Blue Fusion

By Vivian Griffen

Camryn Kelly has spent her life becoming the one thing that would make her father proud: to be the best modern thief in the world. When word gets out about a mysterious gem coming up for an exclusive auction, she knows she's hit pay dirt. Not only did her father steal the gem decades ago, but he still regrets selling it later. To make it sweeter, it is heavily guarded and warded making the prize something even her father would applaud. She supposed she could buy it, as a last resort. Then again, there were always weak points in magical transfers like this. With high hopes, she travels to a mysterious island with her best friend, Zan.

Ryle Damiani is a former cop. Some would say he was a laughingstock, others a disgrace. However you look at it, when a long-time friend is found mutilated and dead in his jewelry shop, Ryle knows this is likely his only chance to solve one last murder. The evidence is scant, but he's ready to roll the dice and head to an island that is listed on no map. Soon after he finds himself embroiled in a series of murders while thrust into a nonhuman world far beyond his experience.

The thief and ex-cop find themselves working together to expose a murderer, learn the hidden secret of the world's most famous gem, defend the island from invaders and stop a destructive force that could end a million lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vivian Griffen
• Release date: Jun 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370158928

Vivian Griffen

V. Griffen remembers writing her first story at age eight, a suspense-thriller involving a long and terrifying walk home from grade school and encountering her own shadow. The stories never stopped and many a digital tree is now carrying her words and characters into posterity. Now she’s made the supremely daring choice to inflict a few of her stories upon the unsuspecting population. V. Griffen is an author, artist, historian and inveterate researcher of any topic that strikes her fancy of the moment. She's lived in New York, Wisconsin and Pennsylvania. Newly relocated to Montana, she is awed and humbled in the wide-open prairies. Having worked at seemingly every job imaginable, she concluded that the width of her experience is best used to bring depth to her novels, focusing on her love of paranormal urban contemporary fiction.

Book preview

Prologue

In the flickering light of guttering candles, the man bent over an alembic. After weeks of relentless work, the distillation of the needed chemicals was nearly complete. With hands shaking from fatigue, he held the instrument up, using the small magnifying lens to gauge the purity of the chemical within. Judging it nearly perfect, he smiled with weary satisfaction.

Sweat trickled down his back under his fine cream linen shirt, now heavily stained and torn. He’d discarded the waistcoat days ago. His fawn breeches were equally stained and burned through from splashes and spills from fire and acids. The skin beneath was raw and red, puckering here and there in angry welts. He took no notice. He was too consumed with his work to take any notice of such minor details as comfort.

Just as he gave no regard to the air that was now rank and stale after months of experiments. The stone walls were pitted as much from explosive mishaps as from neglect. He had no care that sunlight never breached his domain. Especially now that he was nearly finished. In the far corner of his lab, his athanor was finally nearly at the temperatures he needed. At his elbow, under expensive and precious glass, a long scroll lay.

He was a young man that had left his youth behind merely a year ago. Despite his age, he had pursued his work with a diligence that shamed his elders. It had taken him two years consulting with the spirits and mediums to decipher the long-forgotten language. Even so, they were merely translations from an earlier people, known as the Akkadians.

He spoke and read five languages fluently, with another half dozen that he could muddle through. Despite his extensive education, he could not be certain he had correctly interpreted the ancient writers. Context, syntax and secret codes all combined to confound the initiate. As frustrating as that could be, he couldn’t help but admire such masters of complexity and obfuscation. To his mind it was fitting that only the greatest mind could work through the arduous translation and transliteration.

Such was his arrogance. Despite his age, or maybe due to it, he had surpassed his tutors years ago. He could count on one hand the number of his peers he had true respect for. None were his equal.

He was determined, as his diligent work proved. He was vain, wanting nothing more than to prove himself as the greatest alchemist in history. He didn’t want his name to stand with the likes of Solomon or Flaumel. He wanted, needed, to surpass them.

With reverence he held up an enormous blue diamond, marveling in how the light played over the facets, hinting at the hidden structure underneath. It had taken a significant portion of his personal wealth to acquire it. But as soon as he had seen it, he knew it was the perfect vessel for his work. He turned the stone so the torchlight danced across the surface, making it flash a royal purple. He thought it apropos, as his work will make him a king among men.

