Elena broke in, her voice quiet but holding the force of ages. “What did you agree to help this woman find?”
Ansel looked up at her, shamefaced. “A pot. An ancient one.”
I stood up. “Please tell me she didn’t go out to Chaco Canyon to dig up a pot.”
The theft of Native American artifacts was a continuing problem. Non-Indians didn’t understand why they shouldn’t go dig up all the thousand-year-old pottery and other things buried in places like Chaco Canyon or Homol’ovi, or even out in the canyons around Magellan, and sell them to museums or private collectors for a stack of cash.
Most Indians, on the other hand, regard the pottery as sacred relics from their ancestors, which should be left undisturbed. They feel about it like a non-Indian might feel about someone going to a churchyard and digging up their great-grandmother to sell her bones and whatever jewelry she’d been buried with. Federal laws, with prison sentences attached, were on the books to discourage pot hunting, but it still goes on.
But there’s an even better reason not to desecrate the dead. Not only is it macabre, it’s dangerous. There’s no telling what kind of god or spiritual force is guarding the dead—you could have a ton of evil trouble on your doorstep for even moving a potsherd. Gods and goddesses are not necessarily nice.
“No,” Ansel said quickly. “This particular pot has been circulating for a long time.”
“Then why was Laura hanging out in Chaco Canyon?”
Ansel shrugged. “I’m not really certain why. I’m piecing much of this together myself.”
And why had Laura been abducted from there? And where was she now? Drake needed to answer questions, and I had some ideas about how to make him talk.
“Anyway,” Ansel said, “Laura was approached earlier this year by a collector in Santa Fe who was looking for this particular pot. Laura and I started the research, learning all about the type of pot it was and where we might find this particular one. A few months later, Laura called me, uneasy. The collector who’d hired her was pushing her to find the pot, offering to pay more and more money if she hurried it up. When she had to say we were still looking, he started threatening her. It can take years to locate a piece and buy it, and clients understand that. But this man was adamant.”
“Why does he want it so much?” I asked.
“Why, indeed?” Ansel said. “I continued to look for the pot, while Laura began researching our client—discovering everything she could about him. We found the pot, by the way. It was at a private museum in Flagstaff. Laura notified the client, he transferred the money, and we bought it.”
Elena scowled at him, and I balled my fists. “So you have it,” I said. “Ansel.”
Ansel held up his hands. “No, I don’t. This is what I do not understand. Laura took it, not me. I never had charge of it, and she delivered it to the collector.”
“Wait.” I rubbed my temples. “Why are we talking about swindles if you bought the pot and gave it to Laura’s client? The deal is done.”
“We did swindle him,” Ansel said in a quiet voice. “The museum wanted two hundred thousand for the pot. I bargained them down to one hundred and fifty. But we agreed to tell the client that we bought it for the whole two. He paid up, and Laura and I split the fifty grand between us. That on top of Laura’s commission. Normally I’d never dream of doing something like that—but if you’d met the man . . . When Laura didn’t find the artifact fast enough, he threatened to put her out of business, threatened to ruin me—he doesn’t know I’m a Nightwalker. He lives in a big house, surrounded by riches, and is the most tight-fisted miser I’ve ever met. The things he said to Laura . . . We decided that he could afford to give us a little more money for what we had to put up with.”
I could understand myself giving the guy a little kick in the balls, but I’d also learned that such people could be dangerous. “Did he find out?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. But something is very wrong. I’d already sent most of my money to my family in England—I like to help them out. Laura called me last week, all excited, and said she’d done something else. She said she knew she should have told me, but she was afraid of getting me involved, and that I’d understand. She didn’t want to tell me on the phone. We agreed to meet in Gallup where we could talk. When I got there, Laura was scared. She was sure she’d been followed. She convinced me to leave with her. And then . . . that’s where it all goes fuzzy. We were driving, and I must have gone blood frenzied for some reason. I don’t know why. I’m sorry, Janet, that’s all I can remember.”
“Why’d you keep this to yourself?” I asked. “I might have been able to help you sooner, before the slayers came calling.”
