Born To Be Wilde: Immortal Vegas, Book 3

by Jenn Stark

  “I don’t know.” I stared at the posters as well. “I’m not a big enough deal, and my acquisitions work isn’t that exciting. I’m thinking Viktor isn’t a Connected, at least not anyone I’ve ever heard of. And I would have heard of him.”

  A small, niggling doubt cropped up, even as I said the words. I’d been surprised when I’d learned about the Arcana Council a year ago. So maybe Viktor had slipped through the cracks as well, and yet…how? Especially if he was targeting children.

  My adrenaline ratcheted down another notch, my heart rate slowing, my fingers beginning to tingle. The fog of anger lifted as a cold, hard truth assaulted me.

  I knew that Armaeus could hide himself from the Council. Was Viktor so strong a Connected that he could hide himself from the entire Connected community?

  Worse…did the Council know about him?

  Brody’s voice pulled me back from that dangerous thought. “Six children missing, maybe all of them psychic, all under the age of ten, and he never goes after another kid? Why?”

  I shrugged, looking at the screen, mesmerized by the double set of faces. “Maybe he needed those particular kids.” I discarded that thought as quickly as it formed. “Except some of their psychic abilities hadn’t manifested yet, you said. And the arcane black market had its basis in Europe, not the US. Ten years ago, I don’t think there was much of a US market for kids.” I didn’t need Brody’s glance to take my mind down the next path. “And of course, I was in Memphis. But they didn’t target me. They targeted Mom.”

  Brody tapped the last poster, the one with my face on it. I swallowed again. “Fine. Maybe they knew about me.”

  “Viktor did, anyway.” He rocked back on his heels. “The woman who picked you up, the RVer. You’d never met her before? She didn’t know you or your family?”

  “Hardly.” I smiled, thinking about the old woman, her hair flying, her sun-roughened skin transformed by her easy grin. “She was a retiree with a soft spot for runaways, nothing more.”

  “Maybe.” He nodded, and the tone of his voice made me glance at him.

  “What? You don’t buy I’d get picked up that fast?”

  “Oh, I buy it, but to be picked up by someone who managed to hide you not only from the police but from what seems like a very bad man with a penchant for psychic kids and the money to track them down? That takes some skill. Some would say some intervention.”

  “Wrong tree.” I shrugged. “You’d have to have met her. She was an ordinary woman. A nice woman, yeah. But I wasn’t the first orphaned runaway she ran into. I doubt I was the last.”

  “And you never thought to go to your mother’s relatives?” Brody’s voice was eerily cop calm, but I was too strung out to figure out why.

  “Um, that would be negative, Brody. Since my mom had no relatives.” I glanced at him. His face was as placid as his voice, which didn’t seem good either. “I told you that. My mom was an orphan by the time she was sixteen. Runaway by seventeen, working in Memphis as a waitress by eighteen. She was lucky.” I grimaced. “At least until I came along.”

  Brody stared at me for a long minute.

  “What?” I finally asked.

  He released a deep sigh that sounded more like a groan. “That’s…not exactly true, Sara.”

  With another wave of his hand, the screen changed, and the obituary for my mother appeared, next to a picture of her that brought a pang to my heart, her disheveled good looks and big smile going straight through me. She looked young—too young, but I recognized her, of course.

  “Oh, man,” I muttered, plunging into the usual wave of emotion where my mother was involved. “She looks good there. When was that taken? Before I was born?”

  “We think so. It was a dating site profile picture, the last photo she allowed to be taken of her until you started to become famous as Psychic Teen Sariah. By then she was drinking a fair amount. Her tox screen showed a complement of recreational drug use as well, so she probably wasn’t thinking too straight.”

  “She didn’t like having her picture taken. It was a thing with her.” I couldn’t help moving closer to the screen, trying to imprint my mother’s memory on my brain. How long had it been since I’d seen any picture of her? I couldn’t remember. “To me she always looked good, at least till the end. And then, she didn’t look bad, just—tired.”

