by Julie Leto
Ben didn’t reply. Anything he might add or deny would only bury him deeper in a personal maelstrom he’d rather not confront. Because the truth was, he did trust her.
And the only thing trusting a beautiful woman had ever gotten him was hot sex—nearly always followed by a brush with death. With a resigned shake of his head, he realized he was probably—and hopefully—heading for both with Cat.
19
“Hold my calls.”
Jacob barked the order over his shoulder, knowing his assistant would comply whether or not he made eye contact. He tossed his briefcase by the door, removed his jacket and stalked around the office, his skin on fire. No, not his skin. His brain. He glanced at his watch. He had five minutes. Five fucking minutes. What was he going to do?
Five minutes ended up a generous estimation. Five seconds later, an alarm sounded from his computer. Incoming message. He didn’t move. Narrowing his gaze, he tried to see if his monitor revealed the source of the alert, but the twirling crown that comprised the Crown Chandler logo continued to spin against the dark screen. E-mail? Interdepartmental instant message? Or what he’d been dreading—a highly encrypted message from the kid who held his future in his hands.
He checked his watch again. He’d said noon, right? Noon?
The console beeped again, and this time, the automated voice on his computer announced the source: Incoming conference call notification.
Reluctantly, Jacob moved toward his desk. He reached for his mouse, hesitating before the vibration of his touch activated the machine. What was he going to say?
The third beep jolted him to action. He straightened his tie, then boldly pressed on the mouse.
Keith Von Roan’s face filled the entire screen. Round, light eyes with girlish lashes. Smooth forehead and cheeks, but acne pocked the skin along his jawline. A strip of fuzz over his top lip was mistakenly considered a moustache. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Jacob scrambled to adjust the volume.
“…flight didn’t suck?”
Jacob slid into his chair. Keith was only nineteen. A kid. So why was Jacob sweating bullets underneath his starched cotton collar? Try as he might, he couldn’t muster the superior attitude he’d perfected with everyone else. Keith knew too much. And soon, Keith would have more clout and cash than even Alexa. Jacob wasn’t a fool. Guys like him stayed on top by hitching their future to the star that would rise the highest—not to the one who would burn out from messing with shit she didn’t understand.
And if all progressed as planned, Keith Von Roan would soon be at a zenith.
“Flight was great,” Jacob responded. “No turbulence, great mimosa.” He prayed the words came out with his practiced lackadaisical air rather than reflecting his heightened nerves. “What more can a man ask for?”
Keith nodded absently, his eyes downcast as he typed away on his keyboard and fiddled with his mouse. Probably playing another round of World of Warcraft. “I don’t know,” the kid mused, his hands still flying. “I’d rather have limitless power before concentrated orange juice and cheap champagne.”
Jacob rolled his eyes. Clearly, the kid had a lot to learn about living large.
Keith looked up, and instantly Jacob popped his expression back into enthusiastic agreement. “Of course.”
“So, are we any closer?”
We? Some we. Jacob was doing all the work. Jacob was putting his fortune on the line so the kid could take over as leader of the K’vr. The death of the previous Grand Apprentice had split the group into two factions—one led by Keith, catering to those who believed in blood succession, and the other headed by Farrow Pryce, whose money and power lured an equal number of followers. Jacob, who had plenty of money and power on his own thanks to the Chandler legacy, had chosen to ally himself with Keith. Though Farrow had more experience, Keith had the bloodlines. And if Jacob had learned one thing after his mother had married into the Chandler family, it was that blood counted above all else.
Jacob pretended that someone had come to the door of his office. The gesture bought him a few moments to think. How much did he want to tell his eventual lord and master? For the longest time, Jacob’s loyalty to the K’vr had been his sole focus. The group had formed centuries ago, solely for the purpose of obtaining the supernatural power once wielded by Lord Rogan, a European nobleman who’d discovered an ancient source of magic in his vast and varied travels, though the power had ultimately destroyed him.
