Hollywood Demon (The Collegium Book 6)

by Schwartz, Jenny

  After graduating from the Collegium’s geomage training, she’d become one of its field agents. Her cover had been that of a freelance photographer as she wandered the world’s literal hotspots. Hawaii, Iceland, New Zealand; wherever there was geothermal activity she’d drifted in and out. The geomages who held each territory had readily granted her permission. It wasn’t as if her weak magic could challenge theirs.

  But California was different. California was her brother’s territory.

  Clancy wrenched her gaze from the pool. Had the water just sloshed, as if rocked by a tiny earth tremor? Her darn magic! When she got upset it slipped out of her control. It was part of the reason she’d failed at the Collegium. Her talent as a geomage wasn’t just weak, it was unreliable.

  “Grandma’s in the kitchen?” she asked too brightly.

  Mark was staring at the pool.

  She risked a glance. Yep, the water was definitely quieting after sloshing. Those weren’t ripples driven by the wind. She turned her back on the swimming pool and hurried to enter the main house.

  The house was built like a giant “T” with a shortened leg. The flat top of the T-bar faced the street with entertaining areas to the pool side—dining room, lounge, ballroom—and more private rooms on the far end, like the study and music room. After a significant remodel three years ago the kitchen was part of a vast casual living area in the shortened leg of the “T”. Clancy had seen photos.

  Now she walked in and ignored the magazine-beauty of the space. Emotion squeezed her heart and made her eyes hot with tears she wouldn’t shed.

  Her grandma stood at the stove, unaware of Clancy’s entrance, singing and stirring something on the stove. Doris was Clancy’s height, but solider. Still strong and upright as she closed in on seventy. Her hair flamed a defiant red, set in puffy curls. She wore a velour sweat suit in vivid turquoise.

  Clancy cleared her throat. “Hi, Grandma.”

  Doris spun around, wooden spoon abandoned in the saucepan. “Clancy!”

  The bag on her back was weightless as Clancy ran across the kitchen. She hugged her grandma.

  “It’s like trying to hug a turtle,” Doris complained, patting at the backpack, but her eyes were suspiciously shiny despite the humor.

  Clancy shrugged off the bag and they hugged properly. “I missed you, Grandma.”

  “You should have come home, earlier.” Which was Doris’s way of saying she’d missed her, too. Her hug squeezed Clancy tight.

  “You know I couldn’t.”

  Abruptly, Doris let her go. “I know nothing of the sort! That rubbishy idea the Collegium put in your brain—”

  “Should this be bubbling up?” Mark interrupted from the stove, peering into the forgotten saucepan.

  Doris rushed back to the stove. “No, it’s a tamarillo sauce for our rice porridge. It needs to simmer twenty minutes. It’s nearly done.”

  Thank you, Clancy mouthed at him while her grandma’s back was turned.

  He smiled faintly in acknowledgement. “Don’t worry about breakfast for me, Doris. I’ll grab a shower while you and Clancy catch up.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mark. There’s plenty of rice porridge for all of us.”

  Unfortunately.

  Clancy read his thought easily, and had to cough to disguise her laughter.

  “We’ll wait for you,” Doris said.

  He accepted his orders and left, presumably to shower.

  Stirring the tamarillo sauce, Doris gestured at the coffeemaker. “Pour yourself a mug, hon, and top up mine, please.”

  Clancy picked up her duffle bag and propped it out of the way against a wall before obeying. Then she leaned against a counter, sipping the strong coffee, and studied the room. “Grandma, this place is awesome. Did Mark really let you design it?”

  “He had his own ideas, but yes. He said I’d be the one using it most, but actually, he often sits here to talk with me or watch TV. We both watch the baseball.”

  Clancy stared around at the room. The entire back wall was glass, shaded by a deep veranda, and looking back toward the sprawling garden with just a glimpse of the pool. The side walls also had a generous supply of windows, making the whole space feel alive and open; something that the high ceiling helped with. The sofas were long, deep and a mix of cinnamon-colored leather and a surprising raspberry, fabric-covered three-seater. Armchairs were clustered near three tall potted palms. The hardwood floors were a light oak and the rugs a subdued sage-green.

