Chapter Three
Birgit stood naked in front of the closet, surveying her wardrobe with a critical eye. Tonight, she needed to look her best. Attractive, self-assured. A woman of the world. A woman who exuded confidence in her own appearance as well as her life and work. Because tonight, she would start recruiting new girls to join the agency. Although the office that Polson found her after their night of play was still being redecorated to her desires, she could not wait any longer. Events in Tampa compelled her to act, and act quickly. Rich geriatrics all over the world clamored for their monthly dose of youth elixir and the loss of two valuable sources in a few short weeks made it hard to meet those demands.
She gritted her teeth in anger while she pulled out a black leather dress that looked more like a torture contraption than a garment. First, the James girl was stupid enough to step in front of a moving car and get herself killed. And last night the Squire-woman. She found the latter the greater loss. The girl had been brand new to the agency. Birgit had recruited her herself during her last visit to Tampa. The girl would have had so much more to offer before she outlived her usefulness. At least so far nobody seemed to have noticed the strange inconsistencies between the girls' ages and their appearances in death, which was something to be grateful for, Birgit admitted to herself albeit reluctantly. It was the one thing of the extraction procedure Birgit had failed to remedy. Normally, once she was done harvesting the life force from one of her girls, she gently broke the connection, leaving the girl dull and spiritless yet with a rich career to look back upon and otherwise unchanged to the eye. They often did not survive long after she cut them loose, but the cause of death was usually determined to be some sort of disease or heart failure. Only when a girl was wrenched free violently, did the sudden aging happen.
She finished dressing quickly, applied make-up and gathered up her purse before making her way downstairs to the lobby of the prestigious Prescott Hotel. Tonight's concierge was a young man with red skin and pale hair.
"So, what's the hottest place in town for a girl like me to be seen?" Birgit purred. She leaned forward over the concierge's desk, enjoying the owlish look that washed over the young man's face.
"Erm... that depends," he stuttered. "What are you looking for? Dinner? Dancing? The theater?"
Some of Birgit's good mood evaporated. Was every human in this town dimwitted? "Do I look like I want to sit in the dark and watch a couple of would-be's cavort around on stage?" she snapped.
He blinked, and had the good grace to fluster a bright pink. "No, Ma'am, I guess you don't. You'll be wanting to go to P3. That's a popular nightclub downtown. Has been around for several years. I think I heard Barenaked Ladies are playing again tonight."
"Good. Then that's where I want to go. Now, be a sweet little concierge, and get me a cab."
"Yes, Ma'am."
Ten minutes after departing from the Prescott Hotel, her taxi pulled up in front of a non-descript building. A long line of extravagantly dressed people was waiting below the pale pink-and-blue sign that read P3 in the center of a triangle. Birgit got out of the taxi and studied the club. The people in line were waiting patiently for their turn to enter, but that wouldn't do at all.
She marched past the queue, once again ignoring the stares and dirty looks people gave her, and stopped in front of the beefy bouncer.
"Miss, you'll have to--" He met her eyes and the rest of his words never made it past his lips.
She gave him her most pleasant smile, her gaze boring into his. "I'd like to enter now, please." Her polite words belied the dangerous glint in her eyes and the look was not lost on the man. He shrugged.
"Go ahead." He pulled aside the rope, ignoring the protests that floated up from the queue, and allowed Birgit to enter.
Pounding music greeted her, the noise mixed with the smell of alcohol, smoke and various expensive perfumes. A staircase descended into the main area and she stopped for a moment at the top to take in the throng of bodies that churned at her feet. They were young, beautiful and full of life. She smiled to herself. The concierge hadn't said a word too many; this was her kind of crowd. It was the perfect place to begin her recruitment.
First, however, she wished for something to drink, and her eyes searched for the bar while she began to descend the stairs.
She stopped dead in her tracks, and her heart rate speeded up with excitement when she caught sight of the girl who sat on a stool, chatting easily with the long-haired bar tender. She was perhaps a little old for Birgit, who liked her charges as young as legally possible but otherwise, she was perfect and Birgit instantly declared the evening a success.
