The Tenth Legion (Book 6, Progeny of Evolution) (9 page)

“Did I die and
go to Heaven?” Lorna muttered to herself.

A large plasma
television imbedded in the wall blinked on. A man’s face, three
feet high, came into focus. Lorna recognized Edward White, Junior,
CEO of Coven International, Inc. “No, Ms. Winters,” the face
answered in an amicable, if detached, voice. “This is my house. You
are my guest.”

Remembering
the drugs, along with the rest of the circumstances most certainly
involved with getting her to this palatial bedroom, she became
belligerent. “Mr. White, do you invite all of your guests by
kidnapping them?”

He chuckled,
leaning forward. The television screen enlarged the adamantine jaw
line while accentuating the upturn of his nose. “No, I don’t, but
the options available to meet and thank you for the service you
provided to me, and my family are limited.”

“A drop by the
office would have been nice.”

“Ms. Winters,
there are compelling reasons, some of which I cannot get into, as
to why I don’t go out in public. If there’d been any other
way…”

“What about a
simple thank-you note?”

The great
countenance smiled introspectively. “Your imaginative solutions and
quick thinking to preserve our documents impressed Karla and Thomas
very much. No easy task, I assure you.” He paused, lifting a
magnificent, chiseled face for her inspection. “I was intrigued. A
note would never do, especially after I had my staff run a search
on you.”

“And what did
you find?” Lorna’s voice rose.

Ed sighed,
flipping through a folder on a desktop, beyond camera view. Then,
engaging her in a level gaze, he replied, “I have your whole
history, Ms. Winters. I was as interested in learning about you as
you were about me.”

Lorna frowned,
remembering the search done on the office computer. “I used a
secure police search for that.”

“Apparently
not secure enough. You spent several hours researching me along
with several members of my family.”

“That was
official police business in connection with an ongoing
investigation.”

“Well, it’s of
no matter. After reading about you, I decided on a personal
meeting. As I said, I don’t get out much, and you’re an interesting
person. You’re quite accomplished, with many admirable qualities. I
admire your keen, intuitive mind, as well as your-ah-spirit.”

In conjunction
with the last sentence, a two-inch-tall green eye winked languidly
through the monitor.

“It sounds
like you’re offering me a job,” Lorna quipped, too aggravated to
appreciate the gesture. At the mention of “job,” she remembered the
peril hers enjoyed at the hands of Captain Gregg. “Well, you put me
in a hell of a mess. I’m way late for work. You’ll probably cause
me to be fired.” Her eyes cut to the open window. She assessed her
chances of escape. Hell, even if she managed to get out, she had no
idea where she was.

“You needn’t
worry. I’ll give you a note explaining the absence.”

“You’re not
serious? Do you think we’re in grade school? They don’t accept
notes at OPD for unexcused absences. They hand out reprimands. Or
pink slips.”

From under a
square brow, two eyes of hard emerald took a moment to study her.
“My notes, they will honor. I assure you. You need not worry about
loss of job or pay.” The words emerged in the nature of a casual
statement of fact, but in a tone leaving no doubt the subject was
closed. “Now,” he resumed. “I have meetings. Should you require
anything, there’s an in-house telephone at the bedside. The staff
has placed necessaries and a collection of new clothes in the
closet. I hope you find them acceptable. I chose a few of the
outfits myself.”

I can imagine
what those must look like.

Aloud, she
gave him quick thanks, along with a perfunctory smile.

“The room
you’re in is special. I asked the staff to place you here. For
nearly fifty years, it belonged to my grandparents. My earliest
memories were of playing on the floor around the very bed you spent
the night on.

“Karla will
call for you at noon for lunch. My son Ethan, whom you met last
evening, is scheduled to escort you to dinner. I’ve tasked close
members of my family rather than employees to attend you, so you
may learn about us before we meet for dinner.”

What an
elitist stuff shirt!

“Shall I
invite my Gran to fill you in about me?” she snapped.

Almost
nonexistent lips curled up at their respective ends. “The
corporation has vast resources, but even we are unable to get her
here from Mars in time for dinner.”

