Ghost Phoenix (15 page)

“What do you mean?”

“He and his people have a bad track record, and he knows more than he's saying. Look how careful he was not to give out information on his Queen. He's hiding something, probably about why he needs Rasputin's healing ability.”

“Your telepath was satisfied after she did whatever she did to Richard. She said he was telling the truth. Why do you still doubt him?”

“Because I screwed up trusting someone against my instincts before and it cost the people I care about. And because Beth would be the first one to tell you her ability has limits. All reading his mind told her was that Richard was no immediate threat to us and he wasn't involved in what his brother did to Drake and his family. To know all there is to know about Richard would have taken a lot longer.”

I believe Richard.
But she didn't say that out loud. Daz slumped in the chair and stared off into space.

“What do you mean about screwing up trusting someone, Daz?”

“I was hired by Lansing, the guy who raised Alec Farley. I was supposed to teach Alec combat and also instruct a hand-picked team how to back up a firestarter in a fight.”

This was what he and Richard had been fighting about on the plane. “And that was a mistake? Alec seems to trust you.”

“He shouldn't. It was great training Alec, so great I turned a blind eye to how Lansing manipulated him. Damn, the things that kid can do. And he's so earnest about it. Alec wants to help. I thought I was helping him, but I was just doing Lansing's work.”

“How?”

“Lansing would never let Alec leave that facility. I was able to get Alec outside sometimes, for a little recreation, but Lansing had the kid brainwashed that he shouldn't leave, that he was too valuable to go out on his own.”

“That sounds reasonable, I guess.”

“That's what I told myself. But Lansing was just using Alec's work with my team to train Alec for something bigger. Lansing figured we'd get the trust of the CIA and then he could make a move.”

“What kind of move?”

“Lansing wanted Alec to be the first of an army of powerful psychics—telekinetics and telepaths—who could help him control the world.”

She almost laughed again. No, once was enough. “That's impossible. Isn't it?”

“Maybe. It doesn't matter, does it? What matters is that was what Lansing wanted, and I turned a blind eye to it. Lansing needed Alec under his thumb, obeying what he said. And by training Alec, I helped Lansing. Because it sounded reasonable.”

But from what she'd seen of Alec and Daz, they were truly friends. “If you helped Lansing, why does Alec trust you? You must've done something right.”

“Because once Beth and Drake knocked reality into me, I backed Alec over Lansing. Alec forgave me. Just like that. I'm not going to let him down again.”

“You think helping Richard is letting Alec down?”

She rubbed her temples. She never thought she'd wish for her grandfather to tell her what to do. But that had been simple, unlike this. Except doing what her grandfather said wasn't simple either. It just seemed that way because she hadn't thought hard about smuggling artifacts, until after college.

Maybe that was a little like Daz and Lansing.

“It doesn't matter what I think of Richard. I'm just along for the ride because prince boy was curious about me for some reason. What matters is what you think. This antiquities thing is your field. Does Richard feel off in what he wants? Is anything tripping you up?”

“Romanoff was my contact, not Richard's. And it was Romanoff who sent us to the abbey, so presumably someone used Romanoff to set us up, and I don't see how Richard managed any kind of double-cross, if that's what you're asking. Romanoff could've done it himself. But I don't think so. He really wants that Elvis Cadillac I promised him.”

“But Richard could still be hiding the truth about what he knows about Rasputin.”

“Then why was he the one who insisted on interrogating the monk? It would've been easier to leave all of them and run if Richard knew who they were.”

“That just means he wasn't expecting to be attacked. Maybe they double-crossed him.”

“You're making my head hurt with all this talk of double-crosses. What happened to Occam's Razor?”

“Yeah, well, I learned recently that the simplest explanation isn't always the right one.”

Marian drew up her knees to her chin. “What exactly did Richard's brother do?”

“He didn't tell you?”

“There hasn't been a lot of time, and it's obviously a sore subject with Richard. All I know is it involved a pregnant woman that Drake loves.”

