Knight's Curse (3 page)

A Visayan knife fighter since the age of nine, I considered my butterfly knives an extension of myself. My favorite blade was the Filipino Balisong. A visiting Visayan at the Maronite monastery had taught me the art, instilling in me the spiritual merging of creation, motion and action. The Balisong symbolized these triangular forces and just holding the blade in my hand gave me a sense of power and control.

The smell of decay was strong now. I flicked the knife’s latch with my thumb and the curved blade flipped out from the chamber port. Gripping the bifold handle, I used the blade to pry off the crate’s lid. Nested within the excelsior was a glass box that held Saint Geraldine’s hand.

The shrunken appendage looked unremarkable in its smudged container of filmy glass that had molded in the corners. I turned the box in my hand to peer at it from all angles. It resembled something from the biology lab at the private training camp I’d been forced to attend, only this wasn’t floating in formaldehyde. Interesting. And way too bulky in its case to easily conceal beneath my suit jacket. I’d have to break the case and remove the hand.

I wrapped it in an old rag I found on the floor. Using the pommel end of my Balisong, I smashed the glass, wincing at the thunderous sound it made inside my head, though I knew there was no way Andrew could have heard it.

I tenderly plucked the wrinkled hand from its bed of satin, surprised at how supple the flesh felt, how firm the bones were despite its age. This wasn’t nearly as disgusting as the dried-up lion’s testicles I’d had to steal last month. An African shaman had blessed them and—boy oh, boy—what a ruckus that little heist made.

Something strange was happening. The fingers of the hand grew warm as I held them close to my chest. I felt a tingle trickle up my arms, my neck and across my scalp. My pulse raced, the sound like beating drums between my ears.

I heard a woman crying. Deep, racking sobs that shook me to the core. The weeping echoed around me as though coming through water and I heard a muffled voice. “Remember, little one,” the woman said. “Our people need you. Find them. And whatever happens to me, know I love you always.”

I had people?
I tried to focus on the woman’s watery words and realized this had to be my mother’s voice. What had she meant? I concentrated, trying to hear more, but she had stopped talking. I sensed I was in an alien place far from any mansion in Georgia. All I heard now was the roar of an engine, its idle drowned out by the amniotic fluid of my mother’s womb. Where had my mother been when she spoke those words? If I had to locate the people—my people—who needed me, I had to find out where to go.

A low, animal growl forced my attention back to the present. Blinking my way to full consciousness, I glanced down into the chocolate-brown eyes of a Rottweiler.

“Nice doggy,” I muttered to the animal who was baring its fangs. Damn, but I hated the thought of hurting an animal—only this was no ordinary dog. Its aura was bright red and spikes of black lightning flared from the edges like an electrified crown. The animal was possessed by a hellhound; the perfect guard dog for an eccentric collector of bizarre artifacts. What had old Mr. Grandville used to bargain for this monster? His own soul? I drew in a breath to calm myself. I could outrun the beast. Or at least I could try.

I closed my knife, slid it back into its sheath, and backed my way to the stack of crates, kicking off my four-hundred-dollar shoes along the way. The dog gave them a disinterested sniff, then barked and advanced a step. It lunged forward and I leapt onto the tallest crate.

Being only five foot two had its advantages. I easily fit into tight spaces, and at only ninety-five pounds, I didn’t have the burden of extra weight to carry around. Speed was my advantage in most cases, but I’d never had to outrun a hellhound before.

“You look out of shape,” I told the animal, though its broad chest was probably more muscle than fat. It growled at me again. I hopped onto another stack of boxes, then flung myself toward a web of pipes that ran across the ceiling. The dog followed, jumping up and snapping at my heels as I hung there contemplating my next move.

The pipes snaked toward an exit that I remembered from the blueprints. The door opened out to a garden, and a hundred yards from there was a ten-foot fence. Beyond that were acres of forested land, where I had stashed my Ducati motorcycle the night before in case my mission was compromised. It appeared I wouldn’t need the rental car anymore, which was fine with me. It had been as much a ruse as my Margaret Malone business cards.

Using my best Tarzan imitation, I swung from pipe to pipe, the hellhound barking and leaping at my every move. I half expected to see Andrew at any moment, unless he’d already skipped off with his loot.

“Ms. Malone?”

Shit! Andrew heard the dog. Now what? I couldn’t answer him because then he’d know I was down here.

“Where are you, Ms. Malone?”

I bit my lip and waited, the dog settling down enough to sit, panting, and stared up at me with its eyes glowing red. All I knew is that I had to get the hell out of there before I became Devil Fido’s chew toy. Douglas Grandville would be scraping what was left of me off the concrete for weeks.