  The kitchen table was oak, too, and massive. It had twelve chairs, well-spaced, around it, and was separated from the cooking area by a large island with six barstools drawn up to it. The countertops were a creamy marble that Clancy stroked, feeling the cool power of the stone. The cupboards were painted a paler shade of the sage-green rugs, and fitted around the expensive stove, two ovens and a high-tech stainless steel fridge.

  The vast room was glamorous yet practical, and eminently livable. She sighed. “Whatever place I find to rent will probably fit in here three times over. Grandma, I’ve come home to stay.”

  Still stirring, the spoon coated with a deep orangey-red sauce, Doris looked at her. “Am I the first you’ve told.”

  Clancy nodded jerkily. She put her coffee mug on the counter and hitched herself up onto a bar stool. “Yes. I’ve quit the Collegium.”

  “They never understood you.”

  Clancy didn’t argue with her grandma’s partisan support, but she thought that the Collegium had understood her only too well. Her magic was limited and the Collegium’s geomagic department wasn’t going to waste its time on a small talent. Especially a dumb one.

  I’m not stupid. Negative self-talk didn’t help anyone. I have other talents. “I’ve given up photography, too.”

  Now, Doris frowned. “You enjoyed it.”

  “I enjoyed framing a picture, finding a truth in an image. I’m going to take up oil painting, again. Truly study it.”

  Her grandma’s frown relaxed. “Smelly stuff, and messy.” But Doris had always let Clancy paint when she’d stayed with her as a teenager. She’d just had to paint on the cottage’s porch.

  “I’ll have to get a job, though.”

  “You could work here.” Mark walked in. He’d showered and changed into jeans and a t-shirt. It was a concert t-shirt in a faded gray that stretched over his shoulders and hugged his biceps.

  She didn’t think he’d chosen it to be sexy, but it was. “I can’t work for you.”

  “Why not?” And that was Doris.

  Mark shrugged one shoulder, pouring himself a coffee. “There’s always work on the estate. Doris gets people in to help with the cleaning. Then there’s the gardening and security.” A glimmer of laughter shone in his blue eyes, perhaps remembering how she’d thrown him.

  Clancy sought for an excuse, unable to confess to the warning sirens blaring in her mind. She had to build a real life, an ordinary one. She’d spent too many years dreaming of unattainable things—and a guy as gorgeous, wealthy and plain charming as Mark was the poster-boy for unattainable. She had gotten over her crush years ago. Best to leave it in the past. “I was thinking of working in retail. You know, get out, meet people, balance out the time I hope to spend alone painting.”

  The humor vanished from Mark’s face. In fact, his whole expression shut down. He took his coffee and retreated to the large kitchen table.

  Doris got out three cereal bowls and set them down, rattling, on the counter.

  O-kay. Somehow Clancy had put her foot in it. “I’m not in a huge rush. I have some savings. I thought I’d find a place to live, first. Although, that’ll be easier if I can prove I have a job.” She stopped, because any more words and she’d be babbling. “Is there anything I can do to help, Grandma?”

  Doris switched off the gas under the saucepan. “No, thanks, hon. You sit down.” Doris got out a ceramic casserole dish with the rice porridge in that she’d been keeping warm in the oven.

  Clancy sat at the table. Mar
k had seated himself at the head, so she sat on the far side, leaving the chair nearest the kitchen for her grandma. Within minutes they all had bowls of steaming rice porridge in front of them, smelling both sweet and tangy from the tamarillo sauce. Clancy took a cautious mouthful. Doris was a great cook, but sometimes her adventurous spirit could be too bold. “It’s…different,” Clancy mumbled. “Unusual.”

  “Healthy,” Mark contributed.

  Actually, the sauce wasn’t too bad. It was both sour and sweet. But the rice porridge…not an experience Clancy wanted to repeat. It was like eating mushed cardboard.

  Doris put down her spoon. “There’s a sourdough loaf in the bread basket.”

  “I’ll slice some for toast to fill in the gaps.” Mark kept eating his porridge, though. He finished it before taking his empty bowl to the sink.

