“I’m attracted to you. Yes, the fact you look disturbingly similar to Liam was a starting point. I wasn’t sure if you were a descendant. And I absolutely did not know you had the vase or anything else from the collection brought over from China.” I yanked my shirt on. “There are moments when I think the luck gods really get a kick out of rubbing my nose in things.”

  Fitz asked, “Can we circle back to the vase? Why would that guy want it? Like I said, it’s not worth tons and tons of money.”

  “The agent, the man who arranged the purchase of the antiquities for Malcolm, I much later found out had ties to a group of people known as the Byakhee Cabal. There are hints that some of the items delivered to Malcolm were actually supposed to go to another buyer. I think the bracelet that changed me was one of those pieces.”

  “And he expected it to be in my possession,” Fitz speculated.

  “I think so.”

  “And it obviously isn’t. Is it at your parents’ house?”

  His eyes narrowed a little. “No.”

  Ah, I had hit his protective point. “Good. That probably keeps them safer. Think about everything I’ve told you. I’ll be honest and say that I’d like to look at the collection. It might be worthwhile to know if any of the items have magick qualities, and also if the box the original bracelet came from is still there.”

  “Understood.”

  I took that as my cue to leave. I had dumped a lot of info in his lap, and he needed time to process. “Be careful,” I said as I left his apartment.

  Chapter 10

  Fitz

  My head was spinning with the story. And my eyes kept returning to the dice scattered on the table. I gathered them up and rolled them. They gave a predictably random spread, a mix of all available numbers. I did it twice more. None of it appeared to violate statistics. I used those dice often enough that I think I would have noticed if they seemed biased.

  I went to my weight bench and began reps of various exercises, occupying my restless body while my brain continued to churn. Eventually I was drenched in sweat and sat down on the bench. I dialed my dad’s phone number.

  “I don’t usually hear from you on the weekends,” he answered.

  “I’m between tasks at the moment. I have a couple of questions for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve only had a couple of really low-ball bids on the vase, and a couple of emails with questions,” I said. I went for a not quite truth in my next statement. “When I was doing some research about the items that were imported, I talked to Aunt Claudia. She mentioned something about people dying or maybe it was a person dying back around the time they were purchased. Do you know anything more? Were they family?” I asked.

  “Mmm, I think it was someone who worked for the family, some young woman. All I remember my parents telling me was that it was unexplained and sudden and spooked everyone. There was even some wild sequel to the tale about the dead woman showing up at the house later. Obviously crap, but she supposedly ran through the house hunting for the family members. Later, everyone decided it was a mentally ill woman or some scam artist trying to see if she could scare the family. What does this have to do with the vase?” Dad asked.

  “I was just curious and wondered if I could use the info to spark interest. Would you mind if I went back and looked at the rest of the pieces in the storage unit again? I might change my mind and try a different item if I can’t get a decent offer,” I walked into the kitchen and pulled a second beer out of the fridge.

  “Just let me know if you do, only because the insurance company has a list and I try to keep it up to date on what we own.”

  “I will. Talk to you soon.” I set the phone down and popped the bottle open. I chugged about half of it. It’d been that kind of night. It was fascinating and disturbing that Dad had given me a level of verification on the information Sophie imparted. It could still be a con, but given some of the things I’d seen, I couldn’t see how all of that could’ve been faked.

  Sophie claimed she was immortal too, or at least over a hundred years old. There wasn’t any rational way to test that, was there?

  ~

  On a Saturday, I should be at the STEM library on campus reading journal articles that might end up getting cited in my dissertation, but I was having a crisis of faith. Was it faith that the universe and the laws of physics were supposed to behave in predictable or at least calculable ways? Had the scientists of the previous century faced this level of head banging frustration when Newtonian physics began to make way for quantum theory? Instead of being on task, I was online playing Minecraft, building a tower and dyeing sheep green. After a couple of hours, I was restless, and my back brain had ideas regarding the vase I was trying to sell, the collection it came from, and the things Sophie had told me.

  I dug the key to the storage unit out of my desk drawer and drove to the storage facility. Up on the third floor, in our unit, I opened two plastic storage containers and began to unpack them. With the door pulled down, I should have at least a reasonable chance of privacy to look through everything again.

  Four more vases, three Buddhas, a half dozen dragon figurines and jars, a small chest and four bowls, a fish, four plates and one single round box. Most of the items were cinnabar. A few looked like they might be jade. I used my phone to take a photo of each item and returned my attention to the round box. Was this it? Was this the box that had…hypothetically killed her and then brought her back? Gingerly I wiggled the lid off, wondering if I was out of my mind to even look inside. Of course there was also the possibility that somehow all this was contrived bullshit. The interior was black and there seemed to be a shadow of something circular. I held it closer. The faint shimmery image of what might pass for a bracelet was visible. It reminded me of the holographic images that could be produced with angled mirrors. I almost reached inside to touch it, and then decided that was a very stupid thought. I had an ink pen in my jacket pocket.

