Siren's Call (A Rainshadow Novel) (5 page)

“No problem. Your offer is accepted. Thanks.”

She gave him a fast version of events. When she was finished, he shook his head.

“You followed a dust bunny down here to rescue a bunch of other dust bunnies? What was that about? Read too many
Little Amberina and the Dust Bunny
stories when you were a kid?”

“Sure, blame it on my early reading habits.” She gestured toward the melted cages.

“That was your work?” he said. “What the hell did you do to the glass?”

The last thing she wanted to do was tell him the exact nature of her talent. No, she thought, that wasn’t the last thing she wanted to do. The very last thing she wanted to do was undergo an FBPI interrogation with the head of the task force. Her career was at stake. Better to answer Rafe’s questions.

“I’m a singer,” she said. “Not a professional musician. It’s my talent. Paranormal music, only. Can’t carry a tune
when it comes to normal music, just ask my family. Glass has some unique properties as I’m sure you know. Hit the right notes out on the spectrum and it’s easy to shatter the stuff.”

“Your voice,” Rafe said. He regarded her with a thoughtful expression.

She frowned. “What about my voice?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . . very nice, that’s all. Sort of musical or something. You sound like you could be a professional singer.”

“Well, I’m not,” she said firmly.

He glanced again at what was left of the cages. “That glass wasn’t shattered. Looks like it melted.”

She cleared her throat. “If I go far enough out on the spectrum I can melt glass.”

“And after you melted the glass you used your talent on Vickary.” Rafe whistled softly. “You’re a Siren, aren’t you?”

“Heavens, no,” she said briskly. “No such thing. Myth. Legend. Tales from the Old World. I’m just a fairly strong para-music talent. Actually, I’m in the dream counseling business.”

Rafe smiled slowly. There was a disturbingly intimate look in his eyes. “You might be in the dream counseling business but you’re a genuine Siren.”

“No, really—”

“I sensed the heat in your aura when I touched you. You’re powerful. Strong enough to melt glass and sing a man into a coma. That makes you a Siren, as far as I’m concerned.”

She braced herself, waiting for him to add the damning
words. After all, everyone knew that Sirens fell into a unique category as far as history, legend, and para-shrinks were concerned—the category that contained
psychic vampires
. It was the
Not Supposed to Exist,
but If You Find One, Lock Her Up
category.

Rafe moved on without further comment on her powers.

“Okay,” he said. “Here’s how we’re going to do this. You were never down here, understand?”

“But when those men wake up they might remember me.”

“It’s unlikely they’ll remember much, if anything, about what happened just before I took them down. Unconsciousness often wipes out memories of what occurred just before the trauma. Can I assume your talent has a similar effect?”

For some reason the question outraged her, maybe because he asked it in such a matter-of-fact manner. She waved a hand at Vickary’s motionless body.

“How should I know?” she said. “It’s not like I go around doing things like this every week or so.”

“Right.” He nodded once, satisfied. “I think we can make this work. Even if one or two of them wake up with a few vague memories I should be able to convince Harding that the perps suffered hallucinations shortly before they passed out. I can tell him that’s a common side effect of my talent.”

Another jolt of dismay went through her. “Harding?”

“Joe Harding. He’s the special agent in charge of the local FBPI office. You’ve probably seen him in the media.”

“Oh, yeah. The hotshot FBPI guy who always cracks
the high-profile cases. Seems like he’s on the evening news every couple of weeks.”

“That’s Hard Joe.” Amusement gleamed again in Rafe’s bird-of-prey eyes. “Ever since he caught a two-time wife killer at a big Covenant wedding a while back here in Crystal he’s been on a roll.”

“Uh-huh.”

There was a short, brittle pause. For a couple of seconds she dared to hope that Rafe wouldn’t make the connection. But when she saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes she knew it was not going to be her lucky day.

“There was a hostage at the wedding, one of the bridesmaids.” Rafe looked dangerously intrigued now. “Bellamy put a mag-rez to her head and tried to haul her out a side door. That was when he had his very convenient stroke.”

“Mmm.”

“Well, well, well.” Rafe’s smile widened into a wolfish grin. “You were the bridesmaid, weren’t you?”

