Awen Rising Page 5

  In a place of prominence on the wall in front of the mahogany desk hung a large portrait of Wainwright in a judge’s robe. He was flanked by an older couple, his parents Emily assumed. The woman was adoring, the man cold and distant. She could imagine the attorney sitting at his desk, reliving what would have been a glory moment, tempered by a taciturn father.

  A picture-lined alcove led to a window that had been left slightly ajar. The sound of drums drew Emily’s gaze. Against the high walls of Emory, a band of scruffy Rastas grinned and played. She bounced to the rhythm and smiled when the youngest finished a solo with toothy flair.

  The sun pierced a cloud and glinted off a frame. The picture was of a young boy held aloft by a man and displaying a stringer of fish. Emily leaned closer, surprised that it was the man from her mother’s photograph. She looked from boy to man and back again. Their eyes were the same. But what would her birth father be doing with the attorney? Were the Wainwrights family friends?

  Emily returned to the window. Clouds scurried across the pale blue sky and the sun rode low. A BMW convertible, sleek and sexy, cleared a security gate and screeched into the parking lot on two wheels. Mitchell Wainwright. Emily would bet her last dollar.

  The top went up and the door opened. A man with wind-tossed hair the color of sun-licked straw unfolded from the front seat. He tucked his shirt into tailored trousers, straightened a red power tie, and buttoned a svelte, charcoal jacket.

  Emily approved. Suits and ties might be considered old-fashioned, but they were still apropos in her opinion. He hefted a thin briefcase and jogged to the entrance, disappearing from view.

  **

  Draig Ooschu rolled from side to side in the storm-fraught sea. No matter how keen her sensing abilities, the water dragon could find no trace of the Awen. Her trail had gone cold again.

  Against her deepest instincts, Ooschu contemplated defeat. She needed help. But Draig Talav was on the east coast, as were the sleeping Keepers. If Ooschu could fly or walk, the nearest wormhole would be a quick trip. By water, it was thousands of miles.

  Ooschu couldn’t shake the vague premonition there was a faster way. But when she tried to focus, it eluded her grasp. There was nothing for it but to start swimming.

  She sank beneath the stormy surface of Catalina Channel and headed south. She could ride the swift California Current to the tip of Baja, then turn north and make for the cleft in the Gulf of California.

  **

  Emily was in the bathroom repairing her makeup when the attorney finally pushed through the door of his inner sanctum. Heavy footfall announced his presence outside the bathroom door.

  “Ms. Hester? Are you in there?”

  For a moment, Emily froze. She met the reflection of her eyes in the mirror. Gulping, she mouthed, “you’ve got this”, then fluffed her hair and opened the door.

  Wainwright stood, jaw agape as if Emily was some mythical creature. A cherubim, or mermaid, or something of that ilk. Something the lawyer had never seen.

  She, on the other hand, had seen the look before. Mostly from men. It was the hair.

  When the stare continued, the heat rose in Emily’s neck and face. An attorney should know better, especially one that had kept his client waiting for way too long.

  The heat of cortisol surged through Emily’s body. Her blood sugar crashed. And God help them, the mean took over. Her bottom lip pooched out and she unloaded on him.

  “About time you got here. And one hears so much about southern hospitality. Do you always leave your clients waiting for hours? Bet you don’t have many, do ya?”

  Pleased when Wainwright’s jaw dropped a half inch further, she flounced out of the bathroom and pushed by him. She reached the middle of his office, wheeled and planted her fists on her hips.

  The attorney almost smiled, but the look in her eyes must have stopped him. Smart man. She could be dangerous when provoked. Lethal, if you factored in the years of jujitsu and aikido her mother had forced her to take.

  Wainwright’s ears reddened. “I am truly sorry.” His tone matched his hue. “I did try to get the case postponed or expedited, but the judge wouldn’t do either. If it helps, she took delight in torturing me all afternoon, then tore me a new one before we recessed.”

  Emily huffed, only a little mollified.

  “I had every intention of picking you up at the airport.” Condescension crept into the attorney’s tone. “I’m sorry if you were inconvenienced.” The dark eyebrows lifted. “You are my top priority, Ms. Hester, but you are not my only one. Did Rochelle not take care of you?”

