Ice And Flame

A Romantic Paranormal Suspense

By Celestia

(Rated R for sensuality, language. No explicit sex.)

Acknowledgements: To Guyindkny and Warbunny of the Tarazed message board for their creative input and collaboration in the role play game, Balancing Act, in which much of this story takes place and for originating some of the characters and scenes.

~~~~PREVIEW~~~~

Rigo jerked his head up and leapt out of the chair, glancing around in alarm.

“Relax, it’s just me.”

Bree watched his shoulders slump in relief. As she moved closer, eyeing him like a cat stalking a mouse, his eyes grew wide. She stopped, nearly toe-to-toe, close enough to share his oxygen.

He cleared his throat and brushed a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear, looking down at her face only inches from his own.

Bree felt flushed and hot and she knew it had to show. Why was it that experimenting with her newfound magical powers always left her so terribly aroused?

“How…,” he blinked, stuttering, and moved back a step, “how did it go with Suzanne?”

Bree stepped forward, knowing he couldn’t back up any further. The backs of his calves met the chair he had just vacated.

“Magic is heady stuff,” she breathed.

Rigo’s mouth was level with her line of sight. She studied his lips, slack and inviting, and remembered how good they had felt on hers once before.

“Bree?” He sounded a little worried. “I think you should….”

Rigo hesitated, blinking, as though unsure what he wanted to say. Big coffee brown eyes gazed down into hers as his breath came hotter, faster. He raised his hands to the level of her elbows but didn’t touch her, just held them open in the air. Stalled.

Bree slid her fingers under the lapels of the now rumpled jacket that Rigo had been wearing all night. Slowly she slid her hands up from chest to his neck, his body firm and solid beneath the fabric.

“Have I ever told you how much I love the way you trill your R’s when you say my name?”

“Por dios,” he whispered hoarsely, “You’re asking for trouble.”

The guard was watching them, as Bree saw when she glanced his way, but he quickly returned to his paper pretending not to spy.

She kissed Rigo. Quick. Hardly more than a peck, but all she dared allow herself in this rather public place.

“You know,” she continued, curling her wrists around his neck, stroking his silky ponytail, “for a couple of people who aren’t dating we spend a lot of time together, don’t you think?”

His warm hands slid around her waist. The waistband of her velour sweatpants rode low on her hips, a strip of exposed skin between them and her matching hoodie top, and he lightly touched her bare skin.

His hands were broad, his fingers gentle as he caressed her with increasing boldness. His touch added fuel to the fire of longing deep within her, she wanted to feel those hands move all over her body. Bree closed her eyes and swallowed a small moan.

His moist lips fluttered against her cheek as he pulled her closer, murmuring near her ear. “What are you doing to me, cariña?”

His hands slipped slightly higher under the thick velour of her top and ran his thumbs along the lower edge of her bra. “Are you planning to have your way with me?”

Bree pressed her body firmly against him, pulling him close. “I want you,” she paused to kiss those long dark lashes, “to come with me,” she kissed his nose, “into the elevator.”

With ease, Rigo scooped her up in his arms, the movement so quick it made her gasp. He carried her to the row of brass-plated doors, one set of which were open, the elevator she had ridden down from Suzanne’s penthouse.

As he carried her inside she nibbled his earlobe. Rigo’s deep chuckle reverberated through his chest into her body as he carried her, the sound melting her from the inside out.

He crossed the threshold into the small compartment, set her down smoothly, and pressed the ‘close’ button.

~~~~~~~~Chapter 1~~~~~~~~

- TOP SECURITY -
-AUTHORIZED SECURITY CLEARANCE REQUIRED TO VIEW THIS FILE -

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
Washington D.C. Sub Bureau
File #R79 388 220.208 Q9, Class A-2

INTERPOL #1ßO9 C2/2XA-Da.2Ux

WITNESS PROTECTION ID: 38215QN

DESIGNATED NAME OF WITNESS: Rodrigo Luis Montoya

DESIGNATED BIRTH CERTIFICATE INFO: 1/31/1967, Guadalajara, Mexico

(ACTUAL BIRTH CERTIFICATE INFO: José Carlos García Domínguez, 4/10/1966, Buenos Aires, Argentina)

