Running Hot (The Arcane Society #5)(34)
Author: Jayne Ann Krentz

Mother had also understood that certain talents, including the nearmythic Siren talent, were dominant and sometimes gender-related traits. Historically all Sirens had been female, probably because only females—musically trained females at that—could hit the so-called money notes, the glorious, almost surreal high D’s, E’s, F’s and even G’s that were the only ones capable of focusing a Siren’s particular type of psychic energy. Not all coloratura sopranos were Sirens, by any means, but all true Sirens were capable of singing the coloratura repertoire, provided they had been trained.

Mother had also comprehended another one of the complicated laws of psychic genetics: When a strong dominant trait such as the Siren talent was enhanced by the power of almost any other type of talent, the result was an even more powerful Siren. Hence Mother’s choice of sperm donor.

Singing and music lessons had begun before La Sirène could walk.

“You will be more famous than Sutherland or Sills or Callas,” Mother had assured her. “You have the power to become the most brilliant soprano of your generation, perhaps of any generation. The talent is in your bloodline.”

She had, indeed, skyrocketed to fame and stardom but not without having to overcome a few obstacles. The first serious glitch had been an ambitious young rival who had shown up at that important audition in her twenty-third year. The creature had walked off with the title role in the production of Lucia di Lammermoor even though it was obvious that she could barely pop off the E-flat in the Mad Scene, let alone embellish it with the high F the way La Sirène could. The rumor that the untalented bitch was sleeping with the wealthiest and most influential backer had spread quickly. It certainly explained a few things.

La Sirène had known for some time that it was theoretically possible to kill with her voice. Her mother had told her that some of her female ancestors had done just that. Nevertheless, she never quite believed it, not until the night when she cornered the bitch in a practice room backstage and sang the Mad Scene the way only she could sing it.

The autopsy had revealed the cause of death as an aneurism. Very tragic, promising young singer cut down on the brink of what could have been a spectacular career, blah, blah, blah. But the show must go on. And it did, with the hot new coloratura soprano who would soon be known as La Sirène in the role of Lucia.

Come to think of it, maybe the Maui engagement wasn’t such an imposition, after all. She always sang her best in the days and weeks following one of her private performances. The Voice needed to be exercised to the fullest extent occasionally in order to remain flawless.

The performance in Acacia Bay had to be perfect.

EIGHTEEN

By ten-fifteen that evening they had identified a total of ten rogue auras, five of whom looked like executives. The other five appeared to be bodyguards with incomplete hunter profiles.

Grace sat with Luther in the shadows at the edge of the hotel’s open-air bar, sipping sparkling water, listening to the slack-key guitar player and watching their quarry.

The five execs sat together, drinking and chatting in a way that Grace had witnessed a thousand times over the years. Their bodyguards hovered at a nearby table, looking tense and uncomfortable against the laid-back island atmosphere.

“You know, if you ignore the evidence of the drug in their auras and the fact that they’re all strong talents and that they’re all traveling with bodyguards, their profiles are pretty much what you’d expect from people in senior management,” she said. “I think Mr. Jones is right. We’ve stumbled into some sort of high-level Nightshade business meeting.”

“We still don’t have any proof that they’re Nightshade,” Luther said. “But I agree that, whoever they are, they look like corporate suits. Wonder where Eubanks ranks in the hierarchy?”

She contemplated the auras again. “I’d say that they see themselves as roughly equal, which means they’re probably at the same level in the organization. Judging by those luggage tags you saw earlier, they’re all from the West Coast plus the one from Arizona.”

“According to Fallon, the Nightshade organization appears to be concentrated on the West Coast and in Arizona,” Luther said. “Maybe these guys are regional managers.”

“Everyone’s certainly being very chummy and convivial,” she said, “but there’s a lot of aggression just below the surface.”

“Now, that I can see,” Luther said. “I’d bet any one of those five would be willing to slit the throat of any of the others if he or she thought it would be useful. Nightshade is a very Darwinian organization. Only the strong and the ruthless make it to the top.”

She shuddered. “The level of potential violence surrounding them is very strong but the really worrisome thing is that a couple of them seem to be developing additional talents.”

“Thought that was genetically impossible.”

“Not quite. I can tell you from my genealogy work that it’s true that multiple talents are extremely rare. But there have been a handful of exceptions over the centuries. The thing is, the exceptions all went insane and died young. Something to do with overstimulation of the brain.”

“So these multitalents are artificially induced by the drug.”

“Yes,” she said. “I saw the same thing in Mr. Crocker’s aura after the dark energy appeared, although I didn’t know what it meant at the time.”

“We need more information on Eubanks. I want to see just how he’s connected to Nightshade.”

“What do you suggest?”

He put his sparkling water down on the table. “I’m going to pay a visit to his room while he’s occupied down here.”

A shiver went through her. “I don’t like that idea.”

“What’s the problem? We know where he is. You can keep an eye on him while I take a look around his suite.”

“How am I supposed to warn you if he leaves the bar?”

“You call my cell. From here it’s a five-, maybe eight-minute walk back through the lobby, up the elevators and down the hall to number six-oh-four. Plenty of time for me to get out before he sees me.”

“Luther, I know this is going to sound wimpy, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“You’re right, that sounds wimpy.” He got leisurely to his feet. “Call me if he makes a move to head back to the room.”

She swallowed her next argument, which wasn’t any more convincing than the first. She watched carefully but none of the executives or their bodyguards appeared to notice Luther leaving the bar.