Chapter Five
"That was a job well done," Santano remarked with a satisfied smirk while he folded the copy of The Bay Enquirer and dropped it on his desk. "Good work, son."
Mark grinned, giddy with the sight of his name of the front page, even if it were the front page of a tabloid newspaper. "Thank you, boss."
"Now, get out of here and celebrate," his editor waved him out of his office, "so I can deal with the fallout."
"Fallout?" Mark's glorious feeling dissipated.
"Legal stuff. Don't worry about it. Your ass is covered. Company policy. Our lawyers will handle it. Comes with the territory, you know. Didn't I tell you to go and celebrate?"
"Uh, yes." Mark left the office, closing the door behind him, for a moment involved in glum thoughts and misgivings about his first major story.
"Congratulations, Mark!"
"Good job."
His co-workers cheered at him from across the room, giving him a thumbs-up and big grins. Although they published a newspaper every seven days, it did not happen every week someone broke a story like the one Mark wrote. Santano had been correct in his evaluation: the story had everything. Beautiful women, mysterious deaths, a glamorous company.
A hard clap on his shoulder made Mark stumble. "Well done, kid," a voice growled in his ear. He turned to see the photographer, Kit Watson, smirk down on him, the eternal scowl for once softened with a glint of humor. "We might turn you into a journalist yet. And you didn't even think it was worth going to Ybor City."
Mark felt a pang of guilt. Technically speaking, Kit had been involved in the story too, at least at first. Without the veteran photographer's insistence that they check out the police-call that set the story rolling, none of it would have become known.
"Uh, yeah... I've been meaning to thank you..." he stammered.
Watson snorted. "When you're around as long as I have been, your instincts get razor sharp. You'll see. You've got the right stuff."
With another smack against his shoulder, the photographer sent Mark on his way. It took him another twenty minutes to make his way across the editorial room from the editor's office to the door, with colleagues and co-workers accosting him, wanting to know how he'd known where to look, or to congratulate him on his first byline.
At last he closed the door behind him and breathed in the cooler night air. Overhead, the sky was unclouded and a few bright stars pierced the glare of the city lights, blinking silently. Feeling quite pleased with himself, Mark stopped along the way to buy himself a bottle of overly expensive red wine. He felt he deserved it in celebration of his success.
At last, he reached the apartment building where he lived. He got out of his car, collected the bottle and locked up the Impala before making his way to his fourth-floor apartment. He fumbled for a moment with the key, his hands full with extra copies of the paper and the wine but finally managed to get inside without dropping anything.
When he turned on the light, he got the fright of his life.
Two big men, dressed in dark suits and with matching eyes that glittered dangerously, were seated side by side on his old sofa.
"Wha-- Who-- How--" Mark stuttered.
They grinned, twin smirks revealing white teeth gleaming in the light of the single overhead lamp.
"Shouldn't have stuck your nose where it don't belong," the guy on the left growled.
"Now our boss wants your head," said the other. He grinned in a way that caused Mark to suspect he wasn't speaking metaphorically, and the journalist slowly began to inch his way back to the door.
"You've got some explaining to do," Left said.
"You better come quietly," Right said.
"Or what?" Mark found his voice again, although it was definitely more high-pitched than he would have liked. "You'll make me?" He turned on his heel and ran for the door.
Something bright and yellow and hot seared past him to explode against the door's surface. Flames licked briefly at the plywood, before they extinguished.
"Yes."
Mark wasn't sure which of the two strangers in his living room spoke. They were behind him and he was staring in shock at the door. He realized that perhaps having turned his back wasn't the smartest thing to do, and he slowly pivoted on his toes so as not to startled them in throwing any more ... fire? at him.
Cole brought his BMW to a halt next to the sidewalk. He'd found a parking spot behind a light blue Impala that had known better days and maneuvered his car into the slot carefully. He scanned the area, trying to be unobtrusive about it, searching for possible demonic observers. The area wasn't nearly as upscale as Harbor Island, and the street was deserted. A Burger King soda cup chased a Wendy's hamburger wrapper along the pavement, driven by the slight breeze. But that was as evil as it got.
