COME UNDONE
by
PiperMerlyn
Chapter 29
The Chapters
30 October 2003
Paris, France
10:34 am
He was this close. He flipped through the folder at the notes. This close. Michael Radcliffe sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.
“You look beat and it’s not even eleven in the morning.”
He looked up to see Joely waving a book at him. “Hey, girl.”
“You mind emerging long enough to sell me a book?”
Michael sighed. “Man, I’m sorry, Joely.” He got to his feet and walked over to the counter.
“So what’s up?”
“It has to do with my Atlantis theory.” He rang up the sale and Joely who’d counted out the exact amount, tax included, handed him the money. He sighed. “How long have you been waiting?”
“Long enough.” She rested her elbows on the counter. “And?”
Michael shrugged. “And I’m getting frustrated. I get just close enough to figure I’ve got it, then it throws me a curve. I need to talk to Casi.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s her notes.”
Joely shook her head. “Wait, I know you told me Ariel was really Casi MacFairlaigne but I thought she was a writer.”
Michael nodded. “She is.”
“Then how does she help the Atlantis theory?”
“You know my theory. That Atlantis is an elaborate story an advanced civilization passed down to explain the former’s origins. Casi seems to think it wasn’t a story. She seems to think that something really happened. And that it got mythified into Atlantis. But we’re both stumped as to where it could’ve been. When the North Sea People fled the destruction of Brasilea in 1200 B.C.E., they were believed to be the last of an advanced civilization.” He gestured to his desk. “According to Casi who wrote the l’Anthia series, she thinks that Atlantis’ advanced technology was real, adapted and modified after the disaster.”
“So all you need is proof.”
“Easier said than done, Joely. We have no way of proving anything. Number one, Casi adapted her stories from her grandmother’s fairytales which could be considered nothing more than myth. Number two, if the theory is even close we’re dealing with incidents that occurred between seven thousand and ten thousand years ago. Number three,” continued Michael.
“Whoa, I don’t want to know anymore.” Joely straightened up and picked up her book. “Don’t forget to lock up.”
Michael sighed. “Yeah, not that it does much good.”
“Alethea picking the locks again?”
“Doesn’t she always?”
Just then, the door swung inward. Alethea Hadley looked at the door, then checked her watch. “You’re supposed to be locked up. You don’t open for another thirty minutes.”
“Thought I’d wait for you this time.” Michael frowned and shifted his gaze first to Joely, then the nearest clock. “Uh, Joely...”
Joely blushed. “I’m sorry. I still have the key you lent me back in June.” She placed the single key on the counter. “Here.”
Michael shook his head. “Keep it. I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. More the merrier.”
Joely sighed and hurried out of the shop, still looking embarrassed. Alethea spared her a quick glance, then cocked one hip and inspected the nails on one hand. “Talked to DuBois.”
Michael narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Why?”
Alethea sighed. “I do you a favor and all you do is act suspicious.”
“What did he say?”
“According to the MacFairlaigne grapevine, Casi’s in Bucharest.”
“What the hell is she doing there?”
“Something for her birthday.” Alethea studied him for a minute. “Her birthday is on Halloween.”
Michael frowned. “Now that’s interesting.”
“What, Romania?”
“No. That she was born on All Hallow’s Eve.”
“Why?”
He skirted the counter and made a beeline for his desk. “It would explain her sensitivity to the objects.”
“Why?”
“In the Wiccan calender, Halloween or Samhain is the death of the old year. For a brief time, the spirits of beings dead and gone escape from their netherworld to our world.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, there’s the possibility that Casi has certain powers.”
Alethea thought back to Egypt. “Like you said she connected with the unicorn.” Suddenly, Alethea shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I’ll leave you to your delusions. Want me to lock up?”
Michael’s head snapped up and he glared at her. “That’s not even funny.”
“Well, I’d hate to see you stampeded in...” She glanced at her watch. “In less than twenty minutes.”
“Go away. Very far away.”
Alethea tossed her hair over one shoulder and grabbed the door. “You don’t even have a scar.”
Michael stared at her as she slammed the door, then frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He shook his head. There was no figuring her out, he knew. He focused on the notes once again. “Halloween,” he mused. “Hmm...”
Suddenly, he sat back in his chair so hard it skidded across the floor several inches. His eyes went to the calender and saw it was October thirtieth. “Halloween is tomorrow. She’s in Bucharest, Romania?” He grunted and took a deep breath. “It’s only movies. Vampires don’t really exist....do they?”
