Spellbound

by Kelley Armstrong

  He helped me up the steps and into the foyer, then left me in front of the wall-sized aquarium of tropical fish. I stood there, mesmerized by the flashing rainbow of colors while Adam talked to the desk guard.

  "Yes, they're very pretty, aren't they?" Adam said as he came up behind me.

  "Is Lucas still here?"

  "The guard says no, but from the looks he's giving us, he's ten seconds from calling for backup to escort us to a nice warm holding cell for the night. There's no way he's sending us up to see the heir to the throne. Not in our condition. Fortunately . . ."

  He whipped out his security clearance pass at the same time as I pulled out mine. We both laughed. The guard at the desk buzzed someone and whispered into his phone.

  "Don't worry," Adam said as we stumbled past the desk. "We've got our cards. Thanks for the assistance, though. I'll be sure to let Mr. Cortez know how helpful you were."

  We got on the executive elevator before anyone could stop us. When we reached Lucas's office, it was dark, his briefcase gone. There was a note for us on the desk, in Paige's handwriting.

  Left at midnight. If you two are much later, I'd suggest crashing in the lounge. Breakfast meeting at five thirty.

  I checked my watch. It was past one.

  "The lounge it is," Adam said. "Flip you for the sofa."

  "Hell, no. I spent the night on a plane. I get the sofa."

  "Excuse me? I was up half the night researching that ritual for you. I deserve . . ."

  We were still bickering when we reached the lounge and found . . .

  "The sofa's gone," Adam said.

  "It is? Good. I was starting to think I was even drunker than I feel."

  "Who the hell took the sofa?"

  "I have no idea. When you find it, though, it's all yours. I forfeit."

  I headed for the armchair. He lunged and we both scrambled for it. I made it there first and turned around to sit, but he jumped in behind me and I landed in his lap instead.

  "Out," I said.

  "Uh-uh. I was here first. Either you go find the sofa or you get to sleep on my lap."

  I twisted, poking him with my elbows and hips.

  "That's not going to work," he said. "I'm staying."

  I sighed and slouched in his lap. He shifted until he was comfortable, then leaned me back against him and put his arms around me. I squirmed until I had my knees pulled up, my chin resting on his shoulder.

  "Feeling better?" he said.

  "No, you have bony shoulders."

  "I mean, in general. Are you feeling better about everything?"

  I nodded.

  "Good."

  He smiled at me, and he was so close, I could feel the warmth of his breath on my lips.

  His hand moved up, and he touched my cheek, thumb caressing it.

  "You're drunk, aren't you?" he said.

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "Really drunk?"

  "I'm sleeping on your lap."

  He chuckled.

  "Why? Are you worried I'll puke on you?"

  "Um, no."

  "Good, because I never puke."

  He laughed, his gaze dropping from mine. "Okay, I get it."

  "Get what?"

  "You're drunk."

  "Um, yeah. We established that."

  "I'm drunk, too."

  "Okay." I paused. "Is this conversation going somewhere?"

  "Apparently not. We're both drunk so . . . Nope, it's not going anywhere."

  He swept my hair off my shoulder, hesitated, then shook his head, faced forward, and tugged me tighter against him. I laid my head back on his shoulder, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.

  thirty-four

  I woke up with my butt vibrating. I'd probably have ignored it, except that for a moment, I thought Adam was rubbing my ass, which was enough to wake me up . . . only to realize it was my phone.

  I slid from his lap and snuck out of the lounge. The number showed a pay phone from an area code I didn't recognize. My sleepy brain tried to remember where Elena and Clay were, but there was no reason for them to call me in the middle of the night. It must be a contact of mine--Paige had gotten my old cell number transferred to my new phone.

  I answered with a wary "Hello?"

  "Savannah?" Male voice. No one I recognized.

  "Yes."

  "It's me." A faint cough, muffled, like he'd covered his mouth. The voice was strained and raspy. "Bryce." Then as if that might not be enough, "Bryce Nast. Your, uh, brother."

  My hand tightened around the phone. "Bryce? Where are you? What--?"

  "I'll explain later. I--" A wheeze, then a cough. "You offered to help me. You've probably changed your mind by now, but I . . . I don't know who else to call."