Using specially crafted tongs, he brought the stone to the athanor. Opening the small hatch, he recoiled at the blast of heat that hit him like a fist. Gasping at the lack of oxygen and ignoring the burn in his throat, he set the stone on the pedestal and swiftly closed the door. He took some of the precious seconds he had in order to slake his thirst with tepid water that burned like ice against his wounded throat. He couldn’t take the chance in mispronouncing the enchantment or falling into a coughing fit.

Taking up the papyrus, he faced the athanor. He cast the first spell. It was almost too easy. The Sigils, reputed to be from the Elves themselves, glowed amber on the furnace’s surface, magnifying the power of heat and word. A second spell set off another series of glyphs that glowed as bright as the sun he hadn’t seen in weeks.

With shaking fingers, he poured the distilled chemicals into the athanor, followed by the prescribed powders that had been ground so finely they drifted down like mist.

Then he began the final phase. Two days and three nights, in the proper phase of the moon and the proper alignment of the planets, he chanted. His legs and arms trembled with fatigue, his stomach clenched and ached with hunger and thirst. But, through it all, through sheer willpower and a formidable self-control, his voice never wavered.

And then it was over.

It was almost anticlimactic, really. There was no flash of light, no symphony of the heavens, no triumphant jubilee. There was only silence.

He stared at the athanor, now dark with the heat gone. In a rare state of nervousness, he delayed by drinking enough water to fill his belly. He ate some fruit, nuts and bread. The only sound in the room was the drip of the water clock.

Eventually he could not put it off. He set the flagon of wine down and strode to the furnace. Taking a deep breath, he flung open the chamber.

And staggered back in shock and pain. He fell to his knees, screaming. The pressure in his brain swelled until blood poured from eyes, nose, mouth and ears. He felt his bowels weaken and run. Fire seared along his limbs, coiling and striking in his belly.

He endured three days of hideous agony. For the first time in his life he regretted his self-imposed isolation. He desperately wished for someone, anyone to answer his screams, his cries. By the time he was reduced to pitiful mewls, any hope of aid was long extinguished.

Now, aching and trembling, he emerged from his cellar laboratory to look with dull eyes at the quiet and serene wilderness around his hidden lab. He was so used to the quiet; two days earlier he’d torn his throat out with his screams. The only sound he made at the end was the feeble pounding of fists and heels on the floor as his body arched in pain.

It took the better part of two exhausting hours to get to the village. He nearly stopped at one of the outlying farmhouses. He was tempted to lie down just like the bulls and cows that lolled in the fields as they were wont to do just before the rains came. But he wanted people, food, and some measure of comfort, so he continued on. He rounded the bend where he would see the small town and picked up his pace until he was staggering through the streets. It took mere minutes for the realization and he fell, weeping, to his knees once more.

They were all dead.

Every man, woman and child within miles lay or sat in the middle of some activity. In desperation, he dragged himself through the town with hope flickering feebly in his heart. Two women lay on a floor, the platters of now-stale bread still clutched in their hands. A man sat on the end of his cart, as if he’d taken a moment to rest before carrying the next bag of flour. The blacksmith lay bent over, his upper body burned through from lying in his forge. Everywhere he searched brought new visions of death.

And, it wasn’t just the people. Bird littered here and there in the streets. Dogs and cats rotted under awnings, porches and chairs as if they hoped the fate they sensed would pass them by if they remained unseen. The horses and cattle in the fields were not resting and enjoying a day. Goats, pigs, chickens, even ants, wasps and butterflies lay still as stone. If it walked, crawled, slithered, or flew it moved no longer.

In all cases, the bodies were deformed or diseased. Skin was bloated and blistered, limbs twisted like old oak branches. He could see where dark pustules had risen and burst, where the black fluids had dried and the bones broke.

He searched, oh how he searched, for even one survivor. For ten miles in every direction, all he found was death. In every inn, shop, home, farm, and hamlet Death had come. By the end, his arrogance was stripped. He was emotionally naked and vulnerable; the more so because no one was there to see. He saw what he had wrought and the danger he’d placed in the world.

