Adelaide Upset (15 page)

“
No.” She shook her head,
not even trying to hide her disappointment. “Chasing after him is
no good, though I don’t expect a pretty girl like you would
understand. I bet the boys flock to you.”

The compliment missed its
mark, serving only to make me wonder if I’d indeed chased Lucas.
There had been no flocking, of that I was sure. Urg, I wouldn’t
think of it. He’d be home soon enough and then I would know one way
or the other.

“
Will you give this to
him?” The dish was a pie, and she fussed over the Saran Wrap.
“And... and tell him that I hope to see him at the next senior’s
night. I’ll be looking for him.”

“
Sure thing, Florence.” I
didn’t have to hide my pity, I didn’t do pity. But she was the
picture of injured dignity on the walk back to her car, so much so
that it tried my forbearance.

I watched her ease out of
the lot, moving slowly. It was the careful driving of someone who
knew their reflexes were shot to shit. Once her fenders were out of
sight I went back to brooding. I’d already contacted Reed and
Francesca, putting in calls first thing after getting to
work.

My conversation with Reed
had gone something like this:

“
Lars Hurst sent Raina
Thompson after me again.”

“Don’t worry, Adelaide, I’ve taken care of
it.”

Needless to say my call to
Francesca had been vastly more informing. Francesca’s mother was
the godfather of gossip, and in typical Tammy fashion, she’d heard
of Raina’s fate. Some concerned passerby had called in her location
to the police. The responding officer was one Robbie Jordan, the
son of Susan, who Tammy Wainer (Francesca’s mom) knew from church.
Now Robbie had been inclined to take pity on Raina, but that only
lasted until the moment she awoke. Her mood had been black, her
tongue even blacker. Apparently she’d given poor Robbie and the
surrounding crowd a verbal lashing. But ranting hadn’t helped her
any and whatever pity she’d won was lost. Robbie took her in for
questioning, flour, honey and all. She’d clammed up at the station,
making one phone call before zipping her lips. Shortly after,
literally in minutes (record time according to Tammy) a posh lawyer
showed up and Raina was released, with no grounds to hold
her.

She must have called Lars Hurst and he’d
sent someone to come and get her. I wasn’t surprised and I wasn’t
disappointed. I wasn’t anything. The outcome of yesterday’s events
didn’t bother me in the least—it was my own actions the day before
that rankled.

I’d been so blasé about
smashing Raina over the head with a rolling pin, but revisiting the
mere memory made me cringe. So how had I managed the actual
feat?

Raina, that was how.

I woke up this morning,
shocked by my own callousness, but realized shortly thereafter, it
hadn’t been mine. Raina’s desperation had fed me, enabled me to
act. Lucky for me, but what would I have done if Raina’s own
emotions hadn’t betrayed her? Playing Nancy Drew was fun and all,
but I sort of lacked the killer instinct.

I was disturbed by what I
had done, but in a contrary fashion, I was equally concerned that I
couldn’t do it again if the situation required such drastic
measures. So I brooded over that for a while, then Lucas, and
eventually the rest of my conversation with Francesca. She’d thrown
her involvement during the previous night back in my face, citing
it to extort a favor from me. Tomorrow, before work, I was going
with her to look around Botticelli’s. “Just to window-shop,” she
swore.

I didn’t enjoy shopping,
but I planned to make up for it by treating myself after work. I’d
already picked up a family sized bottle of NyQuil from the store,
and I would put it to good use after reading a passage from
Demidov’s diary. Raina’s visit had instilled a sense of urgency to
it all. I couldn’t afford to wait because I was afraid. If I wanted
to know, then I needed to read.

