by Ann Macela
Oh, damn. Might as well make light of it. She smiled and said, “He was good-looking and wasn’t happy when I pointed him out to Uncle Dylan. Is that what you mean?”
“How good-looking?” Annette asked.
“Very, in an 1-can-take-care-of-myself way.”
“I’m really puzzled by his ability to see a spell glow,” Fergus said. “Did you get the idea he could also see your spell aura?”
“I don’t think so. From what he said, I didn’t glow after I cancelled invisibility, and he didn’t mention my shining when I dispelled and unlocked the safe.”
“Interesting. The talent to see a spell aura around the casting person’s body is common among family members. The talent to see the aura of a nonrelated person is much rarer. To see spells glowing without casting a spell to do so is extremely rare. Only a couple of people on this continent can do it, and I know both. Neither of them is this fellow. He seems to be able to see spells, not auras, yet he doesn’t know what they are.”
“Seeing either takes more than a simple sensitivity to magic,” Irenee’s father said.
“Yes,” Fergus agreed. “It’s even more curious that he actually saw through Irenee’s invisibility spell. I would have expected him to see the shell of bending light, not her inside it. We’ll have to find out how he did it He stroked his beard again and stared into space. “I wonder...”
“You have a look in your eye like you’re about to pull a rabbit out of a hat.” Glynnis shook her finger at him. “Come on, give. What do you think he is?”
“I’m not going to speculate until after I’ve met the man. I will go so far to state unequivocally that he’ll be showing up soon. We’ll find out who he is, and he’ll find out who Irenee is, and he’ll come looking for her.” Fergus sat back in his chair with a satisfied look on his face.
“Oh, no, I didn’t think of that,” Irenee moaned. “What am I supposed to do with him when he finds me?”
“Bring him to me. I’ll take care of him,” Fergus said.
“And me,” her father added with a frown. “I’d like to meet a man who’s impervious to your spells.”
Irenee refrained from rolling her eyes at her father’s statement. There he was, being overly protective again. Her whole family—mother, father, brother—had always protected her to the point she wanted to scream—she assumed because her level was so much below theirs. The problem was, it didn’t stop when she shot up in level and abilities. Indeed, her parents’ reaction to her becoming a Sword had been close to dismay. Oh, they were proud, too, but she could tell they didn’t like the idea of her being a frontline fighter.
However, she was a Sword, no matter what, and she knew her father, as a Defender himself, understood how well she’d done with her first big assignment. Her next one was to turn her attention to Mr. Mysterious and lure him into Fergus’s clutches. How hard could it be?
“Everybody get some rest,” Fergus commanded. “It’s late, or rather early in the morning. Remember, we’ll meet at seven to see what information has come in.” He shooed them out the door.
Irenee gave her father a hug, picked up her vial of ashes, and headed for her condo, where she concentrated solely on getting ready for bed. She had no choice. It was concentrate or fall over from sheer exhaustion.
Once lying there, however, the encounter with Mr. Mysterious played out again on the backs of her eyelids. Her magic center fluttered, and she smiled while she rubbed it. She was looking forward to seeing him again, she decided—purely for answers to the puzzle of his abilities, of course.
CHAPTER SIX
Early Sunday afternoon, Jim went into the task force office, located in a nondescript building close to the Loop. After getting a cup of coffee, he stopped by Dave Richards’s desk to see what progress they had made on the flash drives.
“We’re going to nail this guy,” Dave reported gleefully. “The schmutz didn’t encrypt the files at all. He used a simple password we cracked in seconds—cataclysm, can you believe. The forensic accountants are going over the financials, and I’ve sent you the file of his ‘business associates.’ Finster had those all set up like a Christmas card list. Incredible. Now if he just doesn’t die on us.”
Jim almost choked on his coffee. “What? Die?” “Yeah, haven’t you heard? Finster’s in the hospital. He collapsed about three in the morning and seems to be in a coma.”
“Son of a bitch!” Jim dropped into a chair and slammed his fist on the desk. “The bastard cannot die. He deserves to be alive and suffering, not dead to the world. Hell, I’ll haul his ass into court if it has to be on a gurney”
“Believe me, a lot of us will help push.”
“What about our investigation?”
“Erlanger’s called a meeting for seven tonight. From the rumors, we continue as planned.”
“Good.” Jim stood. “I have some people to look up. Let me know if you hear news about Finster.”
“Will do.”
A couple of hours later, Jim had more data—and wished it was more helpful.
The bad news: A still unconscious Finster had been moved from the hospital to a private clinic where it would be extremely difficult for the task force to monitor him. An agent was looking for a way in, but the staff turnover was practically nonexistent, and the clientele exceedingly private. The only reports said that the butler and Finster’s cousin, Bruce Ubell, had found him unconscious on the floor of the study.
Finster’s cousin. What was it about the guy that bothered him? Jim remembered the odd feeling he’d had at the gala when the two were together. Which one was really the boss? They’d have to see how Finster’s collapse changed the criminal activities.
