Interesting.
My right palm begins to itch. I glance down, not wanting to be obvious to prying eyes. Susan’s charm glows softly just below the surface of the skin. I wish she could have told me what it does.
I rub both hands against my thighs, the rough denim fabric of my jeans offering a little relief.
A sound. I straighten with a jerk. Look around, though I have no idea where the sound originated or what exactly it was. I strain to listen. The silence is deafening. This is like being in a sensory deprivation chamber.
“Anna Strong?”
At the sound of the voice so close behind me, I swing around, fists clenched, every muscle taut as an arrow in a bow, ready to spring. I square off, actually draw back a fist before I realize who I’m looking at.
“You’re Stephen.”
He clearly hasn’t recognized me yet. He nods, standing his ground, not flinching or cringing away from my offensive reaction to his appearance.
Earns him a few points.
My shoulders drop about six inches. I let my hands fall, my muscles relax, my fists unclench. I blow out a breath and look him over.
He’s as handsome as his picture—more so, really, without the stage makeup and carefully coiffed hair. He’s tall, over six feet, looks well muscled under a loose-fitting polo shirt and not-so-loose-fitting khakis. He has a strong face, straight nose, wide-set eyes, full mouth. Details I didn’t notice last night. His hair is longer than in the picture, too, brushed back, touching the collar of his shirt.
“You look all right. Are you?”
He smiles. It’s a good smile.
“If you can call being kidnapped and brought to”—he waves a hand—“wherever the hell this is and told I’m being held until some murderer shows up to face justice, and if he doesn’t, my life is forfeit—” He pauses to catch his breath. “Well, if that’s what you mean by all right, I guess I am.”
He stops, narrows his eyes. “Wait a minute.”
It’s about time. “Yeah. It’s me. Last night in the parking lot.”
“
“One and the same.”
“Shit. You cost me a story. A guy named Smith said he had some information for me that would blow the ring off a local drug gang.”
“You cost me a payday, so I guess we’re even.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a bounty hunter. Your
He pauses, crossing his arms over his chest. “So we were both in that parking lot at the same time, and now we’re both here. Huge cosmic coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“Coincidence? I doubt it.” I wave a hand to take in our surroundings. “But right now, don’t you think we have bigger problems?”
He still looks chagrined, like a kid who had his favorite toy yanked away. I want to shake him but instead I glom on to something he said. “You talked to Susan? When?”
“Right after I arrived . . . Where are we, anyway? Do you know? Can we get out of here now? If you’re here, whoever they’ve been waiting for must be, too.”
No way I can answer that without bursting his optimistic bubble. Besides, I’m more interested in his communication with his sister than answering his questions. My palm is itching again. If he’s in contact with her, she can explain how this charm works. “How did you get in touch with her?”
He takes a step closer, lowers his voice. “You’ll think this sounds crazy, but we can communicate telepathically sometimes.”
I have to choke back a laugh. Sound crazy? Vampires do it all the time. But clearly Stephen doesn’t know that. Or he doesn’t know I’m a vampire. I think I’ll keep that information private. “Can you reach her now?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I haven’t been able to reach her since that first time. She must be frantic. But obviously if you’re here, everything has been resolved. They must have caught who they were looking for.”
“I wish it were that easy. We can’t leave quite yet.”
“Why not?” A flash of anger sparks behind those blue-green eyes. “This is beginning to piss me off. I have no clue why I’ve been drawn into this. I’m not part of the magical world. I have no business being here. You were sent to bring me back. Well, do it.”
“I will. But not yet.”
“Are you messing with me? I want to leave. Now.”
His “me Tarzan” act has him all but beating his chest. Still, I understand his frustration. Whatever Susan communicated with him, she either didn’t have time or didn’t want to burden him with all the facts.
“There’s one problem. I have to do something first, before we can leave.”
“Oh Jesus. What is it?”
“I have to defend myself. Defend you, too, really.”
“Defend yourself against what?”
“Against those murder charges you mentioned before. I’m the reason you’re here.”
EIGHT
STEPHEN’S EXPRESSION SHIFTS, SIZING ME UP. There’s a little skepticism mingled with a great big blob of uncertainty. He did see me in action last night.
“Who’d you kill?” he asks at last. “And what does it have to do with this place?”
I meet his eyes squarely. “I killed a black-magic witch. I did it here where she’d come to recover from the effects of a spell turned bad. I didn’t know this was a place of sanctuary. It wouldn’t have made a difference if I had.”
“At least you’re honest. I still don’t understand what it has to do with me, though. Why am I here?”
I don’t get a chance to answer. The room shifts under our feet, knocking us off balance. I feel Stephen take a step closer to me and we stand back to back as forms materialize around us. Two spectral desks separated by a podium. A ghostly ring of chairs—thrones, really—suspended above us.
A voice from everywhere and nowhere. “All your questions will be answered,” it says. “Let the trial begin.”
Stephen’s back is pressed against mine. His touch is somehow reassuring. We lean against each other for comfort as well as support as form becomes substance. It’s like watching a cartoon where lines are first drawn, then filled in with color to bring realism from the abstract. The wood grain of the desks shimmers and hardens. Two high-back chairs appear behind one, one chair appears behind the other.
“You may sit.” That same eerie voice that told Stephen his questions would be answered echoes again from above. When I look up, the ring of thrones still looks to be empty. Yet there’s something alive, a sentient consciousness permeates the room.
“Show yourselves,” I call out.
“You do not address the tribunal.” Samual’s voice roars out the command. “You are not worthy. You address only me.”
He’s materialized next to the second desk, standing ramrod straight behind it. Now he’s dressed in a white robe with a scarlet rope around his neck. A gold filigree charm hangs from the rope.
So much for having no interest in what happens with the tribunal. “You’re my prosecutor?”
“Among other things,” he replies, smug-voiced and selfassured. He may as well be twirling the ends of a black mustache. “And you will speak only when spoken to—and you will speak only to me.”
“Fuck you. I will talk to whomever the hell I please. I am here to defend my life. I have a right to face my accusers.”
“I am your accuser.”
