Band of Demons (The Sanheim Chronicles, Book Two) (5 page)

Chapter 4

Five months later…

September 12, 2007

Carol Cuthberson looked around the room and grimaced. The place was a disaster and it was going to take at least an hour to make it presentable again. She checked the calendar, hoping that she didn’t have any appointments in the morning. But of course it was in vain. Lately, Madame Zora had been more popular than ever.

She had hoped to make it home in time for C.S.I. Instead, she was going to spend a chunk of her evening cleaning up her kewpie dolls and picking beads out of the carpet. She wished Mary Ann was still here, but she always left promptly at 5 p.m., whether there were clients still there or not.

I should have seen this coming.

Maybe.

She was a psychic, after all, and predicting the future was her stock and trade. But Madame Zora couldn’t see everything and this day had been cloudier than most. Even without psychic powers, she knew she was in trouble when that last customer came in. She hadn’t bothered with the smoke and mirrors she often reserved for first-timers, but instead had presented herself as unpretentiously as possible. As soon as he crossed the threshold of her shop, she felt the waves of fury coming off him. When he walked in the door, he wasted no time getting to the point.

“I just want to know who that little bitch is screwing,” Gary McLean had said.

And Carol—now dressed as Madame Zora—knew. Gary’s wife, Cindy, was messing around with her best friend, Gabby. Maybe the inclination had always had been there or maybe living with Gary had driven her to desperation—Carol didn’t blame her either way. Seeing inside Gary’s mind was dreary and depressing. She firmly believed that most people were good, or at least started out that way. Gary, though… He was the exception that proved the rule.

She could have told him the truth. And when the police showed up to find two women dead, Carol could try to convince herself she had nothing to do with it. But knowledge is power, and Carol knew she would be responsible for whatever Gary’s actions were—maybe more so than Gary himself.

So she lied. Most people think psychics lie all the time, but Madame Zora disliked it. In general, it was far easier—and more profitable—to tell the truth. But not here. So she reassured him of his wife’s fidelity and suggested he was in for a dark end if he didn’t deal with his anger issues. She thought she was doing a really great job, too.

Unfortunately, Gary was not a fan. He had destroyed her room in a fit of rage, calling her a liar, bitch, and whore before finally stomping out. She should have called the police.

She didn’t and she wasn’t sure why. Certainly, she had plenty of cause. But there was a voice in the back of her mind that told her not to. And she always listened to her instincts. Listening to instincts was what being a psychic was all about.

She had just finished picking up all the beads from the now-wrecked curtain in her doorway (which Gary had rather effortlessly damaged on his way out the door) when she heard the bell that indicated a customer had come in.

It was odd for two reasons. For one, her office hours were well past over. She had agreed to meet Gary so late only because he insisted that it was a matter of life or death. For another, she was never surprised by a customer. Well, there had been the reporter last year—she hadn’t seen her coming—but that was an unusual circumstance. She always had a sense of when someone planned to visit her. It was one of her most powerful gifts. Unless…

She glanced at the envelope lying on her desk. She had only written the letter yesterday, hoping it would be some time before she had to send it. It wasn’t even finished.

But in another brief flash of inspiration, she grabbed it and looked for the right place to hide it. She needed somewhere that the reporter would find it, but her guest, whoever it was, would not. She smiled when she found the spot and moved quickly to put the letter there.

She was just turning around to face the door when a voice came from behind her.

“Hi Carol,” he said.

She intended to keep her composure no matter who her visitor was. But when she turned around, she involuntarily let out a gasp.

“Kieran,” she said, and her voice was so soft it was barely a whisper.

“That’s me,” he said, and leaned through the entranceway. He glanced at what was left of the bead curtain and smiled. “Making friends and new customers, I see.”

It must be some kind of trick, she thought. For one, he looked exactly the same. He was tall, lanky, with a mop of unkempt brown hair. He looked to be in his early 30s, which she knew for a fact was roughly 30 years younger than he really was. But the biggest shock was entirely different.

“You’re dead,” she said. “They killed you.”

“No,” he responded and walked into her room. “But sometimes I wish they had.”

God, she had forgotten how handsome he was. It wasn’t in his looks really, but the way he carried himself. If she had just taken a photo, she might have said he was average. But some people have a personality that elevates their physical characteristics. She thought she remembered everything about him; had replayed past events with him countless times over the years. But she was surprised how much she had forgotten.

“How?” she said. “Why? You couldn’t have escaped…”

Kieran glanced around the room, taking in the kewpie dolls still lying strewn about the floor. He stopped to pick up an errant bead.

“Nice place,” he said. “A bit…dramatic, though, don’t you think? The dolls? Really? I didn’t think you were into that stuff.”

It took Carol a moment to recover herself.

“People come to see a show, Kieran,” she said.  

“Yes, the great ‘Madame Zora,’” he said. “I have to admit I’m a little disappointed. Given your talents, you should be famous—a legend.”

“Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” she said, keeping her voice flat.

Kieran finished his circle of the room and looked at her. It was a piercing look, one that seemed to peel all the levels of confidence and self-assurance she had gathered over the decades. In his eyes, she was that 18-year-old girl with more talent than sense. God, how she had loved him. He was funny, charming, and even if he was taken, that didn’t mean he was against a little attention on the side. And she had been stupid enough to give him some, not knowing—or not caring—what it would cost her.

“You mind if I sit down?” he asked.