Daz leaned forward on the edge of the chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “Edward Genet was fronting a company, with Lansing's backing, that was doing genetic research on creating natural-born psychics. For some reason, they wanted to create a kid from Drake's DNA, a kid who would not only be a self-healer but could heal other people. It's some sort of special telekinetic talent. They took Drake's sperm without his permission. That was part of why he was so pissed.”

“What's the other part?”

“They handpicked a woman for artificial insemination of their gene-gineered sperm. They kidnapped her, did the procedure and dumped her back home. They figured when they knew the insemination worked and she was pregnant, they'd grab her again. They didn't expect Lansing to die or for Alec to stumble over the lab in his search of Lansing's holdings, and they sure didn't count on Drake being so protective of the woman they'd just medically raped. And they didn't count on Del either.”

“Del?”

“The woman they inseminated. Drake's wife now. Richard's toast if Drake thinks he's a threat to her still. Beth convinced him otherwise, at least for now.”

She needed an index for these people. “So why do you think Richard's done something similar to his brother?”

“Why should I think he hasn't? Beth may have gotten some of the truth out of him but Richard has the same goal as his brother: obtain DNA to create a psychic healer. I'd like to know why that's so important.”

She had no answer. Daz made good sense.

“And now we've got monks attacking us, and I can't help wonder if Richard knew what we were walking into.”

“You think we should pack up and leave Richard on his own.”

Daz frowned and shook his head. “Not me. I need to know what's going on. I owe that to Alec. But, you, you should get the hell out of here.”

“Because I'm fragile and need protecting?”

“Because you don't deserve being lied to like this.”

“You haven't proven that he's lying to me. I believe Richard. I accepted him as a client. He needs my contacts. And he needs my phantom ability too.”

“Not as much as other people might. You should join Alec at the Phoenix Institute. He's been to helping those with powers learn to control them. It's good, honest work. I was out in the Midwest a few months back, helping Beth teach a woman who literally turns herself invisible how to become visible again. I bet there's someone out there who has something similar to your ghost power and could use your help. You're one of us. That's where you belong. Not at this immortal prince's beck and call.”

One of us.
A place where she belonged and not looked on as a family asset. It was tempting, as much as the Native American dig.

“See? You know it. You belong with us.”

“So you've decided my future too? Just like my grandfather? Well, I'll tell you where I belong. I belong finishing my work, with my client. And after that, I belong on my dig, doing the work that I love, not work that my family demands or work that you and some idealistic firestarter think I should do.”

She stood, wishing she had drunk that full bottle of wine. It might have mellowed her. She swallowed hard, thinking the rising anger would go away. It didn't. Here was someone else deciding her life for her, telling her how she should feel and what she should do.

“I belong where I damn well say I belong.”

Daz stood and put up his hands. “Okay. I agree with you. It's just—”

“It's just what? That you know best? That I don't know what I can do? That I should listen? Do you have any idea of how sick and tired I am of hearing that?”

“Uh, I'm beginning to get a clue about that.”

“Good! Then, listen: Richard didn't know about the monks. Richard has saved your life twice now. He's earned the benefit of the doubt. All you've done is try to seduce me and then tell me how to run my life.”

“I was just trying to help, not run your life.”

“That's what everyone says!”

“Yeah, well, don't think your prince is any different. He's manipulating you with that angel stuff. You just don't want to believe it because you're crushing on him.”

She turned her back to Daz, walked to her bedroom and slammed the door shut behind her.

Damn, that felt good.

“I should get angry more often,” she said to no one in particular.

Her head spun. Giddy or drunk, it didn't matter. Definitely, the two glasses of wine had been too much. She sat on the edge of the bed, going over what Daz said.

No, forget that. Let Daz stew in all this paranoia. Let him sit there all night on the couch and live with his own self-proclaimed guilt about failing his Alec.

This was as simple as trusting Richard.

Who she definitely did have a crush on. And that was her own choice and no one else's. She was in control of that.