  Setting the box on the floor, I poked the inside of the box carefully with the pen. It tapped the bottom of the box as if the box was empty. I poked in a batch of different spots. Same result. Whatever I was seeing, seemed to be insubstantial, an image without actual existence. I took a few more photos and packed everything back up, including the mysterious round box. Then I paused. Did I really want the box to stay here? Assuming someone had looked me up in order to burglarize my apartment, would they have also followed me? Or some variation of that? I had a thought about an unlikely place to put the box. I took it back out of the storage container and put it in my backpack.

  Chapter 11

  Sophie

  I hadn’t been so relieved to get an email in quite a while. Dama had eventually replied to me.

  Flight not until tomorrow night. Going out for a drink. Will be back at hotel around midnight.

  I gambled and went to her hotel room about half past midnight. God… it was good this was a Friday night. I had a job to maintain. Not because I needed the money of course. I raised my hand to knock on her door and it opened a second before my knuckles hit.

  Dama looked less pale than usual. Tonight she wasn’t dressed in a swanky expensive business suit, instead she wore an exceedingly form fitting dark green dress with a plunge neckline. For just a moment, I thought about a facet of our relationship from long ago. She crooked a finger, and I went in.

  “Was your drink good?” I asked.

  “A little younger than I sometimes go for, but lithe, good looking and immature enough to ask very few questions. He will wake with a blissful few good memories and small injury on the inside of his elbow,” she said, licking her upper lip just enough for me to catch a glimpse of a fang.

  I smirked. “Just one drink?”

  “I saw a delicious looking young woman on my way back, but it seemed a risk.” Dama sat in a chair. “You seem … unsettled.”

  “That’s an understatement.” I told her about the new revelations regarding Fitz and the possibility that the box might be his possession.

  “And if, in fact, he has it and is willing to at least let you look at it, if not sell it to you, what would you do?” she asked.

  “We hypothesized forty years ago, based on some rumors and the scroll I bought in Berlin, that it might have the ability to undo my immortality.”

  “That’s not an answer. Would you test it to see if it did? Are you tired of life?”

  “That’s a very loaded question. I’m not suicidal, if you’re being unsubtle about that. I went through that phase in the first twenty years after.”

  “Being tired of life and suicidal … are not the same thing for those of our life span.” Dama said.

  “Truthfully, I’m not sure what I’d do. Partly, because we don’t really know what the box does. Would it just remove the dragon image and restart my aging from the moment of my death? Would I instantly speed through the past century of living and end up as a pile of messy decayed skeletal crap? Or does it do nothing, and this is entirely a one-way adventure?” I walked over to the window and looked out in the night. “Would you voluntarily give up your existence?”

  “Like you, I had a segment of time where it seemed to be a desirable decision. Currently, I am occupying myself with various business ventures.”

  I turned to look at her. “How many are legal?”

  She grinned. “Most. There are a few gray areas.”

  “I seem to remember you own a small absinthe distillery with a reputation for uniquely potent product, one that can’t be marketed in the US.”

  “There are always a few private buyers.” She tapped her index finger against her nose.

  “Any chance you might hang around longer than tomorrow? I don’t have many people that I can bounce ideas off regarding the realities of my life.”

  “Doubtful.”

  I walked in the direction of the door. “Could you at least keep an eye on your email? There are so many things at play right now, I could use some feedback at least.”

  “I will try.”

  ~

  I wondered if Fitz was at home on a Saturday night, actually make that Sunday morning since it was just after 1 a.m. Would he be partying with friends? Although he didn’t strike me as much of a party boy. I texted him. If he was asleep, presumably he would just ignore it until tomorrow.

  Can we talk?

  The reply came in just a few minutes.

  At Siracha. Too loud.

  I mulled the information for a moment

  I’ll come by. They close at 2, right? I wanted a better clue on whether he thought he had the box or not. There was also the possibility he might tell me to fuck off, but he had told me where he was, so I would take that as promising.

  ~

  Unlike the hotel where Dama was staying, Siracha had no valet parking or even its own parking deck. I traced a rune to activate an ignore spell on the driver’s side door as I got out. Presumably, my McLaren would be there when I came back.

  Inside the club, I ordered a shot of Black Bush and downed it before scanning the room for Fitz. He was standing near one of the back walls, arms crossed, feet apart, watching the clientele. I made my way toward him and saw his gaze lock on me. He smiled slightly and crooked a finger. I followed him back to the same storeroom we’d been in last time. The noise level dropped as he shut the door.

  “I wondered if you were pissed that I wouldn’t tell you where the vase was being kept,” he said.

  “Nope. Curious, yes, mad, no. I dumped an awful lot of info on you, some of which probably hit home on top of the break in. You have every right to be cautious.”

  He looked relieved. “I verified your story about the servant who died in the early 1900’s, or at least verified as much as my family is willing to discuss.”

  “Like a good scientist or historian.”

  “History is usually not my forte.”

  “I only have the benefit of having lived a fair bit of it.” I was the one leaning back against the door this time, and way his eyes roved down the length of my body, I was pretty sure he was reliving the memory our last encounter here.

  He braced a hand on the door near my head, a scant inch or so between our bodies. “I have more questions, but I think they’re going to have to wait.”

  “We probably have ten minutes… for whatever.”