The good news: Jim had better info on Irenee Sabel. Date of birth, Social Security number, education, occupation, family, net worth—she certainly didn’t need to work for a living. Address—the HeatherRidge Center? In Barrington? Where the hell was that? Out in the northwest suburbs?
He looked her up every way he could, and found few references except to charitable causes and various kinds of corporate special events. Some she organized and some she only attended. No pictures or reports of her at clubs or parties. No connection at all with any men. She certainly wasn’t playing the celebrity circuit—or circus—like some women her age.
The only color close-up he could find was her driver’s license photo. Eyes brown, hair red, fair skin. It didn’t do justice to her.
Her small business, Sabel Events, had organized parties and conferences for some big names and companies, but it, like its owner, kept a low profile. Her office address was in the Sabel Industries headquarters building in Schaumburg. According to the building diagrams, instead of a location in the upper-floor, plush executive suites, her small three-room office was in the lower-rent middle.
To all appearances, she was a young woman living quietly, concentrating on her job.
Somehow, the description did not match her dark red hair or the way she took control last night. It certainly didn’t go with a woman who’d sneak into a locked room and burgle a safe without turning one of those red hairs.
Oh, yes, he wanted to see her again—for all kinds of reasons. The only questions were when and where.
He rubbed the itch in his chest and got to work on Finster’s list of business associates.
Monday morning at ten o’clock Irenee hurried into the Sabel Industries building not far from Woodfield Mall. On the way she’d visited several forest preserves to scatter her portion of ashes, and she was running late. Fortunately she had no pressing events upcoming, and she’d planned on devoting the day to paperwork and some phone calls to prospective clients. She juggled her purse, briefcase, and a box full of promotional items to push the elevator button.
As the elevator took her to the third floor, she went over her mental to-do list. The way her business was expanding, she really needed a full-time administrative assistant. Someone who could keep the books and back her up with all the details. She’d hired a co
uple of women from her mother’s office for past individual projects outside of normal business hours, but such sporadic part-timers weren’t reliable in the long run.
Her planning efforts were complicated because, although she was a full Defender team member after four long years of study, she was still in the dark about how much time her Sword activities would actually take. In general, the teams saw real action only once or twice a year. Practitioners were like everybody else, a mix of normal, honest people and a few bad ones. Only a very small number of the criminal types had sufficient power and talent to create even tiny evil items. The ancient, powerful monsters only showed up every fifty or a hundred years.
This business with the Cataclysm Stone, however, was clearly a special case, and her active role was yet undetermined. At the meeting last night, they had only decided to keep investigating. Various Defenders, both on her team and not, were working on Alton’s and Bruce Ubell’s movements and activities, searching for any trace of the larger remnant, or monitoring Alton’s condition. Until they knew more, she was to go about her regular business. Even with no team task, at least she could think about the situation.
Alton was out of commission, so he couldn’t tell them who had the rest of the Stone. Several team members thought his cousin might be the second villain and possibly, even probably, the holder of the other remnant. Their reasoning was based mostly on Ubell’s close association with Alton since childhood, his ambiguous “vice president” position with undefined duties within Finster Shipping, and his reputation for being the power behind Alton’s throne.
Until they could do so from a position of certainty, however, nobody wanted to ask Ubell where the rest of the evil item was. Indeed, practitioner law was against accusation without proof. If Ubell had found the notice she left, he certainly hadn’t contacted them, and his lack of action raised everyone’s suspicions even higher.
Irenee had never met Ubell face-to-face, only seen him at a distance—like at the gala—a situation the other Defenders shared. They were working on ways to get physically close to him without making a formal call. One good sniff and they’d know if he was evil. Unfortunately, you had to be standing next to the person to pick up the odor of evil. Thank goodness she hadn’t had to spend much time near Alton on Saturday night, or she might have thrown up from the stench.
Oh, wait a minute. Alton hadn’t reeked of evil when they crossed paths before, had he? Before he’d used his Stone out of the protected place he’d obviously been casting from. Ubell might not smell, either. Nobody had thought of that particular point yesterday.
On the theory Alton and another had been casting with the pieces for years, several people, herself included, thought the remnant was hidden in the mansion under a pile of shields and protections. It was the only way the item could be used in total privacy. The nineteenth-century building was sure to have nooks and crannies modern construction lacked. Oh, to be able to get into that house for a more thorough search.
Ubell, however, had moved into the family homestead from his high-rise condo by Lake Michigan. According to their surveillance reports of this morning, he was running the companies from there and, except for Finster executives and his administrative assistant, not accepting visitors. Since Alton’s transfer to the private hospital Sunday morning, Bruce had not visited his cousin’s bedside.
Did his reclusiveness guarantee the location of the Cataclysm remnant in the house? If so, where exactly? Had he and Alton truly been casting evil spells for years? Again, where? What had possessed Alton to cast with his piece out in the open? Too many questions, not enough answers.
At least Uncle Dylan had found out who her fellow thief was—Jim Tylan, a DEA agent who had once saved the life of an ambassador. Assuming his agency was going after the Finster drug activities, what effect he and his agency might have on the Defenders’ search for the rest of the Stone concerned them all. Fergus had people researching Tylan also.
