Ghost Phoenix (21 page)

“But we can't do it here,” she whispered. Though if he asked…

He took her hand and kissed it. “Not my intention. I meant we ought to enjoy the day, at least until the world crashes in.”

They wandered into the next room, a brightly lit modern exhibit, so different from the previous room, as if walking from a dreary twilight into light. Or maybe she was still dazzled by Richard. Okay, she was definitely still dazzled by Richard.

A little voice told her she was infatuated, not in love, because Richard was the first man in her life who insisted she was unique and perfect as she was. No conditions, nothing to prove. He simply thought she was wonderful.

She decided that was an excellent reason for falling in love with someone.

She turned her attention to the exhibit. There were more chunks of minerals, mostly quartz embedded in stone. The quartz colors ranged from pink to blues and greens and all spectrums in between. Marian vowed not to say another word and risk breaking this spell of beauty and perfection.

“The next room is the room with the glow-in-the-dark rocks,” Daz said, breaking the silence. “In case you two feel the need to wander to a secluded corner for stuff, let me know where you are, okay?”

“A dark room seems a perfect place for an ambush,” Richard said. “I'll be on guard.”

“I'll be right next to you,” Daz said.

True to its billing, the next room featured glowing crystals and rock in the midst of darkness, another kind of beauty.

She stopped to admire the large boulder in the middle with iridescent golden flecks. “I always wished to travel and see things for their own sake but I've never had the time.”

“Your family asks much of you,” Richard said.

“Too much.”

“Perhaps. In a way, you've been lucky, Angel. I too used to believe my family obligations were a heavy destiny. But, in many ways, I've been blessed with my first and second families, as you have been. You never had to toil in a mine. You never had to fear where your next meal might come from. You never had to physically fight to protect your own from certain death.”

Her throat closed up. “First-world problems, you mean?”

He brushed a curl back from her face. “I'm not familiar with the phrase.”

“It means there are many who struggle for simple survival and, whatever my problems, I'm not one of them.”

“Ah. Something like that, then.”

“Have you lost many people in your life?”

“Yes. I thought I'd get used to it but each loss cuts deeper.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “I stayed away from the Court for a long time, but I miss them. I even miss my insufferable brother.”

“I don't want to lose my family. I just want some space.” She turned. “Daz? It's time to go. Where are you?”

“I'm in the next room, casing it,” he said from beyond a doorway. “Give me a sec.”

A strangle shuffling sound came a few seconds later.

“Daz?” she said.

“Montoya?” Richard snapped to attention in the darkness. As they rushed to the light, the sound of glass shattering echoed around them.

The large case in the middle of the next exhibit had been smashed, exposing an ancient rock to the air. The pieces of glass scattered around the floor were splattered with blood.

There was no sign of Daz or any attackers.

Chapter Seventeen

“Montoya!” Richard had no expectation of being answered. His yell was a roar of anger that he could not squelch.

He put his arms on Marian's shoulders. “Search the museum in phantom form. I want to know where the menace comes from. And be safe.”

She nodded, became a ghost and went through the floor. Good. She would come to no harm in that guise. He spotted a tiny drop of blood near the bottom of the wall to his right. Stepping closer, he discovered a Russian dagger under a corner exhibit.

The monks were behind this. And Daz had fought back, enough to cause one of his attackers to drop the dagger. But maybe enough to be injured too.

The blood-drop was a half-circle, as if the attackers and Daz vanished in midair. Where had the other half of the blood fallen? If Marian were here, she could go through the wall. But he could go through the wall too, if not in the same way. And better he do it when she was away and safe.

“Enough!” He drew back his arm and smacked the wall with the flat of his hand, his anger giving strength to his blow.

A fist size chunk of the wall fell at his feet. He hit it again and again and again. On the fifth blow, the barrier crumbled before him. Dust covered him for a few seconds, obscuring his vision. When it settled, the opening revealed a passage on the other side.

Tunnels again. Into the deep water, now.

He rushed into the darkness, smiling, the rush of possible combat filling his veins.

Ahead, he heard the sound of footsteps and muffled voices in Russian. He ran, heedless of possible obstacles, his shoes smacking against the rock floor. Flickers of light came into focus, perhaps from the torches carried by their monks. Torches. Hah. He half expected these backwards monks to be carrying traditional ones of cloth and oil, not the electric version.

He rounded a curve in the passage and crashed into someone. He stumbled, grabbed in the darkness and came up with his hands full of rough wool. He yanked hard. The torch the monk carried in his hand bounced up and down. Richard pried the torch away and simply tossed the man aside. He heard an ugly smack and a moan as the monk hit the rock walls of the tunnel behind him.

First to pay but not the last.

He ran again, following the flickering torches, keeping his newly acquired light dark.

