He cried out in frustration, a howl that burned as it ripped from his soul. Was she dead? Had Rogan’s dark magic killed her or saved her?
The door to the trailer was flung open. The dark blond woman named Helen burst back inside. Aiden was careful to move out of her way. Clearly she could not see him, but had she heard him?
“Ms. Talbot,” the man who’d put his lips on Lauren called from just outside the door. “The paramedics are leaving.”
“Did you hear that?” she asked the man.
“Hear what?”
“That scream.”
The man stuck his head inside and eyed her as if she’d lost her mind.
“Don’t you want to ride along with her?” the man asked.
She shook her head. “Michael knows the chief of staff at the hospital. He wants to go with her.” Her eyes betrayed that she’d been ordered to stay behind. “I’ll be right behind them. I just want to…” Her voice drifted off as her eyes narrowed on the sword. She then spun on the man and pointed out the door. “Can you wait for me at the gate? I have something I need to do.”
The man’s jaw tightened, but with a silent nod he disappeared and shut the door behind him.
Helen Talbot dashed into the bathroom and did a quick search of the cabinets, drawers and floor. She shot back into the main room and checked the closets and under the cushions of the couch. She sniffed the glass Lauren had left on a table, then took a tentative sip.
“Water,” she said aloud, then pressed her lips into a thin, flat line as she surveyed the room with eyes that would miss nothing.
Eyes that landed again on the sword.
Aiden stiffened. Did she mean to steal the weapon? Could he stop her?
Seconds later she’d wrapped the sword inside the blanket and shoved it into a canvas bag she found in a closet. He expected to be wrenched back into the weapon, but though he felt a tug on his stomach, as if the tether between him and the metal had tightened, he remained where he stood. Or floated. Or…existed.
He had much to learn about this new reality—until, at least, he figured out a way to free himself entirely. To find his family. To defeat the curse.
Something he could not do without Lauren Cole, who at this moment might very well be dead.
Twelve
“She’s dangerous,” Ben warned.
“I’ve dealt with dangerous women before,” Paschal assured him, though his voice was weak and his face pale. Sitting at his father’s bedside, Ben had watched a veil of advanced age unfurl over his father’s usually robust body. The aftereffects of Paschal’s psychic episode, brought on by his contact with the antique button, had knocked the ninety-five-year-old man into a terrifying state. Paschal had slept nonstop since that morning, but had gotten very little rest. His muttering testified to disturbing dreams and secrets Ben had not wanted to know about. Though his father had finally woken half an hour ago, a haunted glaze still shadowed his silver-gray eyes.
“Speaking of dangerous women,” Paschal said, a shadow of a smile playing over his dry, cracked lips, “where is Cat?”
“Doing some research on how to find your friend Gemma Von Roan before she finds us.”
A sneer curled Paschal’s mouth. “Gemma Von Roan is not a friend. She’s a means to an end. As Farrow Pryce’s lover, she’ll be an invaluable ally. If nothing else, she’ll be able to tell us what that rat bastard lover of hers has found out about my brothers.”
“She could lie,” Ben countered.
“She could,” Paschal admitted. “But if she does, I’ll know.”
Ben’s frown was starting to make his jaw ache. He rubbed his unshaven face and wondered how the hell his life had turned from roller coaster to kiddie ride back to roller coaster in such a short period of time. He’d had a profitable career trading in valuable antiquities. Then his mother had died, leaving him responsible for his father’s care. Until a few months ago that task entailed becoming his father’s teaching assistant and grading derivative, undergrad essays on Gypsy lore and tradition. Now he was in a race to find a cursed sword and a missing uncle, all while dodging a ruthless cult that had already attacked Paschal once. If not for Gemma Von Roan, Paschal might have been killed. But Ben still didn’t trust her. And clearly neither did Paschal.
“You like her, though,” Ben said, catching a sudden twinkle in Paschal’s eyes.
“She’s interesting.”
“Like a close personal friend would be?”
His voice had dipped low with innuendo on the words “close” and “personal.”
“Means to an end,” Paschal repeated.
Ben chuckled. “Make all the denials you want, old man, but I haven’t left your bedside all day. You talk in your sleep. This Gemma Von Roan was more to you than just a means to an end.”