His purpose changed. In despair, humiliation and unaccustomed self-loathing, he took fire, sword and axe to the transformed gem. Alas, it was merely the Age of Iron and not even he, the alchemical genius of the known world, could prevail against the strength of a diamond. He bitterly resented that its indestructability was the precise reason he’d approved it as a vessel.

He had only one hope to destroy the cursed gem. The very fires that had produced the diamond, and the people that controlled them, was the key to eradicating it. If this failed, he could only hope they could contain it.

It took another week to fashion the case with all its sigils and protections. The iron was barely cooled before it was fitted to the case and the gem thrust inside the silk lining. He would take no chance that its power would bring destruction to the innocents he passed.

It took over a year before he found the location of one of the Firelords, one of the elementals that inhabited the world. They had no ambition, no greed or anger. But they could be bound to a service, if approached correctly. Alien and volatile, it took another year until he was satisfied with the agreement and six month more to meet their terms. With the greatest relief he finally handed over the case, desperately grateful to relinquish the burden. By the agreement, the gem would remain under the Pyrenes until the Earth went cold.

Satisfied, he left. After, he was never quite sure what went wrong. The mountains were barely a dark line in the horizon when the volcano erupted. It was so powerful he felt the tremors even at that safe distance. He saw the plume of ash and smoke, his eyes trailed the fiery tendrils. More smoke, more eruptions as the Mother Earth expelled the sickness that was in her belly.

Chronicles say there was no summer that year, for the ash and smoke hung heavy as volcanoes erupted throughout Europe. No sunlight meant no crops. Famine brought weakness and death while Pestilence carried the Black Plague. Those that survived suffered further indignities and misery of territorial wars.

The period was rightly called the Dark Ages.

He never saw the diamond again.

He traveled for years. His brilliance was still unparalleled. He astounded and enthralled his peers as much as he alienated and offended. While he never eradicated his arrogance or his vanity, he used it to cull the chaff from the wheat, demanding Thought and Reason against Avarice and Ignorance.

But, he never forgot. Even now, centuries later, he broods on the anniversary of his Change. His self-inflicted penance was served through reflection and remembrance, a yearly penance for blind ambition.

He sat in another village on that very knoll, watched as two teenagers performed acrobatic feats with skateboards on contoured cement, moving to a rhythm only they could hear from their i-pods. If they knew what had occurred here centuries ago, they didn’t care. The knowledge drifted away like so much knowledge that was lost in the period.

Chapter 1

The deafening alarm system swallowed her scream. It took a few minutes to fight off the pain and nausea that her healing amulet couldn’t absorb. The klaxon continued to sound stridently in her ear as she hung like a spider caught in her own web. This was not good.

Face pale with pain and stress, Camryn Kelly shifted slightly to one side. Her right hand had a tight grip on the rappelling line that secured her to the custom-made, collapsible tripod that straddled the opening above her. Careful not to shift her weight too far, she bent her head to get a better look at her left arm, hissing at the throb of pain that started in her left arm and shot down to her toes.

Christ, Cam. Every sensor in the place went off. The guards are all over the place securing the areas. Fuck me, this job is blown to hell. Her partner’s voice, Zan Ning, was a bitter whisper in her ear bud.

Her gut sinking, she was tempted to agree. Three months of planning had gone into this job; researching the layout, looking into the background of every guard, buying or designing the equipment, examining the state-of-the-art security system, and accounting for every conceivable contingency. Her ever-present friend Murphy simply laughed at the effort and sent in the unexpected.

She almost berated herself for the screw up, but common sense told her she was being ridiculous. After all, who in their right mind would plan for an earthquake?

Granted, it was a small one; it barely registered past one on the Richter scale. The tremors were negligible and there was almost no visible damage. But it had been strong enough to shift the support strut that was improperly set on the footing. It was also strong enough to bring that strut down on her arm, effectively pinning her to the floor.

She fought back another surge of tears and nausea. She was lucky that her arm was only caught in the angle against the floor. It could have pierced through her arm and pinned her down like a butterfly on paper. At best she would have been caught. At worst, she’d have lost the arm. So, in some way, she had been lucky. She didn’t think her arm was broken, but at this level of pain, it might as well be. For certain, it was fractured. Regardless, the job was going pear-shaped in a major way.

