Pranic, Pregnant, and Petrified (The Montgomery Chronicles Book 3) Read online

  I heard her heels on the terrazzo tile before I turned and saw her. A smack, slap that said: watch out, get out of my way, don’t mess with me. I tensed even before I turned.

  I don’t judge people on sight. Granted, my training as an adjuster had me making decisions quickly, but I’d learned that it was foolish to do that with people. Human beings surprised you. The guy who looked like he was homeless was worth three million dollars and the woman driving the Porsche was up to her neck in debt.

  In those thirty seconds or so when our eyes met, I blew it. I forgot everything I learned about not making snap judgments.

  The woman who stood in front of me, her mouth already moving, was a grade A, card carrying, certifiable, pin-wearing bitch. I knew it. I just couldn’t tell you how I knew it.

  Her black suit clung to every curve, the pencil skirt hitting her at the knee and revealing legs that, as they say, went on forever. The clickety clacking shoes were black, high, and enhanced her damn legs.

  I took in her figure in about five seconds, leaving me plenty of time to study her face. Like the receptionist, she had red hair, but hers had been toned down to a deep auburn. Her cheekbones were high, her cheeks hollow, and her mouth permanently pursed in a fish kiss/selfie portrait. Her eyebrows were black and dramatic, set on top of heavily lashed green eyes glittering at me like emerald chips.

  Some women were beautiful. Some were attractive. Some were just okay, but they had something about them that made you think they were prettier than they were. This woman, unfortunately, was not only beautiful, but she had that extra something.

  I hated her on sight.

  “Miss Montgomery?” she asked, in a voice that sounded like bells on a summer solstice morn. I would have preferred that she had a screech or at least brought calling the cows into the barn to mind.

  “I’m Diane Trenton, Mr. Travis’s assistant.”

  No secretarial post for her. No, she probably made more than twice what I had as middle management.

  She also smelled good. If she had been another woman, I would have complimented her on the scent and asked the name.

  Adult that I was, ahem, I remained silent. I don’t think I’ve ever been as jealous of anyone in my life or as suddenly.

  “Dan sends his apologies,” she continued. “He’s on a conference call. Can I get you something while you’re waiting?”

  A few days ago, I could have eaten my way through the castle. Lately, however, I wasn’t all that hungry. The idea of some foods made me roll my eyes and put them on the back burner list, which was a shame. A little comfort food wouldn’t hurt right now.

  “No, thank you,” I said, determined to be as polite. Too bad my voice sounded like croaking frogs.

  “Well, if you don’t mind waiting,” she said, her hands fluttering in the air.

  Was she French?

  “Not at all,” I said.

  Let’s face it, my mission was a damn sight more important than my feelings, girly as they were. I was not jealous. I had overcome jealousy. I was flying high above it. I was in the stratosphere above jealousy.

  She didn’t lead me to a cozy nook. She didn’t escort me to Dan’s outer office. She just gave me a pale imitation of a smile, turned on her heel and left without another glance at me or the receptionist.

  I caught the sweet young thing’s look and smiled. She ducked her head and pretended she hadn’t been sending the death ray to the “assistant”.

  Evidently, the fairy tale castle had a few personnel problems.

  I skimmed through all the magazines - each of them recent and none of them giving me a clue what kind of business Dan was in. No Soldier of Fortune, Guns R Us, or Mercenary Digest. I gave up the magazines and spent five minutes marshaling my arguments, plus an equal amount of time trying to quell my anxiety, and a good two minutes contemplating my shoes.

  I love sneakers. They beat the heck out of heels as far as I was concerned, but they did zip, nada, squat for your legs. In fact, in my orange sweatshirt and jeans, I was as far from Diane Trenton as a pot belly pig was from a lioness.

  Damn the woman.

  “Marcie.”

  I looked up and saw him. The earth didn’t move. A crack of thunder and a white zigzag of lightning didn’t blind me. But something happened. My stomach moved. I felt it turn over and an attendant rise in my blood pressure. I’d made love to this man. I’d laughed with him and slept beside him. He’d saved me more than once.

  I met his eyes, watching as his widened.

  What did he see when looking at me?

  He reached me, holding out his hand as if I were infirm and needed help standing. In a few months that might be true. Regardless, I put my hand in his and allowed him to pull me up until I stood in front of him.

  Had he always been so tall, so masculine? Had he always smelled so good?

  “What is it, Marcie?”

  I didn’t want to say anything in front of the sweet young thing.

  “Can we go to your office?”

  He nodded, but there was a question in his eyes. At least he wasn’t acting cold like he’d been in the courtyard.

  We walked down a wide corridor lined with pictures of buildings. I didn’t stop to investigate whether they were Cluckey Fried Chicken locations or something else. I should have stopped and looked, but I had other things on my mind, like talking Dan into doing something I bet he didn’t want to do.

  Dan turned left, led me through a warren of closed doors with names and titles in brass beside the door frame. Nothing looked wrong, like Jeff Smith, Chief of Weirdness or Lance Thomas, Chief Excuses Officer. Everything looked fine, but I’ve learned in the last few months to delve beneath normal to the oddities below.