His mind off on a tangent, Michael got up and went to look through the books. Did he have anything about the vampire myth, he wondered. Why on earth was she there, was she looking for vampires? He stood there in the middle of his shop and found himself worried. Was she okay? Surely, she was. Surely, trouble didn’t follow her around like a lost puppy. He nodded and found a book on the vampire myth. She was fine, probably having the time of her life.
He sat back down at his desk and opened the book. She was fine.
*****
30 October 2003
Bucaresti, Romania
11:40 am
The room was full of shadows. The only light came from the fireplace at the far end of the cavernous room. There was a chill in the room as if the roaring fire generated no warmth....He took a step forward as she appeared in front of him. “Ailsa,” he said with relieved sigh. “You’re okay.”
“Kurt, please, I could not stay away.”
“Ailsa, no—“ He felt his voice fail him as she shed the black coat. She wrapped her cold, slick arms around his neck..suddenly, he felt a piercing, searing pain at the juncture of neck and shoulder. “Ailsa...”
She lifted her head, his blood on her lips, her chin. Her hair was dark brown now, with a hint of red, her eyes more gold than brown. “Kurt Varick. That is not your name. Kurt Varick has been dead for over two hundred and fifty years.”
“You don’t look like a Kurt.....You are a stubborn idiot, you know that?”
“Is that what you usually say to total strangers.”
“We both know that’s not true...Kurt.” She turned to leave and he reached out tosnag her arm but she was just out of reach. A black cape settled on her shoulders, it rippling enough to show off the blood-red lining. The cape seemed to envelope her. “Casi...no!”
“No!” Joe sat up, shouting. When it came to him that he was in his apartment, on his bed, he realized it had been a bad dream. He took a deep breath and stood up—and wished he hadn’t. Joe sat back down hard. “Oh man,” he muttered, holding his pounding head. Where’d the hangover come from? He shivered. It was cold in here and dim. He squinted at the nearest clock. Eleven-forty. He got a glimpse of sunlight through the curtains and groaned. He’d wasted an entire day and hadn’t even called in with some half-baked excuse. The British Ambassador had good reason to fire him now.
Joe managed to get to his feet and stay upright for those crucial first few seconds. He switched on the heater, getting a very weird sensation. Hadn’t he done this before? But this time the chill seemed more inside him than out. Hot coffee should do the trick, he thought, heading for the kitchen.
The green bottle caught his eye. It sat in full view on the counter. Joe froze and looked around. That bottle shouldn’t—couldn’t—be there. He distinctly remembered grabbing the neck of the bottle and tossing it in the sink, hearing the glass shatter. An idea snaked through his fogged brain. Pranks, that’s what all this was. The bottle, the---whatever else. Very serious, very dangerous pranks. Damn it, he’d like to get his hands on the prankster.
Angry, he swept the bottle into the sink. Glass shattered and liquid spewed everywhere, even on his shirt. Scowling, he yanked the shirt off and tossed it in the sink. Pretending nothing had happened, he heated a small saucepan of water and rummaged through the cabinet where he’d last seen the instant coffee.
A knock sounded just then and Joe banged his head on the corner of the cabinet door. “Shit!” He swatted the cabinet door shut and went to answer the door. He yanked it open and glowered. “Yeah?”
“Kurt? Are you okay?”
Joe rubbed his injured temple. “What are you doing here?” he asked curtly. He was in no mood for Miranda today.
She stepped half-way into the room. “You never came into work yesterday and you’re late today.” She frowned. “God, it’s stifling in here.”
Joe left the door open and stalked over to the kitchen and shut off the burner. His desire for coffee was gone. He rested his hands on the counter. “Go away, Miranda.”
She frowned at him. “You’re in a rather foul mood. What’s the problem?”
“You.”
Miranda arched an eyebrow. “Look, I’m sorry about the housekeeper—“
“Just go, Miranda. I’m not in the mood.”
“You haven’t been in the mood for over a month. Not since—“
“Lay off, Miranda.”
Miranda’s eyes widened. He was never this testy. A little conceited, maybe cocky but never like this. Something was wrong. “Kurt, are you ill?” She moved forward until only the counter separated them. His face was chalky, his eyes sunken and his cheeks hollow. “My God, you are ill. Let me help.”
“I’m fine. Just a twenty-four hour bug.”