Until he looked up at the building.
"Damn."
Something flashed behind one of the windows on the fourth floor. It wasn't terribly bright -- any regular passerby would have thought it was a television showing a fire report on the evening news -- but to Cole's experienced eyes it could only mean one thing.
They were here.
He quickly considered his options. Running up four flights of stairs would take up precious time. Time that the journalist didn't have, judging by the flicker of demonic fire held in tight control but ready to let loose any second.
No, if there ever was a time he had to use his magical powers, it was now. He was generally reluctant to use them; he didn't like the way they made him feel. They were of demonic origin, and always left him feel slightly nauseous, as if he'd eaten something on the verge of going bad. Secretly, Cole thought it was using those powers that had chased Phoebe from him, that had convinced her he was evil, and sometimes he regretted obtaining them. On the other hand, if he had not, he'd still be stuck in the Wastelands, and Phoebe would have been just as lost to him as she was now. At least in this world, he could make a difference.
Decision made, Cole wasted no time blurring into Mark's apartment. He reappeared in the middle of the room, where the young man, looking both frightened and shell-shocked, was facing off two large demons, one of which was about to throw another searing flame across the room.
Cole couldn't decide who looked more surprised at his sudden appearance: the journalist, or the demons.
"Belthazor?" the demon holding the fire ventured. "I thought you were--"
"Dead. Yeah, I get that a lot," Cole muttered. "You heard right. Belthazor is dead. So is The Source. And so are you." Even as he spoke the last word, a ball of blue fire streaked through the air and hit the demon in the chest. Flames shot up, and he screamed in pain and anger.
His colleague growled and shifted into his demonic visage. He cast a last look at the young man behind Cole, then began to shimmer. Even as the fireball left Cole's hand, he knew he was too late, and the ball obliterated a curtain in a brief but hot inferno.
Cole turned around. "So, you were worried about a friend, isn't that what you told me?"
Mark goggled at him, scared and shocked. One arm was raised, poised to strike, a wine bottle in his hand.
Cole lifted an eyebrow. "You know, if you break that bottle over my head," he grinned, "that would be a terrible waste of a perfectly fine Cabernet."
"Wha-- How--"
"Not here," Cole interrupted. "They will come back, with reinforcements. There's only so much I can do to keep them at bay. Let's go, and I'll explain everything. Then you can tell me all you know about Gitta Models and their dirty business."
It was easier than he had expected. Apparently the abduction attempt combined with the displays of magical power had Mark shocked into submission, and he allowed Cole to take him down the stairs and to his car.
"Who were those guys?" Mark demanded as he followed Cole out of the elevator. They had reached the apartment on Harbor Island without incident.
"Demonic hit squad," Cole replied absently while digging for his keys. His mind was on the explanation he had promised Heather and he was trying to figure out how to tell her that he was the one who murdered her parents.
Mark snorted and followed Cole inside. "When you say 'demonic', that's a metaphor, right?"
"No, it's not. Listen," Cole turned around, "I'll explain everything, but I only want to do it once. It's going to be difficult enough as it is."
He realized that the apartment was dark, and for a moment he feared that Heather had left after all, despite her promise to stay until he returned. If she had, he didn't know how to find her again, let alone how to protect her. But as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he noticed her standing at the window, silhouetted against the city lights across the bay.
"Heather?" He reached for the light switch and flooded the room with a warm glow that made the mahogany floor shimmer.
She turned around, and met Mark's gaze. "Who's this?" they asked in unison, then looked startled.
Cole chuckled. "Heather, this is Mark. The reporter. Mark, this is Heather Woodard, my -- secretary."
If Mark noticed the slight hesitation, he didn't show it. "Secretary?" he echoed.
"Yes," Cole answered while he walked to the kitchen and turned on the coffee machine. He realized he was stalling but couldn't help himself. And perhaps a cup of coffee would help ease the palpable tension that would only increase once he began to tell his story.
"What happened to you?" Heather asked, looking at Mark. Cole followed her eyes and for the first time realized what a close call the reporter had had. His clothes bore scorch marks and his hair appeared singed at one side.
