Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [74]
Ghosts! Nobody said a damn thing about ghosts, she thought with justifiable irritation. Not that it would have mattered worth a damn if they had. She didn’t know a thing about ghosts, or poltergeists, or anything of the undead variety. Nobody really did, or if they did they weren’t talking. Common theory was that the soul was dispersed after death, not inducted into any kind of afterlife. Holding someone after that had to be some seriously wicked mojo.
“Great. Next thing, I’m going to run into vampires. Okay, ixnay on the jinxing of self!”
The car was a darker shadow in the night. She opened the door and slid inside, fumbling for the keys, since she’d disabled the overhead light before leaving it earlier that night. Her arm trembled as she turned the ignition, and she was suddenly aware that her entire body was shaking.
Get home, she told herself. Get home, and then you can collapse.
twelve
For once, Matthew Prevost’s office was not immaculate. An entire folder of papers were splayed across the expensively-carpeted floor, their arc indicating that they had been swept off the desk with a significant amount of force. A pile of small beige and brown colored chips were all that remained of an ancient Navajo pot. And half a dozen books, their leather bindings cracked and pages scattered, were mute testimony to a temper tantrum of extreme proportions. Prevost himself wasn’t in much better shape, standing in the middle of the office and raving like a madman. Although he stood in one spot as if locked into place, his arms flailed wildly, his face twisted like a Halloween mask while he roared his anger, paused to grab a deep breath, and then started again. All that was missing was froth at the corner of his mouth to finish the picture.
For once, for the first time, he wished he had a staff, so he could kick a few of them to make himself feel better. His foot jerked, as though imagining someone cowering in front of him.
After another half an hour of this, Prevost finally ran down. His fingers unclenched, and his shoulders straightened, giving his slight, desk-jockey body a suggestion of authority once again. His expression smoothed out as well, the face of a prosperous businessman sliding down over the rage that had been there a moment before. The sudden calm would have been more frightening to an observer than the madness earlier.
He exhaled, then went to sit behind his desk, ignoring the mess underfoot. Picking up the phone, he dialed a number from memory. Why the hell did he have a magician on call if she couldn’t get the job done?
“Your precautions failed,” he said without preamble. “Someone got in tonight and took it. I don’t know how. I don’t care how.” His voice started to rise, and he paused long enough to get it back under control. “They took the cornerstone.”
The voice on the other end of the line asked a question.
“Of course I want it back!”
His well-manicured fingers began to drum on the desk as the other voice spoke again. His eyes narrowed as she finished speaking, but his voice remained even. “I’m perfectly aware of this. The amount I paid for the original acquisition is a more than reasonable fee for the same job, despite the higher profile. You agree?” It wasn’t a question. “Good. Contact me when it is done.”
Hanging up the phone, Prevost leaned back