Tarot of the Archons (Immortal Montero Book 2) Page 2

  The colonel picked up the phone. “Yes?” As he spoke, he looked at his men, waved them out, and nodded. They left the room quickly, the clicking of the door marking their exit.

  “No,” the colonel said into the phone. “Do not send anyone up. It was a loud champagne bottle. We are drinking mimosas. No. I forbid it. My guards will not allow your security men to enter. Do you know who I am? Correct. Now do you understand? Good. Please send up a boy with a large, empty dining cart. He is to leave it with my men. Not at all. Thank you.”

  He hung up the phone and stubbed out his cigarette. After a look at me, he walked around his desk and went behind the wet bar, bent down, and came up with a bottle of Wild Turkey and an ice bucket. A tumbler came next. He reached for the ice, hesitated, pulled his hand back. Grabbing the whiskey, he twisted the top, breaking the paper seal, and poured two thick fingers of the dark liquid into the tumbler. He tossed it back, downing the large shot in one gulp.

  The glass rattled as he set it down, his face scrunched from the burn of the liquor. Slowly, the lines of his face relaxed. Now he added ice to the glass, poured more whiskey over the cubes, and returned to his desk.

  I had four, maybe five minutes before the houseboy arrived with the cart that the colonel undoubtedly planned to use to get rid of my body. Then this room would be filled with men, and I would never get near him.

  Straightening up slowly, I slid silently up the door frame until I sat up with my legs in front of me. The colonel relaxed in his chair, eyes closed, touched the cold, sweating glass to his forehead.

  I stood quietly and managed to take the four steps to his desk and sit down in the guest chair without making a sound. I wiped the blood off my forehead and ordered my body to repair the wound.

  The colonel lowered the glass, took a sip, and opened his eyes. I gazed into them. He made a sound—“guk!”—and coughed. His glass slipped from his fingers and fell into his lap. I heard the thump as the leaded crystal hit the carpet.

  I leaned forward, retrieved my gun from his desk and set it on my thigh. I pulled my pack out, shook a cigarette from it, and picked up the Zippo. I lit the cigarette and exhaled.

  “I am afraid we were rudely interrupted, Colonel,” I said.

  “But . . . you . . .” He looked back at the bathroom door, seeing the spatters of blood on the door frame and linoleum floor. “How . . .?” His eyes widened as he gaped at my forehead. I could feel the itching sensation as the gunshot hole closed. His complexion turned waxen and pasty.

  “Have another cigarette,” I said. “I guarantee you will not die of lung cancer.”

  He leaned forward and shakily lit another of his foul Chinese gaspers.

  “What are you?” he whispered.

  “A kami,” I said, using the Japanese word for spirit, or ghost. “And I have come to collect a debt.” I puffed, exhaled. “A blood debt.”

  “Please,” he said. “You have the wrong—”

  “You escaped the International Military Tribunal, but you were recognized—quite accidentally—by an attaché to US Naval Intelligence stationed here in Hong Kong.” I casually flicked ash off the end of my cigarette. “You really should have stayed someplace less luxurious, Colonel. But that wouldn’t do for you, would it? I am afraid your taste for elegance has left you exposed.”

  “And now you are here to kill me. Is that it?”

  “No,” I said. “I am here to make sure that the justice meted out to you, Colonel Nishiki, is sufficiently painful.” I ground out my cigarette and stood, leveling the gun on his chest. “Stand up.”

  He rose slowly, his smoking jacket dark where he had spilled his drink, drops rolling down the satin fabric and dripping onto the floor.

  “Now—”

  I heard a strange sound behind me, like an electric crackle. I instinctively hunched and turned toward it.

  A man stood in the middle of the room, leaning forward, his right hand extended toward me. The barbed shuriken flew halfway across the room before I saw it coming. I turned my head to the side, but one of the steel points sliced my face, slicing my cheek open. I grunted and dropped the Beretta. I stepped to the right, crouched defensively.

  My mind raged in turmoil: where had this man come from? Had there been two men in the secret room? No. The room was too small for that. And that sound . . .

