Siren Song

17

I could so get used to this. The bed was heavenly, with the perfect soft-to-firm ratio and sheets with a thread count so high they ought to cost as much as my car.

My suite was elegant and gorgeous, and since the security was so good, I’d felt perfectly fine leaving the French doors to the balcony open so that I could listen to the waves and smell the ocean breeze.

I woke to a light tap on the bedroom door. “Who is it?”

“Creede. You decent?”

“Hang on a second.” I jumped from the bed and pulled on one of those ultra-thick terry-cloth robes you can only find in the really high-end hotels. Belting it tight around me, I called out, “Okay, come on in.”

The door opened and Creede stepped inside. Once again, everything that was him preceded ahead of his body and I fought not to shiver. He took a long look around, taking in the solid oak cabinets, dresser, and built-in desk equipped with a top-of-the-line computer. The curtains were dark gold, the color a perfect match for the carpet, which had also been color-coordinated with the cream-, gold-, and brown-checked comforter. There were half a dozen throw pillows in brown and gold, although at the moment most of them were piled in the far corner of the room rather than on the bed.

A conversational group was arranged at the other end of the room, all of the furniture expensive, comfortable, and color coordinated. The final touch was a beautiful abstract oil painting that used all of the colors in the room. It was huge, taking up most of one wall. It was gorgeous, the kind of thing I could stare at for hours, noticing more and different details. It probably cost more than the house I was buying from my gran.

Creede did a slow turn, taking in the sights. “Nice.”

“It is, isn’t it? Yours?”

“Oh, it’s not bad. But it’s not like this or Dahlmar’s. Then again, I’m not royalty.”

He was trying to sound casual, but he was tense. I could see it in the tightness of his shoulders, the way he kept flexing his hands. He looked a little worse for wear. There was a big bandage on his cheek. His jeans were gone, replaced by a pair of drawstring sweatpants, his nice blue polo shirt by one of Bubba’s T-shirts. It was black and showed a slavering bulldog with the caption Who’s the bad dawg? So very Bubba.

He gave me a long, appraising look. “You have clothes?”

“I sure as hell hope someone’s going to find me some. The lavalava’s nice, but you can only wear something like that so long.” I gestured toward his ensemble, “And somehow I don’t think Bubba’s loaners would fit me.”

Creede wandered over to take a seat on the couch. I took the love seat directly across from him, curling my legs up onto the seat beside me. It was worth it to me to stare him square in the eyes. “Thanks for banishing the imp yesterday.”

He scowled. He was a tough guy and I’d just broken rule one of the Certified Tough Guy Manual. I’d said “thanks.” You don’t do that.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably and I wasn’t sure if it was just because I’d said “thanks.” “Seemed the least I could do under the circumstances.” Which was the acceptable way of saying “thanks” to me for my part in the rescue.

“So, what have I missed?”

“Quite a lot really. I’m not even sure where to start.”

He shifted his weight and there was a tension to his posture I didn’t like. Something had gone wrong. I didn’t know what. I wasn’t sure whether it was important. But something had definitely gone wrong. I raised my brows, encouraging him to spill. He did, sort of.

“Queen Lopaka met with King Dahlmar. Privately.”

I wasn’t certain why that was bad. But it did seem a good time to bait John about the charm I’d learned he made. “I’m surprised he’d be willing to talk to her without a protection charm. I wouldn’t have thought he’d trust her not to screw with his mind.”

Creede smiled, a swift baring of white teeth. “He didn’t.” But he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate and I didn’t feel like pushing. Not when he was in this mood. “And while they were doing detente, the sirens interrogated Bobby.”

Bobby must have been the only surviving attacker. Talking about him, Creede’s voice was too flat, too matter-of-fact. We’d finally hit the sticking point. Thank God. The suspense had been killing me. I tried to think what the problem was and it occurred to me. Bobby was the name of one of the guys who’d come with Miller to the restaurant. It had to bother Creede that someone he knew, had worked with, had tried to murder him. But I was betting that wasn’t all of it. I tried to meet his eyes, but he wasn’t looking at me. He gazed out the French doors, as if the sky and sea were utterly fascinating.

“A woman, probably a siren, was manipulating Miller magically. It’s tied back to Dahlmar and his problems. Apparently she figured with you in the hospital and out of the way, he’d come to us for protection. So she screwed with Miller’s head, turned him against me.”

Whoa. So Miller’s rage-filled betrayal was against his will? That moved the whole issue from simply sad to criminal. “Did they find out who it was?”

Creede looked at me then, his eyes as cold and hard as Arctic ice. “No. He told them everything else. No problem. But when they tried for that, they hit a block.”

I cringed at the razor-sharp edge in his voice. I’ve heard of psychic blocks. They were never good. “What happened?”

“It broke his mind. Left him a drooling idiot.”

I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say. I mean, yeah, he’d been trying to kill us. But there are worse things than death and I’d count what happened to him as one of them—and I hadn’t known the guy. Creede had.

“Why didn’t she just influence you both not to take the case? That would’ve been easier.”

He gave me a haunted look. Reaching beneath the neck of his shirt, he pulled out an amulet—a feather tied to a small sack with silver wire and what looked like a suspiciously familiar long blond hair. “She couldn’t.”

“So you did come to visit me just so you could hijack my DNA, didn’t you—you bastard.”

He shrugged, not admitting but, more important, not denying. “Ivan had one like this. They’re hard as hell to make and it’s a constant drain on my power.” He gave me a fierce look, filled with pride. “I may not be Bruno DeLuca, but I managed it. I managed to repower Ivan’s so Dahlmar could have his little chat with Queen Lopaka safely.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t like that they’d taken the charm from Ivan’s dead body, but I also didn’t like Creede making one from my hair. But it wasn’t my call. All’s fair in the bodyguard game. I’d have done the same in reverse. Ultimately, it was practical. King Dahlmar needed protection from the sirens. Ivan didn’t. Not anymore. But I didn’t like it.

“I first guessed what you were when we were guarding Cassandra. Her reaction wasn’t normal, even for her. So I stole some of your hair from your hairbrush in the bathroom at your office. Made myself one of these as insurance for whenever you were around—just in case you were more than you appeared to be.”

I didn’t like that. But it was also my own fault. I’d been careless, leaving things out in the open. Yes, it was my office. But if Creede could get bio samples, so could other, less savory types. Note to self: start locking the hairbrush and toothbrush in the safe.

“I don’t know how the siren knew she couldn’t manipulate me, but she did.”

“Could she have come by the office? Sensed it on you then?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, “but I think I’d have noticed.”

I shook my head. “Not necessarily. It’s a big building, with a lot going on. Miller might not have felt the need to tell you about the meeting. Hell, she might have forced him not to.”

“Maybe,” he repeated. Silence stretched between us for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he spoke again, his voice harsh, angry. “I was going to use magic to trace the hair in the amulet Ivan made for Dahlmar to find which siren is behind all this.”

“And?”