  As he spoke, the initial jolt over hearing from him faded. Bryce calls me in the middle of the night? Asks for help? From a pay phone? With his voice too distorted to recognize?

  "You don't sound like yourself," I said.

  "Yeah, I've"--another sniff--"I've got something. A bug."

  "You were fine when I saw you yesterday. And where'd you get this number?"

  "I have my cell phone here, but I can't get a signal. They've done something to it--" He paused. "You don't think it's me. Can't blame you." He swallowed, loudly, as if it hurt. "Okay, umm, last year for your birthday, Sean got you a new saddle. Imported it from Germany. At Christmas you guys went riding in Colorado. You, Adam, Sean, and the guy he was seeing."

  "Why aren't you calling Sean?"

  "Because this isn't . . . I don't want . . ." Another swallow. "I can't bring him into this. You're in L.A., right?"

  "No, Miami."

  "Shit. Shit, shit, shit . . ."

  "Where are you, Bryce?"

  "New Orleans. I guess it's about the same distance. I'm just--" He gave a long, wheezing cough. "I'm confused."

  "You're sick."

  "Yeah. No way can I get on a plane or a bus like this, even if I had money, which I don't. And I shouldn't anyway. You need to come here. See this."

  "See what?"

  "Need see it." He started clipping his sentences, as if full ones took more energy than he had. "Shouldn't come alone. That vampire still with you?"

  "Cassandra?" He wanted me to bring Cassandra. A trap. It had to be a trap. "No. But I could get her."

  "Someone else then. Someone--"

  "Savannah?" Adam called.

  I turned as he walked over. I mouthed, "Bryce."

  "Who's that?" Bryce asked.

  "Adam. Wondering where I disappeared to."

  "Oh. Sean said you two weren't . . ." He trailed off. I didn't correct his assumption, just pulled the phone from my ear so Adam could listen in as Bryce continued. "Okay. Adam. The Exustio. That'll work. Okay. Bring Adam or anyone who can watch your back and--"

  A soft shout from Bryce's end, a woman's voice, tight with alarm, words indistinguishable. The phone clattered, as if Bryce was hanging up.

  The woman's voice came closer. "You're supposed to be in bed, sir."

  "I just wanted to let them know I'm okay. I didn't--"

  "You can't be outside. Boys, please take Mr. N back to his room."

  More noises, protests from Bryce, but faint, as if he couldn't summon the energy to fight back. The click of heels on pavement. Then they stopped. The steps came back and the receiver rattled, as if she'd realized it hadn't properly disconnected.

  Adam motioned for me to hang up fast. I shook my head and waited.

  "Who is this?" the woman said.

  "That's my question," I said. "Who the hell is this? Do you have any idea what time it is? Four in the fucking morning and some drunken moron calls thinking I'm his brother. Do I sound like anyone's brother? Starts babbling about how he's fine and I shouldn't worry. He's not fine. He's so sloshed he can barely speak. He should be in a drunk tank somewhere. If you're a friend of his--"

  "I'm not, ma'am. He's a patient and he's unwell."

  "No shit."

  "I'm sorry he disturbed you.
Obviously he's confused and had the wrong number and I apologize for any--"

  "Whatever. Don't let it happen again."

  I hung up. Then I turned to Adam.

  "It's a trap, isn't it?" I said.

  "I'm not sure. Come on back to the lounge. I'll make coffee while you explain."

  I was done with my coffee--and wide awake--by the time I finished the story.

  "I don't trust my judgment on this one," I said. "Not with Bryce."

  Adam took the last slug of his coffee before answering. "I'll admit it sounds like a setup. A really bad, really obvious setup, which makes me think it isn't. Everyone knows you and Bryce aren't on speaking terms. Now he's coming to his estranged little sister, of all people, and asking her to fly to his rescue? As a setup, it sucks."

  "Then that still begs the question. If it's real, why did he call me?"

  "Because you reached out to him. He's in trouble and you're used to dealing with trouble, and he's sick and confused, and the last thing he remembers is you offering to help him out of this. The guy might deny you're his sister, but apparently he has your number on his cell."

