The Isis Collar bs-4

by Cat Adams

  We walked down a dim hallway. Classes were over for the day. We really should have called to make sure Dr. Sloan was still there. “I would’ve sworn you had the talent. I’ve thought for a while we had something in common—something that made me seek you out.”

  “Why does that worry me?” I said it with a smile, but I was serious. We turned a corner and he stayed right beside me. Interesting—he knew which way to turn. “Have you visited Dr. Sloan before?’

  Rizzoli smiled. “Nope. I’ve never met him. Just thought that was the right way to turn.” The smile seemed to peel several years and about a half a ton of worry off his face.

  I was going to respond with something mildly sarcastic when I heard voices at the end of the hall. Aaron Sloan has a very distinctive voice, probably from years of speaking in lecture halls.

  I could also smell a distinctive cologne that had scented my clothing for two years, feel the press of magic that reached for me all the way down the hall.

  Bruno DeLuca.

  Part of me was anxious to see him and I found myself quickening my steps. The other part of me was terrified to see him in person again—because seeing his smile, his amazing body, would remind me of the woman who’d nearly stolen him away. Eirene, a royal siren, had been Bruno’s lover. She’d convinced him she was pregnant and … he chose her over me, without a second thought, without discussing it with me.

  That doesn’t make for a good long-term relationship. Despite what I’d thought in Levy’s, and a few warm phone conversations, there was a big hurdle to get over before I could be happy with Bruno. With anyone, really.

  Rizzoli matched me step for step until we neared the room. As I reached the doorway, the conversation inside the room stopped as if a switch had been thrown.

  “Celia.” Bruno’s voice was warm and his eyes … wow. Those big brown eyes said so many things with just a glance. Hi. Miss you. Love you. Sorry. He was always really good at conveying entire sentences with a single look, so much so that we could carry on whole conversations across a college classroom without the teacher knowing.

  He looked good. Better than good, actually. He’d dropped a few pounds and in the right places. And if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’d had a face-lift. So much tension had vanished from his face that he looked like a new man. Of course, the last time we’d seen each other, we’d just closed the demonic rift and we were both exhausted. “Bruno.”

  Rizzoli shoved past me through the doorway just then, his hand out toward Bruno. “Bruno DeLuca. Good to finally meet you. Special Agent Dominic Rizzoli, FBI. I’ve heard a lot about you. Hey, could we talk?” Bruno had put out his hand automatically, as most men do when someone offers theirs, and found himself being propelled, with a second hand on his mid-back, through a second door before he could do much more than open his mouth.

  I was speechless at Rizzoli’s lack of tact. Even Dr. Sloan was surprised. He stared after the two men for a moment before turning his attention to me. I raised an embarrassed hand. “Um, well. Hi, Dr. Sloan. Sorry about all that.”

  The professor’s confusion made him frown, but he recovered in a second and his expression turned to one of excitement. “May I see your palm again? Anything new?”

  Dr. Sloan is fascinated by the manifestation of my curse. He’s the one who first explained it to me. I sighed and held out my hand. He pulled his glasses down from his forehead and moved forward eagerly. Lifting my hand with near reverence, he peered at the mark. It was an angry red today, but there was no pain. He let out an appreciative, “Ooh! You’ve been a busy girl, Ms. Graves.”

  It was so weird he could know that by looking at my palm. “I know you said the curse reacts when I come close to death. But why is it still happening? The person who cursed me is dead. Shouldn’t that have stopped it?”

  His head cocked and he blinked repeatedly, as though processing the information. “Did the caster revoke or remove the spell?”

  I shook my head.

  “Did you kill the caster?”

  Crap. I realized where he was going with this. “I was there when she died. But that doesn’t count, does it?” Magic is like that sometimes. It takes a specific, narrow event to change things.

