Chapter Eleven
Anastasia, Hillary and Tyler were waiting for them at the warehouse when they pulled up almost an hour later. Empty pizza boxes and soda bottles had been tossed into an upended empty wooden crate. Tyler, as usual, was hunched over his laptop, and he was still wearing the same clothes he’d arrived in a day and a half ago. Hillary was sitting on a couch, with a towel spread out underneath her so she didn’t actually have to touch the furniture. She was wearing a new outfit, a lilac linen trouser suit; she must have gone home at some point.
Anastasia was reading a book. She glanced up when they came in, and she didn’t look like someone who had good news to deliver.
“Everything went to hell,” Dominick told Tyler.
“We heard,” Tyler said. “Fraser kept us updated.”
“So please tell us that you have good news,” Pixie added. “Do we know how to make the antidote? Ion escaped without giving it to us, assuming that he ever really planned to, and he’s furious because he’s been double crossed by the person we were supposed to steal the jewel from. ”
“Authorities in France have found the man who created the plague, a wizard who actually calls himself Plague,” Tyler said. “His real name was Elmer Witherspoon. Go figure. Anyway, he used to work as a laboratory assistant, and apparently he stole plague samples that were being stored at the facility where he worked, and started peddling magic-enhanced versions on the black market. Through him, we found out who Ion Barbu and Craig Biltmore really are. The antidote…that’s where we’re running into a problem.”
“What is the problem? Don’t say there’s a problem.” Pixie felt panic welling up inside her.
“Remember I told you that the virus and the antidote are created at the same time?” Anastasia said. “The magic ingredient needed to make the virus work is Ion Barbu’s blood, and therefore, we need the blood for the antidote. Ion Barbu’s blood, at least a full vial. Elmer the Plague Witherspoon gave the authorities the formula for the antidote, in exchange for them taking the death penalty off the table, but it won’t work without Ion’s blood.”
Pixie and Dominick exchanged dismayed glances.
She collapsed on to the couch, and he sat next to her. “The man who calls himself Craig Biltmore sent Ion a note telling him to meet with him tomorrow, but he didn’t say where. He said he’d give Ion the jewel, in exchange for a hundred million dollars and the deeds to the family property. We’ve got to find out where they are, and we’ve got to get Ion’s blood. It’s our last chance. What do we know about them so far, Tyler?”
“We have preliminary information on them that seems to indicate that their names are Stefan and Tomas Rilke, but they also seem to have used a lot of aliases,” Tyler said. “They’re brothers, descended from a line of very wealthy aristocrats. Together, they own a large family estate in the countryside of France, and several others scattered around Europe. Authorities are having a very hard time finding their birth records. All of their property was originally purchased many centuries ago. Interpol is working on getting warrants so they can search the properties.”
“What about here?” Dominick asked.
“The police have put out an APB for them. They’re describing what happened at our headquarters as a terrorist attack. Their faces are all over the news, so it will be hard for them to move around undetected, but for men that wealthy, it won’t be impossible.”
“Do we know where Craig Baldwin lives?” Pixie asked.
“Craig is probably Tomas Rilke, and from what I’ve found out so far, he arrived in the U.S. a year ago, using very skillfully forged paperwork. As soon as Pixie called me with his name, and told me that you guys were going to his party, we notified the Playa Linda police,” Tyler said. “They arrived to find everybody standing outside because of some kind of power outage, and Tomas was gone. Nobody saw him leave. Police have already gone to the estate that he was renting. He hasn’t been back yet. They’ve left an officer in a patrol car to wait for him, but I doubt he’ll return.”
“Ion, or rather, Stefan, told us he always has multiple backup plans,” Dominick said. “So he’ll have other places to stay and lay low. I’m sure Tomas is the same way. ”
“I have a question,” Anastasia said. “The jewel you were supposed to steal, the one that the man named Stefan Rilke wants so desperately...tell me about that.”
