Fusion (Crimson Romance) (41 page)

Shrugging off feelings of empathy, he studied the man further. When Morbius was cleaned up, he would probably be considered a very handsome individual. And at the age of fifty-five — according to the birthdate on his driver’s license — the man wasn’t all that old. So how on earth did this quiet-spoken, intellectual type end up in a place as dull as Maple Corners — drinking his ass off?

Despite his skepticism, Cort finally relented to his instincts, picked up the keys to the cell, and let Morbius out.

“The law says you have a right to be on the phone
alone
,” Cort advised. “It’s on the desk. I’ll step outside and will trust you not to run.”

Morbius straightened his tie, pulled at his shirtsleeves to remove the wrinkles, and raised one brow. “My good fellow, I’ll do no such thing. I am a Nightshade. We do not … r-r-r-r-run!”

As he walked out the front doors, Cort found himself chuckling at how the arrogant British gent rolled his r’s. Clearly the guy wanted to appear above such dastardly, ignoble acts as trying to high-tail-it out of town.

He gave his prisoner about fifteen minutes. But before he could reenter the station, Morbius stepped out on the front stoop.

“Well, did you get a hold of an attorney?” Cort asked amiably.

“Hardly, Sergeant. My niece will be here in the morning. She can explain everything. I don’t think a solicitor will be necessary. My rights haven’t been violated, and I’m not guilty of anything except a minor indiscretion. That hardly defines me as a hardened criminal.”

“Sorry. But unless your niece has papers proving who that knife belongs to, I have to thoroughly check it out.” He continued to explain his reasoning. “Look … a little over a year ago there was a massively distributed report asking law enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for stolen artifacts. Most of the stuff was rifled from shipments on loan to museums across North America. The curators only found out about the missing property when a lot of it didn’t show up when and where it was supposed to. I want to make very sure this knife isn’t part of that haul. It certainly looks like it could fit the bill.”

Morbius stared. “But I’ve told you it belongs to my family.”

Cort took a deep breath. Apparently, being questioned about his honesty wasn’t something Morbius Nightshade was used to or liked.

“All right … why are you carrying it? Why are you in Maple Corners? Why were you drunk in public and where are you employed? There’s practically nothing about you on any computer except records saying you have a driver’s license,” Cort said. “Since you’re able to talk coherently and have refused a lawyer, maybe you can answer some questions to help clear all this up?”

With calm dignity, Morbius held up his hand. “I noticed some coffee in your office. Might we go back inside and discuss this like gentlemen? Better still, perhaps you have some tea?”

Cort looked at the ground and tried not to grin. The older man behaved impeccably. Morbius might be pulling his leg and might even harbor a hidden disdain for those in power. Still, he maintained the proper gentlemanly attitude. “All right, Mr. Nightshade. Tea it is.”

As they walked back inside, Morbius stared at Cort’s nametag. The stripes on his sleeves told anyone who was half aware of uniform standards what his rank was, but his name only appeared on the silver plate over his right breast pocket.

“Ah, O’Leary. That’s a grand Irish name,” Morbius gaily announced.

It was Cort’s turn to simply raise his own brow, but he said nothing.

“Since we’re to be cloistered together for the nonce, might we dispense with the use of surnames and call each other by our given names?” Morbius asked. “It seems the civilized thing to do under the circumstances. I, as you know, am Morbius.”

He took the hand the older man offered. “I’m Cort.” He was surprised to find himself warming to the other man’s friendliness. It had been a very long time since anyone had gotten under his skin, but Nightshade had a strange air about him. It was almost as if the man was more than he appeared. His very appropriate attitude and his even, bright smile were both a bit compelling. Simply put, Morbius could draw even a hardened cuss like him out. His prisoner, although both refined and educated, didn’t have the fault of being pretentious.

“Ah! Perhaps your name is a derivation of
Cearbhall
, which means champion or warrior in Gaelic. And Leary is an Anglicized word for one who herds.”

Once more, Cort found it almost impossible not to smile.

Morbius scratched his head. “I say, old chap … has your family ever had a background in that sort of pursuit?”

Cort pressed his lips together. “Don’t know. We’re from New York by way of Ireland. Legend has it there was supposed to have been an O’Leary whose cow kicked over a lantern and almost burned a city to the ground.”

“I dare say … you’re probably not from
that
branch of the O’Leary clan, my good sir!”

He did grin this time. “Why not? How can you be so sure?”

“Because … that incident occurred in Chicago and you’ve just said your family was from New York,” Morbius countered. “Unless one or more parts of your family moved west, the episode had nothing to do with you. Now, let’s have that tea.”

Cort actually found himself feeling better than he had in a long time. He wondered if the man’s niece was going to be as interesting. But, as he boiled water for their tea, the smile left his face and his mood turned sour again. He could feel the glee instilled by his arrested companion slipping away.

The strangest sensation suddenly overtook him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he lifted a hand to rub the spot. Cort could almost swear someone other than his prisoner was watching him.

When he turned, Morbius stood near the cell window, looking outside.

“What’s wrong, Morbius?”

“I don’t believe that I should attempt an explanation. The sooner Dawna gets here, the better.”

“Dawna?”

“My niece. She’ll be here by tomorrow morning, I should imagine,” Morbius softly finished before turning his attention back to the cell window. “Did you know that there are people whose auras attract very unsavory powers?”

Cort shook his head in confusion. “
What
? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying that we can attract very bad entities by our thoughts and deeds.”

Cort walked closer to Morbius and stared at the man.

Morbius snickered. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m a student of human nature. In fact, if you’re around me any length of time, you might agree that I tend to read too much into situations.”

“Maybe we’d better have our tea, and you can answer some questions,” Cort woodenly suggested.

“Yes,” Morbius murmured. “Tea would be grand. And … I think it’s good that Dawna is coming. She needs to be here before something happens.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Cort blurted as his foul mood suddenly intensified.

“I-I was just thinking that there’s a reason for everything, my good young man,” Morbius calmly stated. “It was no accident that I pulled off the highway and chose this small village to quench my thirst. No accident at all.”

Cort ignored his detainee’s cryptic remarks, finished making their tea, and tried to cast off the disturbing sensation edging up his spine.

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