  He headed for the coffeemaker. "That interruption sounded legit. He wasn't cut off in the middle of a dire pronouncement. The woman was careful to call him Mr. N. When the phone was off the hook, no one said Bryce was in danger or said anything designed to make you come running to his rescue. They didn't even tell you where he was."

  He refilled his mug. "He didn't insist you come alone. He didn't insist you bring someone specific. He just wanted you to have backup. That sounds real to me."

  "Okay, so how do I find him?"

  "We can locate the pay phone easily enough. Not a lot of them these days. Tracking him from the phone will be the problem."

  "I know a way."

  Two hours later we were on a single-engine four-passenger plane from the Cortez fleet, one Benicio had put aside for our use. Adam and I weren't alone. I'd asked Jeremy to join us. A werewolf's nose would get us from the pay phone to wherever Bryce was being held. Jaime had come, too. That was her idea--she could ask my father to join us when we got there. A ghostly scout was an asset. One who understood Bryce would be even more valuable.

  Jeremy had called Paige and explained that Jaime had gotten a lead in New Orleans. When they stopped by headquarters, they found that Adam and I had crashed there overnight. We'd offered to go with them as backup so he didn't need to call in Clay and Elena.

  Paige bought it. Like Lucas, Jeremy was an expert liar. It's always the quiet ones you need to watch.

  We flew into a small airport where a rental car waited. As we drove into the city, I said to Jeremy, "Okay, so you'll track Bryce's scent from the pay phone to wherever they took him, then you'll wait outside with Jaime while Adam and I break in."

  He gave me a look.

  "You're special, remember?"

  "Sucks being special," he said.

  Adam lifted his brows, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

  I laughed. "Old joke. Luckily, being all grown up, I am no longer special and do not need to stay behind with you, Jeremy. I will, however, order your pizza. Mediterranean, right?"

  "You forget that I'm also older, and have an Alpha-elect trained to take my place. Therefore, I'm no longer special either. However, I'll make a note of the fact that you advised me to stay behind, avoiding any fallout with Clayton. I presume that was the point of the suggestion?"

  "It was."

  The last time I'd been to New Orleans was a few months after Hurricane Katrina. I'd avoided going back ever since. My mom and I had lived in the Big Easy for a couple of years, and seeing it post-disaster--the devastation and slow recovery--had depressed and infuriated me. Now it was starting to look a little more like its old self.

  The address for the pay phone took us to an area that looked as if it hadn't escaped the hurricane's wrath, but wasn't hit hard enough to get much recovery funding. Many buildings were vacant, including the one Bryce's trail led to, a block from the pay phone.

  It looked like an old house that had been converted into units, and still showed the bones of an old manor house, despite decades of reconstruction. A NOW LEASED! sign promised new life, but unlike other buildings with similar signs, there was no indication that this one would be ready to open soon. Through a partly boarded window, I could see a lone workman inside. He seemed to be painting, but at the rate he was moving, he wasn't going to be done for a while. I think that was the point.

  We'd split up to look less obvious as we scoped out the area. Adam had climbed onto the roof of the neighboring building. I was walking along the street, mingling with strolling office workers, so I didn't stand out, in case anyone was watching from our target building. Jeremy circled the block. And Jaime sat in an open-air cafe out of harm's way, while my father scouted.

  When I was done with my part, I sat with Jaime.

  "You know what I need?" I said. "Ghosts. Then I could sit back and let them do the dirty work."

  "Hardly. Ghosts can't get dirty." She shifted her chair out of the shade and leaned back, light reflecting off her sunglasses. "I'll admit, though, it is nice to order your father around. He's done it to me for years."

  I shook my head and snatched a beignet from her plate. "There's something going on in that place, but they're doing a good job of hiding it. We may have to wait until dark to get in." I checked my watch. "Which is a very long wait."

  She was about to reply when she looked up suddenly. I turned, saw empty air, and tugged over a chair for my father. Not that he really needed it, but it would be easier for Jaime to talk to him if she wasn't gaping up at the sky.

  I ordered a coffee as Jaime listened to my father.

  When the server left, Jaime said, "Good news first or bad?"

  "Bad."

  "The place is warded. Your dad can't get inside."

  "And there's good news?"