She walked over to the connecting door to Richard's bedroom. How much had he heard just now between her and Daz? Maybe he had super-hearing or something. She put her ear to the door. She heard the faint sound of his voice. He was speaking in French, though she couldn't make out the words. He must be on the phone.

She liked the sound of his voice, the richness of it, even if she couldn't comprehend what he was saying. Richard's voice was low and deep, and he spoke with what wasn't quite an English accent but something just off, something unique.

Something Richard.

Something she wanted.

Chapter Thirteen

Richard forced himself to get off the bed. His muscles ached as he stretched. He grabbed the bedpost for balance and it splintered under his hand.

He drew back and his and brushed the splinters away. The strength was still there, still accessible. Good to know.

Now he had to control it.

If he were home, he would catch waves and battle the ocean. That opponent could take every blow and then some. But there was no one here to fight. Battle couldn't be the way.

Instead, he settled on the floor and rolled his shoulders. Oddly, he didn't remember much about the short-lived affair with the lovely blonde surfer girl other than the yoga she'd taught him. She had drifted away after a few weeks, to find another place with different waves to surf. Women came and went in his life. But learning something new like yoga was always valuable.

Out loud, he meditated by reciting poems in their native French. Most of the verses were lost to time but he loved them anyway. Or perhaps because he loved them because he was the only one who remembered the words and kept them alive.

Time passed, he stretched this way and that, and his muscles pushed and pulled. One last verse, and he stood, refreshed.

Now, he could move and think.

He called Marshal.

He wished the man would embrace technology. If he did, then Richard could set up a Skype call, see his face and determine if Marshal was lying or not. He had to know if Marshal knew about Rasputin's monkish followers. Something was wrong at court other than the Queen's illness. And maybe that something or someone was the
cause
of the Queen's illness. It wasn't lost on him that Marshal had come to him, an outsider, to complete this task. Richard bet Marshal guessed someone might be working against the Queen. He should've mentioned those suspicions, damn him.

Court politics. Edward was the master of those. Marshal was damn good too. And the Queen was the ultimate master of them all, but she could barely help herself now. Richard was over his head. The only way to untie this damned knot was blunt force.

Marshal answered after two rings. “Richard? Have you found something?”

No sign of anger. Richard would take a page from his angel and swallow down his frustration. Marshal was not the enemy. If he was, they were all truly lost.

“No, something found me. Did you give me all the information you had on Rasputin?”

“You have all the knowledge I possessed.”

“You failed to mention that the Mad Monk has a cult. A violent cult of monks. A cult that claims their leader lives.”

“What?”

“That was my first reaction. Then I was too busy fighting for my life.”

“Perhaps you should explain what happened.”

“No, perhaps you should answer my questions. What do you know that you haven't told me?”

“I knew the story of Rasputin's body being moved. The Queen was fascinated by his power all those years ago, so we sent in agents to verify he was dead. That's how we heard the body was moved by Empress Alexandra. Edward remembered the story when the Queen was first ill and mentioned it to me. But he thought the DNA research was a surer way to cure the Queen than chasing a corpse.”

“Did this agent sent into Russia ever see Rasputin's body?”

“You mean the remains? No, why should he? He reported those responsible for the care of the casket said prayers over it every day.” A pause. “Who attacked you? What happened?”

“A contingent of Russian-speaking monks with Imperial-style daggers attacked us today at Fontevraud Abbey.”

“At the abbey? God's Eyes, why were you at the abbey?”

“Because our contact set up the meeting there. At the effigies.”

“No wonder you're suspicious.” Marshal swore in ancient Norman French. He cleared his throat when he was done. “Whoever set you up as a target knew about our background.”

“That's my conclusion, Marshal. So, I ask again, what are you keeping from me? Who knows what I'm doing?”

A long pause. Richard wanted to jump in, to tell them someone might be working against them at the Court. But let the older man stew on the fact the attack had taken place on Fontevraud, a place he considered the holiest of grounds.