“I don’t see how that matters.”

“Not likely that there’s two full-blown Sirens in this town. I should have put it together sooner. Damn, you’re good, woman.”

“Look, if it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon you didn’t mention your brilliant deduction to Special Agent Harding.”

“No problem,” Rafe said easily. “My lips are sealed, et cetera, et cetera. Your talent is your business. Don’t worry, we’re used to keeping secrets in my family. Yours will be just one more.”

“Coppersmith.”

“What?”

“You said your name was Rafe Coppersmith.”

“Raphael Elias Coppersmith. Call me Rafe.”

“Would that be Coppersmith as in Coppersmith Mining, Inc.?”

“Yep.”

“Wow,” Ella said. She was genuinely shocked. “Your family controls most of the quartz and crystal mining industry. Why are you running around in the tunnels doing odd jobs for the Bureau? I should think your family would have other things for you to do.”

“Sure. But with my talent, all I’m really good at is finding deposits of hot quartz and crystal. It’s boring work for the most part, although it does have occasional moments of stark terror, as the saying goes. You know, much as I’d love to hang around and exchange life histories, I think you’d better get moving. I’ve got a few things to take care of before the task force arrives.”

“Sure, no problem, I’m on my way.” She headed for the door of the chamber.

“Remember, you were never here.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t forget.”

“One more thing,” Rafe added.

She froze in the doorway and looked back at him. “Damn, I knew this was too good to be true. You’re doing me a favor and you want something in exchange, don’t you?”

“Are you always so cynical?”

“I’m a realist.” She gave him a chilly, totally false smile. “Side effect of my talent.”

“Yeah? What does that have to do with being realistic? Hell, never mind. We can talk about it later. As it happens, you’re right, I am doing you a favor today. Don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t. So, what do you want in exchange for letting me go?”

“How about a date?”

She went blank. “A date?”

“We could have coffee and swap life histories.”

“Are you serious?”

His eyes heated a little. “Definitely.”

“I thought you had concluded that I’m a Siren.”

“I like music, so sue me.” He shrugged. “About that date for coffee?”

A frisson of recklessness sparkled through her. “Why not?”

“It’s a deal.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“It won’t be hard to find out. All I have to do is look up the details about the Wife Killer wedding.”

“It’s Ella. Ella Morgan.”

He smiled. “I’ll call soon, Ella.”

She fled before either of them could change their minds. The utility sled was right where she had left it. She jumped up onto the bench seat and rezzed the little motor.

She fought back the giddy wave of excitement and forced herself to think clearly and logically about what had just
happened. Rafe Coppersmith would never call. He had been riding a tide of after-burn energy, just as she was. The side effects that followed a heavy expenditure of talent were well-known. It sometimes heightened sexual desire in both men and women, which, in turn, led to rash decisions and poor judgment. When Rafe sobered up he would realize that the last thing he wanted was a date with her. After all, he knew what she was.

According to Morgan family tradition, men generally had one of two reactions to Sirens. They either developed a sick, dangerous obsession with them or they ran like hell.

Rafe didn’t look crazy so she doubted that he went in for freaky obsessions. That meant he would probably turn out to be the other kind.

Just as well, she thought. The fact that he had guessed her secrets had probably doomed the chances of any long-term, meaningful relationship from the outset.

When he came down off the rush generated by adrenaline and paranormal heat, Rafe would think twice about dating a Siren. He would do what any smart man would do—run like hell.

“Mom, I’ve got to go. I ordered a pizza for dinner and it’s due to arrive any minute.”

“All right,” Sophia said. But she sounded deeply reluctant. A coloratura soprano, she was capable of infusing even her speaking voice with over-the-top operatic emotion. Maternal concern shimmered in her words. “You’re sure you’re going to be all right on your own tonight?”

“I’ll be fine, Mom. But I’m exhausted. I need some rest.”

“But what about that FBPI agent? You said he suspected that you were a you-know-what. If he tells his superiors, you’ll probably end up on some FBPI watch list. Everyone knows law enforcement likes to keep an eye on certain kinds of talents.”

