by Linda Welch
The street lights flashed in the corners of my eyes and I’m sure that’s why tears pricked them. It had nothing to do with the crazy mixture of emotions which surged through me. Fear for Royal, relief Gia agreed to help, trepidation for what came next. I dreaded this expedition. People speak of a sense of doom - I felt it on a purely gut level, as if I naively ran toward an escapade from which I might not return.
I glanced up at Royal’s windows as I drove past his block.
And saw a diffused glow.
My foot hit the brake. Luckily nobody drove behind me or they’d be up the Xterra’s rear. The car idled as I hunched to see through the windscreen, not sure I didn’t imagined what I wanted to see. But yes, the lights were from the living room, shining through the open door to our office, and the gate stood open.
I eased the car to the curb and put my hand on the door, but it stayed there as all my old inhibitions resurfaced. Royal was fine and had been all along. He’d been off doing his own thing, getting away from me, he didn’t want to be with me any longer. That’s why he didn’t answer his phone. Leaving his cell in my drawer was nothing more than a mistake. He didn’t want me, but didn’t have the guts to tell me.
What did I do wrong? Because it was always me, wasn’t it. I should be surprised we lasted as long as we did. I took my hand from the door. I’d survived broken relationships before. I’d get over it.
I blinked up at the light owlishly, eyes wide so they would not tear up.
The moment passed. I came to my senses. Don’t be a drama queen, Tiff. My hands tightened on the steering wheel. Royal would have an explanation when I got up there. His face would come alight when he saw me, arms clasp me to him so tight I could barely breathe.
I scooted from the car and slammed the door. In seconds, I stood at the bottom of the wrought iron stair, brushing my hand over the black letters etched in our copper sign.
Banks and Mortensen. Private Investigators. Partners.
I trotted up the steps, past the office door and paused in front of his apartment entrance to catch my breath. A ribbon of light showed beneath the door. It swung open as I reached for the knob.
He stood in the glow of the half dozen ceiling lamps, their light picking out glittering strands in his hair. His mouth widened in a dazzling smile as his arms spread in welcome.
Disappointment clogged my throat. Then I scowled. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Christopher Plowman took my hand and pressed the back to his lips. “Mon amour, je tombe à tes pieds comme l’adoration.”
I don’t know what he said, but how he said it made me a little weak in the knees.
I stared at his bent head with something like horror. I barely knew him, and Royal didn’t tell me much. Chris was British to the bone when I last saw him in his Boston hotel. The sleek Gelpha briefly lived in England and decided to become an English gentleman; he embraced the concept wholeheartedly. Now, not only must I deal with him breaking into Royal’s apartment, I couldn’t understand a word he said.
“Don’t tell me, you decided you’re French now?”
His lids lowered over smoke-gray eyes with glistening pupils. “Cosmopolitan, my dear,” he said in that low, slow, lazy drawl which made my stomach flutter pleasantly.
I tried to free my hand. His grip tightened. I glared. “Loose it or lose it, bud.”
He sighed heavily and released my hand. “So lovely, yet so cruel.”
All Gelpha are beautiful and Chris is no exception. Not lovely like Gorgeous Gorge, and he does not have Royal’s sheer masculinity. Chris is tall, slender and elegant. He carries himself with an air of sophistication and total self-assurance, and totes an ego the size of Texas.
“What are you doing here?”
He flipped one hand to indicate the room. “It’s adequate for my needs and unoccupied at the moment.”
I leaned in. “How do you know that?”
He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “Oh, yes, closer, my Lovely. Closer.” He pulled a deep breath through his nose as if sucking in my scent. “You smell wonderful.”
He smelled of citrus and ginger, cool compared to Royal’s hot spicy scent. Silk-smooth, shoulder-length hair of shimmering gray and glistening black strands draped the wide shoulders of an impeccably tailored dark-blue jacket, a match for sharply creased trousers. A black silk shirt opened at the neck. From the material and cut, I could tell his outfit cost a bundle, including the shining black shoes, heavy silver bracelet watch and thick silver band on his index finger.
