All Things Wicked (10 page)

Probably just to jerk her chain.

“Thank you,” she said dispassionately. “You can dress yourself.”

“So I’m good to go?”

“Agent Eckhart will show you and Mr. Nelson through the training,” she said, turning her back on him. Deliberate dismissal.

He drew his shirt over his shoulders. Parker watched his reflection in the wide bank of glass windows. “Training?” he asked.

“I have no knowledge of you. Consequently, I don’t know what kind of training Mrs. Parrish thought would qualify you for this team,” she said as he redid the buttons over his washboard abdominal muscles. “You’ll be put through the paces just like all of my other agents.”

His jaw tightened in the glass. Then, as if it was only a flicker in her imagination, he grinned. “Ah, well. She did say make us welcome. Hey,
Director.
”

Imperceptibly stiffening, she turned.

Then studied the hand he held out to her as if it were some strange bug to be scrutinized. It was a large hand, callused like so many of the street-level missionaries’ hands were, with nails torn down to the quick.

And it
was
a challenge. His eyebrow quirked. The same side as the apparently permanent smirk tugging at the right side of his mouth.

Silently, she clasped her palm to his. Her skin was inordinately white against his darker color, as if he’d spent a lot of time in the sun. How could that be? Was he a topsider?

Was he from somewhere beyond the city?

“Thanks for having us,” he said.

“This isn’t a guest stay. I fully expect you both to carry your weight.”

His eyes lit with amusement. “And then some, right?” He squeezed her hand, calluses scraping her softer palm, then let go. “See you around . . .
Director
Adams.”

Parker watched him saunter out of her office, making no effort to hide the lazy way he finished buttoning up his shirt. Something about the way he’d said it had made his farewell seem like a . . . promise. An invitation.

Damn.

A new operation. New missionaries she knew nothing about.

She sat and scrolled through the readout, skimming the material swiftly. Halfway through the cover letter, surprise flickered.

Who was Juliet Carpenter? And why did some woman off the street suddenly jump known ritual murderers on the priority list?

Not that it mattered. Her orders were clear. She gathered the digital readout and what few operational dockets had collected in her in-box and left the office.

A flurry of activity preceded her.

Like she knew it would, a fully fledged headache blossomed behind her forehead. She didn’t dare wince. “Agent Eckhart.”

A bald man industriously bent over a computer turned, annoyance twisting his round face. It only slightly eased as he recognized her. “Ma’am.”

She handed him one of the dockets. “Give this to Mr. Stone. I want all the information he can find in two hours. Then deepen the search and feed me whatever he finds in relative intervals.”

Alan Eckhart took the docket and scrolled through it quickly. His free hand rubbed at the shiny bare scalp Parker had assumed early on came from shaving every day. “Will you be needing the whole team? I can call Neely in.”

“Not yet.” Possibly not at all, depending on Jonas Stone’s findings. The man was the best information gatherer this side of the divide. Possibly even the best the Mission had ever had, anywhere, ever. Parker knew she was lucky to have him.

Luckier still that Stone didn’t mind her. Possibly even liked her. Then again, the guy seemed to like everyone.

“All right,” Eckhart replied, “I’ll put it in his queue.”

She studied him levelly. “Jump his queue, Mr. Eckhart.”

He whistled, a faint three-note tune as he glanced at her. “This takes priority over Operation Ghostwatch?”

She didn’t hesitate, well aware of how many ears were straining to hear her response. Juggling priorities. That was part of her job. “Yes,” she said, bracing one hand on her hip. “Only for the first two hours. Then keep him on the dragnet. He’s a bright boy, I believe he can multitask. I rather assume most of my agents can.”

Somewhere in the background, someone snickered.

Eckhart snapped the folder closed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Be ready to call Agent Silo in from R&R, I’ll need the library manned immediately.”

“It’s already—”

She cut him off neatly. “Agent Silo is the only one who knows that library inside and out. I’ll let you know when to send out the call.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeated, but couldn’t quite hide the doubt in the slow acquiescence.

Fine. As long as he did what she ordered, she’d take it.

“Oh,” she added before she turned away. “There are two new agents in the roster. Get them on training.” She paused, tucking the stack of readouts more firmly under her arm. “Advance to level four immediately.”

His eyes widened. “Right out of the gate?”

“Yes, Agent Eckhart,” she said, every word crisp. “Level four, right out of the gate. Is there a problem?”

His cheeks flushed. “No, ma’am,” he said, but Parker didn’t give him the opportunity to say anything else. She strode through the suddenly bustling office, her chin up.

As the elevator doors closed behind her, someone’s voice carried through the narrowing gap.

“Total ice bitch.”

The elevator rocked into motion. She touched a button on the panel. “Bring the car around,” she said calmly.