  Brody started to say something, then appeared to change tack. He went for a question instead. “Did anything else specifically change in the weeks leading up to her death? Did you have money problems, anything like that?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Money, for whatever reason, was never a problem. We didn’t live well, far from it. But there was always food, and there was always enough money for Mom to go out, for clothing and whatever. I didn’t know where she got it, but she had a job.”

  Brody hesitated. “She did have a job, yes,” he said at length. “Taking care of you.”

  I smiled. “I mean beyond that, Brody. She had a job, job. She made money waitressing. I don’t know how we did it, but we managed.”

  “You more than managed.” Brody looked a little queasy, and I stared at him more sharply. “Your mom’s bank account had money in it,” he said. “A fair amount of money. In the months prior to her death and your disappearance, at least thirty thousand was added. The house you lived in was paid for. Same for your car.”

  “Well, neither of those were impressive examples of high living.” Something about Brody’s tone bothered me on a soul-deep level, like dirt being shoveled off a long-buried axe. “But thirty thousand dollars? No way. We definitely didn’t have that kind of cash.”

  “At the time of her death, her account had five hundred and twenty-four thousand dollars in it.”

  I stared at him. He was still talking, but the words coming out of his mouth weren’t making any sense anymore. “Five hundred and—no.” I barked a short laugh. “No. That’s not possible.”

  Brody continued inexorably. “Sara, the woman in that picture wasn’t your mother. She was a paid caretaker, as best we can identify.”

  “A what?” I wheeled around. “What are you talking about? That was my mother! My—”

  Brody rocked back on his heels, but his face was set. “No,” he said. “Sheila Rose Pelter ran away from home at age seventeen and started waitressing in Springfield, Tennessee directly after. About a year later, she moved to Memphis, purchased a home, a modest car, a new wardrobe…and baby supplies. She began waitressing again as soon as you were old enough to leave with a sitter, but most of her first few years, she spent at home. About five years after you were born, she began corresponding with family back in Alabama, though she never once mentioned you and she resisted all suggestions that her relatives visit Memphis. From what we were able to piece together in the months after her death, Sheila visited her hometown twice, giving large cash gifts both times. Her mother had no idea where the money had come from, and refused to spend it until after Sheila died. Her visits home stopped when you began working with the Memphis Police Department, and the family lost contact with her again.”

  I stared at him, my voice suddenly not working right. “I had a grandmother?”

  Brody’s lips tightened. “No, Sara. That’s what I’m trying to get across to you. When we recovered Sheila Rose Pelter’s body from the Mississippi River, we performed a DNA check to verify her identity. It came back with more information than we planned. You don’t share the same genetic markers. You’re not Sheila Pelter’s biological daughter.”

  Everything had started to spin. “And you think…”

  “It’s the only explanation,” Brody finished my words for me. “Someone paid a stranger to take care of you, from the moment you were born.”

  Chapter Five

  It’s not every day you find out your whole life has been a lie.

  I was handling it as well as could be expected.

  “Hey, doll—whoa, what the hell happened to you?” Nikki slid into the booth opposite me, eyeing Bro
dy while I focused on my bourbon. The Magician hadn’t reached out to touch my mind again, but that was okay. It was well on its way to being pickled.

  Beside me, Brody nodded to Nikki, the two of them exchanging cop glances without actually admitting to doing so. I’d stopped counting the drinks after about four, and Brody had done his level best to leaven each of my bourbons with a tumbler of water. I’d stopped counting those too, but at least I was well hydrated.

  When I didn’t answer Nikki right away, Brody waded into the breach. “This new attack on Sara brought up some old history that needed to be aired. Timing wasn’t great, but necessary.”

  “Old history?”

  “My mom,” I said, looking up at Nikki. I blinked, but it wasn’t the booze. Today Nikki had ditched her usual auburn coif and was going full ’60s starlet, complete with blonde wig, yellow minidress, and white go-go boots. She looked…exceptionally bright. “She wasn’t my mom, turns out. She was paid to take care of me. Paid well.”

  “Another round,” Nikki said to the waitress I hadn’t noticed beside us. I returned my gaze to my glass, and Nikki leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You had to have known this for a while,” she said, her attention on Brody. “Why bring it up now?”