  I felt my muscles tighten as the poison from the throwing star spread through my body. I took several gasping breaths. Curare. My lungs were shutting down.

  The colonel took his military sword off the wall and drew it out of its scabbard. The steel made a low, metallic hiss as he did. “Do you play baseball, Mr. Assassin?” he asked.

  I fought off the toxin but continued to pretend I was in respiratory distress, my legs shaking slightly.

  The colonel walked around the desk and stood in front of me. The other man walked over next to him, a tall man dressed all in black, skintight cotton, only his mouth and eyes visible.

  “On your knees,” the colonel said, gesturing with the sword.

  I fell to my knees, gasping, hand at my chest, eyes pleading.

  “I don’t know how you survived, but it must have been a freak shot,” he said. “Let us see if you can reattach your head.”

  He lifted the blade high. As the sword whistled down in a powerful arc, I leaned back, lying flat, feeling the heels of my shoes digging into my shoulders. The blade whirled over me. I continued with my motion, flipping over, pushing up with my hands, and landing on my feet. I picked the heavy glass ashtray off the top of the desk and threw it at the colonel, hitting him in the chest. He grunted loudly and fell to his knees as the ashtray thudded to the carpet. The sword jangled as it slipped out of his hand.

  The other man had a second poisoned star in his hand primed to throw. He did not. “Who are you?” he asked.

  I was intrigued, but I had a job to do. If this man hesitated, fine. I dove to the carpet, curled my hand around the butt of the Beretta, and fired at him just as he threw his shuriken. My gun made a soft spitting sound and a blue hole opened up on the man’s forehead. He jerked backward, falling flat. His throw went left. The barbed metal slammed into the side of the desk in front of my eyes, embedding itself in the wood.

  The colonel was still reaching for his sword when I swung the barrel of my silenced gun around on him. He gave a cry of fear.

  Voices in the corridor outside and footsteps pounding toward us told me I had no more time. I shot the colonel in his right hand and stood quickly. I took two steps and picked up his sword.

  “Please, can’t you leave me in peace?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He gave me an uncertain smile.

  “You may have that. The peace of the grave. Perhaps then, your victims will have it, too.”

  He tried to fall out of the way, but I had seen men try that for centuries. I leaned to the left, brought the sword straight down, and chopped off his head. The colonel hit the carpet. His head didn’t roll away, attached to his neck by a thin bridge of skin and sinew.

  I dropped the blade on the floor and ran to the sliding door, jumping over the body of the tall man on the way. The door burst open behind me just as I pushed through the curtain.

  “Stop!” a man shouted in Japanese. I continued onto the balcony. Two shots boomed out. A stabbing pain heated my back, and I flew forward, landing on my chest. I scrambled up, knowing I could not afford to let them catch me.

  The sliding glass door crashed the rest of the way open. I jumped on top of the railing and looked down at the filthy water, boulders below the surface.

  “Stop!” someone shouted again. More gunshots, too many to count. I dove forward as two bullets hit me in the back and three hit me in the rear.

  As the water rushed up and I approached the rocks—knowing how much this was going to hurt—I spread my arms wide, chest out, and kept my feet together in a perfect swan dive.

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  Friday, January 23, 5:18 p.
m.

  I lay in bed with a vampire, waiting for her to wake up. The sun would set in two minutes. The room radiated warmth, softly lit by the fading rays outside the open door.

  This marked the third time Aliena had stayed with me during the day. When the sun rises, vampires drop into an unconscious fugue and become as helpless as creatures can become. For that reason, they always sleep in places too difficult for mortals to access, like mountaintops, deep caves, or parts of the forest no one visited. By staying here under my supervision, Aliena had placed her life in my hands.

  We were in my Malibu home, in a guest bedroom I had decorated especially for her. In addition to the huge four-poster bed and Tiffany lamps, the modifications included blacking out the one big window in the room and changing the glass to a high-security bulletproof composite that could not be broken.