I was now dangling above the door that led to freedom. Once I started moving again, I was sure the hellhound would start foaming at the mouth and launch into a canine frenzy. I had to find a way outside without getting my throat torn out. Saint Geraldine’s hand shifted against my chest, and as I angled my arm to reach inside my shirt to grab it, the hand’s fingers slipped through mine and fell to the floor.

I started to go down after it, but the beast beat me to it. Its jaws clamped on to the hand like it was a rawhide bone.

I kicked at the dog. “Shoo! Get away from that.” It dropped the hand, but continued to guard it, making it clear he’d take my hand, too, if I were stupid enough to come any closer.

My stomach tightened. My mission had failed. I had a choice to make: be ripped apart by a hellhound, or suffer my master’s punishment. It wasn’t a tough decision.

While the dog occupied itself as the hand’s protector, I dropped to the ground and curled my fingers around the doorknob, giving it a twist. It opened instantly. I dived out the door and slammed it shut behind me.

Night had fallen and stars dotted the sky with sequined brilliance that made my eyes sting. Squinting, I sprinted barefoot toward the ten-foot fence. Thankfully it wasn’t electric. I scurried up the chain link and dropped to the other side.

I dashed for the shrubs that hid my motorcycle. Once my nose and earplugs were back in place, I fired up the Ducati. My fury was acute and focused as I said to the night, “You want that damn hand, Heinrich? Then you can come back and get it yourself.”

IT TOOK ME TWO DAYS AND ONE CRUDDY
motel to finally reach Gavin Heinrich’s sprawling estate outside metro Chicago. Riding a motorcycle through back roads and side streets to avoid detection takes its toll on a girl’s patience, but I was motivated. I’d failed to do what I was assigned and I wanted my punishment over with. But even more important than that, my seventy-two-hour time limit was just about up.

The itching between my shoulders had increased, an unpleasant reminder of what would happen if the restrictions of my bond were stretched too far. The skin hadn’t broken yet, the tips of unformed wings waiting for an exit through bone and flesh. I wouldn’t metamorphose for another hour or so, but the shift had already started. My tattoo pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat. As much as I hated to admit it, I needed Shui. Since I was bonded to him, he was the only one who could stop my transformation.

I stood outside the enormous mansion, once again waiting for someone to let me in. Déjà vu. But instead of politely ringing the bell, I gave the door a couple of swift kicks with my booted foot.

The man who flung open the door with the same impatience I felt wasn’t Gavin’s butler from last week. This new one was thirty pounds lighter and at least ten years older, with thick gray eyebrows as long as whiskers on a cat. Without a word, he looked pointedly down at the shallow dent my boot had made in the varnished wood.

“I’m here to see my father,” I said curtly and without inflection. The word
father
always left a sour taste in my mouth as Heinrich and I both knew it was a facade.

The new guy scowled. “I was unaware Mr. Heinrich had any children.”

Feeling edgier than ever, I huffed and pushed the man aside, forcing my way into the house. “Hey, Gavin!”

Mr. New Guy went ashen, his mouth falling open as he glanced frantically up the spiral staircase. “Ms., you can’t barge in here—”

“The hell I can’t,” I said softly, my silken tone having a dangerous edge. Minutes ticked by like a time bomb and I needed my fix. I needed Shui. “Where’s John, the other butler?”

New Guy blinked. “Who?”

I snorted and wiped sweat off my upper lip. “Probably dead. Gavin goes through at least two of you guys a year.” That was a warning, and I only hoped he picked up the hint. Hey, I was trying to save the guy’s life.

If New Guy was pale before, he was chalk-white now.

“Chalice, my dear.” Gavin Heinrich descended the stairs, his smile charming and his eyes cold as a snake’s. He wore a black silk smoking jacket over black trousers, his thick silver hair combed into a style better suited for a younger man. But Gavin didn’t look anywhere near his seventy-plus years. He had his own methods for staying young, none of which involved plastic surgery. “I’m so glad to see you made it home safely.”

“This isn’t my home,” I said stiffly. But no matter where I lived, I would always be his prisoner. “I have my own home, thank you very much.”

“My mistake.” He reached the landing and sauntered toward me, Mr. New Guy gazing at him with new respect and something akin to horror. Gavin ignored him. “I keep forgetting you prefer that little cement-blocked apartment of yours to this architectural marvel with every comfort you could want.”

I shuddered. Yeah, I knew the kind of “comforts” he was into. It made my skin crawl. Folding my arms, I glared into his ice-blue eyes. “That was one hell of a job you sent me on. You owe me.”

He arched his brows. “No, dear. You owe me.” He held out his open palm. “Give me Saint Geraldine’s hand.”

