1
I pulled the Miata to the curb and checked the address one more time. I stared at the building and the
neighborhood. It wasn’t what I’d expected. The interview I’d had with the prince’s retainer had taken
place in a conference room at one of the very best Los Angeles hotels. In fact, at this moment I knew
that the press and several royal bodyguards were stationed at that same hotel. This place was nice,
palatial even, but it was far enough off the beaten path that I’d had to use MapQuest to find it.
I shut off the engine and looked down at the file sitting on the passenger seat. I thought about looking
at it again, but I’d practical y memorized the contents already. Prince Rezza of Rusland was in the
United States with his father’s blessing, meeting with private defense contractors. Publicly the prince
was being the very image of a religious conservative. Ruslund was a smal kingdom in eastern Europe,
nestled primarily between the Ukraine and Poland, touching on the Czech Republic as wel .
Rusland might be smal in size, but it was gaining a whole new level of prominence political y thanks to
the discovery of a huge supply of natural gas in the region. The Russians were practical y apoplectic.
Their control over Europe’s natural gas supply was critical to their economy. Having a competitor next
door wasn’t making them happy.
Despite their common ancestors, the Russians hadn’t been happy with the Ruslunders since … wel ,
ever. Stil , the little country managed to stubbornly exist as a monarchy in the face of socialism,
communism, and rampant capitalism. How they’d managed not to be overrun by Germany during World
War II, or absorbed into the Soviet Union afterward, was one of those burning political questions that
nobody either could or would answer.
Traditional y the public religion of Rusland was Orthodox, but a fundamentalist regime was gaining
power and influence. It was the kind of political turmoil that makes you worry about assassination. The
prince had very publicly declared his anti-American sentiments and al ied himself with the zealots—who
would not necessarily be pleased with his private plans while in L.A. Which was why an impostor was
taking his place for the evening, freeing the real prince up to do whatever it was he had in mind. The
retainer had been fairly coy, but the prince’s upcoming marriage had been made very public. So I was
guessing this was the equivalent of sowing the last of his wild oats. Besides, using a stand-in is a fairly
common ploy when people like royals are trying to ditch the paparazzi. It’s difficult and expensive to find
someone good enough at magic to do a long-term il usion, but they exist, and there’s always the oldfashioned “body double.”
Whatever. I wasn’t about to judge, especial y not given Vicki’s situation. My job is to keep the
protectee safe. Celia Graves, personal security consultant. At one point or another I’ve served as a
bodyguard for movie stars, politicians, authors, celebrities, and, now, royalty. I protect them from the
press, overzealous fans, and, when necessary, the monsters. I’m good at what I do, so I charge quite a
lot and stay in business by myself, for myself. I’m
of the job: too blunt, too sarcastic, not inclined to suck up and play nice. The “attitude” has cost me
jobs, so I try to work on it … and general y fail miserably.
I was getting ready to grab my jacket and climb out of the vehicle when I caught sight of the brightly
patterned photo envelope sticking out from beneath the folder. I checked my watch. I was early. I could
spare a minute or two to look at the pictures from my best friend’s birthday party this afternoon.
I grabbed the envelope, pul ed it open, and began flipping through the photos. The ones I’d taken
weren’t great. I’m no photographer. But the others, taken by one of the staff members at Vicki’s
insistence, were real y nice. There were shots of Vicki blowing out her candles. There were flowers
from Vicki’s girlfriend, Alex, and a bal oon bouquet in the background. One or two real y good shots of
the two of us, and even more of Vicki standing in front of the present I’d bought her.
Her face was absolutely alight with joy, and I couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction. Unlike Christmas,
or her last birthday, this time I’d actual y managed to find the perfect gift. Vicki’s a level-nine clairvoyant.
She uses a mirror to focus her gift. I’d found an antique mirror, backed with real silver, and had it put
under multiple protection spel s until it was wel nigh unbreakable. That way she could have it in her
room at Birchwoods.
I sighed. Vicki had been at Birchwoods, a high-end “treatment” facility, for almost five years now. She
could probably move home. Then again, maybe not. A clairvoyant of her power could actual y change
the future if she got out of control. Right now she was stable, but I didn’t doubt that the shielding and
protected atmosphere of Birchwoods helped her. So it didn’t surprise me that she showed no desire to
leave, even though I knew Alex wanted the two of them to live together.
It was none of my business. Vicki might be sweet and quiet, but she had a wil of iron. She would do
what she was going to do, and that was the end of it.
I was stil smiling as I stuffed the photos back in the envelope and tossed it back behind the
passenger seat. It wouldn’t do to have anyone spot them accidental y. As far as the world is concerned,
Vicki is
wealthy parents, the fake Vicki plays on the Riviera, vacations in the Hamptons, and skis the Swiss
Alps—none of which the real Vicki has ever had the luxury to do.
Just thinking about that took away my smile, which was fine. It was time to get down to business. I
climbed from the vehicle, grabbing my blazer from the passenger seat. I slid it on. It took a minute of
shifting things around to get everything balanced comfortably. Despite the fact that it was practical y a
walking armory, the jacket didn’t bulge. The tailoring and il usion spel s cost a smal fortune, but I
consider it worth every penny. Hidden discreetly beneath that jacket I had not only the holster with my
Colt but also a pair of “One Shot” brand squirt guns fil ed with holy water, a stake, and a very special
pair of knives. Oh, and a garrote. Mustn’t forget the garrote, although honestly, I’ve never used it and
couldn’t imagine drawing it quickly enough for use in a crisis. I was also wearing an ankle holster with a
little Derringer, but if things got desperate enough for me to draw that I was in deep shit. Stil , when it
comes to weapons, better too much than too little. Some of the older bats are damned hard to kil , and
on my best day I wouldn’t want to take on a werewolf or ghoul without backup.
I glanced down at my watch: ten fifteen. I wasn’t due on shift until eleven. I stil had plenty of time to
use the nifty new gadget I’d picked up at my favorite weapons shop. I reached behind the front seat
and pul ed out a black box not much larger than the wal et I carried in my back pocket. The lid was
hinged, like a jewelry case, with the store’s logo embossed on it in red foil. Very classy. Considering the
price, it should be. I’d actual y thought twice about whether or not to get it. But if it worked as wel as
advertised, it would be worth the money.
I grinned. I’m such a geek. I love gadgets, and this one was sweet. I could hardly wait to take it for a
test drive.
Flipping open the lid revealed what looked like a Matchbox car and a smal remote. Made primarily of
silver, the little car gleamed in the light of the street lamp overhead. I set the tiny vehicle onto the
pavement at my feet, facing the building where the prince was staying. I took out the remote, then