“Told you that I’d killed my girlfriend in a blood frenzy?” Ansel asked, eyes wide. “You would have thrown me out of here, at best. At worst, you and Mick would have decided that you needed to kill me. Don’t think I don’t hear your conversations about that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Ansel, what you don’t understand is, I know exactly what it feels like to be an out-of-control killing machine. That’s when you need your friends the most. To stop you.”
“Perhaps. But I’m a Nightwalker. You at least can be a potent magical force for good in the world. I’m nothing but a bloodsucker, no good in me at all. I was created to be a weapon, to kill without remorse. Our situations are a bit different.”
“We could get into a big, long argument about that, but right now isn’t the time. Drake told me that Laura was alive, but that he didn’t know where she was. Are you sure you have no idea what she meant to tell you? About the pot? About the client? About Chaco Canyon? She was driving in that direction, and she was camping up there.”
“What I do know,” Ansel said, “is that she didn’t give me anything—not the pot or any other artifact, no money, nothing. When I woke up in the desert, there was just me. Getting to shelter was my only concern at that point. I have no clear idea of where I was, as I told you. Somewhere in northwestern New Mexico is about as specific as I can be.”
“We need to find her.” I stated the obvious, but sometimes, it has to be stated.
“The Firewalkers are convinced you have this pot,” Elena said. “Why is it important to them?”
Ansel spread his hands. “As I say, I have no idea.”
I believed him. Dragons could be annoyingly cryptic, and I planned to shake a few things out of them. Starting with Mick, who’d gone to the dragon compound today to find out why I’d sensed dragon at Laura’s campsite. We hadn’t exactly had a moment to talk.
But Ansel knew things too. “Who was the client, Ansel?” I asked. “The one so anxious to get this piece of pottery?”
“His name is Richard Young.”
“Oh, Ansel,” I said, blowing out my breath.
Even I had heard of Richard Young, a man who owned a large chunk of the businesses in Santa Fe and Albuquerque, who lived in a vast house on a hill above Santa Fe with a view people would pay millions for. The man was powerful and influential. And, some whispered, a criminal, or at least, he had criminal connections.
“We can’t always choose our clients,” Ansel said. “If they have the dosh, we don’t ask too many questions. Antiques dealers are always in need of an influx of cash.”
Which he sent off to his family in England. I couldn’t help admiring that. On the other hand, Richard Young was not the best person in the world to try to rip off.
“Thank you, Ansel,” I said. “For being straight with me. I’m going to try to find out what the dragons know and see if we can track down Laura. This might be easily solved.” Sure. “The big question is—if Laura’s fine, what was that stupid crap with the séance? Whoever faked it told Paige that Laura was dead and needed to be avenged.”
Ansel looked perplexed, so I quickly filled him in about the séance at Heather’s and the “message” from Laura.
Elena looked disapproving. She, like Cassandra and my grandmother, didn’t like séan
ces. I had the feeling I’d get a phone call from Grandmother soon.
“She must have faked it,” Elena said. “The sister. So she’d have justification for hiring these slayers to kill Ansel. She might believe her sister is dead but not be able to prove it.”
“You will tell Paige she’s all right?” Ansel asked.
“First call I make.” Second call, I meant. For the first I wouldn’t need a phone.
I told Ansel to stay in tonight, to be safe, and he nodded. He’d have his DVD machine cranking out classic movies in no time.
He looked so unhappy and guilty as I started to leave that I came back and gave him a hug and a kiss on the top of his head.
Quick ones. Ansel smelled like blood, his aura had my magic screaming, and he was dancing too close to blood frenzy for any lingering touch.
I left his room, and Elena marched upstairs behind me, heading off to check her kitchen for damage. Whatever she found, I was sure the dragons would hear about it. Loudly.
The firemen were still in my saloon, trying to decide what had started the fire. Lightning was one man’s speculation. The fire was completely out, wisps of smoke drifting in the night breeze.
