Ghost Phoenix

by Corrina Lawson

  “Fuck you.” Daz tossed his beer bottle across the plane cabin. It hit the floor and rolled harmlessly under a chair.

  “You stood at your supposed best friend’s side and whispered words that kept him a captive. What makes you better than my brother?”

  Now they were just two feet apart. Marian’s quiet breathing was the only sound in the cabin.

  “You don’t know squat about what happened between me and Alec.”

  “And you know nothing of what happened between me and my brother or the Court.” Richard flexed his fists. He wondered how much damage his punches would do with his new strength.

  Daz raised his arms, ready.

  They would battle. On an airplane, thousands of feet in the air, with his angel slumbering between them. And with him possessing this strange new strength that was, as yet, was untested.

  Edward would have fought.

  Still the same, eh? Richard shook his head. “This is idiotic. Go have another beer, Montoya.”

  Richard walked past Daz and picked up Rasputin’s biography, which was wedged against the bar.

  “You’re just giving up?”

  “Not worth it, especially if injuries prevent you from being an effective bodyguard tomorrow.”

  “You’re assuming you’ll beat me.”

  “I know I’ll beat you.” Richard settled in the chair again, staring at the words on the page, not reading them.

  “Oh, screw it.” Daz grabbed another beer. He flopped back down in the chair.

  That was by far the most interesting thing his new recruit could have done. If Daz backed down because he thought a fight might have gotten him kicked off the mission, he was smart. If he’d done so because he really thought a fight over this was ridiculous upon reflection, well, even smarter.

  Some battles did not need to be fought. If Daz understood that, he was rare among soldiers.

  “Just remember one thing, Prince,” Daz said. “Alec’s my friend. I fight at his side because I want to, not because I’m under orders.”

  “You’re here of your own choice,” Richard said in a mild tone.

  Daz saluted him with the beer. “I’ve sworn to watch your back. That doesn’t mean I’ll be your friend.”

  “I’ll try recover from that trauma.”

  “Can I sleep now?” Marian said.

  Chapter Ten

  The three of them sailed through customs on their arrival in France, their progress sped along by Richard’s charm and impeccable French.

  Her French was good but the American accent remained, branding her a foreigner, no matter how polished. Richard spoke French as a native. “My Aquitaine is gone,” he’d said yesterday, implying that he’d lived there after his supposed death in the Tower of London. How long ago had that been?

  Checking into the hotel and renting a car went smoothly. It should. That was her job. Richard was pleased at the hotel suite, especially with the three rooms. Cost was not an object to a man with access to a private jet.

  A quick break for lunch from a local restaurant and they were refreshed enough to head out for the meeting with Lord Romanoff.

  Richard and Daz hardly spoke during the drive. Oh, she’d heard their argument last night and wondered if Richard was jealous. But he seemed more angry about his brother than trying to lay claim to her.

  He’d done that already, by calling her his angel.

  Marian drove the car up the winding, sand-strewn driveway to Lord Romanoff’s home. He had chosen a mansion atop the cliffs of Normandy for his new home. A strange place for a Russian exile, but perhaps settling in a home in a place so unlike his native country was the point.

  Especially since Romanoff clearly wanted to establish his new identity, even if only in his own mind.

  She parked at the bottom of the long trail that wound from the side of the mansion to the front door. She suspected Romanoff liked to see how his visitors handled their trudge to his front door. Supplicants coming to consult the master.

  She hoped Richard wouldn’t make trouble by challenging their source of information.

  She wasn’t worried about Daz. He knew when to be silent and when not to be. And he missed very little. While the customs agents had been checking them through, Daz had been watching the crowds, including who came through what door.

  It was good to have him around. She trusted him. He was solid and real. And he made her laugh.

  As they reached the front of the home overlooking the sea, Richard turned and walked toward the cliff’s edge. Daz looked at her. She shrugged. He rolled his eyes. Richard did what Richard wanted. That was clear to them both.

  Richard stopped at the cliff’s edge and stared across the English Channel. She walked and stood next to him, glad she had worn sensible shoes. She’d almost worn heels—Romanoff liked being around well-dressed women—but her natural inclination for comfort won out. Heels would have been no good on this gritty soil.

  Waves crashed against the sharp rocks at the base of the cliff. She had to shout to be heard over the wind.

  “Have you seen this view before?”

  “Long ago.”

  “Is this what made you want to surf?”

  “God, no.” He backed off from the cliff and the sound of waves faded. “The air here is dank and dark and full of secrets. I began surfing in sunlight and happiness.” Richard smiled. “In that, I was much like any other arrival in California.” He shook his head. “I never thought to be back here.”

  “Revisiting the past can be difficult.”

  “You’re good to me, Angel, putting up with my brooding. Enough. Come, we’ll see if your fake Russian lord can help us.”

  “He’s not going to help if you call him a fake,” she said.

  “Likely not.”

  Daz fell into step behind them as they hit the marble steps, the last part of their “assault” on Castle Romanoff. The sea winds whipped at her hair some more. For once, she was grateful for curls rather than straight hair. The wind could only do so much damage.

