Starry Knight (29 page)

“What does it mean?”

“You tell me.”

Before Vanessa could gather her wits enough to formulate an explanation, two more cards flew out of the deck and landed on either side of the first pair. Both were wands. The seven—a man with a staff fighting off six attackers—and the eight, which showed several wands flying through the air unaided.

Reed reached across the table and touched the new cards, then looked Vanessa in the eye. “Strife and communication. I can only deduce the spirit wants you to warn your lover about something.”

“Warn him? About what?”

“Impending disaster.”

With shaking hands and a rapid pulse, she paid for the reading before pushing through the curtain into the shop. She needed to ring Callum straight away, but first, she’d better touch base with Beau. She found him in the far corner, engrossed in a book about Haiti.

Heading over, she tapped him on the shoulder. He gave her one of his dazzling smiles, but it did nothing to alleviate her anxiety. “How’d it go?”

“Fine,” she said, not wanting to go into specifics. “I got what I needed—but now I really need to call Scotland. I thought I’d just step outside for a minute. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. Go ahead. Do whatever you need to do.”

“Thanks, Beau. You’re the best.”

Tingling all over, she slipped outside, confronted the stifling humidity, and placed the call. Her angst nearly strangled her when he picked up after the third ring.

“Callum Lyon,” he said with a formality that chilled her.

“Hi. It’s me. How are you?” Oh, shit, she couldn’t breathe.

“Good. And you?”

“Good. For the most part. Though at the moment, I’m kind of freaking out.”

“Oh? About what?”

“You,” she told him, biting her lip. “I’ve just had a card reading and it wasn’t good.”

He got quiet for a moment before saying, “Please tell me you didn’t draw The Tower.”

It seemed an odd thing to say, but she let it pass. “No, the Ten of Swords, which is even worse.”

“And this is to do with me?”

“Yes. As unbelievable as it sounds, I think Sorcha was there.” Vanessa’s heart was still racing and the hand on the phone was shaking and sweaty. “The cards moved on their own and the warning was clear.”

“Warning about what?”

“I don’t know,” she said, fighting her rising hysteria. “Something really bad. An unexpected communication.”

She filled him in on the details of the reading, explaining the order in which each card appeared and its meaning.

A few tense moments passed before he asked, “Is this the only reason you rang me?”

“No, Callum.”

He got quiet again as if waiting for her to say something more. Should she? She felt like she was standing on the roof of a burning building trying to decide the better way to die, by burning or jumping? She closed her eyes and, mustering all the courage she could find, stepped off the edge.

“I miss you like crazy.”

“Do you?” He sounded happy—
yay!

Anguish smothered her joy. “Be careful, Callum. I don’t know what Sorcha’s trying to warn you about, but it isn’t good.”

“Do you think it’s to do with the campaign?”

Tears stung her eyes at the thought of him announcing his candidacy without her. “I wish I could have been there.”

“So do I.”

“Please be careful. And, if something does happen, call me right away.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Aye.”

She ended the call with all the unsaid things between them chirping inside her brain like the cicadas in the swamp. At least they’d ended the stalemate. She just wished to God she knew what Sorcha was trying to warn him about. If anything bad happened to Callum, she didn’t know what she would do with herself.

No sooner had Callum disconnected the call from Vanessa than his mobile went off again. Assuming she was ringing back for some reason, he answered without checking to see who it was.

“Baron Barrogill, this is Alasdair Sinclair. Your opponent, it would seem.”

Callum’s shields shot up at once. It seemed highly unlikely Sinclair would call to congratulate him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sinclair. What can I do for you?”

“For starters,” said Sinclair with an uneasy laugh, “you could drop out of the race.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“To save yourself from ruin, I should imagine.”

Alarm chimed in Callum’s brain like a Sunday morning church bell. “Ruin? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“I have some photographic evidence, which very clearly shows two people in a passionate embrace.”

Callum swallowed to moisten his mouth, which was suddenly parched. By the might of Mars! How the devil had Sinclair gotten his hands on his daughter’s footage? Not that the means of acquisition was the issue. What mattered was blocking its distribution.

“I knew you were a philanderer, Sinclair, but I didn’t think you’d stoop to blackmail.”

“Didn’t you?” Sinclair cleared his throat. “In that case, I’d suggest you not underestimate your enemies in future.”