She was fairly small, too small for regular modeling agencies to consider her, with a narrow waist and a full bosom. The bright pink top she wore showed it off to its fullest advantage. Her hair, dark and shiny, was pulled up onto her head, with small ringlets cascading down beside her ears. Her skin was unblemished, marked only with symbolic tattoos on her wrists. But most importantly of all, she possessed an inner beauty fuelled by a life force that was strong enough to take Birgit's breath away. A girl this vibrant in her grip would sustain her clients for years.
Shaking away the pleasant visions of how much money and influence she would gain from so much power, Birgit closed the last few paces and settled herself onto a stool beside the girl.
"Miss Birgit. Miss Birgit!"
The urgent voice cut through the haze of a pleasant dream where Birgit was expanding upon the evening's events and the girl, who had introduced herself as Phoebe, was under her full control. Yet even in her sleep, she recognized the voice as Theo's. It shattered the pleasant imagery in a thousand pieces. Birgit's eyes snapped open. They flashed angrily at the servant who had dared to disturb her.
"Theo!" she growled. The air around them crackled with static as she gathered the energies, preparing to release a blast of lightning. Theo flinched and paled, but he stood his ground.
"I'm sorry to wake you, Misstress Birgit, but I've got Rena Mason on the phone, from the Tampa office. It is important."
Birgit grumbled some more but she eased her hold on her power and sat up. She pushed a pillow in her back for support and gestured impatiently at Theo to hand her the phone. Despite her temper, she was curious. Rena and Theo had both been in her employ for a long time; they knew what she could do when enraged. If they decided something was important enough to defy her wrath, then it probably was.
She snatched the cell phone from Theo's hand and brought it to her ear. "This better not be about another of my charges you lost," she snarled into the mouthpiece.
She could hear the woman at the other end of the line swallow as she gathered up her courage.
"No, Miss Birgit." A slight tremor in her voice gave away Rena's fear. The head of the Tampa office had to be very sure of her message. "I have good news, I believe. I would never dare disturb you at this hour otherwise."
Good. Rena had at least paid attention to the time difference. The care with which her two minions approached the issue made Birgit all the more curious as to what their news might be.
"Well, then tell me. Or did you want me to start guessing?" Birgit didn't moderate her tone. It was best to keep the servants on their toes.
"No, no, of course not. I'm sorry." The tremor was more pronounced and Birgit smirked to herself.
Rena gulped a deep breath before she continued in a firmer tone. "I found the amulet."
"What amu--" Birgit gasped mid-sentence, her stern demeanor cracking from shock. She wasn't aware that her free hand lifted to fold around the trinket lodged against her throat. She was too busy calming her heart that had suddenly started a gallop. Better not to get overexcited. Twice before had she believed the search for the missing piece was over.
"Where is it? How did you find it? Are you sure?" The words tumbled from her mouth, betraying her eagerness.
"I'm quite sure," Rena said. Her voice now held a tone of satisfaction. "Of course, you will want to see it for yourself. The amulet is around the neck of a young woman. She came into my office this morning, looking for a job."
"And did you give her a job?"
The long silence told Birgit the answer before Rena spoke. "No, Miss Birgit. I didn't see the trinket until she was about to leave, after I told her the job was no longer available. I didn't want to raise suspicions by suddenly changing my mind about the job. But I did get her name and address," she hastened to add.
"All right. I'm on my way. Have them prepare an executive king suite for me."
"Yes, Ma'am."
Birgit pressed the disconnect button and the line went dead. She tapped the stubby antenna against her chin as she pondered these latest developments. It was all slowly coming together, everything she worked so hard for all these years. With the two pieces of the amulet, she would be a formidable power, someone to be reckoned with within the underworld. She would no longer need the agency or its clients. And with the demon realm currently leaderless...
She swung her legs out of bed. It wouldn't do to get ahead of herself. Overconfidence had been the downfall of many a demon and she better make sure that the amulet Rena saw was indeed the missing piece.
"Theo!"
"Yes, Mistress?" He stepped back into the room instantly, apparently anticipating she would need his services.
"Book me on the first available flight to Tampa. I want you to stay here and look after matters here." There was still the matter of her possible recruits. Especially the Halliwell girl showed great promise. If she decided to take Birgit up on her offer, someone had better be around to accept her call.