“It looks like an insanely huge ruby. Stefan told me that it belongs to him, and Tomas stole it. Tomas apparently suspected something like this would happen, because he wore a necklace with a fake version of it, which he gave to me. Let’s see, Tomas referred to it as The Bloodstone, and – what?”
Anastasia was staring at Pixie as if she’d invoked the name of Satan.
“The Bloodstone. You’re sure.”
“Very sure. Why?”
“The Bloodstone is a myth. It’s one of those stories that’s too horrible to believe. The story goes that it was stolen from an Indian swami in the 16th century, and that it gave whoever possessed it immortality, but at a horrible price. The owner of it has to use the Bloodstone to suck the life force from a living child, and then they get to live out that child’s natural life span.”
“Oh, God.” Pixie leaned back on the couch, feeling queasy. “Who would want immortality at that high a cost?”
“Plenty of people,” Anastasia said, with a grim smile. “The kind of people I deal with all of the time. There are people who would pay any price to cheat death.”
From what Pixie had seen of the Rilke brothers so far, that sounded about right. Neither one of them would hesitate to kill anyone at all if it benefitted them.
“All right,” Pixie said. “Tell me more about this jewel.”
“Well, if it’s real, it doesn’t make any sense that Stefan would have sent you to steal it back from his brother.”
“Why?” Pixie asked. “I mean, I do wonder why he specifically sought me out, but then again, I have a reputation as a pretty good thief.”
“Because according to the legend, the only person who can touch it and survive is the person who is linked to it. First they have to do some gruesome blood sacrifice, as an offering to the Bloodstone, and then they and only they can touch it and use its power.”
“Well, I doubt he’d care if I died,” Pixie pointed out. “In fact, he seemed like the type of person who’d kill me the second I gave him the jewel.”
But Anastasia shook her head. “No, you’d die the second you touched it. So there’s no practical value in having you steal it. He didn’t offer you any kind of magic protection?”
“Nothing. I don’t know, then,” Pixie said. “None of this makes sense.”
“Well, if I had to guess, and if the Bloodstone is real, the Rilke brothers might be the original men who stole it,” Anastasia said. “They could be hundreds of years old. Perhaps they share it; perhaps they both made that blood sacrifice that lets them tap into its power. Then, if one of the brothers stole it, he’d effectively be condemning his brother to die of old age. They need that jewel as a conduit.”
Hillary had been sitting back and listening to them. “So what are we going to do next?” she asked.
Tyler sighed. “If we need Ion’s blood, then our only hope is to find out where they’re meeting tomorrow. I can start doing internet searches on any property purchases that Craig Baldwin might have made, but he’s probably hidden them by purchasing through shell corporations. It’s all I’ve got right now, though, so let me get to it.”
“Fine,” Pixie said. “Can I just borrow you for one minute first? I need to talk to you privately.”
Dominick let out a surprised growl, scowling at Pixie as she stood up.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
“Fine.” He didn’t look happy about it, but he didn’t argue with her.
Tyler followed Pixie out into the hallway, and she shut the door behind them.
“That was interesting,” he said to her. “The way Dominick is acting, it’s almo
st like he’s-”
“Don’t say it. I know. I can’t explain it, and I don’t know what’s going to happen between us, but here’s the thing. I guess Dominick and I are kind of together, at least for the time being, and I can’t accept the gifts you’ve been giving me. In fact, I’m going to need to give them all back.”
“I didn’t give you any presents,” Tyler protested, shaking his head.
“Oh, come on, Tyler. I know it was you. I even saw you leaving them on my desk a few times.”
“Yes. Because someone dropped them off for you at the front desk. A messenger. Once we’d scanned them to make sure they didn’t have anything explosive in them, I brought them to you because I was passing your office anyway. For that matter, Hillary’s brought you some of the packages. You think maybe she’s your secret admirer?” Tyler looked as if he didn’t know whether he should be amused or angry.