The lights ahead of him winked out. He slowed, confused, but not fast enough. He shoulder smashed into hard wood. Pain shot up into his neck, and he stumbled backward and struggled to keep his balance.

He put his hands on his knees and took a deep breath to dispel the pain lancing through his shoulder. He flicked on the light.

Door. And he'd hit it hard. No wonder his shoulder felt knocked out of its socket. Richard framed the door in the light of his torch. Solid wood, perhaps oak, and edged with metal borders. There was no handle, at least on this side.

He spun in a circle to gain a better sense of the chamber he was in and saw a monk lying in the far corner, unmoving.

Knife held at the ready, Richard knelt beside the body and checked the pulse. Nothing. Dead. He felt along the chest and felt liquid. He brought his hand to the light. Blood.

Daz had fought his attackers and had taken down at least one. He could be uninjured, even. This dead monk could be the source of the blood drops. Daz could still be rescued.

Richard walked back to the door and smacked it as he had the wall, as hard as he could with the flat of his hand. He barely made a dent in the oak.

He would not admit defeat, ever. He drew back and kicked, sending spikes of pain up to his knee but creating a sizable impression in the oak. He ignored the agony and kicked the wood over and over. Splinters flew around him. He put up a hand to protect his eyes.

He stopped and peered at his handiwork. All he had created was a small hole, barely big enough for his hand.

Wait. Big enough for his hand. Perfect.

He put his fingers through the opening, ignoring the jagged edges. When he had a firm grip, he pulled on the door.

It shifted, just a little.

God's bloody eyes, move, you damned thing.

A rivet on the metal border of the door gave way and pinged against the far wall. He pulled again, this time using both hands. An entire hinge gave way. Just a little more.

He closed his eyes, intent on one last effort, braced his foot against the wall, grabbed the door with both hands, and pulled.

The door creaked, splintered and came free, nearly falling on top of him. He scrambled out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed under it.

It hit the floor with a wooden
thunk
and the thundering clink of the metal edges against stone.

Richard shined the torch into the newly revealed opening. Steps, going up and up as far as the eye could see. He could see no end. But there must be one. This was the only way the monks could have gone, into the mountain.

Dagger held in one hand, torch in the other, he leapt up the steps, relying on speed rather than stealth. Surely, the monks had heard the commotion of the door being torn off the hinges. No need to hide. They knew he was on their trail.

Yet with each step, his legs grew heavier, as they had the last time he'd exerted his newfound strength. His pace slowed. He put his hand on the wall and kept going, counting steps as he ran.

Beth Nakamora had said he knew not what strength he possessed. Fine, he would take her at her word. Psychic abilities depended on believing in them, else the subconscious would sabotage them.

He knew he could keep up, he could get to the top of these steps, save Montoya and make Rasputin's people pay.

He would make those foolish enough to come after him and his people know what it meant to cross the Court. He would drag Rasputin to the Queen and make him kneel at her feet.

His lungs burned. Spots appeared before his eyes. His heavy breathing echoed in the close confines. He took the next step, his knee screaming at him in pain, and stumbled.

Stumbled because this last step had been no step at all but the top of the stair. Before him, the stone was flat. He took a few seconds to lean against the wall, catch his breath and listen for his quarry.

Nothing.

Another door stood before him, this one a modern wooden one, an odd-looking thing among the gray granite of the tunnel.

He put his hand to the doorknob and turned it.

It opened with ease. Light burst into the passage. He drew the dagger and stepped through, anticipating attack.

He blinked his eyes at the overhead lights.

He stood in the nave of the
Felsenkirche
, the Church of the Rock.

Before him, instead of murderous monks, was a tour group listening to a guide speak in German.

He'd lost his quarry. And Daz.

Richard tucked the dagger inside his hoodie, hoping he didn't look as shocked as he felt. His only consolation was that the tour group was paying attention to their guide and not him. He looked around for any sign the monks had passed this way, but nothing hinted his quarry had been here at all. Could he have taken a wrong turn in the tunnels? Perhaps there had been another, hidden door.

The entrance from which he'd come was closed and effectively disguised as part of the wall now. There could be many such doors inside the church.

He curled his hand into a fist, wishing his anger had a target.

Numbness crept up his legs. He passed through the nave to the church proper, not even bothering to look up, and stumbled to a pew. He sat and took deep breaths, trying to regain stamina. If only he had been faster, if only he had run up the stairs instead of slowing, if only he had insisted Daz stay closer to them. Together, the three of them could have beaten anyone.

Yet they had been trying to kill Daz in New York. Why take him captive now? A hostage? For what?

Richard finally studied the interior of the church. The tour group had split in two, half going up the aisle to the dais, the others admiring the stations of the cross.

He let his head fall back and stared at the vaulted ceilings and the beautiful work of the stonemasons to hew such a spectacle from hard rock.

His angel would love to explore this church.