It was no coincidence Rasputin's monks had assaulted them there.

“I thought this would be only a search for a dead body. I hoped this would be an easy assignment. You know how dire the situation is.”

“Someone wishes to stand in our way. More, someone set us up. And as sure as the surf comes up in a storm, it's connected to the Queen's illness. Who's aware of my task?”

“I said nothing of it to anyone but the Queen, though your return and then departure were noted by many. Our people are vetted and are from families that have served the Court for centuries. I don't like believing anyone could be a traitor.”

“It's someone who knows who and what I am, and more, what we are. It has to be one of us. Who gave Edward the idea to search for Rasputin's body?”

“I thought it came from him. Now, I am…uncertain.”

“Someone works against us, perhaps someone in Edward's circle of influence.”

“No.” Marshal bashed his palm down on something, causing a loud thud. Likely his desk, Richard decided.

“You've been gone too long from us. We're loyal to each other. We support each other. We stay, rather than walk away, like you did. There's another explanation.”

“We're still human with all the human frailties. And you know how the age madness can affect some of us.”

“For what reason would anyone work against you on this?”

“The Queen's death.”

“Without her, our whole enterprise collapses, as you well know, and all of us rely on it for our livelihoods. Whoever takes down the Queen also takes down themselves.”

“Anyone want to replace her? Anyone capable of it?”

“Edward. And you.”

“That's not funny, Marshal.”

“It wasn't meant to be. It's the truth. The Queen has no rival capable of picking up the pieces. It would mean our destruction.”

“Then that may well be the point,” Richard said.

“But why destroy the Court? That makes no sense. You have one of the Phoenix Institute people with you. Are you certain they're not behind this?”

No
, Richard thought. “The monk we questioned raved about the coming of fire in the form of the devil. I'm guessing he meant Alec Farley. This threat comes from somewhere else, from whoever leads these monks, either Rasputin or someone who claims to be him.”

“I accept that. But that doesn't meant there is a traitor in the Court.”

“Better make certain of that. Because if I succeed and we somehow cure the Queen, they'll go after her again, and more directly.”

“There is no
they
, Richard, only your imagination.”

“I imagined this mysterious illness of the Queen's, then?”

“I know your suspicions are caused by worry for the Queen,” Marshal said, speaking slowly. Holding in anger, Richard guessed. “Rest assured, I will protect my Queen, as I always have.”

“Are you sure you can do that?”

Again, a long pause. “I hear you. I'll do whatever I have to do.”

“Good.”

Another pause. “Were your companions hurt in this attack? Are they well?”

“Marian and Daz are fine. This time. I might send them away to keep them safe. Rasputin, if alive, could be the most dangerous man on the planet.”

“Do what you think is best.”

“I always do. And what of the patient? How does the Queen's health stand now?”

“The doctor says there's no change, though she seems sharper and more alert to me since you returned.”

“Then think on this problem. I seek a man who set off an explosion in Siberia as powerful as a nuclear bomb. He's someone the Court thought too dangerous to approach back then, and the Queen only sent in agents after he died. If he lives, he could burn down the Court and the Queen instead of helping us. Maybe that's the point. Maybe he wants to confront us and destroy us in person.”

“If Rasputin burns the Court down, the end will be quick, at least, instead of this long, lingering death.”

The defeat in Marshal's voice was like a sword stroke through Richard's heart. Marshal could not die. Marshal was a rock. A port in a storm.

A father.

“The Queen may sway Rasputin to her side if you could get him to court. You know how persuasive she can be.”

“And he might see her as a threat.” Richard closed his eyes. “I don't know what I face, and my ignorance could cost all our lives.”

“We will never know if you do not try. You're the only one who can. As you just pointed out, we don't know who else to trust.”

“My people could be killed in the attempt.”

“Soldiers often fall in battle.”

“They're not soldiers, and neither am I.” Richard ended the call and stared out the window at a landscape that was once part of his domains, at least in his second life. He scowled. With Edward's death, he was now rightful King of England, if he chose to claim the title. He could prove genetically who he was.

