Hell, what did she know? She was running on pure gut instinct, tempered by a lifetime of reading too many books. She called up a baby name website. Really, where else would one go? She started with the n’s, only because in mystery thriller-type stories, the good guys always used the initial of their first name when picking a pseudonym. It supposedly offered some psychological boost so the person could remember the new name. As she searched, she skipped over anything unusual, since the whole point of his choice would have been to fit in. Nothing to see here, move along.
“Nash, Nathan, Neil . . .” she began, tasting each name as she went. “Nelson.” She thought for a moment. “Nelson Katsaros.” Her lips twisted, her nose wrinkled, and she shook her head. “Nope. Let’s see, Neymar? Definitely not. Niam? Sounds like someone misspelled Liam. Nicholas, Nigel, Noah. . . .” She stopped and went back up the list. “Nicholas. Nicodemus. Nicholas.” She looked up to find Dragan watching her with a bemused expression. “What about Nicholas?”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Of those you’ve spoken, it’s closest to his birth name. Does that matter?”
“It might,” she said, thinking of those fictional characters and their pseudonyms. “Let’s give it a try anyway.” Going back to her search, she played with the spelling a bit, but eventually typed, “Nicholas Katsaros,” and hit “search.”
A surprising number of entries returned, including more than a few obituaries, which she discounted, since the Nicholas she wanted wouldn’t have died at all, much less in his 90s. Long-lived people, those Katsaroses, but her target was immortal.
“Did Nicodemus have any special skills?” she asked, absently, her gaze skimming over the search returns.
“He’s a sorcerer,” came the dry answer.
She didn’t look up, too absorbed in her task. “Oh, right. I doubt I’ll find that one on Google, though.” She kept clicking on the results, finding nothing that seemed promising, until on the third page, something caught her eye. It wasn’t flashy. Just an archived story from a local online news site about a big-money fundraiser in the aftermath of a particularly destructive hurricane. And on their list of the “most generous” donors was one Nicholas Katsaros. Hurricane. She glanced down at the masthead. Florida.
“My God,” she whispered, glancing up at Dragan’s back as he paced past the bed. He turned with a questioning look. “Remember I told you Sotiris hated Florida, because some asshole lived there and stank up the whole place? His words, not mine,” she clarified.
In three long strides, he was back by the bed, crouching in front of her. “Yes. Why?”
“Well, there’s a Nicholas Katsaros living in Florida, and based on this article, doing quite well. Was your Nicodemus rich?”
“By our standards, of course. But it’s doubtful . . . I mean, he wouldn’t have been able to bring his wealth with him. It was mostly lands and people.”
“He owned people?” she asked, aghast at the possibility she’d been trying to find a slave-owner.
“Of course not,” he dismissed. “People worked for him, worked his land and farms. Nico was a generous liege, a good man.”
“Oh. Well, good. Still, the whole Florida thing . . . that can’t be a coincidence. Let me see if I can find a picture,” she said slowly. “Although it doesn’t look as though he seeks out publicity. That article was from a tiny online site, very local. Mostly gossip about the rich and beautiful, of which there are many. On the other hand, if your friend wanted to avoid the limelight, that fits. And he could do it easily enough.”
“Limelight?”
“Attention. Pictures and stories about him—parties, charities, politicians. It’d be mostly online these days. Let me see what I can do.” She was silent for a very long time after that. Having zeroed in on a name, she switched her search to more informational databases, the kind she wasn’t supposed to have access to. But it wasn’t her fault they had crappy security, was it? They should be glad it was just her and not some crazed bomber. Although, if she’d been a truly good and concerned citizen, she’d have advised the relevant agencies of the flaws in their systems. But then, she wouldn’t have access when she needed it. Like now. When she was definitely being a good citizen. Trying to save the world from an evil sorcerer and all. She paused in her typing for a moment, eyes squinting into the near distance as she imagined herself explaining that one to the authorities. And then she shrugged and kept working.
She tried a few different tracks, including a virtual trip overseas where certain privacy laws were . . . somewhat more lax. Meaning governments kept databases of everything about their citizens’ lives, simply because they could. Every country seemed to be heading in that direction lately, but some were still easier to snoop than others. Finding nothing there, she got off the bed with a lot of swallowed groans from sitting in one position for too long, made a trip to the bathroom that seemed to go on forever, came back, and opened a can of Diet Coke left over from their dinner. Then she went back to the bed, and with a knuckle-cracking flex of her fingers, she plunged into the Florida DMV.
DRAGAN LAY BACK on the other bed, booted feet hanging off the edge, arms crossed behind his head on a pillow. He needed to get out of this room. It was another prison. Larger and more comfortable, and thanks to Maeve, back within his own skin, but he needed to be outside, breathing in the scent of the forest surrounding this place, feeling the sun’s warmth on his face, or even the moon’s cool light.
But he couldn’t leave Maeve here alone and unprotected. He didn’t understand most of what she was doing, but it was clear she was so completely absorbed that Sotiris himself could have walked in the door and she’d have barely noticed. Besides, she was working on his behalf, trying to find Nico. He was afraid to believe such a thing was possible, that Nico might be in this time and place, and so close they only had to drive the SUV to get to him. He wouldn’t let himself believe, wouldn’t set himself up for dire disappointment.
Pretending to rest, although every sense he possessed was on alert, he gauged the level of his own magic. The goddess would find him eventually. He had no way of knowing how far he was, in either time or distance, from his home world, or how long it would take her to reach him across that distance. Not physically, of course. She had no need to be in this world to work her will on him. And though he’d never have expected it, he found himself eager for the touch of her magic. He had no memories of living without it, had in the end relished the strength it had given him on the battlefield in Nico’s service, the power of his wings as he’d soared over his enemies and taken them down.
But this world . . . he didn’t know how people survived here. Were there no magical creatures other than vampires? No witches or demons? No others like him or his brothers, every one of whom had been gifted with a unique magical gift that had made them the greatest warriors of their time. The first thing he’d done after being freed from his prison, while still within the confines of Sotiris’s house, had been an instinctive reach for magic to recharge his power and rebuild his physical strength. There’d been so little available that he’d been convinced Sotiris had placed a spell on the house, blocking magic from entering. But now, he knew that wasn’t the case. Magic was thin everywhere in this world, it seemed. He’d hoped for better when they’d traveled into this place of nature and growth. But though the air smelled better, and he could hear a river running nearby, there was no more magic here than there’d been inside Sotiris’s house.