Phantom Series Boxed Set (70 page)

“No,” she said.

“Lauren, be reasonable.”

“I don’t have to be reasonable, Ross. The sword is mine. It’s not yours to sell. Sell your damned house if you need to pay off someone, but I’m not parting with my…”

The lights flickered, then went black. Lauren waited for the emergency light above her door to turn on, but it did not.

“What the hell?” Ross said.

Using her hands to feel her way, she moved toward the bar and placed her palm on the handle of the sword. She heard Ross stumble to the door and wretch it open. It was just as black outside as it was within.

“Not again,” Ross groaned. “Hey!”

Though it was black as night on the soundstage, it was certainly not as quiet. Shouts of frustration and fear from the sudden blackout drowned Ross’s pleas for someone with a flashlight to come into the trailer. Then, with a grunt, she heard Ross leave, though she had a sinking suspicion that he hadn’t done so by choice.

“Ross? Who’s there?”

Lauren grabbed the sword. She held the blade parallel with her body, as eager to keep the weapon with her as she was to avoid accidentally running someone through in the dark.

No one answered. Even with the sounds from the melee outside, she thought she heard footsteps coming nearer. She feinted left, just in lime to hear someone whisper, “I’m sorry,” before something hard burst against her jaw and she fell to the ground.

Thirty One

“Not again,” Lauren mumbled as awareness returned. She was on the floor, and her chin hurt like a mother. Someone had coldcocked her in the dark. For a pampered actress who played an action hero only on the silver screen, she was getting the shit kicked out of her a little too often.

She used the nearby bar stool to climb to her feet. The trailer, still dark, flashed with beams of light from the outside.

“Ms. Cole?”

She blinked, but saw who she thought was Marco blustering his way into the trailer. He shouted behind him for someone to help Mr. Marchand.

“What’s wrong with Ross?” she asked, trying to stretch the pain out of her jaw.

Marco flashed the light directly in her face, wincing at what he saw. “Ice! I need ice!”

“Marco,” Lauren said calmly. “What’s wrong with Ross?”

“Knocked out cold. Looks like someone yanked him out of the trailer. Gash in his head. He’s coming to, but we called the ambulance.”

“Where are the lights?”

Another security guard handled Marco the ice tray from Lauren’s freezer. He wrapped a handful of cubes in his handkerchief, gave it a few whacks on the bar to pulverize the ice, then pressed it to the swelling skin on her face. She recoiled from the cold, but then allowed the remedy to do its painful work.

“Someone cut the power to the soundstage. Place is a pitch-black madhouse. You’re better off in here. What happened to you?”

“Someone hit me,” she explained.

“Mr. Marchand?” Marco asked, shocked.

That would have been her first guess, too. Trouble was, she remembered that Ross had already been at the door when she’d heard someone else enter and say something to her before they’d knocked her out cold.

Something like…
I’m sorry
.

A voice in the dark. A voice that wasn’t Aiden’s.

Aiden!

“Marco, let me have that light.”

She took the handle from him and stood, focusing the beam on the top of the bar. As she feared, the sword was gone. She turned the light and searched as best she could, but she already knew what had happened. Someone had used the blackout in order to steal the sword—and that someone wasn’t Ross. He was still lying on the floor, with several people attending to his injury. She could hear him cursing a blue streak.

“Marco, I need to find Helen Talbot,” Lauren insisted.

“Can’t find anyone until the emergency generators come on. Should be just a few more—”

As if on cue, the lights popped on. Blinded for a moment, Lauren shoved the flashlight back at Marco and looked around for her purse.
Damn
. She didn’t even have her car. The studio had sent for her this morning, and Helen had driven her back after the break-in. When she heard Ross’s voice rise to a booming crescendo, she made her decision.

The soundstage was in chaos. In the blackout several people had been hurt, equipment dropped and lighting destroyed. She bent down at the door to check on Ross, slipped her rusty but nimble thief’s fingers into his pocket and extracted his keys.

“Where’s Farrow Pryce, Ross?”

“Huh? What?”

Blood was trickling down from the gash above his eye, but she knew better than anyone that head wounds often looked worse than they actually were. “Tell me where to find this Pryce guy. The sword is missing, Ross, and I want it back.”