  He blushed.

  I took his hand, put it on my thigh, and guided it to push my skirt up a ways. I hadn’t grabbed a skirt earlier for any other purpose than it looked good with my boots, but I now suspected my ever-present luck factor was at play.

  He kissed me. The start was tentative but progressed to open mouthed and hungry. I felt his hand slide up to the crease of my leg. His thumb traced along the edge of my underwear a few times. I suspected he was uncertain how far he could take this.

  “More,” I whispered.

  He wiggled his thumb under the fabric, stroking along my outer folds, then he must’ve decided the angle was too awkward. He scrunched my skirt up higher and slid a hand down the front of my panties, rubbing fingers deeper into me.

  I was pretty sure I groaned. It felt very good, and, honestly, it had been months since I’d been with anyone, so I was a little desperate.

  He was definitely focused on my pleasure, stroking all the right places, pushing his fingers up inside me, curling them, and oh damn… I might just have found a guy who not only knew what a clitoris was, he was going for my g-spot. I rocked my hips against his motions and gasped as the clenching waves of my orgasm washed through me.

  My vision finally refocused enough to look up at him. His pupils were dilated, and I was perfectly sure we were about to go for round two… until there was a knock on the door.

  “Pull your pants up Fitz, we need a hand with getting a drunk out the door,” said a female voice.

  I guess my luck didn’t extend to us getting to do anything more at the moment.

  Fitz wiped his hand on the hem of his shirt and kissed me again. “The club shuts down in half an hour. Maybe we can continue this.”

  “Uh-huh.” I adjusted my undies and skirt back into their original position and gave him a nod before he opened the door. “I’ll go have another drink.”

  ~

  Fitz wasn’t part of the clean-up crew tonight. Apparently, they had called him in to work at the last minute because one of the regulars was out sick. We left just a few minutes after closing time.

  “Did you drive?” I asked.

  “No, it was cheaper to take the metro than pay the parking deck fee on a Saturday night.”

  “I drove.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you had a car.”

  “I have a very nice car,” I teased. “I parked in the deck a couple of blocks over.” I started in that direction.

  We walked in silence for a couple of minutes, turning a corner to cut down a smaller crossing street. A figure darted from a shadow and attempted to wrap an arm around Fitz’ throat. “Where is it?”

  Fitz rammed an elbow into the man’s chest, enough to dislodge his hold. I kicked the man in the back of the knee.

  The man turned his attention to me, slamming me against the brick wall of the building beside us. Fitz tried to yank him away and was rebuffed by a fist to the face. Fitz staggered and sprawled on the pavement.

  “You will not interfere in acquisition of the Shēngmìng zhī hé,” the man ordered, pressing a knife to my gut.

  I confess to being confused enough that it slowed my reflexes and felt the hot burn of a blade stab into my belly. He must have assumed that the wound would be serious enough to put me out of action or kill me, because he took a step back, turning toward Fitz.

  Despite the pain, I was now extremely pissed. I kicked him in the chest. He stumbled, and looked at me in furious disbelief, knife still in his hand. I reached toward the sky and drew on storm magick, pulling it down. A magnificent bolt of lightning struck him with a sizzling crack. My attacker collapsed to the ground.

  Fitz had gotten to his knees. He stared wide-eyed at the man, then at me.

  I flopped back against the wall, one hand against my belly, feeling the slippery warmth of blood.

  A couple of seconds ticked by as I tried to sort out what the man had said. I was also pretty sure he was same one who had broken into Fitz’ apartment.

  “Oh God, you’re bleeding! I’ll call 911,” Fitz said, grabbing my upper arms. He yanked off his hoodie and pressed the fabric against me. “You should sit down.”

  I spared a moment to stare at the motionless man on the pavement. He had the same ring that I’d seen at Fitz’ apartment, although a little melted. He wasn’t moving. That was beneficial at the moment. In the semi-darkness, I wasn’t entirely sure it was the same man from the burglary attempt. I contemplated yanking the ring off his smoking finger, but considering the damage decided it might take a lot of effort. “We need to leave.”

  “You’re in shock. You’re bleeding, a lot.”

  “What part of I can’t die did you miss? Help me get to my car. You’re driving.” I took a few stumbling steps.

  He looked upset and torn, then he scooped me up and carried me in the direction of the parking deck. “Did you kill him?”

  “Don’t know. Doubt it.” His steps jolted the wound and I had to focus to get the words out.

  He paused at the bottom of the stairwell. “Where are you parked?”

  “Third floor. This side.”

  He headed up the stairs and I was impressed he wasn’t a gasping mess by the time he turned out onto the correct floor. Yay for cardio.

  “Burgundy one.”

  He carefully set me on my feet. “That’s a McLaren.”

  “Bright boy.” I shoved my hand in my purse and squeezed the fob to unlock it. My vision was blurry and despite my inability to die, I was experiencing the thrills of shock and blood loss. He gently helped me sit in the passenger seat. He dropped into the driver’s seat and had to push the seat back significantly.

  “Just push the button.” I said and groaned as I tapped a finger on the GPS/media screen. “Take me home.”

 

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