But until now, the K’vr had never been so close to obtaining their goal. And before yesterday, Jacob had also never been manhandled by a ghost. He’d known at that moment that he’d found what hundreds of followers before him had failed to discover. The magic he’d once thought only a pipe dream now loomed larger than he’d ever imagined. And he was at the forefront of the search. Because of his cunning. Because of his sacrifices. Not due to some pimply kid who’d had the luck to be born to the right father.
“I believe we’ve made great progress,” Jacob replied.
Keith’s bushy eyebrows rose high over those feminine eyes. “Can you verify that the castle still possesses the magic bequeathed to me by my uncle?”
More like great-uncle, nine times over. Lord Rogan had lived in the eighteenth century, his tale chronicled by his younger brother, a minor landowner, who’d used his brother’s reputation as a formidable sorcerer to keep his tenants and serfs in line. Even after Lord Rogan’s mysterious disappearance after he’d traveled from London to a Gypsy enclave tucked into a corner of what was now Germany, Lukyan Roganov continued to spin tales of his brother’s magical prowess. Possessing a few tricks of his own, he’d rallied a collection of followers, who had, through the centuries, become known as the K’vr. The group’s goal from the very beginning had been to retrieve the reported source of Rogan’s great power. Trouble was, none of them knew what the source was.
But the discovery of Rogan’s castle, reported to have been built by the sorcerer shortly before his disappearance, had become their strongest clue.
Yet even the nineteen-year-old heir to the Roganov legacy knew not to get his hopes up. The key to Rogan’s magic was, to the K’vr, as equal in legend, lore and legacy as the Holy Grail to Christians—and just as elusive. Even though Jacob had been initiated into the group only five years before, his extensive knowledge of the occult had helped push him to the forefront of the search. And with the Chandler family’s resources behind him, he’d found more than any other devotee before him.
“I cannot verify that the source exists there, but I highly suspect it does. I actually entered the hallowed halls myself yesterday.”
At this, Keith stopped typing. “The necklace worked?”
Now the teen was paying attention. The K’vr had long known the location of Rogan’s fortress when it was still in Germany, but had been unable to gain entrance to the structure, or so the legend told. Doors wouldn’t unlock. Windows would not break. Stone remained impervious to even the most destructive explosives. Then, more than fifty years ago, a man with a well-armed contingent of masons and bricklayers had somehow torn the castle apart and spirited it away. Though loyal and devoted, the K’vr lacked the money to pursue them. Only recently had they discovered where the castle had gone.
“Yes,” Jacob replied. “My stepsister stayed the night there, and I suspect she might not have left if the spirit hadn’t attacked me.”
“Rogan?”
Keith’s jaw slackened at the overwhelming possibility. The way the wraith had knocked Jacob on his ass, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the notoriously vindictive sorcerer had returned. But he expected if the K’vr’s patron had manifested himself, Jacob wouldn’t have simply been knocked down a few stairs. He’d be dead.
“I don’t know. But Alexa does, I’m almost sure. But of course, she won’t say a word to me.”
Keith’s lip curled into a snarl. “Sisters suck.”
Jacob understood the kid’s vitriol. Keith’s older sister, Gemma, pissed off that the leadership pass
ed her by simply because she was a woman, had defected to Farrow’s side. But as much as Alexa cramped his style and lorded her superior position within the company over him, she’d never betrayed him or left him out in the cold. Not the way he’d betrayed her.
“Without Alexa, we wouldn’t have come this far,” Jacob pointed out.
“She’s in the way.”
“She might yet prove useful. I think she’s in contact with the spirit there. I think it listens to her.”
Keith’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “I hate how she has the deed. The castle should be mine.”
“It will be,” Jacob reassured him. “You can’t tip your hand to Alexa or to Pryce too soon. You know he’s watching every move you make. By allowing my sister to act as our unwitting emissary to Rogan’s castle, we’ve bought more time. With her money.”
Keith frowned over Jacob’s argument. Jacob glanced at his door. The milky glass panels on either side would reveal anyone listening from the other side. He could see the outline of his assistant at her desk, chatting on the phone as she moved file folders and consulted her computer.