With her arm pinned, she couldn’t hoist herself back up, nor could she complete her descent. She blinked tears out of her eyes. The few that escaped slid into the balaclava hiding her face.

Trying to keep her voice level, Give me a sitrep report. Out of training and reflex, she kept her voice low and her words few.

The bad news is that the quake set off every alarm in the building. All the guards are sweeping the areas to clear them and reset the sections. I’m tracking them now…give me a second.

On any other night the guards might have simply given the place a cursory glance, if that, and reset the system. But tonight was different. Tonight the museum was hosting a large, dignified fundraiser. It had been a godsend to her plans because it diverted security’s attention nicely. With the majority being diligent and visible on the other side of the building, she would have been left to her own devices here. Now she cursed the entire mess. All the guards were currently scurrying to impress the boss who was not only the event coordinator, he was also on site.

She assessed. How big an area was hit?

"It was a pretty small quake. Police scanner is pretty active, maybe a few miles in each direction. They’re cruising, but it’s mostly to prevent opportunists from looting.

Okay, so all of the cops and security firms across the city are overloaded with calls. It might take a while to weed out the legitimate calls from the cranks. And no one here has had any reason to call for help.

Yet.

Please, stop the sunny optimism. She bit off a curse when she heard a guard’s footsteps. There she was, stuck in the opening she’d cut in the attic floor. Her hips, legs and ass currently dangled 25 feet above the museum’s Ancient World gallery. It might almost be amusing if it weren’t for the agony.

Cam…

I know, she whispered. Maintaining her weight on her right hand, she strained to lift her legs so the ankles and knees were parallel to the ceiling. With her form-fitting clothing dyed to match the ceiling and walls she blended almost seamlessly with her surroundings. He might pass without spotting her. If he was like most people, he wouldn’t look up without a reason. She didn’t aim to give him one, but she couldn’t hold the pose indefinitely.

Below, the guard seemed to be taking his time. He was barely halfway through the large room. Even Camryn’s formidable patience was wearing a little thin. Muscles honed from years of gymnastics, aerobics, yoga and a multitude of sports quivered as it strained to keep her punishing pose.

In the narrow space between her hip and the edge of the cutout, she saw the guard pass, looking around negligently. It had to be a crime to be so completely unaffected by the wealth of history and knowledge he passed through every day.

From the top-down view, all she could really see was his domed head with a seriously receding hairline, stooped shoulders and a bit of a potbelly over stick-thin legs. He brought up his walkie-talkie and his light, thready voice drifted up in the silence. Leaving Ancient Wing. I’ll take Africa next.

Sorry, Bill. We need you in Mediterranean. We’re getting complaints that the guests can still hear the alarms from over there.

That’s on the other side of the building, Bill whined. Make Mike do it. I don’t want to have to double back. He stopped walking and Cam nearly cursed at the delay.

Mike’s got Medieval and Renaissance. Chris has Modern and American. Before Bill could respond, Just get over there. Sooner you do it, the sooner it gets done.

A bit of sly came into Bill’s voice. I told you my knee’s acting up. It’ll take me a few minutes to get all the way over there.

There was a long moment of silence then another male voice came on. This one had the air of authority and was tainted with extreme annoyance. He spoke, tightly. Mr. Stillman, you will proceed to the Mediterranean Art wing. You will secure the area and report back after resetting the alarm if there is nothing amiss. You will report to me directly, is that understood?

Camryn could all but hear Bill’s audible gulp. Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it. He shut off the radio and, swearing viciously, headed quickly off to the assigned area, forgetting all about his supposed knee injury.

Camryn sighed, hearing the guard’s retreating steps. Then the area’s alarm was shut down and reset. With relief, she eased her legs down.

Zan spoke again, He’ll be gone a while.

Not taking any chances, Camryn kept her voice low. It was a warm and smooth alto and had no discernable accent. Or, more accurately, her accent shifted depending on her mood and surroundings. Yes, but the others are going to be working all the areas. If any sound or light travels to them, it’ll be trouble for us. Let’s hope the boss doesn’t order any of the others to double check Bill’s work.

