“When you get to Wilshire, turn left,” Kemble told Tristram. St. Catherine’s wasn’t the closest hospital, but with all that blood on the floor, the police would check the closest hospitals. And he needed somewhere the Tremaine name meant something. St. Catherine’s had a new cath lab courtesy of Tremaines, and a longtime family friend, Dr. Belvedere, practiced there. Now they just needed to get there fast. While going a sedate speed. Which meant they needed the system that controlled traffic lights to cooperate.
Kemble was betting he could arrange that. He took a breath and touched his tablet.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Morgan smiled down at the chalice cradled in her lap and felt the power of it fill her. The interior of the limo was flashing light and dark from the passing street lamps as they cruised up Sunset to the Mondrian Hotel. Three! Three Talismans were hers. Morgan Le Fay’s descendants would win out now, not Merlin’s. The artifacts of her ancestor’s nemesis allowed her to triumph. An extra pleasure. With all the Talismans, what could she not do?
“Do you feel it?” she whispered. She would have looked around at the others in the strobe of the streetlights, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the glittering chalice.
“Yes,” Hardwick said.
“Yeah,” Jason agreed. “Bet I could Cloak the whole west side right now.”
“Wanna see a little Weather?” Rhiannon asked slyly.
“No. No demonstrations.” Morgan held out her hand. Even as she watched, the skin plumped and smoothed. Satisfaction washed over her like a fall of pure clear water, refreshing, life-giving. She was getting younger again.
“So, uh, why didn’t we kill them all?”
Phil could be so dense. She shot him a withering glance. “Because I want them to suffer. I want the Tremaine spawn to see their father cut down to a shadow of his former self. His little whore-wife managed to pull him back from the brink. But I made sure she couldn’t make him whole. That’s even better. I gave her a dose of the power of the Wand too. If I robbed her of her power, then they’ll know they have no defense against what I can do to them. I want them afraid. Before we kill them.”
“They’ll just hightail it back to their fortress,” Jason muttered. “And we’re back in the same spot as before. We can’t get in, and they won’t come out. Not after this disaster.”
“Who says we can’t get in?” Morgan asked. “We still have our contact. Let’s motivate him to shut down the security.”
“I don’t know,” Hardwick muttered from up in the driver’s seat. “They might realize he’s a traitor. And after he sees what happened to Brian Tremaine, he might balk.”
“They’d never suspect him,” Morgan snapped. “And we have something it would kill him to lose, don’t we? I want them to have a few days to stew in their fear before we move in for the kill. How about Thursday?”
“If they realize we’re still in town they might go on the offensive,” Jason mumbled.
“With Brian Tremaine at death’s door? He was the glue that held the family together, the leader. Notice I say, ‘was.’ Who’s going to organize an offensive? Wifey is devastated with guilt that she couldn’t save him. The oldest son doesn’t even have magic. And let’s not imagine the motorcycle repairman has enough brains to challenge us. That leaves the alcoholic Finder, the cowgirl, and the fashion plate.” She chuffed a laugh. “I think not. Without Brian, they’re done.”
“Excuse me. . . .”
Morgan jerked her attention to Phil. The mouse had an objection?
“I know they’re competition, but you all seem to hate them so much. . . .” He let the “why” hang in the air without really saying it.
“Me. I hate them,” Morgan said, drilling him with her glare.” She glanced to the new members, Rick and Meredith. They needed to know at least the superficial reason the Tremaines must be destroyed. “They will fight to the death to make sure we don’t get the power and the future that we want. And therefore they must die.” Meredith blanched but Rick straightened his shoulders and looked determined. She’d have to watch Meredith.
Morgan turned back to Phil. “You hesitated in the attack tonight. And the cowgirl said, ‘Phil, is that you?’ You want to tell me about that?”
Phil swallowed, nervous. He’d had several sessions with Hardwick for various failures, so he knew what displeasing her could cost. “I knew her in high school. I went to Las Vegas to be a drummer in a band right after I graduated. Well, it was her I left. Maggie O’Brian. Well, now Maggie Tremaine, I guess.”