“Time will run out soon if you don’t get back to Florida. Why are you back in Chicago, anyway?” Keith asked.
“I can’t raise my sister’s suspicions or she’ll toss me off the project altogether. There are a few matters I have to take care of here.”
Keith’s grin bordered on creepy. “You mean the sabotage in Boston?”
Jacob’s throat constricted. He had to cough to clear a passage for air. “That was you?”
His laugh was almost childish. Almost.
“When you told me your sister had found a way to land on that haunted island after so many others had tried and failed, I figured it was time we took her out of the mix. A quick check of the Weather Channel and I chose my target. You’re not the only K’vr follower in the Chandler organization, buddy. Using your sister’s resources to finance our project was brilliant, but I’ve taken out some insurance that she won’t get in our way. Once we have the source of the magic, we’ll be unstoppable.”
With as much casual ease as he could fake, Jacob sat back against the cold leather of his chair. “I don’t want my sister hurt,” he said.
All the warmth and guilelessness in Keith’s eyes disappeared, replaced with something hard and cold and ugly. “You can’t back out now. You tried once to have your sister killed. Now you’ll get what you want.”
The slice through his heart stabbed Jacob to his chair. He fought to keep his expression blank. He could feel his nostrils flaring as Keith threw his darkest shame back in his face. Of course, this is why the teen would make the perfect leader for the K’vr. He showed no mercy.
Jacob swallowed thickly. “You know I won’t get the company if Alexa dies.”
“No, but her will stipulates you receive the bulk of her personal assets.”
“Not everything,” he grumbled, remembering how much Alexa had designated to go to Cat, the rehabilitation center she’d used after her accident and the staff at their home in Chicago. More than anyone in their right mind would leave to servants, honestly.
“But you’ll be set for a huge chunk of change. And once we have the source of Rogan’s magic, we’ll have everything we’ve ever needed. Now,” Keith snapped, the greedy sound popping out of his voice, “tell me about the castle. What did you find inside? Did you take pictures? I want pictures.”
Fed by eagerness, Keith moved even closer to his webcam so that Jacob could practically see the whitehead on top of the blemish beneath his nose.
“The designers took a boatload. I’ll forward them as soon as the file is sent to me, but otherwise, the place is barren. Nothing but an old painting on the landing.”
“A painting? Of Rogan?”
“No, I don’t think so. This man’s eyes are pale. A follower maybe?”
Keith’s tapping on the keyboard renewed. The kid had lost interest again. Jacob kept his expression steady.
If Keith had gone so far as to place spies within the Chandler organization, the kid likely had more up his sleeve than Jacob had ever imagined.
Maybe Farrow Pryce was not the only cunning one.
“We could ask Rousseau to identify the painting,” Jacob suggested.
Keith frowned. “He’s useless.”
“He’s the only expert we know of—”
“He’s missing.”
“Missing? Did you?”
A whirling sound from the other side of the connection indicated that perhaps his computer game wasn’t progressing as planned. “Nah. He’s been more useful to us at the university. Led us to the charm, didn’t he?”
“Not on purpose,” Jacob reminded him.
Keith waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever. But there’s only one person who’d want to make sure he didn’t lead us to anything else.”
“Pryce,” Jacob said with a sneer.
The kid nodded, but boredom glazed his eyes. “Yeah. And if Farrow has the old man, he likely won’t be alive for long. Farrow’s ruthless, you know.”
He said the word “ruthless” with mock exaggeration, as if making fun of Farrow’s reputation would somehow lessen the danger his rival represented. “You can’t underestimate him,” Jacob warned.
Keith made a stupid face but didn’t respond.
“Without Rousseau, you’ll have to rely on my observations to figure out what kind of magic the castle possesses. But something is there,” Jacob promised, catching Keith’s eye. “Something malevolent. Maybe Rousseau does know something else important, though. Why else would Farrow move against the professor after all these years?”
