The Eldritch Conspiracy

I’d never had that problem. In the land of the Hollywood butterflies, I’d always been a useful brown moth.



But now you are royalty, Celia. A pedigree has its own beauty.



Yeah, but that’s not the sort of fame I ever wanted. Adriana looked at me curiously, truly not understanding why being royal had so little value to me.



I went back to chatting amiably by the dancing light of a string of party lanterns hung around the deck. The drinks were plentiful, the conversation excellent. It didn’t take long for the atmosphere to lull me into a sense of complacency. That’s why bodyguards are seldom guests at the party, but to hell with it. There were plenty of other guards there. I decided to have a little fun.



I discovered, to my delight, that the Michelin-star chef on Adriana’s yacht had previously worked at the secure facility where Vicki had lived for much of her adult life. He’d once made me Belgian waffles and syrup in liquid form. Today I was treated to all the same appetizers as the other guests, liquified, in a trio of chilled martini glasses. I found that both clever and touching—someone, the hostess or the chef, had taken time to think of me.



All four of Adriana’s buddies were nice, funny, intelligent women. They weren’t toadies and they weren’t anything remotely close to what I would have expected Adriana’s friends to be like when I first met the prickly princess with a huge chip on her shoulder. They were, however, exactly the kind of people I would expect to see in the company of the Adriana I was now coming to know.



We were taken well out to sea, with our ever-present escort vessels keeping a discreet distance. Equally watchful were the helicopters that passed overhead.



Adriana, are those Secret Service choppers or press?



Both. It’s the open sea, so mother couldn’t legally clear the air space. I know it’s annoying, but try to ignore it.



Easy for her to say. I kept remembering Mexico and the armed thugs who’d fired machine guns at us from overhead. I sat and smiled, drink in hand, but now I was on high alert, my former relaxation gone. That vigilance, and my vampire vision, let me see the diver drop from a helicopter as it swung low beside us, photographers in the cabin snapping telephoto pictures.



I sent a warning to Baker mentally. Diver in the water. Three o’clock off the port side. I heard her mutter something into the mic at her wrist. Almost immediately the yacht’s engines roared to life. At the sound, the women all looked around, startled. It takes a couple of minutes to get a large vessel moving from a dead stop, but the captain did the best he could. In fact, the movement as the ship set sail was so abrupt and jerky that Keohi, who had been standing, had to grab onto the table to keep herself from falling.



In the distance, the escort ships started moving in.



Adriana was pulled down to the deck by the nearest guard and thought at me in alarm, Celia, what is going on? We aren’t supposed to be heading back yet.



Stay down. A diver dropped off that last chopper. I’m pretty sure he had a PMD.



Originally developed for the military, a PMD, or Personal Movement Device, was about the size of a dinner plate and used a combination of magic and technology to allow a diver to move through the water as fast as most ships while maintaining a constant flow of oxygen. If the guy I’d seen drop off the chopper had one, he’d be here in seconds.



How could you possibly have seen…?



I shrugged as I pushed Adriana’s friends toward the cabin to get below decks. Vampire night vision comes in handy now and then. Now if you would, everyone needs to get below.



You think we’re under attack. Her mental voice sounded truly shocked. Even with everything that had been happening, she hadn’t expected this. Of course, as a clairvoyant she’d probably gotten used to having at least a hint of trouble before it arrived.



I don’t know, but better safe than sorry. Now go.



At a word from her, the four of them darted for the stairwell, holding hands and keeping their heads below the line of the upper cabin. A pair of agents materialized from the shadows and followed them. Baker appeared at my side.



“You should go inside, too.” It wasn’t quite an order, more a firmly framed suggestion.



“I’m of more use out here, Helen. I’m on duty, just like you.”



“We really do know what we’re doing,” she chided me.



“Did any of your people see him? Even those using night-vision goggles?”



She opened her mouth to answer, but remained silent when I raised my hand. I thought I’d heard the soft whump of an object impacting the ship’s hull. There was a second thump, the sound barely audible over the noise of the engines and the slap of waves against the ship. It might be my imagination, but I didn’t dare risk it.



Baker had heard it, too. We both drew guns from beneath our jackets and moved to take cover between the cabin and the built-in table. When we were concealed, she whispered into the microphone at her wrist and I saw shadows move into position around the boat.



Seconds that lasted an eternity passed as we watched and waited. A pair of wet-suited figures eased over the railing and began creeping silently forward. When they were far enough from the edge of the deck that they couldn’t simply dive over and escape, a spotlight flared to life, accompanied by the voice of authority blaring through a bullhorn.



