gone into hiding. The information he gave my man was vague. We’re trying to corroborate some of it. No luck so far, but it’s early yet.’’
‘‘You’ve told the king, I assume. He intends to go through with the ceremony?’’
‘‘I tried to talk him into postponing it. He refused. He’s convinced it’s necessary to hold the ceremony as soon as possible, both to secure the succession and as a symbol for the people. Hell, he may be right. My job, as he pointed out, is to make sure he can do his job.’’
That sounded like his uncle. ‘‘And the prince?’’
‘‘Lucas knows. The queen hasn’t been told.’’
‘‘I still don’t see why you had me invite Rose to the palace tonight.’’
‘‘Like I said, I’m hoping your assumption is wrong. If she’s one of them and seems to have easy access to the palace—to the prince—they may decide to make their attempt through her. It’s easier to guard a single, known quantity than to prevent attack from an unknown direction. And if she does try something—’’ his left hand closed into a fist ‘‘—then we’ll have her. And through her, the rest of them.’’
Drew’s temples were beginning to throb with the dull precursor of a headache. He needed to finish up and leave. ‘‘I have a suggestion. Ask her to help with your investigation. Police departments do occasionally work with psychics.’’
Lorenzo’s chair creaked as he leaned farther back. He laced his fingers together over his stomach and spoke mildly. ‘‘I’m sure you have a good reason for suggesting we work with a suspect.’’
‘‘Her value to you is as a conduit to others. You need her alive, so you need to convince the Brothers they have nothing to fear from her. If she is working with them, this might help persuade them to make the next attack through her, as you said. They’ll think you trust her. If she’s an innocent witness, let it be seen that she’s sticking to her story of seeing visions. The Brothers will have a good laugh at us for believing that psychic nonsense and put less of a priority on silencing her.’’
Lorenzo considered that for a long moment. ‘‘And if they believe in that psychic nonsense? We could be making her more of a target than she is now.’’
‘‘If they actually believe she can peer into her crystal ball and identify them, she’s as good as dead now,’’ Drew said flatly. ‘‘Unless you lock her away somewhere for her own good.’’
‘‘I need her alive and where they can contact her. And dammit, I need to know what she knows and hasn’t told us. All right. We’ll try it your way and see how it goes. Not that I plan to believe a word she says, you understand. Here’s how we’ll play it.’’
They talked for another ten minutes. Drew was on his feet, about to leave, when Lorenzo said, ‘‘One more thing.’’ He moved the chunk of quartz and picked up the pistol, letting the map roll up in a quick shudder of paper. He held out the gun. ‘‘From now on, I want you armed whenever you leave the palace.’’
Silently Drew accepted the weapon. It was a Glock automatic, the model he’d learned to shoot with on the firing range below the palace more than ten years ago. ‘‘Your memory is remarkable. I’m still better with a rifle, but a rifle would be hard to tuck under a jacket. I’ll need a shoulder holster.’’
‘‘That could be awkward. Not that I’m asking about your sex life, mind. But she’s apt to notice it.’’
‘‘Not a problem.’’ Drew slid the gun into his jacket pocket. It was heavy, the weight obvious. ‘‘I pointed out my tail earlier and gave Rose a brief explanation. She might be surprised to discover that I’m armed, but she’ll associate it with the threat of kidnapping.’’
‘‘You pointed out Roberts?’’
‘‘She would have spotted him sooner or later. Chances are she’ll spot whoever you have on her, too, but that’s okay. She’s expecting it. And no,’’ he added, smiling at the expression on Lorenzo’s face, ‘‘I didn’t tell her you would have her followed. She told me. She’s bright, and not one to play ostrich when life gets nasty. Will palace security be alarmed by the bulge in my pocket?’’
Lorenzo didn’t look happy. He stood. ‘‘I’ve notified them. Find some time to visit the shooting range. I doubt you’re in practice. You know, Drew, if it were anyone but you, I’d be worried. This woman is smart, she’s sexy, and you sound as if you admire her. Maybe it’s just as well you came home early tonight.’’
Anger hit, making Drew’s head throb. ‘‘But you know better, don’t you? If I were capable of losing my head over a woman, I’d have done it long ago.’’ He nodded curtly and left.
The night was warm and quiet, the noise of the city cushioned by the trees that rimmed the grounds. From somewhere nearby a nightingale called, its song rising in a liquid crescendo. Drew hurried along the path that led to the palace, wanting to be in his room, alone, as soon as possible.
It might be a normal headache. Probably it was, and a couple of aspirins would prove that. In the past year he’d had six crazy spells, none of them closer together than four weeks. But the interval between them had shortened, and a headache was the usual precursor.
Still, this particular ache could be the product of pure sexual frustration. He’d been very ready for Rose when he didn’t kiss her good night. Alarmingly so. And maybe that was the real reason he hadn’t kissed her—on some level she frightened him.
No. No, that was absurd. He might fear losing control, but he wasn’t afraid of the woman.
For once Rudolpho, the majordomo, wasn’t on duty, and if the guards at the palace door noticed the bulge in Drew’s pocket, they ignored it. He took the stairs quickly.
He’d done what he could to protect her. He wouldn’t apologize for wanting to. Drew thought of the way she’d discussed the economic consequences of the bombing at the dinner table with four royals, himself and Lorenzo, and smiled. She’d been nervous, but she hadn’t let it show.
What made him think she’d been nervous? He frowned as he crossed the picture gallery, unable to remember an expression, an awkward word, anything but his simple certainty. Maybe he’d imagined it, or assumed—
Between one step and the next, it hit. All at once this time—the glassy separation, the slicing agony in his skull, the dislocation of his senses. Walls melted into floors, colors ran together, and chaos chuckled in the hollow space between self and madness. He lost touch with his body—was he moving, falling, frozen in place? Was he anywhere?
He still was. He was here, dammit, even if he couldn’t find here in the swirls of colors and jutting angles, the walls that moved and traded places with floor or ceiling. Even if he couldn’t feel his body, he still existed in his mind. Desperate, he began to count, then switched to long division…
‘‘…get help? Drew, answer me!’’
He blinked. He was standing in the hall near the royal suite. His skin was clammy, chilled. And his aunt’s face was looking up at him, the patrician features tight with worry. Her hand clutched his arm. He felt her fingernails, dulled by the cloth of his sleeve, digging into his flesh.
He
