The woman at the door sounded like Baker. She looked like Baker, complete with steel gray suit, tasteful pumps, and ear piece, but I didn’t see Igor or Griffiths behind her. That was odd enough that I reached into my jacket and withdrew my One Shot with its holy water.
“Extend your hand, please.”
She didn’t argue, didn’t even blink, just offered her hand. I sprayed. It was her. “Where’s Griffiths? I need to give him back his phone.”
“He has already joined the rest of the party.” She said it politely but still managed to convey her urgency and frustration. “We’re running behind schedule.” She led me down a long marble hallway with hardwood doors spaced at intervals.
I was inconveniencing everybody and throwing off a schedule that had been timed with exquisite care. It was unprofessional of me. “I’m sorry. But Griffiths told me about the bomb in my office and I wanted an update.”
She almost stumbled—apparently she hadn’t known—but when she spoke, her voice was rock steady. “A bomb?”
“Your people didn’t miss anything,” I assured her. “It was planted after we left. It had a DNA trigger.”
We took a sharp right turn down a narrow hall that led to one of the building’s back exits. Bringing her wrist to her mouth, Baker spoke into her wrist mic. “I’ve got her. She’s safe.”
Now, yes. But for how long?
29
Sirens live a very long time. They aren’t all that fertile and they very seldom marry. So there aren’t a lot of royal weddings or births, and when either occurs, it’s a huge historic event. The photographer was making sure there was an extensive record of the events. There were pictures with Dahlmar and Adriana sitting on chairs that were vaguely thronelike, the rest of us arrayed in a semicircle behind them. There were photos of them kissing. There were group shots, individual shots, shots of the various couples. There were so many shots, in fact, that I would’ve been happy to do a little shooting of my own. But I tried to be a good sport about it and I smiled at the camera until my face muscles ached.
But all things end eventually, including royal photo shoots. When this one did, we piled into various limousines and drove in a motorcade back to the royal compound, through streets filled with drunken revelers.
I stayed close to Adriana and kept a close watch on Olga during the luau that was the reception. And while the food and the free-flowing drinks looked and smelled amazing, I didn’t taste them. While people ate, a steady stream of performers put on a fabulous show that included amazing dance numbers, exciting singers, and exquisite music. I paid zero attention. Only after the bride and groom left the reception to enjoy some time alone was I able to relax. I chose to do that by having Baker and Griffiths escort me back to the guest house so that I could have a little time to myself.
Getting away from the crowds was a huge relief. Now that I wasn’t on duty I wanted a couple of stiff drinks, some food, and to have a good cry.
My beautiful office was probably a pile of rubble by now. I was likely to be treated to constant replays of the “controlled detonation” once I got home.
I didn’t want to see it.
Baker and Griffiths walked me to the door. After checking with the guards on duty to be sure that no one had come in the building in our absence, and that all of the visitors and servants had left, I was given the all clear to enter.
Normally I get a real jolt crossing the spell barrier at the threshold of the guest house. Today, not so much. When I gave Baker a look of inquiry, she smiled. “Our mages came up with a special barrier with you in mind. Any other paranormal creature will get hit hard. But the perimeter is keyed to recognize you. We got the idea from the man who manufactured your weapons safe.”
I found myself grinning. How very cool. Then I remembered that the safe was in my building. The grin died.
I needed a drink. More than that, I need to get stinking drunk, to the point I didn’t care.
The guest house is big, and normally pulsing with life. Even when I am the only guest, the place is full of servants. Tonight, it was echoingly empty. The usual staff had been given the night off for security reasons. I moved through silent halls that led to the living room, my footfalls sounding loud in my ears. Hitting the light switch, I noted that the hair and makeup experts had cleared out, leaving the room spotless. Stepping behind the bar I reached into the minifridge and grabbed ice and some orange juice. To my delight, I found that the cooks had left me a plastic container of frozen au jus. I shook my head a little. Good thing I wasn’t going to be staying on Serenity much longer. I could get used to having staff around who anticipated my every whim.
I popped the lid off of the au jus and stuck it in the microwave to cook while I mixed myself a stiff screwdriver in a tall glass. Once everything was ready, I settled into a comfortable chair with a good view of all the exits. A quick touch on the remote and the big-screen television came to life.
I flipped to CNN. I shouldn’t have. Not until the second or third screwdriver. But there, in high definition, was my building, with a banner beneath it saying “filmed earlier.” I watched in horrified fascination as an officer in a blue FBI windbreaker wrapped hair around a ball, taped it down, and loaded the ball into an air gun. He broke a spell disk over the gun. I couldn’t see the rune on the disk, but I was betting it was for distance and accuracy. He had a straight shot, but was quite a distance from the building.
At his order, a marksman shot out the glass of the French doors of my office. Another barked command and mages were on standby, ready to raise the perimeter the instant after he fired.
Blinking back tears, I watched him raise the air gun to his shoulder and fire.
The explosion put the one back in Mexico to shame.
They played it full speed. Then they played it in slow motion. They showed it from every angle. I watched in horror, over and over, as the beautiful antique stained-glass window shattered, watched the flamingo-pink upstairs toilet soar through the air to crash in the middle of the street. The bones of the old building were rapidly devoured by flames made more powerful by the curse that had been part of the bomb. My old weapons safe, scorched but upright, smashed through the damaged floors to land intact atop the wreckage, its protection spells keeping it defiant against the worst the witch could dish out, even with the door wide open displaying staples, copy paper, and sticky notes. Damn. Jason was the man of the hour. He’d probably get a ton of new orders for safes—and more power to him.
The new safe didn’t fare nearly so well. What few of my weapons and spell disks I hadn’t brought with me had been utterly destroyed, because the safe that had “protected” them was nothing but scorched and twisted metal.
I downed my drink in a single, long pull and made my way back to the bar.
After my second drink, I retrieved my cell phone from my room and called Dawna. She was a wreck. I wound up trying to calm her down. After all, we were all alive. Even the cat was safe. Then she told me the real problem. Chris had given her an ultimatum. She could marry him, or she could work with me.
Oh, shit. That hurt. A lot. I mean, the man was supposed to be my friend. While I could understand him worrying about her, he was a mercenary, for God’s sake. It was more than a little hypocritical of him to give that kind of an ultimatum.
But she loved him, enough to marry him. I didn’t want to come between the two of them. It would be hard not having her there, cheerful and efficient, helping me get through the work day. Selfish resentment reared its ugly head, and I shoved it down, hard. Dawna deserved to be happy. Chris made her happy. I’d find someone else to work with.