Morgan wasn’t often surprised. She’d never asked what he’d done before he came to the Clan. Of course one way to look at his power of shoving from a distance was as a kind of Percussion. Drummer made sense. “Did she raise your powers?”
He shook his head. “I got to be a way better drummer, but the power to shove from a distance, that was Darlene. She . . . uh, she died.”
Morgan had been grateful he was without his destined partner when she found him. So few had the courage to leave their lover on their own, and that was one of her prerequisites. Her followers had to have no greater loyalty than the one to her. “You’re lucky,” she said. But she’d have to watch Phil too. He might not have gotten over Maggie Tremaine entirely. ”I guess your cowgirl moved on.” She saw Phil’s eyes narrow.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
She smiled. Or maybe Phil had just gotten a reason to hate a Tremaine brother.
Hardwick pulled up in front of the hotel valet park kiosk and a sleepy uniformed valet came out to take the limo. Jason took the case that held the Wand. Morgan wrapped her cloak protectively around the chalice. “Let’s go in and check the news to see if the Tremaines were actually arrested.”
*****
“Jane.” Even Kemble could hear the relief in his whisper as he got through to the Breakers. The E.R. of St. Catherine’s was pretty dead, but he didn’t want the few other people waiting to overhear, just in case. In case what? In case one of them was a member of the Clan? He was getting paranoid. Or maybe not. He glanced around at his family. His mother was crying softly as Keelan and Maggie tried to comfort her. Tristram paced like a caged animal and Devin was back to looking like the lost soul he’d been when he first came to the Breakers all those years ago. Kemble cleared his throat. “Everything okay there?”
“Not exactly,” Jane said. “I just gave Drew some of my mother’s Valium. Is Brian okay?”
He’d been wondering how to break the news to her, but she seemed to have guessed. Even Jane couldn’t have intuition that good. “What makes you ask?” He realized he was putting off answering her question.
“Drew had a vision of the hospital. Apparently she’s been having the same one for a while, but she couldn’t see who was in the hospital bed until last night after you all had left.”
“And it was Senior.” Of course it was.
“Yes.”
Silence. Kemble’s heart ached physically. He couldn’t trust his voice. In the background at the Breakers, he could hear someone sobbing. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Drew’s voice was on the verge of hysteria.
“Kemble,” Jane said firmly. “You have to tell us what’s going on.”
Yeah. Yeah he did. He took a breath and turned toward the insipid watercolor of some covered bridge that hung on the waiting room wall. “The Clan was there. He got shot,” he managed past the constriction in his throat.
There was a pause. “Brina. . . ?”
“Kept him alive,” he said roughly.
“He’s alive,” Jane relayed to her audience. Kemble heard Michael’s baritone “Thank God,” and Drew trying to manage her sobs.
“Morgan touched him with the Wand though. Something happened. Mother couldn’t get the whole job done. We’re at the hospital.”
“Which hospital?” Drew asked, sounding desperate. She must be right at Jane’s shoulder.
“You can’t let her come over here,” Kemble warned. “I’m trying to get Tristram and Maggie to take Keelan and Devin home. We’re
too exposed here.”
“I don’t think Brina will leave him,” Jane said.
“I’ll stay with Mother,” Kemble said. But it made something inside him felt like it was breaking. With Senior out of the picture, who would take the lead? Tristram had just glared at him when he suggested his brother take the others home. “Put Michael on.”
Jane murmured her assent and the next thing he heard was Michael. “Is he okay?”
“We don’t know. He just went into surgery. Head wound.”
Michael grunted. Kemble knew he had enough experience in places like Afghanistan during his time with Delta Force to know how bad that sounded.
“Keep Drew from coming down here.” He tested out the sound of giving his brother-in-law what amounted to an order. It sounded unconvincing.
“Where’s here?”
“St. Catherine’s. It’s going to be awhile. We’re exposed.”