  Richard looked like some mythic figure as he turned the corner and was backlit by the sun rising over the ocean. What the hell was she doing, fantasizing about him? Okay, so she was his angel. She took that to mean she was a sort of special creature to him. A precious possession, perhaps.

  Not his love, just someone to flatter and pet. Else he would have made a move in the limo on the way to the airport. She had never wanted to do something insane like rip off his clothes as much as on that ride to the airport.

  It would have been so worth it. But then she’d have had to face the inevitable break-up. Immortal princes must have their pick of women. Aside from her ability, she was nothing special. It was better to keep it as a fantasy.

  The three-story mansion looming above them was whitewashed. Dark boards framed the windows and doors and several chimneys dotted the roof. Maybe not such a strange place for Romanoff, after all. Russians seemed fond of romance, and this was definitely a romantic, if sometimes bleak, place.

  Daz looked behind them. “This is near where the allies sent paratroopers behind lines for D-Day.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “How did you know?”

  “Military history and tactics classes. That operation was one of the first organized air drops. A lot went wrong. But a lot went right.”

  As they reached the mansion’s front entrance, framed by an overhang, Richard gestured to her.

  He wanted her to take the lead, then. She knocked and the door opened instantly. They were ushered in by Jean-Marie Claudet, a middle-aged woman dressed in business casual. Marian had to give Romanoff credit, he could’ve hired a beautiful young thing—male or female—to decorate his home. Many older collectors did, whether the person had the skills or not to do an executive assistant job.

  “I did not expect three to visit the lord. He was
expecting only two, Miss Doyle.”

  Claudet was no decoration. She was Romanoff’s gatekeeper.

  Richard smiled. In his perfect French, he explained that their third party was to ensure their security in these troubled times, a sentiment that he knew Madame Claudet agreed with, as safety was paramount to her employer too.

  By the end of his little speech, Claudet only nodded. “I would ask, however, that Monsieur Montoya remain here. My lord doesn’t like to receive visitors in groups.”

  Marian gave points to Claudet for standing her ground even a little bit under Richard’s charm.

  “That’s okay,” Daz said. “You meet with the lord, I’ll stroll around the place and make sure it’s safe.” He grinned at Claudet.

  While she’d handled Richard’s charm, Claudet seemed less sure if Daz was trying to be charming or threatening. “Please remain on the first floor,” she ordered.

  “No problem.”

  Claudet still glanced back as she led them down the hallway, uncertain of what Daz might do. Did she think him a clumsy oaf? If so, she wasn’t as good a judge of people as Marian had thought.

  She tapped Richard’s arm. He tilted his head.

  “Whatever else you do in that study, don’t make fun of it,” she whispered.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Just don’t.” She should’ve explained. But an explanation wouldn’t do it. That study had to be seen to be believed.

  Claudet opened the double doors to reveal Romanoff’s inner sanctum.

  Marian had been here several times and she still struggled to keep a straight face in the Jungle Room.

  A cheetah pattern filled the walls. Zebra-stripe throw rugs covered the floor. Framed gold records lined the walls. A stereo system dominated one corner of the room.

  The pièce de résistance of the whole room was in the other corner: a full-size mannequin, under protective glass, of Elvis Presley wearing an authentic 1970s-era white jumpsuit.

  “Doesn’t he look grand, Marian?” Romanoff said in English. He put his arm around her shoulder and led her to Elvis.

  This was new. “He’s perfect for the room.” And that was the absolute truth.

  “And I have you to thank for him!” He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her on both checks.

  “How so?”

  He held her at arm’s length. “The referral you provided was perfect. He found this for me.”

  She blushed. He was a round, medium-sized man, but his personality was larger than life. Romanoff was not unlike Richard in his very strange way. He belonged in some outlandish tale.

  “You’re welcome.” At least Romanoff had not grown the Elvis sideburns he’d been contemplating on her last visit. That was a relief.

  “And who have you brought me?” Romanoff asked as he let her go. “A beach bum?”

  “This is Richard Genet and, yes, he’s from California. He has an interest in a particular Russian artifact that has been lost.”

  Richard shook Romanoff’s hand with a straight face. “I see you are as enamored of a particular American time period as you are with Normandy,” Richard said.

  Romanoff grinned. “I spent some time in America in the 1960s and early 1970s. On vacation, of course.” He winked at her.

  Since all signs pointed him to being a former KGB agent, she didn’t find that particularly funny. But at least Romanoff was in a good mood.

  “Do you like Elvis?” Romanoff asked Richard.

  “I loved his music in the Lilo and Stitch movie. I have the soundtrack on repeat in my home,” Richard said.

  “Disney!” Romanoff raised an arm in the air, his finger pointed at the ceiling. “They have done wonders for the King with that movie. I love them for it.” He waved at the furniture. “So, come sit, and tell me what you would know.”

  A former Russian KBG agent being in love with all things Elvis was one thing, but an immortal prince who watched Disney’s childrens’ movies?

  I swear, this is my last client, ever.

  Richard took the one easy chair, a thing of leopard spots, and occupied it like a throne. “Lord Romanoff, I’m interested in acquiring Rasputin’s remains.”

