“Mm-hmm.” Bruno’s voice was understandably skeptical as he tossed my purse on the desk and turned one of the wing chairs around with his free hand and sat down. He didn’t take his eyes off John. A long pause was filled with tension before Bruno asked again, “So. What happened?”
“Fell down a flight of stairs.” I raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Maybe this was what it would take to get him to talk.
“Really.” Bruno kept a straight face and leaned back into the cushions before raising his coffee cup to his lips to take a sip. Once it was down, he remarked drily, “That’s a damned long flight of stairs. How’d you make it around the corners?”
I snorted while John glared at him. I couldn’t help it. “Just tell him, John. He might be able to help.”
John looked my way. “Celia, could you go get my passport from my office?”
“I thought it was in your safe. And besides, I don’t have a key.”
“There’s one in Dawna’s desk and I just remembered the passport is in my center desk drawer. Bad of me to forget to put it in the safe, but there you go.” He gave me a serious look. “If you don’t mind.”
Ah. Guy talk. The best part was that I could probably hear it if I listened close.
But by the time I reached the front desk I hadn’t heard anything new. Bruno asked a couple of good questions about sounds or smells John remembered before he blacked out, but the memory was just gone. John’s voice was frustration personified. “It’s starting to drive me nuts.”
I really did know how he felt and that made me realize there might be a solution to his problem—the same solution I’d used. I wouldn’t call her today, but Dottie might be able to help. We’d met when a friendly cop had asked her to help restore my missing memories.
When I reached the third floor again, they stopped talking until I passed by. “Got the key. Be right back.”
As I opened the door to John’s office, I realized I wasn’t sure what to expect. When I flipped on the light I was taken aback at the massive casting circle that practically filled the space. It was set up on the equivalent of a portable dance floor. All there was room for outside of the circle was a desk and a single armchair that matched the ones in Bubba’s room. Heck, maybe it was one of those from Bubba’s office.
The safe in the corner wasn’t as big as mine, but it was equally well protected by magic wards if the energy surge that hit me when I got too close was any indication. The power crawled along my skin like biting ants and I was forced to hop to the side before the sensation dug any farther down inside my arm.
The desk wasn’t what I expected. I’d always imagined John as a clean-line, Architectural Digest kind of guy who would have a glass and chrome look. But this desk was hand-carved of heavy, knotty wood and had a … country feel that screamed “home on the range.”
Interesting.
I opened the middle desk drawer and right on top was his passport. It was well used and about to expire. His photo inside was nearly a decade old and a seal identified him as a licensed mage at level 8.5. The intense, dangerously competent look he gave to the camera in his photo made me shiver. I flipped through the pages. He really had been all over the world. Stamps and stickers from countries I’d barely heard of filled nearly every sheet and he wasn’t kidding that the back page listed a host of weird vaccinations—one of which was for M. Necrose. Who’da thunk?
The built-in bookcases along the wall were identical to mine and he’d filled them with a variety of leather-bound texts–magical volumes, given the crawling sensation on my arm when I passed by. I had just cleared the books when I noticed the line of framed photos on the shelf next to his desk. I couldn’t resist and backtracked to look.
One shelf was a tribute to the wine he’d helped develop. Witches’ Brew was the world’s first magical wine. It tasted exactly like the best wine you ever had. If you like cherries, it tastes like cherries. I’d been to the wine’s debut party and had a very good time. Right up until the rift tried to destroy the world.
On the next shelf, was a photo of John and George Miller in younger days—standing in front of the dilapidated building that would become the home of their business and one of the most recognizable addresses in L.A.
There was another photo of John in a family setting, like a studio shot, showing him along with three women and a man who had an older version of John’s strong features. I was betting one of the women was Gillian, but I had no idea which. And I had no idea who the other, younger woman might be.
But it was the last photo, shaded partially in darkness, that made me gasp and stare as the passport fluttered to the carpeting from my suddenly limp hand.
Fuck a duck.
A familiar face smiled out at me from the silver frame and it made my blood run cold.
John Creede had a framed photo of the woman who’d bombed six grade schools and had tried to kill me twice … that I knew of.
What the hell?
22
I picked up the frame, half-expecting it to burn my hand. But the silver frame was cool to the touch and the figure in the picture didn’t move or reach out to grab my throat. I retrieved the passport from the floor and carried both items down to my office.