"Right away, Mistress Birgit." With a nod Theo hurried out of her bedroom again. A few seconds later she heard him talking on the phone in the sitting room of her suite.
"Thanks." Heather accepted the tall plastic cup from the young man behind the counter. A pale brown liquid filled it, twined through with strands of thick orangy syrup. A large dot of cream floated on top.
She took the cup to the table in the corner and plopped onto the stuffed couch covered in dark green velvet. She sucked up a sip through the straw and closed her eyes with a contented sigh. She loved this drink.
It had not taken her long after leaving the small, backward town in Virginia to discover the pleasures of the Starbuck's franchises in the larger cities. And several experiments later, she settled on their caramel frappuchino as her drink of choice. She spooned some cream into her mouth with her finger. She'd better be careful, though, or she would quickly grow as round as Aunt Betty, their next-door neighbor in Virginia.
If she didn't go broke first.
Some of the simple pleasure of enjoying a quiet moment and a sweet coffee faded while she considered her situation. Between gas for the Hyundai and motel rooms, the small inheritance from her parents dwindled quickly. And Hobson had not yet sold the house. Not many people were interested in moving to a small town, he'd said when she called him. She needed to find a job. And she needed it fast.
Heather dug up the small business card that the strange woman had given her this morning. Rena Mason, Vice President Gitta Models Inc., plus the address of the office on West Shore Boulevard she had visited earlier this morning. A temp agency had redirected her to the model agency, saying they had a secretary position open. But the interview had not gone well -- if one could even call it an interview. The woman, Ms. Mason, had been distant and aloof, telling Heather the position was already taken. With her pinched looks, sharp nose and gray bun resting in her neck, she had somehow reminded Heather of a 1920's schoolteacher. One of those teachers that would lash their students' palms for the least infraction. She'd instantly known that this woman wouldn't be a pleasant boss to work for. So, when Ms. Mason told her that the job was no longer available, Heather had been secretly relieved.
The strangest thing had occurred afterwards, though, when she had gotten up to leave. Heather had offered Ms. Mason her hand in parting -- always be polite, her adoptive mother ingrained in her -- and the woman had suddenly frozen in mid-movement, her eyes glued to Heather's throat. Involuntarily and uncomfortable under the sudden scrutiny, Heather's hand closed around the pendant that dangled from its chain. As if a spell had been broken, Rena continued the gesture she started seconds ago, shaking Heather's hand. She'd suddenly been most pleasant, announcing her regrets about the job and agonizing that Heather had come in for nothing. She had insisted that Heather fill out a form with her name and address, "in case another opening comes up".
Heather complied -- again being polite -- although she knew she would never work for Gitta Models if she could help it. She crumpled the business card.
Unfortunately, it meant she was still jobless, and soon to be penniless.
Movement at the next table drew her attention just as she took another sip of her frappuchino. A red-headed woman had been seated beside Heather and she currently got up and began winding her way to the door.
"Excuse me," Heather called after her. "You're forgetting your newspaper." She grabbed for the folded paper and was halfway up off the overstuffed couch when the woman turned. Her green eyes were warm and twinkling with merriment.
She smiled. "That's all right, child. You keep it. You need it more than I do." She turned again and walked out the door.
Heather frowned at the odd remark but sat back down. She was encountering one strange woman after another today, but at least this meeting did not make her uncomfortable. This woman had seemed warm and kind, while the Mason woman came across as cold and calculating. Heather put down the paper and happened to glance at the page it was folded to. A small classified jumped up at her. Small law firm seeks office assistant. Heather's head snapped up, but the redhead had disappeared down the street. Heather's attention turned back to the paper.
The leather creaked in protest when Cole leaned back in the comfortable swivel chair at his desk. He placed his hands behind his head, put his feet up and gazed out of the window. The office was quiet. Had been ever since he started his work here, about a fortnight ago. Matt Hardy, the lawyer from whom he bought the practice, had failed to mention that he would leave a chaotic jumble of files behind, and not many clients to speak of.