She touched his hand and suddenly snatched her hand back. “You’re cold. That’s....not...” Miranda shook her head. “That’s not normal. You need to see a doctor.”
Joe shook his head and felt his stomach lurch at the motion. “I can take care of myself.”
Miranda glared at him. “All right. If that’s how you want it, I’ll be going. I’ll tell Papa you’re sick and not to bother you.” She left and slammed the door.
Joe leaned heavily on the counter, it finally sinking in, he’d never put on another shirt. He usually didn’t greet people half-naked. He looked down at himself and frowned. Patches of skin on his chest were red and scaley and were starting to itch. What the hell was wrong with him?
*****
30 October 2003
Bucaresti, Romania
11:51 am
After last night, Casi wasn’t sure she could face the day much less Chad. She’d ordered room service when her stomach wouldn’t stop growling and now she found herself antsy, ready to leave the confines of the room. She still had the map to get to the British Embassy and hopefully, Joe would be there working—and if not, she’d find out how to get to his apartment.
She peeked out her door but found the hallway empty. Gathering her purse and room key, she left the room and headed for the stairs. She was on the sidewalk outside the inn when she realized she could take a cab to the embassy as opposed to walking. Then she shook her head. She needed the walking, it would help her figure things out...she hoped.
Following Sonja’s map, Casi made her way back to the British embassy. She paused at the brick wall, remembering with sudden clarity what had happened there outside the embassy. She shivered and swallowed hard. She’d deal with that later.
The sound of tires on gravel made her turn and she watched a taxi pull up in front of the embassy. A dark-haired girl got out, paid the driver and marched toward the open gate. Casi stared. It was the girl from the restaurant Tuesday night. She stepped away from the wall. “Excuse me.”
The girl jumped. “Bloody hell, you scared the life out of me.”
“I’m sorry.” Casi cleared her throat. “I’m Casi MacFairlaigne.”
The girl tucked a strand of dark hair behind one ear and narrowed her eyes. “Chandler’s girl.”
Casi blinked, surprised. “You know Chad?”
“I know the Whitfields,” she muttered. “I’m Miranda Berkeley-Smythe.”
Casi decided not to ask why Miranda sounded so bitter. Instead, she asked, “Do you know Kurt Varick?”
Miranda stared at her for a moment. “So what if I did?”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Why?”
Casi took a deep breath, wondering exactly what Joe’s cover was. “We were an item back in high school. I think he’s sick.”
“In the head, yeah.” Miranda turned pensive. “He refuses to go to a doctor.....he scares me.”
“Mood swings?” asked Casi, thinking about the drug overdose on the woman.
Miranda gave her another long look. “Chandler never said you were a doctor.”
“I’m just following a hunch. Is he pale?”
Miranda folded her arms across her chest. “You know something.”
Casi shook her head. “It’s just a hunch. Can you give me his address?”
Miranda just looked at her. The minutes dragged on and Casi just knew she’d say no. Miranda sighed. “I’ll call you a cab. It’s safer.”
Casi followed her through the gate and into the lobby of the British embassy. A tall man looked up from a newspaper spread across the front desk. “Mira, did you locate Varick?”
“He’s down sick with the flu, Papa.”
The man sighed. “The least he could have done was call in.” He looked at Casi. “And you are?”
“Casi MacFairlaigne.”
“She’s lost, Papa. I was going to call her a cab and get her safely back to her hotel.”
The man skirted the counter, sending his daughter a disapproving look. “What’s the rush, Mira? Welcome to the British Embassy, Miss MacFairlaigne. I am Ambassador Percival Berkeley-Smythe.”
Casi shook his outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you, Ambassador.”
“Where are you from, Miss MacFairlaigne?”
“Boston, Massachusetts.”
The ambassador narrowed his hazel eyes and glanced at his daughter. “Mira, isn’t that where Varick is from?”
“Yes, Papa.” Miranda glanced at Casi, intrigued. “But he moved to Salem for awhile.”
“He came back to Boston for high school.” Casi said smoothly, covering up a spurt of panic. She’d forgotten what he’d told her—God, had it been only yesterday?
Percival arched an eyebrow. “Surely you didn’t come all this way just to see him.”
“Actually, I came to Romania with Chad Whitfield.”
Percival scowled. “Emerson Whitfield’s brother?”
Casi shot Miranda a look. So that was the connection. “Yes.”
“I see.”