An icy flush covered me from head to toe. I backed up and spun around, a prickle of fear nipping at the base of my spine. I couldn’t deal with his anger right now, not with the change so close. Remembering past punishments, I could almost feel the sting of his leather whip on the backs of my legs.

Taking a deep breath, I pretended to study the decor of the foyer that was so different from the Grandville mansion. Gavin’s was tastefully creepy, like the set for
The Addams Family
but without the dust and cobwebs.

“I’m waiting, Chalice,” Gavin said, his tone frosty. “Where is it?”

“I don’t have it.” I turned to face him again, but from a safer distance. “It got eaten. I think.”

Gavin’s eyes widened and his jaw muscle twitched. He furrowed his brows. “Eaten?”

“There was a hellhound you didn’t warn me about, and the hand…” Damn, I should have figured out how to get it away from that stupid beast. I couldn’t let Gavin see my concern—signs of weakness were like catnip to him—so I shrugged my shoulders and leaned against the wall, feigning boredom. “I accidentally dropped it, and when I tried picking it up, the beast attacked me. Not my fault.”

Gavin gave me a long, searching stare, but he didn’t look angry. Just…pensive. “Yesterday I checked the voice mail I’d set up for our phony appraisal business. There was a long message from Douglas Grandville.”

“Yeah?” I tried to smile in spite of my worries. Pretense. Oh, yes, I was very good at pretense. I couldn’t survive without it. “What did he say?”

Gavin began to pace. “He said nothing about the hand of Saint Geraldine, but he was none too pleased with the condition of his uncle’s den.”

He stopped pacing to glower at me. “Grandville told me the pedestal where a cookie jar once sat is now empty. And there were six spots on the wall where paintings used to hang, but he counted only five stacked on the floor. Oh, and his butler is missing. Would you happen to know where any of these things might be?”

“The butler did it.”

He stared down his nose at me, his mouth pulled severely down at the corners.

“I’m serious. I told the butler about the Kakiemon porcelain piece and the Edlefelt oil I’d appraised at several thousands of dollars. He was very excited when I told him there was a twin to the vase, and if he could find it, the pair would be worth a fortune. I figured his greed would distract him while I stole the hand, and it worked.”

Gavin nodded. “Yet you failed to bring me the saint’s hand.”

Well, shit. I thought I could talk my way out of whatever trouble I’d put myself in. It had worked before, but this time I’d be punished, and I had a pretty good idea how. Sweat trickled down the sides of my face and I could tell by the way Gavin narrowed his eyes that he knew how close I was to shifting. I wouldn’t beg and he knew that, too. He waited to see how long I could last.

Looking down at my feet, I drew out an already long pause before asking, “Did Mr. Grandville call the police?”

“Of course.” Cool as ever, Gavin resumed his pacing. As always, he had the upper hand. “Not that it matters to us. The fake address on your business cards led to an empty lot, and the phone number was for a voice-mail service where neither of us can be traced.”

All his loose ends were tied in neat little bows, but this time I had no package to deliver.

“Samuel?” Gavin glanced at his butler. “My daughter and I will be in the basement study. Prepare us some refreshments. Cappuccino and biscotti.”

“I hate biscotti,” I said, hiding my anxiety with petulance.

“Forgive me. Make that chocolate-chip cookies.” He waved a dismissive hand at the new guy—Samuel—and gestured for me to precede him downstairs to the basement. “Chalice, you and I need to talk.”

I started down the stairs, my mounting apprehension like a silent beast crouched low in my belly.

Cold as a dungeon, the stone basement always reminded me of something from an old movie set. I compared a lot of what I experienced to movies because what I learned from film and TV were about all I really knew of the world. I usually worked alone, had no friends and even my training had been solitary, except for the instructors who came and went on a daily basis. My college education came from CDs and DVDs; there had been no ceremony when I received my Masters in art history.

Gavin had purposely kept me secluded, claiming that my sensory disability made it necessary to limit my exposure to the outside world. His excuse was his concern for my health and safety. Yeah, right. The man was a sadist. And he owned me.

When I rounded the corner into the enormous study, my blood went still in my veins. Gavin’s gargoyle, Shui, sat hunched on a perch in the center of the room and he gazed at me with hungry eyes. He was about the height and width of a bar-size refrigerator, his gray, scaly skin appearing dull in the dim light, his bat wings folded back but quivering with tension. Cocking his head, the blue baboon face sneered while issuing a low hiss. The thing looked a lot like a flying monkey from the
Wizard of Oz,
only bigger and ten times uglier.

I hesitated, repulsed by the monster that would save me from becoming exactly like him.

Jutting my chin at the gargoyle, I said to Gavin, “He looks bigger than he did three days ago.”

