Ancient Forces Collection (22 page)

“Perfect. I’ll send the limo around for you in half an hour.”

“Okay, but what’s this all about?” Becka said. “Hello?”

Becka and Julie exchanged a look.

“She hung up,” Becka said flatly.

Julie grabbed Becka’s arm. “Hey . . . Sarina wants to have breakfast with you?”

“Looks that way. Wild, huh?”

“Big time,” Julie said. She looked down at her hands. “I wish I were going.”

“Fine. You’re the birthday girl,” Becka said, falling back against her pillow. “Go instead of me . . . I’ll just take a little nap.”

“Yeah, in your dreams,” Julie said, swiping the pillow.

Becka sat up. “What do you think she wants from me?”

“I dunno.” Julie answered. “Maybe your autograph.”

“Right,” Becka said, stealing back the pillow and then hitting Julie with it.

Julie deflected the blow. “Yeah, well, she probably thinks you’re a better ghostbuster or something.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “Hey, Beck, I’m sorry for not helping you last night. I don’t know what happened to me. I guess I just got freaked out by the whole thing.”

Becka slowly smiled. “That’s okay. I was pretty scared too. Do you think Sarina heard what happened, you know, after she left?”

Julie nodded. “I’d say so.”

“How?”

“Hold on.” Julie got up and darted out of the room. She reappeared, holding a copy of the
Crescent Bay Gazette
. “Right there. On the front page,” she said with a point. “Looks like last night’s little adventure at Caesar’s is big news.”

Becka’s heart skipped a beat. A sharp pain flashed through her head. She never thought about the possibility of a reporter getting a hold of the story. Come to think of it, over the past year she and Scott had never attracted — nor did they want — any media attention whenever they were involved in spiritual warfare.

Not after the close call on Death Bridge.

Or the encounter at Hawthorne mansion.

But this was different. This involved Sarina Fox, a TV star in a town where stars didn’t usually visit. Of course the press would be crawling all over the place. Becka wondered how she had managed to miss that not-so-little detail. Then again, what could Becka have done differently? It wasn’t as if she wanted to confront a demon at an Italian restaurant. That’s just the way things worked out.

Becka took the paper and read the headline: “TV’s Favorite Wiccan No Match for the Devil.”

“Oh, that’s just
great,”
Becka said. Her temples started to throb. “No wonder she wants to meet.”

“Why is that?”

“Julie, don’t you see?” Becka said, searching her eyes. “Sarina probably thinks I somehow staged the whole thing last night . . . just to make her look bad.”

“Now I
know
you’re dreaming,” Julie said.

Becka gasped as a new thought jumped to mind.

“What’s wrong?” Julie said.

Becka’s eyes widened. “I’ve got nothing to wear!”

11

T
he limousine, a late-model Mercedes-Benz, stretched the length of a full city block. At least that’s the way it seemed to Becka as she slipped into the backseat. Once inside, the chauffeur closed the door, sealing out the outside world.

Becka’s eyes darted around the luxurious interior. A TV. A stereo. A refrigerator. A wet bar. A sunroof.

Nice. Very nice.

Still, as nice as the limo was with its black leather seats, tinted windows, and fancy wood-grain trim, to Becka it felt strangely like the inside of a coffin.

Padded. And deadly silent.

She swallowed as she looked out the window. While the car eased away from the curb, Becka’s emotions raced, especially now that the initial adrenaline rush gave way to reality. She was about to sit across the table from Sarina Fox, the Wiccan. A thousand questions crowded her already exhausted mind.

What was she getting into?

Why did Sarina want to see her — alone?

Would Sarina be mad? Probably. But how mad?

Becka had read stories about temperamental stars — how they’d yell and bark out orders to bleary-eyed assistants and then snap the heads off anyone who didn’t kiss the ground on which they walked. In the case of Sarina, Becka figured she’d be ten times worse, given the negative story in the paper.

How had the reporter put it? She thought back to the opening paragraph:

TV’s prime-time darling and star of
The Hex
, Sarina Fox, a self-proclaimed Wiccan, turned tail and fl ed in tears after a confrontation with an alleged manifestation
of the spirit world. The altercation occurred at Caesar’s, an Italian restaurant in downtown Crescent Bay. According to one witness, it took the actions of a former teen missionary, Becka Williams, to silence the hellacious encounter.