  “The recipe sounded so nice.” Doris sighed. “Exotic.”

  “The tamarillo sauce would be great on ice cream.” Clancy scraped up the last of her porridge. If Mark could eat it, so could she.

  Her grandma smiled. “I’ll save some and chill it.”

  Minutes later they were all crunching into sourdough toast and quiet happiness filled the sunny room. It was disconcerting, then, for a memory to choose that moment to drift into her mind. Clancy stared at Mark as he checked something on his phone. What had he said as they crossed the ward around the estate? There was a demon out there.

  Had there been?

  At the time, she’d dismissed his comment as concussion-induced rambling, but he seemed okay, and he’d said he was okay, so if his brain wasn’t rattled from her throwing him…

  Had there been a demon outside the neighbor’s house? Was there a demon in Hollywood?

  Clancy finished her toast and licked strawberry jam off a finger. It was none of her business. Demons were part of the magical world she was leaving behind—and anyway, her magic had no connection to demonology. If there was a demon out there, Mark would handle it.

  She recalled that he had only a minor trace of magic talent himself, just enough general magic for simple spells. She hesitated.

  No. Still not my problem. Mark had money and connections. He could hire a demonologist to exorcise any rogue demons. The Collegium would fall all over themselves to send someone out to help the great-grandson of the legendary Edgar Yarren. No, she could stick with her determination to have nothing more to do with magic.

  Did I smell brimstone on the road, that sulfur-scented stench of Hell?

  She sipped the last of her coffee, conscience fighting her desire to be ordinary. Ordinary people did NOT sense demons. She was probably re-writing her memories and imagining things in light of Mark’s comment.

  But if I did smell brimstone…at a minimum she ought to warn Doris, who had her own significant magical connections. “Grandma, outside on the road—”

  Mark’s head snapped up. He discarded his phone, dropping it on the table. “I met Clancy while I was out running.”

  Their gazes dueled. He obviously didn’t want her mentioning the demon—the possible demon—to Doris. But demons weren’t some minor pest. If one had been near the estate, Doris needed to be alerted to the danger.

  “She arrived in a big rig,” Mark continued.

  Clancy’s eyes widened in indignation. He had. He’d just thrown her under the Grandma bus!

  “That was you?”

  “I hitched a lift—” Oops! “With a friend!” And as Doris still looked ready to launch into a major lecture, Clancy hurriedly corrected herself. “Not hitched, as such. That’s dangerous. I shared the drive from New York. Stewart dropped me here.”

  “Who is Stewart?” And that was Mark.

  Clancy ignored him. “Grandma, you know Stewart. He’s the roadie for the Carnivale.”

  “And you didn’t invite him in?” Doris’s scowl deepened, but she no longer looked ready to shake some sense into Clancy for hitch-hiking.

  “He had to be on his way to catch up with his wife, Li-li.”

  “Hmm.”

  Clancy glared at Mark, who’d successfully shifted the conversation from the looming topic of demons.

  He grimaced, possibly in apology and, as Doris took their empty toast plates to the sink, leaned forward and caught Clancy’s wrist before she could move to help. “I’ll explain,” he said under his voice. He released her wrist as he stood. “I think I know of a job you could do,” he added, louder, for Doris to hear. “I have a friend who runs a museum.”

  Doris whirled around. Her mouth opened, then closed. She’d obviously bitten back a protest.

  Mark was an incredibly relaxed employer, perhaps because the relationship between the Yarrens and the Ramirezs was more complicated than most such employer-employee relationships, but that didn’t mean Doris could tell him what to do.

  She’d save that for Clancy.

  Doris’s blue eyes lasered a warning at Clancy, who glanced away, pretending she hadn’t seen her grandma’s narrow-eyed frown. “A museum sounds interesting,” she said to Mark.

  At the sink, Doris turned on the water with a rushing whoosh of annoyance that was a comment in itself.

  Mark glanced at Doris warily. “It’s a sceptics’ museum.”

  Clancy blinked. “Pardon?”