  Sloan’s face showed his uncertainty. “Yes. No. Maybe. The scar is still manifesting. Perhaps it’ll stop at some point. But the curse has been part of your psyche since you were a child. We can’t expect that it will suddenly just cease to be. You’ve incorporated it into your personality. You could no more not throw yourself in the way of danger as a bodyguard than you could not blink for the rest of your life. The threat of death may no longer have anything to do with the curse. Or it may.” His shoulder went up and down again.

  Fair enough. “Have you developed any idea why it gets darker after I’ve been in danger?”

  He nodded but didn’t look up. “I have a working theory on that, actually. I believe it’s not so much your eminent death so much as the rush of near-death adrenaline that causes the scar to manifest.”

  I felt my brow furrow and I looked down at dark liver spots on his aging scalp through a drape of my tangled blonde hair. I really needed to find a mirror and a comb. Soon. “Is near-death adrenaline somehow different than … well, the normal kind?”

  He looked up then, so suddenly he nearly smacked his head into my chin. “Oh my, yes! The adrenaline produced in a fight-or-flight situation is much more diluted than the concentrated sort produced when the subject has accepted the true possibility of death.”

  “The possibility, not certainty?”

  He smiled now, a brilliant flash of teeth that told me I’d gotten it. “Exactly! Near-death adrenaline is how mothers lift cars off their children or people pull victims out of rubble before the rest of a building collapses. It makes muscles supernatural for a few split seconds.” He looked at me for a moment with something approaching wonder, then smiled slightly and shook his index finger at me before leaning back against the counter with a knowing expression. “You see? You, Ms. Graves, grasp the non-obvious quickly. It’s no wonder you were Warren’s favorite student.”

  That comment sliced at my heart more than a little, but I tried not to flinch. Some “favorite student.”

  “You understand perspective, which is rare today … and especially in one so young.”

  “A little bit.” I didn’t feel particularly young, especially not today. But I suppose I was to someone his age. He’d already been teaching in the sixties and I think in the fifties, too. He’d seen a lot, and sometimes you can lose perspective when you have forgotten more than some have learned. “But maybe you can help me with some perspective today. This morning, I saw an entity while I was watching an interrogation in the FBI field office. I need to find out what kind. A doctor thinks some physical problems I’m having might be demonic. Did you hear about the bomb that went off at the elementary school a couple of weeks ago? I’ve been having weird pains since then. Could something be following me? Maybe it’s why the scar is manifesting?”

  He gave me that look every professor gives every student when they’re fishing for what should be a simple answer in the cobwebs of a frustrated mind. “Come now, Ms. Graves. You have a degree in the science, and I presume it was earned. Might be demonic? Weird pains? Be more specific. What evidence did it give of what sort of demon it was?”

  I shrugged and leaned against the counter to take the weight off my leg. It was really starting to hurt again. I was overworking it. “That’s the thing, Doctor. I can’t be more specific because it doesn’t fit any of the parameters I’ve learned about. I can only tell you what we experienced and maybe you can come up with the specifics.”

  That got him curious. I could see it, bird bright in his eyes. He ushered me across the room to a pair of chairs in one corner. A soda and a bottle of iced tea sat on the table between the seats. The chair I sat in smelled of Bruno’s cologne. Nice.

  “So, tell me about this entity,” Sloan asked as he sat down opposite me.

 
I did. After minutes of explaining the situation I added, “And it could speak. Audible sound that everyone heard.”

  He was listening with his whole body, soaking it in. One of his arms was bent at the elbow, the hand lightly resting against his lips. It was interesting to watch his lips doing push-ups on his thumb, making the whole hand move. “Are you certain it was audible? It could have been in all of your minds. Simultaneously. Are you positive there was sound?”

  “She probably isn’t, but I am.” Rizzoli reentered the room with Bruno hot on his heels. “We always videotape interrogations. There’s actual sound, Doctor.”

  Sloan’s brows rose and I nodded. I knew I’d heard it with my ears. I’ve heard voices in my head before. Demons who tried to trick me, even seduce me. But this … this wasn’t the same at all. “It called me by name, Doctor, and responded to thoughts I hadn’t spoken out loud.”