Forcing her mind back to business, she exited the elevator on three and walked quickly down the hall. The box was beginning to slip off her hip, and her grip on the briefcase was loosening. Good thing her office was right around the corner.
“Let me help you with that,” a deep voice said when she ran right into the man standing in front of her door.
She froze and stared up, directly into the eyes of Mr. Mysterious. He caught the box just as she lost control of it.
Now she knew what color his eyes were—green with gold flecks, a golden green. A stormy golden green. The turbulence in them went with the determined expression on his face. At the same time, the heat in his gaze made her want to throw herself into his arms so much she almost would have—if not for the box between them.
She broke eye contact to look at the rest of him. His nose had still been broken. His hair was still curly. His shoulders were as broad in a sports jacket as they had been in a tux, but he seemed taller today.
Idiot! You had on three-inch heels at the party, not flats. Wake up! He’s found you. She blinked a couple of times and took a deep breath. Saw his gaze travel down to her chest, then back up. Men!
“We need to talk,” he said, frowning at her.
“What do you want?” she asked in, she hoped, a no-nonsense tone, and she forced herself to stand still when a hot shiver ran up her backbone and heated her center.
“Do you really want to discuss our last meeting standing in a public hallway?”
She gave him a hard look, which he returned—doubled. Reminding herself she was strong and couldn’t be intimidated, she opened the door.
He followed her in, right on her heels as if he thought she’d try to shut the door on him.
“Put the box over there,” she told him and pointed to the desk where her assistant would eventually sit.
He did as she ordered.
She continued into her own office, where she laid her briefcase and purse on her desk. She decided to see how much she could get out of him before luring him to the HeatherRidge and Fergus. Her hands on her hips, she turned to face him. “All right, who are you, and what do you want?”
He came only as far as her doorway. Arms crossed over his chest, he leaned against the jamb and looked around her office as if he was taking inventory.
Not that there was much to see—desk, chairs, computer, printer, filing cabinets, a bookshelf, a couple of plants, a desk lamp, and some promo goodies she’d used in past events. True, she did have a nice colorful print by a contemporary artist on the wall, but, except for a photo of her family, no fanciness or personal stuff. The office was neat because that’s the kind of person she was—organized. She rarely met clients here, and the decor suited her work style. If he didn’t like it, too bad.
His gaze returned to her. “What did you take out of Finster’s safe, and why? What was the book, and what was in the bag?”
“Why should I tell you anything? I don’t even know who you are.”
“My name is Jim Tylan,” he answered.
“And ...?” She made a coaxing gesture with her hands.
“And what did you take out of Finster’s safe?”
“Why should I answer your questions? Are you with the police? You were evidently after something also. What was on those flash drives you copied?”
“Let’s just say it’s a matter of homeland security.”
“Show me some identification if you want answers.”
“ID is on a need-to-know basis. You don’t qualify.”
Irenee shook her head. “If you use the words homeland security, are you a government agent? If so, what agency and what kind of officer? Don’t you have to identify yourself? Are you going to take me in for interrogation?”
He straightened off the doorjamb and took three steps to loom over her and stare down into her eyes. She glared right back.
He was so close, she could feel the heat in him. She could see the little golden flecks in his green eyes and smell him, too—an alluring, indefinable scent that made her nostrils flare
, and which was not evil in any way, shape, or form.
A strong urge struck to move into his arms and discover if his body was as hard as it appeared. She actually felt her muscles prepare to take the step, and she relaxed them by sheer force of will. Where had such an idea come from? She recovered her focus and concentrated on standing her ground.
“Answer my questions, Ms. Sabel.” Obviously intent on domination, he bent farther, and they scowled at each other for some seconds, nose to nose.
Or rather, her straight nose to his once-broken one. She wondered what he’d do if she did something outrageous, like bite his nose—or kiss those lips drawn into a straight line by his anger.
The thoughts—irreverent and unexpected as they were, under the circumstances—tickled her funny bone. She couldn’t stop her lips from quirking up in a smile. The smile became a grin. She struggled for a few more moments to keep a straight face—until she lost the battle irrevocably.
When she started snickering, he drew himself up as if she’d insulted his parentage.
When she started giggling, he blinked first, but regained control before his shock at her reaction lasted more than a second.
He must think she was a wimp. Irenee the Sword, a wimp! She started laughing.
“Look, lady...”
His clear exasperation, accompanied by his leaning on her desk and bending over to put their faces at the same level—nose to nose again—set her off completely. He actually thought he could bulldoze her into talking.
She took a step backward and held onto her sides while she laughed so hard, she lost her breath and began coughing.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered and, straightening up, thumped her back until she waved him off.
“I’m all right,” she wheezed after a moment. She grabbed a tissue and dabbed at the tears in her eyes. When she could see again, she snuck a glance at him.
“I’m glad you find it funny. Let me assure you, however, this is no laughing matter,” he growled.