  “It’s explanations I want,” she spat.

  The attorney winced. “How about I answer your questions over dinner?”

  Now that was something Emily could get behind. Food. And answers. At last.

  “Jocko’s is not far. And I promise it’s the best pizza you’ll ever put in your mouth. What do you say?” He flashed a conciliatory smile, no doubt trying to diffuse the bomb ticking in front of him.

  But…Jocko’s Pizza. That was worth reining in the mean.

  Emily blinked and tried her best not to glare. Failing, she looked down and mumbled, “I’m sorry. My blood sugar hit the floor twenty minutes ago.” Looking up, she extended a hand, embarrassment warming her cheeks. “Hi. I’m Emily Mayhall. And I very much need to eat.”

  “Mitchell Albom Wainwright the Third.” The attorney took her hand and a jolt of electricity sizzled up Emily’s arm, straight to her heart.

  Startled, she let go and backpedaled, retreating to the comfort of a purring Ralph, who eyed her from his cage. She had read about such jolts but had never experienced one. What did it mean? That this man was her soulmate? Surely not.

  The thought sent an unpleasant shudder through her. She was certain the attorney had felt something, too. His soft hand had recoiled at the same moment and the blue eyes had sparked with astonishment, then something not unlike knowing.

  A surreptitious glance told Emily he rifled absently through papers on his desk. What did the attorney know that Emily didn’t?

  **

  Back in his quarters, Nergal perused the details of Shalane Carpenter’s dossier. If reptiles could blush, Nergal would. He had never seen a human female with the voracity this one exhibited.

  Nergal paged through the information, most of which pertained to her life after priesthood. There was little information on Shalane’s family. He pored through the list of friends and acquaintances, cross-referencing ages and addresses, looking for a clue.

  When he saw Camille’s name, Nergal’s lizard heart thudded. And when he found more references, it nearly burst from his chest. Camille had definitely been something to this woman.

  Paging up to Shalane’s birth data, Nergal found what he was looking for. Shalane Carpenter was born to Lila Snow and Lloyd Carpenter, but lived with her maternal grandmother, Camille Bernstein Snow, from age eight until age eighteen. This woman was descended from his Reylian lover.

  A pain shot through his chest and he glanced at the syncranometer. It was not feeding time, so no hunger pang. Striding back to his PC, Nergal stared at the mixed-breed humanoid that likely carried his blood. The pain pierced him again, a dagger that twisted and ripped at his heart.

  For one crystalline moment, the Draco knew—he was no better than the humans he reviled. But swift was denial. Hate replaced the aberrant weakness. Nergal slammed his scaled fist into the screen.

  The mixed-breed woman repulsed him. When he was done with her, he would tear her to shreds, one excruciating bit at a time. Only icy determination kept him from pulling the plug now.

  Shalane Carpenter knew magic and had a large following. Through her, Nergal could manipulate many humans. Then, when Nergal was done and AboveEarth belonged to the reptiles, the abomination would die. Along with all the humans and mixed-breeds.

  Jocko’s Pizza

  J ocko’s Pizza was an institution. Emily had seen it featured on a food network years before and added it to her r
estaurant bucket list. On the flight from L.A., she’d opened a magazine and there it was, one of the top five pizza restaurants in the country.

  What the article failed to mention was that Jocko’s manager was smoking hot, and as yummy as the pizza. He approached the table and spoke to Mitchell. But his eyes were on Emily.

  “Good evening, Mitch. Glad you stopped by.”

  To Emily he smiled. “Welcome to Jocko’s Pizza. Is this your first time here?”

  She nodded, tongue-tied. He was just her type, dark and sultry with wavy black hair that flopped in his eyes. He shoved it back and extended his hand.

  “My name is Lughnasadh MacBrayer, Lugh for short. And yours, mi’lady?” His black eyes lingered on Emily’s lips.

  “E-Emily,” she stuttered. “Emily Mayhall. Nice to meet you, Lugh.” She ignored the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. “I’m looking forward to trying your famous pie. Mitchell tells me it’s the best pizza ever.”

