Breath of Magic by Teresa Medeiros
Cop said, "Suppose Arthur traveled to sixteen sixty-nine ten years ago, lost Warlock to some irate hooker he'd stiffed for the bill – sorry, Arian – then spent the next twenty years searching for it."
"Would it have taken him that long to locate this woman? Or her child?" Tristan asked.
Cop nodded. "Possibly. You have to remember that this was before the days of mass communication. He couldn't exactly slap her picture on a milk carton. And at the time of their encounter, she wasn't some renowned courtesan. She was simply a common – "
"Whore," Arian gently provided.
Cop winced. "I sincerely doubt that Arthur wanted to draw attention to himself by reporting the theft to the local authorities."
Tristan nodded, conceding the point and encouraging Cop to continue.
"Even if Arthur had found the necklace, that wouldn't mean he would have had to return to the present exactly twenty years after he left. He could have programmed Warlock to deliver him right back to nineteen eighty-five. He'd be twenty years older, but you'd still be that same shy, gullible boy. Or he could travel back to nineteen sixty-three and prevent you from ever being born."
Arian shuddered and Tristan reached across the table to take her hand.
Cop's gaze drifted between the two of them, his voice losing its edge as if to lessen the impact of the coming blow. "If Arthur's been stuck in the seventeenth century for twenty years, his daughter has had ample time to come of age."
Daughter.
The word had such a grim finality to it. Tristan kept hold of her hand while he studied her face as if searching for some elusive hint of his old friend. It was not a pleasant feeling. Although Arian had entertained frequent fantasies about the father she'd never met, she could derive little comfort at the prospect of being the daughter of a man her husband despised.
When Tristan drew back his hand, her heart did a painful little backflip.
He looked at Copperfield, then at Sven. "Would you please excuse us?" The men filed out quietly, leaving them alone.
Arian was the first to break the awkward silence. "Did you find a family resemblance? If you'd like, you can check beneath my hair for horns."
Tristan offered her a ghost of a smile. "If you were hiding a forked tail, I think I would have noticed it last night."
"I'm not so sure about that."
He simply gazed at her, all that had passed between them in that misty bathroom darkening his eyes.
She sifted her fingers through Lucifer's silky fur. Keeping her voice light was becoming more of a struggle. "Copperfield failed to point out the obvious. If I am Arthur's daughter, isn't there a chance that I've been in league with him all along?"
"Have you?"
Arian had wanted Tristan to laugh, to scoff aloud at the ridiculous notion, not fix her with that level stare of his and ask her the one question she should never have had to answer.
She bowed her head, no longer knowing if last night had been about love, revenge, or magic. Even if she still possessed the amulet, there was no spell to make Tristan believe in her, no spell to erase the shadow of suspicion from his eyes. His trust would have to be given freely. She would not beg for it.
Scooping Lucifer into her arms, she rose to her feet.
Tristan's face betrayed his bewildered anguish as he reached across the table and caught her hand, his grip rough with desperation. "I need time, Arian. Can you just give me a little time to get used to the idea?"
Arian smiled down at him through a veil of tears. "Take all the time you need. I've certainly got more than I can use."
She gently withdrew her hand and slipped from the room, feeling Tristan's tortured gaze follow her every move.
Arian huddled on the settee, her fingers buried in Lucifer's soft fur, and watched the shadows of twilight creep across the living room. The salad Sven had sent up nearly two hours ago sat untouched on the coffee table.
She'd never felt more like a prisoner, not even when she'd been jailed in that tiny shed in Gloucester.
She could not bear to go into the bedroom with its rumpled sheets that smelled of Tristan's cologne and the leisurely spell of loving they'd shared at dawn. The bathroom was even worse with its scattering of damp towels and evocative memories.
Cruel doubts spun and darted through her mind, torturing her. What if Tristan didn't come? What if his loathing for Arthur Finch was stronger than his love for her? What if he would never be able to look at her without seeing the echo of Arthur's sneer in her smile? Perhaps he feared spending the rest of his life casting her sidelong glances, wondering when she was going to plunge the knife into his back.
