Edge of Dawn (4 page)

Richard indicated the pages should be passed on to Grenier. Almost as an afterthought, Richard asked, “How's your tooth? Jorge said you were at the dentist.”

Pleasure that Richard noticed and inquired was crushed by annoyance that Jorge had talked with Richard. “And why were you talking to Jorge?”

“That.” Richard waved a slim hand at the papers.

Grenier began reading. He looked at the satellite photo of the subdivision. The runic shape was clear to see. Grenier's lips twisted in a sneer. It was a simplistic rune that would at best produce a tear in reality and allow one or possibly two Old Ones to enter. Alexander Titchen had always been a workmanlike sorcerer. Grenier, on the other hand, had possessed formidable powers. He had opened a
full gate
between the multiverses, and the Old Ones had poured in.

Then Richard had destroyed all his plans and his life.

The memory of a space-black blade descending toward his wrist rose up to choke him. Phantom pain danced along the nerve endings in his wrist as Grenier remembered that blade severing his hand. Even now he could feel the warm gout of blood pumping from the stump. Given Richard's nature, he had, of course, applied a tourniquet. Sometimes Grenier wished Richard had just left him to bleed out. Grenier glanced at the preternaturally handsome face of the young man behind the desk, and his high-tech prosthetic right hand reacted to the raging electrical impulses in his brain and closed into a tight fist, crushing the papers. The crackle was loud in the silent room.

“Yeah, I agree,” Joseph said, misinterpreting the reason for Grenier's fist clench.

Richard's absurdly long eyelashes lifted, and he gave Grenier a piercing glance. Grenier had a feeling that Richard knew exactly the bitter, angry thoughts that had elicited the reaction, but he said nothing.

Pamela entered. Grenier offered the pages to her. She shook her head. “I've already read them.”

“Does anybody want anything?” Richard asked. People shook their heads. “So, what do we do?”

Grenier settled into a chair, grateful to take his weight off his feet. “Disrupt the shape of the rune, obviously.”

“We got that far already,” Richard said, and his look wasn't kind. “What are they going for? Tear or full-blown gate?” he demanded, pinning Grenier with his gaze.

“A rune this big looks like gate,” Grenier lied. There was a bitter pleasure to watching Richard blanch.

“Great.”

“I looked for any way to claim a zoning violation, but they've got good lawyers and they dotted every
i
and crossed every
t,
” Pamela offered.

“Sounds like we need some recon,” Joseph said. “I can do it.”

Discomfort flashed across Richard's face. “It's not exactly a place that encourages diversity,” he said diplomatically.

“You can just say it, Richard. I've got a little too much melanin,” Joseph said.

Richard shook his head. It wasn't clear exactly what he was negating. “I think it's got to be me. I can go in, check things out.”

“You're just back. You were hurt. There are things here that need your attention,” Pamela demurred.

“Look, we just got the gates closed by freeing Kenntnis. We can't afford another large incursion. I've got to deal with this.”

“You'd do anything to get away from the day-to-day management of this company, strap on your weapons, polish up your badge, metaphorically speaking, and go be a hero.” The heat and anger in Pamela's voice had Richard glaring. Grenier saw what was behind it. The woman was terrified for her brother.

Grenier leaned back and laced his fingers on the mound of his belly. “Not true, Pamela. He's afraid. He's going because he's worried if he gives in to the fear, he'll never go out again.”

“I'm right here, I'm not on a couch, and neither one of you is a therapist,” Richard snapped. A lock of white-blond hair had shaken free. Richard shoved it back angrily and continued. “And I'm not afraid.”

“Then you're stupid,” Pamela said.

Richard ignored her and stood up. “I'll need a house. See if I can rent something. Otherwise we'll have to buy,” he said to Pamela.

“You're being an idiot,” Grenier said.

“Excuse me?”

“You're just going to move in? A young, single man? A young, single man who's as pretty as you are?” Grenier scoffed. “You'll never pass muster.”

“So, what?” Pamela demanded. “He needs a wife?”