  “Hah!” Romanoff barked a laugh. “You get right to the point. But nothing remains of Rasputin, I’m afraid. Are you sure your client’s brain hasn’t been sun-bleached, Marian?”

  “Are you certain nothing remains of Rasputin?” she asked.

  “You doubt me? Tsk, tsk.” He looked at Richard. “Our Mad Monk was pulled from his burial place in a park in St. Petersburg and burned by revolutionaries in 1917. There’s nothing left of him.” He leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “Though there is some information that points to an erotic museum having a portion of his body.”

  “What portion?” Marian asked.

  “His penis,” Romanoff said flatly.

  That would have the DNA Richard wanted, she thought.

  “I doubt that’s part of Rasputin.” Richard waved a hand, dismissing the information. “My sources claim the corpse that was pulled from the small chapel by the revolutionary troops was not Rasputin at all.”

  “Really?” Romanoff mumbled something in Russian, far too low for Marian to hear. She thought it was some insult to charlatans and fools.

  “Yes, really,” Richard said. “One of his followers or perhaps even Rasputin’s wife took his body and moved it long before then. Possibly to prevent the very indignities that happened to the replacement corpse, among other reasons.”

  “What other reason could there be to change the Mad Monk’s resting place?”

  “Now you’re teasing us, Lord Romanoff. You know why.”

  Romanoff smiled. “I do know why, Marian. But I wanted to know if you do.”

  Richard sighed. “Rasputin’s body, if still available, would surely be a religious icon of some sort.”

  Romanoff snapped his fingers. “Rasputin’s cult died with him, though I recall one of his daughters also claimed healing powers. And then she moved to America and went into circus entertainment. Which is absolutely where that family belonged. Religious icon. Bah. People are far too obsessed with him.”

  This from the man who had a nearly religious devotion to a dead rock and roll singer, enough to create a shrine to him.

  Thank God she didn’t say that out loud.

  “Much of Rasputin’s abilities do seem like smoke and mirrors, like a circus act.” Marian needed to settle Romanoff down. Richard had challenged him, though quietly, and Romanoff hated it.

  “My information also claims that Rasputin’s abilities may have been real,” Richard said.

  And there went her chance to settle Romanoff down.

  Romanoff laughed. “Ah, I see, you are one of those kind of treasure hunters. A true believer.” He stood and went to his liquor cabinet. “The worst kind. The most dangerous kind.”

  He poured a glass of Kentucky bourbon.

  Richard walked over to the liquor cabinet and put out his hand. Romanoff poured him two fingers of bourbon. Richard knocked it back without a flinch. He set the empty glass down on the cabinet.

  “I’m a true believer in the information I have, Romanoff,” Richard said. “Considering the research the Soviets did in parapsychology, even your own people were of my mind.”

  “Fools and charlatans, like Rasputin himself.” Romanoff tossed back his glass and emptied it. He muttered something that sounded like durachit. That was fool or idiot in Russian.

  “I’ll humor you, beach bum. So, tell me, where does your information say the monk’s corpse is located?” Romanoff asked.

  “I have no exact location. That’s why I’ve come to you. You’re the expert in these things, Marian says. And I trust her opinion, so I trust your information. Whether the Mad Monk was a charlatan is ultimately immaterial. I need to find his corpse. And that
penis won’t do. It’s not his.”

  Romanoff stroked his beard and stared at his Elvis mannequin. Richard glanced at Marian. She put a hand to her lips to signal that he should remain quiet and let Romanoff decide what to say.

  The exile knew something, Marian decided, or he would have thrown them out already. And it was odd to see him drink. Despite the reputation of Russians, Romanoff never drank in her presence. Until now. What if Drake was right about a curse? What if curses were real by virtue of some sort of psychic ability?

  “What will you do with the body if you find it? Put it on display?”

  “The body will be given honorable burial,” Richard said.

  “Of what use is Rasputin save as a decayed thing? Then and now?”

  “He was useful as a symbol then. For now? I represent a private collector who is interested in seeing Rasputin’s remains properly settled.”

  “I think you represent a museum that could use the revenue from making a public spectacle of the corpse,” Romanoff said. “Or, even worse, a researcher poking and prodding and disturbing the Monk’s rest.”

  Richard said, “The private collector I represent has his quirks, but not those.”

  “Why do you represent this private collector?” Rasputin asked.

  “It’s a family obligation,” Richard said.

  “Hmm…is your private collector also a religious fanatic?”

  “Not that either. The interest is more on Rasputin’s place as a historical figure. He was instrumental in the excesses that led to your revolution.”

  “Many historical figures are instrumental for all the wrong reasons. Some people still follow the butcher Hitler in Germany or the tyrant Stalin in my motherland. No one should go to any efforts to disturb that kind of dead.” Romanoff stalked closer to Richard. “Especially one with a curse.”

  Crap, Marian thought. She’d doubted Drake because he was so hostile. But here was confirmation of the “curse”.

  Richard poured another bourbon and drank it down as quickly as the first. He made a show of setting down the empty glass.