When Cole arrived, the office furniture had been as ready for retirement as the old lawyer. But a few well-placed phone calls and generous personal checks had seen to the problem. Now, nearly two weeks later, the office looked spick-and-span, with shiny new furniture, a glass enclosure that housed Cole's inner office, and a small anteroom to receive clients.
All that was missing to complete his cover were those clients.
A good thing I don't have to make a living from practicing law, Cole thought while he gazed at the mirror windows of the office building opposite his on Franklin Street.
As it was, the funds accumulated during his demonic life would allow him to live in comfort for many decades to come. He wasn't sure, though, what the rules were regarding those funds. After all, they were amassed doing the work of evil. Somewhere deep down he suspected that true redemption would only be achieved by living a frugal life in misery. But misery had never been his thing. And, so he reassured his conscience, Rhiannon must know about the money. Since she never mentioned it...
However, although he didn't need the work to make a living, the quiet office allowed him too much time to think. And Cole felt he had done enough thinking to last him the rest of his days during those three months he was holed up in Wisconsin. Thoughts of Phoebe, although no longer as painful as they once were, were nevertheless discomfiting and something he could do without. He longed for action to take his mind off of the life he left behind in San Francisco.
But the law practice he took over had been dwindling for a long time. Along the walls of the brand new anteroom crates and boxes stood stacked, filled with unsorted case files. Most of those would be dead, Cole knew. Right now, he didn't have the courage to tackle the job of sorting them and following up on the ones that still showed signs of life.
He sighed, and closed his eyes, cutting off the glare from outside.
Why had Rhiannon sent him to Tampa? She'd been so sure his talents would be needed soon. But despite his alertness for anything remotely evil, he had not crossed paths with any magical creature unless one counted the garden gnomes tending the shrubbery in Lykes Square. Nor had he heard anything from Rhiannon, or her whitelighter Ania. He wondered if they had forgotten him.
A hesitant knock on the glass door of his office startled Cole from his reverie. He opened his eyes to see a woman hover in the antechamber, just beyond the door to his inner office. And though recovering from heartache, he was human enough to notice she was young and beautiful. Her hair, long and lush, had the honey-colored sheen of newly cut hay and her skin was smooth with a hint of a tan. She also appeared a little uncertain, with a small purse tucked under her elbow and a folded newspaper clutched in her hand.
With a start, Cole realized he was not exactly portraying the image of a busy lawyer. He pulled himself up, dropped his feet to the floor and gave a vague wave at the papers on his desk. "Thinking position," he explained with a faint smile. "How may I help you, Miss...?" He left the question unvoiced.
"Woodard," she offered. "Heather Woodard. I came about the ad."
Cole's brow furrowed. "Ad? I'm sorry, I don't think I understand."
Heather's shoulders slumped into further uncertainty. "This is the office of Cole Turner, isn't it?" She glanced over her shoulder at the door where brand new gold lettering announced his name and the words attorney at law, confirming she was in the right place.
"Yes, it is. But I didn't place any ad. What sort of ad?"
"Seeking an office assistant." She sounded a little surer now that she had her location confirmed. "See? It's right here." She unfolded the newspaper and pointed it in his direction.
He took it. A bright red circle from a pen drew his attention. It was drawn around an announcement for a new self-tanner. A most pointless product to try and sell in Tampa if there ever was. "A natural sunless tan, thirty day money-back guarantee," Cole read aloud. He chuckled. "I'm sorry, Miss, but you must have misread the paper."
"What?" She snatched the paper out of his hands and studied it. "But-- but-- it was right there! I know it was!" She looked up at him, pleading, her eyes wide and startled. "I'm not crazy. The ad was right here."
"Someone must have played a prank..." Cole's voice died away when the pieces of the puzzle clicked in place.
"Where did you get this paper?" he asked in a low, urgent voice.
"I--I found it," Heather said. "In a coffee shop. Or no, someone left it there."
"Who?"
"A woman."
"What did she look like?"
Heather shrank back, and Cole realized that in his desire for the answer, he towered over her, invading her personal space. He forced himself back.
"Red hair. Tall. In her thirties, I think. Why?"