I moved back. Plowman stood high on the list of people I did not trust since the day in Boston when he tried to influence me in front of Royal. “What do you know about Royal?”
He inched one shoulder up. “I keep my ear to the Gelpha community. I heard vague rumors you went to the High House and asked about Royal. You seem to have misplaced him.”
“So you zipped to the States to see for yourself?” He must have used the Ways to get here this quickly.
“I thought to hire a good private investigator. Are you busy at the moment?”
I tucked my chin in my neck. “You think I’m not already doing my damndest to find him?”
He reached for my hand again. When I glared, he mockingly threw his hands to shoulder height. “Do come in and relax, my dear. You are cold. Let me rub those icy fingers in my hands. I will have you warm in a jiffy.”
“I’m fine. My hands are fine,” I said, ticked to the nth degree. I marched past him and in the living room, and stopped near the big leather travelling trunk. Chris closed the front door with a soft click.
My gaze swept the apartment and stopped at the mess in the kitchen, the counter littered with Chinese takeout cartons and a pizza box. He sure ate a lot in the brief time he’d been here. Dinner plates, utensils, an empty wine bottle and used wineglass sat on the table. He’d spilled food on the board floor and not cleaned it up.
He came to sit on the couch. Unbuttoning his jacket, he casually cocked one knee over the other, tugged at his cuffs and draped his arm along the couch back. He took his time looking me over. “Do you always dress down? You would be stunning in attire a little more … glamorous.”
“And you’ll be stunning in the next cab outta here,” I snapped back. “If you have bags, you better pack them.”
He brought his arm down and studied his nails. “Oh, I think not.” He met my eyes. “You need help. I am here to provide it.”
My hands went to my hips. “I have help. I don’t need you.”
“Don’t go with her, Tiff.” His gaze became intense. “She is dangerous. She has an ulterior motive.”
Flabbergasted, my lips moved but nothing came out. I bet I looked like a fish with its mouth pulsing.
My brain went ping! “You were outside her place! Did you follow me?”
“Fortunately. Tiff, do sit down.”
“Nope. Not staying long enough.” I twisted and headed for the door.
With a burst of demon speed, he barred my way before I could blink. Leaning on the door, he crossed his arms over his chest.
I started to seethe. “Don’t make me do anything you’ll regret.”
A spark lit in his eyes. “Promises, promises.”
Ulterior motive? I eyed him narrowly. What did he know I didn’t? I swung and went back to the couch in front of the Christmas trees. He sauntered over and sat on the other couch opposite me. I eased down, sat with my knees together, hands clasped on them.
“So what is this ulterior motive?”
“I have no idea. But she has one. The Cousins don’t care about Royal.”
“I know. I helped her out a while back; she’s returning the favor.”
His eyes rolled. “You actually believe that?”
Did I? I didn’t want to think about it, and I did not want him to plant more uncertainties in my mind. “I’ve made my decision. Let’s talk about something else. You heard what I told Gia - what do you know about Cicero?�
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He stroked the soft leather of the couch. “Nothing more than he is one of the High House’s Seers.”
“And Orcus?”
“My parents threatened me with him when I was a child. You know: behave, or Orcus will come for you,” he said “Unfortunately, he’s no mythical monster. He’s very real and someone to be avoided at all cost.”
“Why does he work for the High House, if he’s so nasty?”
“Like Cicero, he’s a Seer.”
“What do Seers do, predict the future?”
“They seem to know … everything. They provide intelligence to their House. In this time of unrest, it is primarily rival House’s Machiavellian plots.” Chris now held a white handkerchief with which he polished his silver cufflinks. “Cicero has uncovered many a spy or traitor in the High House. He also advises and guides the High Lord.”
“Isn’t that the Council’s job?”
“It is, but Cicero has the authority to veto the Council’s acts or legislation and enact his.”
I silently whistled. “One powerful dude, then. Do you know where he lives?”
“I can discover where in Bel-Athaer he resides.”