It would not be easy for him, she knew. He had never trusted anyone completely, not even himself. And she was asking him to trust her with a treasure so precious and fragile he'd been hoarding it ever since his mother had left him on the steps of that orphanage – his heart.
Arian reached automatically for the amulet as she had done so often in times of trouble. Her hand closed on empty air. The emerald was gone, but if she had learned anything in the past few weeks, it was that the world was brimming with magic.
Not the superficial sort of magic children dreamed of with wish-granting genies popping out of bottles and lonely beasts turned into princes by a kiss, but a magic born of true love and hope for the morrow and the grudging smile of a man to whom smiles did not come easily.
Bowing her head and squeezing her eyes shut, Arian wished, harder than she'd ever wished when she was a little girl. She no longer wanted to summon some noble prince to her arms, but simply a man with all of his flaws and strengths.
Her man.
The elevator chimed. Arian jerked her head up, almost daring to believe it the tolling of some celestial bell. Her heart soared in anticipation as she settled Lucifer on the pillows and jumped to her feet.
She was at the elevator doors before they could even begin to part, wanting the first thing Tristan saw to be her welcoming smile.
She was still hovering there, that tender smile trembling on her lips, when Sven's limp body rolled over her feet.
Tristan was standing in the courtyard when the feeling of utter calm came stealing over him. He had been standing there for a long time, hands in pockets, gazing at the ice-clotted fountain, yet feeling no cold. It was so quiet he could hear the snow falling, each flake muffled against the ermine cloak spread over the courtyard. The serene silence gave the desolate wonderland the air of a tomb, a paradise fallen.
One minute, he was trapped in a vise of indecision, the next, all his doubts were banished, his fears soothed. His spirits rose, free to soar for the first time in a decade.
He adored his wife. She adored him. They would work out the rest. It didn't matter if Arian was a time-traveling Puritan or Vlad Dracula's daughter. All he knew was that he wanted to spend the rest of his life proving his faith in her.
He threw back his shoulders, brushing the snow from them. He would bundle Arian into the limo tonight, he decided with a smile. He would offer his chauffeur the rest of the week off and drive her to Connecticut himself. He would book a room at some rustic country inn and give her the honeymoon she had always deserved. Perhaps if the snow thawed and their cozy bed didn't prove an insurmountable enticement, they would even go out hunting for land. Surely together they could find a little chunk of heaven to build their dreams upon.
He turned toward the bank of glass elevators, desperately eager to join his bride.
Cop stood there, clutching a cordless phone in his white-knuckled hand. Tristan's own heart seized up at the sight of his friend's bloodless face.
Cop held the phone out to him. "It's Wite Lize. He wants to trade Arian for Warlock."
30
Ninety-six stories above the courtyard on the roof of the Tower lurked a far more brutal world with no gently falling snow or crisp winter breeze. The wind here was a roaring, battering dragon, whipping its tail so hard against the Tower you would almost swear you could feel it shifting beneath yo
As soon as Tristan burst through the fire door, he realized the truth. Hell wasn't hot. Hell was standing on the roof of a New York skyscraper in a subzero wind chill with snow being driven into your eyes like slivers of glass. Satan was a dragon who breathed ice, not fire, and for a bone-numbing minute, as Tristan sucked that glacial blast of brimstone into his lungs, he thought he was going to die.
But with his next breath, he learned that hell was the sight of Arian standing there on the edge of that roof with no coat and no shoes, just Wite Lize's frail old body to shield her from the dragon's wrath. He would have almost sworn he could hear her teeth chattering.
His blood boiled with rage. He wanted to howl with it. Wanted to march across the roof, snatch his wife from Wite Lize's scrawny arms, and slap the old fool senseless. But the snubnosed revolver pressed against Arian's jaw froze him more effectively than any dragon's breath.
Wite Lize beckoned him closer, and Tristan knew none of their vocal chords would stand much pounding by this ruthless wind. He complied, inching forward until he was near enough to see the frantic gleam in Arian's eyes, the bob of her milky throat as she fought to swallow her terror.
