Robin had never hit a woman in his life, something he now regretted deeply. "Why do you want the book?"
"My family bought it from Nottingham when he came to settle in Italy. My father made a gift of it to my younger sister, Beatrice, when she took her vows. 'Twas the only earthly possession she ever treasured, and upon her death it was supposed to come to me." Something ugly moved in the contessa's dark eyes. "I have waited seven hundred years for this night."
Robin held on to his temper. "Obviously, my lady, you will have to wait a little longer. Now, if you will permit me—"
"I have just sent word to all of my warriors to capture your men and take control of your stronghold," Salva told him, as if he hadn't spoken. "I have also secured your mortal female's partner as another hostage. You will find Nottingham, retrieve the manuscript, and bring it back to me."
"You do not command me, madam." Robin eyed her guards. "If you wish to hunt down my cousin, send your own men after him."
"My men have other responsibilities." Salva made a quick gesture, and suddenly four copper swords appeared in the hands of her guards. "It should be no trouble for you to retrieve the book. But if you need more reason to pursue Nottingham, consider the lives of all the Kyn and humans under your rule. One call from me, and my men will begin executing them, twenty at a time."
Robin knew the contessa well enough to assume she was not making an idle threat. "I thought you named me your friend, Salvatora."
"A woman can have no friends in this world, my lord. Not if she wishes to survive." She gestured at Will. "You may have your seneschal verify that I speak the truth, if you like."
Robin nodded to Will, who took out his mobile phone and dialed a number. He spoke for a few moments, then ended the call.
"They permitted Sylas to speak to me, my lord," Will said, his voice strained. "It is as she says. Her men have captured the jardin, and are holding all of our people in the underground tunnels."
Chris gave up on the phone in the manager's office after finding no dial tone and checking the connections. The line had been cut or was dead. She remembered the two agents watching the front of the building; they might not have been affected by the bizarre freeze-over inside the gallery. She headed for the entrance, only to stop when she saw four men armed with swords surrounding Robin and his girlfriend.
"You will call me at your stronghold as soon as you have secured the book," the woman was saying. "We will arrange an exchange point, and then my men and I shall leave your territory peacefully and never trouble you again. You have my word, my lord."
Robin's violet eyes had somehow changed color; now they were the color of new pennies. "Your word means nothing to me anymore, Contessa."
Contessa. My lord. They spoke to each other as if they were acting out parts for some sort of live-action Dungeons & Dragons game, Chris thought, and seriously considered drawing her weapon and placing them all under arrest. But the long-bladed swords the men around the "contessa" held appeared to be razor-sharp, and if they were real, the last thing she wanted to do was provoke them into using them on her or the people in the gallery.
Maybe it's some kind of new gang scenario for delusional adults.
Before Chris could decide on an alternative course of action, the contessa said something in what sounded like Italian, and left the gallery. Chris followed them, stopping only when Robin called her.
"Where is she going?" she asked him. "Who's Nottingham? Is he working with this guy Guisbourne?"
"I shall explain everything, but you must come with me now."
"I can't leave these people like this. I have to call the police." Chris heard the sound of a siren approaching, and relaxed a little. "Looks like someone else did. We still have to stay to help them get these people out and give statements."
"The police." He swore softly, using a language Chris didn't recognize, and then called out for Will. The blond nodded to him and walked out through the front entrance. Robin then turned to her, his eyes still a bright, almost glowing copper color, and his pupils constricted so tightly they appeared like slits.
"What kind of drugs are you on?" she demanded.
"None." He rubbed his eyes, and when he took his fingers away his pupils were round and dark again, although a shiny copper ring still encircled his amethyst irises. "Chris, I know you are an agent of the FBI."
She stopped worrying about the effects the drugs he'd taken were having on his eyes. So much for her cover. "Could you say that a little louder? I don't think everyone in the gallery heard you."
"There is more I must tell you."
"There always is." She rubbed her eyes. "How involved in this robbery are you? Is it part of this weird role-playing game or gang thing you're running? Who told you I was an agent?"
"I had you investigated."
Chris took a moment to absorb that statement. "What are you on, meth? Crack?"