“Can I go in?” I asked a guy in his oversized yellow suit, still wearing his hard fire hat. He was one of the Salas family, related to Magellan’s Assistant Chief of Police. Emilio Salas himself was outside in the parking lot talking to the other firemen.
Emilio saw me and came walking up with his usual energy. “You know what happened, Janet?”
“I wasn’t home,” I said, sticking to the literal truth.
“A couple of your guests saw a fireball come out the sky, and the place went up. Heat lightning is what will go in the report. A freak of nature.”
I’d be sure to tell Drake he was being listed as a freak of nature. I wanted to watch his face when I said it.
“Am I allowed in?” I asked again.
“If you want to take a quick look right inside the door, you can,” the fireman said. “But don’t go all the way in, and don’t touch anything. There’s a lot of glass fused to the floor and what’s left of the tables.”
Glass. I ducked past him and stepped inside the saloon.
It was a complete wreck. The long wooden bar, barstools, and tables were nothing but a pile of black lumps. The walls still stood, but they were black all the way to the tin ceiling, which had buckled and melted under the volcanic heat of dragon fire. Dragons were born in volcanoes, and the room looked as though one had erupted inside it.
The glass the fireman mentioned had come from the rows of glasses that had hung above the bar, the bottles of wine and liquor that had lined the shelves behind it, and the windows that had imploded.
The magic mirror hung above the bar in its usual place, and I relaxed a little. It was still intact.
The frame had warped and half melted away, but the frame wasn’t part of the mirror. The magical part was the glass itself, the silver backing it, and the ton of spells a long-ago mage had poured into it.
The face of the mirror was black. I couldn’t tell from the doorway whether it was filmed with soot, or whether the darkness was inside the glass itself.
The fireman was standing right next to me, and so was Emilio, so I couldn’t very well launch into a conversation with the mirror. But I risked one question.
“Are you all right?”
Silence. The mirror didn’t respond, not even with a tinkle of broken bits.
Emilio’s big hand landed on my shoulder. “I know it’s hard, Janet. But it will be all right. Fire chief says the saloon’s structure is still sound, so get on to your insurance company and start clearing things up.”
Emilio Salas was a cheerful sort, always optimistic, in spite of his job, and in spite of living in the weirdness of Magellan all his life.
He patted my shoulder again, his work done, and went to the kitchen to see if Elena was good. Emilio was one of the few people Elena liked—maybe because sorrow, sarcasm, and anger bounced off him and didn’t leave a mark. Emilio seemed to absorb negativity like Nash absorbed and annulled spells.
The fireman told me my guests could come back in, but of course, the saloon was off limits. He’d told me to have someone board up the door right away.
I went back outside to the clustered guests to find that Cassandra had returned. She’d already handed around coffee and was talking to everyone about their options, whether they stayed here or moved to another hotel.
With Cassandra was her girlfriend, Pamela, a tall woman with black hair in a tight braid and wolf-gray eyes. Pamela was a Changer who could become a wolf. And like a wolf, she was insanely protective of Cassandra, who was, in Changer terms, her mate.
I was happy that Cassandra had someone to keep her safe, but Pamela sometimes decided that Cassandra should be kept safe from me. A Changer thinking someone threatened her mate was a dangerous thing.
“Who did this?” Pamela asked me in a low voice. She had her arms folded and regarded me with coldness.
“Dragons,” I said.
Her eyes flickered. “Mick let them?”
“I wouldn’t say he let them. But don’t worry, they’ll pay.”
One way or the other. Pamela returned to helping Cassandra calm the guests—though why Pamela thought she could calm anyone, I didn’t know. I went inside and into my office, opened the desk drawer, and took out one of the shards of broken mirror I kept in there.
When the mirror had been broken, Mick and I had pried pieces out of it out to carry with us or keep stashed around the hotel in case we needed them. Mick and I could communicate through the mirror over long distances much better than we could on cell phones. The mirror never hit a dead zone.
I took the piece of mirror out of the leather bag in which I kept it, carefully laid it on the desk, and peered down into it.
