need a number.”
“Oh. Allow me, please. How about eight,” Nigel answered.
“Nigel.”
The speakers resounded with Akron’s voice. It rattled two of the statues in Wystan’s crypt. It also echoed for some moments before the sound dulled to a slight humming noise.
“What? He wanted a number. I gave him one.”
“You’re a bit testy this evening. Issues?”
“Oh. It’s nothing. Nothing really. Can we just move on?”
“You haven’t been betting with Lizbeth again, have you? Still attempting to prove male superiority?”
“She said she could get a higher score than me on VIDWAR because she can use the algorithms behind the game plays. She knows which hits gain more points and goes after them. She said it doesn’t matter how many times a player dies and re-spawns. What matters is getting the right kills in the shortest amount of time.”
“Ah. Dexterity versus strategy. I see. And you lost?”
“So now I have to watch her play my game on my monitor while I research the Knights of the Round Table. It’s not funny.”
Akron was definitely chuckling. It didn’t last.
“Forgive me, Nigel. I just find you so...refreshingly young. Perhaps we should get back to Sir Wystan’s call, before he runs out of time?”
“Oh. Sir Galahad? Grab a new phone. We’ll call you right back.”
The cell in Wystan’s hand went dead. That matched most of the surroundings. The Crecy family crypt was constructed of gray stone. It had a huge sculpted angel on the roof peak outside. Inside, the designers had carried over the same scheme. Reliefs of fallen angels were carved along every wall, their arms reaching as if to embrace a niche containing a shrouded skeleton. The four stone pedestals in the floor had the same imagery. Carved angel wings supported stone slabs for holding the same type of occupant. Shrouded. Still. Skeletal. Dead.
One was empty.
His.
Wystan wasn’t in here to rest. He’d had to leave his mate’s proximity or react. And this was where he kept his bin full of cell phones. One of them vibrated before a low tone emitted from to it. Wystan fished it out, pushed the “call” button, pressed it to his ear, and started pacing again.
“All right, de Crecy. I do have to agree with Nigel. It’s a woman. That being the case, I already started a search. I see you are in the middle of a weekend Winter Renaissance Faire...on your castle grounds.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, for a recluse, that behavior is rather odd. What time is it over there? Two in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“You expect this faire to go all night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do know. It’s in the fine print of the contract that you signed. Ah. Look here. They will shut down operations between the hours of four a.m. and eight. Just long enough to sober up, I assume. That was generous of you. What on earth made you agree to this?”
“I just need a cell number, sir.”
“That is a negative.”
Wystan stopped walking. He stared at one of his dead ancestors.
“We don’t put traceable technology in the hands of a novice. At least, not until someone offers up particulars. You have found your mate. Yes?”
“No way,” Nigel inserted. “He did not have that happen. We just talked to him this afternoon. Four hours ago. Max. No. I don’t believe it. No.”
“We’ll need particulars, Wystan. Where is she?” Akron asked.
“How do we know she’s not with him?” Nigel asked.
“He’s requesting a cell phone number, Nigel.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right. So, tell us already, Galahad. Where is your mate? And I hope she’s old and ugly and shriveled-up and—”
“Nigel. Do you want me to intercede with Lizbeth?”
“Oh, no sir. That would be tantamount to surrender.”
“Very good. Then keep to the job at hand. Before we need another connection.”
“What was it again?”
“Sir Wystan’s mate. And her location. And you can speak at any time, de Crecy. It might save Nigel.”
“Oh. She’s in some cold room. Doing something about police procedure.”
“Your mate is in law enforcement? Hmm. That could get a bit...complicated. Especially when you consider our line of work. Nigel. Start searching for police activity in the Marche area. Nothing? Use the Abyss Link. Look for hidden activity. Covert. Special operations. Ah. Here it is. Apparently there was a sting operation at your estate tonight. It involved a nasty sexual predator. A female officer from the states is being credited with the collar, despite the perpetrator’s words of a giant fellow with a large sword. That’s rather interesting.”