Let’s hope. It would be annoying after picking a night when we knew he was on duty here, the lazy sod.

A light clicking above her made her look up into the glassy eyes of a pigeon. She curled her lip, and it wasn’t in a smile. Pigeons may look picturesque to some but, to her, they were merely flying rats. And this particular job brought her entirely to close to the vermin. She shouldn’t be surprised to see them. Like any rat, they infested and invaded everywhere, even such a prestigious monument to the arts.

The Tipke Art Museum was the up and coming museum. Lloyds of London had odds it would eventually rival some of the largest art museums in the world, including the Louvre. The Tipke took an unusually thorough view of security and they had been hard-pressed to find the least risky avenue of entry. After nearly a month of examinations, they found one likely, if unorthodox, chink in the armor.

Pigeons had roosted under the eaves. Over the unusually harsh winter they’d pecked and worked their way into the attic crawlspaces. The opportunistic flying rats had moved right in. Eventually the creatures would be rousted when the museum found evidence of their presence when they conducted their routine check on the air conditioning system that was housed here. But for now, it gave her an unpleasant, but advantageous entry.

Crawling through pigeon shit was disgusting enough. The protective plastic sheeting she had worn had shielded her from the worst of the grime and smell. She was just grateful to have a portable oxygen system so she didn’t have to breathe in the noxious fumes. She did not relish the trip out.

The flying rat cocked its head to the side and its eyes took on an odd sheen. With the change in angle as the light hit the orb, she could see the small cameras reflecting under the bird’s irises. Looking closely, she could see the etching at the ends of the fabricated feathers; sigils which would help the contraption fly like the real thing. Zan had gotten the idea from an Elven friend. Elves were the masters of blending technology and magic and they hoarded their secrets zealously. She wondered again how Zan had gotten the secret out of his friend.

As the pigeon turned, she managed to grab the thin pouch affixed to its back. Ignoring her, it waddled over and wedged its titanium-and-feather body under the tiny open space between the strut and the floor, in the angle left by her arm. With grinding gears and the smell of fusing circuits, the bird used its wings to ratchet the support so that it lifted a mere inch.

It was enough. She eased out her arm, biting her lip as the blood gushed in a wave of needle-sharp pain through her veins and into numb fingers. A moment later, the agony hit. Biting hard on her lower lip, she desperately tore the pouch and drew out the anesthetic patch, slapping it on her arm through the torn sleeve.

Zan remarked, You owe me a bird.

She paused, biting her lip, waiting. He sighed, I guess I walked into that one. You could have had a free shot.

What was the point? It was too easy and therefore beneath my dignity.

Right, whatever you say. She could hear him working on his keyboard. How’s your arm?

It’ll hold. The strain in her voice lessened as blessed numbness spread up her arm. She wiggled her fingers, pleased when they responded.

Okay. You can’t get back up to the attic with the goods, not with that arm. Just fix the hole. I’ll bet no one will see it. I’ll set a camera, just in case. We’ll come back when the old fart is back on this wing again.

We have a deadline, Zan. She said simply as she lowered herself a few feet.

Which doesn’t matter if you’re caught.

Then I won’t get caught.

I bet everyone that’s been caught has said that. You’re not going to be doing any sort of work with that arm.

Camryn tested her fingers. It would be clumsy using it, but she still had a chance of pulling this off. It’s my off arm. If I don’t rely on it for any finesse, I’ll be fine.

By his silence, Camryn figured he was working out the best argument to use. A moment later, Zan’s voice returned, sly. I got a call today.

Good for you, she murmured. She aimed a handheld crossbow and shot a bolt that landed about a foot beneath the ceiling on the west wall. You need a social life.

The camera in the pigeon was almost the only thing left working. Propping up that strut had burned out too many other functions. Zan watched and waited until he saw her secure the line. He didn’t want her to drop the crossbow and set off the alarms. It was about the diamond.

Her breath hitched. She whispered, daring to hope, They found it?

Not only found it, it’s coming up for auction. I have a date and time, along with the minimum deposit required for an entry. No offense, but I was a little surprised you were accepted for an invite. You’re flush, but not that flush.

Well, since Father stole it the first time, it’s no surprise. It’s probably just for form and politeness.