  The pirate-manager beamed and nodded at Mitch. “So, we’re told. Thank you for bringing Emily in.” The aroma of steaming pizza preceded the waitress, who held it aloft in one hand. Lugh stepped back.

  “Genevieve will take good care of you. But if you need anything, I’ll be around. Enjoy.” Eyes on Emily, he backed away.

  The waitress settled the pizza pie on the tall holder and dished slices before retreating.

  Emily took her first bite and sighed. “Mmmm.” She rocked in her seat as the flavors exploded. “Mmm, mm, mm, mm, MMM!” Moaning, she took another bite.

  By the third slice Emily was beyond full and stopped to wash it down with Coca-Cola. The pizza was living up to her expectations and then some.

  The attorney fleshed out details in between bites of pizza and swigs of beer, but not enough to satisfy Emily. He would only say that his instructions were to deliver her to her new-found father’s home, where all Emily’s questions would be answered.

  “Will I stay at the house or a hotel?” she pressed, thinking of her meager funds.

  Wainwright smirked. “That I have been authorized to tell you. Your father’s estate includes a carriage house that will be at your disposal. So, no, a hotel will not be necessary. You know. Southern hospitality and all.”

  Emily couldn’t help grinning. He had cheek. She would give him that.

  He steepled his fingers under his chin and watched her next bite with fascination. “So, I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “About what?” she mumbled, mouth full.

  “The pizza being the best you’ve ever tasted.”

  “Oh. Well. At least second best.”

  The offhand remark earned her a searing scowl from Wainwright, and a concerned glance from the sexy manager who was behind the bar serving drinks.

  She blinked coyly. “Possibly first. But at least second.”

  Mitchell Wainwright’s square jaw dropped. “Not first? Really? You mean California has something that can beat this? Name it.”

  Emily grinned. Turned out the attorney was sensitive and didn’t like to be wrong. She filed that away for future reference. But he did know good pie.

  “I was a kid and don’t remember. I do remember it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. Mama thought so, too, because I remember she raved.”

  Emily dabbed a pizza bone in parmesan cheese and stuffed it in her mouth. “This is kinda like that.” She jumped when Mitchell slapped his hands on the lacquered tabletop.

  “Because it’s the same pizza. Think about it. You lived only a few blocks from here and you were four when she ran off. Old enough to remember pizza.”

  Though his remark rankled, awareness dawned. Emily thumped her forehead with the butt of her palm. “Shit. You might be right. Or…nah,” she waffled.

  She tried to shove the idea from her mind, but it anchored and took hold. Something ancient stirred inside her. A lock opened and a velvety richness spread through her body. She looked around the pizza parlor, seeing it anew.

  “Why not?” Mitchell watched her through narrowed lids. “Jocko’s opened in nineteen-seventy, long before you were born. That slice of pie you’re referring to, little lady, was eaten right here in this dining room, maybe even at this table.” He jabbed his thumb at his chest. “Which means I am right. Jocko’s is the best pizza you ever put in your mouth. Admit it.”

  Emily crowed, “Dude! I’ve got chill bumps on my chill bumps! Do you know what this means? I remember being here. Maybe this whole fairy-tale malarkey you’ve been feeding me is true. I wanted it to be, but I’ve had serious doubts. In spite of that birth certificate and the pictures and whatnot.” The attorney looked annoyed. “Those can be faked. I’ve seen it enough. But the pizza is concrete evidence. Omigod!”

  Mitchell thrust an index finger at her. “Hold that thought.” Smugness riding his triumphant lips as he whipped his cell phone to his ear. “Mitchell Wainwright.”

  The light faded from the intense eyes. The cornflower hardened to grey steel. Mitchell glanced at Emily and then stared at a spot just above her head. The bold features, expressive before, stiffened to stone.

  “We’re on the way.” A quick gesture brought Lugh MacBrayer scurrying.

  Butterflies bloomed in Emily’s gut as he approached, black eyes fixed on her. A smile warmed his quixotic face. For an instant, she forgot both Mitchell and the fear-alarms clanging in her head. Then the attorney cleared his throat, recalling her attention.