“I wasn’t aware we were enemies,” Callum lied, trying to be diplomatic.

Sinclair laughed. “You really are a fool, aren’t you, Lyon?”

“Maybe so, Sinclair, but I’d much rather be foolish than ruthless.” Callum scrubbed his face with his hand, trying to think what to do. “How did you happen to come by this alleged evidence?”

“Does it matter? The fact is,
I
have the pictures and
you
have my terms. So, what will it be, Lyon—pull out of the race and promise never to challenge me again or bring down your party’s leader?”

The last bit gave Callum pause. Ruin his party leader? Aye, if the tape of he and Vanessa shagging in public got out, it would most assuredly embarrass Lord Bentley, but it would hardly lead to the man’s downfall. The gears in the baron’s brain stopped abruptly and began to turn backward, examining the details Sinclair had disclosed. Photographic evidence, he’d said, not footage or video. Was it possible he had something else—something damaging not to him but rather to Vanessa’s father?

“Just what—or should I say
whom
—is featured in this bit of evidence you’ve acquired?”

Sinclair laughed like a cawing crow. “I did wonder why you hadn’t asked for the particulars.”

“Which are what?” Callum prodded.

“It shows your girlfriend’s father in the arms of one of his interns.”

An intern? Seriously? That was such a bloody cliché it was almost laughable—though no less damaging, he supposed, than a more unique assignation. Unless—oh, dear God. “Please tell me it’s a female intern.”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” Sinclair taunted with a smugness that set Callum’s teeth on edge. “Unless you agree to my terms.”

“And if I don’t?” Callum had a pretty good idea what Sinclair had in mind, but wanted to hear it just to be sure.

“Release the pictures, of course.” Sinclair laughed again, hurting Callum’s ears. “And take down Bleeding Heart Bentley once and for all.”

Bloody hell. What to do? What to say? Who to consult? Who to warn? “How much time do I have to consider your offer? And, if I should agree to your terms, what assurances will I have that the evidence has been destroyed?”

“As to the former, one week,” Sinclair replied. “As to the latter, you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?” There was a brief pause before he added, “I’ll be in touch.”

After Sinclair disengaged the call, Callum, mind still churning, put down the phone and raked his fingers through his hair. What in the name of Jupiter was he going to do? If the press got its grubby fingers on those photos, it wouldn’t just ruin Lord Bentley’s political career, it would also disgrace his wife and devastate his daughter—and Callum couldn’t allow that to happen. But how to stop it short of dropping out of the race he’d only just entered? The only other way he could think of was to destroy the evidence, but that would mean, at the very least, breaking and entering.

Another thought made itself known. Was this the disaster Sorcha tried to warn him about? He poured himself a scotch and plopped down on the sofa. He didn’t have a clue how to solve the problem, but he knew who might. Taking up his cell phone again, he placed the call. Duncan answered, thank the stars, on the second ring.

“We’ve got a problem, mate,” Callum grimly announced. “A major motherfucking problem.”

“Oh, aye? How major?”

After Callum filled Duncan in on the particulars, the wolver said, “Let me make some calls and see what I can do. In the meantime, is there somewhere you can go for a few days—in case you need an alibi should things here go awry?”

The suggestion raised Callum’s hackles. “An alibi? Christ, Duncan. What are you planning to do?”

“The less you know, the better, eh?”

True enough. Callum wanted no part of anything illegal and there
was
some place he could go. Vanessa hadn’t invited him, but she
had
said she missed him, so maybe she wouldn’t object to putting him up for a couple of days.

“Do you think I ought to tell Vanessa?” Callum asked, giving voice to his freshest concern, “and warn Lord Bentley?”

“I’ll leave that up to you,” Duncan said and signed off.

Callum stared down at the phone for several minutes before trying Vanessa on her mobile. Intermingled disappointment and relief washed through him when her voicemail picked up. “Hey, it’s me,” he said after the beep, doing his best to keep the torment out of his voice. “Something’s come up and I’m going to need somewhere to lay low for a few days. If you don’t want me to come, ring me back ASAP. Otherwise, I’ll see you when I get there.”

* * * *

“I hope you’re hungry,” Beau said the instant Vanessa opened the front door, “because the burgers where we’re going could feed a small army.”

