Absolutely Captivated

by Grayson, Kristine

  “Henri Barou,” the blond said. “In the 1930s, he went afoul with some children, let them see him fly, and they wrote a comic book? Do you recall the scandal?”

  Zoe looked at the blonde. Zoe did recall the scandal. She had met Henri Barou who was calling himself Dexter Grant. He wanted to know if she would help him with a case. He didn’t dare use his magic, since the Fates had forbidden it, but he knew of a purebred puppy mill in which the animals were being mistreated. He just didn’t know what to do about it. His old method would have been to fly in and rescue the animals, but he couldn’t anymore. The Fates had forbidden his interference in mortal affairs. So he had come to Zoe, asking for help.

  She had taken photographs, documented proof of the abuse, and had reported the mill’s owners to the state. The state shut the mill down, and Zoe had used her own magic to heal a lot of the injured and sick animals, just so that they could be adopted by caring people.

  Travers was watching her. “You believe this Superman crap?”

  “Honest,” Kyle said. “My dad doesn’t know about any of it. I wish you could feel what I know….”

  His voice was barely above a whisper, and this time, Zoe knew that Travers couldn’t hear his son.

  Zoe raised a hand and sealed her door shut. Then she boosted the air-conditioning because the room had gotten stiflingly warm.

  “Mr. Kinneally,” she said, “you have been out-voted by your son and his friends. You’re staying until I understand exactly what’s going on here.”

  “Sorry,” Travers said. “Kyle and I are going. And if Kyle doesn’t want to leave, then I guess he can stay here without me.”

  The parental bluff. Only Travers Kinneally gave it enough of an edge to make it seem real. He walked to the door and turned the knob. But of course the door didn’t move. The knob didn’t even make its normal clicking sound.

  “I wasn’t kidding,” Zoe said. “You’re staying.”

  “Open this door.” He grabbed the door knob with both hands and pulled. The muscles in his well-shaped arms strained, but the door didn’t budge.

  “Dad,” Kyle said.

  “Open it!” Travers braced a foot against the doorjamb and pulled. Still nothing happened.

  Zoe raised her eyebrows and leaned back in her chair. This man was putting on an excellent performance.

  “Travers,” said the redhead with a bit of a sigh, “the door won’t open.”

  “Open the door, dammit, or I will come over to your desk, find the remote locking mechanism, and smash it.” As he said that last, he turned toward Zoe. His hands were still on the knob, one foot still rested against the doorjamb, and Zoe was tempted—ever so tempted—to release the binding spell she had put on the door.

  Then Travers would have tumbled backward and maybe even fallen into the so-called Fates. But then, of course, he’d leave, and Zoe wouldn’t find out exactly what was going on.

  “I didn’t use a mechanism,” Zoe said. “I spelled the door. It’s blocked until I open it.”

  Travers let go of the knob, turned, and put his hands on his hips. He looked exasperated. His cheeks were red, and perspiration dotted his forehead.

  “Spelled,” he said.

  Zoe nodded.

  “That’s impossible.”

  Zoe sighed. She didn’t like games. She was about to say so when Kyle touched her arm.

  “Really,” the boy said. “He doesn’t get this.”

  “He was abominably trained,” the brunette said.

  “If we were still in charge,” said the blonde, “we would take his mentor—”

  “—and punish him for dereliction of duties,” finished the redhead, just like the Fates used to do. They always finished each other’s thoughts.

  Travers glared at the women, but for once, Zoe ignored him.

  “What do you mean, still in charge?” Zoe asked, wishing that she hadn’t. She didn’t want to get involved, she didn’t want to be sucked deeper into this scam, and yet something compelled her. The honesty of the kid and, if she were truthful, the beauty of the man before her.

  And the strangeness of the three women.

  “That’s why we asked you if you were aware of the politics of Mount Olympus,” the brunette asked.

  “Things have gotten worse in the last—decade? Century? I’m never sure how mortals tell time.” The blonde looked to her friends.