  Rizzoli turned to me. “Is that what that meant? When the demon wrote: ‘Think again, Celia’ on the window in frost?”

  “Yep,” I said while Bruno looked at me with undisguised interest. “I had just thought that the demon wasn’t very bright because all it could write was No.”

  “And you’re calling this entity a demon because—?” Bruno asked.

  “Metal table … on fire. With no flame source in the room,” I offered.

  Rizzoli added, “Letters in black that promised the prisoner pain if he didn’t talk to us.”

  “Of course,” Dr. Sloan interjected. “That’s part of the confusion, isn’t it? Threatening pain and destruction. But look at the secondary issues … pain if the prisoner didn’t reveal secrets of a crime and offering a warning that only the truth would set him free. Couldn’t it be angelic instead of demonic?”

  Angelic? “You mean like … angels? They don’t normally intervene in the affairs of man, do they?” I mean, yeah, they exist. But what would they be doing there, at the FBI office? “Melting tables isn’t really their sort of thing, is it?”

  The doctor shrugged. “Burning bush, Archangel Michael’s flaming sword. Fire cleanses as well as punishes. It’s old-school … or Old Testament to be sure, but maybe after the demonic rift, They are taking a greater interest in our city.”

  He said the word to imply a capital letter. They. Purity personified. Um. Wow. I don’t know how I feel about the possibility I’d had a brush with the angelic. I think if I took any time to digest it, it would scare me worse than fighting the demonic. My gran always said I had a guardian angel watching over me, but it sort of freaks me out that it might actually be true. I’m not exactly a perfect person. “Is there any way to check to be sure?”

  He nodded confidently. “You have the primary text on it in your possession. The book I gave you.”

  I felt my face get warm. “Oh. Well, see…”

  Rizzoli broke in. “I’m afraid that a dangerous witch broke into Ms. Graves’s office today and stole that book. Is there another one in the college library that we might look at to find out what the witch might have been looking for?”

  Sloan’s face looked stricken. “Oh dear. No, I’m afraid not. It’s a very rare volume. The only other one I know of is in the Oxford University library.”

  I winced. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Sloan.” And I was. I hate to lose gifts. “I didn’t realize. I should have kept it locked in my safe.”

  He waved it off. “My fault entirely. I don’t think I ever mentioned it was rare, so how could you know? I can request the volume be scanned at Oxford and e-mailed to me, of course. And until then, I could certainly test for traces of one or the other in the flame residue. I’d love to look at the tape and examine the table if that’s possible.”

  I looked at Rizzoli and he brightened. “Sure. I could make that happen. Where do you want the table delivered?”

  That sort of startled Dr. Sloan. “Um, it would be better in situ.”

  The agent raised his hands as though helpless. “Unfortunately, our Bureau clairvoyant told us we needed to get it off the premises or something bad was going to happen. It’s in a truck right now. I could have it here in a half hour. I can e-mail you the video.”

  “Isn’t that confidential?” It seemed a logical question for me to ask. I wondered about interviews, aka debriefings, I’d had with him before on other cases.

  “We didn’t learn anything from the suspect until after the entity left, so we can give up the rearview video that doesn’t reveal the suspect’s face but does show the entity.” He shrugged, like it was completely normal everyday stuff.

  Hey, maybe it was. For him.

  Dr. Sloan was looking both excited and terrified. “Yes, yes. We can bring it here. Well … not here. No, that wouldn’t do at all. Maybe the lab.” He stood up and rushed to the door, then stopped. “No. There are classes there tomorrow. I need a large enough location to seal the table in a circle in case it’s a connection portal. Bruno, I’ll need your help of course to plan the casting.” He pointed at my former fiancé with brows raised.

  Bruno raised his hands, slightly confused. “Yes, certainly. Whatever you need.”

  “Mr.… Rizzoli, is it? Let’s take a walk. I think there’s an empty room in the pharmaceutical college that has a loading bay. We’ll go call the dean. I’m sure we can work something out.” Sloan grabbed Rizzoli by the elbow and he must have been stronger than he looked, because the FBI agent was nearly pulled off his feet as the tiny professor raced out of the room with him in tow.