  "They haven't warded the whole building. Too much energy to keep the spell up. So we have a good idea where you'll find Bryce. Your dad's narrowed it down to a few rooms, and he's found a way in."

  "The roof." Adam walked over and reached for the empty chair.

  I waved him to another spot before he sat on my father's lap.

  "Right," Adam said. "Sorry."

  "He's used to it," Jaime said. "There's no personal space cushion when you're a ghost."

  "So the roof?" I said.

  Adam explained what he'd found from the outside, and my father added--through Jaime--some details of the inside layout. Together we devised a plan.

  "Your dad says we should probably break up this coffee club," Jaime said. "Before someone connected to these people wanders past and thinks one of us looks familiar."

  "Call Jeremy then," I said. "Tell him you'll meet him on the roof." She lifted her leg, showing off three-inch heels.

  "Haven't you learned your lesson about wearing those on a mission?"

  "Yes. And the lesson is that I should always wear these, so no one asks me to do anything crazy like climb onto a roof."

  "But you have to play interpreter between us and my father."

  "Which I can do using the wonderful technology of text messaging."

  "It'd be easier to talk to him if you were on the roof. You'd be less conspicuous."

  "It's New Orleans. The one city in the world where I can talk to ghosts and no one looks twice. Go on. Jeremy will meet you there."

  thirty-five

  Jeremy didn't complain about climbing on roofs. He may be sixty-one--or was it sixty-two?--but being a werewolf means he's in excellent shape, and looks about forty-five. And being werewolf Alpha means he doesn't get to do a lot of roof-climbing so he's happy for the chance.

  We started on the neighboring roof, which Adam had scouted. It came with a convenient fire escape, meaning we could clamber up and across without being seen. From there it was only a two-foot jump across to the roof we needed.

  While an access door would have been very swee
t, they're a lot less common than I'd like. Instead, there was an ancient balcony off the top floor. The construction was first-rate, though, and it didn't so much as tremor as we proceeded, one at a time, onto it and through the balcony door.

  That door had needed a lock-pick. There was also an electronic security system, but my father assured us that only the lower level doors were protected.

  Other than the fake workman, my father hadn't seen anyone else while he'd walked the perimeter of the warded area. Whatever this place was, it didn't seem to be a major hub of activity for the group. Definitely not the compound where they'd been holding me, though I'd known that--I hadn't gone from Louisiana to Indiana on the relatively short van ride before I'd escaped.

  We'd come through into a bedroom on the third floor. It was unbearably stuffy, and peeling layers of wallpaper said it hadn't been used in decades. The one piece of furniture--a filing cabinet--had only been left behind because it was so old and heavy that it had sunk into the floor.

  We made our way into the hall, Jeremy in the lead, using his werewolf sense of hearing and smell to check for occupants. I cast sensing spells. I wasn't sure they worked, but it helped me clear my head and focus.

  After one quick sniff around the top floor--and several stifled sneezes from the dust--Jeremy said no one had been up there in a while. So we proceeded down the stairs. Normally I'd lead there, knockback spell prepped, but Adam took it instead, his flaming fingers a quicker weapon than Jeremy's brute strength.

  My father had said this was where the warding spell kicked in, so it made sense that we'd start seeing signs of occupation here. That's exactly what it looked like--occupation. Two rooms had beds with dressers stuffed with clothing and nothing personal. One even had a suitcase still on the floor.

  "Temporary lodgings," Jeremy murmured. "There are layers of scent."

  We checked out the other rooms. There was no one around, but Jeremy could detect faint voices from the lower level. He found a floor-level grate and crouched beside it, head tilted to listen.

  He lifted three fingers. Three voices. He bent lower, then stood and waved us back away from the vent.

  "Someone was talking about a fever," he whispered. "I smell antiseptic."

  "A hospital, then. Or a makeshift one."

  Jeremy paused, and I knew he was working on a strategy. I didn't offer any suggestions. Maybe I'd spent so many summers with the werewolves that I automatically fell into the role of Pack wolf, waiting for the Alpha to make the plans. Or maybe I just knew that any idea Jeremy came up with would be better than mine. You don't lead a Pack for thirty years unless you're a damned fine strategist.