  “Suffice to say, we’ve been—what is that term? Laid off?” the redhead looked at the brunette.

  “The Powers That Be imposed term limits on our position,” the brunette said without answering any of her friends’ questions.

  “We had to resign,” said the blonde.

  “While the Powers reexamine our job,” said the redhead.

  “The qualifications have changed,” the brunette said.

  “And if we want the job back,” said the blonde.

  “We have to reapply,” said the redhead.

  “But only if we meet some new qualifications,” said the brunette.

  “Which is why we’re here,” said the blonde.

  “To reapply?” Zoe asked, feeling confused. It was that confused sensation, more than anything, that was beginning to convince her that the women in front of her were the Fates.

  “No,” the redhead said. “We’re here in this office to get your help finding something of ours. We’re here on this mortal plane to meet the new qualifications.”

  “Or we were originally,” said the brunette, “before we realized it was all a big power play by Zeus.”

  “Zeus?” Zoe asked.

  “Zeus?” Travers asked at the same time, only his tone was a lot more skeptical than Zoe’s. Zoe had met Zeus. He was a short, bullish man with a strange charisma and a self-confidence that bordered on the ridiculous.

  “This is getting completely out of hand,” Travers said. “Unblock this door so that Kyle and I can leave.”

  “I want to hear about Zeus,” Kyle said from behind Zoe. “I didn’t know he was still alive.”

  Zoe started at that, until she remembered that mortals learned about many mages through myth and legend. Some of the younger mages, like Dexter Grant, had found their way into popular culture. But the older ones had a lot of myths written about them.

  “Zeus is not still alive,” Travers snapped. “He never existed. He’s a made-up god for a culture that’s long dead, and these women are living in a fantasy world that Miss Sinclair is somehow buying into. I don’t think this is a healthy place, Kyle, and I don’t think we should stay.”

  Zoe’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” she asked Travers.

  “I told you,” he said. “My name is—”

  “I caught your name,” she said. “But I was wondering who you are—what you do—that makes you so very judgmental. Zeus is still alive—”

  She caught herself before she could add the word “unfortunately.” No sense in having someone report that slip back to the randy old man.

  “—and still wields a great deal of power. If he’s somehow messed up in this, I want to know about it.”

  Travers was staring at her with his mouth open.

  Zoe ignored him, and focused on the women.

  “Did Zeus remove your magical powers?” she asked.

  “Of course not, child,” the blonde said. And the use of all those endearments should have been a tip-off. How many women Zoe’s age—or apparent age—called her “child” and “darling” and “dear”? Those were patronizing terms, old lady terms, and if anyone qualified as the old lady in the room, it was Zoe.

  Unless these three women really were the Fates. Then Zoe was just a babe in arms.

  “Zeus didn’t take our powers away,” the redhead said.

  “We gave them up voluntarily,” said the brunette.

  “What?” Zoe asked.

  “In order to reapply,” the blonde said, “we had to expand our knowledge in three areas.”

  “We had to learn about other cultures,” said the redhead.

/>   “We had to improve our diplomatic skills,” said the brunette.

  “And we had to understand powerlessness,” said the blonde.

  “So we gave up our magic to come here to learn about powerlessness, and another culture,” said the redhead.

  “We’re still struggling with diplomacy,” said the brunette.

  “Obviously,” Travers said dryly. Then he raised his eyebrows at Zoe. “You believe all this?”

  “Parts of it sound plausible,” she said. “But parts of it seem quite unlikely. I mean, if there are no Fates, who’s in charge of judicial review and law enforcement?”

  “Well,” the blonde said looking at her friends, “that’s the problem.”

  “They’re not very competent,” said the redhead.

  “Who isn’t?” Zoe asked.

  “The children Zeus installed in our place,” the brunette said.

  “In fact,” the blonde said, “that’s why we’re here. This entire thing is a mess.”

  Zoe felt a shiver run through her. It was indeed a mess, and there was only one real way she could get to the truth.

