Spirited Legacy (Lost Library) (7 page)

At least she’d stopped with the euphemisms. They’d apparently progressed enough with her comfort level that they could openly talk shop. He did a quick sound check. They were surrounded by silence interrupted only by the slow, even breathing of a few sleeping people. That was the beauty of first class: you could actually sleep if you chose to.

“True. It wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else.” He grinned. “And no one else would have created such a massive electronic footprint searching for magic books.”

“Can a girl not Google in privacy anymore?” She huffed in annoyance.

“No.” He rubbed his chin. He’d need a shave when they landed. Maybe he’d grab a quick shower at the IPPC before he picked Lizzie back up at the care facility. “But a typical Record Keeper comes from a family who actually shares their history. You’re an anomaly, not having known anything about magic.”

“But it’s possible she could have not known, or kept it a secret?” Lizzie persisted.

“Possible, but unlikely. And as for not knowing, you’d have known if some unknown relative hadn’t put your magic to sleep when you were young.” He flipped up the armrest between them so he could pull her tight against him.

He knew she didn’t like the uncertain cloud that hung over her family history. She didn’t know it, but he’d asked Christine to do some digging. John hoped that with a little more information about her family, Harrington—or one of his contacts—could pinpoint the magical branch. If someone had locked up his magic, he’d sure as hell want to know who—and why.

“That’s true. According to Pilar, most children know before puberty but certainly no later than their early teens.” She tipped her head back into his shoulder. “Even if she was very young and didn’t know, that still doesn’t explain how the book ended up with her. Maybe you’re right, and she wasn’t affiliated with the Pack and stumbled on the book.”

He hoped that was the case. If she’d been a Pack member and left around the seventies, his father had been involved. And there had certainly been blood, as well as the rage and insanity that had always followed his father.

Chapter 9

“I
’m here to see Sarah Melton.” Lizzie spoke with greater confidence than she felt. John had left her at the front door of the care facility, but only after she’d shoved him back into their cab. She could do this. And if she couldn’t, she was an idiot for insisting John leave her at the door.

The nurse typed in the computer and asked her, “Your name?”

Lizzie paused a second—Harrington wouldn’t dare. “Lizzie Smith.”

The nurse didn’t even look twice. “Here. I’ve got Elizabeth Smith Braxton listed as an approved visitor. Can I see your ID?”

Lizzie handed over her ID.

Harrington was an ass. She wasn’t changing her name. No way.
She wasn’t married.
It’s a good thing John hadn’t come with her, because she’d likely have thrown something at him. Even though it was Harrington who’d made the arrangements…yep, she’d still have blamed John. Sometimes, life wasn’t fair.

Apparently, “Elizabeth Smith” on her ID was sufficient, because the nurse asked her to have a seat and told her someone would be by to escort her to Sarah’s room. So Lizzie sat inside a private long-term care facility, in a quiet and well-appointed lounge area, waiting to see a woman she’d never been introduced to, who might never wake up. A woman who had sustained her injuries saving Lizzie. The amorphous feeling of guilt that had hovered in the back of her mind for several days now clawed its way forward. She was responsible, if indirectly, for Sarah’s condition.

As her escort appeared, Lizzie realized the inside of her lip was throbbing where she’d been unknowingly biting it. She followed the uniformed staff member into Sarah’s private room. With a few quietly murmured instructions, Lizzie was left alone with Sarah. No equipment, no bandages, no visible sign of her condition at all. Just a slight, pale form on a bed.

Lizzie approached Sarah’s bed, unsure of the right way to handle such a situation.
What the heck.
“Hi, Sarah. I’m Lizzie—the woman whose life you saved a few days ago.”

She reached out her right hand and clasped Sarah’s limp, pale fingers. Hanging onto Sarah’s hand, she reached behind her and pulled a chair close, sitting down and making herself more comfortable. Very little was known about Sarah’s condition, so there was no way to know if she was aware of anything happening around or to her. Since the experts didn’t know, there was a chance that Sarah could understand. Lizzie owed her so much more than a conversation, but that was as good a place as any to start.

“Harrington arranged the very best of care for you.” Lizzie looked around the room. “You have plenty of sunlight and fresh flowers. They’re beautiful—pink and yellow and white. And you have a very pretty nightgown that’s just like a dress, perfect for having company over.” Lizzie smiled. “If you can call me company.”