Pixie shook her head. “There was Lilly of the Valley Perfume. Who else besides you would know that I liked that? One time when I was short on cash, someone sent me an envelope with ten thousand dollars in it. Who else but you could hack into my bank account?”
“You think I hacked into your bank account?” Tyler was starting to look seriously pissed off. “Pixie. I like you, but I told you that you’re not my fated mate. And no offense, but I’m not pining after you. I met my fated mate two months ago. She just moved in with me.”
“You met your fated mate? Why didn’t you say something?” Pixie was shocked.
“Because our office is like a junior high school when it comes to gossip, and it’s none of anybody’s business.”
Wow. He was right, but she was still astounded that he wouldn’t tell anyone he’d met his fated mate. Then again Tyler had always been the strong silent type.
Pixie stared at Tyler. “So…you really didn’t give me any of those anonymous gifts.”
Tyler shook his head.
“Well. This is embarrassing,” Pixie muttered.
“Yes, I would imagine.”
“You could at least argue with me. Say it’s a perfectly natural mistake.” Pixie suggested.
“I could.” He just looked at her.
“So who the heck has been sending me all of these gifts?”
Tyler shrugged. “Probably somebody within our organization. Or an ex boyfriend, or someone you know in your personal life. It would have to be someone who knows what brand of perfume that you like…although, if they sent you money when you were broke, that means that they hacked in to your bank account records. So they might also have access to your credit card records, so they could have seen that you’d purchased that perfume in the past. Once we’ve got Shifters, Inc. back up and running, we can look into it.”
“Well, all right then. And congratulations on meeting your fated mate,” Pixie said, and headed back to find Dominick and Tyler, feeling thoroughly foolish.
Chapter Twelve
Later that night…
“You can’t go without me,” Hillary protested. “I’m part of the team.”
They were standing outside the warehouse, where Hillary had followed them, arguing all the way.
“We need you to stay with Tyler to research real estate purchases and do whatever other internet searches he needs,” Pixie said firmly.
That wasn’t strictly true. Hillary had no ability to hack into computers, so she’d be very little use to Tyler; Pixie was just giving her busy work to keep her out of their hair. They were about to head over to the projects where Pixie grew up, and she didn’t want to have to deal with Hillary screaming like a little girl every time a rat ran by, or making snide comments about the piles of garbage they’d have to step over.
“But you need-”
“No buts,” Pixie said firmly. “Go back inside. We’ll be back in an hour or two.”
Sulking, Hillary went back in. They climbed into Dominick’s car, with Hillary sliding into the back seat.
They were wearing clothing that Fraser had rustled up for them. Pixie wore leggings, a t-shirt and boots, and Dominick wore jeans and sneakers.
“Oh, thank Goddess,” Anastasia said as they pulled away. “She’s the most whiny crybaby I’ve ever met. I can’t tell you how many times I had to restrain myself from turning her into a warthog.”
“You can do that?” Pixie asked uneasily.
“Maybe. For the right price. Seriously, she calls her mother like every hour. What the hell is wrong with her?”
“At least she’s getting along better with her mother these days,” Pixie said. “Her mother always rags on her when she calls. She used to sit there and cry after every phone call. When we get this all cleared up, I’m going to try to find somebody to fix her up with. She’s in serious need of a self esteem booster. Okay, up ahead, turn left.”
The projects where Pixie grew up were tan concrete, as hard and scarred as their inhabitants. Rusted fire escapes and layer upon layer of competing gang graffiti were the only adornment on the buildings.
It was late, and she was tired, but she needed answers. Ever since Stefan, or Ion, or whatever his real name was, had made that comment about her mother earlier that night, she’d been wondering about her family origins. Had Ion known her mother? Was Jennifer Montana even her real mother? Pixie looked absolutely nothing like Jennifer.
If Stefan had really known her mother, how had he known her? Had he killed her? The answers might help lead her closer to finding him.