  Miss Pursed Lips, aka Diane Trenton, sat in her own glass fronted office beside Dan’s door. She looked up, did a cursory lip movement and then went back to studying her monitor. How much you wanna bet she pulled up information on me? Maybe I should come back and wake her up after she read it.

  Dan halted beside double doors, reached out, turned the handle on the right one before stepping back. I walked inside, hoping that my mouth wasn’t dropping open and my eyes weren’t buggy.

  I’ve seen quite a few offices, from headquarters of the CEO to the broom closet occupied by the accountant. I’ve never seen anything like the room I entered. The castle had a medieval, King Arthur and the Round Table kind of theme. I expected it to be replicated in Dan’s office.

  Instead, it was just the opposite.

  Eight monitors on the far wall showed charts and scrolling lists. I know zip about the stock market, but I could certainly tell that they were stocks and that it wasn’t just the New York Stock Exchange up there.

  A mammoth black glass desk in the shape of an apostrophe sat in front of the wall of monitors. Three monitors, connected together, sat elevated on the fattest part of the desk facing a large leather and stainless steel chair. The arms were fixed with keypads, making me wonder if all Dan had to do was punch a number to get all sorts of things to happen in that room.

  In front of the odd shaped desk were two chairs, both black leather and stainless steel. A conference table of the same black glass surrounded by a dozen or so chairs sat on the other side of the room. Above it was a pod of black metal. I wondered if it was a projector, a hologram machine, or a super duper communications system. Two large dark squares at either end of the table probably changed into television screens.

  The only thing not high tech was the view from the wall of windows. The tear shaped lake took pride of place, the lights of the gazebo glittering in the blackness.

  I crossed over the large oval rug woven with a red pattern on a black and white background.

  It took me a minute, but I finally figured out that there was some kind of coating on the window. Either that or a shade that blocked any glare and was invisible outside the castle. I suspected everything about this room was shielded from just about anybody.

  Dan had been quiet during my inspe
ction. I turned to face him.

  “Just who are you?”

  “You know me better than anyone, Marcie. I’m surprised you’re asking that.”

  That was a good move, playing on my embarrassment. I knew him, in the biblical sense, but did I know him in the intellectual - who are you really - sense? I didn’t think so.

  He stood a few feet away from me, arms folded, face impassive.

  "Why did you join the Rangers?" I asked.

  He frowned at me, but answered anyway. ”To serve my country. Because it was a challenge."

  That answer didn’t take any second guessing since it sounded like the truth.

  “What did your grandfather say?”

  “He wasn’t happy,” he said.

  “But you didn’t care. You did what you thought was right.”

  He nodded, but there was a waiting and watchful look in his eyes.

  I took a seat in front of his desk. I’d always thought Dan was an anachronism, a twenty-first century man who looked at home in this medieval world, but I was wrong. He looked even more comfortable in these high tech surroundings.

  Instead of sitting behind his desk, he sat beside me. I almost wanted him to put the acre of glass between us.

  “Is there such a thing as a werewolf Congress? Or a shape shifter counsel? Some group that works in an organized fashion? Do the elves have a guild?"

  "Each has an organizational hierarchy, yes. Why do you ask?”

  "How do you know?" I asked. “If you aren't one of the Brethren, if you aren’t a witch or a vampire, how do you know?”

  “My archives," he said. “My grandfather collected everything there was to know about the strength, numbers, and cultural aspects of both witches and vampires. I added to them, plus made a copy of all the OTHER’s files. If you ever want to read what’s there, you’re welcome to access the vault.”

  "What, you haven't digitized it?"

  He shook his head. "Our system is as secure as the best IT professionals can make it, but that doesn't mean it's perfect. I've never seen a system that’s a hundred percent secure. Some of that information should never become public."

  “Can I see it?”

  I half expected him to refuse. I didn’t think he would whip out a business card. On the back was written: Level S-3, Archive A, followed by a series of letters and numbers. Just key in the combination at the door, then sign in with the archivist.

  Archive A? Archivist?

  “How many archives do you have?”

  “A few,” he said.

  He did that a lot. He was very generous with information, then he just clammed up. It drove me nuts.

  I turned the business card over, half expecting only his name and a phone number. Instead, the card read: Dan Travis, CEO, UI, Inc.

  “What’s UI?”

  “Universal Investigations.”

  I looked up at him. “You’re a private eye?”

  He shook his head. “I’m an investigator,” he said.

  Tomato, to-mah-to.

  “And you concentrate on the paranormal, don’t you?” I said, guessing.

  “Not necessarily.”

  That wasn’t exactly an answer, though, was it?

  "What about zombies? Are there such things as zombies?"

  Please say no. Please say no. Please say no. There were just so many things I could accept and zombies were two steps beyond that line in the sand.

  "I don't know," he said, unsmiling.

  I thought about Charlie. I suspected his owner wasn't quite human, but I didn't have any kind of Brethren radar. I used to get headaches when I was around witches, but even those had faded. If I ever got any kind of signal with other species, I didn’t know about it.

  "Are you sure you're not a shape shifter or werewolf or an elf or fairy?"