  The door leading to the rest of the house had a computer-controlled lock. A glass security panel on the wall next to the door served as the knob. To open the door, Aliena pressed her palm against the plate. A security scanner read her palm imprint and compared it with the examples in its memory. Once it confirmed her identity, it would lock or unlock. Once closed and locked, the door sealed the room from any possible intrusion. A matching scanning plate lay outside at shoulder height against the wall.

  I was the only other person allowed access by the scanner, but I entered only if Aliena permitted it. She had not allowed it before this morning.

  I reclined on my side, under the blankets. Aliena faced me, also on her side. Her thick mane of honey-colored hair spread softly on her pillow, spilling over her left cheek. Her pale complexion shone unblemished and unlined, and she looked peaceful as she slept. I stared at the sexy mole above her upper lip.

  In all the time I had known her, she had never given me the location of her daytime sleeping place, so I had never before seen her wake up. I wondered if she would stretch in her sleep or if her face would twitch or if she would blink when she came to life.

  She didn’t do any of those things.

  I watched, and one moment she slept; the next, her lustrous brown eyes opened and she looked at me. No blinking. No sleepiness.

  I smiled at her, reached over, and pulled her close. Her yielding, cold, curvy body pressed against mine. I kissed her lightly on her icy lips. “Good evening,” I said.

  She reached one arm up and wound it around my neck. “This is nice,” she murmured. “I could get used to it.” She closed her eyes and snuggled against me. “Mmmm, you are so warm.” Then she looked up at me suspiciously, raised the covers, and looked down at her body.

  “What?” I said.

  “Just checking.” She lowered the blankets.

  I did not like her implication, so I decided to tease her.

  “Of course, any time today, I may have undressed you, played with your magnificent body for two hours, and then put your pajamas back on.”

  She gave me a stern look, her smooth brow now creased in a frown. “Did you?”

  “No.” I waited. “I played with it for three hours.”

  She wound her other arm around my back and crushed me to her. I howled as she cracked two vertebrae and broke three of my ribs.

  “That is not funny, Sebastian,” she said fiercely in my ear.

  “Okay,” I said, the pain of the broken bones immediate agony. “No more jokes! I promise!”

  She released me. I rolled onto my back, rubbing my chest gingerly and grimacing at the stabbing, broken-glass feeling of my internal engine repairing my spinal column.

  Note to self: do not tease Aliena when she wakes up. She’s cranky in the early evening.

  “I am so looking forward to the program at 49 tonight,” she said, still on her side, now with her hand supporting her head. It relieved me to see she had gotten over my pain so quickly.

  When I didn’t say anything, she stroked my chest, climbed on top of me, pressed her hips into mine, leaned down, and tongued my neck. “You promised, Sebastian.” She breathed against my skin, sending shivers through me that contrasted sharply with the fading pain of my injuries.

  “Yes, I promised.”

  She smiled and hugged me—gently this time. She jumped out of bed, her Bugs Bunny pajamas swaying, walked over to the wardrobe, and opened the doors. My ribs and back ached, but they were nearly repaired so I swung my legs out of bed. I had joined Aliena just a few minutes earlier and had gotten under the covers fully dressed, except for my shoes.

  “Hamilton called again yesterday,” I told her, lacing a brogue. “He wants to talk to us.” I work as a consultant to the LAPD, and Steve Hamilton is the detective with whom I usually work.

  “He is very sweet.”

  “No,” I said, without thinking.

  She turned around. “You do not tell me no. I will not take him, but that is my decision, not yours.”

  I could not seem to stop making mistakes tonight. “You’re right. I apologize. I did not mean to say it that way. I just meant he has a high enough profile and a real value to me as he is.” I opened my mouth to add more when she laughed, a tinselly giggle.

  “You may stop your analysis. I would never drink Detective Hamilton. I prefer him alive. Whenever he is near me, I can feel his desire washing over me in waves, and I find the sensation enjoyable.”

  “I’m sure.”

