by Kathy Reichs
Connors’s eyes widened. Then narrowed. “I’m not doing any test.”
He took a half step backward, was met by Palmer’s restraining hand. “Should I cuff him, boss?”
Flanagan nodded as he descended the stairs. “Frank Connors, you are under arrest for—”
He got no further.
Connors turned and sucker-punched Palmer full in the stomach. The lanky officer dropped to his knees with a silent wail as the air exploded from his chest. Then Connors shoved Ben aside and barreled into the crowd before anyone could react. In moments he was lost in the shuffle.
“After him!” Flanagan shouted, tripping on the last step and tumbling to the ground.
Palmer rose with a sickly wheeze and gave chase, as Director Ahern screamed and waved her arms. Staffers converged, then a wave of Yellow Shirts went scrambling down the packed aisle in Connors’s wake.
“Oh my.” Fernandez pawed at his chest, staggering, face scarlet beneath the shaggy white beard. Tempe dashed over, steadying the elderly man and easing him to the floor. Skipper and Jenkins jumped from the stage, then looked at each other, unsure what to do. Flanagan hurried over to assist Tempe, barking into his shoulder radio.
Ben scrambled to his feet, his face a thunderhead. “I’ll kill that bastard!”
“Wait!” Shelton jumped on Ben’s back an instant before he bolted in pursuit. “I know where Connors is going.”
That got my attention. “You do?”
“What?” Hi sputtered. “Where? How?”
Ben shrugged Shelton off his back, but turned to listen.
“What’s the one thing we know Connors won’t leave here without?” Shelton whispered.
“Of course!” I felt a rush of adrenaline. “Good thinking.”
“I want to catch that jerk,” Ben spat. “Personally.”
I glanced at Tempe. She and Flanagan seemed to have Fernandez in hand. Director Ahern was waving at a pair of EMTs hurrying through the press of bodies as Skipper and Jenkins helped clear a path. I heard several debates as to whether the whole episode was being staged.
No one was paying us any attention.
“Okay.” Deep breath. “Let’s bag this jackass.”
We snuck off as quietly as church mice.
Connors crept into the silent equipment room.
Forgoing the lights, the big man wasted no time as he beelined for his rack. He hefted Oathbreaker with a satisfied smile.
I slipped from the shadows a dozen paces behind him. “Hey, Frank.”
Connors spun, dropping into a fighting stance.
I winked. “Had a feeling Lord Mace wouldn’t abandon the Sword of Despair.”
“You’re a very stupid girl,” he hissed. “Get lost, or you’ll meet this blade personally.”
“Tut-tut,” Hi chided, stepping out of the darkness at the opposite end of the aisle. “Threatening an unarmed girl, Lord Mace? What would the Brotherhood say?”
“You think I won’t bash the both of you?” Connors’s head whipped back and forth, eyes narrowing, his whole body quivering at the prospect of impending violence. “You’re quick, fat boy. But not quick enough.”
Connors took a step down the aisle toward me.
“Hiram and I will take a pass,” I said airily. “Unfortunately, we’ve already spent our strength for the day.”
Ben ghosted to my side, eyes blazing with golden fire. Startled, Connors pivoted, eyes darting back down the aisle toward Hi. Shelton’s gleaming irises stared back.
“These guys, however, have plenty of punch left in them,” I said softly. “You probably shouldn’t test them.”
“Stupid parlor tricks!” Spittle flew from Connors’s mouth. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Yes, actually.” Ben cannoned forward and shouldered the lummox in the chest.
Caught by surprise, Connors flew backward onto the concrete floor. Shelton swooped in and slammed an iron helm over his fat head. Then Ben’s foot connected with a thunderous clang, spinning the big man sideways.
“Booyah!” Shelton fired two shooters at Connors’s prone form. “Pow-pow, yo! That’s why you don’t mess.”
Connors lurched to his feet, tree-trunk arms flailing. One elbow caught Shelton in the shoulder, careening him into a nearby rack. Then he kicked out blindly, catching Ben’s shin and dropping him to the floor.