“At a minimum. A quiver full of children would also be helpful, but that's probably a bridge too far.”

“And who would you suggest? It's not like he has a girlfriend,” Pamela snapped, and immediately looked embarrassed.

There was a woman who would have happily played that role. Angela. But she was gone, murdered by a vicious killer nurtured and protected by Grenier. Grenier felt no guilt over that, but clearly Richard did. Grenier watched the remorse wash across the boy's face. He blamed himself for her death because of course he did. His guilt complex was a lovely handle that Grenier used as often as he could.

As for Pamela, her embarrassment probably had more to do with her discomfit over Richard's bisexuality then Angela. Of all Richard's family, she had handled his sexual orientation the best. Which wasn't hard, since Richard's father had disowned him, and the other sister had fled back to Boston disturbed not only by his sexuality but also by Lumina and its function. The strict Dutch Reform church background affected both siblings and Grenier knew how to play that with the skill of a master violinist.

“Yeah, I don't exactly have a lot of ladies lined up,” Richard said with a wry smile. “Would it be creepy for you to fill that role?”

Pamela looked horrified. “Absolutely! How could you even…” She finally caught the humorous glint in his eyes. “You're joking.”

“Yes.”

“I really don't have a sense of humor, do I?”

“No.”

Richard pushed back the chair with a groan and stood. He glanced at Grenier. “I'll take your objections under advisement and see if I can come up with someone. Or another alternative.”

 

Chapter

THREE

G
RENIER
returned to his office mad as hell at his assistant for going over his head. Of course the situation in Gilead had to be addressed. Grenier knew how dangerous these incursions could be, since two years ago
he
had been the man planning the invasion. His failure to acquire the sword for his multidimensional masters, and his subsequent alliance with Richard to avoid death at the hands of his erstwhile allies, had Grenier marked for death. So he didn't want any more gates or tears that might deliver his killer into human reality.

With an effort, he controlled his breathing, but his heart continued to hammer in a most alarming manner. Given his current weight, such agitation was not healthy. What Grenier needed was an outlet for his rage, and fortunately he had one right at hand. He keyed the intercom. “Jorge, get in here. Now.”

A few moments later, the young student walked in. Grenier noted that the boy didn't bother to knock first, which added to his anger.

“You were completely out of line,” Grenier snapped. “You know the protocol. You bring anything you find to me
first. I,
in consultation with Cross, determine if there's sufficient cause to disturb Richard.”

The dark eyes looking down at him were contemptuous, and the chiseled planes of his face were set and hard. “You were at the dentist, Cross wasn't around, and I didn't need the Jesus Man to see this was a damn rune.”

“You are my assistant. You do not go over my head for any reason.”

“Look, I've been working here long enough to see this wasn't some piddly tarot card reader or End of Days nut. This was big and I knew Richard would want to see it right away. And he didn't mind,” the boy added, suddenly sounding very young. “He said I could come see him anytime.”

“Well, I say you can't. You work for me.”

“No, I don't. You don't cut my paycheck. Richard does or, well, Lumina does, and Richard runs Lumina, so I work for him. We all know what you did to Richard, and frankly, some people can't understand why he keeps you around. But hey, it's his choice. Point is, you're only here because he lets you stay.”

“He told you?” Grenier asked, fighting to pull breath into a suddenly tight chest.

“Richard? No, Julie in accounting told me.”

Grenier brought to mind the young girl whose defining feature seemed to be that she talked a lot. He could not imagine Richard confiding in her. “And how did she come by this information?” An ache began deep in his gut. A sickness that came only from emotional agitation when you started to wonder what the people around you were saying about you behind your back.

“Trina told her, and I think she heard it from Estevan in security.”

Who had probably heard the story from Joseph and Weber. Weber had been part of the team that entered Grenier's Virginia compound to rescue Richard, and of course he would talk to Joseph. They were both ex-military with much in common. Grenier could imagine them kicking back, drinking beer together, and talking about what an asshole he was, and how Richard had tricked and duped him. Once again pain flared in the nerves of his wrist.