Becka cringed at the memory. While it was kind of cool to see her name in the paper, she never intended to draw attention to herself and certainly not to the exorcism.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she should ask the driver to take her back to the safety of Julie’s house. As she considered her options, Becka noticed a button on the overhead console marked CALL DRIVER. Fine. She’d just tell him she had a change of plans. Stuff like that happened all the time, right?

Becka started to reach for the button, then stopped.

Z.

There must be a reason Z had wanted her to connect with Sarina. But why? Whatever his reasons were, she was being handed another chance to reach out to her. Becka dropped her hand to her lap and turned toward the window. A moment later, she noticed a message on a signboard outside a church. It was one of those quasi-witty sayings pastors like to repeat. This one read “God Loves Knee-Mail.”

Cute. But true.

In the haste of the morning, Becka had forgotten to bring her concerns to God. She was about to pray when her cell phone started to play Beethoven’s Fifth. She snatched it up and pushed the Talk button. “Hi, it’s Becka.”

“Becka?” She heard the caller say her name, but didn’t recognize his deep, somber voice.

“Yeah, it’s Becka.”

“The
Becka Williams?” the caller said.

Her skin started to crawl at his ominous voice. “Yes. Who’s calling?” She looked at the phone number but didn’t recognize it.

“Aren’t you the witchbuster?” His tone darkened.

“Listen,
buster,”
she said, gripping the phone, “I’m in no mood for games. I’m hanging up.”

The voice changed. “Hey, chill out. It’s me. Your brother. Remember me?”

“Scott?” Becka said through clenched teeth. “You know you’re being a real pain, don’t you?”

“Isn’t that great?” he said. “Darryl’s got this new computer-based vocal harmonizer — ”

“I should hang up on you right this second — ”

“Okay, okay . . . call off the dogs. I was just playing with you,” Scott said with a warm chuckle. “So tell me, how are you? How was the party?”

She looked out the window. “I’m okay. Tired, mostly.”

“How’s that?”

She sighed. “Let’s just say it was a long night.”

“And . . . ?” Scott said, fishing for details.

Becka listened to the muted tones of the road noise through the thick leather padding of the limo as it cruised down the road. “Actually, can we talk later? I’ve got to — ”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot,” Scott said, cutting her off. “You’re on your way to have breakfast with Sarina,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “Or let me guess, it’s just ‘my buddy Sarina’?”

“How’d you know I was — ”

“I called Julie’s . . . they filled me in.”

“Well, yes. We’re gonna have breakfast.”

“Hmm. Now that you’re a big-time celebrity,” Scott said, “I bet you’re going to insist on driving everywhere in a limo.” He laughed. “So where are you?”

“You’ll never guess . . .”

“Try me.”

“In Sarina’s limo.” She had to laugh too.

“See, it’s already happening, sis. Just remember us little people when you reach the top.”

Becka noticed they were pulling into the parking lot of the Ritz-Carlton hotel. She asked, “Did Julie tell you what happened last night?”

“Yeah, but she didn’t have to. I already saw it on TV.”

Becka’s heart lurched. “What do you mean . . .
on TV?
You mean you read about it in the paper.”

“Both actually. It’s a really big story, Becka.”

She bit her bottom lip. This wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

“You still there?” Scott asked.

“Yeah, but — ” Becka cleared her throat. “Listen, I’ve got to run. We just pulled up to the front doors. Pray for me, okay?”

“That’s why I’m calling,” Scott said. “You got two phone messages. Mom just called to tell me she’s praying for you. She tried to reach you on the cell earlier, but it must have been off.”

Becka’s heart sank. She really would like to have heard her mother’s voice again. Especially this morning. “Rats. I’ll just see her when she gets into town. Who else called?”

“Ryan. He lost your cell number, wouldn’t you know it, so he called the house. He misses you and is praying for you,” Scott said. With a touch of sarcasm he added, “Isn’t that sweet?”

Becka’s face flushed. “As a matter of fact, yes. He’s such a doll.”

“Can I quote you?”

Becka’s eyes narrowed. “If you do, you’re taking your life in your hands, buster.”

“Oh, and guess what?” Scott said.

“What? Hurry, I got to go.”

“Got an email from Z today.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He said to ask Sarina about the mission field.”