Miranda dialed a local number and asked for a cab. She hung up, after giving the address. “It will be here in ten minutes.”
Percival nodded. “It was nice meeting you,” he said abruptly and left the lobby.
Casi watched him leave, then looked at Miranda. “You and Emerson break up?”
“He dumped me,” snapped Miranda. She took Casi by the arm and propelled her back outside. “You can wait here.”
Casi shrugged her hand off. “You know why, don’t you.”
“Why what?”
“Why he dumped you. Zane Whitfield is a horse’s ass and does everything short of brute force to get his sons to marry and produce heirs.”
“Emerson refused to talk about his father.”
“I don’t blame him.”
Miranda shoved a scrap of paper into Casi’s hand. “Then you’re a bloody fool if you want him for a father-in-law.”
“I defied him once. I’ll do it again. This the address?”
“Yes.” Miranda started up the steps, then glanced over her shoulder. “And good luck. You’re going to need it.”
Casi left the gate as the cab pulled up. She got in the back seat and handed the paper to the driver. As he nodded and shifted gears, she glanced out the window to see Miranda still standing there. Casi took a deep breath and sat back in her seat. “You don’t know how right you are,” she muttered. She knew this man very well.
*****
30 October 2003
Paris, France
12: 15 pm
The phone ringing roused him from his research. As he reached for the receiver, his eyes darted first to the window outside and he realized it was the middle of the day. He glanced then at the clock to make sure. He would’ve been rather pissed if it had been the middle of the night. He snatched up the receiver. “This had better be damn good.”
The voice on the other end of the phone line was amused and female. “Hello to you too.”
Michael scowled. “Who is this?”
The caller’s laugh came softly over the wire. “It’s me, Michael. It’s Jasmine.”
Michael went blank for a second, then it clicked. “Jasmine Cates?...None. I mean one.....So what’s up?”
He frowned. “I did?....No, I didn’t. You—“ His frown deepened. “Oh...Oh, yeah, I did. So?” As an afterthought, he punched the hands-free button, so he could take notes if need be.
“Well,” came Jasmine’s quiet voice. “I found two. One’s a dragon carved out of malachite. Well, I say carved. It’s like the unicorn, no chisel marks. The other is a fairy out of lapis lazuli.”
Michael frowned, his hand poised over the notepad. “Do you see a pattern? Unicorn, fairy, dragon—all mythological or fantasy icons.”
“If they’re mythological to begin with.”
“Jasmine—“
“No. There was a huge debate years ago about whether the unicorn mentioned in Genesis, in the Bible, was actually a unicorn or a rhinoceros. Then early in the 1900s, there was the big fairy—“
“Which was fake.”
“Ah, but you’ve seen the movie, it was only done so to protect the fairies. Then there’s the Komodo dragon. Although it looks nothing like the mythological dragon—“
Michael blinked. “There was a movie?” He cleared his throat. “You’re reaching, Jasmine.”
“You asked. I found a few other things but they’re not statuettes.”
“Shoot.”
“Another circlet with an opal set in the center, belongs to the Saxons of Rockport, Maine.” There was the rattle of papers being shuffled around. “A gold cloak pin with an agate setting. That belongs to the Griffins of New York. From what I can gather, the man owns an up and coming technology company.”
“Who owns the fairy and the dragon?”
“The dragon belongs to Hamilton Collins, Provincetown, Massachusetts. The fairy belongs to Camille Macalister of Toronto, Ontario.”
“How many Provincetowns are in Massachusetts,” mused Michael.
“One.”
“What are the odds...” Michael cleared his throat. “What else?”
“That’s it.”
Michael sighed. “There’s got to be a connection—somewhere, somewhen.”
“Michael, there aren’t many families who don’t have an heirloom—jewelry, statuette, whatever—that’s been handed down from generation to generation.”
“Maybe that’s it. How old is the dragon?”
“Mr. Collins didn’t say. He just said it had been in the family forever. He did say according to family superstition as long as the dragon sat on his father’s desk, the company was blessed.”
“And now?”
“It sits on the corner of Mr. Hamilton’s desk. He owns Collins Real Estate in Hyannis and recently regained the family estate, Collinswood.”
Michael leaned back in his chair and propped his sock feet on the desk. “And the fairy?”
“Camille Macalister wasn’t in. Talked to her sister, Lenora. Didn’t mention anything about if the fairy held some sort of superstition or anything. She did say that her sister likes having the fairy in her dressing room before each play. Seems the Macalisters are a family of theatre actors.”
