Spellcasters (50 page)

Both men glowered at him as if this might be a new street name for an automatic rifle.

“A sheet of paper bearing ancient text,” Lucas said.

One guard pulled it out and unrolled the scroll. The paper was brand-new, gleaming white, and covered in precise, graceful strokes of calligraphy. The guard screwed up his face.

“What does it say?” he asked.

“I have no idea. It’s Hebrew. I’m transporting it for a client.”

They handed it back, unfurled and creased. As they checked out my laptop and overnight bag, Lucas straightened the scroll and rolled it. When they finished, Lucas hoisted both bags and we headed toward the boarding area.

“What
is
that?” I whispered. “My spell?”

“I thought you might need a distraction after today.”

I smiled up at him. “Thanks. What does it do?”

“I’m choosing option two.”

I remembered the option game and laughed. “Too late, Cortez. The
deal was that you had to tell me last night. You’re home now, so the scroll is mine, option-free.”

“I would have selected an option, had you not distracted me from my purpose.”

“What, my listing the options prevented you from choosing one?”

“Most effectively. Option two.”

“Hand it over, Cortez.”

He thumped the scroll into my outstretched hand. “I’ve been robbed.”

“Well, there is a solution. You could get me another spell.”

“Greedy,” he said, steering me to a quiet spot along the wall. “An unquenchable thirst for spell-casting power and variety. This does not bode well for our relationship.”

“Why? Because you’re just as bad as I am?”

With a fluid two-step, Lucas moved from my side to my front, and turned to face me. He arched one brow.

“Me?” he said. “Hardly. I’m a disciplined and cautious spell-caster, well aware of my limitations and with no desire to overcome them.”

“And you can say that with a straight face?”

“I can say everything with a straight face, which makes me a naturally gifted liar.”

“So how many times did you try my spell?”

“Try your spell? That would be wrong. Grievously impolitic, not to mention impolite, rather like reading a novel before you wrap it as a Christmas gift.”

“Twice?”

“Three times. I would have stopped at two, but I had a modicum of luck with the second effort, so I tried again. But, sadly, a successful cast eluded me.”

“We’ll work on it. So what does it do?”

“Option two.”

I socked him in the arm and started unrolling the spell.

“It’s a rare gamma-grade sorcerer ice spell,” he said. “When cast upon an object, it acts much like a beta-level ice spell, freezing it. However, if cast upon a person, it induces temporary hypothermia, rendering the target unconscious. There were four options, weren’t there?”

“Three … no, the movie theater makes four.”

“Four options. Ergo, if I provide you with four spells …”

“Now who’s greedy?”

“I’m only asking whether the implied promise of one spell for one option could be reasonably translated to mean four spells would get me—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, pick an option already. It’s not like you wouldn’t get any of them anytime you wanted.”

“True,” he said. “But I like the added challenge of attaining it. Four spells for four options.”

“That wasn’t—”

“There’s our flight.”

He picked up our carry-ons and headed for the boarding area before I could get in another word.

The official “meet-the-parents” visit. Has there ever been a greater torture in the history of dating? I speak from hearsay, not experience. Sure, I’d technically met plenty of old boyfriends’ parents, but never through the formal introduction process. More like bumping into them on the way out the door. The “Mom, Dad, this is Paige. See ya” kind of introduction.

I’d met Lucas’s mother, but there hadn’t been a lead-up. She’d appeared at our door one day, housewarming gifts in hand. Had I known she was coming, I’d have been terrified. Would she disapprove because I wasn’t Latina? Wasn’t Catholic? Was living with her only child after exactly zero weeks of dating? It didn’t matter. If Lucas was happy, Maria was too.

The Cortezes were another matter. Benicio had four sons, of whom Lucas was the youngest. The older three worked for the Cabal, as was traditional for all members of the central family. So Lucas was already the odd man out. His position wasn’t helped by the fact that Benicio and Maria had never married, likely because Benicio had still been married to his wife at the time of Lucas’s conception, which would make Lucas … not the most popular guy at family reunions.