  “Those posters you two found.” Brody rubbed his two-day beard. “I’m not sure how much you know about Sara’s last job in Memphis, but three of those kids were ours to track down. We couldn’t find anything on them, not even with Sara’s cards. Then all of a sudden, the woman we believed was her mother is killed, Sara’s house is blown up, Sara goes off the grid. If the man behind those attacks is back, she needed to know the full story.”

  “Three of the kids were ones you searched for,” Nikki repeated, tilting her head. “What about the others?”

  “They weren’t connected to our case at the time, but I’ve got inquiries out.” Brody sat back as the waitress arrived with more drinks. “They’re clearly connected now. No question in my mind that we’re dealing with the same guy.”

  “Viktor Dal,” I supplied. I slumped lower in the booth, willing the liquor to kick in. So far, it hadn’t done more than take the barest edge off the pain. “Some stuff on him has finally come through Brody’s people. Dal’s a Turkish black market dealer. Traffics in drugs and sex, but not Connecteds, not that anyone’s ever heard. His tastes run older by a fair margin for the sex trade too. Kids don’t make sense for his business. Psychic kids make less sense.”

  “You ever heard of him?” Brody asked Nikki.

  “No, which isn’t to say I would have,” she said thoughtfully. “Dixie might, if he’s mucking around in the Connected community.”

  “She doesn’t need to be a part of this,” Brody snapped back, and Nikki patted his arm.

  “Not saying she does, love chop. But she knows a hell of a lot of people, and she has for a long time. Wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

  Brody shrugged, but his tension had definitely tightened a few notches. He and Dixie had sort of a thing going. I hadn’t really begun to deal with said thing, and this didn’t seem a good time to start.

  Nikki kept going. “But probably not unless he’s been active in the US.” She turned to me. “This Viktor guy is the one who put up those flyers?”

  “Maybe.” I twirled my bourbon. “No way to know.”

  “There aren’t any more of them, at least nowhere near the Strip,” Nikki said. “The construction people also report that they don’t allow posting, so the flyers couldn’t have been up for more than a few hours at the outside. Considering you were coming in from Germany…”

  “He had to know my schedule.”

  “Down to the minute, dollface. That car was waiting for you.”

  “I notice you never reported your involvement as a concerned citizen, including your banged-up limo.” It was Brody’s turn to scowl at Nikki. “You see anything that could be helpful?”

  “Two cars, out-of-state plates, rentals. Late-model sedans, nothing special. The damaged one’s either been dumped or retooled, I’m thinking. Two men in car number one, or two very big females. You see anything in yours?”

  “Two occupants, not large, could go either way.”

  “So four hitmen to one Sara.” Nikki raised her glass. “You’re coming up in the world.” She eyed me over the rim. “You want to tell me what happened in Germany, since we’re all being chatty like?”

  I stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you weren’t surprised, dollface. The posters threw you, but not the shooters. Job go south?”

  I suddenly didn’t care about keeping confidences. Nothing really mattered anymore. “Viktor hired an old friend to track me down. My friend did, but he also gave me enough breathing room to split.”

  Nikki nodded. “Who else knew your location?”

  “What old friend?” asked Brody. I didn’t bother answering that one.

  “Client. No one else.” I shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to keep it secret, though. Private jet into Germany, but public transport from there. The art auction was well-known in the right circles.”

  “Art auction,” Brody said flatly. “Is this another job for that Kreios character? No wonder you got shot at.”

  “No shooting in Germany. And let’s face it, they could have shot me last night if they’d really wanted to.”

  “Definitely. We were sitting ducks.” Nikki tilted her head, her blonde hair bouncing. “Of course, if they shot to separate us, that certainly worked.”

  At that moment, I hit critical mass on both the conversation and my liquid intake, and batted at Brody until he let me slide out of the booth to hit the bathroom. Walking through the bar was surreal. My head was buzzing from the alcohol, but not nearly enough. It was buzzing more from the bomb Brody had dropped at his house. He’d held that information back from me for weeks. Why? Had he ever been planning to tell me? Did he not think I had a right to know?