"Someone tried to--" Mark turned to Cole. "What, exactly, did they try to do to me?"
"Burn you to cinders, looked like to me," Cole replied. He poured coffee into three mugs and carried them back to the dining table. He waved at Heather and Mark to seat themselves.
"Am I going to get my explanation now?" Heather said.
"And mine?" Mark echoed.
"Yes." And Cole started to tell a tale of magic and evil demons.
"So, what you're saying," Mark concluded twenty minutes later, "is that those people in my home were demons, and that Gitta Models is some sort of front for demonic activity?"
It sounded ridiculous. Mark realized he was still holding his coffee cup, a few cold swallows left, clamping it so tight his knuckles were white. He forced himself to relax his fingers. The story this guy, Cole Turner, told was too outrageous to be true. If he had not worked for a tabloid that dabbled in the realm of the impossible, and if the smell of burnt hair from his right temple wasn't wafting into his nose, he would have walked out the door nineteen and a half minutes ago.
But if Cole was insane, at least he managed to make sense of the evening's insanity.
"Yes."
"And they want my necklace," Heather picked up the recapitulation, "because it gives them incredible power?" She sounded as dubious as Mark felt. More so, even. But he had seen things that evening, impossible things. And obviously Heather had no first hand experience with those creatures that could throw fire with their bare hands.
"Yes. When combined with the other half."
"And you are some sort of... of guardian angel who will protect me?"
"Well, no." Cole tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose, and Mark noted that his voice sounded a little hoarse. "Not exactly. I'm not an angel. But I do have a job to protect you. That's why Rhiannon put you in my way."
"Who is Rhiannon?" Mark wanted to know.
"She's one of the good guys," Cole explained. "An Elder. Sort of like an angel, I suppose."
"Oh."
"I don't believe you," Heather said coolly. "It's an intriguing story but I think you are making it all up. You should consider a career as a fiction writer. And you haven't told me about my parents yet."
Mark caught the slight flinch Cole gave, almost as if Heather brought something up he would rather have forgotten. Interested, the journalist leaned forward. After the incident at his house, he was a little more inclined to give Cole the benefit of the doubt, but it appeared that twenty minutes of exposition merely scratched the surface of what was going on.
"What about her parents?"
Cole sighed inwardly and wished he had gotten himself a glass of water along with the coffee that was long since gone. Talking made him thirsty. And he could tell that what he said to them didn't go down well. They were skeptical and, in Heather's case, hostile. He supposed he couldn't blame them. And he knew the hostility and disbelief would grow worse. But he had no choice. She needed to know the truth.
"Before I became," Cole hesitated, "who I am today, I was someone else."
"Oh yes, that really helps in the credibility department," Mark muttered.
Heather gave him a withering glare. "Let him speak."
"I was a half demon. My father was human, my mother was not. She abducted me to the underworld when I was three." Heavens, how was he going to tell them everything, and make them understand? His life sounded like a soap opera, even to himself. "I've done terrible things. Unspeakable things. Until I met Phoebe. She was a witch, like her sisters. I was hired to kill them, but instead I fell in love with her."
Heather harrumphed. "That's all very touching, but what has that got to do with my parents?"
"I'm getting there," Cole said, a little annoyed with her impatience. "Please, just hear me out." The only way he could tell her the whole story was if he could make her see he was a different man now.
"To cut a long story short, a lot of things happened, and my demon half got vanquished. Things didn't work out between Phoebe and me and I left and came here." He turned toward Heather, and took a deep breath. "Megan, your mother, was a witch too. Like Phoebe, she came from a long line of witches."
"When you say 'witch'..." Mark said.
Cole directed his gaze in the young man's direction. "No, I'm not speaking metaphorically, but neither is that cliche about broomsticks and the full moon true. A witch is someone who can tap into the magical energy that's around us, who knows about herbs and potions and spells. All right?"
"Okay." Mark nodded. "Please, continue."