"I wished to know who you were. I learned that, and why you came to Atlanta to set up this show. I know why you brought The Maiden's Book of Hours here." He paused to look at the front entrance again. "I know because I am the Magician."
"You're the Magician." She watched him nod. "The master thief who has stolen hundreds of artworks from collectors and museums all over the world."
"Aye. 'Twas my doing. All of it."
She surveyed him. It might not be drugs. He might be under some sort of massive delusion. "I'd really love to know the name of your personal trainer and your plastic surgeon. Or your dealer."
"I am being honest with you," Robin insisted. "I came here tonight to steal the manuscript."
A laugh escaped her before she controlled it. "Sure you did. I suppose you also tripped the fire alarm and froze the sprinkler water while we were necking in the manager's office. Okay, so did you do it psychically, or were there some sort of remote-control ice machines involved?"
"I am not jesting with you." He put his hands on her shoulders. "I am the one you came for. The one you wish to imprison."
"Is this part of the game you've got going with your girlfriend and that guy Will? Did you roll the thief?" Before he could answer, Chris gave up the fight, clutching her sides as laughter spilled out of her.
"I know why you do not believe me," Robin said over the sound of her helpless mirth. "You seek an elderly man. I am too young."
She shook her head and held up her hand, hoping he would stop before he had her rolling on the floor.
"When I stole the Botticelli altarpiece from the cathedral in Naples," he told her, "I wrapped it in a red velvet curtain that I took from one of the confessionals. The Gauguin I took from Geneva had been framed with plaster covered in lead paint, so I removed it from the frame first. I replaced the van Gogh owned by that very famous actress with a forgery, so as not to upset her. She had just had another surgery on her back. I believe despite advice from experts that she still insists hers is the authentic painting."
Chris stopped laughing at his description of the Gauguin theft. "How could you… No one knows about the van Gogh, not outside the bureau."
He inclined his head. "So you will believe what I tell you now."
"Maybe you got into some confidential files, and I'd really like to know how, but you can't be the Magician." Absently she wiped at the tears of laughter clinging to her lashes. "He's been active since the nineteen forties. That would make you seventy years old, minimum."
He stepped closer. "What if I were to tell you that my father was the original Magician? That he trained me, and I took over his work after his death? That you and your colleagues have been looking for a dead man?"
She reached into her jacket. "I don't want you to say anything else to me." When he frowned, she took out her handcuffs. "Turn around and listen carefully." As she cuffed him, she continued, "Robin, I am arresting you on charges of grand theft, larceny, fraud, breaking and entering, transporting stolen property over state lines, and possession of stolen property. You have the right to remain silent." She finished informing him of his rights, and then asked, "Do you understand what I've told you?"
"Aye." As the first of the uniformed cops entered the gallery, his mouth flattened. "Now can we go?"
Will would see to the humans; of that Robin was sure. He had once used his talent to put to sleep an entire mob of vengeful mortals intent on burning Sherwood Forest to the ground. A small gallery would prove no challenge.
That left to Robin to handle Chris and the police officer she had drafted to escort them downtown.
"Seven Charlie one," their driver said over his radio. "Transporting suspect and federal agent from Peachtree Street art gallery to central booking."
Like any common criminal, Robin had been made to sit in the rear of the patrol car. The dim interior allowed him to assess what weapons were within Chris's grasp. He was thankful the patrolman wore his service pistol on his left hip, out of her reach.
He had to accomplish this without any blood being shed, especially hers.
Robin breathed in, taking in the sweet-sharp fragrance of Chris's body, and the salty tang of the cop's sweat. The two helped him shed his own scent, which slowly filled the interior of the car.
"Officer, what is your name?" Robin asked, leaning toward the mesh divider.
"Larry Kent," the cop answered slowly, looking at him in the rearview mirror.
Chris turned to look through the divider. "Keep quiet, Rob."
"I fear I feel very sick," he lied. In a more authoritative voice, he said, "Officer Kent, please pull this vehicle to the side of the road and stop there."
The patrolman nodded and left the road, braking on the shoulder until the unit came to a stop.
Rob broke in half the handcuffs binding his wrist, tore the mesh divider out of its frame, and seized Chris's arms from behind, holding her in place.