Rhiannon. With a little help from a glamoring spell to change Heather's view of the paper. Cole relaxed. He studied the girl for a moment, deciding she had no idea she'd been maneuvered into his path like a pawn in a game of chess. How to explain the disappearing ad?
He gave her an encouraging smile. "I'm sorry. That must have been Rhiannon. She's a friend of mine, who likes to play tricks on people. This is her way of telling me I should hire someone to help around in the office. She probably switched the newspaper for the real one without you knowing it after she showed you the fake ad."
"Oh." Heather still looked dubious.
"And she's right, I could use some help, you know." He gestured around the anteroom, where a small receptionist desk was covered in piles of more paper. "So, what makes you think you qualify?"
He folded his arms while Heather rattle off her qualifications. He already knew he would hire her -- he didn't have much of a choice -- but he had to play his part in the charade.
Mark strode past the library on the campus of the University of Tampa. He could see the contours of the building that had to be McKay Hall shimmering through the trees, the glitter of the Hillsborough River behind the house. He skirted the two-story complex to reach its western front. Here, the rooms each had their own entrance. And if his information was correct, the third door from the left would be Gillian James's room.
He squinted at the nametags beside the door, noting that the upper tag was left blank. He checked the bottom one against his mental file. "Jean Bradford." That was the name in his notes for Gillian's roommate. He had come to the right place. A shiver wanted to run along his spine when he realized what the blank tag meant. Although no one had ever found her body, people had given up on Gillian returning.
And they were right, of course. She was dead. And they would never find her body, since it was already found -- except it appeared to belong to a seventy-year old woman instead of the twenty-one year old history-student.
Mark checked for a doorbell, realized there was none, and instead rapped his knuckles against the wood. He waited, beginning to fear no one was home when the door slowly opened and a pair of blue eyes framed by blond hair looked out.
"Yes?"
"Miss Jean Bradford?"
"Yes."
"My name is Mark DeWitt." He flashed her his press card. "I'm a journalist. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your friend, Gillian?"
Jean mulled over his request for a few minutes, her face blank and distant. Then she gave a soft sigh and pulled the door open further. "I only have a few minutes," she warned him. "Class starts in fifteen minutes."
"I won't need long," he assured her, stepping inside. The blinds were drawn in front of the small windows and the room seemed dark after the bright glare of the afternoon sun outside. Mark glanced around, recognizing the functional furniture and simple closets universal to dorm rooms everywhere.
One half of the room was Jean's, with Shania Twain posters tacked on the wall and a flowery bedspread covering the bed. It was slightly rumpled, and a book lay upside down on the pillow. The other side of the room was empty, in keeping with the blank nametag outside. A blanket lay folded neatly on the foot of the bed, the mattress bare beneath it. The closet door stood slightly open, revealing empty shelves.
"Her parents came for her things last weekend," Jean said, following his gaze while she seated herself on the edge of her bed. "I still can't believe she's gone." The last was said softly, almost as if she were talking to herself instead of Mark. "Do you believe she's dead?"
"I-- don't know," Mark said, reluctant to dash the last glimmer of hope he heard in the roommate's voice. He knew what had happened to Gillian, at least partly, but how could he explain such an outlandish thing to this young woman? Yes, she's dead. She's the old lady they found with her license. That would go over well.
The police had to be aware of the strange situation, of course. How could they not be, with modern science and DNA testing at their disposal? But they would be able to make as little sense of it as Mark did. That was why they kept up appearances and acted as if they were still looking for Gillian while trying to solve a Jane Doe's death as a seemingly unrelated case.
"Would she have any reason to run away?" Mark asked, doing his part in keeping up appearances. "Bad grades? Abusive boyfriend?"
Jean looked up, her blue eyes wide. "No! She was one of the best students I've known. It came so easy for her that sometimes I was a little jealous. But--" She cut off and looked away.
Mark waited. When the clock continued to tick the seconds away he prompted her gently. "But?"
"Lately, she wasn't doing so well," Jean admitted. "Her parents don't know but the last few weeks she started skipping classes more and more, not showing up for tests and not handing in her assignments."
"Do you know why?" It was a struggle to keep the excitement out of his voice.