“Hmm,” mused Michael. “Interesting.”
Jasmine cleared her throat. “About the geneologies you asked about.”
“Yeah?”
“Believe it or not, I was able to trace the MacFairlaigne line back to 1576.”
“And MacKensey?”
“Spelled with s-e-y, only until 1790. Earlier, it was spellied with z-i-e and seems to be connected with the Clan MacKenzie of Scotland. I did find one thing interesting. On her mother’s side, Casi’s kin to the Stewarts.”
“As in royal?”
“I don’t think so, unless it’s an illegitimate connection. The names are spelled differently, too.”
“You never know.” Michael shifted in his seat, lowered his feet to the floor and got up. “I wonder, though, does anything connect any of these families together?”
“Now you’re reaching. The Macalisters live in Toronto, Ontario. The Saxons in Maine. The Griffins live in New York. The only connection between Casi and Hamilton Collins is they live in the same town.”
“I didn’t mean now.”
“Michael—“
“You said you traced MacFairlaigne back to 1576. That’s what, four hundred plus years?”
“Four hundred twenty-seven. What are you getting at, Michael? There’s no possible way.”
“Just try.” Michael grinned. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Make it Saturday. This may take awhile.”
“Okay. Thanks, Jasmine. I owe you.”
“Big time.”
“Right. Bye.” Michael hung up with a sigh. There had to be a connection—somewhere. He sat back down and stared at the papers scattered all over his desk, then his eyes traveled to the shelves, remembering the talk on board the Nefertiri. Casi hjad written the l’Anthia series. He had her notes, bits and pieces of the stories her grandmother had told. But he hadn’t read the first one in a long time and had never read the others.
He scanned the titles slowly. The hardback book sat apart from the others on the third shelf at the end. “Starlight, Planet Bright,” he read out loud. “Author C.M. Fairlane.” This was it. He pulled it off the shelf and opened the book. It was missing the jacket cover, so he had no visual cues as to what the book was about. Michael opened it to the beginning of the story.
“Time did not exist here. Eternity was forever. Trees were forever green, the animals always gentle—no evil existed here.
They lived here in this paradise, beings with no evil, no hate, they lived here in perfect peace. For an eternity, for aeons..Then he came back. They’d banished him once after an all-out battle, resulting in the stone and life that now basked under the sun. The god of disharmony had returned...”
Michael closed the book and stood there, thinking. Could the clues be in this book and the ones following? He looked down at the book, then at the clock. He had time to read it, he had the whole afternoon. He walked over to his desk and sat down. This was going to be an interesting investigation because he suspected that the clues wouldn’t be very easy to find.
*****
30 October 2003
Bucaresti, Romania
12:39 pm
Casi slowly got out of the cab and paid the driver, then looked up at the apartment building. It was old and the outside fire escapes looked ready to collapse. She walked up the entrance and went inside. She scanned the mailboxes. Most of the names were Romanian but one caught her eye. Wilhemina Murray—that name sounded awfully familiar.
A piece of tape held a scrap of paper to one mailbox, number 4C. Kurt Varick was hand-printed on the paper. She saw what looked like three days worth of mail in the box. Gingerly she took out the mail and started up the stairs, using the intermittant hallway lighting to scan the mail. Some looked official like bills, two were in plain white envelopes with no markings. The absence of a return address made her wonder what they were.
Casi hurried up the two flights of stairs and quickly found apartment 4C. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she tried the knob, surprised when it turned easily. She pushed the door open and poked her head inside. The room beyond—a combination living and dining room—was empty. She checked the hallway, then ducked into the apartment and softly closed the door. She placed the mail on a nearby table and looked around.
It was hot in here, she realized. She searched for a heater, found it and switched it off. She opened the windows in the main room to let in some cooler air. She glanced around the room again, noting the unmade bed, the basket of clothes—the shards of thick green glass in the sink. Curious, she went to the sink. A large decanter sat broken in the shallow-bowled porcelain sink. One large piece, curved to form a cup held several drops of a dark-red liquid.
Casi stared at it. Was it blood? She vividly saw the chalice tip over, the liquid—the same dark red—spilling over her dresser, splashing on her...As if in a daze, she reached out a hand to touch the liquid. Her finger was an inch away when she came to her senses. She shook her head and began searching the cabinets for an empty jar with a lid.
