Part 22 (2/2)

”Are you driving?” Vivian asked. ”I thought you weren't supposed to drive and talk on the phone at the same time.”

”I'm not in L.A.,” Travers said. ”No way is some state cop going to know about my previous citations. I paid the--well the same to you, jerk face!”

”Nice talk with your son in the car.” Vivian turned around and leaned against the back bar. The bartender grinned at her--apparently he'd heard that last comment--and pulled a highball gla.s.s off the nearby display.

”Lay off,” Travers said, and Vivian couldn't tell if he was talking to her, Kyle, or some faceless driver.

”Do me a favor and pull over,” Vivian said.

”I'm not--”

”Do it, or I'll hang up. And I'm not at home, so you won't be able to find me.”

The phone crackled again, and she heard Travers's voice, fainter now, say, ”Here, you talk to her.”

”Aunt Viv, we nearly hit a semi.” Kyle sounded breathless. ”And some guy in a Mazerati swore at us.”

”Is your dad pulling over?”

A crowd of people had gathered outside the restaurant. Vivian had the sense they were looking at her. Then she realized they were studying a posted menu.

”There's no place to pull,” Kyle said. ”He'll find somewhere, though. He's been really worried, Aunt Viv. He said he shouldn't've left you up there all by yourself. You gonna be okay?”

”I'll be fine,” Vivian said. ”I've met my neighbors and they're ...”

She glanced at the swinging kitchen door. Ariel had just come through it, holding a tray of steaming plates like a pro.

”What, Aunt Viv? I missed that.”

”They're okay,” Vivian said, feeling like 'okay was' a completely inadequate description of the crew at Quixotic. The bartender, who had just put three rum and c.o.kes on a c.o.c.ktail waitress's tray, gave Vivian another grin, as if he too found the word 'okay' an understatement.

”We see an exit,” Kyle said. ”It's a mile and a quarter. Dad says to wait.”

”I will.”

A woman walked through the main gla.s.s doors. She was tall and slender, dressed in a tasteful red business suit that seemed too upscale for Portland. She was in her mid-fifties and had done nothing to hide it, unlike most women of her age in L.A.

She carried a clutch purse in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Her close-cropped hair was dark, and her features were familiar. But she wasn't an actress. Vivian had lived in the L.A. basin long enough to recognize one of those.

”... Aunt Viv?”

”What?” Vivian asked. She had missed everything Kyle had just said to her.

”Have you looked at my comic book yet?”

”I've looked at it,” Vivian said, still watching the woman. She radiated power, and not the confident power that some businesswomen had. Power-- wattage--like Blackstone did. Or Andrew Vari. But unlike them, Vivian got no sense of magic from this woman.

Besides, the others would've noticed if someone magical had walked in, right?

”Aunt Viv!” Kyle shouted in her ear.

At that moment, the woman looked at her, and Vivian got the sense they had met before. In fact, the woman's features weren't familiar because Vivian had seen them on television or in a movie. They were familiar because Vivian had- ”Are you Erika O'Connell?” the maitre d' asked the woman, breaking Vivian's train of thought The woman turned away from Vivian, and the feeling pa.s.sed. Vivian wasn't sure what she had been thinking or where she had known the woman from. Or, exactly, why it had suddenly seemed so important.

”Aunt Viv?” Kyle was still shouting.

”I'm here, Kyle,” Vivian said, missing the woman's response to the maitre d'.

”What'd you think of my comic book?”

”You're burning up money here, kiddo.” Travers's voice dominated the line as the phone crackled again.

Vivian was only half listening. She watched the maitre d' take the woman to Noah Sturgis's table.

* Of course. Erika O'Connell was supposed to be the twenty-first-century female version of Ted Turner. She owned several cable stations, and she was trying to create her own empire. But her focus was on news, on making it viable, profitable, and still honest.

Or so she had said in the interviews Vivian had seen.

”So what happened with your building and why aren't you there?” Travers asked.

”I'm having lunch,” Vivian said. ”And no one seems to know what happened. Personally, I didn't notice anything different. I think it was a trick of the light.”

”Weird things always happened around Aunt Eugenia, Viv, and I'm wondering if she gave that legacy to you. You've never been the most stable--”

In the back of the restaurant, a woman screamed. Vivian set down the phone and hurried toward the sound.

Dex was sitting on an elderly woman's lap. The woman was sitting in the chair he had used before he disappeared with the Fates.

Everyone was staring at them. Apparently he had just materialized, or whatever these mages called their arrivals.

He stood, grinned, and doffed an imaginary hat. He looked wonderful. Gallant and handsome and oh so self-possessed.

”Took a wrong turn, didn't I?” he said with a veddy accurate, veddy British accent. ”I thought this was Buckingham Palace. My mistake.”

And then he vanished.

Vivian smiled in spite of herself. The restaurant burst into conversation, and several people hurried over to the elderly woman, who still looked frightened.

The phone was swinging on its cord, and she could hear Travers yelling.

Vivian picked it up and, without putting it to her ear, said into the receiver, ”I'm fine, Trav. I have to go. Something's come up. I'll call you in a few days.”

And then she hung up.

The restaurant was in chaos. Even Noah Sturgis looked fl.u.s.tered. But Erika O'Connell had a slight smile on her face, as if she had found everything as amusing as Vivian initially had.

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