"That jewel you wear," Cole told Heather, "has been in your family for many generations. As I said, it is one half of a powerful amulet. The other half was given into custody in another witch family. I don't know what happened, but fifteen years ago, a demoness named Birgit found that other half. I was told to get your part, and make the amulet complete. Your mother had the foresight. She knew I was coming. That's why she gave you the pendant to wear, and sent you to stay with the neighbors that night. Heather..." He paused, taking another deep breath and suppressing the urge to close his eyes before taking the plunge. "The house fire wasn't an accident. I did that. After I killed your parents."
The silence was as deafening as any he'd ever heard. Soft breathing from his two listeners and a distant police siren drifting in from the Nuccio Parkway was all that broke it. It lasted several minutes. Minutes during which Cole grew more and more uncomfortable beneath Heather's piercing stare.
"So. You murdered my parents. Made me an orphan." Her voice was calm. Far too calm, Cole thought, for someone who had just heard that her parents' death wasn't an accident. Heard it from the murderer in question, no less. "And now you found me. And the amulet. What are you going to do next? Kill me too?"
"No!" Cole exclaimed. "I told you, I'm not that person anymore. I stopped working for evil when I met Phoebe. I'm sorry about what I did, but I can't change it. I can only make sure that the same thing doesn't happen to you."
"Right." Tears burned in Heather's eyes. "I'm sorry, but I find that really hard to believe." She pushed back her chair and grabbed her jacket.
"Wait! Don't go," Cole pleaded. "It's not safe out there."
"And in here is?" The disgust in her voice tore at his heart. "You just told me you killed my parents. I need time to think. I can't do that with you around." She ran out of the door, slamming it behind her.
Cole made to follow her, but a hand on his arm stopped him. A little confounded he looked down to find Mark's fingers clamped on his wrist. He had forgotten about the reporter's presence. "Let her go," Mark said quietly. "Give her some time."
For long moments, Cole looked at the door, longing to follow Heather but knowing that the younger man was right. At last, he sighed, and the tension left him. He plopped back down on the table.
"When you say Birgit," Mark asked, "are you talking about Birgit Freda?"
"Uh... Yes. How did you know?"
"She's the CEO for Gitta Models."
The limousine was cruising through the quiet streets of the Harbor Island district of Tampa. Birgit rested her head against the leather seat in the back. Her rushed trip back to Tampa had paid off in one respect: she'd signed on a new client, another dowager who was desperate to hold on to her looks and willing to pay handsomely for it.
At least the evening wasn't a total loss. Of course, she continued the conversation in her head, it should have been better. A lot better. With the newspaper report that threatened to expose her and Rena losing track of the girl... But perhaps a message would be waiting at the hotel, she thought hopefully. A message with the wonderful news that the girl was in Rena's care, along with the amulet. Once she possessed both halves, no measly journalist could hurt her any longer.
The car suddenly squealed to a stop and the force caused Birgit to slide forward off the leather seat. She narrowly avoided hitting the Plexiglas that divided the driver's compartment from the backseat. What the hell? Anger surged through her and it took an effort not to use her power and call lightning on the driver.
The Plexiglas slid down. "I'm sorry, Ms. Freda," the man said, his voice shaken. "She stepped in front of the car without warning." He pointed outside. In the pool of light thrown by a streetlamp, Birgit could make out a crumpled shape on the concrete in front of the limousine.
She realized they had hit someone. Just what she needed! Even angrier, though not at the driver but at the dumb bitch who couldn't watch where she was going, Birgit threw open her door and got out. She took a deep breath, fully intending to give the woman in front of the car a piece of her mind, when she caught a good look at her.
Not quite a woman, still almost a girl. She couldn't be much older than twenty. And she was gorgeous. Her complexion was flawless except for a small bruise forming on her forehead. Her eyes were wide, and a bit shocked, no doubt from the collision with the car. Birgit couldn't decide if they were green or brown. And although it was difficult to see through the jeans and sweater she wore, her figure appeared curved where it was supposed to curve.
This girl was perfect! She didn't wear any make-up – and she didn't need it. Yet, with a few carefully applied lines and colors, she would be even more breathtaking. And she was alive. Wonderfully alive, nearly vibrating with the power of youth that the old sows so desperately sought.