He didn’t wait for her response. Instead, he just calmly took the chair and placed himself in it.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

But she knew. Of course she knew. She had expected someone to come, just not him—never him. She thought she was prepared. But maybe they were smarter than she thought. Perhaps they knew just what would hurt her the most and had hurled it at her like a spear.

Kieran gave her a look that simultaneously expressed disappointment and amusement.

“Do we have to go through this?” he asked. “You know perfectly well why I’m here. You also know who sent me, what they want, and what they will do to you if you don’t give it to them. So do we have to play this game of charades?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why…”

He sighed, and the look of amusement died.

“I guess we do. Let’s see,” he said, and he held out his hand and counted on his fingers. “Four words. Five syllables. Is that right? I always hated charades.”

“You’re going to kill me?” Carol said.

Kieran looked momentarily startled but recovered quickly.

“No, that’s five words and six syllables. You suck at this game.”

“I’m not playing it,” she said. “I asked you a question.”

Kieran looked up at her.

“I don’t want to,” he said, and she thought it might be the first honest thing he had said all day. “I really don’t, Carol.”

“So don’t,” she said. “Last I checked, you weren’t some flunky. Least of all for them.”

Kieran didn’t move a muscle, but she saw him flinch just the same. As nonchalant as he was pretending to be, the words stung him. Or maybe he was just uncomfortable with what he knew he had to do.

“Times change,” he responded. “Last I checked, you weren’t some middle-age charlatan using cheap parlor tricks to win a few coins. But we all pay a price in life, don’t we?”

“Of the two of us, I think it’s clear who has fallen the furthest,” Carol said. “She would never…”

“Don’t tell me what she would never do,” Kieran said and a look of anger crossed his face.

“No, I guess you already know,” she said.

“If you are trying to get me
not
to kill you, you need to work on your technique,” he said.

He reached behind him and pulled out a long knife. He put it on the table in front of him.

“You’ve already decided to kill me,” she said. “Nothing I can do will change that.”

Kieran stood up, glanced at the knife and then looked at her.

“That’s not true, Carol,” he said, and some part of her wondered if he actually meant it. “It’s true that they want you dead. She found you, you know that? I knew you were here—I’ve known where you are for a long time. But I had no intention of telling her, had no way of knowing you were around the Prince of Sanheim. But the minute our attention focused here, she turned you up.”

“Should I be flattered?” Carol asked.

“No, you should be scared,” Kieran said. “They want you to give me information, then they want me to kill you. But I don’t always give them what they want. I can give you another option. Work for me. I need a liaison.”

Carol stared at him. What game was he playing? She knew who he worked for now, but this couldn’t possibly be part of their plan. Did it really matter? Was she prepared to work for him? Whatever he was up to, she knew the two people he was after would pay a steep price.

She had always believed that when push came to shove, she would sacrifice herself rather than betray her principles. But now that the moment was at hand, she faltered. She didn’t want to die. More importantly, she wasn’t ready to die. There were still so many things she wanted to do.

Kieran searched her face as if he knew what she was thinking. Some faint flicker of hope sparked inside her. He meant it. He really would let her live.

As for working for him… she could do that, couldn’t she? She had gladly worked for him before.

 “What is it you want?” she asked. She was stalling and they both knew it. But he could also read the temptation in her eyes.

“I know that they’re here,” Kieran said. “I need to know who they are.”

“I…” Carol stopped. She saw it in his eyes. “Why? You already know who they are.”

Kieran looked surprised, even pained. She thought he was going to deny it, but he didn’t.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I wanted to see if you did. And you do, don’t you? You’ve talked with them? How much did you tell them?”

Carol thought of Kate Tassel. Not her real name, she knew. In truth, she was Kate Blakely. But the fake name suited her better, especially now. Carol had lied to Kate last year. Not at first. At first, it had just been a Tarot card reading. But when she saw the word “Sanheim” written on the card, she had known. She could have told Kate everything: what she would face, how to beat it, and what price she would pay. Instead, she had done nothing. No, that wasn’t right. She had lied. She had told her she knew nothing about the matter.

It was a kindness. If she had told Kate her destiny, she would not have believed or accepted it. She might have run from Quinn and that would have been disastrous for them both. You can’t fight fate. Carol understood that the second she saw Kieran at her door.

She also knew what she must do now.

“Will you work for me?” Kieran asked.

“No,” she said, and looked at Kieran’s eyes. Did she see a flicker of disappointment there? Did he, somewhere, still care for her?

He calmly picked up the knife from the table.

“Did you give them any warning we were coming?” he asked.

“No,” she said truthfully enough. She hadn’t given them a warning—yet. She only hoped and prayed the letter would reach the right hands now. There was no guarantee, of course. But destiny is a funny thing. It may be working against her now, but she thought it might help Quinn and Kate when it mattered most.

Kieran stood up. He held the knife out.

“Any chance I can change your mind?” he asked. “They may not have to die, you know? There are always other… possibilities.”

Carol heard the protest in her heart, begging her to change her mind. She could live! She could be free!

“Maybe,” she said. “But I don’t trust you.”

“I’m hurt, Carol,” Kieran said. “I really am. You know me. You think I would be doing this if I didn’t have an agenda?”

“What’s your agenda, then?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t say,” he said. “I’d like to, but there’s too much at stake here.”

“So trust apparently only works one way?”

“Just help me, Carol,” he said. “I’ll protect you from them and you can talk to the new Prince for me. I could use someone they trust.”