If she went so far as to muster a brave smile for him, he thought he just might cry for the first time since Bambi's mother went down under that hunter's bullet.
"Did you bring what I wanted?" Lize bellowed, his theatrical training serving him well, even on this bleak, windswept stage. He was wearing flowing white robes like some sort of second-rate Merlin from a bad sword-and-sorcery movie.
Tristan drew Warlock from his pocket, dangling it by its chain in a tantalizing arc.
"Don't try anything cute," Lize warned, tightening his arm around Arian's waist. "I promise you that I can pull this trigger before you can even think 'abracadabra.' "
Tristan might have considered doing just that, but Arian was the only one who knew how to work the damn thing. He could hardly afford to jeopardize her life by turning himself into a goat or conjuring up a pair of turtledoves.
"Don't you dare give it to him," Arian shouted, struggling to be heard above the wind. "He'll destroy you if you do. He'll destroy us all. He's an even bigger wretch than his son."
'Why, thank you, my child," Lize crooned. "I find your flattery quite scintillating."
Good girl, Tristan thought. Prod his vanity. Get him talking and buy them some more time. Time for Sven to secure his ropes and come crawling over the edge of the roof. Sven, who had a sore jaw and a score to settle with Lize for coldcocking him with the butt of the revolver. Maybe even time for the SWAT team from the NYPD Special Forces Unit to battle their way through the snow-clogged streets.
All they had to do until then was keep the old man talking. Tristan deliberately laced his voice with withering scorn. "Don't believe anything the senile old fool has to say, Arian. It was Arthur, not Lize, who masterminded the entire scheme."
Lize sputtered his indignation. "I think not! It was my idea to befriend you in the first place. Not that it was any great challenge. You were so eager, so pathetic, so starved for any crumb of affection."
The truth had lost its power to sting. "And I suppose it was your idea to murder me, too."
"Most certainly. Then Arthur had to go and bungle it. I told him, 'Wait until he's asleep, bash him in the head with a blunt object, then put the pillow over his face and smother him.' But no! He had to go all artistic on me and fetch the carving knife. Blasted boy never did have any respect for authority."
Tristan shook his head in mute disbelief. All these years, he had harbored poisonous guilt for corrupting his friend, never realizing that Arthur had been rotten to the core from the beginning. Arian had twisted around to gaze at Wite Lize's face, her own expression more horrified than his. She was probably wondering just how deep this strain of family madness ran. Tristan feared she was about to find out.
Wite Lize shook the revolver in the air. "I'm the one who deserves the magic! I'm the one who's been booed off every stage between here and Pasadena! Just think how impressed my audiences would be if I could actually saw my assistant in half, then piece her back together again."
Arian shuddered.
Tristan stiffened as he saw Sven's blond head emerge from the darkness. Despite his size, the Norwegian's motions were a study in stealth. He came creeping over the edge of that roof just like one of the heroes in the action movies he'd always longed to star in.
But Lize's voice had changed, become amiable, almost cajoling. Its sickly sweet tones sent a chill down Tristan's spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "But I really can't take credit for everything, you know, since it was my darling granddaughter here who delivered the coup de grace. She was the one bold enough to beguile you with her feminine wiles." He gave Arian a tender glance. "I'm surprised you didn't notice the family resemblance. I recognized her the moment I laid eyes on her. Like father, like daughter, I've always said, but you saw only what you wanted to see."
"Why, you miserable old wretch! Don't believe him, Tristan!" Arian cried out, beginning to struggle in earnest. "I never conspired against you. He's only bluffing!"
She slammed her fist into Lize's chest, then stomped his toes, utterly heedless of her own safety. Sven paused in a crouch, not daring to intervene for fear of hurting her.
"Arian, don't!" Tristan shouted, terrified the old man would lose patience and simply shoot her.
Ignoring Tristan's warning, Arian broke away from Lize's grip and ran straight for her husband's arms. But ice had slicked the roof's surface and she went skidding, her feet careening out from under her. She landed on her stomach with a nasty thud that knocked the breath from her lungs. For a moment there was a silence so profound she could not even hear the wind.
