Mystic Realms: A Limited Edition Collection

by Nicole Morgan

  My father shook his head. "There's no time, Ant. I have to get her out of here. It was a terrorist attack that took out her boyfriend's ship. Gracie could be in real danger here."

  "It's your call, boss." She threw up her hands. "What can I do to help?"

  "Think you could pack her a suitcase?"

  "On it." She dashed away her teardrops and sprinted up the stairs.

  The next hour passed in a blur. I finally managed to swallow some of the ice water. Antjie and Bax took turns assisting me so I could bathe and dress for the road. The end result was I managed to drag on a pair of clean jeans, socks, and a shirt. I had no idea if I matched or not, and I didn't care. My hair dripped down the back of my shirt, making me shiver from the cool dampness.

  Bax carried me to my Audi and buckled my seatbelt. Antjie hugged me a dozen times and made me swear to call her the moment we arrived wherever it was we were headed. Then she shut my door and stood there a minute looking lost.

  The last glimpse I had of her was her standing on the curb in front of our townhouse, shoulders shaking and tears streaming as she waved goodbye. Her long, curly hair was loose and whipping in the mid-day breeze. I turned in my seat to keep watching her. She shoved a handful of hair from her eyes and continued to wave until we drove out of sight.

  A few miles from the base, I smelled something burning. Through the windshield I could see smoke billowing from the hood of my car.

  "Bax!" He didn't answer. "Bax?" I repeated and glanced across the console at him. He was hunched over the wheel, gripping it with both fists. A sneer curled his lips. Even when the smoke billowed too high for him to see through the windshield, he made no attempt to slow the vehicle.

  What was wrong with him? I shook my head, wondering if I was losing my mind. Maybe I had finally passed out from exhaustion and was only imagining the smoke. When the hood of my car erupted into flames, however, I stopped caring about appearing delusional. "Bax! Bax?" I shouted his name again and again. "I know you can hear me. Why aren't you answering?"

  His head finally whipped in my direction. "I'm sorry, princess. It has to be this way to make it look real."

  Make what look real? I stared at him in dawning horror. "You mean you planned this?"

  An explosion rocked the rear of the vehicle and threw us into a spin. We spun for several dizzying seconds until the car slammed into something hard, making our bodies lurch sideways. Then we came to an abrupt halt, which threw us against our seat rests. The smoke grew thicker, too thick to see anything. I choked and gagged on it. Then I passed out.

  I awoke to the sensation of air turbulence. I glanced sluggishly around and coughed from the stench of stale smoke rising from my hair and clothing. I was strapped in an airplane seat. An I.V. bag dangled from a steel ring mounted to the rack over my head. The clear fluid was sloshing back and forth in the bag from the movement of the plane. My gaze traced the cord attached to the bag down to my left arm.

  Great. That explained my full bladder. On the upside, it probably meant I wasn't dehydrated anymore.

  I studied my surroundings through half-closed lids. It wasn't a commercial aircraft — something more along the lines of military grade. An entire row of empty seats extended along the opposite side of the aircraft. Another row extended along my side, but I was the only passenger strapped in. The wide open bay in the middle was empty, but the bare metal flooring bore scratch marks as if accustomed to holding and transporting heavy items. It also bore what appeared to be a few oil stains. A cargo plane, perhaps?

  For several long, silent minutes, the only sound was the whir of the plane engines and the pounding of my heartbeat echoing between my eardrums. Then the door of the cockpit opened, and my father stepped into the cabin.

  Relief settled over his features at the sight of me. "Awake at last," he noted with satisfaction.

  I squinted, trying to focus my gaze on him. "Who's flying the plane?" I hoped to God it wasn't on automatic pilot. The very idea of sitting in the rear of an unmanned aircraft made me want to throw up.

  "A good friend," Bax reassured. "He owed me a favor. A bunch of favors, actually."

  For what, I had no idea. I understood very little about what Bax did for a living. "Where are we going?"

  "To a mid-sized town in Georgia, a few miles south of Atlanta. It's a safe house, of sorts. Just until things blow over with the Romolov investigation."