Birgit knew she had to tread carefully if she wanted to gain this girl for her purposes. She schooled her face into a concerned expression. When she truly wanted, Birgit could appear quite compassionate. "Are you all right, dear?" she asked gently while she knelt beside the girl. "Come, sit in the car and we'll take you to a hospital." Birgit reached out and helped her to her feet.
"Oh no, that's not necessary, I am fine," the young woman protested. She brushed off her knees and hands. "It was my fault, I should have looked."
No argument there, Birgit thought. "What's your name? I'm Birgit." She stuck out her hand.
"Heather," the girl replied. "Heather Woodard."
Birgit blinked, for a moment certain that she was hearing things. After all, had her mind not been focused on the missing girl moments ago? Then she realized there was nothing wrong with her ears, and it took all her self-control not to burst out in delighted laughter. Today was turning out to be quiet a grand day after all, so it seemed.
"Well, Heather, why don't you get into the car anyway, and we can drop you off wherever you have to go. I do feel a bit guilty about this, I was distracting my driver." Not quite true, but she couldn't let this girl out of her sight.
Heather hesitated. "I don't really have anywhere to go," she sighed. "I was just wandering."
The answer surprised Birgit. "Wandering? Do you live around here? Perhaps we can drop you off at your home?"
"Oh, no, I don't live here." The shock appeared to be wearing off a little and Heather sounded more controlled. "I was... staying with someone but... Oh, I shouldn't be bothering you with my problems."
"Nonsense," Birgit scoffed. "You're not bothering me the slightest. My working day is done, and I have time. You'd be surprised how relieving it can be to talk about your woes to a stranger. And don't worry, I'm very good at keeping people's confidences." She paused for a beat. "Why don't you return to my hotel suite with me for a bit. You look like you could use a drink. And then you can tell me what's disturbing you so much that you step in front of cars without watching." She gave the girl an encouraging smile and held her breath. The problem with the amulet was that it protected its wearer to a fault. It couldn't be taken with force. It couldn't be taken in stealth. It had to be given, so she needed to gain Heather's trust to obtain the amulet.
"Well, all right," Heather agreed a little hesitantly. "If you're sure it's not a problem. I don't really want to go back to my host's place right now."
Cole stretched, listening to the vertebrae in his back pop, and looked at the clock. Several hours had passed since Heather stormed out after he revealed he killed her parents, and it was far past midnight. Although he had reluctantly agreed with Mark that Heather needed a little time to herself to work through the news, he nevertheless couldn't stop worrying. She was placed in his care, after all, and he couldn't afford to botch his first none-Halliwell related attempt at doing good. The more minutes ticked away, the stronger his suspicion grew that something was wrong.
He and Mark had spent the remainder of the evening exchanging information and putting a lengthy file together on Gitta Models, Inc. Mark was a wonder on the computer, and Cole's printer had ran out of ink in the process.
"It's getting late," Mark noted. A note of worry crept into his voice also.
"Something must be wrong," Cole agreed. "Or Heather would have returned by now. Wouldn't she?"
"Well..." Mark paused. "It was quite something you told her."
"Why are you still here?" Cole asked, wondering. Not many people would willingly stay in the company of a self-professed killer.
Mark shrugged. "I'm a curious creature. I want to know more about this demon stuff. Plus, I've seen you in action. You saved my life. So I guess I decided to give you a chance to prove you tell the truth, that you have changed."
"Right." Cole nodded. "I better see if Rhiannon can help. If Heather decided to run, we'll never find her again."
He thought for a moment. How did one go about summoning an Elder? She had always come to him of her own accord, never when he felt he needed her. At least back in Wisconsin, he'd been able to use Ania to forward his threat about returning to San Francisco.
Ania! That was it. At least he knew how one summoned a whitelighter. He opened his mouth and looked up at the ceiling expectantly. "Ania!"
Mark stared at him curiously. "Is that the magical version of long distance?"
Cole ignored him and repeated his cry. "Ania!"
Mark sprung up from his seat when blue lights began to twirl in the corner of the room. His jaw dropped when the young whitelighter appeared. "Wow..."