I cannot say whether the
information I learned from Luitger Fuerst is true, though the fact
that he garnered much of it from a demon dilutes my mind with
incredulity. Regardless, his words sparked in me a burning for
knowledge, and they were the touchstone from which my own research
sprouted. From experience I knew that humans were not beyond a
demon’s reach. For a select few, those ‘gifted’ like myself, the
demon’s wealth of information was obtainable, but at a price. They
could take a man, build him up and make him powerful. Such men were
easy to find throughout history, and close beside them was their
demon, hiding in human skin. For example, Alexander the Great knew
a lifetime of expansion and victory, but was it truly earned? I am
persuaded that his success was somewhat unnatural, though I am torn
between two theories. The first, that his demon was inherited, a
present if you will, from his father Philip. I know not if Philip
was ‘gifted’ or if a demon, once reaching this side of the veil
sought him out, knowing a king of Macedon was powerful in his own
right and could easily coerce a man to forfeit his own body for a
demon’s use. If this was the case, my immediate next question is to
the identity of such a creature. It was Aristotle that Philip chose
to be his son’s tutor, a far-seeing, brilliant mind, learned in
every topic of the day, who often encouraged Alexander to eastern
conquest. It sounds absurd to say, but I am half convinced that he
might have been a bit too bright for the times. Was he perhaps a
demon? Did he mold Alexander and other kings, using their power for
his gain? The second theory is that Alexander was ‘gifted’ and
dealt directly with one demon or more. With Alexander’s help, the
demon would likely have possessed someone close, a friend, a
general, a bodyguard. Hephaestion was all three to Alexander, and
the likely choice. It is a subject of speculation whether they were
lovers, but if Hephaestion was Alexander’s demon guide, giving
instruction on what was more or less world domination, then
Alexander would have been devastated by the loss, which he was.
Hephaestion’s passing was purported to be an illness of some sort,
though demons do not thrive inside human flesh and blood. They are
compelled to experience every sensation, pain as well as pleasure,
and can destroy a body even as they revel in it. In my research I
found other names, mostly military strategists, as ‘might makes
right’ has been the theme of Earth’s history. There was Sun Tzu, an
ancient Chinese general, believed to have written ‘The Art of War.’
It is said that Sun Tzu was tested by the King of Wu, asked to turn
the king’s harem of 180 concubines into soldiers. When the king’s
two most favorite concubines giggled instead of following orders,
Sun Tzu had them executed to make a point, even against the king’s
wishes. This artless cruelty struck me as a demonic attribute, and
I searched for it too in our histories. There was Hannibal, famous
for crossing the Alps with war elephants in tow. Considered the
‘father of strategy,’ he was often outmatched, facing an enemy with
superior forces and experience, but even so, he defied the odds,
ringing in the victories. Genghis Khan with his Mongols employed a
psychological approach, using fear to do his work for him. There
was Julius Caesar, Charlemagne, Napoleon and Hitler, all men who
wielded great power, with an insatiable appetite for more. But in
these late centuries, as the world takes on change, modernizing,
power has turned from brute force to a more subtle form. Religious
and political figures now reign supreme, money and influence
becoming more necessary than soldiers and weapons. If
Raulriechmydl, or any other demons of my acquaintance, used the
issue of my invitation to breach the veil and seek out more
influential members of society, I do not wish to know it. I am a
coward, for I do not want to contemplate the possibility of what my
actions might have wrought.

As agreed, I accompanied
Francesca to Botticelli’s the following morning. I was a little
groggy. The NyQuil had suppressed my nightmares, or maybe Smith
hadn’t been around to wake me and I simply forgot the terrible
dreams. Either way, I’d slept, but not restfully. Francesca noticed
the moment I ducked into her car.

“You look like a crack addict.”

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“Did you have to bludgeon another
intruder?”

“
No, nothing so dramatic.”
I hurried to add, “And I wasn’t having marathon sex with Lucas
either.” Not wanting to rehash the Raina incident or the current
state of my relationship, I changed the subject. “So tell me about
your wedding dress.”

She used the excuse of
checking her rearview mirror to turn her nose up at me. “I don’t
know what you’re talking about.”

“
So you haven’t sewn the
whole thing up in your head already?” She absolutely had, her
enthusiasm and intent were concentrated and anticipatory. It was
the feeling one gets before unwrapping a present. “Be honest,” I
admonished. “You want a wedding, and you’re willing to marry Conner
to get it.”

“
Be honest?” she scoffed.
“So you can be all quiet and secretly judgmental?”