  "So that's what this is all about?" I waved a trembling hand to take in the dusty airplane.

  He nodded, lips flat-lining. He stood, legs spread for balance and his heavily muscled arms crossed over his broad chest. "Gracie, I know this isn't the best time to talk. I respect that you're grieving, and I would do anything to make this whole ordeal go away for you, but I can't. All I can do is oversee the cleanup."

  "By cleanup, you mean what exactly?"

  "I wrecked your Audi on purpose, princess. My associates and I staged it to look like a fatal car accident."

  "A what—? Are you crazy?" I stared at him, utterly aghast. "What about Antjie and our neighbors? They'll be worried sick." Our neighbors cared about us. Greatly and genuinely. In many ways, they were like family. They'd looked after me and cooked for me these past two years. They deserved better than a disappearing act from us.

  "They'll be attending a memorial service in our honor." His features may as well have been set in three layers of concrete for the stubbornness he exuded. "I'm sorry, Gracie. I really am. I'm particularly sorry for what Antjie and her family are going through right now. Unfortunately, this was the only way to get you off the Russian mob's radar until things settle with the investigation."

  I dropped my gaze. "You really believe all that sick stuff in the news?" I couldn't rid the acid tang from my tongue.

  "It doesn't matter what I believe, princess. Fact is Anatoly Romolov is wanted for questioning and can't be located. That doesn't look good for him and the allegations against his company. Another fact is my daughter was reported by more than a dozen individuals in Ramstein and Kaiserslautern to be dating his nephew, one fine looking lad by the name of Stellan Romolov. Someday, we'll discuss how so many people knew you were dating a man of Russian descent while you tried to lead me to believe he was Swedish."

  "Oh, for Pete's sake! I was just trying to keep my love life private. It doesn't matter if he was Russian, Swedish, or Swahili, for that matter. What the news is claiming about him is wrong. He was good!" I declared fiercely. Fresh tears stung my eyes, and I blinked to hold them back. "I knew him, and I loved him so I should know."

  "Okay, princess. Okay." Bax drew a long-suffering breath and glanced away. "As soon as you feel well enough to hold up your end of the conversation, I'm going to need you to tell me everything there is to know about your dead boyfriend."

  My dead boyfriend. Oh, that was harsh! "I'm as ready as I'll ever be," I muttered. "After a trip to the restroom, that is."

  Bax helped unhook the I.V. from my arm. He flicked a finger against my veins again. "You're good to go, princess. No need to finish this bag. It was your third one."

  My legs were shaky from anxiety and exhaustion, but at least I could walk again. When I returned from the restroom, Bax was waiting in the seat next to mine with a brown Meal Ready to Eat (MRE) package in hand. He tore it open and handed me a granola bar.

  "I know it's not steak, but it's sustenance. I'll get you something better when we land."

  I took a bite. The granola disintegrated into dry, dusty crumbles in my mouth. I had to force myself to chew and swallow.

  I mulled over everything that had happened as I choked down a second bite. I was beginning to better understand why Stellan hadn't talked much about his family or background. His Uncle Anatoly was clearly bad news. However, the few things he had told me were stamped in raised relief letters on the surface of my brain. I didn't expect these tidbits of information would satisfy Bax, but I shared what I could with him anyway.

  "He said his uncle had made some poor business decisions
over the past few years, and he was going to help make things right. He also mentioned it could be dangerous. I offered to postpone attending college for a semester and sail with him, but—"

  "You did what?" my father roared, half-rising from his seat.

  I frowned my disapproval at his interruption and continued. "He turned me down flat, saying attending college was too important and where he was going was too dangerous. I recall him saying something about running into pirates and terrorists now and then. Made it clear the shipping business was not all roses and chocolate."

  Under the circumstances, it didn't seem prudent to share the fact I was married to the man in question. Or widowed. Or that my husband had been a vampire.

  A few hours later, Bax and I landed in Atlanta with I.D.s and passports bearing fake names. He again assured me it was temporary — that he and I would resume using our real names in a year or so, once he was confident the mafia wasn't looking for me.

