The Eldritch Conspiracy

“I really wish I was better at languages,” I complained as, at Isaac’s gesture, I climbed onto the appropriate platform.



“Ruslandic is not one of mine, but Gilda is fluent. She prefers to watch in the original language when she can, as translations are so often bungled.” He held up a needle and pointed it up at me. “Did you know that American English has the most words of any language in the world? And yet, they never seem to be able to adequately translate a word that has only four or five meanings in a foreign language.”



Gilda was fluent in Ruslandic. Really. How … awesomely useful. Oh, the wheels in my mind were free-spinning. “Isaac, do you carry audio equipment for surveillance?”



* * *



I looked hot. Men stared and women glared as I followed the maître d’ through the trendiest of trendy L.A. restaurants to the private dining room where I’d be meeting the princesses. I wore a tight, bloodred dress with a sweetheart neckline. The hem came to my knees and there was a little slit so that I could walk. Three-inch heels in black matched the jacket I wore and the purse I carried. They also matched my shoulder holster as well as the hilts of my knives and my gun. But nobody would see those. Actually I thought the handbag kind of ruined the look, but I’d had to pick one large enough to hold a netbook.



I made up for the bag with my jewelry. It was perfect—understated and elegant. Each of the individual pieces was spelled: the bracelet was also a microphone so that Gilda could hear everything that went on. I just had to be careful not to bump things as I ate. My earrings were speakers so that she could translate the Ruslandic for me. The gear had set me back a fair amount of money, but, by God, tonight I’d know what Olga and Natasha were saying and whether or not I needed to be worried about them.



I felt like a spy in a 007 movie. I even had my very own thug. Agent Baker was on her way back from Serenity, so my secret service escort tonight was Agent William Griffiths. He was a big, imposing redhead, and looked almost as good in his suit as I did in my dress. I’d take him to a premiere anytime.



He didn’t bother checking the room. It had already been done. Instead, he waited until I was seated at the elegantly appointed table before going to stand discreetly by the door.



I’m a casual-dining kind of a gal. I like old-fashioned diners and places like La Cocina, which might be described as dives—if you didn’t mind risking your health saying it in front of the owners. But I’ve been to high-end restaurants on dates, and heaven knows the amount of time I’d stood where Griffiths was now, on the edges, making sure the beautiful people stayed that way. I know what to do with all the various pieces of silver and crystal, and I can even manage my skirt when the maître d’ pushes in my chair without looking awkward. But I still, secretly, feel more than a little out of place when I eat in places like this. Everything was so perfect: candlelight, fine linen, watered silk wallpaper. I felt a little like a kid playing dress up.



Olga and Natasha, however, were born to this sort of thing. They strolled in together. Olga’s head was held high, her posture almost angry, demanding attention. Natasha, on the other hand, looked pensive. Her whole body language was off. She didn’t seem afraid as much as worried and distracted. They were an odd pair. Not friends. No, I decided, they were more like acquaintances, thrown together by chance. But that wouldn’t keep them from teaming up on someone if they felt it was to their advantage. I’d seen that already.



I started with small talk, in English, while the staff filled our water glasses and set out fresh-baked bread that smelled like heaven on a plate. “How did the interviews go this afternoon?”



Natasha opened her mouth to answer, but Olga talked over her. “It is boring. Always the same questions. Very … what is the word? Tedious.”



Bullshit. I’d seen most of Olga’s interview while I was being fitted for my jacket and this dress. She’d loved every minute of the attention. With Gilda translating, I’d been able to watch and listen as she ever-so-carefully tried to make Adriana look bad. Olga never said anything directly insulting—she was far more subtle than that. But she managed to shade her answers in such a way that the public—particularly the Ruslandic people—would be watching my cousin very warily.



Natasha hadn’t been much better. She’d expressed wide-eyed concern over attending the bachelorette party I would be throwing for my cousin. She’d heard scandalous things about such affairs. It was a perfect ploy, playing to the religious and conservative elements. Never mind that I hadn’t scheduled any such party. Now I had to either give one or figure out a good reason not to—or the press would report that we’d caved to conservative pressure.



Dawna suggested that she might be sincere since, after all, a bachelorette party is a pretty standard custom. I didn’t buy it. I’d been shopping with Natasha. Either she’d been doing a fine job of acting when she picked out the racy bridesmaid’s dress, or she was lying now. I was betting the latter.