She found a small instant coffee jar, a few grains of instant coffee stuck to the bottom. She wiped it out with a cloth and then using the cloth as a makeshift glove, she picked up the shard and placed it in the jar. It barely fit and the lid wouldn’t screw on right. She set the jar on the counter and pushed it to the other side for quicker access once she left.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
Casi spun around. Standing in the doorway, with dark hair, his blue eyes narrowed, he looked decidedly dangerous—even in a towel. She flashed back to a seedy hotel room in Morocco but resisted the urge to tease him. She took a deep breath. “Hi.”
Joe shook his head. “How’d you get in?”
“Door was unlocked.”
Joe leaned against the doorjamb of the bathroom doorway. “Why’d you come?”
Casi studied him critically. Miranda was right. He looked ill. “To check on you.”
“Ahh....so now I’m the invalid,” he said in a not-so-friendly tone.
Casi decided not to comment on that. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”
“What are you, my mother now?” He shoved away from the doorjamb.
Mood swings, Casi reminded herself. “I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“The hell you are,” snapped Casi, her patience stretched thin. “Damn it—“
“Leave me alone.”
“No.”
Joe stalked toward her, his hands clenched into fists. “Damn it, stay out of my business.”
“No,” said Casi again, her voice low and hard, as it always was when she was furious.
Joe glared at her, then suddenly remembered what he was wearing which reminded him of that morning in Marrekech. His mind flashed on what had happened later. “You nearly died in Marrekech, getting involved.”
Casi glared right back at him. “I didn’t live through that, just to watch you die here.”
Joe stared at her, stunned. “ What?” he asked finally.
“Ailsa.” Casi took a deep breath, steeled herself for what she had to say. “She was half-dead from a drug overdose before the vampire-like killing.”
His eyes darted to the sink and he felt true fear. Overdose? Oh God...”What—“ he said hoarsely. “How do you know that?”
“I went to the police with the necklace.”
Joe suddenly wished for a chair. He needed to sit down and his stomach was queasy again. “Why?”
“I lifted a partial print from the pendant.”
Joe didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. “You sound....like a cop,” he said heavily, almost sadly. “Dad recruit you?”
Casi went to his side. “Joe, the print belongs to Omar Hadad.” She touched his bare shoulder. His skin was warm and flushed from his shower and smelled of soap. “That’s who you’re after, isn’t it?
“Yes.” Joe looked over at her. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her Omar was dead...but it was his fingerprint. He went cold inside. “Then he’s posing as Dorian Thayer.”
Casi felt a chill race down her spine. Hadad was a damn good actor. And yet last night...She pulled her thoughts away from that. “You know what that means, don’t you,” she said in a soft voice, remembering now what Ethan had said last night.
“What?” he asked, sounding exhausted.
“Lilith Raven isn’t far away.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Let me help.”
Joe gave her an odd look as if what she’d said sounded familiar. “Casi...” He shook his head, slowly. He was so tired. He had no energy to argue with her. “Please. Go back to Chad.”
Her eyes filled with tears but she swore she wouldn’t cry. “No.”
“It’s safer. Go back to him, leave this place.”
A single tear traced it’s way down her cheek. And then just as suddenly, her anger rose to the surface. “Just how thick is that skull, Neanderthal? How many times do I have to say it? I love you, damn it. I’d die for you,” she added, as her overactive imagination gave her plenty of gruesome scenarios.
“No. God, Casi, no, I—“ He stared at her, the fog in his brain dissipating, remembering that conversation in Marrekech. He remembered her words. “That’s a copout.” He searched her face. “I want you to live for me.”
Casi hiccuped on a sob. “God, Joe...”
With a few steps, he closed the gap between them. He placed his hands on her shoulders. He had no more energy for subterfuge and word-play. He took one hand from her shoulder, touched her chin and tilted her head back to look her in the eyes. “I love you,” he said, quietly.
Casi searched his face, felt the tears spill down her cheeks. “I love you.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “This wasn’t how I planned it.” He let go of her and pulled out his suitcase, took out a small gold box. “I’d imagined fireworks, an exotic locale...” He started to get down on one knee.
“Joe..” Casi took a deep breath, belatedly realizing what he was about to do. “The towel, it’s—“
“Oh shit.” He adjusted the towel. “Do I really have to get down on one knee.”
Casi shook her head, still crying but for an entirely different reason. “No,” she whispered.
