Dark Prism Read online

  “Slater.” Grant’s smile revealed his dimples as his attention transferred to Jack. “Good to see you. Pia told me you were visiting. You okay, pal? You must be almost as shook up as my girl here.”

  “She’s an astonishing pilot,” Jack told him. “I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to get us down in one piece.”

  Sara tried not to get warm and fuzzy about Jack’s apparent sincerity—probably just adrenaline mixed with appreciation for getting him on the ground without mishap. Still, his admiration went a long way to stilling her thundering heartbeat. She didn’t care whether the two men were genuinely prepared to tolerate each other or whether this was all for show. As long as no blood was shed while Jack lived under Grant’s roof, she was happy.

  It was quite interesting to see the two men side by side. Other than a similarity in height, they had absolutely nothing in common. Grant was almost shockingly good-looking, the poster child for male beauty: clear blue eyes, lightly tanned skin, dimples, and thick, lightly curling natural blond hair. He was gorgeous.

  Jack, on the other hand, looked like a movie villain, with his dark hair and brows, tanned skin, and deep blue eyes. There was nothing pretty or soft about Jack.

  Pia came up and gave her a tight hug. “Madre de Dios, woman. That was some landing. Let’s go inside. I’ll pour you a giant glass of wine, and you can tell Mamma all about him.”

  “Her,” Sara said absently, observing the power play as Grant shook Jack’s hand with his right, using his left to hold Jack’s forearm.

  “Not the helicopter, mujer tonta, Jackson of the smoldering eyes and rock-hard abs.”

  Sara’s lips twitched. “You can’t see his abs.”

  “Trust me, amiga, when a guy looks like that, he has abs of steel, and a pene to match.”

  “Holy crap, Pia,” Sara half-groaned, half-laughed. “He’s standing right there.”

  “So we go inside and you tell me all about your trip into town with the bad boy, sí?”

  “Negativa, but nice try. There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Have you seen the way that man looks at you? Caliente. Muy muy caliente. Ese hombre es muy sexy.”

  “He just saw his life flash before his eyes. That’s fear you see.”

  Pia hooked her arm through Sara’s and they started walking toward the house, leaving the men to follow. “I know hombres,” Pia said with a knowing grin. “And that man isn’t afraid of anything.”

  “HURT HER AGAIN, AND I’ll wipe the floor with your ass. Then I’ll kill you,” Grant Baltzer said so quietly that only Jack heard him.

  Taken aback by the vehemence of Baltzer’s tone, Jack gritted his teeth instead of replying with a punch to Grant’s perfect nose. Despite his expensive, well-cut summer-weight linen suit, Baltzer looked more like an easygoing surfer dude or a model than a tough, insanely successful business tycoon used to being in charge. Sara would never forgive him for knocking the shit out of her pal.

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets. There was something about the man he didn’t like. He still felt that same weird hair-standing-up-on-the-back-of-his-neck thing that he’d experienced on the few occasions when he and Sara had met up with Baltzer in the past. It seemed obvious to Jack that Baltzer had a more than avuncular interest in Sara.

  Too bad Baltzer wasn’t a wizard. Jack’s old-fashioned code of honor required a fight to be on a level playing field. Baltzer was human, and therefore, doubly off limits.

  “I’m not going to hurt her,” Jack assured the other man coldly. “Sara’s tougher than you think.” Despite her chic prettiness and soft voice, the woman had granite where her heart should be, and balls of tungsten steel.

  “No.” There was no dimple action when Baltzer gave Jack an ice-blue glare. There was a lot going on behind the guy’s eyes. Taking Jack’s measure. Sizing up the enemy. Drawing a line in the sand.

  That was cool with Jack. He was doing the same thing. Not that he considered the older man competition, but there was such a thing as being overprotective. Sara didn’t need protection. Not from him anyway.

  “Sara’s not as tough as you like to think, Slater. And make no mistake, I’ll do whatever I must to protect her.” Baltzer strode after the rest of the group across the tarmac back toward the house.