  He raised his right hand, palm toward me. "I swear on my life, Marcie Montgomery, that I am not any of those things."

  "Do you employ any shape shifters, werewolves, elves or fairies?"

  "I'm an equal opportunity employer," he said. "As long as you can prove that you don't bring ill will to me or mine, I don't care what you are."

  “Do you employ laundry fairies?”

  I’d joked in the past about how quickly my laundry was done and in such an expert manner.

  “Laundry fairies? No.”

  “Why don’t I ever see anyone collect my dirty clothes or deliver them back to me?”

  “There’s a panel in your dressing room that’s accessible, by code, whenever you’re not in the room. It leads to the operational part of the castle. My grandfather believed that servants should neither be seen nor heard.”

  Did they all commute? Or did some of them fly here, like the fairies? Or did they reside in the flowers that bordered the paths of the courtyard? What did I know about fairies? They may not be the size of my palm with translucent wings. Heck, they could be adult size, with teleportation skills.

  “Does everyone live here?” A reasonable question since I hadn’t seen an influx of cars to Arthur’s Folly every morning.

  “No.”

  He was answering all my questions easily. I decided to press my luck.

  “Where are all the employee cars?”

  “The entrance to the underground parking is about a half mile away.”

  Just when I was fumbling with that, he confused me even further.

  “When we begin preparing for our siege, we won’t have as many employees as we do now. Those who want to continue their employment will have to reside here. Not everyone will make that choice.”

  “Siege?” That was not a word that came up in normal conversation in the 21st century.

  “We’re in a fight for the future of humanity, Marcie.”

  “Isn’t that a little dramatic?”

  The look he gave me was one hundred percent Dan, one eyebrow arched, a half smile, and a measuring look in his eyes.

  “What would you call it? People are trying to experiment with your blood to create a new race.”

  Well, if you put it that way, he had a point. Maybe he hadn’t been dramatic enough. Maybe a little screaming and panicking was called for.

  “What about the families of your employees? Have you made arrangements for them, too?”

  “Key personnel will have a choice: their families will either be relocated or they will be accommodated here.”

  “Here? Is Arthur’s Folly that big?”

  “We can house about fifty families.”

  Talk about the uber uber rich.

  “How long do you expect this siege to go on?”

  “Until something is decided.”

  That wasn’t a really reassuring answer.

  “Why all the questions, Marcie?”

  “I think we should have a meeting,” I said. “With representatives from the Brethren. Let them know what’s happening.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  Here was where I threw down my biggest bargaining chip.

  “And I want to have the witches test me as soon as possible.”

  He took one of my hands and studied it. “Why the change?”

  He linked his fingers with mine. I squeezed his hand before pulling mine free. I didn’t want to fall under his spell right now. I was keeping a secret from him and it made me feel guilty as hell. The more distance between us, the better because I wanted him, too. And if I couldn't have him, then I wanted a few minutes with him. Companionship, a few laughs, a little bonding, what was wrong with that? My little voice was getting shrill and I silenced it with a mental neck chop.

  “Mike is dying,” I said.

  “I know.”

  His voice was impassive, the two words uttered in Ranger-speak. Not one scintilla of emotion leaked through, but I was getting better at reading him. The look in his eyes, carefully flat and inscrutable, said what words couldn’t. Whenever Dan didn’t emote, it meant he was feeling plenty.

  “I understand that he was drained down to the point of not being
able to become a vampire,” I said, plowing ahead, words my bulldozer.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Just that one answer, but something sparked in his eyes.

  “Let me give him a transfusion,” I said. I was relatively certain that giving some of my blood wouldn’t hurt my baby. “Unless you would rather he die than become a vampire,” I added. Or something else. Would Mike become Pranic? Nobody, and I mean nobody, had that answer.

  I had to add the rest.

  “He might have rabies, so maybe it’s good he can’t be turned,” I said. “I think my blood could heal him.”

  He stared down at the pristine glass surface of his desk. Was he one of those paperless office people? I didn’t see a scrap of paper in the whole place. Several soft pings happened every minute or so. Either Bass Lips was instant messaging him or he was getting emails like crazy. Either could be the case.

  "You don't know what a transfusion would do to him. Especially of your blood."

  Well, that put me in my place, didn't it? I looked away, clasping my hands together tightly until my knuckles protested. I was not going to reveal my hurt.

  "You're one of those who would rather Mike died then become a vampire, is that it?”

  "I'm not fond of the species," he said.

  Another zinger. He was filled with them today, wasn't he?

  God forbid I should be the guest who came for dinner. What's that saying about guests and fish after three days? They both began to smell. Well, I’d been here longer than three days.

  “I’m a vampire,” I said softly.

  He shook his head. "My mother doesn't understand. Mike doesn’t understand. Nobody in the castle who knows about my mission understands. I'm not even sure I understand how I feel about you.”

  I forced myself to look at him.

  "You're not like the rest, Marcie." He waved his hand in the air. "Forget about the Pranic stuff. Even as a plain vampire, you weren't like the rest."

  My heart was beginning to pick up its pace. I might get to a whole twenty beats a minute if this kept up.