CURRENT RESIDENCE: 14 Merino Street, Toronto, ON M5S 2D8 Canada

CURRENT EMPLOYER NAME/ADDRESS: Royal Ontario Museum, Department of World Cultures, 100 Queen’s Park, Toronto, ON M5S 2C6

IMMEDIATE SUPERVISOR: Gabriella Elizabeth “Bree” Santiago, Associate Curator New World Archeology. Dept Phone 416.586.8000

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: Height 5'10"; weight 170 lbs; hair dark brown beginning to streak silver; eyes medium brown.

Note: Appears taller than his height due to confidence of his carriage. Extremely limber and muscular without bulk. No tattoos. Hates needles, though a former girlfriend talked him into a single ear piercing in 1994. No other distinguishing marks.

HISTORY (ACTUAL): Put himself through college working as a singer/ musician/ bartender. Graduated Universidad de Los Andes, Buenos Aires campus, 1988, B.A. Political Science (pre-law curriculum). Married Linda Ramírez Arroyo in September 1988.

Dropped out of law school in 1989 after, in his own words, “the brutal murder of a fellow bartender and all the street crime I witnessed working in the bars and cantinas of Buenos Aires”. Graduated police academy 1990; joined Policía de la Provincia de Buenos Aires as junior officer same year.

Note: In December 1990 subject’s wife, Linda Ramírez Arroyo, left Buenos Aires. Currently living in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, in house owned by Paulo Buarque, a high level city government official. She is apparently Buarque’s mistress of many years. Interestingly, neither Arroyo nor Domínguez (now Montoya) have ever applied for a divorce. There is no evidence of the two having contact since 1994.

Subject Montoya refused to discuss the matter with IWPP personnel, saying “she can just think that I am rotting away in prison, but I doubt she thinks of me at all”.

1999, promoted to detective specializing in internet crime. Falsely accused of hacking into Banco Río de la Plata accounts and stealing nearly $1 million. Sentenced to twenty years incarceration on 5/18/07, instead testified against members of the Argentinian drug cartel who framed him. Entered Argentina Witness Protection Program on 6/7/07.

Left Argentina in Interpol Witness Protective Custody to establish new identity in Canada (7/9/07).

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: Subject has passed all psychological testing. Family man without a family, tends to find solace in the bottle and with guitar. Subject is thankful there were no children he would have to leave behind, only his heart-broken father. Subject requests our assistance in getting messages biannually to Sr. Alejandro Benito Domínguez (see file for current address).

Note: Of note, subject feels he has not much to live for; however, has strong Catholic leanings, therefore testing and interviews indicate no suicidal tendencies. Subject has no fear of death and seems to have a “paladin complex”, desiring to serve others with his life and work, especially protective of those he befriends.

Note: Subject is an expert Tango dancer.