  Jack fell into step. Jesus, this was going to be a hellishly long week. If he hadn’t figured out what was causing the deaths of local wizards within a week, he’d hand the whole thing back to the Council and go on a little geological expedition of his own. With any luck, Edge and the Council would find replacements for himself and Sara, and he could go on to do something for which he was qualified.

  Like investigating the clustering of natural disasters.

  “I’ll pretend to welcome you into my home because apparently that’s what Sara wants right now.” Baltzer stopped outside an arched back door and turned to look at him. Jack looked back squarely, not batting an eyelash as Baltzer stepped into his personal space. “But do anything to so much as make her look like she’s going to cry, and so help me God, they won’t find your body out there”—he indicated the jungle—“until the next fucking ice age, comprende?” Without waiting for a reply, he opened the door, and they entered the house.

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  JACK REMEMBERED SARA’S ASSISTANT, Pia, from when he and Sara had lived together. A stunning pocket Venus, the petite brunette had creamy olive skin and black eyes that danced with amusement. Jack wondered now if she knew the truth about why he and Sara had split. He and Pia had always gotten along just fine; still, he was on Sara’s turf. He figured he’d keep his back to the wall and the Ka-Bar under his pillow for the duration.

  “Sara requested that you be in her wing,” Pia told him in her lightly accented voice. She’d been born in Mexico City and raised in El Paso, and had been Sara’s right hand for half a dozen years. “I figured right next door would meet all the requirements of propriety. Here you go.” She pushed open a door and ushered him inside a spacious, Spanish-style bedroom. “There’s a connecting door. With a lock on both sides.”

  Not “Sara wanted you close by,” but rather, “Sara requested.” Since Pia hadn’t given him a cot in the garage, he figured she wasn’t an enemy. “Thanks, Pia.”

  “No hay de que.” She paused at the open door. “Don’t hurt her again, Jackson. She wants you here. And I always liked you. Don’t prove me wrong.”

  “I’ve already been warned. Unnecessarily. Sara has nothing to fear from me.”

  She smiled. “Drinks in the pub at eight. Dinner’s at nine-thirty.”

  With a flick of his fingers, Jack locked the door behind her. Not that he expected anyone to stroll in unannounced, but he’d rather be safe than sorry. Obviously, he had no luggage; he’d take care of that wrinkle in a bit. No luggage, but Jack felt the weight of the psionic safe as it hovered nearby, invisible. Waiting for him.

  Wanting Sara was a physical ache that wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. The more he was with her, the more Jack wanted her. The smell of her skin, the sound of her voice—hell, everything that made up the hills and valleys of Sara called to him on a basic level he was helpless to resist.

  “Maybe the Book has the answers to that age-old question as well,” he said softly, bringing the safe down. It materialized as it drifted gently to hover inches off the colorful spread at the foot of the bed. The twenty-three-inch-square ice safe pushed with a faint green light from within.

  Cold had been the Slaters’ power to call for seven generations. Jack was the last of his line. Thanks to Sara, there would be no sons or daughters to pass this amazing secret to before he was gone. No one other than himself knew of the existence of the psionic safe. And if they did, they wouldn’t be capable of summoning or opening it. He brushed his fingers lightly over the slightly convex top, felt the burn of the frigid surface as he whispered the spell he’d learned from his father, an inheritance passed from father to son for generations.

  The last time he’d seen it had also been to ask
a question about Sara. His chest ached, and he savagely shoved that thought aside as the hingeless door popped open, emitting a plume of acid-green smoke that spread and hovered protectively over the safe.

  Jack reached inside the glacial interior with both hands and carefully withdrew the thick, leather-covered journal. Warm to the touch, the Book seemed to give a hum of pleasure as he stroked his thumb across the scar on the edge. He hadn’t been prepared for the weight of it when he’d first taken it out on his sixteenth birthday; that frigging fireplace poker his father had used had not only marred the ancient Book but had broken Jack’s thumb.

  The size of a hardbound novel, the arcane Aequitas Book of Answers weighed about fifty pounds. He’d last held the Book two years ago. And the question he’d asked was: “Why did she do it?” The answer: SEARCH YOUR HEART. Which was a stupid fucking answer, all things considered.