Harrington told her that a number of healers had evaluated Sarah but none could pinpoint the cause or provide a cure. The good news was that her condition was stable. She was breathing on her own. And there didn’t appear to be any damage to her brain—though an extended amount of time in a coma, regardless of the cause, was problematic and likely to have a negative impact on her cognitive abilities upon waking.

“I’m sorry this happened, Sarah. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him sooner. If I knew how I did it, if I had known I could stop him, if…well, if things had been different, maybe you wouldn’t have been hurt.” Lizzie thought long and hard about her next statement, but she thought it was the right thing to do. “He got away. Worth got away. He was injured, but not so badly that he couldn’t slip through a solid wall to vanish into a neighboring home and from there likely into another country.”

Lizzie wasn’t sure where her next words came from. But out they came. “We’ll fix this, Sarah. Even if I have to go straight to the source, we’ll figure out what’s wrong and fix this.” Once said, she couldn’t unsay the words. As she thought of Worth—the source of Sarah’s illness—her strongest memories were of his impeccable dress and manners. And, of course, of the last time she’d seen him, so far removed from his normal appearance. His face was bloodied, red oozing from every orifice. She didn’t
want
to unsay the words.

The sight of Sarah’s almost lifeless form stretched out on the bed brought back a vivid memory of Worth sucking her magic, her vitality away. Lizzie remembered the particular feel of Sarah’s magic—spell caster magic— and how it was different from what she’d felt as Worth had begun to suck that same vital force from John. She shuddered. It was horrifying. It was almost as if Worth had slit open a vein and let their blood drain away—but something even more personal and vital than their blood had been stolen. Blood could be easily enough replaced. What Worth had stolen seemed to be unique. Lizzie thought of it as magic, but she couldn’t really pinpoint what
exactly
he’d stolen. If it was only Sarah’s magic, wouldn’t she still be conscious but without her magical abilities? Lizzie feared Worth had stolen a piece of Sarah’s soul as he’d sucked away her magic. If not soul, then something that made Sarah…Sarah.

Lizzie heaved a huge sigh and said, “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m not really up on the metaphysical, and it’s making my brain hurt to try to wrap my head around it all.”

“Hmm. You’re not the only one.” Lizzie jumped at the sound of a voice—British, male, clipped, and clear. Thank goodness it was a man who had startled her, otherwise she’d have thought Sarah was talking back to her…and that she’d well and truly gone around the bend.

Lizzie turned to see a young man, maybe mid to late twenties, standing near the door. He was tall with a spare frame and a shock of unkempt orange hair. He also had the same type of visitor’s badge on that she’d been given in the lobby.

“Hello?” Lizzie eyed him dubiously. He didn’t
look
related, but you couldn’t always tell. Maybe a brother? Oh, God—her boyfriend? She was having enough issues with guilt; she didn’t need to meet Sarah’s family or a boyfriend.

He stuck his hand out and said, “Hi—Lizzie, right? I’m Harry. One of Sarah’s assigned healers. Harry, the healer.” He grinned widely as he pumped Lizzie’s hand enthusiastically.

“Um, hi, Harry the healer.” Once she’d retrieved her hand, Lizzie said, “Can you tell me about Sarah’s condition? Or is that confidential?”

“It’s probably confidential, but I’m not a doctor and I don’t work for the facility. I’m one of Harrington’s.” Harry looked quite pleased with himself.

All Lizzie could think was Harrington’s Harry, Harry the healer. He was a bit silly, but he certainly had brightened the atmosphere significantly.

She couldn’t help but ask the obvious question. “You’re one of Harrington’s what?” Lizzie had stood as she shook hands with Harry, but now she sat back down next to Sarah. If he wasn’t going to kick her out, then she might as well make herself comfortable.

“His people, his network.” Harry lowered his voice. “His stash of secret resources.”

“Harry, you’re having a little too much fun with this. Are you a new recruit to the IPPC?” That was the only answer Lizzie could come up with for his peculiar behavior.

Demeanor more serious, Harry said, “No. I’m just someone Harrington outsources to occasionally when he has a particularly challenging problem. Playing at the cloak and dagger stuff makes it a bit more fun.” He grimaced slightly and tugged on his ear. “Anything to lighten the load, right?”