  She gave me a sad smile. “I wish he could let me have a small drink. I would even let him squeeze my bottom for that.” Aliena did not have a bottom. She had a booty. A can.

  I knew the experience of being on her bill of fare. The first night I encountered her, in 1864, I had played the role of dinner—one of those Aliena had decided to consume completely. Vampires rarely kill their “meals” since mortals would notice if too many people died of exsanguination. But Aliena was hungry that night and had taken me with the intention of draining me dry. Only my prodigious ability to replenish my blood saved me.

  Hamilton had never been touched. He knew nothing of my immortal nature and remained unaware of the existence of vampires.

  “He hasn’t seen us in a month,” I continued, “and we did run out on him last time. I know he has many questions.”

  “Yes,” Aliena said, shucking off her pajamas. “I’m sure he does. And most of them will be questions I would rather not answer.” She moved some of her clothes around. She kept the rest of her garments and personal belongings in an apartment she owned in Studio City.

  Standing on her toes she reached for a towel off the top shelf of the armoire. Comfortable with her nakedness—even though she had been born in the seventeenth century, a time when nudity was nearly as bad as blasphemy—Aliena thought nothing of undressing in front of me. I loved her bare body, but her curves were ridiculously sexual, making it difficult for me to remain casual. Although she and I were dating (sort of), we had only reached the kissing and hugging stage, so the excitement of seeing her nude was tempered by the frustration of not being able to touch her.

  In spite of her incredible body, her beautiful face made her unforgettable.

  She padded across the room, her movements smoothly feline, her feet hardly seeming to touch the thick carpet.

  “We will have to work with him again,” I said, “and he’s not going to forget.”

  She disappeared into the bathroom. “I am not so sure I want to work with him again, not after last time,” she said, her voice echoing.

  I could understand that. On our previous case, she had almost been raped and killed by the very serial murderer for whom Hamilton and I had been searching. Oh, and this killer had also been a sorcerer who wanted to cut Aliena’s heart out so he could use it in magical rituals. It was what you’d call a traumatic experience.

  The shower began running.

  “He has some hard questions for me, too, you know that,” I said. “I am going to do what I always do when it comes to questions about my nature.”

  She came back to the door with the towel wrapped around her. “Lie?”

  “Of co
urse. It makes up for all the other times when I tell the truth and it makes me look bad.”

  She frowned. “I’ve never heard you say anything that made you look bad.”

  “That’s because you’ve known me for less than a hundred and fifty years.”

  She gave me a look. Then she removed the towel and slowly closed the door.

  After her shower, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, Aliena flew off to get someone to eat. We agreed to meet at 49—her favorite club—at midnight.

  I turned on the TV and switched to a football game replay. Five minutes later my cell buzzed. I muted the game.

  “Montero.”

  “Sebastian, it’s Hamilton.”

  Speak of the devil. “Yes, Steve. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m over in Brentwood,” he said loudly. I could hear other voices in the background, some shouting. “We’ve got an interesting one. I’d like you to take a look.”

  Brentwood sat southeast of Beverly Hills and Bel Air Estates, with pricey homes nearly as exclusive as those of its cousins.

  “Of course,” I said. “What’s—”

  “You’re going to have to speak up.”

  I shouted, “What’s so interesting?”

  “Oh, nothing much. Just a dead rich man in a room locked from the inside.”

  “Did you say locked from the inside?” I pointed the remote, turned off the big screen.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then it’s suicide,” I said, disappointed.

  “No. Gunshot wound to the temple.”

  “So? Still sounds like suicide.”

  “No gun.” The din behind him increased. I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly.

  “What?”

  “So far, SID has not been able to find a gun in the room,” Hamilton yelled, referring to the Scientific Investigation Division. “I’ve looked it over, too. There is no sign of the murder weapon.

  Chapter 2

  Friday, January 23, 6:28 p.m.

  The address Hamilton gave me was off Sunset Boulevard on Ashford. When I arrived twenty-five minutes after receiving Hamilton’s call, emergency vehicles clustered around the residence and yellow tape surrounded the front yard.