Connors tore off the helmet. “Pathetic cretins! You will never defeat Lord Mace!”
He spotted Hi, who heroically dove under a table. Oathbreaker slammed its surface as my friend scurried into the next aisle.
Regaining his feet, Ben shoved Connors halfway down the aisle.
Connors stared in surprise. I doubt many people had knocked him off balance before.
But he’d never tangled with a flaring Viral.
Ben stalked forward, eyes burning with yellow light.
“Y-your eyes,” Connors stammered. “I’ve never . . . what’s that . . .”
“Silly knight,” Ben hissed. “We’re the real Wolf Brotherhood.”
A look of horror filled Connors’s face. Abruptly, he flung the helm at Ben, forcing him to dodge. Then he charged, knocking me to the ground and disappearing out the door.
“Crap!” I sprang to my feet. “After him!”
As one, we fired in pursuit, out the door and down the stairs to the field below.
I was sure he’d flee to the battlefield, but Connors surprised me by racing along the outer wall of the convention center. After bullying through a line of Hello Kitty freaks, he vaulted a security fence and bolted toward the marina.
“After him!” Ben tore after Lord Mace, making no effort to conceal his flaming eyes. Several girls dressed as Power Rangers stopped to applaud. Shelton was a step behind, with me trailing as best I could.
Hi fell behind, wheezing and sweating. “I requested no sprinting.”
Connors raced down a concrete quay bordering the waterfront. Spotting a couple at an access door to one of the marina’s secure docks, Connors bashed into them, waving his ridiculous sword, then snatched up their pass card and opened the gate. He slammed it shut behind him, then jogged down the pier out of sight.
The couple ran toward the hotel in a panic. Ben reached the security gate and tested the handle. It wouldn’t budge. He shook the bars in frustration.
Shelton arrived at Ben’s side just before I did. “Can we climb over?”
Hi was still twenty yards behind, moaning in agony.
“No. There are spikes on top.” Ben glanced to the side. “But this fence only extends ten feet each way. It’s only meant to block off the dock.”
Shelton grabbed an ear. “So?”
Ben smiled grimly. “Time to get wet.”
He hurried to where the fence ended, took a breath, then leaped into the placid water eight feet below. Shelton and I watched him swim over to the dock and drag himself up.
“Come on!” Ben wiped saltwater from his long black hair. “It’s easy.”
“Jump into that?” Shelton’s golden eyes narrowed with distaste. “You don’t swim in a harbor! We could get tetanus. Or rabies. Something bad.”
“Quit whining.” I vaulted down after Ben, disturbing a family of ducks sunning by the water’s edge. Ben helped haul me up onto the dock. I heard a splash behind me. Moments later Shelton sputtered up and over the side.
Shelton spit out a mouthful of ocean water. “Damn, I lost my flare.”
“Oh, great!” Hi called down from the quay, red-faced and sweaty. “Wonderful. The hotel pool’s not good enough for you guys?”
But he launched himself over the railing anyway. “Cannonball!”
Sopping wet, Shelton and Ben dragged him from the water.
“We have to be careful,” I cautioned, surveying the dock. It stretched fifty yards ahead of us, both si
des packed with pleasure boats of all kinds. “Connors had a gun before.”
Ben was still flaring, but Lord Mace was the size of an ox. We needed to utilize our numerical advantage.
With Ben in the lead we crept down the dock, scanning each slip as we passed. In moments I spotted Connors hastily untying a twenty-foot yacht named My Second Wife. Nice.
“How’d he get a boat like that?” Shelton whispered.
“He’s stealing it, dummy.” Ben looked to me. “Plan?”
“What, seriously?” I snorted a nervous laugh. “Distract him. Then someone whack him with something heavy, and hope he falls down.”
Shelton grabbed both ears. “Not good, guys.”
“No, wait!” I waved the boys close. “How about this?”
My Second Wife had been backed into a slip with its stern facing the dock. Connors was kneeling on the vessel’s bow, his back to the pier, grimly untangling a knotted line.