In a Cabal central family, like any “royal” family, matters of succession are all-important. It is assumed that a son of the CEO, usually the oldest, will inherit the business. Not so with Benicio. While his three eldest sons spent their adult lives toiling to improve the family fortunes, who had Benicio named as his heir? The illegitimate youngest son who had devoted
his
adult life to destroying the family business, or at least buggering it up real good. Does this make any sense to anyone besides Benicio? Of course not. Either the man is a mastermind of family manipulation or just plain fucked in the head. I don’t use that word much, but in some cases, nothing else fits.

We took a cab from the airport into the city. Lucas had the driver let us out in front of a café, where Lucas suggested we stop for a cold drink
because it was at least ninety degrees and, with the full sun beating down, felt more like a hundred, especially after the chill of an Oregon autumn. I argued that I was fine, but he insisted. He was stalling. I scarcely believed it, but after twenty minutes of sitting on the café patio, pretending to drink our iced coffees, I knew it was true.

Lucas talked about the city, the good, the bad, and the ugly of Miami, but his words were rushed, almost frantic in their desperation to fill time. When he took a sip of his drink, more reflex than intention, his cheeks paled and, for a moment, he looked as if he might be sick.

“We don’t have to do this,” I said.

“We do. I need to make the introduction. There are procedures to be followed, forms to be completed. It must be official. You aren’t safe if it isn’t.” He lifted his gaze from the table. “There’s another reason I’ve brought you here. Something else that’s worrying me.”

He paused.

“I like honesty,” I said.

“I know. I’m just afraid that if I pile on one more disadvantage to being with me, you’re going to run screaming back to Portland and change the locks.”

“Can’t,” I said. “You put my return ticket in your bag.”

A soft laugh. “A subconsciously significant act, I’m sure. By the time today is over, you may very well want it back.” He sipped his coffee. “My father is, as we expected, less than overjoyed by our relationship. I haven’t mentioned this because I felt there was no reason to confirm your suspicions.”

“It was a given, not a suspicion. I’d be suspicious if he
was
overjoyed at the thought of his son dating a witch. How loudly is he complaining?”

“My father never voices his objections in anything above a whisper, but it is an insidious, constant whisper. At this point, he is merely raising ‘concerns.’
My
concern, though, is that with his trip to Portland he appears to already be assessing your influence over me. If he decides that your influence will negatively affect his relationship with me, or my likelihood of becoming heir …”

“You’re afraid I’ll be in danger if your father thinks I’m coming between you two?”

Lucas paused.

“Honesty, remember?” I said.

He looked me square in the eye. “Yes, I’m concerned. The trick, then, is not to allow him to think that will happen. It would be even better if I could convince him that my happiness with you will be beneficial to him.
That the strength of our relationship might bolster, rather than tear down, the other relationships in my life.”

I nodded, as if I understood, but I didn’t. Nothing in my own life had prepared me to understand a parental relationship where a simple visit home had to be planned with the strategic cunning of a military engagement.

“I hope this doesn’t mean you’re planning to accept this case,” I said.

“No. My intention is simply not to refuse as vehemently as I normally do, or he’ll blame you, however illogical the reasoning. I will hear him out, and I will endeavor to be more receptive to his paternal attentions than is my wont.”

“Uh-huh.”

Lucas smiled. “In other words, I’ll make nice.” He pushed his half-filled glass to the middle of the table. “We have a few blocks to walk. I know it’s hot. We could call a cab—”

“Walking is good,” I said. “Though I can just imagine what the humidity has done to my hair. I’m going to meet your family looking like a poodle with a live wire shoved up its butt.”

“You look beautiful.”

He said it with such sincerity, I’m sure I blushed. I grabbed his hand and tugged him to his feet.

“Let’s get this over with. We meet the family. We fill out the forms. We find a hotel, buy a bottle of champagne, and see if I can’t get that spell working for you.”

“
You’ll
get it working?”

“No offense, Cortez, but your Hebrew sucks. You’re probably mispronouncing half the words.”

“Either that or my spell-casting simply lacks your expert proficiency.”