His gaze met hers, and she was actually happy to see that his pupils were small and focused. “He moved in. Took over the place. I didn’t have a choice.”

She turned to Marco, who was staying close at her heels. Pressing her hand to his shoulder, she ordered, “Stay with Mr. Marchand. Make sure he gets to the hospital and receives the best care possible, got me?”

“But, Ms. Cole, if someone hit you, you need—”

“I need to know that Ross is going to be looked after, okay?”

But mostly she didn’t need anyone else to slow her down.

With chaos reigning around her, she was able to slip out of the soundstage. She found Ross’s car parked in his VIP spot and, with shaking hands, pushed the key into the ignition and revved the engine to life. When she flew backward out of the parking space, she heard a slam on the trunk. She spun around to see Helen holding up her hands.

Lauren pushed the gearshift into neutral. Helen ran around to the passenger side and jumped in. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Shifting the car into drive before Helen had closed the door entirely, Lauren honked the horn at a group of people dashing across the narrow service road, then sped off toward the exit. “I’m going to get my sword back. Someone stole it.”

She stopped at the security post and waited for the gate to open. On a whim, she rolled down the window and beckoned the guard over, who smiled at her instantly in recognition.

“Can you tell me if a Farrow Pryce came into the studio this morning, headed for the Athena shoot?”

He checked his list. “No, ma’am. No Farrow Pryce.”

“Did Mr. Marchand have any other guests he’d cleared for access?”

He rattled off a few names, all of which Lauren recognized as investors.

“What are you doing?” Helen asked.

She turned to her friend and said quietly, “Someone slugged me in the dark and stole the sword. I’m trying to figure out who it was. Whoever it was apologized to me before knocking me out cold.”

“Apologized?” Helen glanced forward, squeezed her eyes shut, then leaned around Lauren to speak to the guard. “What about David Drake? Is he on the list?”

“You told me to take him off, Ms. Talbot,” the guard said defensively. “He didn’t come through while I’ve been here.”

“Have you been here the whole time?” Lauren asked, knowing the guard took breaks.

“Well, no…”

“Can you check Mr. Marchand’s list?” Helen continued.

He did so and verified that David had come to the studio two hours ago.

Lauren thanked the guard and tore off in the direction of the highway.

“Why would David be on the set?” Lauren asked. “Why would Ross have added him to the list?”

“Why does your ex-husband do anything?”

“To keep his ass alive and on top of the Hollywood food chain, that’s why,” she replied, then filled her friend in on what Ross had confessed about the Mexican movies, his overwhelming debt, Farrow Pryce and the man’s outrageous bid for the sword.

“But Ross didn’t steal the sword,” Helen said. “He’s still back there on the set. And you believe him when he says he didn’t send Nigel to do his dirty work?”

“Yeah, I do. I think Farrow Pryce appealed to Nigel’s sense of self-preservation and his desire to protect Ross at all costs and persuaded him to retrieve the sword himself. If he got caught, it would look reasonable, wouldn’t it? The loyal butler retrieving a stolen item from the ex-wife who’d taken it?”

“But how is David tied in to all of this?”

Lauren used the pause at a red light to look around and ensure that she was headed in the right direction. “I have no idea, but if Farrow Pryce was using Ross’s house as his drop-off point, we’re about to find out.”

Lauren hit the gas the second the light turned green. The car lurched forward, but a second shift had them riding smoothly onto the freeway. Traffic was piling up, but Lauren knew a shortcut to the house once they reached the right exit. With any luck, they’d arrive before David turned the sword over to Farrow Pryce.

“Damn it, Lauren, it’s just a sword,” Helen said, squeaking when Lauren swerved around a slow-moving truck. “Is it worth your life? Or, more important, is it worth mine?”

“It’s not just a sword. My life…his life—they’re tied together in a way I can’t explain. I have to get him back.”

“His? Him? Sweetie, what are you talking about?”

Lauren spared Helen a glance before darting into the emergency lane, advancing to the next gear and stomping her foot on the accelerator. “Put on your seat belt, Helen. I’ve got a story to tell you about my sword. One you aren’t going to believe.”