  In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, the eyes of a stranger. Not Sariah Pelter. Not Sara Wilde. Not anyone I knew anymore.

  It wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling, though. It felt almost…right.

  And that really did make me nervous.

  When I finally wheeled out of the bathroom and back into the bar, I heard a familiar Southern drawl exclaim with delight at finding “Duh-TECT-ive Ruhks” and Nikki.

  Dixie Quinn. Astrologer and owner of the Chapel of Everlasting Love in the Stars. Mother hen to all the Connecteds in Vegas.

  And…Brody’s current arm candy.

  The biggest part of me, the childish part, wanted to do nothing but waltz right out of the bar and into the relative freedom of the Vegas street…possibly into an oncoming car. If only to put a new spin on the day.

  But as I watched Brody’s face as he gazed up at Dixie, something twisted inside me. Not a bad twist, I was surprised to note. It was more similar to the detached sensation I’d experienced looking at my own reflection. Brody wasn’t mine to want, not anymore. Not ever, really. The Sariah Pelter who’d known him was a girl who had never existed. As Sara Wilde, I had things to do where I couldn’t take a cop along for the ride. Not unless I wanted to put him literally in the line of fire of Viktor.

  Viktor Dal.

  Images lined up in tight formation. This, I could focus on. This, I could claim as my own. Viktor had stolen six children from their parents, their families. He’d also stolen the only family I’d ever known from me. Sheila Rose Pelter might have been a drunk and a borderline addict, and might simply have been doing her job acting as my mother, but she’d kept a roof over my head for seventeen years before Viktor had come along. She hadn’t known her life was in danger from some maniac she’d never met. And Viktor had killed her in cold blood.

  I didn’t know much of who I was anymore, but one thing I did know. Viktor needed to pay for that crime.

  And Brody couldn’t be any part of that. He needed to stay the hell out of the way. If Dixie helped that happen, great.

  Even kno
wing all that, forcing myself to walk over to the table was harder than I would have expected. Smiling brightly, I slid in next to Nikki, inviting Dixie to join us. Brody’s smile tensed but got easier as more drinks arrived and food was discussed. It took only a few minutes for me to realize that I was relaxing too, no more bourbon required. This was…easier, I realized, thinking of Brody and Dixie together. This felt right.

  I had enough problems to manage without adding Brody to the mix.

  It didn’t take long for Nikki to steer the conversation back to the problem at hand, but when she asked about Viktor Dal, Dixie’s response surprised us all. “Viktor! Well, bless my stars. I haven’t heard that name in an age and a half.” She blinked her big eyes at our startled faces. “Why are you asking? Do not tell me he’s dead. He was the sweetest man.”

  “Sweet, huh?” Nikki grinned, leaning back, her face wreathed in “I told you so” smugness. “How’d you know him?”

  “Well, he was one of Roxie’s friends, at least for a while, back when she was entertaining and all. The last party, gosh, maybe would have been fifteen years ago?” She chuckled with a blush that only added to her charm. “I swear, time passes far too quickly when you’re not paying attention.”

  Brody reached out and squeezed her hand, the move so unselfconscious that my new-found detachment had its chain yanked. But I kept my face neutral as he spoke. “You said he was a nice guy?”

  “Nice as pie. Handsome, in an austere, chilly sort of way. Light blond hair, light skin. Wispy beard. But it was his eyes that were his best feature. Kind eyes, gentle. The kind of eyes that made you feel you could trust him, you know?”

  “Sounds like a likable fellow,” Nikki said. “What’d he do for a living?”

  “Ran a relief organization in India, maybe? I mean, I don’t know that that was his job, job. But it certainly was his passion. He and Roxie were very tight.”

  I didn’t choke on my bourbon, but I should have as all the dots connected with a bang in my head. Holy Mother of Crow. Up until a short while ago, Roxie had been the Empress of the Arcana Council. Which meant that Viktor—devious, despicable, disappeared Viktor—had to be linked to the Council as well. Maybe more than linked. Maybe a lot more.