When she could breathe again, she dragged up her aching head and opened her eyes. Tristan stood less than ten feet away, and from his fierce expression, she could almost convince herself that he longed to run to her – to pick her up and dust her off and kiss the tip of her nose. But what was stopping him? Was it because he believed the terrible things Wite Lize had said about her?
She twisted her head to peer behind her. It must be the gun. The gun pointed at her back. Pointing the gun at Tristan would not have stopped him, and Wite Lize knew it. Arian squinted, wondering if she was only imagining the immense shadow creeping across the roof toward Wite Lize.
The magician stomped his foot like a petulant child. "Give me Warlock! I want Warlock now!"
Tristan grinned and drew back his hand. "Here you go, old man. It's all yours."
Everything seemed to happen in a blur. The amulet went sailing over Arian's head in a glittering arc toward Lize's outstretched hand. Just as his gnarled fingers closed around it, Sven came out of nowhere to smash his fist into the old man's jaw.
But then the gun went off and Sven dropped, clutching his thigh. Blood blossomed between his pale fingers.
The amulet in one hand and the gun in the other, Wite Lize cackled triumphantly, his white robes rippling against the inky sky. "She's my granddaughter, you dolt. Do you really think I'd be heartless enough to shoot my own granddaughter?"
Wite Lize brought the barrel of the gun around and Arian realized he had never planned to shoot her. He was going to shoot Tristan. He was going to finish the job his son had botched all those years ago.
"You wouldn't dare," Tristan said. He did not cower or flinch, but stood tall and proud, his tawny hair whipping in the wind, as Lize aimed the gun straight at his heart.
Arian half crawled, half lunged to her feet, intending to knock Tristan out of harm's way. But her feet could find no purchase on the icy roof and she skidded right into his arms. She heard the dull report of the gun an instant after the bullet ripped through her back.
A wild cry tore from Tristan's throat as Arian crashed into him. He caught her in his arms and they both went down, just as he and Arthur had done so long ago. Her eyes fluttered shut, her lashes dusky crescents against her pallid cheeks. Her c
An irresistible darkness was spreading through Arian's veins, dimming everything around her and dulling the pain in her back to a nagging throb. Something wet struck her face. Bewildered, she struggled to open her eyes, to ask Tristan when the snow had turned to rain.
When she finally managed to pry apart her heavy lids and blink away the swirling fog, Copperfield was there and Sven and oddly enough, Wite Lize, standing over them all, the smoking pistol hanging limp from his liver-spotted hand. Arian knew instinctively that they had beaten the old man. Warlock would be returned to its rightful master before this night was done. The realization filled her with peace. She sighed, snuggling deeper into the delectable warmth of Tristan's arms and letting her eyes drift shut. Perhaps she would just steal a tiny nap.
"She's my granddaughter," Lize whispered, tears welling in his rheumy blue eyes. "I never meant to harm her."
"Heal her, then," Tristan snarled through bared teeth, gathering Arian's limp form to his breast. When Lize just blinked stupidly at him, he roared, "The amulet! Use the godforsaken amulet!"
Wite Lize opened his other fist as if he'd forgotten his ill-gotten treasure. "Ah, yes, the amulet," he murmured. "Very well. I suppose I can manage some suitable spell. After all, I've spent my entire life preparing for this moment."
As Tristan rocked back and forth, using his own body to shelter her from the wind and cold, the old man mumbled a few words beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously like pig Latin.
"There now," he said, beaming brightly. "That should do it."
Hardly daring to hope, Tristan peered over Arian's shoulder at her back. Although blood still dripped from his fingers, the dark, pulsing wound was slowly shrinking, closing inward on itself until no trace of it remained. Tristan wrapped his arms around her and held her as if he would never let her go.
He barely felt Cop's worried tap on his shoulder. "Uh, Tristan?"
"Mmm?" he murmured, burying his face in Arian's silky curls.