They were making trouble. But it wasn’t the deadly kind. Just pettiness. I would’ve thought it was the result of the siren effect if I didn’t know for a fact they both wore an anti-siren charm. Maybe it was just bitchiness, or regular old jealousy. Whatever the reason, the result was the same. If there was any time in the schedule where it could be shoehorned in, I was going to be throwing a party. There’d be live tweeting by a planted reporter. And I was going to make damned sure it was sedate and boring enough that nobody could accuse anyone of misbehaving. If there wasn’t, well, we’d just find another form of damage control.



“Well, maybe you won’t have to do any more interviews,” I suggested with saccharine sweetness.



“Most unlikely,” Olga sneered. “This is the wedding of the century. The press are insatiable.”



“Then you’re still planning on being part of the wedding party? I’m so glad.” I tried to sound both sincere and chirpy. I’m not sure how successful I was at it.



Olga gave me a very unfriendly look over the rim of her water glass. “My father has reminded me that it is a great honor and my duty to be part of the wedding.” Ah, duty. But was it her duty to celebrate it, or destroy it?



“Natasha?” I made it a question.



“I will not let fear control me. We have skilled guards to protect us. These…”—she paused, searching for the right word in English—“villains will not succeed.”



“Oh good. I’m so pleased. I was afraid I was going to have to talk the two of you into going through with it, but apparently you’re already on board.” I was smiling so hard my face was starting to hurt.



We were interrupted by the waiters bringing in the soup and salad course. For me, consommé and a bowl of applesauce. I waited until the waiters left before continuing. “The two of you probably know that my cousin has put me in charge of getting the bridesmaids’ dresses.”



They didn’t answer, just stared at me. Natasha’s face was expressionless. Olga’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. She didn’t like that news. Not a bit. I think she believed she could work her way around Adriana. I wasn’t so sure about that, but I did know that she knew she wouldn’t get around me.



“I’ve brought a computer with me. After we finish dinner, you can look at the dresses I’m considering and we can make a final decision.”



After that, dinner was strained. There wasn’t much in the way of conversation. Really, what was there to say? So I concentrated on enjoying my food, which really was excellent, and hoped Gilda Levy wasn’t getting too bored, waiting for the other women to speak.



When the last of the dessert plates were cleared away, I pulled out my netbook and hit the keys to begin the holographic fashion show that Dawna, Gilda, and I had worked so hard on this afternoon.



There were a lot of dresses. Thirty in all, selected from the websites of various designers and high-end bridal shops. We’d arranged it so not one of the images showed where the gown came from. I wanted the selection to be made on merit, not name. Every dress was pretty, demure, and designed to look good with a jacket. I’d insisted on that, because even during the wedding I intended to be armed. A few of the dresses were knee length, most were floor length. There was silk and satin aplenty, beading and lace. Every one of them was available in purple, a color I was sticking with because (a) it looked good on all three of us; and (b) Adriana had approved it.



“No.” Olga slammed her palm onto the table, making the remaining silverware clatter. She glared at me. “None of these will do. Absolutely not.”



“I like the third one quite a bit,” Natasha said with a quiet firmness that surprised me.



Olga didn’t glare at the other woman; she was too shocked. She turned to her, wide-eyed, and spoke in rapid Ruslandic, which my hidden friend helpfully translated.



“What are you doing? We agreed!”



“Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. Adriana has done nothing to harm us and we owe this one our lives. Are you not woman enough to admit that perhaps the men were wrong?”



“Idiot. Those men were not shooting at us. It was the sirens they were trying to kill. It’s been all over the news.”



“A stray bullet can be as deadly as an aimed one. Think of the woman who waited on us in that shop. She was not a target, but she was killed just the same. Her only crime was having little taste.”



“Adriana is controlling our king with her siren abilities.”



“Perhaps my father believes that. I do not. The king wears a charm, just as we do.” Natasha wasn’t budging on this. Her eyes had begun to flash with real anger and her chin was thrust forward aggressively.



“Your father…” Olga was apparently trying to play her trump card. It didn’t work.



“Is wrong. He has not met the princess. Either of them.”



Well, well, well. Wasn’t that just fascinating? Still, if I didn’t say something, and quickly, they might get suspicious. So I widened my eyes in mock innocence and said with a smile, “I liked the third one, too.” It was even the truth. The dress was simple purple silk with a sweetheart neckline and ruching at the side. It flowed in a beautiful A-line down to a floor-length hem. It was simple, elegant, and would look good on all three of us. “Olga, you’re outvoted. Dress number three it is.”