“Not sure I’ll be able to do that,” Michael said thoughtfully.
“God, Michael, you know how dangerous it is out here right now?” What was the guy saying? That he wouldn’t help?
“Calm down. I just mean that Drew saw herself at the hospital. She was in the vision, seeing Brian.”
Oh. They were still figuring out Drew’s gift. But so far, all her visions had come true in one way or another. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to think. “Okay. Then get her to wait. There’s nothing to see now anyway. I’ll call you when he’s out of surgery. Maybe by then I can get Tristram in line to take the others home. We can do a handoff and you bring Drew in.” Perhaps he could keep his family safe while they were at the hospital, if not in transit. “Can you have Edwards call me?”
“Sure. Just as an aside. . . .” Michael sounded almost apologetic. “Did you get the Cup?”
“No. Morgan has it.” He’d failed even in that.
*****
It was morning somewhere outside. The clock said so. But inside the waiting room at St. Catherine’s Kemble felt as though he was in some kind of time warp, waiting in limbo for the next disaster. It had been three hours since Senior was rushed into surgery. Kemble looked around the new waiting room, decorated in soothing blue and nondescript sofa-sized paintings. His mother looked horrible. The tears were gone but she seemed hollowed out. Maggie had her arms around his mother’s shoulders and was murmuring softly to her. Kemble could hear their voices as though they were projecting from a theater stage. His senses were totally raw.
“It’s not your fault,” Maggie whispered to his mother. “You can’t think that way.”
“If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine,” Tristram grumbled. “I let myself be distracted, and I didn’t get the gun hot fast enough.” There was real pain in his voice. The shadow on his jaw was long past five o’clock.
“Stop that, Tris,” Maggie commanded. “Then it’s my fault because I was the distraction. Or it’s my fault because I was surprised and didn’t Calm the Clan fast enough. Double bad me.”
“Hey, I could have put up a reality shift sooner,” Keelan mumbled glumly. “I was just so . . . shocked when they appeared out of nowhere.” Devin put his arm around her too. The family was cleaving together, except for Kemble. He felt distant from everyone right now. Senior was the one who held the family together. And Senior might be slipping away.
“It’s nobody’s fault,” he said, which was a stupid thing to say because they all knew that. They were just working through the events of the night, each in their own way. “It just happened.” Besides, if it was anyone’s fault, it was his. Could he have set up monitoring devices of some kind to detect the presence of the Clan? But it didn’t matter. “We just have to be there for Senior now. We can’t assume the worst.”
“I should be thinking about the children,” his mother said, looking around, her eyes empty.
“I just talked to Jane again,” Kemble said. “She’s got things in hand.”
“She . . . she won’t let them come down here, will she?” His mother asked. She began to pluck at the sleeves of the leather jacket Devin had put around her shoulders. “I wish I could get you all to go home. . . .”
“Well, you can’t,” Tristram said. “We’re here for the duration.”
Kemble had a sinking feeling. Edwards and company were scoping out how to protect Senior here. But they could only deploy their measures when Senior got to an actual room. “Michael’s keeping Drew together. Edwards has his guys on high alert.”
“I thought they were already on high alert,” Devin muttered.
“Higher alert,” Kemble corrected, his mouth unable to stop a grimace. What else they could do to protect the Breakers neither he nor Edwards had any idea. They already had state-of-the-art security, patrols, even radar in case there was an attack from the air.
At that moment the surgeon came pushing out through the swinging doors, dressed in those vaguely blue-colored scrubs, his mask dangling around his neck. He looked exhausted too. That couldn’t be a good sign. They all surged up, except his mother, who sat, brow furrowed, her hands clasped tightly.
“What news?” Kemble asked, wondering how he could sound so tight.
“He’s alive,” the doctor said. “I don’t know why exactly. That bullet should have killed him outright. With the force needed to break the skull it should have destroyed his brain. But it was lodged relatively close to the surface.”