Gavin glanced at me, then at the abomination on its perch. He lifted both eyebrows and gave me a curious look. “Perhaps that’s because he’s eaten recently. Haven’t you, Shui?”

The gargoyle hissed again, only louder this time.

Well, there was my answer to what had happened to the other butler. Lucky for me, I wasn’t on the menu.

I’d only tested my bond with Shui once, about three years ago. I had no way of knowing for sure that going beyond seventy-two hours without any contact with Shui would turn me into a beast as ugly and mean as him. Where was the proof? The tattoo on my neck had been made with a mixture of ink and Shui’s blood. The shaman who put it there had warned me what would happen if I broke the rules. I was thirteen at the time and his threats scared me, but as I got older, I embraced my inner
b
s: bold, bitchy and bad. I’d felt compelled to test the bond. And it almost killed me.

I was riding my Ducati, speeding through the Illinois countryside, when the itching began. Then the burning. My entire body felt on fire. I pulled to the side of the road and ripped off my helmet. My ears rang with rushing blood that coursed through inflamed vessels, the cells inside me consumed by the curse of transformation. I looked at my hands and watched the nails curve into claws just as the stabbing pain in my back hunched me over, forcing me into a crouch. The pulsing between my shoulders was the worst part. My skin ripped as the tips of two leather wings began pushing their way through flesh and bone. The thunder of beating wings sounded overhead and Shui soared down from the night sky. Not to rescue me, as I had hoped, but with something far more lethal in mind.

He’d tackled me to the ground and grabbed my chest in his talons, ripping through my rib cage to get at my heart. If it hadn’t been for Gavin’s interference with a spell to paralyze him, my heart would have become Shui’s evening snack. But Gavin wouldn’t let him kill me yet. I hadn’t outlived my usefulness as the Vyantara’s thief.

Now I could grudgingly admit to having new respect for the gargoyle, though the old hate for him remained. Walking through Gavin’s basement, I locked eyes with Shui while running my fingers across my chest and over the scar created by eighty-five stitches. He scared me, but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “Why don’t you fly your wrinkled gray butt back to Oz where you belong, freak.”

Shui growled, the rumble so deep I felt it through the soles of my boots.

“That’s the last thing you want him to do,” Gavin said without turning his attention from the wall of a dozen silent but animated television screens. He liked to stay current on world events. “You need him too much.”

Damn him for being right. More anxious than ever now, I tried without success to shrug off my mounting panic. I faked indifference by collapsing onto the leather couch in the center of the room, and then tugging my Balisong from its ankle sheath. Flicking open the blade, I pretended to clean my nails. The instinctive need to protect myself made the muscles in my neck bunch into knots.

I heaved what I hoped sounded like a bored sigh, though I was anything but bored. Wound up so tight it felt like my muscles would spring from my skin, I stretched my arms above my head and yawned. “Do you want to talk, or did you bring me down here just to watch television?”

He turned his back on the TVs and stared at me. “You screwed up.”

I shrugged, but my nerves vibrated with warning. The itching between my shoulders was getting worse. “I already explained that it was an accident. Not my fault.”

“I need the saint’s hand.”

Swallowing hard, I sat up straight and glanced over my shoulder at Shui. Gavin knew what
I
needed, the bastard. “I’m no longer that scared little girl you kidnapped and brought to America. I’m twenty-five years old, well educated and with money of my own—”

“Money
I
gave you.”

“Money I earned from the jobs I pulled for the Vyantara.”

He squinted as if thinking that over, then lowered himself to sit on the arm of the leather chair opposite me. “Yet you still live like a pauper.”

As if that mattered to him. “It’s my choice. I can live any way I want.”

“Aside from your obsession with designer clothes and the work of unknown, mediocre artists, you leave yourself almost nothing to live on. What money you have you foolishly give away to charity.”

He probably knew what brand of toothpaste I used if not the name of my favorite breakfast cereal. “So what if I do? It’s my money. And it’s not like I have any kind of lifestyle to support.” Giving money away never totally assuaged my guilt for thieving, but it helped. A little.

An annoying smirk tightened Gavin’s lips.

This conversation was going nowhere. I was sweating so much now that my designer T-shirt had stuck to my back. I tried to sound calm when I said, “It’s time, Gavin.”

He frowned and the deep creases in his forehead added character to the typically bland expression on his face. “I think you can last awhile longer, eh? I’m curious to see how this whole transformation thing works. I’ve only seen it once.”

I clenched my fists. “Damn it, Gavin!”

He smiled, showing his teeth. “Fifty years ago Shui was a striking young man. A real lady-killer, and I mean that literally.” He chuckled. “Unfortunately, Shui killed the chancellor’s daughter, and that’s one faux pas the Vyantara won’t tolerate. We take care of our own.”