“Freeze. Move and you will be shot.”



They froze and dropped their weapons.



Actually, what they dropped into the bright light were … cameras.



27



I hate the paparazzi. Just hate ’em. Some of them will do anything, risk anything, to get a picture or story. Never mind who gets hurt in the process. There are even those who, if they can’t get the story, will stage a story.



Nellie Standish was evidently one of those.



She wouldn’t give us her source, but admitted she’d been slipped information about tonight’s party. She’d also been told that Adriana wanted “one last fling” before she and Dahlmar tied the knot and that if Standish could get a camera on board, she’d find a naked man in the princess’s bedroom.



Baker and I went to check on that detail, letting others continue the questioning.



Adriana’s stateroom was down the hall from the main room where the party guests were waiting. Her private cabin was spacious, beautiful, and after a thorough check, unoccupied except for a male blow-up doll propped up by pillows. The doll’s staggeringly huge member was adorned by a big red bow.



I burst out laughing. I mean, seriously, a blow-up doll?



Baker gave a derisive snort. “She risked getting killed for this toy.”



“At the right distance and angle, she might be able to make it look real. And even photos of this would be embarrassing for King Dahlmar if they got out.”



“Or she could be an assassin, using this as cover.”



Baker was right. Paparazzi go everywhere—it would be a great way for an assassin to hide. “When you find out, let me know. I’m going to deal with Seymour here and report to the princess.”



“Seymour?” Baker asked.



“Yeah, I’m seeing more of him than I ever wanted.”



She chortled and left, first handing me a device I could use to scan my cousin’s “last fling.” I didn’t touch it, in case being tossed off the bed in disgust was a trigger. There was no bomb. But that’s not the only thing that can kill.



I had no doubt I looked ridiculous hooking the scanner to the air port, which some clever soul had placed right where fluid comes out of a human male, to check out what the doll was filled with. I’d hate to find out it had been inflated with sarin gas.



I waited for the light on the device to turn green, but it remained stubbornly yellow. Not red, but there was definitely something more to Seymour than his obvious attributes.



I called in Baker and Griffith and managed not to blush as I told them to bag and tag the doll and get it off the boat without deflating it.



I took Adriana into a small cabin to brief her. She was rightly alarmed as what looked like a body bag was removed from her personal cabin. I explained what had happened without mentioning the contents of the doll, then she and I went back to the main room, where the other guests were sitting and staring at nothing. That likely meant they were busily talking mentally.



“Excuse me,” I said out loud, startling several of them, “but which of you left a gift on Adriana’s bed?” Nobody answered. That wasn’t good. “Really, this is important, ladies. If you did, we need to know.”



Finally, Nani raised her hand sheepishly. “It was poor taste on my part, I know. But the expression on it made me laugh. I’m sorry if it frightened anyone.”



Adriana laughed and told the others what I’d found. They all chuckled before Adriana swatted her friend’s knee. “You scamp, Nani! I’m sorry I didn’t get to see it.”



Ouch. I’d been hoping it hadn’t been left by one of Adriana’s friends. Now came the hard part. “Did you actually fill the doll?”



Nani, big-with-child, been-with-a-hundred men siren Nani, blushed. “Good heavens, no! Did you see where they put the nozzle?” She turned to the others. “It was right on the end of his … well, you know. Most of them have the place where you blow it up on the back of the head. No, I asked one of the servants to fill it.”



I heard a cheep near the door. It was Baker’s earwig. She listened intently and then nodded. “Ten-four,” she said into the mic at her wrist. She stepped forward and took over the questioning. “Did you instruct the servant to place anything in the doll except air, your ladyship?”



Nani shook her head, confused. “No. Of course not. Why, what—” She didn’t complete the sentence but her expression told me she’d figured out what was going on. Gasps from the others told me everyone else had gotten it too.



“What did you find, Agent Baker?” Adriana’s voice shook, and for good reason. Everybody on board, with the exception of the reporters, was someone she trusted.



“There was THC suspended in a mixture of air and ethylene. It wouldn’t kill the princess, but since she is a prophet, it would likely cause euphoria and hallucinations. We don’t know what was intended beyond that. Perhaps the photographer would catch her in a compromising position or appearing drunk, which would inflame the Ruslandic population. Or perhaps someone hoped she would fall overboard and drown. Of course, that could never happen. The ocean wouldn’t allow a siren princess to die by drowning. Or perhaps it was a prank. We might not ever know. But I do need to know which servant you asked to fill the doll.”