Ania looked harried, Cole thought. But then, she always had an air of worry about her. "I need to speak to Rhiannon," he said. "Heather ran off, and I don't know how to find her."
Ania began shaking her head. "Elder Rhiannon cannot come right now. It's not safe. The Titans have been released and--"
"Titans?" Cole echoed. "I thought they were banished eons ago."
"They were," Ania confirmed. "But someone released them. They've gone after the Elders in revenge. Many have died already."
"Anything I can do?"
Ania shook her head again. "No. The Cha--" She stopped mid-word and looked flustered. "Others are handling it."
"The Charmed Ones, you mean," Cole finished for her. Nobody else would be powerful enough. "Don't worry, you can say it. I can handle it."
Ania cocked her head, as if listening to an unheard call. "You've got to hurry," she rushed the words out. "There isn't much time. The amulet is nearly in the hands of the demoness. Sorry, I've to go." She disappeared in another flurry of lights.
"Wow..." Mark repeated. "That was..."
"Yes," Cole interrupted, impatiently. "It was. Didn't you hear what she said?"
"About Titans? Weren't they--"
"Not our concern. The other thing. Heather's in danger. Birgit must have found her."
"That would be bad," Mark agreed. "But we still don't know how to find--Wait a second! Turn the computer back on."
"How's that going to help us?" Cole wondered.
"That Freda woman always stays at the poshest hotels. If she's in town, all I need to do is hack into the guest registration systems and we'll find her."
"Oh."
Mark worked his Earthly magic with the computer while Cole kept shifting his gaze from the clock on the wall, which ticked the seconds away at frightening speed, to the computer screen where Mark scrolled through long lists of names.
"Bingo! There!" He pointed at the screen. A single name was highlighted. "She's staying at the Wyndham."
"That's right here on Harbor Island," Cole said in surprise.
Mark grabbed his jacket. "Well, what are we waiting for?"
A glass of water and a few sips of something stronger later, Heather began to feel better. So much had happened today that it took her brain a while to catch up, especially after almost getting herself killed in a car accident. But now that she was starting to think clearly again, Heather questioned the wisdom of going with the stranger. The woman was giving her looks that made her feel like she was being appraised for an auction. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.
The woman was obviously rich. Who else would be able to afford a luxury suite like the one she currently occupied? What had she said her name was?
Suddenly, Heather's heart skipped several beats. It couldn't be -- could it? But the coincidence was too great to be dismissed out of hand. How many women were rich and named Birgit at the same time?
Certain now that coming here was a mistake, Heather began to search for an inconspicuous way out. But she was on the twelfth floor of the hotel, with a long drop down from the balcony into the Tampa harbor, and the only exit was the door -- which Birgit was currently leaning against, a calculating glint in her eyes. Almost instinctively, Heather's hand traveled up to curl around the amulet.
"That's a pretty trinket you have there," Birgit said, attempting to sound off-handed but Heather could hear the barely concealed greed in her voice. "Would you mind selling it?"
"Yes, I would," Heather squeaked, wishing she hadn't drunk so much water. "It's been in my family for a long time."
"I'd give you a fair price."
"It is not for sale." Heather got up. "It's getting late, I really should go. My friend will be wondering what happened to me."
"You're not leaving," Birgit stated, giving up any pretense of being a graceful hostess. "Not until you give me the amulet."
"I'm not giving you anything! And Cole said you can't take it from me by force."
Heather stumbled back several steps in fear when Birgit began to change into something frightful. The woman's eyes turned golden and were flashing angrily, her hair grew longer and what a moment ago had been perfectly manicured hands turned into sharp tiger claws. "Can't, eh?" Birgit bared long fangs with an angry growl and sprang for Heather.
In what she knew was a futile attempt to defend herself, Heather threw up her hands. The amulet glowed hot at her throat, a flash of light filled the room, so bright it momentarily blinded her. Birgit screamed and Heather ducked. But the attack never came.
When she dared open her eyes again, she was shocked to see Birgit crumpled on top of a broken cabinet. As she looked the demoness groggily shook her head and climbed back to her feet.