  It was abruptly silent in the room, and awkward. I looked at Bruno, who was staring at me. “So. Um, hi.”

  “Hi.” His voice was low and sultry and made me shiver. “You look good.”

  I laughed because I couldn’t help it. “I look like crap. I’m white as a ghost … well, a bat anyhow. And my hair is stringy.” I self-consciously ran fingers through it and pulled apart tangles. “It needs to be cut.” In short, I was in no fit condition to be seeing him when he was looking like he walked out of an issue of GQ magazine. “No, you look good. Great, in fact. I look like the walking dead.”

  He shrugged with one shoulder and crossed the room to where I was sitting. “So maybe I like the walking dead. At least one of them.” He leaned down and brushed his lips against my cheek. It felt nice. Safe and comfortable—vastly different from John but no less desirable. Just to prove a point to myself, I turned my face slightly and pressed my lips against his. Flames of magic rolled across my skin, more powerful than John’s but with a different … taste. I lingered there, remembering old times when a kiss was often the beginning of something much more intense. Bruno let me kiss him, not making it more than it was. I moved my jaw, opening his mouth, and touched his tongue with mine.

  When I pulled back first, I noticed the surprised look in his eyes. Not upset, just surprised. I suppose it was natural for him to be confused, because I sure was. “I … I’m not sure why I did that.”

  “Old habits die hard?”

  My breath came out in a frustrated rush. “No. It’s not like that. It’s just that—” I had nothing. I had no idea why I’d kissed him, while I was still feeling the hurt he’d inflicted.

  He sat down across from me and stared at me for a long moment. “It’s just that you kissed Creede earlier today and needed to prove to yourself, and maybe to me, that you’re being fair?”

  My jaw dropped. Literally. I could feel air on my tongue. My mouth started moving, but no words came out until, “It’s … I mean … we—”

  “Celia.” His voice was calm. “It’s okay. I’m not going to fly into some sort of jealous rage. I could taste his magic on you, could sense where he’d touched you.” He lifted one shoulder. “I know he has his sights set on you. It’s not like it’s a surprise.”

  My stomach felt hollow, yet it threatened to heave up into my throat. “I’m not trying to hurt you.” The words were a whisper and my gaze was fixed on his neck. “I’d never do that.” Shades of John’s promise to me. Crap.

  “Celia.” His voice was soft. He le
aned forward until his elbows were resting on his knees. “I’m the one who hurt you. I know that and there aren’t enough words in the language to describe how sorry I am. I’m not even sure how to make it up to you. I think I need to get my head back together to figure it out. So I’m in the field instead of in the office. I’m getting back in shape and getting my doctorate.”

  “And I’m so excited for you. You’ve talked about that since we graduated.”

  He smiled and his expression was filled with pride and hope. “The land the Murphys own in Arkansas and the fee-simple magic attached to it was a doctoral thesis topic if I ever saw one, and they’ve been kind enough to grant me permission to visit whenever I need to. So I signed up for a year right here at USC-Bayview and I’m getting to work.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re going to be in Santa Maria de Luna for the whole year.” I was really happy for him. He was never more him than when he was studying and learning new things. “God, that’s incredible. And you got accepted into the doctoral program already?”

  He nodded. “I know it’s quick. But Warren sponsored me and the Board of Trustees agreed, provided Dr. Sloan would be my advisor. I wasn’t positive he’d do it because he’s so close to retirement.” He grinned and it looked good on him. “But he said yes.”

  The grin was infectious and I found myself smiling right back at him. “So I guess I’ll be seeing you around town.”

  “Yes, yes, you will. Just so you know, I turned down Duke to come back to our alma mater. In fact, several colleges started calling me once they learned about the Murphy tract and that I had exclusive permission. But I wanted to be here. Not New Jersey, not Arkansas or Maryland. Here.”