She
was
hungry. Starved, in fact, despite having hunted earlier that evening. She also was worried sick about Callum. She’d received his message, but hadn’t been able to reach him.

Something’s come up and I’m going to need somewhere to lay low for a few days.

That didn’t sound good, to say the least, especially in light of Sorcha’s warning.

“Sounds great,” she told Beau, forcing a smile. “Let me just grab my phone off the charger.”

Leaving him on the doorstep, she hurried into the kitchen, unplugged her mobile, and slipped the phone into her handbag. She’d considered cancelling her plans with Beau—dinner, followed by a stakeout at the Crypt, the nightclub Jack St. Germain frequented—but decided she might as well keep them as not. Callum wouldn’t be landing for at least twelve hours, and if she stayed home stewing in her juices, she’d only drive herself around the bend. Better to have a distraction from her worries.

Since they were going clubbing, she’d put on her “little black Maserati,” her seamed thigh-high stockings, and a pair of pumps with stiletto heels and dagger toes. She put on her regular knickers rather than the sexy ones Callum bought for her. Wearing them to go out with another man—even one she had no intention of sleeping with—just seemed wrong. Beau’s khakis, button-down linen shirt, and loafers made her feel a tad overdressed, but it was too late to change into something less dressy. Besides, she felt good in what she was wearing. Confident and attractive—two emotions she rarely experienced. Beyond the dress, she couldn’t account for the uncharacteristic feelings.

As they headed out, a sultry breeze blew Beau’s scent toward her nose. She instinctively flared her nostrils to take in the tempting bouquet of soap, perspiration, manliness, and blood. Hunger growled somewhere deep inside, making her fangs ache to come out and play.

Fighting her preternatural urges, she followed him across the porch and down the driveway to where he’d parked his Volvo behind her Taurus. He had broad shoulders, a trim waist, and a very nice ass. Not as good as Callum’s, mind, but nothing to complain about.

Until now, she’d compartmentalized Beau as employer, friend, and pseudo father figure, not a potential donor. Yes, he was nice and attractive, but he was also off-limits. While the human part of her still operated according to her moral code, the paranormal part was much less fastidious.

She struggled to keep her hunger in check as he drove to Fat Tuesday, a bar and grill in the French Quarter. The eatery wasn’t fancy. A wood-framed sign welcomed them to the small and smoky establishment. Wood paneling adorned the walls of the bar area, which was just wide enough for a single row of booths. All the seats at the bar, stretching the length of the room, were occupied by customers drinking, eating, and smoking. The slate floor shone with a fine layer of grease and the air smelled of charred beef, deep-fat frying, tequila, and cigarettes.

As they showed themselves to an empty booth, the bartender told them to see her when they were ready to order. There were laminated menus on the table, also covered in a fine layer of grease.

“I recommend the Kiss of Death,” Beau said with a grin. “It’s their signature drink.”

“What’s it in?” The irony of the drink’s name wasn’t lost on Vanessa, who now fought a smile as well as her percolating desire to savor more than her new boss’s company.

“Enough booze to drop an elephant. You want one?”

“Why not?” Even if the cocktail tasted bloody awful, the alcohol would take the edge off her cravings.

“Hey, Mallory,” Beau called out to the bartender. “How about a couple of Kisses?”

“Coming right up!”

Beau turned back to Vanessa with a friendly grin that suggested he had no idea how much danger he was in. “It seems like every bar in New Orleans has a signature cocktail. Most of them are pretty dang potent, which explains why the French Quarter reeks of vomit.”

As Vanessa perused her menu, her thoughts turned to Callum with a sharp pang. What could have happened to make him need to leave Scotland in a hurry? Whatever it was must be pretty major, considering he’d just announced his candidacy this morning. Did the trouble have to do with the election or was it something more personal?

“The name of this place is a reference to Mardi Gras, which means Fat Tuesday in French,” Beau offered without looking up from his menu. “Back in the olden days, it was a tradition to slaughter a fatted calf on the Tuesday before Lent, which starts on Ash Wednesday.” His gaze met hers across the table. “Ash Wednesday, as you probably know, is always forty-six days before Easter. It’s a moveable feast, like Thanksgiving. In New Orleans, the Mardi Gras season begins on Twelfth Night—January the sixth—and runs until the beginning of Lent.”