“
You think I’m petty?” I
tried not to sound defensive or, heaven forbid, judgmental. “How
about this as a compromise: I give you my opinion, forthright and
unblinking, and then, no matter what you decide, I’ll support you
completely.”

“Alright,” she said, perking up. “Hit me, I
can take it.”

“Are you in love with Conner?”

I knew she
wasn’t
.

“
Maybe,” Francesca
lied.

“So he could be, like, your soul mate
then?”

She snorted, unable to
keep up the charade. “Who the hell believes in
soul mates
?”

“
People that are in love!”
I let go of my frustration, it wasn’t helping. If I was going to
get through to Francesca another tack was in order. “Okay, so he’s
not your soul mate. You are compatible with lots of people, but
that’s my point. If you could shack up with anyone, anyone in the
whole world, would you really choose Conner? It’s a lifetime
commitment, sickness and health, balding and weight gain. Do you
really want him as your partner through all that?”

“
Oh, honey.” Francesca
spared me a tender look, she truly felt bad for me. “You really are
pathetically romantic. The problem is that you’re thinking along
the lines of ‘until death do us part’ and my thoughts are more,
well, Kardashian.”

“
So you’re going to get
married with an expiration date in mind?” I’ll admit, my tone just
then was a bit judgy.

“Well?” she shrugged.

“What about the astrologist, what did she
have to say?” I asked, growing desperate.

“
You know it was odd,”
Francesca said slowly, recalling the conversation. “She mentioned
all that promising stuff about alignments, and then it was all
solstice this and solstice that, night and day—”

“Yes, but did she say you would be happy
with Conner?”

She better not have.

“Well,” Francesca dithered, stalling a bit.
“She did say that he would offer me security, you know, in a
material way.”

I pressed,
“
And?
”

Frustrated, Francesca sort
of shouted, “And if I don’t like him we’ll just get
divorced!”

I’d set out to convince
her that she was abusing the concept of marriage, but in the end, I
was the one to sway. It was difficult to win a debate when you
could feel an opponent’s emotions treading all over your
resolve.

“
I’m not sure if I’m being
provincial or not, but it doesn’t matter,” I finally stated. “It’s
your decision, and like I said, I’ll support you.”

Francesca relaxed as her
backburner anxiety dispersed, leaving us both feeling better. “Now
that you’re on board, let me tell you all about my
dress.”

I’d been to Botticelli’s
before. It was the little boutique Francesca had brought me to when
I needed fancy dress for one of Reed’s events. I didn’t like the
place because it required constant interaction with the staff,
though if Dominique heard me call him such, he’d probably stab me
with the fabric shears.

They had clothing, mostly
gowns, displayed out front, but the apparel for trying on was under
lockdown, hidden in the back, probably in a vault of some sort.
Francesca had to discuss with Dominique the style of dress she had
in mind, the size and fit, the fabric and color. He would bring
them out one by one, carrying them like a baby, before carefully
ushering them through the curtain to Francesca. And when she was
all zipped up and buttoned in (thanks to me) she would step onto
the raised platform and do twirls in front of the full-length
mirror. After more than an hour I was contemplating suicide, not
seriously, just the casual fantasy of my messy demise, and
Dominique’s face when he saw all that blood on his precious
babies.

“
What do you think of this
one?” Francesca asked for maybe the hundredth time. “Just picture
it in ivory or clam shell.”

“Nice.”

She turned to look at me,
the dress shushing as she swiveled away from the mirror. “You’ve
said that about every single one!”

“
It’s your decision,” I
answered wryly. “I’ll support whatever dress you
choose.”

Francesca didn’t bother
with my opinion after that, but it didn’t matter, Dominique was
more than happy to oblige. They had a symbiotic relationship which
I found odd but interesting. She was like his muse, a living
mannequin on which to work his art. And he was her provider, with
taste and talent she adored. But it wasn’t until after Dominique
mentioned the fact that he went to New York for every fashion week
that her eternal awe was cemented in place. They were a match made
in heaven, and together they planned her wedding dress, discussing
the smallest of details.