But why? England offered little with its crown now.

He had ruled once, secretly, over these lands. How many people had died in his service? How much blood was in that soil? And how much was he responsible for?

How many more would die if Rasputin acted on his threats?

Richard closed his eyes to the thought of the Queen no longer existing. One more family member gone, and sure to take Marshal with her.

In his first life, his father, his uncle Anthony and his uncle Richard all died fighting over control of his person. Later, after he was presumed dead, he sat vigil over his sister Elizabeth's deathbed. She had been so tired, so worn out by her marriage to a miserly man who showed her no affection that she had slipped into oblivion after her last child came into the world. Just as well she had not lived to see what become of her brood. He smiled. Though she would have loved her granddaughter, Elizabeth I.

Maybe he was as insane as Edward. Maybe he only thought he was sane. Maybe it was true of Marshal too. They were all mad, like Rasputin. Man was not meant to live so long.

Richard cocked his arm, slammed his fist into the wall and the plaster gave way before his hand. No pain. He looked down at his knuckles. No injury either. Of what use was this newfound strength if it could not be put to service to save the Queen?

The Queen. Marshal.
I love them both.

“Richard? Are you all right? I heard a nasty thump.”

Marian's voice came from the other side of the door that separated her room from his. She must have been listening. He opened the door. Her curls were loose over her forehead. Her cheeks were red, her shoulders straight. She looked girded for battle.

He could use a battle. Or something better.

“Come in, Angel. How long were you listening?”

She shut the door carefully behind her, so it made no noise. “Not long. I was worried about you.”

“I'm the same as ever.” Which was truly the problem, wasn't it? He couldn't run from what he was.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Marshal. The head of our court, along with the Queen. I thought he might have withheld information from me about Rasputin.”

“Did he?”

“He knew nothing of the possibility that Rasputin could be alive or about this cult of monks.”

“But what he said upset you.” She walked closer to him and held out her hand. He grasped it.

“I left the Court to avoid being dragged into messes like this. And yet it appears I never really escaped.”

“I know exactly how that feels.” She squeezed his hand.

“Yes, you would understand.”

Her family asked the same of her as the Court did of him. He put two fingers under her chin and tilted it up so he could see her eyes. “Do you regret accepting me as a client?”

“Never.”

“Good.”

He pulled her to him and folded her in his arms. She hugged him back. He had not felt this alive next to a person in a long time.

“Angel,” he whispered in her ear.

“I should be braver,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I shouldn't need someone to comfort me. My grandfather said I was a coward.”

“The woman who rose out of Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine's grave and terrified our attackers is as brave as Eleanor herself.” How the Queen would laugh at Marian's ploy of being a royal ghost. “And you are so much more. You are my angel and savior, truly.”

He bent his neck and kissed her.

She thought she had been giddy before, to be so close to a sun prince. Now, his touch wrapped her in light and desire, as if it welded them together.

She clung to him, kissing him back as he lifted her up. Her arms wrapped around his neck as he carried her over to the bed. He laid her head on the pillow and stroked her cheek.

“What?” Why the delay?

“I've forgotten how to savor moments. I want to remember this one.”

“I must look a mess, and I forgot to tame my hair, and I don't have any make-up on.”

He kissed her again, and she decided he didn't care about make-up. Besides, she was too busy moaning as he kissed her neck to mention it again.

She barely felt him slip off her sweatpants and underwear. She dared to let her hands roam lower, over his chest. His hand stroked her stomach, and she was glad of all those early-morning runs. It had taken her years to get rid of all the college weight gain but, oh, so worth it.

He pulled her shirt over her head, leaving only the loose pink camisole on her.

Watching her, he stepped off the bed and stripped.

Screw seeing him in swim trunks. This was so much better. He was so perfectly in proportion, slim waist and long legs and wisps of blond hair on his chest that led to even more in curls around, well…