by A. J. Menden
I laughed. “Well, considering that I’ve been alive since before the Romans, I think I’m doing okay.”
“What about Emily?” Wesley asked. “You don’t think they won’t come after her at some point?”
It was his trump card, damn him. I crossed my arms tightly on my chest and stared him down. He met my gaze unflinchingly. I couldn’t help but be a little pissed that he was so concerned for her safety when it had been millennia since he’d been concerned about mine. But, why shouldn’t he be? She was his daughter. Within the memory of this lifetime.
She was also my half sister. I sighed. “Fine, fine. I’ll do it.”
Cyrus stared. “You will?”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?” I said. “It was getting boring hanging out in that pocket universe all the time. This is the most fun I’ve had in decades; might as well rejoin the human race for a little while. But once this case is solved, I’m going back home,” I told Wesley. “Don’t get any delusions that I’m going to suddenly don a pair of tights and spend my time catching bank robbers. I help out on this and then I go back to the bar.”
Wesley nodded. “I understand.”
“And stop using your daughter as a motivator to get me to do things,” I snapped. “I’ll tell your wife, and she’ll be mad that you’re turning her child into glorified bait. And . . . you’re going to owe me one. A big one.”
“I’ll never get out of debt to you,” he said.
No you won’t, I thought. “But you’ll forget it,” I muttered.
Wesley patted me on the shoulder, the closest contact we’d had in years. “Thank you, Fantazia.” He met Cyrus’s glance. “And thank you, Cyrus.”
The techno mage shrugged. “It’s what you pay me for.”
As soon as Wesley walked off, Cyrus turned to me. “I never thought I’d live to see the day that the great and terrible Fantazia would help a group of heroes trying to save the day. I take back what I said on your birthday. The Old One must have something on you.”
I shrugged, trying to hide my gritted teeth. “It’s like I told him. I spent some time out of the loop. I’m bored and want back in, just for a bit. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” I studied him. “But what about you? Why are you doing this?”
“Just what I said: it’s what they pay me for—to do their dirty work.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said. “That’s not everything. What’s keeping you here besides the money?”
He smiled. “Money’s a great motivator, Fantazia.”
“This is about her, isn’t it?”
The smile instantly disappeared from Cyrus’s face. “Leave her out of this.” He looked away.
I laughed. “That’s what this good-guy spin is all about, isn’t it? You’re trying to make the headlines so she’ll see you in the papers and think you’re some big hero.”
“Don’t. Bring. Her. Up. Again.” Cyrus bit each word off and chewed it. He looked like he wanted to hit me. If I were a guy, he probably would have. “Just because you found out about—”
“I helped you with it!”
“Doesn’t mean you get to bring it up whenever you want. You do it again and we’ll really test your immortality theory.”
He turned and stalked off before I could say another word.
CHAPTER NINE
I followed Cyrus into the elevator and down to the garage beneath the Elite Hands of Justice headquarters where they parked their cars. He passed many different colors and makes, jangling keys in his hands. There were only six active members of the EHJ right now—seven if you counted Cyrus, I guess—so why did they have so many cars? Did each have one for each day of the week?
“Where are you going?” I asked, trying to catch up with him. “I thought we were jumping into the fray, talking to other magic-users, all hands on deck and all of that hero nonsense.”
“Look who’s eager all of a sudden,” Cyrus said. “Go on and get started, I’ll catch up with you later. I’m sure you’re planning on batting those big brown eyes to get what you want, so I’ll just cramp your style.”
Seriously, what was his problem? “You know, I have other methods of getting information besides my looks.”
“Really? You seem to play the pretty-but-brainless card a lot. Or maybe that’s just when I’m watching.”
“Brainless?” I said. My voice was loud—it bounced off the garage walls, and Cyrus stopped walking. “You don’t live to be as old as I am by being brainless. I’ve forgotten more about magic than you’ve ever known. If I act pretty but stupid, it’s because I know that’s what will get me what I need. Sometimes acting stupid is really quite smart. Maybe you’ll learn that sometimes it’s good to give people what they want—and then take everything you can get.”