I snuck aboard, then crept up three steps to the flying bridge. Connors was visible on the foredeck below me.
“Hey, Frank,” I called down from above. “Where you headed?”
He flinched, then glared up at me, eyes filled with pure hatred. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”
Connors moved for a slender, foot-wide walkway along the boat’s port side, which allowed access to the stern. He found Hi there, wielding a long hooked pole. “Come at me, bro. I bet your balance sucks, since you’re the size of a tanker truck.”
Connors growled, then reversed himself and hurried to the starboard side of the vessel.
Found Shelton blocking that way with a spear gun. “Feeling lucky, dude?”
Connors stepped back, frustration painted on his face. “You kids are done. I’m through playing games.” He stepped to the center of the bow, grabbed a crossbeam, and began hoisting himself up toward the flying bridge. Toward me.
“No way to stop me now, little girl.” Connors slapped one hand over the railing. “Which one of you wants to drown first?”
Then he noticed Oathbreaker’s tip, an inch from his eye.
“You were saying?” Then I whirled the broadsword overhead. Slammed the flat of the blade down on his fingers.
Connors fell back with a yowl, landing hard on the bow and shaking both hands in pain.
He failed to notice a dark shape slip from the water onto the deck behind him.
Ben, eyes glowing, lifted the boat’s anchor.
Connors rose, furious eyes locked on me. “You never should’ve touched my sword.”
The anchor took him in the side of the head.
I winced. “Night-night, Lord Mace.”
Palmer opened the back of a squad car. Connors, in handcuffs, grunted as the young officer “accidentally” smacked his head against the doorframe in the process.
“Oops.” Palmer slammed the door with a satisfied smile.
I hoped Lord Mace’s headache lasted a week.
I returned my attention to Flanagan, who’d just finished reading us the riot act.
Schooling my face, I tried to look chagrined, nodding in the right places, expressing contrition for our reckless behavior. But the truth was, I couldn’t help feeling a bit smug.
We’d tracked a suspect, foiled a robbery, and even run the bad guy down.
Pretty solid day’s work.
Tempe walked over to where the four of us were sequestered on a stone bench, dripping wet, trying to hide our smiles. She sighed. “I’ve no idea what to tell your parents.”
“As little as possible?” I suggested.
“Undoubtedly. How’d you track him down?”
“The weapon.” I gestured to the giant scarlet broadsword tucked under Flanagan’s arm. “No way Connors was leaving without mighty Oathbreaker. It’s his whole identity.”
Tempe shook her head. “You know we have to give statements at headquarters tomorrow.”
“I figured.”
“Connors claims Ben and Shelton are possessed.”
“Crazy.”
Tempe seemed about to say more, then shrugged. “Good work, Tory. All of you. They wouldn’t have solved this one without your help. Fernandez would’ve paid the ransom.”
I felt a stab of concern. “He okay?”
Tempe nodded. “Just a little too much excitement. He’ll be fine.”
“You were great, too, Aunt Tempe.” I was attempting to cover the fireball of pride burning inside me. The boys stayed quiet, drying contentedly on a warm San Diego afternoon.
A gentle breeze blew across the marina, stirring my hair into tendrils. The sun hung at its apex as gulls chirped all around us, dive-bombing the surface of the bay in search of food.
The day simply couldn’t get any better.
“My iPhone is toast.” Hi shook the waterlogged device, then shoved it back into his damp pocket. “But if I recall correctly, the Game of Thrones panel starts in an hour.”
Shelton smiled ingratiatingly at my aunt. “Think Director Ahern could score us some more VIP passes? We missed Bones while saving the day.”
Tempe snorted. “I’ll ask. I’m not sure where she stands on you guys. You broke about a hundred rules.”
Ben flashed a rare grin. “Tell her she can keep the sword.”
“Will do. Hang tight.” Tempe headed over to the cluster of suits, leaving us alone.
I looked from Hi to Shelton to Ben. Didn’t know what to say.
Decided nothing was needed. Instead, I stuck out a fist.
Three more appeared. Banged mine.