  He hadn’t seen the book since.

  Until tonight.

  It looked and felt exactly the same.

  It had better give him a better answer than last time.

  The Book was warm to the touch. Magic and power flowed from it and through Jack’s very veins and arteries, through his organs and his brain. The sensation was intoxicating.

  The gilt-edged papyrus pages were a little warped, the gold-leaf text on the tooled, dark brown leather cover almost impossible to read. He could barely make out the word Aequitas and the letters n, w, r, and s.

  Cradling the heavy tome in both hands, he carried it to a chair beside the window and sat down. The sun had set, but the sky was still light enough to read by. A feeling of calm came over him as he rested the book on his lap, waiting for it to open to the page he needed to read.

  The heavy cover dropped open. Instantly, the thin pages rapidly flipped in a blur of gold edging and black text, emitting the musty herbal smell of ancient papyrus and thousands of years of Aequitas secrets.

  Jack’s heart pounded. After several moments, the movement stopped. Anticipation welled, instantly followed by disappointment. Both creased yellowed pages were blank. “Well, hell.”

  The text had obviously faded over time. Perhaps there was a way to refresh it digitally. He’d have to find out right away, he thought—then realized that, with all the members of the Archon dead, he had no one to ask. “Shit.”

  He attempted to close the cover. It resisted, heavier than it had been just moments before. Apparently, it didn’t want to be shut yet. “Okay, then. What do you have for me?”

  After what felt like an eternity, an image slowly materialized. The jumbled letters, two inches high in a heavy black font, shimmered six inches above the pages and cast their own shadows.

  “Cool,” he whispered under his breath as the words shifted and rolled, then strung together to form a sentence:

  ALL THAT YOU SEEK IS HERE.

  Chapter Eight

  A week at the most,” Sara told Grant as he poured her a glass of wine. He had asked her to join him a few minutes before everyone else arrived for drinks in the pub in the north wing of the house. Sipping the pinot grigio, she slid up onto a barstool.

  She’d changed into a strapless, flame-red silk charmeuse Betsey Johnson dress and strappy bone-colored Christian Louboutin sandals. The color of the short dress looked good with her light tan and flattered her figure. Not that she was trying to look sexier than usual; she just wanted Jack to think she didn’t give a damn what he thought and that she looked this good all the time.

  Basically, Sara thought, I want him to see what he threw away, then I want to see some regret. Petty, but true.

  Grant liked playing bartender, and Sara had found him an insanely expensive solid-oak bar counter in an Irish pub on a business-related shopping trip a few years before. Grant had loved it so much he’d bought the entire pub, ceiling and floor and everything in between, and had it dismantled and shipped to San Cristóbal. He’d then had the house remodeled to accommodate it.

  He’d changed into cream linen slacks and a pale blue silk shirt the exact color of his eyes. His honey-colored hair was artfully tousled. Probably in his early fifties, he admitted to forty-two. Grant Baltzer looked young and fit, and Sara’s heart swelled with love for him. He’d been a good friend to her parents, and an even better friend to her. There was nothing she would not do for him. Grant had saved her sanity twice, and she’d always love him for his unflagging affection and support.

  “I don’t want to have to pick up the pieces again, babe,” he told her sincerely. Sara was sure that if he could have frowned, he would be doing so. No lines marred his forehead. Botox, she suspected; he was quite vain about his appearance. She thought it was sweet since he always addressed his vanity with a droll sense of humor, inviting her to laugh along.

  “You know me.” His smile was gently loving as he reached over to brush cool fingers across her cheek. Sara adored Grant, but for some odd reason, she’d never liked him to touch her. Something he enjoyed doing frequently. She tolerated it because she couldn’t bear to hurt his feelings by rebuffing his innocent caresses. But she always managed to ease just out of reach before she shuddered.

  “I’m all for giving a person a second chance.” His dimples flashed. “But I wasn’t sure you were going to bounce back after what he did to you last time.”

  He didn’t know the half of it. Sara had been afraid that if she told Grant everything, he’d set a hit man on Jack’s tail. She’d hated Jack, but she’d never wanted him dead. Just dead to her.