Chapter Nine
Darkness. The mirror had gone black all the way across, as though this piece had burned along with the others.
The mirror didn’t answer me when I again asked if it was all right. I even apologized to it and told it I’d take the damage out of Drake’s hide.
Still nothing.
I stroked the surface of the mirror, but I didn’t even get a shiver of delight or a string of lewd comments.
I was cold with misgivings as I put the mirror shard away. The thing drove me crazy with its drag-queen drawl, sexual suggestions, insane laughter, and stupid jokes. On the other hand, it had saved my life several times over. Without the mirror, I’d have been very definitely dead a while ago. But not only would losing a magical talisman be bad for me, I’d miss it.
Magic mirrors could be repaired. The trouble was, any mage strong enough to repair a magic mirror would also be strong enough to kill you for it.
I had hoped that the mirror would be well enough for me to use it to spy on the dragon compound. Last year, when I’d been taken to the compound, the mirror had told me how to finagle the shard so it could look through all the mirrors in the dragons’ mansion. I’d discovered later that the mirror had maintained the contact so it could look into the dragon compound any time it wanted.
Mostly the mirror enjoyed watching the human houseboy, a buff twenty-something called Todd, strip for his showers. But I sometimes used the mirror myself to keep track of what was going on with Bancroft, Drake, and their cronies.
I’d have to wait for Mick before I could talk to the dragons. He was the only one who could get me in contact with the compound without me being fried. But Mick was taking his time out there while he recovered from the crossbow wound, and I started to worry about him too.
I called Heather Hansen, listened to five minutes of her distress about the fire—she’d seen something dark in my aura, she swore it, and she was so sorry she’d been distracted by the séance and hadn’t warned me. I let her run down—she did truly feel bad—and then I asked her for Paige’s phone number.
She gave it to me readily, telling me it was so nice of me to help
with Paige’s sister. Heather offered her services as medium to me any time I wanted them, gratis. Perhaps I’d like to speak to my deceased mother, to tell her I was all right?
I managed to give her a polite answer before I hung up. The last thing I needed was Heather trying to conjure the spirit of my evil-goddess mother. She might show up.
I called Paige and got her voice mail. I left a message, urging her to call me, telling her I’d had word that her sister might be fine and well. With any luck, Paige would call off her slayers until she found out what I knew, but I didn’t hold my breath. The slayer marks had been cleaned off the doorframes—I hadn’t seen any new ones as I’d run around outside, apart from the ones made by the slayer Nash had arrested. Maybe they’d think Ansel had perished in the fire and give up. Hey, it could happen.
I helped Cassandra settle the guests who were staying into their rooms again. She offered to spend the rest of the night here, and because we weren’t full—we’d just lost a hiking couple to the motel in Magellan—I put her and Pamela in the usual room they took when they stayed overnight.
Emilio, who was hanging out in the kitchen talking to Elena and eating the mess of chilaquiles she’d decided to whip up, cheerfully said he’d sent for some of his nephews to come over and board up my doors and windows.
They arrived soon, along with Maya Medina, who did my electrical work. Maya eyed the damage from the lobby as Salas’s four nephews started hammering.
Maya had the kind of figure that managed to make even jeans and a simple pullover top look sexy. She had lavish curves and a nicely formed behind, her blue-black hair fell in gorgeous waves down her back, and her eyes were the color of strong coffee.
Sheriff Jones loved this woman, though he didn’t always like to admit it—he pretended emotion was what happened to other people. Maya loved him back with fierce intensity and didn’t care who knew it.
I’d inadvertently walked in on Maya and Nash once when they’d been in flagrante, and I’d seen vividly that Nash was both a virile man and an enthusiastic one. I’d also kissed him when I’d been high on storm magic and needed the magic siphoned off. Mick hadn’t been around to help me calm down, and Nash with his magic-sucking ability had been right there. Unfortunately, when I get too storm-crazed, I don’t have a lot of control, and inhibitions are blown away.
From Jennifer Ashley, With Love: Three Paranormal Romances from Bestselling Series Page 22