Pixie felt herself growing self-conscious as she, Dominick and Anastasia parked in front of Building 114, where she and her mother had lived in a third floor welfare flat until she’d finally run away. She’d been twelve at the time, and tired of fending off the eager advances of her mother’s “boyfriends”. She’d always wondered if her mother had even tried to find her once she left.
“I guess this isn’t the kind of neighborhood your family grew up in,” she said to Dominick. “Speaking of which, how is your family?”
“Not too great at the moment. Half the family is boycotting the wedding. My parents, who never fight, are fighting like cats and cats about this.” He managed a rueful smile at his own joke. “It’s putting them in a terrible position. My brother is going to be the leader of the pride some day in the not too distant future when my father steps down – but now my father is threatening to name someone else as his successor. The leader’s wife has to be able to do a lot of politicking, entertaining, all that crap – and everyone hates Barbara.”
In the dark recesses of the far corner of the parking lot, Pixie saw a group of hyena shifters gang bangers skulking, watching them. They wouldn’t come too close as long as Dominick was with them.
She glanced back at him. “Has your brother always been attracted to stuck up bitches?”
Dominick let out a bitter laugh. “No. Barbara’s not his type at all. Then again, she wasn’t my type either when I first met her.”
Pixie paused. “Whoa. Hold the phone. I’m sorry, are you saying that Barbara was your fated mate, and now she’s your brother’s fated mate? That doesn’t happen.”
“No kidding,” Anastasia said. “Something’s hinky there.”
“Yeah, my family apparently has the worst luck of any pride in North America,” Dominick said bitterly. “Can we get this over with? I think I’m actually standing directly in a puddle of hepatitis.”
Pixie glanced down at whatever foul liquid was ruining Dominick’s shoes. “Nah, probably not. I don’t think that even germs can live long in this neighborhood.”
She led them into the building. A pale light in the hallway flickered, illuminating a pile of trash in a corner. Scattered on the cracked tile floor were tained, broken toys and a grocery cart without wheels. The sour reek of garbage mingled with the fumes of cooking.
“Ahh, smells like home,” Pixie said. “Follow me.” She led them up two flights of stairs to the apartment of her former neighbor, Gemma Timmons. Timmons had been one of her mother’s closest drinking buddies, and the two of them used t
o troll for marks together.
They knocked several times, but there was no answer. Pixie could hear the TV blaring inside, so she pulled her lock picks out of her pocket.
“Of course,” Dominick said, shaking his head.
“Sorry,” Pixie smirked. “It’s in the blood.”
Within a minute they were inside the cramped, dimly lit apartment. An old rabbit-ear TV was on, its flicking light illuminating the snoring figure of Mrs. Timmons, who lay passed out on a stained green couch. Empty liquor bottles and beer bottles lay scattered around Mrs. Timmons on the floor. Pixie had come prepared; she’d brought a bottle of scotch.
It took them a couple of minutes for them to rouse her from her stupor, and a couple of long pulls on the scotch bottle before she felt sufficiently lubricated and inspired to speak to them.
“Pixie,” she said, squinting blearily. “I thought you were dead. Oh wait, that’s your mother.”
“Yes. That’s who I came to talk to you about. My mother. You’ve lived here longer than we did, Mrs. Timmons. Is my mother really my mother?”
Mrs. Timmons shrank back against the couch. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she scowled defensively.
“I didn’t say you did. All I need is information.”
A sly, speculative look crossed Mrs. Timmons face. “What’s it worth to you?”
Pixie had come prepared for that too. She pulled five twenties out of her wallet and handed them over. Mrs. Timmons grabbed them and stuffed them down her cleavage.
“More,” she demanded.
“After you tell me what I want to know.”
“My memory’s not so good these days,” Mrs. Timmons said, and she started to move her considerable bulk off the sofa.
“Answer her questions, you drunk bitch,” Anastasia snapped, and her eyes went dark. She glared, and suddenly the money in Mrs. Timmons cleavage started to smoke.
Pixie the Lion Tamer Page 7