Dreamveil (15 page)

“I was out of town for a few weeks.” In reality he had spent the last two months roaming the American Midwest, trying to locate more Takyn breeding centers, but he saw no reason to share that information. “Business.”

The manager’s head bobbed. “May I do anything to make your evening more enjoyable?”

“I thought it odd that I received no messages from the club while I was away,” Taske said. “My lockbox is also empty.”

One of the privileges of belonging to the outrageously expensive private club was having access to the private offices and receptionist services. It afforded Taske an extra measure of privacy, a way for his Takyn friends to contact him at once without compromising his identity, and a reasonably effective buffer between him and the men who would not hesitate to kill him, cut him to pieces, and sell him like spare parts out of a chop shop.

The manager seemed dismayed not to have an explanation for him. “I’m not aware that any messages came in for you, sir, but I’ll check on that at once.” He hurried off.

Taske’s waiter, a well-educated Brit who had relocated to the States to make his fortune, arrived with his dinner.

“Onglet aux échalottes et aux frites,”
he said, his accent as perfect as the drape of the snowy napkin folded over the sleeve of his uniform jacket.

“Only you can make steak and french fries sound elegant, Morehouse,” Taske said.

“We must endeavor to earn our four-star rating, sir,” the waiter returned smoothly. He straightened, and then stepped back a discreet distance as a young woman in a black mink coat sauntered up to Taske’s table.

“Samuel, I thought that was you.” She brought her face down to kiss the air beside his right cheek. “Where have you been? Harrison has been beside himself with worry.”

Taske glanced past her to the Urnharts’ table, where the Honorable Harrison Urnhart the Third was dozing over a half-finished bowl of soup. “So I see.”

“You should have mentioned you were leaving the country.” Mimi shifted slightly to block his view of her octogenarian spouse, and to allow the front of her mink to reveal a little more of her sequin-encrusted gown, and the generous amount of flesh trying to escape it. “We might have tagged along with you. So where did you go? Paris? Geneva?”

“Here and there.” He tried to imagine her tramping alongside him through the backstreets of St. Paul and Detroit, or spending the night curled up on an air mattress in the back of his cargo van. At least the mink would have kept her warm. “Do give your husband my best wishes.”

Mimi understood she was being dismissed, but she hadn’t married the seventeenth richest man in the United States by being easily discouraged. “Why don’t you join us? I know Harrison would love to hear all about your trip.”

“Perhaps another time. Morehouse.” The waiter appeared at his side. “Would you arrange a bottle of wine from the private stock for Mrs. Urnhart and her husband?”

“Of course, Mr. Taske.” Morehouse regarded Mimi. “Madam, may I show you and your husband the reserve list?”

“Oh, very well.” She pouted one last time before she led the waiter back to her table. When they arrived, her elderly husband woke with a start, listened to her and Morehouse for a moment, and then spoke sharply to Mimi. She flounced down in her chair and began sullenly stabbing her salad with her fork.

Several of the other men dining alone in the vicinity of Taske’s table silently raised their glasses to him. In the club, that was the equivalent of a standing ovation.

Morehouse soon returned. “Mr. Urnhart sends his sincere appreciation for the wine and your patience, sir. May I refresh your orange juice?”

“No, thank you.” Taske knew his food and beverage choices often bewildered waiters, who were accustomed to far more sophisticated orders from the champagne and caviar set. He also doubted any other club member wore leather gloves to eat, or brought their own drinking glasses and utensils. But Morehouse, who had served British gentry since leaving school, never blinked an eyelash, no matter how bizarre Taske’s requests seemed. “An evening paper would be—” He stopped as the waiter gently set a brand-new copy of the
Times
at his elbow. “I see you’ve anticipated me again. I’m becoming dreadfully predictable, aren’t I?”

“Not in the least, sir,” Morehouse assured him. “I believe the last time you visited, you asked for
USA Today
.”

Along with his exquisite manners, the waiter had a subtle sense of humor that was lost on most of the club’s members. “Morehouse, you do know that eventually I’m going to try to lure you away from this place,” Taske warned him.

The waiter cast a discreet eye around them before he replied. “You have but to say the word, Mr. Taske, and I will type up my notice immediately.”

“Consider the word said.” Samuel grinned at Morehouse’s delighted expression and turned his attention to his meal. Mimi remained sulking at her husband’s side, but halfway through his
onglet
, the manager reappeared. Now he was visibly perspiring, which was never a good sign.

“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Taske.” The manager drew out a handkerchief, mopped his forehead, and tried to smile. “It seems several of your messages were accidentally placed in another club member’s lockbox. The mistake was only just now discovered by myself and the administrative office manager—”

Taske no longer had the time or patience to listen to his babbling. “How many is several?”