  She waved a hand in a relocation spell, and commanded, “To the Fates!”

  Eight

  And then she disappeared. Right in front of him. As if she had never been there at all.

  Travers took one step forward and almost collided with Lachesis’ chair. Zoe Sinclair was really and truly gone.

  Kyle leaned on the chair and waved his hands in the space where Zoe had been. He looked pleased and confused, and Travers didn’t have to be psychic to know what his son was thinking: Kyle thought Zoe’s disappearance meant that magic really happened, but he was confused as to how she did it.

  The Fates—or whomever they were—seemed calm. They weren’t upset or talking among themselves. In fact, Clotho and Lachesis had leaned back in their chairs as if they were expecting a long wait.

  Travers had had enough. He stomped around to the back of the desk and wished, for the very first time in his life, that he knew something about illusionists. Because someone—maybe this Zoe Sinclair—was playing him for a fool.

  He crouched and looked for a trap-door. When he found none, he reached for the desk, wondering what he would find around it.

  Kyle grabbed his hand. “Hey, Dad. You always said desks were private.”

  “I don’t like what’s going on here.” Travers stood up and shook his son’s hand off his arm. He placed his own hands on Zoe Sinclair’s paper-covered desk and leaned forward. “Would you ladies kindly tell me the point of this adventure?”

  He used polite words, but his tone wasn’t polite. If his mother had heard him, she would have rapped his knuckles. Travers tried not to use that tone in front of his son, either, not wanting Kyle to pick up bad habits, but now was not the time for that kind of caution.

  Something strange was going on here, and Travers had to know exactly what it was.

  “Unfortunately,” Lachesis said, “the magical streams no longer consider us the Fates.”

  Travers glanced at Clotho. She was twirling a strand of blonde hair around one finger.

  Was all of this some great big, practical joke designed by Vivian and Kyle to get Travers to knock off his criticism of comic books? Was Vivian doing this because she could afford to, now that she had inherited their Great-Aunt Eugenia’s money?

  “I don’t care about ‘magic streams,’ ” Travers said. “I care about whatever it is you four are trying to do to me and Kyle.”

  “Four?” Atropos asked.

  “You and the woman who just ‘vanished.’ Zoe, or whatever your name is, you can come out now.” Travers directed that last toward the open bathroom door, knowing that Zoe had to be somewhere nearby where she could hear him.

  “She will not come out,” Clotho said, probably giving Zoe a signal. Somewhere along the way, around the time Zoe had accepted the magic ideals as easily as she had, Travers realized all of these women were working together.

  It didn’t matter how attractive he found Zoe. He didn’t like being played for a fool.

  “She won’t return until she has a few answers,” Lachesis said.

  “As if she can get answers from those children,” Atropos said. Then, oddly, all three women giggled in unison.

  “Dad—”

  “And you,” Travers turned halfway, raising one hand and pointing a finger at the sky. He wanted badly to shake that finger in Kyle’s face, but that would be wrong. His son was trying something, and he clearly had help. The worst thing Travers could do was overreact.

  But he was getting a little freaked out, locked in this office with three strange women, a disappearing detective, and a child who didn’t belong here at all. If Zoe didn’t return soon—if things didn’t return to normal soon—Travers was going out the window and taking Kyle with him.

  “Me?” Kyle asked.

  “What is this all about?”

  Kyle shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the knuckle of his forefinger. “How come you think I know something?”

  “Because we’re here at the behest of your Aunt Vivian, who always conspires with you, and her three friends, whom you championed once we got to L.A. I figure you all did this as a ruse to get me to Las Vegas. Did you think that I needed to meet someone now that Vivian’s married? Or is this about your so-called magical abilities?”