Where was she? If she gave up her search of the museum and followed his trail, she would eventually come out the same way he had, though perhaps she would glide through the door as a phantom and be less noticeable. But she should be safe. She had to be safe.

Surely, the monks had been seen entering by someone. They must have come into the church and left without alarming anyone. That narrowed down where they could have gone. With Marian's help, he could explore beyond the solid walls.

“Hello, Prince Richard Plantagenet. You are hardier and more persistent than I had been told.”

He heard the voice and felt the knife against his back in the same instant. The voice spoke in Russian-accented English. The mouth was very close to his ear.

“And you are more alive than I had been led to believe, Gregori Rasputin.”

“So I am.”

And now I know my enemy.

“Put your knife away, boy, before I do you permanent damage,” Richard said.

It was partially a boast. It was as if lead encased all his limbs. He doubted he could stand. But he would find the strength to snap this man's neck, somehow.

“Do not turn around.” The sharp edge against his neck disappeared. “I know that you think you can defeat me. I know many things.”

“You know very little.” Richard curled his hand into a fist, about to turn and attack despite the lethargy.
I am as strong as I wish to be.

“Think before you act,” Rasputin whispered. “My disciples watch me. If I am hurt, they will do harm to your bodyguard.”

Daz must be close by. Richard's gaze darted around the church. He still could discern nothing, especially where Rasputin's people were.

“What do you want, boy?” Richard asked.

“Why call me boy?”

“Compared to me, you are.”

“Compared to me, you're a feckless, faithless prince. I believe in something.”

“You believe in threatening and killing. You've gone to the trouble of coming to me, Mad Monk, when you could have vanished with your followers in the rat's warren. So, again, what do you want?”

“I could have killed you by now.”

“I'm still alive.” Richard shrugged. “What do you want?”

“I came to you to offer help to your court.”

Richard stifled a laugh, wondering if he heard correctly. Despite the earlier warning, he turned to face Rasputin.

Rasputin sat in the pew, his arms across his chest, unruffled and serene. He was dressed the same as his monks, in a simple brown robe. Richard could see no weapon, but that did not mean one wasn't hidden in the large sleeves.

Despite the garb, Rasputin would never be mistaken for an ordinary monk or a normal person. It was the eyes, intense, focused and unblinking that invariably drew Richard's attention. All men blinked. Not the man with stringy hair and a scraggly beard before him.

Whether this was truly Rasputin or not, this was a psychically gifted man holding incredible power.

And yet he needed something from Richard. Good.

“I don't need your help, nor does my Queen,” Richard said.

“You may not. You seem to care little for your life. But your Queen does. And your bodyguard needs his life too.”

For all he knew, Daz was already dead. Leave that thought. “Why would my Queen need your help?”

“I can heal her. No one else can.”

How did he know the Queen needed him to heal her? Marshal and much of the Court knew how ill she was. Edward had known, of course. No one outside the Court did. He'd been careful to keep it from Daz and even his angel. And he'd hidden the information from Beth Nakamora. Or had he only thought he had?

Could Daz have betrayed him?

“You've no idea what my Queen needs.”

“I am Rasputin. I see many things that have come to be or will come to be.” He leaned forward. “I foresee us as allies, Prince Richard. I can heal your Queen. I can aid your court.”

“Why? Why would you offer help after attacking me?”

“I attacked the emissary of the fire demon. Daz Montoya works with the devil, Alec Farley. I needed to separate you from him so we could talk about our mutual foe.”

“Alec Farley is no more a demon than I am.”

“He is the death that's coming. I have prophesied the coming of the fire demon. I have witnessed the horrors he will visit on the world.”

“Alec Farley seeks to better the world.”

“Does he? That's not how he was raised.”

“Americans rarely do what they're told.” Richard smiled. “Dude, you're Rasputin and you can't see that?”

Rasputin's unblinking blue eyes unfocused and a white film covered them. Richard sucked in a breath.

“The demon must be opposed. It is my holy mission. It is the reason for my resurrection. God sent me back to save this world.”

“God sent his only son as a savior. You're not him.”

The white over Rasputin's eyes disappeared. “You will believe, either now or when I heal your Queen.”

“When? Perhaps
if
.”

“Is that not your quest? To bring me before your Queen?”

“You seem well informed.”

“I see all things that I need to see, Prince Richard.”

“Then why don't you see what I'll do in response to your request?”

“I see the Court and my followers opposing the fire demon.” He smiled without warmth. “Your place is the only part in question.”

Richard's limbs tingled, as if needles pricked his skin. That was a sign of his strength returning. “Where will your prophecy be when I kill you?”

“You can't outrun fate.” Rasputin shrugged, an odd gesture on one who seemed so crazed. “You know what you must do.”

“Which is?”

“Meet me at this address tomorrow.” Rasputin dropped a piece of paper next to Richard.