Paschal’s scowl evoked childhood memories Ben would have rather repressed. Normally a peaceful man, Paschal could be formidable when the situation warranted.
“I’m over ninety years old,” Paschal grumbled. “On a good day, any woman who is more than a means to an end could send me to an early grave.”
With a cough, Ben covered his laughter. His father’s face had gone from pasty to an enraged red. No doubt thinking of Gemma, the woman whose name he’d muttered quite a few times since his interaction with the button, had added fuel to the old man’s fire.
“Technically, you’re nearly three hundred years old. You missed your chance at an early grave years ago,” he quipped.
“Impertinent,” his father snapped.
“Just calling it like I see it.”
“Maybe you should spend more time worrying about your own love life and leaving mine the hell alone.”
Ben shoved away from the bed, needing distance from his father’s crotchety attitude. Or perhaps from his on-the-mark comment.
His father had shut his eyes and drawn his mouth into a tight line. Ben turned to the shaded window. Cracks of sunlight filtered from around the curtains, reminding him of a sunny afternoon three weeks ago when he and Cat had made love against the picture window facing the ocean until the clouds had rolled in. In the maelstrom of thunder, lightning and the whistling strains of wind, they had explored each other’s bodies in ways that made him long for the days when seducing a woman had been his one and only concern.
With a groan he pushed the memories aside. Now that Paschal was awake, Ben had to concentrate on finding out what his father had seen after touching the button—what new aspects of this mystery he’d keyed in to. Ben could no longer fool himself into believing that his father would live forever—the curse had not made Paschal immortal. While he’d been trapped by the Gypsy magic, the aging process had stopped, but immediately on his release it had restarted. Ben suspected that Paschal’s unusual robustness and age-defying energy had been a residual effect of the magic, but his father could rely on that power no longer. Searching for his brothers had sapped it out of him.
The old man had had enough verve nine months ago to seduce a woman who might be the key to their next move. Either Paschal Rousseau was more of a dog than Ben had ever suspected, or this Gemma Von Roan had her own nefarious reasons for succumbing to his father’s charm.
Ben fingered the curtains in front of the window. “If Gemma Von Roan is still Farrow Pryce’s lover, you can’t deny that she’s our best bet for finding out whether he’s gotten his hands on the sword.”
Paschal shook his head. “He doesn’t have it. If he did, Aiden would be dead.”
“Maybe he is,” Ben said, wondering when he’d become the voice of doom. “The fact that you got Damon back after all these centuries is inconceivable. There’s a very good chance he’s the only brother you’ll ever reunite with. You need to prepare yourself.”
Paschal smirked, then coughed before he snapped, “Did you have Defeatist Flakes for breakfast?”
“I’m trying to be realistic,” Ben insisted.
“Since when? I miss the old Ben.”
The old Ben. He hardly remembered the guy. Used to get into trouble a lot. Once served time in a Moroccan jail. Had his picture posted with the word “wanted” above it in several foreign countries.
“The old Ben never called home,” Ben reminded his father.
“At least I knew he was out doing something exciting rather than fretting over my every move.”
“I don’t fret,” Ben countered. “Besides, what could be more exciting than catching snippets of the erotic interlude of your liaison with a woman young enough to be your granddaughter?”
“Technically, my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter, give or take a ‘great,’ “ Paschal said, counting off the “greats” on his fingers.
“You’re a strange old man.”
Paschal snorted. “You don’t live two hundred and sixty years past your prime and not develop a few quirks. And unfortunately, our interlude was too brief to be considered anything more than an old man’s error in judgment. Taught me a man needs to be at the top of his game to deal with Gemma. Bit of the old Ben wouldn’t hurt, if you meet up with her. There’s more to her than meets the eye.”
“Shouldn’t we be more worried about Farrow Pryce? He’s the brains of the operation, isn’t he?”
Paschal waved his hand weakly. “He’s the money and the power, but brains, I’m not so sure. So long as he doesn’t get his hands on the sword or realize we’re onto his game, we’ll stay one step ahead. Gemma’s another story. There’s something about her…I can’t say for sure, but I suspect that the blood running through her veins is more powerful than even she imagines. She’s Rogan’s direct descendant. That might explain…”
Paschal’s voice drifted off while Ben tried to take his father’s warning seriously, but it was hard to muster up fear of any so-called sorcerer who’d died centuries ago. It wasn’t as if the K’vr, the cult dedicated to Rogan worship, had successfully taken over the world. Hell, Pryce hadn’t even managed to take over the cult. Their run-in with the group nine months prior taught Ben and Paschal that factions remained within the organization and it had begun to crumble from within.