  To his surprise, Kyle’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t do anything, Dad. Honest. Aunt Viv and I didn’t plan anything. I don’t know anything about anything, and I just like Clotho and Lachesis and Atropos, and I worry about them because they clearly don’t know anything about our world, which you would notice if you just paid attention. You never really pay attention, Dad. Haven’t you ever wondered how come I know so much stuff about other people? Haven’t you wondered why Aunt Vivian once owned the only accurate psychic hotline in the nation? Haven’t you wondered why you can win the lottery every single time?”

  Travers flushed. Kyle wasn’t supposed to know about the lottery. Travers thought no one did.

  “You don’t know what’s going on,” Travers said.

  “No!” The tears were gone without a single one falling. Kyle looked defiant now.

  “But you wanted to come here,” Travers said.

  “Of course. I wanted someone else to take care of the Fates. Dad, they don’t know anything. They barely understand how money works. Haven’t you wondered why?”

  He hadn’t wondered why. He hadn’t thought about it in quite that way. He had simply assumed the women were eccentric, and perhaps had once been pampered by their husbands. Women like that often didn’t know how money worked. He had a lot of elderly, rich widows on his client list who had to learn how to write a check when their husbands died.

  “But the Fates aren’t elderly, Dad,” Kyle said.

  Travers started. He hadn’t spoken aloud, had he?

  “No, you haven’t said a single word,” Kyle said. “You always think that when I respond to your thoughts, and I never correct you. You’re not mumbling, you’re not talking aloud. You’re having thoughts that broadcast. I can hear them.”

  Travers clamped his lips together. Hearing thoughts wasn’t possible, and he would prove it. He would think of—Liberace. Kyle was so young he probably never heard of Liberace, but Vegas was Liberace’s town. There was even a Liberace Museum, according to the signs on the way into the city. What would it have, a white feather—

  “—boa and a million candelabras?” Kyle asked. “And I do too know who Liberace is.”

  Travers sank into Zoe’s chair. She clearly wasn’t there. The chair wasn’t even warm any longer. His heart was pounding. Maybe he was dreaming.

  That was it. He had heard the alarm, rolled over, and fallen back to sleep. This entire day had been one long, crazy dream.

  “Get real, Dad,” Kyle said. “If you’d overslept the alarm, I would’ve woke you up because we had to get out of town before the traffic got bad.”

  The Fa
tes were watching this interchange as if it were a tennis match, their heads swinging back and forth in unison from Travers’ face to Kyle. They didn’t even seem confused that they were only hearing half of the conversation. In fact, it seemed to amuse them.

  “This isn’t possible,” Travers whispered.

  “Of course it is, Dad.” Kyle grimaced at the Fates, then turned his back on them. He leaned against the desk, facing Travers. “I tried to tell you about it a number of times, remember? I told you I could read minds when I was three, but you laughed and told me I watched too much television.”

  Travers raised his head. He felt slightly dizzy, probably because he hadn’t been breathing. “You remember that?”

  “Of course I remember it, Dad. I was so confused. I thought everybody could hear thoughts, and then I realized only I could. But I figured you’re my dad, so you can too, and then I told you and you laughed. You laughed, Dad, and I was really scared.”

  Travers frowned. He remembered laughing, and telling Kyle he watched too much television. Then he grabbed his small son, pulled him into a hug, and cuddled with him on the couch, joking that they’d watch even more television.

  But he couldn’t remember Kyle’s expression, and he wasn’t sure why he remembered the incident. It was eight years ago, and seemed like nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Perhaps, Travers,” Clotho said, “it is time you stop questioning what happens around you and start believing.”

  Kyle was still studying him with that same expression of hope and concern that he had every time this topic had come up.

  And it had come up dozens of times every year. Kyle tried to convince Travers that psychic powers existed and Kyle had them, and Travers laughed or dismissed them or found some other explanation.

  But Kyle often knew what people were going to say or what they were going to do, and a few times, he even kept Travers away from danger. Twice in the last year, Kyle had told his father to slow down on the Ventura, and both times a wreck happened right in front of them not five minutes later.

  If Kyle hadn’t issued the warning in both cases, their car would have been in the middle of those wrecks.