I humphed. “But that’ll take time and Gia already knows.”
“Tiff, Tiff,” he crooned melodramatically. “Royal won’t thank me for letting you go with a Dark Cousin. My way will be slower, but safer.”
I rose to my feet. “Listen up, noodle-brain. It’s all arranged and you’re not included. I gotta go. And clean the place up before you leave.”
“Before I leave? I’m not going anywhere, Tiff.” Then he stared past my shoulder as a small frown formed between his brows. “Excuse me, are you suggesting I clean up?”
“Won’t clean itself and Royal keeps it neat.”
“I would not know where to begin. My staff take care of my domestic needs and I presumed you tend to Royal’s.” He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. “After all, you take care of his other needs.”
I shook my head in disbelief and went in the kitchen. He ate the toppings off three slices of pepperoni pizza but left the crust. What a child. He’d demolished three cartons of Chinese, but prawn and ginger, white rice, spare ribs, beef in black bean sauce, and chicken chow mien congealed in open cartons. And a box of spring rolls.
He’d better clear it up. Royal would have a conniption if he found his kitchen in this state, but I would not touch it. Not my mess.
I didn’t hear him move, but he stood close behind me. “Can I tempt you?”
I inched away. “That? It’s disgusting.”
“I didn’t mean the food.”
Oh boy, talk about hot and heavy, and I don’t mean just his demon heat on my back or breath in my hair. I slued around him and made for the door.
The damn man barred my way again. He spread his arms as if to embrace me. I stopped him with a stiff index finger to the chest. He sighed.
“Good-bye, Mr. Plowman,” I said firmly.
Before I could move my hand, he trapped it again. His heat flowed over my hand, up my arm and blossomed in my breast. I wrenched my hand loose and tried to squelch the tingling in places which should not tingle. Not for Chris Plowman, anyhow.
“Au revoir, ma chere. Until we meet again.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
He opened the door for me and I swept out, chin in the air and a flutter in my chest.
Oops! Almost forgot. I turned back. “Do demons… .” I blushed - out of the mouth, foot. “I mean, do Gelpha have their own language?”
Lounging on the door frame, he laughed. “It’s quite all right.” His tone deepened. “It’s our sizzling passion and our hot, hot bodies.”
My mouth dried. I couldn’t pull my gaze from his. “What’s… ? What are you talking about?”
“Why you call us demons. Understandable, given our hot - ”
“Ok!” I dragged my eyes down and focused on his chin. “Do you have your own language?”
“Naturally. Many.”
“But the people in Bel-Athaer who spoke to me used English.”
“No doubt they were being polite.”
“And writing?”
“As many as there are languages, although so similar that apart from variations in spelling and local slang, they might as well be one. Not surprising as they derived from a single, archaic form of the written word.”
“Okay, thanks.” I turned on my heel and started down the stair.
“Can you not linger a little longer?”
“Nope,” I said over my shoulder.
“But … how does one operate a dishwasher?”
I grinned and kept going.
Lance’s tone could not have been drier. “You don’t know your ancient Chaldean, Banks.”
“It’s Greek to me.”
“Don’t be facetious, I’m not in the mood.”
“So it’s … Chaldean?”
“Yeah. Babylon. Nebuchadnezzar. Way back in five-hundred-something BC. Chaldean.”
I made a face at my phone. “Oh, that Chaldean.”
“I suppose you can be forgiven your ignorance.” Lance cleared his throat. “The single sheet. You want my opinion? The girl wanted to give her teacher heartburn. It’s homework.”
As my brain said, it could be a sheet torn from a notebook, homework or a class assignment, my mouth said, “She sure went to a lot of trouble to mess with her teacher.”
A scritch scritch scritch. I decided Lance was scratching his scalp. “I gotta admit, she’s a smart girl.
“The book, though, that’s something else. It’s a modern edition. Why does someone write sci-fi in Chaldean, and what publisher prints the dang thing?”
“Did you say sci-fi?” Surely I misheard him.
“See what you think. I’ll fax it right over.”