  “What’s wrong?” she hissed in a low voice. “Why are we leaving?”

  Wainwright ignored her and shoved a fifty-dollar bill at Lugh, who asked, “Is everything okay?”

  Mitchell’s brusque, “Not now, Lugh. We have to go. Keep the change,” shut down any further discourse.

  Skimming her coat and purse from the back of the chair, Emily nodded in apology to the handsome man. She hurried to the door and galloped for the car.

  “What is it?” she asked again.

  “Your father is in an ambulance en route to the hospital.” Mitchell disarmed the alarm. “For everyone’s sake, you better hope he pulls through.”

  Horrified, Emily fell into the passenger seat and fumbled for the safety belt. “My birth father is dying?”

  Wainwright slid into the driver’s seat. “We’ll know soon. The hospital is less than a mile away.”

  But it was five after five and almost dark. Traffic was at a standstill. Wainwright tried first one street and then another, but each avenue was clogged. The attorney finally settled in the line of unmoving cars, mumbling, “Come on, come on, come on.”

  A haunting tune drifted from the stereo, familiar, but not. An electric guitar whined, an organ toned, and a plaintive voice warned a rabbit to run.

  “What is this?” she asked the now saturnine man thrumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

  Without bothering to glance her way, he mumbled, “Pink Floyd. Dark Side of the Moon,” and shoved them a few car-lengths closer to the light. He almost made the yellow before slamming his brakes at the red. Emily’s seat belt grabbed and held fast.

  “Hey!” She rubbed her shoulder. “You damn near put me through the windshield.”

  No response came from the stony profile.

  Glaring out the side window, Emily wondered what kind of mess she was getting into. A fountain caught her eye, shimmering silver in a grove of white trees. Then the light changed and the attorney punched the accelerator. She craned her neck, but the fountain and grove vanished when they cleared the intersection.

  The sports car cornered a tight turn. Emily clutched the overhead strap and swayed, but in her mind’s eye she was in that fountain on a summer’s day, giggling and chasing an older, freckled boy with strawberry hair.

  Chills crept up Emily’s spine and along her scalp. She had been in that fountain as a little girl. Was the boy Emily’s brother? Was that him in the photograph in Mitchell’s office?

  Palm Springs

  A fter a bumpy start, the first day of Shalane’s Evangelical Tour went off without
a hitch. Every seat was filled. Overflow crowds crammed into two nearby buildings to witness a larger than life Shalane on closed-circuit TV. The rest huddled under huge tents dotting the Palm Springs landscape, watching on strategically placed screens.

  For the most part, Shalane had managed to relegate her fears to the nether regions of her brain. But the headache persisted, progressing in intensity with each passing hour. White willow bark had dulled it enough to finish the previous day, but this morning her eye throbbed like a mother-fucker.

  Inspecting wider than usual pupils, Shalane wondered if she might have a brain tumor. Fear blossomed raw, sharpening the agony. Desperate, she dug for the pain pills she had hidden in the bottom of her luggage. Just in case.

  Catching her grimace in the mirror, Shalane sighed and shook her head. Why must she always be her own biggest critic? Breaking the seal on the prescription bottle, she removed a tiny yellow Tapentadol and chased it with a sip of spring water.

  Her manager would be furious. He had said he never knew if one pill would lead to two, or two would lead to four. Or how many it would take before Shalane was off, running toward addiction, needing more, more, more.

  This one was necessary, she justified. She couldn’t hear God through a raging headache. Plus, what her manager didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Or at least he couldn’t use it as a tool against her.

  At the thought of her bossy, but sexy, manager, her twat twitched. She leered at herself in the mirror, then closed her eyes to “see” him better and tweaked her nipples until they were hard. She would like to use his tool all right.

  But it was time to go on stage and give the people what they paid for—day two of a three-day audience with God. Channeling the newly erupted sexual energy through her root chakra, Shalane forced it up her sushumna all the way to her crown, before blowing it skyward through her stargate chakra.

  Breathing deeply, Shalane allowed the iridescent particles of descending energy to suffuse her with golden trails of shimmering light. Fully charged, she strode from the dressing room, down the hall, and out onto stage without missing a beat.