“I can explain,” Wystan replied.
“Later, maybe. At the moment, I need to know the name of your mate. It could get a lot more complicated if it’s Eleanor Munson.”
“No. She said her name was Rachel. Rachel Berne.”
“Got her. Screen image coming up...now, and...well.”
“Wow! She’s just...wow.”
Nigel punctuated his words with a low whistle. Wystan’s eyes narrowed on the wall as he fought the rise of something he hadn’t felt in centuries. Could it be emotion? He was feeling anger? Jealousy?
“Well. That decides that. We can’t issue you a number. Nor, can we give you hers.”
“Why not?”
“Law enforcement personnel are not fond of things like unauthorized searching of data bases or phone tampering. Not only that, but it amounts to what humans have titled the crime of stalking. Trust me on this.”
“How can I contact her, then?”
“Let me think. Does she have any special interests that you know of?”
“Maybe. What’s a lesbian?”
Nigel choked and then was sputtering all kinds of words. “Oh, man! You gotta be kidding me! Can I tell him, sir? Can I? Please? Let me do it. Please? Oh, please?”
“Go ahead, Nigel. I’ll do research. And this, I’ve got to hear. Oh. Keep it clean. You’re speaking to a knight of the Honor Order here, not one of your Seventies peers.”
“Clean? Okay. Here goes. Sir Galahad! Buddy! You are either the most curst vampire in history...or the luckiest undead man walking. I’ll start with the cursed part of that.”
“Curst?”
“Yeah. Lesbians are like...homosexual. As in, they like the same gender. Girls like girls. Boys like boys. If she’s full lesbian...uh...you might consider not turning her at all. Just let her go. An eternity of celibacy has to be better than a forever reminder of what might be available and ready, but you can’t have it.”
“Excuse me?”
“But if she’s bi-sexual! Oh...baby! If she swings either way, then your luck knows no bounds! You are going to get involved in girl-on-girl action and three-ways like...whenever you want. Forever.”
“Three-ways?”
“Two women with one guy – that would be you. Picture the three of you. All naked. Limbs entwined. On a king-sized bed. Or...maybe in a large shower. Using tongues. Body parts. Uh...maybe even manual stimulation equipment. Imagine the positions! Any. All. Wow. You lucky bastard. I don’t even have a woman around, and you’ll get two of them.”
“You’re talking...copulation?”
Akron was laughing. Wystan was reeling in place. Images of what Nigel was describing were warring with building rage at Nigel even thinking about Wystan’s mate in that capacity. Especially naked. The sensation he’d felt moments earlier got hotter. Incensed. Furious. If this was emotion, it was bad. The view of his crypt got washed with blood-red hues on every eye blink, while flickers of fire ate through him. He was breathing deeply and harshly, his lips open, allowing room for the fangs that were almost at full length. Akron spoke next.
“You sound as if you know
a bit about this subject, Nigel. I had no idea the Seventies were so enlightened.”
“I have a vivid imagination, sir. Good thing, since I don’t have women around me, like ever.”
“Aren’t we forgetting Lizbeth?”
“Oh. Come on. She doesn’t count. She isn’t remotely womanly. She’s more like...a walking computer with boobs.”
“We’re almost out of time again. De Crecy? We’ll call you back.”
Akron was laughing again. Wystan tightened his fist so that the phone fizzled, sending heat through his hand and lower arm. He pitched it against a wall, where it exploded in a shower that contained plastic bits and blackened circuitry. His eyes narrowed as he watched the last sparks die on the stone floor.
Another phone vibrated and then it started singing in a high voice. Wystan grabbed it and pressed the “call” button just to shut it up.
“De Crecy? Good. You’re still with us. I hope you’ll forgive Nigel.”
Akron was still chuckling. It wasn’t remotely funny. Wystan didn’t reply.
“I’ve got good news for you, however. You there?”
“Yes.” The word was short. Clipped.
“You angry?”
“Yes.”