Hon, sentiment doesn’t not play in this crowd. Still, you got an invite. Which doesn’t do you any good if you get caught, here and now. So, come back up and I’ll book the reservations.

Where’s it being held?

The Island.

That got her attention. The Island went by any number of names, depending on whom you asked. It was privately owned, that much she knew, and held no particular affiliation with any country or species. If you looked on any map in the world, you wouldn’t find it. Ancient magic kept it out of the mind’s eye and off the cartographer’s maps.

If the auction was being held there, security would be high, both technologically and magically.

Cam? While she’d been thinking, she’d maneuvered herself until she dangled next to the west wall. Hooking the primary rope into a pulley, she used the two lines to begin lowering herself down behind the optical lasers. I’ve never backed away from a commission. I’m not starting now.

Cam—

Shut it down. Work the job. You just worry about getting the travel arrangements.

Camryn didn’t have much room to work. There was maybe slightly more than a foot between the wall and the optical lasers, but she didn’t need more. It had taken weeks of practicing to contort herself enough to do the job. Now she’ just have to follow through. She stopped lowering until she was just a few inches under the bottom edge of an old Dutch Master.

She felt the familiar adrenaline surge. As much as she loved planning through the intricacies of a heist, she loved the execution as well. Testing her theories, her timing, and her plans to bring them to fruition.

Keeping her movements tight, she drew out a wooden rod etched with sigils and runes. She whispered the correct words she’d practiced a hundred times. A thin wisp of smoke trailed off the wand, snaking up into the oil painting.

The pastoral scene seemed to luminesce for a moment. The sunset was a little brighter, the fields more lush. She took a moment to admire, for one last time, the extraordinary technique of light and shadow, line and form. It would never be the same after tonight.

The painting was over 500 years old. The high quality of the paints and materials allowed it to survive this long. The technique was flawless, the colors intrigued.

The painting had been finished about the same time that a few of the nonhuman races met in secrecy for negotiations. Camryn knew nothing about the details, but they had reached an agreement for all sides. Creating the Accord, they protected and secreted the document inside the painting. Apparently there were some disputes now. With the document and painting outside of their reach, she’d been hired to retrieve it.

The smoke was doing its work. She lifted the gilt edge of the frame away from the wall just enough to pry the backing away a mere inch and held out her hand. The Accord, long since merged with the painting for safe keeping, separated from the masterwork and slipped down into her fingers.

Gently, she eased back the painting. It looked much the same, she mused. But some of the depth and color had faded just a bit when the document was extracted. If anyone noticed, they see that the under-painting, long documented, was gone. Even though the brushstrokes were the same and every other point of distinction was the same, they may very well deem it a forgery. It would be a wrong assessment, but not something she’d worry about today. Perhaps they’d commission her to return the Accord to its rightful place?

Thinking of the birds upstairs, she’d tack on a very pretty penny to her fee before she’d agree to it.

Hoisting herself up, she gave the secondary ropes enough slack for her to drift along to a display case on the opposite wall. One down. She rolled the Accord into the small tube that rested against one thigh.

How did you find three clients that wanted something from the same museum?

‘Not only the same museum,’ she thought, ‘but the same wing.’ She smiled slightly, The magic that is me, I suppose.

He snorted softly, but he was still working. All right, alarm is re-routed. You have 30 seconds starting…now.

Securing the ropes in place, she took a pen out of her pocket, unscrewing an almost microscopic filament where the nib should be. Camryn flipped until she was vertical, her legs wrapped around the ropes to keep her steady while she bent backwards enough to see the keypad.

Her arm screaming despite the topical drug, she shook her head to let the sweat born of pain flip away. It took a few moments to get her fingers to cooperate and steady. At this rate, she’ll need all the time allotted to get the piece. Slipping the filament into the keyhole, The other guards?

Zan answered distractedly, They’re slowing down now that the rush is over. I’ve got two that are a couple of wings over, one on the floor below you. There’s plenty of time to get you out if they are heading your way.

She pulled out a pair of specticles and put them on. Bringing her face up to the retinal scanner, the reader played out over the lenses that would give the illusion that she had the eyes of the head of security. It was highly unusual for any museum to use the scanners, largely because of the cost. But the Tipke was taking no chances. It made no secret it wanted to be the first museum that never had a robbery. It made for an irresistible challenge. The lock in front of her clicked open even as the retinal scanner blinked red.