Jean shrugged. "Not sure. She kept going on and on about being a model. Some months or so ago, someone from some agency talked to her on the streets and told her they'd make her famous. It was weird; we've been roommates for two years and she never mentioned she wanted to be a model. But ever since that meeting, it was all she talked about. Do you think that has something to do with why she disappeared?"
"I don't know," Mark admitted, truthfully. But his instincts were screaming at him to find out more. "What was the agency's name? Did she tell you?"
"Yes." Jean walked over to her desk and started going through some scraps of paper piled on it. "She gave me a card, said I should go see them, perhaps they would want to sign me up as well." She huffed self-deprecatingly. "Me, a model. Ah, here it is."
Mark took the proffered card. "Gitta Models Inc, Rena Mason, Vice President." The address was an office block somewhere on West Shore Boulevard. "Can I keep this?" he asked.
"Sure. It's not as if I have any need for it. And, oh, wait." She again browsed through the papers until she found what she was looking for. "This came in the mail yesterday. I was going to forward it to Gillian's parents, but perhaps you can use it to find out what happened to her. I would really like to know."
Mark took the cream-colored envelope she gave him. Dark blue letters informed him it was the stationary of Matthews, Crowther & Associates, Attorneys at Law. He shook out the contents that consisted of several sheets of paper, with a cover letter printed on the same cream stationary as the envelope.
"'We regret that we cannot carry out your request to advise you on the validity of your contract, due to your deposit not being completed. We hereby return said contract and your check,'" Mark read aloud. Folded within the paper was a personal check, stamped with bright red letters: Insufficient Funds.
Jean shrugged. "I suppose the bank closed Gillian's account when she went missing." She glanced at the clock. "I have to go. What paper did you say you were working for?"
"The Bay Enquirer," he muttered, not meeting her eye. "Thank you for your time, Miss Bradford. You've been most helpful." He slipped out of the door before the name of his employer could fully sink in.
"Well, I think I'm done. What do you want to do with the old files?"
Cole looked up from his copy of The San Francisco Bay Mirror to see Heather standing in the doorway of his inner office. Her face was flushed, and strands of her honey-colored hair had escaped their ponytail and were now plastered against her skin. She blew against the bangs on her forehead while she waited for him to reply.
"You got them all sorted already?" He failed to keep the surprise from his voice.
She shrugged, a little self-conscious, and he felt a pang of guilt. He knew she had been desperate for a job when she came to him, and he had not really made it easy on her. For some perverse reason he had wanted to take it out on Heather that Rhiannon was moving them like so many pieces on the board.
He dropped the paper and got up, walking past her. "I take it that's the hopeless pile?" he asked, pointing at the larger of two piles of file folders.
"Afraid so," she confirmed. "Some of that stuff hasn't been looked at for decades."
Cole chortled, amused. "Figures. I'll go chuck them in the trash, then. Why don't you put the rest in our brand new file cabinet over there?" The way her eyes lit up told him that his usage of the word 'our' wasn't lost on her.
"Listen, when I'm done with those old papers, I was going to run next door to get a coffee. Can I get you anything? Then we can discuss our strategy."
"Strategy?"
"Yes. On how to turn this place into a flourishing law practice." He grinned at the surprise on her face. "What? You think I can do it alone?"
Her smile widened. "Does that mean you want to keep me on?"
He grinned. "It does."
"You won't regret it, Mr. Turner."
He paused in gathering the old files in his arms and glanced up at her. "Call me Cole," he said. "If we're going to be working together, I'd much appreciate it."
Fifteen minutes later they sat at his desk, each cradling a steaming cardboard cup in their hands, sipping hot coffee. "First thing," Cole said, "we should get a new coffee machine. We can't go running off next door every time we have a client and want to offer them coffee."
"Right," Heather agreed. She put her cup down to make a note on the pad before her. "The copier is busted too."
"Hmm. I forgot we would need that. I only replaced the furniture."
"That looks nice, though," Heather said shyly. "You have good taste."
Cole smiled. "Thanks." He sipped his coffee, wondering what else he had overlooked in setting up his cover.
"Why do you read that paper?"
"What?" He started from his musing, looking at Heather in incomprehension.