Kemble glanced to his mother. She was white as a sheet. Did the doctor have to be so graphic? The only reason the bullet had been close to the skull was that his mother had been pushing it out and Healing tissue in behind it as fast as she could go. Just not fast enough.
The doc seemed to shake himself out of his thought process. “Anyway, I was able to extract the bullet. I must tell you, there is still damage. The surgery itself is also traumatic. It required a craniotomy, which should reduce the pressure from the subdural hematoma that forms.” He caught himself. “That’s the bleeding on the brain that the surgery inevitably causes. We’re monitoring him closely. If the craniotomy doesn’t reduce the pressure buildup, we’ll put him into a medically induced coma in the next few hours to avert further brain damage.”
His mother gasped.
“Now, it’s not like a regular coma,” the doctor hastened to add. “We do it with drugs. It reduces the activity in the brain so the vessels contract and make the brain smaller. It’s useful to keep the brain damage minimal.”
“How long?” Tristram asked, his voice hard.
“Not more than two weeks. It’s not safe for longer than that.”
Kemble’s mind started clicking over, but not about what the doctor was saying, not even about his father’s condition. Two entire weeks? The family would insist on trekking back and forth between the Breakers and St. Catherine’s. How could he keep them safe? If anyone else was hurt because Kemble was stupid or unprepared. . . .
His mother rose, short-circuiting his obsessive round of futile thoughts. “Thank you,” she said to the doctor. “For your care of my husband.”
It was such a simple statement of gratitude, without any questions or demands, that the doctor looked a little nonplussed. Or maybe it was her generosity in the face of her own pain, which was so obvious. “I’m sorry the news isn’t better, Mrs. Tremaine. We’ll know how extensive the damage is when we can risk bringing him back to consciousness.”
“I understand.”
“We’ll be sending him down to ICU as soon as he’s out of Recovery. If you want to go over to that waiting room, it’s on the second floor. You’ll be able to see him after he’s settled in. But only two at a time, and don’t expect him to regain consciousness.”
*****
“Now will you take the others home?” Kemble asked Tristram. Several people glanced up at his tone. There were perhaps half a dozen people waiting to see their loved ones, sitting on falsely cheerful yellow or orange vinyl chairs under the glaring lights of the ICU waiting room. Most of them were older, except for the family of the kid who’d
had a motorcycle accident. The occupants of the room had all sort of bonded during the last hours over their common worry for their loved ones. Kemble had dealt with the police, summoned because Senior’s wound was a gunshot, and given them a statement. Coming home from an event, drive-by shooting, car window was open. No, they didn’t have any idea who it was.
By now he was running on pure nerves.
Tristram glowered at him. Then his expression changed to one of pain. He glanced back at the double doors into the ICU. When he turned back to Kemble, he nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. We can’t be out here, exposed like this. It’s just. . . .”
Kemble and Tristram never had an easy relationship. “I know,” he said, wanting to put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, but not feeling natural about it. “If he’d asked us to go home, we’d all have hopped to. But right now we have to figure things out for ourselves.”
“You didn’t ask,” Tristram accused.
“Actually, I did.”
Tristram regrouped. “It’s all in the tone, guy.”
Tristram was right. Kemble had been trying to order him around all day. “He doesn’t ask either,” Kemble grumbled. “He just orders and assumes.”
Tristram’s shoulders dropped. He sighed. “I just hate to leave him unprotected.”
Kemble immediately felt that as an accusation that he couldn’t protect his father. But it would do no good to get his back up. Tristram didn’t know Kemble might have magic. And what good was the kind of magic he (might) have in this situation? Why couldn’t he have some good offensive magic like being a Firestarter? Down, boy, he told himself. That kind of thinking didn’t help Tristram, or himself. After all, Tristram was trying to play ball here. “I’m tearing my hair out wondering how we’re going to protect him while he’s in the ICU,” Kemble admitted. He ran a hand across his jaw. “If he were in a room. . . .”
“They can just appear and disappear. How can we protect against that?”
“I can set up detection instruments. I should have…”
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