UPDATE 9/21/07: Subject’s first contact in Toronto is also his supervisor (see above), “Bree” Santiago, 31, daughter of an Argentinian immigrant to Canada. Also, subject has purchased a nondescript gray '95 Toyota Corolla, license tag AWNT 314. Subject has used his entire witness protection stipend to purchase a black 2005 Ducati Multistrada motorcycle.

~~~~~~

Toronto,Canada – February 2008

The basement of the Royal Ontario Museum was silent as a tomb except for the clicking of Bree Santiago’s keyboard. The air was getting cold, colder by the minute it seemed, though she assumed it was probably just her metabolism slowing down. Her fingers were nearly numb when she stopped to rub some heat back into them. She hadn’t eaten since dinner which had been – she glanced at her watch – over five hours ago.

Bree catalogued another mummy from the crate labeled Dr. Guillermo Cock, National Institute of Culture. She typed #28113, middle-aged man, Tupac Amuru Inca, upper class, 15th century, death due to anemia.

The Associate Curator for New World Archeology then pushed away from the keyboard to stretch, her neck cracking as she rolled her head. She asked herself why she felt driven to do so much of this work tonight when her assistants could do it tomorrow instead.

Her cell phone rang and she jumped. “Bree, it’s Cathy!” Her friend Cathy’s voice was loud but the jazz music in the background was louder.

“Can you hear me, Bree? It’s so noisy I can’t hear a thing so I’ll just assume you’re there. We’re down at Mackey’s having a drink and the place is crawling with hot potential boy toys so get your ass down here, girl, or miss out. Woo hoo!”

Click. Silence. Deafening after Cathy’s call.

What a contrast of cultures and eras, Bree mused, the loud jazz still buzzing her right eardrum as she looked down at the cotton-stuffed, cloth bound, human-sized lump that was now known as Tupac Amuru Inca #28113.

“No offense, Homer, but I must be nuts choosing your company over the living.”

Bree shivered, shaking off the weird feeling that seemed to suddenly crawl up her arms to her shoulders. The silence echoed all around her and yet she had an odd sensation that she wasn’t alone. She gazed nervously around the room. Not a good sign. Definitely a good time to stop for the night.

Clicking “save” and then closing the National Institute of Culture catalog document, she got up from the computer chair and stretched again. She looked down at the mummy. “Nice try, old man, but I just got a better offer.”

Her shoes clicked across the gray cement floor as she unbuttoned her lab coat on the way out, and when she reached to hang it on a wall hook something caught her eye. It was a wooden box, white pine to be exact, sitting on an unused side desk, the lid askew. A large volume lay inside on a cushion of white felt, bound in faded red leather, an orchid-like design inside a blue sphere dominating the cover, unfamiliar lettering beneath it.

Carefully, Bree lifted the tome from its bed and opened the cover. She turned the first page of the obviously ancient hand-made paper only to find more of the glyphs which on eye-straining examination still meant absolutely nothing to her. She was no expert but was at least familiar with Egyptian, Babylonian, and other glyphic writings. This was nothing like those nor was it Chinese or any derivative thereof as far as she could tell.

Deeming the book too valuable to leave out in the open, she returned it reverently to its pine box, deciding to lock it inside her office safe. She’d then catch a streetcar to Mackey’s, bundling up against the Toronto winter cold, and warm her blood with alcohol, good company, and whatever else might be in the cards for tonight.

Bree turned off the last light in the basement as she stepped into the flickering fluorescence of the service elevator and pressed the second floor button, calling out as the doors closed, “Night, Homer.”

A few nights later…

Bree woke up on the floor after having fallen off the bed and landing on her butt. It could have been worse. She could have landed on something far less padded.

She blinked, trying to determine where she was, having been startled out of a nightmare involving screams, bloody knives slashing through the darkness, and a strange room with black-robed figures. At least the place she’d landed was quiet and she seemed to be alone and unscathed.

She shook her head to clear it and got up slowly, realizing it was all just a dream and she was safely ensconced in her own bedroom.

She shuddered. The bright green light on the bed table caught her eye. Three-thirty a.m. She turned on the lamp and looked at her rumpled bedsheets, remembering then that she’d lain down with Dean Koontz’s Darkfall at around ten o’clock. She’d barely gotten past the back cover blurb.

“Winter gripped the city. Terror gripped it, too. They found four corpses in four days, each more hideous than the last. At first the cops thought they were dealing with a psychopath. But soon they heard eerie sounds in the ventilation system - and saw unearthly silver eyes in the snow-slashed night. In a city paralyzed by a blizzard, something watches, something stalks. . .”