***

Farrow grinned, satisfied, as the pair who, up to an hour ago, had been his rivals in his quest for the Dresden sword were marched across the pool deck. The plan could have failed in so many ways, but for once it looked like he was finally going to get exactly what he wanted: not only the sword, but the knowledge of how to use it.

“Dr. Rousseau. Ms. Reyes. Please have a seat. The butler of this palatial home is no longer available to pour drinks, but feel free to help yourselves while we wait for the sword to arrive.”

Farrow had placed K’vr followers at the Crown Chandler hotel, expecting someone associated with Alexa Chandler to come in search of the sword. After they’d flown in to extricate Paschal Rousseau from Farrow’s compound last spring, he’d done his research. He now knew all about Ben Rousseau and Catalina Reyes. But now the time had come for formal introductions.

On his terms.

Close up, he realized that Ben Rousseau was much older than he’d assumed—probably close to forty—whereas Catalina Reyes stole his breath with her youthful obsidian eyes, straight black hair and lusciously curved figure. Stumbling onto Alexa Chandler’s closest friend and the son of the man he’d kidnapped last spring had been a sign to Farrow that he was on the right track. Arranging the limousine to divert them here had been child’s play.

“So,” he said to Ben, though he had trouble tearing his eyes off his voluptuous companion. “I hear your father ran off with my former fiancée.”

“I’d be reassessing my manhood if my fiancée chose to be with a guy old enough to be her grandfather over me,” Ben shot back.

Farrow tapped down the slight rise in his temper by taking another sip of Marchand’s delicious scotch. “Unlike you, reassessing my manhood under any circumstance would never occur to me, though I can see why you might be thinking in that direction, since you, a thief of some reputation in the archeological world, were unable to secure your freedom from my associates.”

“That’s not easy to do when your associates put a gun to my head,” Cat pointed out. Her eyes burned with barely contained fury, sparking Farrow’s interest even more.

He gestured to the seats across the table from him. “I’d hoped my driver wouldn’t have to resort to violence, but it was either that or allow you and Mr. Rousseau to jump out of a moving car, or perhaps call the authorities. Either action would have delayed this very important meeting, which I’ve so looked forward to. We have but one more guest to arrive and then our afternoon will begin. And end.”

His associates pushed Rousseau and Reyes into the seats, but neither captive partook of the scotch, which he considered their loss. Momentarily he wondered how Ross Marchand might react when he returned home to discover that Farrow had not only commandeered his home, but also his butler and his gofer. Ah, well. The man relied much too heavily on others. Too much delegation and not enough oversight. Farrow had learned his lesson with Gemma.

“So,” Ben ventured, eyeing him with a confidence clearly born of his breeding rather than the current state of affairs, “why are we here?”

“I’ve come to understand that the two of you are quite versed in the history of Lord Rogan.”

“You’re bidding for the leadership of his cult,” Catalina said, her words more like spitting than speaking. “Don’t you know his history?”

“I know the legends as well as any other, but there’s always more to learn,” Farrow replied.

Though it was not a democratic organization, a council of elders had emerged over the decades within the K’vr. The twelve bestowed the title of Grand Apprentice to the person they deemed worthiest, nearly always a blood successor of Rogan, which Farrow was not. But with the death of Gemma’s father and the incarceration of her brother, the mantle could fall only to Farrow. His father had served the last Grand Apprentice as his right hand. And Gemma, being a woman, had no right to lead, according to the Council.

If, however, Farrow found a relic he could tie directly to Lord Rogan—one that possessed undisputed magic powers—his path to the leadership would be clear. Then money, which he already had in abundance, would be inconsequential. He’d have power. Real, terrible power.

“In a decision I now understand was foolish, I relied too heavily on Gemma Von Roan to fill in the blanks of the legends and lore. She always took the historical context of her ancestor’s life so seriously, why would I bother?”

Catalina and Ben exchanged looks. If he’d sounded bored with the minutiae of Rogan’s life, it was because he was.

“You look surprised,” he ventured.

Ben eyed him with a blend of skepticism and curiosity. “I’d think if your big goal in life is to inherit Lord Rogan’s reputed magic, you’d learn whatever you could about the man and his powers.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Farrow said, taking another smooth, fiery sip of scotch. “And once I have the sword and know how to use it, I’ll no longer need anyone.”