Ella reminded herself that her mother was a longtime subscriber to the
Curtain
. Fans of the paper were inclined toward conspiracy theories.

“I don’t think he’ll tell anyone about me,” Ella said. She was not sure why she was certain that Rafe would keep his suspicions about her Siren talent a secret, but her intuition told her she could trust his promise. “For one thing, he’s not an actual FBPI agent. He’s a private consultant. He doesn’t have the same obligations to the Bureau that an agent would have to his superiors. Besides, it’s not a crime to be a strong talent. He’s pretty damn powerful himself.”

“Well, that probably explains why the FBPI recruited him. According to the
Curtain
, the Bureau uses all sorts of dangerous mega-talents to run secret, off-the-books operations in the Underworld.”

Ella thought about the task force that Rafe had mentioned and then she thought about his own ability to rez Alien weapons.

“The
Curtain
may be on to something with that particular conspiracy theory,” she said. “Look, Mom, I’m really beat. I need to get some sleep. My friend Lydia Chen is getting married next week. I’ve got a fitting for my bridesmaid dress in the morning.”

“Another wedding? Good grief, is that your third or fourth in the past two months?”

“It’s the wedding season, remember? I’m very busy.”

“All of your friends seem to be getting married this year.”

“Tell me about it. I seem to be the bridesmaid of choice. I’m booked out for the next four months.”

“Because you’re one of the few available for the position. All of the others are busy planning their own weddings.”

“Well, there is that, yes.”

There was a short, unsettling pause. Ella braced herself for what she knew was coming next.

“Have you thought about your aunt’s suggestion?” Sophia asked.

“That I register with a matchmaking agency and lie on the questionnaire? Sure. It sucks.”

“Now, dear, she didn’t tell you to lie. She simply suggested that you omit certain details about your talent.”

“Mom, it would mean I’d be marrying someone who doesn’t know the truth about me.”

“Everyone has a right to a few secrets, dear.”

“I know, but this is one that would be hard to keep from a husband.”

“Not necessarily,” Sophia said. “Men are remarkably oblivious about a lot of things, provided the sex is good.”

And no one could fake it like a Siren, Ella thought.

“I don’t want a husband who is oblivious to my true nature,” she said.

“Mr. Right will come along someday, dear.”

“Sure. Look, don’t worry about me, okay? I’ll be fine. Love to Dad. Good night.”

She ended the connection before her mother could think of another reason to keep the conversation going.

It might not be a crime to be an off-the-charts talent, but it could put a real crimp in a person’s social life, not to mention one’s matrimonial possibilities. When the talent in question happened to fall into the potentially lethal category, a Covenant Marriage was almost out of the question.

It was true that the matchmaking agencies sometimes found good matches for powerful talents, but the odds were poor. When the prospective bride was a Siren the odds went down to about zero.

She had known since college that the best she could reasonably look forward to was a series of affairs or maybe a few Marriages of Convenience. In such arrangements it was understood that the relationships were not permanent. The individuals involved in an MC had no obligation to divulge their secrets. Both parties knew that the marriage could be ended on the merest whim—no harm, no foul.

That was not true of the far more binding Covenant Marriage. The laws had eased somewhat in recent years but a CM was still expected to last for life. Getting out of one was so difficult and so expensive and so costly in social terms that people had been known to resort to murder rather than divorce court in order to escape.

She had made the mistake of confiding the truth about her psychic nature to a lover on only one occasion. That had been back in her third year of college when she had still been naïve enough to think that love could conquer all. Things had not gone well. She had learned her lesson.

Coffee with Rafe would be a unique experience. It would be a thrill to go out on a normal date with a man who knew her secret up front.

•   •   •

The pizza arrived a short time later. It was the large, family size. She had been starving when she ordered
it, but now that she’d had a glass of wine it appeared huge. She suspected she would have leftovers for breakfast.

It would have been nice to have someone else to share the meal with, she thought. What she really wanted to do was talk to someone about the events of the day; someone besides her mother.

But confiding in a friend was not an option. The only other person who knew what had actually happened down in the tunnels was one Raphael Elias Coppersmith, and he wasn’t around.