"Witch!" she snarled. She pointed with her left hand, and lightning forked through the hotel suite, heading straight for Heather. Again, the amulet glowed, forming a shimmering force field that enfolded Heather and fended off the lightning.
More scared than she had ever been in her life, Heather looked for the door, but Birgit was still between her and the way out. "I will get that amulet," the demoness snarled. "I worked too long and too hard for it."
Heather didn't know what to reply. She found herself thrust in a world she didn't understand. All she knew was that she couldn't give the amulet to this -- this thing. Her mother had died for it, and she wouldn't give it up.
"Heather!" someone called suddenly from her left.
Heather yelped and waved in the general direction of the voice. Much to her astonishment, she next caught sight of Mark DeWitt sailing through the air, landing on the king-sized bed with such force that the down pillow tore and white feathers flew up in a cloud of fluff.
Cole was as shocked as Heather when she propelled Mark across the room with a simple gesture. So, she had inherited witch powers from her mother. The threat to the amulet must have broken the binding the mother had placed on her daughter all those years ago. A good thing the girl possessed telekinesis, Cole vaguely mused, and not the kind of power that Piper Halliwell had. Or Mark's venture into the world of magic would have come to an abrupt and painful end.
"It's okay," he told her in what he hoped was a soothing voice.
Apparently, it wasn't, because as soon as he spoke Heather whirled in his direction and even before he could see recognition wash over her face, he felt the impact of her power. A good thing he'd been prepared, he thought while staggering back several steps. Or he would have ended up as a crumpled body against the far wall. But his own strength allowed him to withstand most of the impact.
"Keep your hands down," he urged Heather. "It'll be all right. We're here to help."
"Belthazor!" Birgit hissed. "I thought you died at the hands of your witch lover."
Cole rolled his eyes. "You heard wrong," he grumbled. He flung a fireball at Birgit, and missed her by inches when she ducked behind the rubble of what might have been a closet.
Lightning shot across the room, and Cole narrowly jumped out of its way. He could feel the crackle of energy as it singed his hair. "Heather, get down!" he barked. The girl obeyed instantly, her eyes wide and frightened.
"You're not getting your filthy hands on that amulet, you traitor." Birgit turned to Heather. "Girl, you have no idea who you're in league with. Do you really want him to have the amulet? Don't you know who he is? He's the monster that killed your parents! He tried to take the amulet from your mother. You can't trust him!"
"Oh, and I can trust you?" Heather laughed bitterly. She'd crawled behind the large bed. "I already know what Cole did. And he's not trying to take anything away from me. He's protecting me from monsters like you!"
While Heather distracted Birgit, Cole crept into a position where he had a clear field of fire. He formed another fireball and hurled it at the tiger-demon. It hit her squarely and instantly yellow flames engulfed her. She shrieked, an unworldly cry that sent shivers down Cole's spine, although he'd heard the demonic deadcry many a time.
Then the fire winked out, and nothing was left of Birgit except a few wisps of black smoke.
Fire alarms started to blare in Tampa, Miami, New York, Tokyo, Paris and San Francisco as the offices of Gitta Models went up in searing flames. And despite thoroughly combing the rubble, none of the firefighters in any of those cities was ever able to determine the cause of the fire. Except for Darryl and Daniel Morris, nobody even realized that a multinational company making millions selling the beauty of youth went up in smoke in a single night -- and Darryl made sure his uncle would not dig too deep to find the truth; he had learned a long time ago that knowing too much could be a dangerous thing.
Around the world, many young women, every single one of them remarkably beautiful, felt a painful stab, as if something that had gotten hold of them suddenly let go. Once the pain passed, relief flooded them and it was as if a burden was lifted from their shoulders. The world had never looked prettier, they thought.
On Prescott Street in San Francisco, Phoebe Halliwell woke with a gasp and the discomfiting sensation that she had just escaped from dreadful danger. She could, however, not recall if she had dreamed or experienced a premonition before waking and without that knowledge, she put the strange feeling down to the stress of worrying over the escaped Titans.
To Be Continued...