She’d found the seed for her bad dream. Relieved, Bree pulled the book from between the sheets and found her reading glasses under her pillow. Wide awake now, she headed for the shower.

Dressed in her finest head towel, terry robe, and fuzzy slippers, she made coffee and dropped some stale bread into the toaster then turned on the 24-7 news channel. The local news was on, pre-recorded from last night’s evening broadcast.

She watched with half interest, still reviewing with the other half of her mind the nightmare that had awakened her. She gazed out the French doors of her small balcony, alongside the TV set. Lake Ontario was blacker than night, the lighter sky starry above it, and the distant light of a fishing boat far out on the lake. At least she wasn’t the only one up at this hour.

Her coffeemaker beeped and the toaster clicked and she was suddenly aware of the aromas of hazelnut and warmed bread. She turned to go back into the kitchen, but something on the news stopped her in her tracks. She turned around to watch the screen.

“Penelope Prud'homme, an herbalist residing in the Garden District, was found dead in her home early on Friday. The 49-year-old herbalist was stabbed to death sometime Thursday morning. Her murder is still being investigated and at present no suspects have been identified.”

Unsure why this particular report caught her attention as it did, Bree moved on toward her kitchen after the brief news report, but suddenly the breakfast aromas made her nauseous.

Later that day…

The offices were quiet. Quitting time for most of the Royal Ontario Museum’s employees is six o'clock, though Bree seldom left then. Because of a long afternoon meeting with other department heads she hadn’t gotten back until after six thirty. She glanced at her watch, sighed heavily, and put her reading glasses on, then settled in for a few hours of research and reading the afternoon mail.

“Gabriella.” A deep voice accompanied a light tap on her open door.

Bree looked up to find her handsome administrative assistant’s big brown eyes gazing down at her. She was the envy of more than a few of the other administrators for having this charming Latino gentleman at her beck and call for forty hours a week.

“Rigo? I thought you’d gone for the day. Hey, is there still coffee left?” She slipped off her glasses.

“I’m sorry, no. May I have a few moments of your time?”

“Of course. What’s up?”

Rodrigo Montoya stepped inside closing the door behind him which made Bree extremely curious as to what this was about. He reached into the back pocket of his dark slacks and pulled out a worn leather wallet. He spread the interior open with deft fingers and pulled out something shiny and handed it to his boss.

“For you, from Sister Teresa Maria.”

Bree took the gold object from his hand, turning it over on her palm. “How nice of her! It’s so pretty, just like the one she gave me before I left Buenos Aires.”

“She told me you lost it,” he said.

“But I never told her that.”

“Sister knows things.” Rigo eased back into his chair smiling benignly, his wallet still open in his hand. “I don’t understand it myself.” He pointed to the pendant of St. Michael the Archangel in Bree’s hand. “She had it blessed by Father Romero. It’s a powerful charm for your protection. Keep it with you always and ask San Miguel often for his prayers.”

Bree set the archangel pendant down in front of her on the desk and thought of Sister Teresa Maria, who had asked her if she could find Rigo employment and help him settle in Toronto. Sister had told Bree little more than that he was a good man and she trusted him completely.

“Thank you, I will,” she replied. “Do you know Sister well?”

“She was like a second mother to me. I attended San Juan Diego schools for all of my education until university. Sister was my teacher in school as well as in life.”

“Really? My dad and his family went to the San Juan Diego schools, too. In fact, Sister is my godmother.” Bree felt her face light up at the memory of Sister Teresa Maria. “I know so little about you, Rigo. We should talk more often.”

“I’m sorry to appear secretive. However, Sister instructed me to wait seventy days from the date I began working for you before giving you the pendant. And there is more.” He fished into his wallet again, pulling out a small folded note which he handed across the desk to Bree.

“This is Sister’s writing all right,” she chuckled at the familiar long-hand. “She always writes like she’s in a hurry and the lines all curve up at the end. We correspond a few times a year by snail mail and she insists that I hand write all my letters back to her, too.”

“Sí, she’s a mystic,” he smiled knowingly.

Bree nodded. “Sister says she reads more from my letters just by holding the paper in her hand than by what I actually write. Kind of spooky.”

Slipping her glasses back on, Bree read to herself the note written in Spanish.

<‘My dearest daughter Gabriella, by now you have had some time to become familiar with my dear son, Rodrigo. He is bringing you a token of guardianship from me and I send Rodrigo to you with my many prayers.