  “I belong to a sceptics’ club, one which attempts to debunk paranormal happenings.” He lounged back in his chair, the picture of nonchalance with his legs sprawled and shoulders relaxed. But the skin at the corners of his mouth was taut: a reminder that he had plenty of actors in his lineage and could play a role.

  “Paranormal happenings,” Clancy echoed. She wasn’t as good at acting. Her thoughts tended to show on her face. But she did her best to at least sound neutral. “Things like magic?” Magic being a reality that everyone in the room knew existed. They used it—although, of course, she’d foresworn hers. She was going to be ordinary, successfully ordinary.

  Doris snorted.

  Mark smiled; still seemingly relaxed, definitely charming. “Exactly like magic,” he said. “You’d be surprised at the information sceptics find. By joining their club…”

  “You have access to their latest findings,” Clancy finished slowly. The question was, why would he care about random paranormal happenings?

  “Exactly.” And as if to forestall her next and obvious question, he stood and crossed to the counter, opening a drawer and extracting a set of keys. “It’s hard to describe the sceptics’ museum. It’ll be easier if I show you.”

  She studied him a moment. Alone together in the car, away from Doris, they could discuss the possible demon. But they could do that elsewhere on the estate. “Is there really a job at the museum? Doing what?”

  “There’s really a job. Bryce Goodes, who started the sceptics’ club, needs someone to open and shut the museum, to chat with visitors and keep an eye on them so that exhibits aren’t broken or stolen. The last museum assistant got a role in a movie being shot in Arizona and quit.”

  Ah. Well, that sounded real for Hollywood. People worked casual jobs waiting for their big break. When they got a sniff of one, they abandoned everything (and everyone) to chase it.

  Working at a sceptics’ museum could be Clancy’s big break. Sceptics, disbelievers in the magic she was trying to suppress, might be just what she needed to create her ordinary life. She smiled at Mark, and avoided looking at Doris. “That sounds more interesting than a retail job. Let’s roll.”

  Chapter 2

  It wasn’t till they reached the garage that Mark thought to check which key he’d grabbed. The Rocinante. He frowned, and glanced at Clancy who walked quietly beside him, withdrawn in her own thoughts. He usually drove an unremarkable SUV. The Rocinante had been a gift from his mom. There were only ten in the world and she’d been given the one used in her last, mega-successful super-spy movie. The vehicle demanded attention with its sleek, showy lines and earth-shattering roar. Would Clancy think he was trying to impress her, to restore his ego after how shamefully easily she�
�d thrown him? The truth was, the Rocinante’s key had been at the top of the drawer because he’d taken it out for a spin yesterday to keep the engine ticking over.

  He beeped the lock and the car’s lights flashed.

  “From big rig to Rocinante.” Clancy recognized the car, and laughed. If the wealth, power and exclusiveness the super-car represented daunted her, it didn’t show.

  He opened the passenger door for her. He had to remember there were different types of power. She had far more magic than his trickle of talent, and she’d grown up around wealth. Perhaps that inoculated you against being impressed by it. He knew he didn’t judge people by the money they possessed.

  His mouth tightened as he slammed the passenger door closed, shutting Clancy inside the leather-rich interior. He did have a tendency to judge people by the magic they commanded, and that was a result of his own lack of it. An inferiority complex, of a kind. No, not inferiority. His lack of real magical power frustrated him. If only…

  He contorted himself into the Rocinante’s low driver’s seat as the garage doors opened, then switched on the engine and let it roar. They snarled out of the garage, through the gate, and down the curving driveway to the road.

  They passed through the ward that enclosed the estate. It was a shiver of loss against his skin, an awareness that out here lurked danger. He drove slowly past his neighbor’s wall where the demon had materialized—and vanished. The damned creature was taunting him.

  “Was there a demon?” Clancy asked quietly. “I don’t have an affinity for demonology, so I’m wondering if I imagined that I smelled brimstone.”

  “There was a demon.” He drove on, resisting the temptation to look in the rear vision mirror. The demon was gone. “But Doris won’t believe you when you tell her of the encounter. Even you aren’t sure if there was one or if my mention of it put the idea in your head.”