Cyrus turned back to me. “First of all, not all men favor looks over smarts, Fantazia . . .” He sighed. “But we can continue this discussion later. I’ve got something I’ve got to do.”
I fought back irritation. “Wesley wants us working on this case together, not me doing everything while you go bet on horses.”
“And now you’re citing the Old One’s orders?” He chuckled without mirth. “Who are you and what have you done with Fantazia?”
“All I want is to get this done and over with so I can get back to my life. The sooner we get started on tracking the loser who’s doing this, the sooner we can beat him to a bloody pulp and haul his sorry carcass off to jail. You know, for someone who’s suddenly decided to be a hero, you don’t take the job very seriously.”
He walked up to a big black car and clicked a button on his keys. An alarm chirped. “Look, teacher’s pet, we’ll start busting heads later. If you’ve got a lead that you want to track down on your own, fine. Go. I’ll catch up with you. But I’ve got something I have to do first. Alone.” He swung himself into the car, cranked the engine and roared off.
I stood, coughing in the fumes and scowling. If he thought he was going to go lollygag all day while I did the work, he had another thing coming.
My eyes fell on a silver car that I recognized as one of Lainey’s. It looked small and plain but sturdy. I’d overheard her saying once that she felt more comfortable in less expensive vehicles than those the rest of the members of the Elite Hands of Justice drove—that is, the vehicles the EHJ drive when they aren’t being chauffeured somewhere or aren’t transporting themselves by less mundane means. Sure, I might be able to guess at the timing and just pop into existence wherever Cyrus ended up, but frankly, following him to his destination like a normal person might be a little subtler. I could take him unawares, maybe learn more about whatever he was doing. That seemed like a good idea, seeing as he was about to become my partner.
“Hey, Lainey, I’m borrowing your car,” I said to thin air, as if asking permission to no one was somehow made it less like stealing. I snapped my fingers, and the keys instantly appeared. With a grin, I went over to the car and got in. “I’ve never driven before, I hope you don’t mind.” Hey, aren’t all kids supposed to do stupid things to annoy their stepmothers?
I said to the car, “It’s my first time driving, so be gentle with me and I’ll be gentle with you.”
Putting the key in the slot, I turned it. Music started playing—from that accursed monkey cartoon, the children singing about minding your manners. I groaned and randomly hit buttons until it was silenced. Glancing in the backseat showed a child safety seat and a few toys. “This Mom-mobile is definitely incognito,” I said to myself. “Now let’s go find Cyrus.”
Marshaling my memories of watching other people drive, I mimicked what I’d seen. I managed to pull out of the parking space without hitting anything, but just barely, making me realize that it would be a miracle if I made it to my final destination in one piece. A miracle or magic. I was good with magic. Maybe I should stick to that.
“Follow that car,” I said to Lainey’s silver vehicle in Italian, and we were off, hot on Cyrus’s heels.
As I pulled up next to Cyrus�
��s black GTO, I couldn’t have been more surprised to discover our final destination: a dusty baseball field on the outskirts of town. It might have been my imagination, but I swear Lainey’s car sighed in relief when I turned it off. Magic and technology are not friends. I guess that makes Cyrus’s skills that much more impressive.
As I stepped out into the worn parking lot, the thin stiletto heels of my boots sank into the dirt and caught on the gravel. Sighing, I gritted my teeth and whispered in Italian, changing clothes from my sexy dress and boots into slim jeans and a simple blue tank top with an American flag. After all, baseball is America’s pastime, right? Might as well dress the part. I whispered a few more words and erased the wards off my arms. Weird henna tattoos would definitely make me stand out, and I highly doubted anyone would be coming at me here.
Adding simple thong sandals—what they call flip-flops now—I looked like any other female spectator at the game. Except for one touch, I noted as another mom-type passed by. I conjured up a pair of sunglasses to complete the look.
Where I was trying to fit in, Cyrus seemed to be going out of his way to look like a scary ex-criminal. Instead of joining the others sitting on the benches or on fold-up chairs, he was standing way off to the side, by himself. He still wore his leather jacket, which he easily could have left in the car, and biker boots. It was as if he was intentionally trying to keep people away from him. Given the looks and whispers he was getting, it seemed only a matter of time before someone called the cops.