Realizing he’d
indeed completed a thorough search, she couldn’t help smiling.
“Then I shall see you tonight?”

“At eight.
Until then, explore the room and try to enjoy your stay.”

The television
screen went dark.

Lorna observed
the surroundings.

What did he
mean by “explore the room”?

As a piece of
history, sure, of interest to other lycan and vampire historical
buffs, but that group didn’t include her. Dismissing the comment,
she walked to the closet.

Two spaces,
each the size of a respectable-sized bedroom, opened into a
mirrored hallway between. The mirrors were on the back sides of
sliding doors that accessed the closets. At the end of the hall,
under lights blazing in violation of a dozen utility conservation
laws, sat a makeup vanity with a comprehensive selection of
new-in-box cosmetics for her use. Lorna examined a few of them. The
colors were right, but the brands were well above her price range.
Heck, she still fished around in the depths of her present lipstick
with a Bobbie pin to get the dregs of gloss in order to postpone
another purchase.

Opening the
first panel of the closet door, she peeked in. The space had room
for ten times more clothing than she found. A dozen dresses,
skirts, and gowns hung together, occupying a fraction of the long
mahogany pole. A built-in dresser contained underwear, hosiery,
lingerie, and belts. Another hanging rod held blouses, all brand
new. A shoe rack covering the long side contained a half-dozen
pairs of shoes, arranged with preciseness in the middle. Lorna had
to admit, someone had done an excellent job of color coordination,
but more to the point, they’d known what she liked. The collection
boasted a lot of green, her favorite color.

She had to
admit. A closet full of expensive, attractive clothes went a long
way toward relaxing a contentious situation. Lorna decided to
postpone pursuing further plans to escape, at least for a
while.

With
inspection of the wardrobe complete, she returned to the main part
of the bedroom, taking off her clothes and spreading them around.
She wanted to stake the space out as her territory with objects
containing her scent, if only temporarily. The newer, bolder aromas
she brought would overwhelm the older, faded ones already there.
Out of curiosity, she concentrated to sort and decipher the
indigenous traces. More than odors answered. Sensations flooded
her, telling of immense, sustained happiness witnessed by the room
and its furniture. The joys of love and family burnished by the
fullness of time. Sagas, of loyalty, faith, and trust crossed
generations.

Binding all
together, she perceived the enduring passion between beings who
loved deeply. The outpouring overwhelmed her. She hurried to
retrieve her things and put them in a small pile, returning the
room to the spirits who rightfully owned it.

By contrast,
the essences from her life reeked of anxiety combined with
resentment, first over the burden she presented her parents, and
later after coming to live at Gran’s house because there was never
enough of anything.

I wonder if Ed
White appreciates how lucky he is.

* * * *

The
scents of
Floubert’s
, the
limousine interior, along with the last of scumbag Jerry Pease
trickled down the drain in the luxury of a shower not tied to a
timer, but the habit of working against a ticking clock was too
ingrained. She tried her best, but couldn’t make the ablution last
longer than five minutes. Still, it beat the hell out of the thirty
or forty-five-second specials back home. After finishing, she
wrapped in a towel capable of soaking up water instead of having to
practically scrape it off with the meager, hard cloths the rest of
the world used. Choosing a green outfit, she began to dress. Pink
lip gloss soon complemented the ensemble. From the selection of eye
shadows arranged on the vanity, a soft peridot green with a pink
highlight called out. The shading made her eyes sparkle, and the
thin black eyeliner enhanced the size in some indefinable way. Her
hair fell more or less into shape, framing her face in the
familiar, close fitting pageboy cut. The strands hung down as if
weighted at the bottom with lead—so drab, so ordinary.

If there were
something I could do with it.

“Yes ma’am?”
inquired the neutrally-toned voice.

“Do you have a
hair stylist available?” Lorna asked into the telephone, fingers
crossed behind her back tight enough to cut off circulation.

“Yes, ma’am.
Donatello can be to your room in five minutes. Will that be
satisfactory?”