“Fourteen, sir.” He drew a long envelope out of his jacket and placed it on the table as if it were leaking nitro. “On behalf of the management and the entire staff, I deeply apologize for the delay in delivering them to you. I will personally assure that this never, ever happens—”

“Be quiet.” Taske opened the envelope and quickly sorted through the slips inside. They were all from the same contact. “I’ll need an office, a computer with Internet access, and a secured landline.” He rose, using his cane as a brace. “Now.”

As the manager led him across the club’s dining room and through a maze of halls to the row of business offices, Taske checked the dates of the messages. Vulcan had been trying to contact him every day for the last two weeks. Then he noticed the fine notes at the bottom of three slips that indicated the number of repeated calls with the same message and the times. Over the last three days Vulcan had phoned to leave the same message every four hours.

The manager ushered him into a large office with an impressive-looking computer array and a neatly appointed desk. He hurried around to switch on the computer before dodging out of Taske’s way.

“Is there anything else I can do, sir?”

He glanced up. “Go.”

“Yes, sir.” The man actually bowed a little. “Thank you, sir.”

Taske removed his gloves—wearing leather while typing on a keyboard made him clumsy—and sat down. The computer appeared to be new, but from the minute traces of dust and matter lodged between the keys he knew it had been used. He focused, composing his thoughts before he placed his hands on the keyboard.

Colors, shapes, and motion flashed behind his eyes, trying to get past his mental barriers to form themselves into images. It had taken him years of meditation and self-discipline to learn how to block them from his thoughts, and even now it did not always work. But fortunately the keyboard had been recently manufactured, and had not had the time to acquire too many impressions. The older and more used an object was, the harder it was to keep its entire history out of his head.

Once the unrealized visions faded, he was free to use the keyboard without impairment. He brought up the Internet server and logged on to the account he maintained under the name of an ancient alchemist.

He hadn’t thought to check his e- mail while he’d been away, and more than three hundred new messages appeared on the inbox screen. A third of them were from Vulcan, and to save time he opened the most recent.

The news was distressing to Taske. Aphrodite was one of his oldest friends among the Takyn; the first he had discovered through the Internet. Over the years she had helped him in innumerable ways, especially in finding disciplines to help him control and refine his ability. Like him, she wrestled with a powerful talent that had scarred her emotionally, and while she had never discussed it in detail, he knew enough to guess that she was one of the few Takyn who could shape-shift.

Vulcan would not have requested him to call unless the situation was urgent, so Taske didn’t bother returning the e-mail. After putting on his gloves, he took a small device from his jacket and attached it between the desk phone’s base and the line leading to the wall jack. After switching it on, he picked up the receiver and dialed the Lotto numbers.

A voice answered in the middle of the first ring. “White.”

Although they had never spoken over the phone, Taske felt an immediate sense of recognition. They all shared a nameless connection that made them aware of one another in such strange ways. “It’s Paracelsus. I just received your message. Has there been any word?”

“Nothing yet. Is your line secure?”

“Yes. Tell me everything.”

Quickly the man he knew as Vulcan related the details of Aphrodite’s disappearance. The last time she had e-mailed Taske, she had told him that she was relocating to Boston, and would be out of touch for a week. Now she had gone missing for two.

“Why was she in New York City?” he asked when Vulcan had finished.

“I don’t know,” Vulcan admitted. “Maybe she wanted to see her adoptive family. I know she was raised there.”

Taske recalled one late-night IM session, during which Aphrodite had been unusually forthcoming about her youth. “She would never go back to them voluntarily; she’d live on the streets first. GenHance?”

“I’ve been trying to hack into their database, but I haven’t found a way in yet. Our watchers in Atlanta say no new acquisitions have been delivered since we lost Savannah.” He hesitated. “She left Matthias, and not on entirely good terms. She’s nursing a broken heart.”

He sighed. “Aren’t we all.”

“What I mean is, it’s possible that she wanted to go off the grid, break all contact with us.”

“Not Aphrodite,” Taske said firmly. “Have you checked the hospitals?”

“I’m monitoring them daily.” Vulcan sounded bleak. “No one matching her description has been admitted.”

That decided matters for him. “I’ll drive down to the city tonight. E-mail me the map with her last known position, a description of her motorcycle, and any photographs of her you may have.”

Vulcan uttered a dry chuckle. “And here I thought I’d have to talk you into going.” His voice grew serious. “Whatever has happened to her, we need to get her back.”

Taske looked at his gloved hand. “My friend, I won’t stop searching for her until we do.”