Slinging my thumbs into the belt loops of my jeans, I wandered over to him, taking care to smile and nod at the moms I passed. Maybe if they saw me with him, they would assume I was someone’s rebellious older sister with my scary boyfriend. At least that way I wouldn’t be bailing or breaking Cyrus out of jail at the end of this.
I called out as I approached, “I hope you realize you look like a creepy kidnapper or something.”
“What the hell are you doing h—?” He turned, and the words died on his lips. His mouth actually hung open while his gaze raked up and down my body. I just waited for him to take it all in, not bothering to adjust my casual position. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen Cyrus give me more than a passing glance. He’d looked all right, but always a quick scan before going back to his card game, drink, pool game, or whatever he was doing at the bar. He’d never looked more than once. He was actually looking twice now.
I played it cool, like it really didn’t matter to me what he thought, but my pulse couldn’t help but jump. I waited for him to finish, and when his eyes met mine again, I said, “What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.” A smile played at his lips.
“What? You’re looking at me weird. There’s got to be something.”
He actually looked again, and my pulse jumped again in reaction. It’s just because he usually ignores me, I reminded myself. That’s all it could be. It’s Cyrus, for God’s sake!
“I’m not saying anything,” he said. “Anything that comes out of my mouth is just going to get me in deep.”
“You’re already in deep, so you might as well come out with it.”
He shook his head, still wearing that strange smile. “It’s just that, for all of those outfits you usually wear, you don’t realize how damn sexy it is when you’re not trying to be. Right now, you’re the hottest I’ve ever seen you.”
I’m not the type to blush, not at all, but coming from him, the compliment felt genuinely sincere. He’d never done it before, and I didn’t know how to react. A half smile curved my mouth. “Who knew Soccer Mom was your particular kind of kink?”
“This isn’t Soccer Mom, sweetheart—unless soccer moms have gotten way hotter since I was a kid. No, it’s not the outfit. It’s that you’re not trying so hard.” His eyes met mine directly and something passed between us.
I looked away quickly, toward the crowd of spectators down the field, and noticed we were still getting looks, parents likely trying to figure out who we were and what our deal was. One glanced at a passing patrol car and pulled out her phone. Before Cyrus could react, I threw my arms around him. “I missed you, too, baby,” I said a little louder, even though I was pretty sure no one was close enough to hear.
“And now you’ve spoiled it,” Cyrus said, trying to slip out of my grasp.
“You idiot, I’m trying to cover for you,” I said. “You’ve got everyone on this field ready to dial 9-1-1 on their portable phones, lurking all the way over here. I’m trying to make you look more normal and less like a pedophile.”
“It’s cell phone, Fantazia, not portable phone,” he said. “And thanks so much for saying I look like a pedophile.” But he glanced over at the people watching us and stopped trying to fight me off. When he put his arms around me, I could smell the leather of his jacket and the scent of him underneath. It was very male and took me back to a time when I was much younger. Back then, delicate good looks weren’t what women wanted in a man, but a strong arm to wield a sword. His arms felt very strong at that moment. They felt right. That slight air of menace that surrounded him, more like a warrior taking in his surroundings, was working for him.
He slipped his hands into the back pockets of my jeans and squeezed my butt. The directness of it took away all the bizarre and misplaced romance of the moment.
“What the hell was that?”
He smiled. “I’m a method actor, sweetheart.”
“Whatever.” I took a moment to remind myself who I was with, and to get my bad-girl attitude back on. “They’re not looking anymore, so you can stop method acting and just tell me what the hell it is you’re doing here besides scaring the civilians.”
He moved away from me with a frown on his face. “I should ask you the same thing. What the hell are you doing here when I specifically told you I needed to be alone?”
“Stalking you, obviously,” I retorted. “Usually my prey doesn’t go hang out at a softball game. So now I’m asking you again, nicely, what the heck are you doing here? And if you don’t tell me, I may go poking magically into that pea brain of yours to find out.”