‘
Yes!’
she
mouthed with excited silence, high-fiving with an invisible
partner. Aloud she said, “Perfect.”

Donatello was
a plump male African lycan about her height, close to two hundred
years old, with the first shimmer of gray appearing in hair that
had been jet-black during FDR’s administration. “What may I do for
you, darling?”

“This hair,”
she answered, lifting parts of it from her head, offering him a
closer look. “Can you do anything with it?”

Holding the
short tresses with a light touch, he let the strands slide across
stubby chocolate fingers, applying a critical eye. “Police
Department Regulation makes me cringe. It’s so blasted butch.”
Conducting a slow walk around Lorna, he arched a charcoal eyebrow
at anything he found interesting about her wardrobe and makeup
selections. “Very nice,” he said at length. “Very nice, indeed. I
wouldn’t change a thing. Where did you learn such style?”

“I get it off
the Internet. The principles are pretty logical.”

Donatello
peeked at the ornate timepiece hanging from a chain around his
neck. “Oh, look at the time. Ms. Karla will be here in twenty
minutes.” To the gathering disappointment on Lorna’s face, he said,
“I promise to come back this evening in plenty of time to get you
ready for dinner with the Chairman.”

“
Dinner
with the
Chairman
?”

“Yes ma’am,
that’s what we call Mr. White. I’ll have you as prettier than
Cinderella by then.” Clapping two pudgy black hands together, he
smiled and turned to leave. “Think of me as your fairy
godmother.”

“One more
thing,” Lorna asked of Donatello’s departing back. “Does your
chairman often have women to dinner as guests?”

The hair
stylist paused at the door, turning. “I never really thought about
it, but now that you mentioned it, no he doesn’t. In fact, there’ve
been none outside of business. You’re the first real guest in over
a year.” Surveying the room, he appeared to realize for the first
time where he was. “Come to think of it, you
are
the only one he put in the First Parents’ room
outside of immediate family.”

“Aromas tell
of a powerful family presence here.”

Donatello’s
expression grew serious. Taking Lorna’s hand in both of his, he
asked, “The room spoke to you?”

“Yes, in a
manner of speaking. I believe it has lingering old scents.”

Secretly, she
believed what she sensed had been more than olfactory
stimulation.

“My dear, this
room has never done that. You must be special in some way. When I
return, we will speak more.”

After his
departure, Lorna speculated on how she could be special to the
family White in any way. A notion chipped away at the back of her
mind.

Is this what
Ed White meant when he said to explore the room?

The digital
clock on the carved teak dresser rolled to twelve noon, bringing a
soft knock on the door. “Ms. Winters,” said a frail voice from
beyond the closed door. “Karla May here. Are you ready for
lunch?”

“Come in, Ms.
May.”

Two females
stood in the open doorway. The elderly one, she’d expected. The
tall, striking one, she had not. “May I present my daughter,
Cynthia?”

“You named her
after your mother?”

“Yes, and the
resemblance between them is strong, is it not?”

Cynthia’s
forbearance toward at the comparison went over her mother’s head,
but not Lorna’s. “Mom, you’re putting our guest on the spot.”

Although more
than seventy years had passed since the older Cynthia’s tragic
death, not a week passed without some kind of reference to her
through the entertainment streams. A still picture or news footage
commemorated a career milestone, a love affair, or one of the
legions of good works she accomplished in her short life.

The lycan
namesakes shared the same coloring—chalk-white skin with a touch of
pink in each cheek, black hair and eyes, set off by pouty red lips.
The Cynthia in the doorway stood six feet tall. Lorna had no way to
vouch for the height of the older one, but had seen enough film
clips and pictures to estimate a similar height. The young Cynthia,
while lovely, lacked a subtle clarity of feature that set her
grandmother apart from all other females of her time, and maybe any
other who ever lived. Lorna understood, however, that for Karla,
only one correct answer existed.

“Yes, like two
peas in a pod.” Using lycan senses, Lorna gauged Cynthia’s
controlled discomfort, and wondered about the peculiar hells
associated with living in the shadow of a legend.