I threw the frame down on John’s lap hard enough to make him wince. “How in the hell do you know Linda Jamisyn?”
He picked up the frame and stared at the woman’s face. Then he looked up at me with confusion and a healthy dose of wariness. “Who? And why do you care if I know Glinda?”
I stood there with my mouth suddenly open because it occurred to me that he thought I was flying into a jealous rage. Bruno’s expression was … odd and it made me blush furiously. “No! That’s not what I … oh for the love of heaven.” I took two steps and poked my finger at the picture. “This is her. This is the witch who’s been trying to kill me and bombed those schools. Wait. Why did you call her Glinda?”
The expressions of both men suddenly changed. Bruno leapt to his feet to come closer to the couch and John handed the photo to him with a weary sigh. “Because that’s her name. Glinda Miller. She’s George’s daughter and she isn’t a bomber. Far from it. But I stand by what I said on the phone. She’s a scapegoat. There’s no other explanation.” He met my eyes, trying to convince me of her innocence by sheer force of will.
What he said on the phone to who? He never mentioned that name. I interrupted before he could go any further. George Miller’s daughter? Great. The whole family was evil. “Look, John. I saw her yesterday—she attacked me with powerful magic in a bar. Tried to kill me with billiard balls and wooden pool cues through the heart. I got a good look at her from five feet away.”
He shook his head “Not possible. Glinda lives on the East Coast. If she was in town, she’d have called me. She’s like family, Celia. I’ve known her for more than ten years. Besides, she’s only a level four. She wouldn’t have the oomph to pull off an attack with multiple objects.”
“I’m not the one who’s confused, John. She’s freaking powerful, and she’s nuts. She slammed me with a spell that had everything in the bar trying to kill me. I also didn’t imagine the blast of power that picked me up off a pool table and threw me into the wall a dozen feet away. No, this is her.”
He hadn’t liked my tone, or the fact I’d called her crazy. His eyes were narrowed down to slits. His voice was low, and carefully controlled when he warned me, “Be very careful what you say, Celia. Remember, she’s George’s daughter.”
Fine. If we were going to escalate, let’s remind him of some facts. “Let’s also remember that George was trafficking with demons, John. Siren influence or no, who knows what bargains he … or his family made with them. Have you seen her since his funeral?”
Bruno interrupted before Creede and I could go any further with our argument. He was shaking his head. “I don’t recognize her, Celia, and I know most of the upper-level witches.”
John raised his hand, slowly, carefully, and stared from me to Bruno. “Exactly. She’s a four. She works as a secretary for a boring company in a boring town, and not even in a magical capacity. She doesn’t have alias names or hang out in bars. Maybe you saw someone who looks like her. I know this woman. Trust me. And while there were traces of her magical signature in the spell used to attack your memories, I’d swear there were traces from me and at least twelve others who couldn’t possibly have been involved.”
He seemed so confident that it made me wonder if he was right. Could it be a different woman? I mean, they always say everyone has a double somewhere in the world, and there are plenty of lesser demons—who can shape-shift—that were trapped on earth after the rift closed. I let out a slow breath. “I really think it’s her. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. You. Not her.”
Creede dipped his head, acknowledging my effort. “I was trying to reach her before I was attacked. When she calls back I’ll find out if she’s been visiting here. But I doubt it. Since George died, she hasn’t had much to do with me or the company. She wanted to work for one of our companies a few years ago, but George and I both knew she couldn’t command the loyalty of the employees, so he said no. She took it gracefully, took the money he gave her, and went back home. Of course, when he died, she inherited his money, but he left the company to me. She said she was fine with that and I believe her. It’s a demanding business and she doesn’t like working long hours.”
Would losing the company make her bitter? I could see the possibility, but for most people, money heals a lot of wounds. “You’ve talked to her recently?”
He nodded. “A month or so ago. She was fine. Happy and living it up on George’s money.”
Bruno shrugged. “I have to agree. A level four isn’t a powerhouse of talent. And unless she made a demonic pact, I just don’t see it. Plus, from everything I’ve read, most pacts were severed when the rift closed. I’m not saying it’s not possible, but it’s very unlikely. I think we’re dealing with a look-alike, or maybe a spawn. They’re half human, so closing the rift didn’t get rid of them, and some of them can look like anything.”