Which was why Pryce was so desperate to get his hands on the sword. With an object reported to possess Rogan’s magic, he could become the definitive leader of an organization that was, according to the scant information he and Cat had been able to find, worth millions of dollars in devotions and tithes.
Ben understood that Rogan’s magic had been formidable in its time. The proof—a man born in 1717—was lying on the bed across from him. But if Gemma Van Roan had even an ounce of her ancestor’s power, why was she hanging out with a gangster like Pryce?
And why was her brother, also a blood descendant of the sorcerer, locked up in a Florida penitentiary awaiting trial for murder?
“I think we can handle Gemma Von Roan,” Ben reassured him.
“Yes, but, why would we want to?”
Cat had slipped into the room, a steaming mug of strong-smelling tea cradled in her hands. “I met her. You didn’t. And think I’m still limping.”
Paschal moved to sit up, slapping Ben away when he started to help.
“I’m not an invalid,” Paschal barked.
“Funny how his energy came back the minute you came into the room,” Ben muttered to Cat.
“I’m not deaf, either.” Paschal leveled a murderous gaze on his son.
Cat grinned, and Ben couldn’t help admiring the curve of her lips—and of her backside when she bent over to reward his father with the tea and a soft swipe of her hand across his forehead. “You are still clammy.”
“You’d be clammy, too, if you were psychically jettisoned two hundred and sixty-one years into the past and then yanked back to the present to see your supposedly long-dead brother standing over the body of a naked woman.”
“What are you talking about?” Ben asked.
Paschal sniffed the tea, clearly not happy with the strong herbal fragrance. He described his visions to them in surprising detail. At first he’d witnessed his brother’s ride into Umgeben, the Gypsy village, during their fruitless search for their sister. He’d watched Aiden explore Rogan’s armory, where’d he’d been sucked into a cursed sword. But then the scene had shifted, pulling Paschal into a vision he was sure took place in the here and now. The space was tight. The blond woman on the floor, nude. Wet. And Aiden was there, but not there—overcome by strife, even though Paschal could not see him.
Once the tale was told, Ben sneaked a glance at Cat, wondering if she’d seen any of these images when she’d shared the psychic experience with his father. Her expression remained stoic and blank.
“It was like I was tapping into him,” Paschal said, his energy returning. “I’ve never experienced that before. I was concentrating only on the night our sister disappeared, but then this scene came through. I wasn’t prepared; I’ll admit it. His helpless rage was overwhelming.”
“But was he free of the curse?” Ben asked.
Paschal frowned. “I could not tell.”
Cat slid onto the bed and gestured for Paschal to take a sip. He did, bleching noisily once the brew touched his lips.
“One of your old family recipes?” he asked.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“No wonder you’re so thin,” Paschal shot back.
Her mouth twisted into an expression halfway between a grimace and a grin. “It’ll help restore psychic balance.”
“I didn’t know my psychic balance was off-kilter.”
“Just depleted,” she replied, kindly not pointing out that the rest of him wasn’t doing so hot, either. “We may need you again. I’m afraid I wasn’t very effective.”
Ben’s and Cat’s eyes met, and the guilt on her face caught Paschal’s attention.
Cat laid a calming hand on Paschal’s wrist. “I piggybacked onto your psychic journey.” She scooted nearer, her dark eyes wide and focused fully on his father. “It was amazing.”
All sounds of reproach disappeared from Paschal’s voice when he asked, “What did you see?”
“Snippets of what you saw,” Cat replied. “You and your brothers riding into the village. The emptiness. The sword.”
“Did you see Aiden standing over the woman? Did you recognize her?”
Cat shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
Ben turned away. Cat wasn’t telling Paschal the whole story, but since she normally shot from the hip, she must have a damned good reason for playing coy.
Paschal pounded the bed, the tea splashing. “I’ve seen the woman before, but can’t seem to remember from where. But if we find her, we find Aiden. I’m sure of it.”