You will find him a man you can trust with anything, my daughter, and you must allow him to aid you in the coming darkness. I cannot see it clearly, and I do not wish to frighten you. Simply know that you must be very cautious in the months ahead.

I am sending Rodrigo to you, my most precious, to keep you from harm. You must, for your own sake, allow him to do this. I swear on the blessed soul of your sweet departed father that this matter is a serious one.

I send to you all my love and prayers as I look forward eagerly to your next letter.

– Sister Teresa Maria, San Juan Diego Catholic Parish’>

Bree rubbed the chills from her arms and looked up from the note to find Rodrigo watching her, his elbows on the chair arms and his hands steepled, waiting patiently.

“Wow. Did you know about this?” Bree asked.

He nodded. “There are many things I can’t reveal to you, Bree, for your own safety, but I will tell you this. I had a list of places from which to choose to start my new life. I asked Sister her opinion. She told me with tears in her eyes that this was an answer to her prayers. She said I must go to Toronto and that she would make arrangements for me here in exchange for offering you my aegis.”

“But…,” Bree shook her head slowly, “I don’t need a body guard, Rigo. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I enjoy my privacy and--.”

“She said you would say as much.” He smiled and lowered his hands, looking relaxed and yet as though he could spring into action in the blink of an eye. Bree wondered how he did that.

“This is what you will do,” he continued authoritatively. “You’ll put my number on the speed dial of your cell phone.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms against my desk, his hands clasped. “Whenever you feel frightened or troubled, you’ll call me immediately, and I will do whatever is necessary.”

He looked into Bree’s eyes as though gaging her resistance. “Please,” he said softly, “get your phone now and add in my number.”

Bree scrunched up her face to politely protest. “Rigo, I appreciate it but—“

“You trust Sister, no?”

“Of course I do, but—“

“I’ll tell you this much, Bree, and I must ask you to tell no one. I was an undercover cop for many years. I’m an expert marksman and trained fighter. Also, I have a sensitivity to things -- spirits, angels, demons – and sometimes I know a thing before it happens. Not like Sister, but a little bit. And I protect people. It’s what I do.”

Bree sat back in her chair with a long sigh. “So… if I call you, then what?”

“Then I will rush to your aid, of course.” Rigo motioned with an outstretched sweep of his arms and a smile, but then his tone became more serious. “You’ll call me first, before 911 or police or anyone else. Comprendes? No matter when, no matter where you are. Even if you’re having just a feeling of foreboding do not dismiss your intuition. Never hesitate to call me, even if you think it’s maybe nothing. Promise me this?”

“Geez.” Bree twisted her mouth in frustration.

“Please, don’t take His name in vain. It’s a personal annoyance of mine.”

“I only said… oh, fine.” Bree reached down and pulled her purse out of a bottom drawer. “What if something happens before I can explain to you where I am?” She surprised herself that she was actually going along with this so calmly. She pulled out her cell and brought up the speed dial edit list.

“¿Con permiso?” He held out an object to Bree. Between the index and middle fingers of his right hand he held a tiny disc, about half the size of a small coin and nearly as thin. “This is a GPS monitor so that I can always find you. It’s state of the art and wasn’t so easy for me to obtain, but I thought it important enough to take the trouble.”

He laid it on the desk between them. “Keep this on your person at all times. With this,” he pulled out a tiny tube of Smart Glue and held it up, “I will glue the disc to your pendant for you to wear always. Take care only not to get it wet.”

Bree gave back the pendant to Rigo and, as he placed a drop of glue onto the disc and pressed it to the pendant, she reached behind her neck to unfasten the long sterling chain she always wore. She laid it carefully on the desk and removed the current pendant, a white gold symbol of the astrological sign of Leo that an old boyfriend had given her which she dropped into a side drawer.

“Perfect,” he said, looking at the chain. “Now to let it dry for a moment.” He pressed a finger firmly against the disc atop the pendant while the glue set. “Do you know that San Miguel the Archangel is the patron of warriors?” His mouth twisted wrily.

“And cops, coincidentally.” Bree smiled.

Rigo picked up the pendant device and strung it onto the fine chain.

“This seems so strange,” Bree said, watching. “In fact, a lot of things that have happened lately have been been strange and unusual.”

“Life is strange and unusual if you are paying attention." He rose from the chair, holding one end of the chain in either hand. "May I?”

“Sure.” She slid her hand under her hair and raised it off her neck as Rigo rounded her desk. He placed the necklace over her head and stooped to fasten it, while Bree considered telling him about her dreams and the strange book she’d found. But somehow she had the feeling he already knew.