Fuck me, Zan cussed in her ear, freezing her in her tracks. This chromatic sliding combination is playing merry hell, oh, no you don’t. She heard furious typing. There, yes, yes…play nice, darling and we’ll all have a good time. That’s it, don’t panic…ah, there you go.

The scanner went dark as the key plate beneath her hands went to green. Grinning, she put away the lockpicking devise and lifted the lid. Was it good for you, Zan?

I need a cigarette.

Stifling a chuckle, she lifted the Roman torc from its bed, replacing it with a very expensive replica. She would bet it would take years for anyone to discover the switch.

She eyed it briefly, hefting the solid gold in her gloved hand. Camryn wondered at the interest in it. It was nothing special. True, it was a gorgeous piece of work. It’d been locked away for centuries in a matron’s crypt, long forgotten. It had been unearthed in almost pristine condition.

Still, why would the selkie want such a thing? Granted, gold survives well in the ocean, but wealth wasn’t something one of their kind dwelled on. And selkies rarely venture from their home waters. This commission had come from a Caribbean female. Camryn had found no reason for her knowledge or interest in the Roman jewelry. Having no reason not to accept the job, she put the matter behind her.

Marshalling her thoughts, she focused on one last piece, a small earthenware Hittite figurine that was desired by one of the foremost collectors in the world. Again, she replaced it with a very good copy, trying to use her left arm as little as possible. Her fingers were tingling as the pain began to throb from her elbow to her knuckles and shoulder.

Now that you have the stuff, how are you getting back up?

She nearly snarled at him. Zan had to have timed it for him to know the anesthetic was wearing off. Only the worry in his voice gave her the strength to keep silent.

She glanced up. Even if she could get through the opening without further damaging her arm, she still had to get the protective gear on and leopard crawl under the eaves. Right, that wasn’t happening.

‘There has to be a way out,’ she thought. The distant strain of music wafted up the stairs from the lobby. It’s worth a shot, she murmured.

What? What’s worth a shot? What are you thinking?

She began moving forward. Where are the employee lockers or lounges?

"Um, hold on. You know, I can have data ready if you would fill me in on the plan before you start the plan."

But this is so much more interesting.

You and I have a very different view of what is interesting. Okay, the lounge is three corridors over to the west. No guards in the area. One’s heading toward your location from the east.

Don’t worry. I won’t be here long. She used the ropes to maneuver herself to a safe corner away from the floor sensors. There weren’t that many, but most of the displays had pressure plates that would sound an alarm if a weight higher than a few pounds was put on them. A tug on one rope and it fell free of the wall. Okay, start retracting the lines.

We’re ditching the equipment?

I can’t see any way around it. There was a faint sizzle from above followed by a faint acrid smell. There would be nothing left of the bird except for the metal frame and a few real feathers. The rest of the equipment wasn’t particularly valuable or irreplaceable.

A half hour later, she was strolling through lobby. She deftly snatched up a champagne flute while pausing to admire a modernistic sculpture of twisted wire and bits of cork. Idly, she contemplated it and could make no sense of it. The small plaque mounted on the side titled the piece as ‘Sunset’. She concluded it didn’t help at all.

She’d ditched her shirt in the lounge. Her brassiere was elaborate enough to pass as a bit of lace under her black coat that was now unzipped down far enough to give a pleasant view of cleavage. For those that weren’t inclined to look at her charms, she wore a relatively simple gold necklace and earring set she lifted from the Renaissance department. It was a purely cosmetic replica for one of the open standing exhibits, so it wouldn’t cause too much of a fuss if they discover it gone. Between the jewelry and her personal assets, few would bother looking at her face.

She breezed through, her jacket cinched in smartly with a decorative scarf from one of the employee lockers. It also held the Accord, wrapped tightly in cellophane against her abdomen to protect it from damage by the oils of her skin. The other pieces were easily tucked away.

She strolled through the throng, noting designer dresses and eye-catching jewelry. All the Have’s, enjoying themselves away from most of the Have-nots. She took her time working her way through the crowd, navigating around security cameras and guards.