  I almost made it to the exit of the airport before I collapsed again. This time, my whole body wracked with convulsions. It felt like I was choking on my own tongue, making it difficult to breathe.

  "Somebody call an ambulance," Bax screamed. "My daughter's having a seizure!"

  We spent the night in the hospital, but they found nothing wrong. Frantic to fix me, Bax drove me straight from the hospital to a grief counselor. Before the end of the day, I was issued a series of prescriptions for a cocktail of anti-depressants. It was standard procedure to take a pregnancy test before starting such medications. The test came back positive.

  How in the world a person could find out they were pregnant that soon was a complete mystery to me. My wedding night had only taken place a few days earlier, but the physician swore the test reading was accurate.

  I was carrying Stellan's baby.

  Antjie

  Ramstein AFB, Germany

  "It's time, Antjie."

  My mother stood in my bedroom doorway, a picture of decorum in the midst of chaos. Her black wool sheath dress was unwrinkled and free of lint, and pearls were clasped at her throat and wrists. Her normally wavy blonde hair was disciplined into a bun at her nape with the help of mousse and hairspray. Though her eyes were red-rimmed, her makeup was un-smudged, her shoulders soldier-straight, and her chin raised. She was a model military wife who'd birthed four children and reared us through the good times and the bad, to include countless military deployments during which my father was repeatedly sent into harm's way. She'd miscarried twice, buried both parents prematurely thanks to cancer and a blot clot, and was the survivor of a life-threatening tumor. She was the toughest person I knew yet possessed the biggest heart.

  She was hands down the best role model a girl could possibly have, but even she couldn't possibly understand how difficult it was for me to attend Grace and Colonel Baxter Livingston's funerals today. Grace had been my best friend. Mother understood that much. But I'd also been crushing on Bax since I was fifteen — nearly three full years, which amounted to one sixth of my entire life. I didn't think that was something my mother was prepared to listen to, so I spared myself the embarrassment of trying to explain my doubly broken heart to her.

  She and I walked arm in arm out the door of our base home and down the sidewalk. My oldest brother, Axel, waited on the curb for us with his black Hummer idling. Nico, who was only a year older than me, leaped from the passenger side to hold the door open for us and assist us into the cab. Ski, who was two years younger than me, hunkered stony-faced in the backseat. Our father was on a joint training exercise in Sweden. We had no idea when he would return, but it definitely wouldn't be in time to attend today's memorial service for the Livingstons.

  "You okay there, shrimp?" Axel asked as he gunned the engine.

  The nickname was a longstanding joke between us. Everyone in the Graf family was tall, including me. However, my brothers were all over six feet, including Ski who was only sixteen, whereas I'd stopped growing at five feet ten inches.

  "I'm angry," I seethed, flicking a bead of dampness from the corner of my eye. Angry as Hades, hell, purgatory, or any other religious dungeon I could think of!

  Axel nodded soberly at me through the rearview mirror, his gaze telling me he understood. He was no stranger to strong emotions. He lived by them, harnessed them, and rode them on a regular basis to propel him to victory in the boxing ring. To my mother's distress, he had not attended college after graduation. Instead, he'd continued his boxing training and moved up to compete in the semi-professional circuit. Nico, who had just graduated last year, idolized him and was making noises about following in his footsteps.

  "There now, sweetheart." My mother reached for my hand and squeezed it gently. "We're going to get through this together." She drew a sobbing breath and whispered something that sounded like, "God, give us strength." Then she cleared her throat. Like everything else, she did that with delicacy and ladylike decorum. "Like we always do," she finished in a stronger voice with another squeeze of my hand.

  I didn't answer her. She'd been the one who'd instilled in me not to say anything aloud unless I had something pleasant to say. I had nothing pleasant to say. I wanted to scream and shake my fists at the heavens.

  Unlike Grace, whose very soul had withered in the aftermath surrounding Stellan's death, I was as angry as a hive full of killer bees. Angry that she'd suffered more than any teenager deserved to suffer in the short time I'd know her. Angry that she'd found true love and lost it in the span of a few months. Angry that I'd had to stand by, helpless to do anything to fix it. More than anything, though, I was angry she was dead.