“Apologies. I should’ve handled it. I hope this helps. Every covert action has some falsehoods about it. This sting was no exception. You follow?”
“No.”
“The woman you met tonight was acting. Some of what happened might be real, some false.”
“This is not helping,” Wystan informed him.
“I was researching while Nigel was shooting off his mouth. Miss Rachel Berne doesn’t have much on record, but she did file charges against a boyfriend last year. That does mean, even if she claims lesbianism, at one point she liked men.”
“I am getting more angered,” Wystan informed him.
“Very well. I’ll talk faster. The woman named Eleanor Munson? Well, that woman has a husband. That should be even more help. Yes?”
A cooling sensation started in the pit of his belly and spread outward. It probably showed in his one-word answer.
“Yes.”
“Good. Luckily, your mate is still on the premises. I took the liberty of having a message delivered to her. She’s invited to an incredibly late visit at your castle. You might wish to dress in something a bit more appropriate. I hope this information helps a bit. De Crecy? You there?”
The phone went silent from where he’d dropped it. He didn’t waste time ending the call. He could fetch it later. He had to reach his castle. And prepare.
CHAPTER SIX
“Thanks for giving me full credit for the bust. I owe you.”
“He won’t be harming little boys from where he’s going. That’s what matters.”
Rachel didn’t look up from her pseudo-tankard of spiced mead as she spoke. The tankard was crafted of heavy plastic. Fake. Just like almost everything around her. They were sitting on benches that looked like they’d come from the nearest kiddie park, under an enormous tent that looked machine-crafted, and watching some guys at one end sing raucous lyrics set to tunes they coaxed from some odd-looking instruments. It probably would’ve been better if they’d foregone the amplifier and microphone system, but they’d have been drowned out by the noise, otherwise. The place was doing a brisk business. Still. Everywhere she looked, people were having a good time. Or faking it.
Not Rachel.
She felt flat. Dull. Empty. Everything seemed murky and dark. Maybe it was due to the smoke coming off barrels of oil they’d placed all about the area. Or, it could be the torches sputtering away in their brackets from spikes that had been stuck into the ground. Good thing they had both ends of the tent open. They needed the fresh air.
“You know...instead of looking at that drink, you could enjoy it. Or we might as well get back to the hotel,” Eleanor told her.
“You don’t have to stay.”
“And I thought you hated that outfit. Couldn’t wait...to get it off.”
“Yeah. I did.” Rachel started pulling hairpins from her hair with one hand. The other lifted her mead. Took a sip. It was good stuff. Smooth. Sweet. Tasty.
“I don’t suppose you got his name?” Eleanor asked.
Rachel’s throat stopped on the swallow. Her heart followed suit. She had to force the mead down to reply.
“Who?” she asked in a nonchalant tone.
“The guy at your feet. The one in leather shoulder pads, gray-shaded tights, and kick-ass sword. The guy with the fantastic abs. And chest. And arms. And legs. Oh, screw it. I’m going to say...just about all of him was fantastic. That one.”
“Oh. I got his name.”
“Sweet!”
“Look. Munson. Can we talk of something else?”
“Right. Like that’s going to work on me. I do interrogations in my sleep. So. Why the long face, honey? You got his name. Did you get his number?”
Rachel put the tankard back down on the tabletop, avoiding a sticky spot some earlier drinker had left. They didn’t use tablecloths in here. It would be a waste. They’d be closing this place down in a couple of hours. Probably to clean up.
She worked the last of her hairpins free and pulled the hat off. She immediately straightened as if a great weight had come off her. She didn’t take down or unfasten her braids. They didn’t make her top-heavy. She wrapped the gauze about the cone-thing before putting it in her lap. She was stalling. It didn’t work. Munson was right. She was a great interrogator. The Brits probably should’ve requested her help with that part of the operation as well.
“You know...we’ve got all night,” Munson said.
“He said he didn’t have a number.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“Oh. Shit. I’m sorry. Sounds like he gave you the brush-off. The bastard. Give me his name. I’ll put out a warrant on him.”