The quality of her clothes let her blend in seamlessly. But, in no way did she stand out. It was one of her greatest assets. Anyone looking at her would see a shiny, luxurious mane of chestnut hair framing a face artfully presented. Cheekbones were high enough to shape her face pleasantly, but not so concave to make deep hollows, the current hallmark of beauty through starvation. Her nose was straight and a touch on the short side. Her lips were a little too thin to be called lush.

Anyone giving her a glance would see only an attractive woman, slightly intrigued, perhaps a little bored. If they bothered to make an effort, they might be drawn to her eyes. Large, liquid brown eyes that darted around, picking up bits of information and noticing everything. Their intelligence and humor transformed her into the intriguing.

Overhearing snatches of conversation, her mobile face reflected wry amusement, disbelief, cynicism, and unfeigned laughter. Hers was a face that would not be attractive in complacency. The very thing that animated her mind brought out her intelligence and liveliness.

Circling, she threaded herself from display to display, careful that she gave as little of her face to the cameras as it was possible. Her hair was out of its ponytail and fell to cover ears and sheltered the shape and slopes of her face.

Before long, she was at the far end and swinging through the front door. At the curb, a nondescript SUV pulled up. It was raining lightly, she took it as an excuse to jog to the car on the pretense that she wouldn’t want her hair to get wet.

Pulling herself into the passenger’s seat, she tossed Zan a cheeky grin. His hair was dyed somewhere evenly between blond and red. Normally it hung in shaggy lengths around his narrow features. Now it stood in spikes, a testament to how much he dragged his fingers through it. It was the only sign of frayed nerves. Pale green eyes, the color of delicate jade, rolled to her in as much as annoyance as respect. He shook his head as he pulled away, which prompted her to buss his cheek lightly. Now, about those plane reservations?

Chapter 2

Frazzled, Camryn let herself in the front door of her father’s house. The foyer of the European chalet was an immaculate and blinding white relieved only with a few black accents. The white and black tile was broken only by two low white backless chairs with microscopic black pinstripes. A central black lacquered table offered a Baccarat vase with white calla lilies.

The aroma of food cooking wafted in and she could hear the murmur of voices from behind the partially closed doors of the formal dining room to her left.

Footsteps caught her attention and she turned to see her father, Stefan Kelly, descending as he leafed through a folder. He was a tall man, still handsome in his middle years. His light brown hair was cut and styled with precision and the Di Steffano suit was impeccably tailored. Despite his retirement, he kept himself fit and toned so he moved with grace and economy.

His gaze swept over her. With a frown, he noted her rumpled travel clothes of roomy peach pants and white sweater. You’ll not have time to change. Most of the guests have already arrived.

Camryn held back a sigh of frustration. I’m sorry. I did tell you I’d probably be late. My plane only landed an hour ago. I was lucky to get here this quickly.

A maid appeared from the rear of the house. At the silent gesture of her father, the woman took Camryn’s overnight bag upstairs. When she was out of hearing, Camryn went on. I can stay for your dinner party, but no later.

Unacceptable. I have to leave immediately so you’ll have to take over the after-dinner negotiation.

Camryn started her protest, I can’t. I have--

Impatient, as always, he cut her off. Paolo called. There was a problem with a shipment. This is an emergency and I cannot reschedule this.

She tried again even as she knew better. Father, I have to catch another plane—

Annoyance tinged his voice. With an exaggerated effort for patience, Will you tell me what you are working on? Camryn hesitated and her silence was answer enough. With a negligent shrug he turned his attention back to his papers. Never mind. You wouldn’t tell me earlier, so you won’t tell me now.

Seeing that the agenda and specifications were all in order, he handed them to her. Surreptitiously, he regarded the stubborn set of her lips as she took the papers. It was only then he noticed the bandage on her forearm. What happened?

A wry smile twisted her lips. Earthquake. At his raised eyebrows, she shrugged. We worked around that snag.

Ah, the Tipke job? You completed it? At her nod, he gave her an absent-minded pat on the shoulder. "Good. There are a few others jobs needing contractors, I’ll get you their names. Put the items in my office. I’ll get them