Thirteen (Otherworld 13)

Thomas and Josef had hoped to somehow overthrow the Cortezes by putting me on trial with false evidence. How? As Sean said, it was likely just a step in a long plan. It didn't matter now, because Balaam had twisted their plot to his own advantage.

The murder of Thomas Nast would drive the Nast Cabal into chaos when it could least afford it. Since Balaam had pretended he'd done it to save me, I became the scapegoat. Make me--Lucas Cortez's ward--the scapegoat and you ensured there would be no alliance between Cabals to fight the liberation movement. Put Sean on the run with me, and you further divided the Nasts, rendering the biggest Cabal impotent in the face of this threat.

Such an elegant play. A move truly worthy of a lord demon. I'd be whole lot more impressed if I wasn't at the heart of it.

We left shortly after that. The Cortezes had moved the jet to another regional airport, not yet being monitored by the Nasts.

Sean and I spent the flight talking. I was worried about him. Really worried. He'd just lost his grandfather. He might be losing his Cabal. He'd severed any relationship with Josef, and I knew that stung, because while they hadn't been on good terms lately, they had been close once. Josef's son had died shortly after our dad, and they had bonded over their shared loss.

Now Bryce was sick. Very sick. If he died, what would Sean have left? Me? He loved me, I knew, but I was still the outsider who didn't really understand where he came from, what it meant to be a Nast.

So I was worried. And I had no idea what to do about it except sit there and listen, and offer words of hope about Bryce and the future. So that's what I did.

PAIGE

Troy pulled the SUV into a tiny lot near the private airstrip.

"We'll sit out here and wait for the jet," he said.

Paige nodded. If she got out, the guards in the SUV behind them would need to get out in order to watch over her. Then she'd need to make conversation with them. Maybe not "need," but "should." Any other time, that wouldn't be a problem. But she'd passed the point days ago of being able to make small talk. She just wanted to curl up in the backseat and disappear for a few minutes.

When her cell rang, she was about to ignore it. Then she realized it was Lucas.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked when she answered.

"Never."

She bit back her next words. The usual words she'd say when they weren't together. I miss you. Now it would only remind him that this wasn't one of their usual little separations, off chasing cases, hating being apart, but still loving what they were doing. There was nothing to love here, and with each passing day that weighed on him a little more.

"Is Savannah's flight on schedule?" he asked.

"It is. She'll be here any minute."

"Good." A long pause. Then his voice dropped. "I miss you."

Paige gripped the phone tighter. "Miss you, too."

More silence.

She cleared her throat. "So . . . how's the weather?"

A bubble of a laugh burst across the line. "The weather in L.A. is perfect, as always. And there?"

"Crappy, as always."

A chuckle now. "I had a call from Mitchell DeLong. Do you remember Mitchell?"

"Vaguely. Necromancer. Lives in Seattle."

"Correct. Except that last night, apparently, he was near Portland, heading to a cemetery to perform a summoning for a client. It was late, and he was tired and driving erratically. An officer pulled him over and discovered that Mitchell had forgotten to properly stow his summoning materials, including three desiccated human fingers."

"Never good."

"Particularly when dealing with a small-town police force that doesn't appear to understand that desiccated flesh indicates extreme age. They're quite certain the rest of Mitch's victim is nearby and they're holding him until they find it. He'd like me to come in and clear the matter up."

"Uh-huh. Did you tell him we're a little busy?"

"I did. He hadn't heard anything about the situation. No matter, though. He understands that we are otherwise engaged and therefore has offered to pay double our usual fee."