  It wasn't fair. None of it was fair.

  None of it made sense either. I had a thousand unanswered questions burning holes through my skull. It was a wonder smoke wasn't seeping from my nose and ears.

  Why had Bax taken so long to come to his daughter's aid after Stellan's death? The train ticket stub I'd found in the pocket of the jacket he'd thrown off had stated he'd traveled home from the direction of Hamburg. That was only a few hours away, nowhere near the ten it had taken him to reach Grace. And what was he doing in Hamburg? Had he been there during the terrorist attack, or had he taken a detour there on his way home?

  I'd always possessed strong instincts, and my gut was shouting that his and his daughter's deaths were somehow connected to Stellan's. The media claimed the explosion on his ship had all the earmarks of a terrorist attack. An unnamed source was also claiming he'd held ties to the Russian mafia. Bax wouldn't have been able to resist looking into it — not with his own daughter's name tied to Stellan's.

  Then there was the Livingston's fatal car accident. Although it had already been ruled a brake malfunction and a terrible tragedy, I wasn't buying it. Seriously! What were the odds of them dying in a freak accident so soon after Stellan's horrific death? Slim to never? Any group as big and as powerful as the Russian mafia could have bought off a small town investigator. I'd always been a staunch believer that too many coincidences couldn't be coincidental.

  Axel didn't bother nosing into a regular parking spot at the chapel, since his oversized vehicle wouldn't fit. He pulled up to the front entrance, and Nico hopped out again to open our doors. He and Ski escorted us into the sanctuary, while Axel found a curb to park on. One of the robed chaplains waved us to the front of the room to sit in the family section. To my knowledge, there were no actual relatives of the Livingstons present. Their only surviving family member that I knew about was Grace's Aunt Jillian from Texas. I doubted she'd even been informed about our hasty memorial service.

  Enormous full-color portraits of Grace and Bax were displayed on wide easels, flanking either side of the pulpit. I couldn't bear to listen to the meaningless formalities uttered on their behalf. The chaplains meant well, but they didn't know the Livingstons like I did, which meant there was no way they would choose the right words to do these two dear departed souls any justice. Instead, I focused my attention on the portraits of the two people I loved and missed
with every ounce of my energy.

  Unlike the other guests gathered, I would do more than shed a few tears and remember the Livingstons. I was going to ask questions and dig for answers. I was going to turn over every stone — no matter how innocuous it might look — and exhaust every possibility. My name was Antjie Make-It-Happen-Graf, and I was going to uncover the names of Grace and Bax's killers and bring them to justice.

  Years later, I would look back on this hour as the true beginning of my career in journalism. As well as the beginning of the end of it.

  At the moment, however, it marked the first time in forty-eight hours I felt a rough-edged sense of peace steal over me. It might be no more than a scrappy blanket to cover my raw, angry soul, but I had a reason to continue living.

  As the memorial ceremony drew to a close, my cell phone vibrated in the handbag looped over my shoulder. I knew it was ill mannered and borderline sacrilegious of me to check my cell phone messages in the middle of a funeral service, but I hadn't been paying much attention up to this point anyway. I scanned the screen, and my heart did a long series of back tucks, no hands.

  Someone had sent me a text using Bax's burner phone, the number he'd given me to call him in case of an emergency involving Grace. It was an ant emoji! Cautious joy erupted in small spurts in my chest. Bax and Grace were the only people in the world who'd ever called me Ant, which meant the message had to be from one of them. Was it some freaky delay of a old text message that hadn't previously come through properly, or was it a new message? Meaning . . . they were alive?

  I didn't realize the crushing grip I had on my cell phone until the screen cracked.

  The shards of glass nicked the pad of my thumb. I stuck it in my mouth to keep the blood from dripping on my dress. Mother — bless her ladylike soul to heaven and back again — handed me a tissue.

  The moment we exited the dim chapel and stepped back into the garish sunlight, I very carefully tapped Bax's speed dial button through the glass shards and waited. The automated phone recording made my heart weep all over again.