Jorge was talking again. “You're always strutting around here, acting like a big shot, but you're not. You're not Reverend Mark Grenier, world-famous televangelist any longer. You're Mark Jenkins now because you jumped bail, and you're living with fake ID courtesy of Lumina. You're the guy who handles publicity and occasionally tells us what a badass sorcerer you used to be, and acts like a fucking genius when
I
find something. Not like it's hard to spot once you know what to look for. And you can't even do magic any longer because Richard took care of that,” Jorge concluded triumphantly.

“Get out!” Grenier forced through stiff lips.

“Gladly.”

Grenier stared at the closed door, tried to get his racing pulse to subside. He felt hollow inside. Heaving to his feet, he slid past the desk and hustled down the hall to the small ad hoc kitchen he'd set up on the fifth floor. He pulled a frozen pizza out of the small refrigerator, threw it in the microwave, and waited, quivering with anxiety until the timer dinged. Snatching it out, he started eating, gulping ravenous bites that threatened to choke him and burned the roof of his mouth.

He would leave. If they didn't appreciate the work he did here … well, they could see how well they did without his expertise. And Jorge's hero worship of Richard. Disgusting. He wondered how long that would last if he were to tell the young man that his hero liked boys?

Anger gave way to sober consideration. Sure, he had opened a gate, but he had failed in another of his tasks and his masters dealt with failure … harshly. It was only Richard and the sword that kept them at bay and Mark safe. So he couldn't leave, and the sense of confinement and lack of options once again had his heart racing.

He, who had once prayed with presidents and wielded great political, financial, spiritual, and magical power, was reduced to
this.
Taking sass from a juvenile, working for a deeply inadequate salary, living in an inferior apartment in an overgrown cow town, and being forced almost daily to face the man who had stripped him of power.

*   *   *

The office seemed small with so many people present and all of them talking at the same time. Grenier hunched over a laptop resting on the closed lid of the piano. Joseph stood next to him. Richard moved to where Pamela, her nostrils pinched in disgust, stood next to a bum.

Cross wore a faded blue T-shirt with a picture of the Milky Way galaxy, an arrow, and the notation
YOU ARE HERE
. Long stringy brown hair hung over his shoulders. His blue jeans were adorned with various mysterious stains, and his tennis shoes had seen better days. A giant piece of chocolate cake threatened to fall off the sides of a plate.

Cross's features were a compilation of every Jesus painting, though at the moment he didn't have the beard and mustache.
The Jesus Man, as Jorge calls him,
Richard thought. Cross gestured with his fork and brushed the back of his hand across the icing, coating his knuckles. He licked away the icing and wiped what remained on his stained jeans. Pamela looked even more pained.

He drew close enough to hear Cross say, “Burn the place down. That gets rid of the rune.” Cross gave an emphatic nod and jammed another giant bite of cake into his mouth.

For an instant, Richard was somewhat envious of Cross's philosophy of life. For him, every problem was a nail and he was a hammer. Richard opened his mouth to point out the myriad of flaws in the plan, but Pamela beat him to it.

“I did
not
hear you say that,” she said, staring down her nose at the homeless god. “And if you actually believe that, then you are certifiably insane.”

Richard clapped Cross on the shoulder. “We
are
supposed to be the good guys,” he said mildly.

“You gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet,” Cross said, and there was a glitter in his eyes that Richard had never seen before and that he didn't like at all. Once again he was forcibly reminded that Cross was an Old One. Just an Old One who happened to be on their side. A shiver like a single drop of ice water ran down his spine. “You call in a bomb threat and evacuate the place first,” Cross said.

“And sometimes people don't heed those warnings. And you know that every plan always goes pear-shaped.” Richard shook his head. “No. This topic is closed.”

Pamela pulled him aside. “He won't go off on his own and do something horrible, will he?”

“No. He still obeys me.”

A strange expression crossed his sister's face. “Whatever you end up doing, it won't be dangerous, will it? Not like Mexico?”