He took the lid off the box and pulled a small item out of it. “Cassandra Michelle, will you marry me?”
Casi took in the opal ring and actually felt her heart skip a beat. Carefully, she took it from his fingers and slipped it on the third finger of her left hand, then raised her eyes to his. “Yes, my love. Yes.”
Joe tossed the box over his shoulder and pulled her close. He kissed her, tasting her, drinking of her. Slowly, he raised his head. “We’re both crazy, you know,” he whispered. With a gentle thumb, he wiped the tears away. “Me for asking, you for saying yes. Considering all our encounters, we’re definitely certifiable.”
Casi laughed, feeling complete in his arms. “Speak for yourself.”
Joe turned serious. “Drug overdose—are you sure?”
“Yes. I saw the toxicology report on Ailsa Haines.”
He decided not to ask how or why she’d seen the report. “But why?”
Casi searched his face. “Why?”
“Why would Hadad kill her?”
“Is there a real Dorian Thayer?”
Joe gave her a strange look. “Yeah. Saw his tombstone in the cemetary.”
“What on earth were you doing in a cemetary?”
“Where do you think I got my name?”
Casi shook her head. “Are all government operatives as weird as you?”
“Ethan’s weirder.”
“Well, I won’t deny that.” She led him over to the sofa and they both sat down. She snuggled close. “How do you feel?”
Joe rolled his eyes. “You don’t give up, do you?”
She ran her hand down his dark beard, over his dark hair. It was hard to see him this way, not looking like himself but when she heard him talk or looked into his eyes, everything was okay. “I want my groom alive and well for the wedding.”
Joe sighed. “I’m tired. Sometimes, I just conk out. I get hot, then I’m freezing.”
Casi arched an eyebrow at him. “Well, it can’t be menopause. You’re the wrong age and gender.”
“You hush.” Joe actually found the energy to smile.
“What’s in your sink?”
“A figment of my imagination,” he said in an odd voice.
“That’s funny. I saw it too. Shouldn’t you get the contents analyzed?”
Joe got to his feet, steadied himself as a wave of dizziness passed over him, then looked down at her. “I think we both know what it is.”
Casi flashed back to the chalice. She swallowed hard. “Yes.”
Joe heaved a sigh. “Then we are certifiable. Vampires don’t exist.”
She thought back to last night and narrowed her eyes. “I think one does.”
“Casi, really.”
“I saw him. And he said his name was Dorian Thayer.”
Joe’s blue eyes widened. “My God, Casi, it was Hadad! I swear I’ll kill him.”
“Complete with fangs?”
“Get serious.”
“I saw them.” Casi got to her feet, not wanting to go into detail about what happened last night. Just thinking about the fangs touching the skin of her throat, the man’s black hair brushing her jaw made her shudder. “I think the real Dorian Thayer is still alive. And I met him last night.”
“What the hell were you doing out last night? Why the hell did Chad bring you here,” he added with a growl.
“He knows how I like vampire movies.” Suddenly, it hit her. “Chad.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“Tell him?” Casi’s eyes focused on the ring. Oh shit...For a brief second, she entertained the thought of giving the ring back until she could let Chad down gently. But that wouldn’t be fair to Joe. Of course, it wasn’t fair to Chad either. “Yes.”
“Took you a long time to decide,” Joe said quietly.
“I’ll tell him.” She looked over at him. He was clad only in a towel that hung low on his hips. She imagined whisking that towel away and felt her face grow warm. She remembered that morning in the hotel in Marrekech. “Well...at least you’re not dripping this time.”
Joe grunted. “What is it with you barging in on me just after a shower?”
Casi shook her head, walked up to him and placed the flat of her palms on his chest, stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Her hands skimmed down his sides, felt his ribs, stopped just above the hip bones, her pinkies resting on the towel.
Joe broke off the kiss, breathless. “You’re playing with fire.” Someone had told him that recently.
“Don’t I always?” She lowered her hands until they were on the towel.
Joe cleared his throat. “Now is not a good time.”
“Oh don’t worry about that. I’m saving that for our wedding night.”
“Then what are you scheming?”
“Just a kiss.”
Joe groaned. “Some kiss.”
“Yeah....well—“ Casi gave him a quick kiss. “There’s more where that came from.”
“Casi—“
She kissed him again, but this time her mind wasn’t on the wedding night. She was praying there would be a wedding....
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Disclaimer
The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The authors have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.