Get over it, she thought.
He knows what you are. By now he’s thanking his lucky amber that he survived physical contact with you while you were both running hot.

Time to be realistic.

She carried the big pizza and a second glass of wine out onto the tiny balcony. She was determined to shake off the wistful sensation. She had a new business to launch. She needed to stay focused. Rescuing dust bunnies and meeting high-powered FBPI consultants was exciting but it did not a career path make. She was a dream counselor, one who had not yet managed to snag her first paying client.

From her perch she had a view of the top of the ancient green quartz wall that surrounded the ethereal spires of the Alien ruins. The Dead City had been constructed from the same impervious stone that had been used to build the catacombs. After dark it glowed with an eerie green energy that enveloped the Old Quarter in paranormal light and shadow.

She settled back, swallowed some wine, and contemplated the view. In addition to the Dead City Wall and
the ruins, she could see another structure from her balcony. The gleaming edifice of the newly constructed Crystal Center office tower was also visible.

Someday, she thought, after she had attracted enough clients, she would move Morgan Dream Counseling into Crystal Center. Image was everything in her line. As long as she did business out of a small storefront office in the Quarter, potential clients were likely to view her as just another low-rent psychic. But if she moved into the tony office tower, people would see her as an exclusive dream therapist.

She heard the chortle just as she reached for the second slice of pizza. A large ball of fluff vaulted up onto the railing. The dust bunny had a small object gripped in her two front paws.

Ella suddenly felt much better.

“Hey, there,” she said softly. “I never thought I’d see you again. I hope you’re not expecting me to go back down below tonight. I need rest. Want some pizza? No sleeping drugs involved, I promise.”

The dust bunny bounced off the railing and scurried across the balcony. She hopped up onto the table and chortled enthusiastically. Ella pushed a slice of pizza toward her.

“Help yourself. It’s the family size and I don’t have any family around to share it.”

With the glaring exception of herself, the various members of the Morgan clan were almost always on tour.

The dust bunny tossed the object she held at Ella and went to work on the pizza with dainty greed.

Ella held the rock up to the light. “For me? Really, you shouldn’t have.”

She opened her depleted senses a little and immediately detected a tingle of energy. Curious, she examined it more closely. In the light slanting out of the living room behind her, the stone glowed bloodred.

A shock of excitement whispered through her.

“Ruby amber,” she said. “Oh, my goodness. I’ll bet it’s worth a freakin’ fortune.”

The amber was uncut and untuned but there was no mistaking its beauty or its power. She looked at the dust bunny.

“Don’t misunderstand, I do appreciate a client who pays her bill, but please tell me you didn’t steal this,” she said.

The dust bunny chortled and started in on another slice of pizza.

•   •   •

The following morning Ella took the ruby amber next door to show to Pete. The grizzled ex-Guild man whistled softly when he touched the stone.

“Never seen anything like it in my life,” he said. He put it down on the counter and looked at Ella. “There haven’t been any rumors of stolen ruby amber, and believe me, I’d have heard if anything this valuable had gone missing on either the legal market or the black market. That means the laws of treasure-hunting and salvage apply. What are you going to do with it?”

“I want you to arrange to sell it for me, Pete,” she said. “For a serious commission, of course.”

“Sure. Then what? Going to retire to a tropical island?”

“Nope.” Ella looked down at the dust bunny riding shotgun in her tote bag. “Lorelei and I are headed for the big leagues. In my business, image is everything. Morgan Dream Counseling will close tomorrow. The Knightsbridge Dream Institute will soon be open for business in the Crystal Center.”

Pete lounged against the counter. “I understand the move to fancier digs. You’ve said all along that you wanted a polished, professional image because people tended to tag storefront dream counselors as fake psychics. But why the name change?”

“Knightsbridge Dream Institute sounds more exclusive, don’t you think?” Ella picked up the ruby amber, tossed it into the air, and caught it in her hand. “This rock is my ticket to the high-end dream counseling market.”

•   •   •

It was a good thing that she was very busy in the days and weeks that followed because, just as she had warned herself, Rafe Coppersmith never called. On the positive side, neither did the FBPI.

Rafe might have gotten cold feet when it came to a date, but he had kept her secret.