  She knew Grant loved her and would do anything, up to and including wiping out the man who’d broken her heart. Grant had saved her life when he’d managed to extract her from the house fire that had killed her parents.

  He’d taken care of her and practically raised her. He and his friend William had been the only visitors on alternate weekends while she’d attended the British boarding school Grant had paid for. William was a few years older than Sara, and for a while, she’d wondered if the two men were lovers, but Grant had so many girlfriends that the thought had dissipated over time.

  He’d taken her on amazing summer vacations, tutored her in Spanish in Spain and French in Paris. He’d taught her to fly and watched proudly when she’d received her pilot’s license. He’d sent her to college in London, then hired her to do the interiors of all of his hotels when she’d earned degrees in business administration and interior design.

  Six months ago he’d made her a partner. Grant was friend, brother, father, and mentor to her, all rolled into one.

  “I’m fine,” she told him, going for nonchalant. “His being here isn’t a big deal.”

  She decided that lying to Grant about what was going on wasn’t a good idea. First of all, she was a crappy liar, and second, she didn’t want anyone to misunderstand Jack’s presence at the hacienda. She couldn’t pretend to be lovey-dovey, given that her physical response to Jack hadn’t changed along with her emotional attachment. She had to have a no-hands policy for the duration.

  Seated on the other side of the wide oak counter, Grant took a sip of his red wine. “I always told you William is the guy for you. He’s nuts about you, babe. You could do a lot worse than a multimillionaire who adores you.” He nudged over a platter of duck liver pâté canapés.

  She shook her head, and Grant pushed the platter aside. Ultra careful about what he ate, Grant was a health nut, and had the gym body to prove it.

  Jack didn’t need a gym, Sara thought disloyally. His body was rock-hard muscle from working outside day in and day out. “I adore William back, but that isn’t romantic love.”

  “Respect and mutual interests might be enough. Love will grow. You know what Mencken said—love is the delusion that one man is different from another.”

  “Did he now?” Sara said, amused. “You know you’re flogging a dead horse, right?” She smiled to take the sting out of her words. “Besides, I have this business with Jack to deal with before anything else.”

  “Business?” Grant asked skeptically. “What
kind of business?”

  “Let’s just say it’s got something to do with that which we don’t discuss and leave it at that.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh, hell, babe. This is wizard business?”

  “We never talk about wizard business, because I never have wizard business to talk about. And if I did, you’d ask me not to.”

  “True. Especially when it involves having your ex-lover as a houseguest. I’ll brace myself. What kind of wizard business?”

  “Alberto had a psychotic meltdown this morning. Nobody knows why, or if anyone else has been infected. But the Wizard Council asked Jack and me to look into it.”

  “Jesus, Sara! There’s a diseased wizard running rampant, and instead of being concerned for your safety, your fucking wizard hierarchy told you to look into it? That’s preposterous. Tell them to bugger off and find someone else to do their dirty work.”

  She noticed he didn’t ask about Alberto’s or Carmelita’s well-being or whereabouts. “It’s complicated.”

  “Which is why, my darling, you don’t have anything to do with all that mumbo-jumbo wizard crap, remember?”

  “Right. A week or so. Then I’m done.”

  He looked as if he were about to say something, then gave her a resigned look that spoke volumes. “Tell me the symptoms in case you start going psycho too.”

  She laughed. “I’ll let you know if I feel insanity coming on, I promise.”

  “Not funny, babe. Just the fact that you have Slater in the house makes me question your sanity.” Grant leaned over and took her hand. “He abandoned you when you were at your most vulnerable, when you needed the people who loved you to support you in your grief. If you’ve forgotten what a mess you were right afterward, I sure as shit haven’t.”

  “Thank you. I love you too.”

  He gave her fingers a light squeeze. “I worry about you.”

  Sara squeezed back, then let go to pick up her drink. “I know. But this is okay. Really.”

  “Were you and Jack arguing in the chopper?” he asked carefully, eyes filled with concern. “Is that what caused the engine to stall?”