Keith stopped messing with his computer. “Stay where you are for the time being,” he ordered, suddenly sounding very much like a leader. “Get me those pictures right away; then go back to Florida and explore the castle more thoroughly. And I want in. Make the arrangements.”
“Of course,” Jacob replied.
“You have the necklace back, right?” Keith asked.
Jacob swallowed hard and lied through his teeth. “Absolutely.”
Keith paused before disconnecting but gave no other indication that he suspected an untruth. Jacob had to trust that Alexa hadn’t truly lost the necklace. Knowing his stepsister as he did, he knew she’d find it. Alexa didn’t leave valuables lying around. Ever.
And yet, despite Keith’s cluelessness, Jacob was left in his office with an empty pit for a stomach and a serious case of the shakes. He’d gotten himself in deep this time, deeper than ever before. And the only way he was going to survive was to pull himself out on top.
To do that, certain things would have to be sacrificed. Certain people.
But not him. He’d worked too hard, too long, to let opportunity slip away now.
“One mewl and it will be your last, cat,” Damon declared the second the ghostly beast poofed into Rogan’s drawing room. The room of his entrapment. With the curtains drawn, he’d lost track of how long he’d been sitting on the wing chair with the sorcerer’s cloak curved just behind his ear, the plush rugs and velvet trappings of his old enemy pressing in on his consciousness. He imagined he could smell the foul stench of his rival in the fabric. A rival he’d once admired. A rival he’d once hoped to learn from. Damon had been well traveled and immensely educated, but Rogan’s life experiences made Damon a churl in contrast.
Now Damon was getting his wish—he was becoming Rogan. Angry. Arrogant. Uncontrollable. Obsessed with fulfilling his own needs without concern about the consequences to others.
The flesh of his palms still sizzled with unused magic. The dark evil that had spawned the magic now infected him, and yet, he had no more means to free himself of the magic’s effects than he did to dispel Rogan’s curse. He’d tripped into a cycle of impossible choices, and hours of grappling with the contradictions left him no closer to discovering a solution.
Without the ability to re-create the castle, he’d never find the secret to free himself of the curse.
Yet the more he utilized Rogan’s legacy, the more he lost himself to the evil.
The cat ignored his warning and meowed softly. The beast leaped onto a squat tuffet near the hearth, padded in a wide circle, then curled in the center and eyed him warily. Its thick tail flicked up and down of its own accord, and the feline’s amber eyes bored through him mercilessly.
Damon fought to keep his rage in check. Instead, he engaged in a staring contest with the cat, wondering what knowledge existed behind those mysterious golden orbs. He’d always suspected the animal was more than just a companion to Rogan. Ever since Damon’s first visit to Rogan’s residence in London, the beast managed to turn up whenever Rogan spoke of the Gypsies. Damon had once suspected the cat was more curious about the Romani than the man who kept him as a pet.
Perhaps the cat wasn’t a cat at all. More like…a familiar?
Damon eased off the chair and stalked stealthily toward the animal, who seemed unalarmed by his drawing closer. Its tail continued to swish to and fro, its eyes staring intensely, its ears perked, but its body perfectly still.
Reaching the tuffet, Damon knelt on the floor and met the cat stare to stare.
“You know, don’t you?” he asked.
The cat remained completely still. Except for the tail.
“You heard his curses. You know his secrets. Why, then, would he trap you? Deny you access to the next life? Except, perhaps, to bestow you with immortality?”
The cat raised its paw and took a long, purposeful lick.
Damon turned on his knees and dropped to the ground. Was this what he’d been reduced to? Trying to extract information from an animal? Still, if this cat held the secret he sought, it certainly wasn’t going to tell him. He’d done nothing but snap at the feline since its first appearance in his portrait prison so many years ago.
Perhaps this could change?
Damon turned again and, closing his eyes, used a tiny bit of magic to conjure a plate of freshly smoked and salted herring. The cat stopped its grooming and stretched its neck to sniff at the plate.