I’d rather have a digital file I could save on my Mac. “Can you e-mail it as an attachment?”
“Here she comes. Just so you know, the Chaldeans used a full alphabet so it’s a verbatim translation, words even you can understand. And Banks, don’t waste my time again.”
“Sorry, Lance. Thanks, Lance. You’re a doll, Lance.”
If he said anything more, I didn’t hear. I snapped my phone shut and raced up the stairs.
I read Lance’s translation of the handwritten sheet first. Yeah, homework or some such, but you don’t know your history, Lance. This was demon history.
“Who rules House Styl. Who did they succeed? With which Houses are they closely allied and why?”
“Lord Hesper is Lord of Styl. He took the Seat after his sister Bellane died. Styl allies with House Pentmora and House Kragh because they share a border.”
“What name did Barack de Gabon’s troops bestow upon him at the Battle of Whent?”
“Barack de Gabon’s troops called him Barack the Berserker.”
“For what is Wyreth Crag infamous?”
“Geraldi Bon Hamun held Wyreth Crag against House Lambeth for sixteen days with ten men to protect the women and children who escaped when Bon Hamun was overcome during the Battle of Clideth.
I scrolled down to the “sci-fi” and scanned the page.
“You must understand that Bel-Athaer is one of many dimensions that occupy the same position or plane. How can that be, you ask? You have risen from and looked down upon the world. You see its shape, the oceans, the continents; the great Black Sea, the blue cliffs of Bede, the Pandar peninsula. It is solid. You harvest its bounty. Yet those of the plane they call Earth also look down upon their world.
“You may try to deny this impossibility. You may ask, how can Earth exist? It is not above us in our sky. It is not deep in the bowels of Bel-Athaer. But it is real, this land which should not be.
“If there is a scientific explanation, it is beyond us at this stage of our development.
“This we know. Nomadic tribes walked the Ways between, dimension to dimension, adapting their bodies to accommodate each environment. Unlike natural evolution, they contr
olled their metamorphosis to quickly become acclimated and flourish on the bounties of the dimension in which they dwelled. In bands small and large, they bided in the Otherworlds until they tired of the novelty and moved on. A clan lingered in this land they named Bel-Athaer, pleased with its beauty. They were here when the Ways between closed and separated them from their kin.
“They discovered that one Way remained open to them, and hypothesized this could be because the two planes are similar. They investigated the second plane and therein found life suitable for their purpose. They took this life and enslaved it. They adapted their form so they could breed with it. They named themselves Mothers. Thus were born the Gelpha, offspring of the Mothers and the children of Earth.
“The Gelpha grew in number and bred one with another. These Gelpha evolved and eventually became what we are today.
“We are not ageless, age and disease take us, and our ability to influence Men is a remnant of the Mothers’ power. We are altogether remnants of what the Mothers became when they were trapped in Bel-Athaer.”
I’m glad my feet were on the floor or what I saw would have blown my socks off. I stopped breathing and stared at the paper till the words blurred and ran together.
Is this what I think it is?
My heart hammered. The skin on my arms looked like a plucked goose. I blinked hard, went back to the beginning and started again, this time reading slowly, absorbing every word, then read on.
“Over the ages we multiplied and were slaves to the Mothers. But we rose and challenged their authority. Although they do not die a natural death, they can be killed. When we slew two Mothers, the tribe capitulated. They are few and we are many. In time we could have killed them all. We made a pact. They left Bel-Athaer to live in Earth and can return only with the permission of the High House, a request granted only after lengthy deliberation.
“What follows is the accumulated lore of our people, passed generation to generation by word of mouth. These tales of the Mothers cannot be substantiated, some may be fallacy or exaggeration, or have changed over time with the telling, but we believe they represent what we suffered and how we gained our freedom.”
Finally, I put the paper down and tried to decide how to react. Laugh? Crumple the papers and toss them in the trash? I couldn’t. I’ve seen too much strangeness in my lifetime to pretend I read fantasy. And I knew the Mothers were still here.