Then I leaned back on the bench, lacing my fingers behind my head.
“Not bad, boys. Not bad.”
I was staring into the abyss.
Giant, brimming, sky-blue wells of horror, only moments from unleashing a torrent of mascara-infused tears.
“I already looked in there!” Whitney moaned, wrapping her arms around her chest and stomping a foot peevishly. Her snow-white wedding dress shimmered in the afternoon sunlight that poured into the dressing room. Perfect blond tendrils bounced precariously atop her head. “I’m telling you, Tory, it’s missing!”
I dropped her Louis Vuitton bag to the floor, struggling to keep my annoyance in check. “Okay, Whitney. But I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. We double-checked everything before we left the island.”
Whitney’s hands seized the sides of her gown. Then she flinched, releasing her grip and frantically smoothing the delicate white silk with her palms. She’d been a live wire all morning, from the moment I’d first spied her at dawn, practicing her walk down the aisle.
“Can you describe it for me again?” Voice calm. Gaze steady. Afraid that if I looked away, she might crumple to the floor.
My soon-to-be stepmother’s eyes bugged. “It’s blue, obviously!”
“Yes, Whitney, I know your ‘something blue’ is, in fact, blue.” Deep breath. Neutral expression—like one you’d use on a stray dog of unknown temperament. “Perhaps a little more detail?”
“It’s a garter,” Whitney huffed, hands fluttering uselessly. “My mother’s, from her own wedding. Robin’s-egg blue with white embroidery.”
I nodded, remembering the tiny item. “You had it at home, when we inspected your bag before leaving.” For the fourth time. “So it must’ve been here when you unpacked. We just have to track the thing down.”
“Unless it was stolen,” Whitney muttered darkly, a frown pinching her delicate features. “I was in the ladies’ room before, and that hairstylist left in an awful hurry.”
“Devin didn’t steal your garter.” I was now well past irritated, but trying to cover it. “She had to go touch up the other bridesmaids.” Oh, how I wished I was with them, even though I had nothing in common with Whitney’s gaggle of beautiful frenemies. But the maid of honor has ironclad personal-assistant-to-t
he-bride duties on the big day, and right then, they consisted of me locating a six-inch hoop of missing taffeta.
We were alone on the second floor of the Williem Carter House, one of the most exclusive wedding venues in Charleston. Both the service and reception were being held there. A National Historic Landmark, the home boasted museum-caliber art, a stunning ballroom, and two cozy garden courtyards. It was the height of refinement and charm. Whitney Blanche DuBois—a Southern debutante to the tips of her manicured toes—wouldn’t have had it any other way. Even I had to admit the place was perfect.
However, at that moment, the palatial residence was hiding an apparently crucial element of Whitney’s ensemble, and she was verging on hysterics. So I was down on my knees—in a sea-green bridesmaid’s dress and three-inch heels—peering under a collection of ornate couches, bookcases, and coffee tables for a stupid, useless, confounded blue garter that no one but my father would ever see anyway.
Ew. I fast-forwarded past that unpleasant thought, probing the carpet with my fingers. My quarry continued to elude me.
“We’ll simply have to postpone,” Whitney babbled, collapsing heavily onto a divan. “You’ll tell the guests. And Kit as well, the news should come from you. I’ll speak to the Magnolia League photographer, although of course Agnes Taylor will use this as an excuse to cut my spread from the fall publication. She’s been against its inclusion from the beginning! The caterers will howl, but I don’t see any way—”
“Just hold on.” I sat back on my heels, palms up in a calming gesture designed for spooked horses. “Take a breath. We don’t need to postpone the wedding. Let’s just retrace our steps a bit. Find this stupid garter.”
“It is not—”
My hands chopped sideways. “Of course not. Poor choice of words.”
I rose and began pacing, chewing my bottom lip, my blue-green eyes slipping out of focus as I reviewed our progress that morning. After the . . . events of last year, my irises had never returned to their former pure emerald green. People noticed the change from time to time, but not in a particularly startled way. “It happens” was the phrase I heard most often.