“I take it you’re not happy with Sarah’s progress.” Lizzie understood the need for a coping mechanism, and Harry’s was a benefit to the people around him. He was fun.

Harry reached over to Sarah, sweeping his hand over her body about three or four inches above her prone form. Then he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “She’s stable, which is excellent news.” He tipped his head towards the door.

They both headed out to the corridor.

“There’s a guest lounge on this floor. It should be empty this time of day.” Harry was already briskly walking down the hall. He seemed to do everything with great energy.

Lizzie mentally shrugged and then followed him. She still had two hours before John picked her up. And just maybe she could get some clue as to what exactly had happened to Sarah.

Once in the room, she turned and asked, “You think she can understand what’s going on around her?”

Harry raised his eyebrows and peered down a long, thin nose. “I hope
you
do, since you’re the one who was holding a conversation with her.” He sighed, assuming again the more serious persona of caregiver. “No idea. Not if she can hear you, not if she might recover, not how to speed her recovery, and not even if she’s still there.” He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Well—I do have
some
idea that she’s still there. A glimmer every once in a while. Like the flickering of a bulb before it extinguishes.”

“Were you lying when you said she was stable?” Somehow, the thought of Harry misleading Sarah, even an unconscious Sarah, made her really sad.

“No. Her condition is stable. The flickering has occurred several times, in no discernible pattern. Certainly not in diminishing frequency. I can maintain her general physical well-being with a small push of healing power every few days. I just don’t want negative outcomes discussed in the room. No patient needs to hear ongoing chatter, based solely in speculation, regarding the various unpleasant outcomes she might face. I encourage visitors to talk to her, and I share what information I’m certain of.” Harry looked very much the professional now, even if he wore tattered jeans and a T-shirt with a Marvel character splashed across the chest.

Lizzie took a quick, small breath. She wasn’t sure why, but she kept catching herself holding her breath. She wasn’t particularly excited to discuss that night with a stranger, as kind as she suspected Harry was. But if she wanted answers….

“Do you know who I am?” Before Harry could respond, Lizzie plunged ahead. “Not my name. I mean, about that night? The night Sarah was injured?”

“I’m not an IPPC agent—not for lack of Harrington trying. I do, however, have the appropriate clearances. And I won’t involve myself without all the facts. So, yes, I’ve read the reports. But a firsthand account might be helpful.” Harry waited with no apparent impatience for Lizzie to decide what she wanted to share. He busied himself making a cup of coffee. Stopping mid-prep, he said, “Sorry. Coffee? Or Tea?”

That was a question she could answer. “Yes. Tea, please. Strong with a dash of milk.” Once she had her hands wrapped around the thick, sturdy mug, she started to speak.

“I’m very new to magic. I didn’t grow up knowing about magic-users, spelled books, Lycan. Not like all of you.”

He shook his head slightly in disagreement. “It happens more than you might think.”

“Well, the whole thing with my kidnapping and Worth being this super-villain, it came at a really bad time. I didn’t—I still don’t—really know that much about my magic. I didn’t even know I was a spell caster or how to use magic until Pilar explained it to me.” Lizzie paused in her story, looking up at Harry. She’d been staring at her mug thus far, hoping to stay a little detached from the story. “Pilar was also being held. She saved my life.”

As her eyes were starting to burn with what promised to be the beginning of a deluge of tears, Harry interrupted. “I know Pilar. Her son is a menace. And I’m always happy to tell her that she must be at least partially to blame. He put bugs in my bed at school, and told Sally that I was in love with her.” He paused dramatically. “I was
not
in love with Sally. I wasn’t in love with any girl. Girls were disgusting.”

At Lizzie’s curious look, Harry said, “I was eight.” He flashed a cheeky grin. “I grew into my love of women. It took me a whole four or five months after that, if I recall.”

“Cute,” Lizzie replied. “I knew Pilar had a daughter but didn’t know about her son. What was he doing in England?”

“Attending boarding school, but that’s a different story. The point is, I do know Pilar. I forgave her the bugs enough to speak with her after I saw her named in the report.” He finally cracked a grin. “You’ll be glad to hear her son turned out to be a good sort. Still likes his bugs but refrains from hiding them in bed linens. Or so I last heard.”