She nodded her head at the paper discarded in the middle of the desk. "That one. Why would you read a San Francisco paper when you live in Tampa?"
"Eh..." Cole was at a loss for words. He'd subscribed to the paper the first day after his arrival in Tampa. Despite what Rhiannon told him about starting anew with a blank slate, it was easier said than done, and he liked reading her columns. It told him a lot about her frame of mind. Besides, strange occurrences that spoke of magic to the initiated sometimes made the papers and perhaps some day Phoebe would be in need of his help. He would never contact her; he was fully aware of the price he'd have to pay if he did, but they were fighting for the same team, whether she knew it or not.
"I'm sorry," Heather hastened to say in the face of his obvious discomfort. "I didn't mean to pry. It's none of my business, really. I just thought it odd, so--"
He held up a hand to stop the barrage of words. He had noticed the girl had a tendency to babble when she was nervous. "It's all right. I can see why it would raise one's curiosity. It's just--" He took a deep breath and decided to tell her the truth. "My ex-wife lives in San Francisco. I like to keep abreast of events in her town."
"Oh."
He could see Heather still felt uncomfortable at having pried. She was fingering a silver chain around her throat. Or rather, the small pendant at the end of the chain. That was--
Cole squinted in sudden suspicion, and he drew in a shocked breath when he found his suspicions confirmed. It took every ounce of self-control he had gathered over the decades not to display any further signs of his agitation.
"Are you okay?" Heather had not missed the sudden intake of breath.
"Yea. Coffee's hot," Cole covered but his mind drifted back in time.
"This," Raynor announced while dropping something on the table, "is one half of a magical amulet that will give us power beyond your wildest imagination."
A mutter of excitement rippled through the gathering. The promise of vast power was always a good one. Belthazor glanced at the tigerlike demoness opposite him to see her tufted ears twitch in agitation.
"It doesn't look like much," someone over to Belthazor's right commented. The tigress's eyes blazed and she bared her fangs with a growl.
"Ah, but appearances can be deceiving," Raynor commented. "It was Birgit over there," he pointed at the tigress, "who obtained it from a magical shop over in Toronto last week. For which you shall be rewarded properly, my dear," he added pleasantly.
The fangs were bared again, but this time the sneer resembled a pleased smile more than a warning.
"With a restored amulet at our disposal, nobody will be able to stop the Brotherhood from reaching world dominance. All in the service of our Lord, The Source, of course."
The demons around the table nodded in agreement. Who would dare consider bypassing that evil of all evils? Certainly they would not. And neither would Raynor, who had the ear of The Source.
Bored with the knowledge that the demons present would launch into vehement assurances of their loyalties, Belthazor reached for the trinket, and had to agree with the first speaker. It did indeed not look like much. It was made of old silver, blackened with age. The lump, heavy in his large hands, resembled nothing so much as a waning moon with its crescent shape. Except in this case, someone had taken a chunk out of the inner curve. It didn't need a genius to figure out that that's where the other half of the amulet would fit.
Belthazor realized that Raynor was speaking again. He dropped the object back on the table and began paying attention once more.
"... located the second half of the amulet," his mentor was telling the gathered demons. "Apparently, it has been in the hands of a witch family for generations."
"How come we did not know this?" someone asked.
Raynor sighed. "The amulet is invisible to magic, which means it can only be detected with real eyes. It has taken us many centuries to locate the family. It will be even more difficult to obtain."
"Why? I can shimmer in and grab it from the neck from whatever filthy witch is wearing it," another demon growled. Belthazor's lips curled at the exasperation in his mentor's eyes.
"Don't you think someone would have already, if it were that simple?" Raynor snapped. His dark eyes blazed and the demon that had spoken shrank back. "The amulet protects itself, and its bearer. It takes a demon of tremendous strength as well as cunning to steal the amulet from the witch. Someone who understands human nature, someone who can manipulate a human without their knowledge."
Many eyes swiveled in Belthazor's direction. Some displayed envy, others barely contained disgust for the hybrid that would once again get the choicest assignment from his mentor.
"Think you can handle it?" Raynor asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Of course," Belthazor grunted through his many teeth. "Did I ever not?"
To Be Continued...