Her forehead knotted. “What does he mean by that?”

“Beats me,” Scott said. “That’s Z for you.”

“Yeah, always mysterious. Well, I better go now. Bye, bro,” Becka said, hanging up.

As the chauffeur came around to open her door, she noticed Demi standing at the curb.

And she didn’t look happy.

12

R
ight this way,” Demi said, blasting through the front door with enough force to almost bowl over the bellhop.

Becka scrambled to catch up.

“Thanks for coming,” Demi said over her shoulder with about as much warmth as an ice cube.

They walked so fast through the lobby toward the Ritz Café, Becka hardly had time to let the posh surroundings sink in. She did notice a handsome man playing a pearl white piano. The sound of classical music filled the air. The piano, with its lid up, was positioned in front of a commanding view of the rose garden.

An enormous crystal chandelier dangled overhead. That was hard to miss. And her feet — she noticed how they sank into the most cushiony, well-padded carpet she’d ever stepped on. This was definitely out of her league, not to mention way outside her comfort zone.

Becka had spent most of her life on the mission field and had never set foot in a hotel this elegant. She was already self-conscious wearing Julie’s clothes; as nice as they were, she felt underdressed. The turbulence in her stomach wasn’t helping matters either. She felt as if she had swallowed a squirrel.

Demi, still several feet in front, reached the café first.
A second later, Becka breezed up alongside her.

“Table for two, ma’am?” said the hostess.

“We’re already situated in the private dining room, thank you anyway,” Demi said.

“Then you know your way,” the hostess said with a broad smile and a wave of her hand.

Demi marched in, dodged several busboys, and snaked her way to a door on the far wall marked PRIVATE DINING ROOM. With a tug, she opened and then held the door for Becka.

Becka quickened her pace and stepped through the opening. “Thanks,” she said, trying to be pleasant in spite of the growing sense of unease she felt with every second. Interacting with Demi was like talking to a tornado.

Demi blew past Becka and approached the table in the corner where Sarina was seated. Demi dropped into her chair and, with her forefinger, pointed to the seat opposite Sarina. “Have a seat,” Demi said, sounding like a drill sergeant.

“Thanks.” Becka pulled the chair out and offered Sarina a weak smile as she sat down. “Um . . . good morning,” she said, but the squirrel in her stomach had made its way into Becka’s neck, causing her throat to choke off the words.

They were the only three people in the room. Cereal, juice, a pile of fresh-cut fruit, and a plate of assorted muffins were arranged between them. Sarina and Demi were drinking coffee, black.

Sarina, she noticed, had her hair pulled up into a clip. She wore blue jeans, a black shirt, and a jean jacket. Although the room wasn’t particularly well lit, a pair of oversized sunglasses, like those provided by an eye doctor after dilating a patient’s eyes, covered half of Sarina’s face. Her cheeks appeared red and puffy. She wore little or no makeup and sat with her back to the window.

Becka detected a slight tremble in Sarina’s hand as she brought a cigarette to her lips. She took a long, slow drag and exhaled a steady stream of smoke in Becka’s direction.

Becka folded her hands in her lap.
Now what?

After what felt like an eternity, Sarina took another drag and said, “I hope you’re happy with yourself.” She blew the smoke out the side of her mouth.

“Pardon me?” Becka raised an eyebrow.

“I guess you know you’ve just about ruined my career,” she said with a wave of the cigarette. “The vultures in the press are circling. They can’t wait to pick apart my flesh.”

Becka couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I . . . I — ”

“It’s true,” Demi said, preoccupied with her Palm handheld. She glanced over the top edge of her glasses. Demi’s phone rang. “Yes?” she said curtly and then listened for a second. “No . . . no . . . good
gracious,
no . . . Sorry. Not a chance.” With a snap, she closed the flip phone.

Sarina looked toward the ceiling.

Demi said, “That was the publicity department. They’ve received requests from
Good Morning America
,
The View
, and
Regis
— not to mention that all the major papers are looking for a comment. You see, Becka, they all want a piece of Sarina.”

Becka managed to swallow. “All because of last night?”

Demi spoke. “As you can tell, we have a situation here.”

Although Becka felt bad, she knew it really wasn’t her fault. She figured she’d try to lighten things up. “At least it’s not, like, the
Jerry Springer Show
calling,” she said with a forced smile.