“Never said it. Well, not today. Today, I’m being nice to you.”

He laughed, brushed his lips across my forehead, and followed me out of the café.

I’d never been to Miami before, and coming into the city by cab I hadn’t been impressed. Let’s just say, if the taxi had got a flat tire, I wouldn’t have left the vehicle, not even armed with a passel of fireball spells. Now, though, we walked through the southeast section of the downtown core, along a dramatic row of steel and mirrored-glass skyscrapers overlooking the impossibly blue waters of Biscayne Bay. The tree-lined streets looked like they’d been scrubbed clean, and the only people hanging out on the
sidewalk were sipping five-dollar coffees on café patios. Even the hotdog vendors wore designer shades.

I expected Lucas to lead me to some seedy part of town, where we’d find the offices of the Cortez Corporation cleverly disguised in a run-down warehouse. Instead, we stopped in front of a skyscraper that looked like a monolith of raw iron ore thrust up from the earth, towers of mirrored windows angled to catch the sun and reflect it back in a halo of brilliance. At the base of the building the recessed doors opened to a street-front oasis with wooden benches, bonsai, overhanging ferns, and a circular waterfall ringed with moss-covered stones. Atop the waterfall was a carved granite pair of Cs. Over the double-width glass doors a brass plate proclaimed, with near-humble simplicity, “Cortez Corporation.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

Lucas smiled. “Reconsidering that vow never to be the CEO’s wife?”

“Never. Co-CEO, though, I might consider.”

We stepped inside. The moment the doors closed, the noise of the street disappeared. Soft music wafted past on an air-conditioned breeze. When I turned around, the outside world truly had vanished, blocked out by dark mirrored glass.

I looked around, trying very hard not to gawk. Not that I would have been out of place. Just ahead of us, a gaggle of tourists craned their necks in all directions, taking in the twelve-foot-high tropical aquariums that lined two of the walls. A man in a business suit approached the group and I tensed, certain they were going to be kicked out. Instead, he greeted the tour guide and waved them over to a table where a matron poured ice water.

“Tour groups?” I whispered.

“There’s an observatory on the nineteenth floor. It’s open to the public.”

“I’m trying not to be impressed,” I said.

“Just remind yourself where it all comes from. That helps.”

It did, dowsing my grudging admiration as quickly as if someone had dumped that pitcher of ice water over my head.

As we veered near the front desk, a thirtyish man with a news-anchor smile nearly knocked his fellow clerk flying in his hurry to get out from behind the desk. He raced toward us as if we’d just breached security, which we probably had.

“Mr. Cortez,” he said, blocking our path. “Welcome, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

Lucas murmured a greeting, and nudged me to the left. The man scampered after us.

“May I buzz anyone for you, sir?”

“No, thank you,” Lucas said, still walking.

“I’ll get the elevator. It’s running slow today. May I get you both a glass of ice water while you wait?”

“No, thank you.”

The man darted ahead of us to an elevator marked “Private.” When Lucas reached for the numeric pad, the clerk beat him to it and punched in a code.

The elevator arrived, and we stepped on.

I
nside, the elevator looked as if it had been carved from ebony. Not a single fingerprint marred the gleaming black walls and silver trim. The floor was black marble veined with white. How much money does a company need to make before it starts installing marble floors in the elevators?

A soft whir sounded and on what had appeared to be a seamless wall, a door slid open to reveal a computer panel and small screen. Lucas’s fingers flew over the keypad. Then he pressed his thumb against the screen. The computer chimed, the panel slid shut, and the elevator began to rise.

We exited on the top floor. The executive level. At the risk of sounding overimpressed, I’ll stop describing the surroundings. Suffice to say it was exquisite. Simple and understated, yet every surface, every material, was the best money could buy.

In the middle of the foyer, a marble-paneled desk rose, as if erupting from the marble floor. A beefy man in a suit sat behind a panel of television screens. When the elevator chime announced our arrival, he looked up sharply. Lucas steered me off the elevator and toward the left side of the foyer. A solid wood door swung open. Lucas glanced at the guard, nodded, and led me through.