“It’s okay. Really. I mean, what am I supposed to do with him anyway?”
Her companion sputtered, and then laughed pretty heartily. “Oh. This is rich. Here I thought you were an edgy type. What do you do with him? You handcuff him to a bedpost and take him for a test drive. And he looked perfectly capable of handling anything on your roads. Hell. If I wasn’t married, I’d help.”
“I mean after the sex. Then what? Logistically speaking, it’s better this way. Really.”
“Bullshit. With a capital ‘B’.”
Eleanor opened the little purse she’d secured under her belt, took out a silver canteen, unscrewed the top, and poured something into her tankard. Rachel watched without comment. Well. That explained why mead was kicking Eleanor’s ass.
“Munson. I’m a New Yorker. He’s a Brit.”
“So?”
“I have a life.”
“Right. Allow me to point out that you have a teeny apartment, no close relatives, and the same specter of breast cancer that took your mother hovering over you. Some life.”
“Are you trying to depress me?”
“Nope. Just pointing out the obvious. Your life is a dead-end hamster wheel going nowhere. Why else would you be spending your vacation chasing a pedophile?”
“Because the bastard was not slipping away again.”
“Oh, Rachel. Forgive me. I shouldn’t talk and drink. My mouth is in gear and my brain isn’t driving. Feel free to smack me anytime.”
Eleanor Munson took a deep draught from her tankard. She obviously wasn’t planning to drive anywhere. That was okay. Rachel was completely sober. She’d have them at their hotel in London probably before sun-up.
“His name was Wystan. Wystan, Something-or-other, Crecy.”
Eleanor spewed her swallow, and then started choking. It wasn’t faked. Rachel was rising to assist before she got waved off.
“Holy...crime shit. Wystan Ryn de Crecy? Do you know...who that is?”
“Sounded familiar. Should I know it?”
“Pull out your entry pass. Look at it.”
/> That piece of paper was wadded into a pocket next to the cuffs she’d misplaced earlier. Rachel took it out, smoothed it, and then lifted it, squinting at the ornate printing. The light was terrible for people watching. It was ridiculously awful for reading.
“Okay. It says ‘Ticket holder is entitled to the entire weekend at the Winter Renaissance Faire at Castle...Crecy’. We’re at Castle Crecy? No. He can’t. Are you going to tell me that guy owns this place?”
Munson nodded. “You really should read more of the stuff I do.”
“I don’t like tabloid fodder.”
“If that guy was Sir Wystan de Crecy? Wow. I mean double wow. He’s like, one of the country’s most eligible bachelors. Should I mention he’s a millionaire, too? Maybe I should make that billionaire. Nobody knows for certain. He’s exceptionally secretive. Reclusive. And...oh man. I had no idea. The guy is such an introvert, he’s like a ghost. He’s never photographed. Never interviewed. Hell...if I’d known that was what he looked like? If anyone knew what he looked like? We wouldn’t be able to get through the crowd of women surrounding the place.”
“Must you?”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be maligning the guy. He’s a jerk. With incredibly poor eyesight. I mean...how could he overlook you? In that dress? Wait. This looks promising.”
“What?”
“There is a butler-looking fellow in the doorway. He’s focusing on us. Yes. I was right. Here he comes.”
“You are so full of it.”
Despite her words, Rachel looked. There really was an elderly fellow weaving through the tables. He was wearing a perfectly ironed dark suit and carrying a polished silver tray. He reached the end of their table and executed a little dip of his head toward her. That was cute.
“Good morning. You are the Lady Rachel Berne?”
“Uh...”
“Say yes!” Munson hissed it.
Rachel chuckled a bit. Why not?
“Yes,” she answered. And then wondered if she should get up and curtsey or something.
“I have a note for you. My lady.”
He lowered his tray so she could lift the envelope resting there. Wow. It was made from very heavy paper. Embossed. Sealed. And it had been resting on a bed of what looked like rose petals.