Loudspeakers blared. “Now up to bat, number thirty-four, Sabrina Johnson.”
“Ramsey,” Cyrus muttered, and turned to watch a young blonde-haired girl, probably about ten years old or so, pick up the bat and swing it once, pull at the brim of her helmet and then frown in concentration.
“Oh, no.” All the pieces fell into place and I actually felt a burning in the pit of my stomach. I sighed. “Why are you doing this to yourself, Cyrus?”
“It’s not hurting anyone,” he said. His eyes were glued to her.
“Only yourself.”
“So what?” He winced as the umpire called strike one. “It’s okay, let the first one go. Keep your eye on the ball.”
“So, why torture yourself? Why come here?”
She swung and missed again. He wasn’t listening to me. “You don’t have to swing randomly, Sabrina, let the ball come to you. Wait for the right moment . . .” He held his breath as the pitcher wound up.
This time, the girl’s bat connected. The far spectators cheered and clapped as she rounded the bases. The game was over; her hit had won it.
“That’s my girl!”
There was no mistaking the look of pride on Cyrus’s face. To be honest, watching him broke my heart, which I’d thought cold and dead after so many years of purposeful neglect.
Sabrina was patted on the back by her teammates. A tall man wearing a blue polo shirt and jeans came over and gave her a big hug. A pretty, blonde-haired woman in jeans and a T-shirt with the team logo joined him. I half expected them to hoist her up on their shoulders and carry her along the field singing “For She’s A Jolly Good Fellow.”
Cyrus turned away. He saw me eyeing him. “Don’t look at me like that. I thought you were hard-hearted enough to be beyond pity.”
“I surprise even myself,” I said. “But I’ve never seen anyone try to hurt themselves in this fashion.” Act
ually, I had. But eventually even I learned my lesson. “Why in the world did you come here, Cyrus?”
“She’s still my daughter,” he said, his voice barely a growl. “I may have given her up, but she’s still part of me. I still love her.”
“And she wouldn’t know who you were if you walked right up to her,” I said softly, intentionally without malice. “You gave her up when she was a baby.”
“She was eighteen months old!” Cyrus said, like that made all the difference. “And it’s not like I wanted to give her up. You know that, Fantazia. I was going to jail. I just didn’t want her lousy mother to have custody.”
“I know, I know,” I soothed. And I did. This was why Cyrus owed me. He’d come to me with the police and several superhero teams knocking on his door with enough evidence to finally arrest him for all of his crimes. He’d just had a custody fight with the child’s mother, whom he “wasn’t stupid enough to marry,” although he’d questioned that decision afterward.
I think he made the right move. His ex was a villain groupie: she’d been with plenty of them before Cyrus and had quickly moved on to Syn. Which terrified Cyrus. Syn was a notorious magic-user—a soul-eater, as we call them, and scarily was in the same group of dark magic as the current crisis we were facing. He was one of the few who’d figured out how to feed on a person’s energy. The more innocent the soul, the more power he could gain, and children were the best. If that wasn’t enough, there were rumors that Syn’s interest in children went far deeper than their souls. Cyrus wanted to make sure Syn couldn’t hurt his little girl, and also that her mother’s predilection for evil men never endangered her, so he’d asked me to make sure Sabrina’s mother lost custody. For good.
So, that’s what I did. Cyrus has a younger sister, Amanda, one who turned her back on him and his life of crime but who gladly took his child. I pulled some strings using some nonmagical connections I had—not everything has to be done with magic, you know—and Cyrus’s sister and husband took custody of Sabrina. Then I made sure that Cyrus’s ex and Syn could never find her. Ever. That was what took the magic. Powerful magic. The spell had laid me low for two weeks, but Cyrus’s ex would never see her daughter again—literally. If she walked by her child in the street, she wouldn’t see her. If someone called out her old name, she wouldn’t hear it. Sabrina was a permanent blank spot to her mother, one that she would never recover. She knew she’d had a daughter, but that was all. No one connected to her would be able to find Sabrina either.