The speaker crackled. “Right away, Director.”

Parker smiled.

Chapter Nine

T
hunder grumbled in the distance. Outside the windows of the small green house, the sunshine faded to muted gray. Clouds edged in black rolled in, and someone had lit candles for light.

Caleb didn’t know who.

He sat on the only available surface—a heavy wooden trunk surrounded by stacks upon stacks of junk. Old junk, prequake junk, he didn’t know.

He didn’t care.

Elbows braced on his thighs, he hunched over, rotating a small gold ring over and over between his fingers. He stared at it, watched it catch the light in tiny glints. He’d been staring at Delia’s ring for what felt like hours. It didn’t have any answers for him.

She
didn’t have any answers for him.

And still Jessie didn’t wake up.

She seemed so frail in the bed. The quilt tucked in around her looked obscenely bright against her sallow skin, and her eyelids flickered repeatedly as if she dreamed. Or was
seeing
something.

Caleb wanted to do something.

Christ,
anything.

Instead, he was forced to sit quietly, staring at the ring as the witch who introduced herself as Naomi West sat on the mattress beside his sister, hand to hand.

His sister’s lover hadn’t moved, either. Silas Smith filled a chair by the bed, his pose similar to Caleb’s in every way save for the direction of his stare.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off Jessie since Caleb had come in. Even then, Caleb had gotten only a flick of attention, a tightening of his mouth, and then a jerk of a thumb to the wooden chest.

So they continued. Silent. Waiting.

And a terrible, nameless fear gripped Caleb’s heart.

This was worse than even the most awful of his visionary fits.
Seeing
took effort, it took energy and concentration and a release of magic usually kept bottled up beneath the skin. Caleb knew as intimately as anyone how much effort the magic required.

Sometimes
seeing
came without warning. Most of Caleb’s visions were like that. Jessie had always been able to control it.

But this looked like he felt.

What would she tell them when she woke up?

If
she woke up. This wasn’t right. The hollow space behind his heart, the rhythmic ache that tunneled deeper than just his head wasn’t right.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Thunder trembled through the aching silence.

Finally, Naomi stirred. Caleb raised his head, watching her as she stretched, working out the kinks in her back from hunching for so long. She opened her eyes on a puzzled frown.

Silas leaped to his feet. “Is she all right?” he demanded. His voice, deeper than most, rumbled on his version of a whisper.

The witch tucked Jessie’s pale, unresponsive hand back against the blanket. “I don’t know.”

Caleb’s gaze flicked to Jessie. Her wide mouth, mirror to their mother’s, was pinched. As if in pain. Or struggling. But she didn’t make any sound, and her breath remained jerky. Uneven.

His hands clenched together over the ring, fingers tangled until the pain forced him to ease off.

“What’s wrong with her?” Silas demanded.

She put a hand on his broad shoulder and pushed him to the side of the bed. “Stay with her. She’s going to need help.”

“Help? Help, how?” He looked helplessly between Jessie and Naomi. “Is this a witch thing?”

Caleb studied Naomi’s face, the sudden flare of her thickly lashed eyes. His shoulders slumped. “She’s dying,” he said.

Naomi’s glance flicked to the ceiling.

Silas surged off the side of the bed, sending the springs into a cacophony of protest. “You shut the fuck up,” he growled, but Naomi gripped his shoulder again.

The single action, wordless and infinitely poignant, confirmed what Caleb had only suspected.

He’d always had a bond with his sister. That’s why he’d worn the flint. To save her from his pain.

A pain he no longer carried. Had it moved to her? Could it?

Silas sank back to the bed, and it was as if the strength simply leeched from his big frame. Suddenly ashen, he looked up at the woman with the blue-violet eyes.

She shook her head. A fraction.

Claws sank into Caleb’s heart. Venom slid through his veins; guilt, rage. A maelstrom of it locked in his throat, and he stared at his clasped hands as they trembled. The ring pressed into his palms, ridged and unbending.

In his peripheral, Silas reached for Jessie’s hand. His own dwarfed hers, but even Caleb could see the gentleness, the sheer tenderness of the gesture.

Caleb gritted his teeth. “What’s the cause?”

“I don’t know.” Naomi shrugged, as if to emphasize her bewilderment. “I’m still pretty new to this stuff, but for all I can tell, she’s not hurt. I can’t find any physical damage. She’s not bleeding anywhere, she hasn’t suffered any falls lately. Aside from a few bruises, she’s in perfect health. She’s just . . . fading.”

Caleb stared at his fingers. At the scars that turned his left hand into a patchwork tangle of rough and shiny skin.

“Her magic’s going haywire,” Naomi continued quietly. “I got fringes of it while I was poking around.” She scrubbed her hands over her face. “I need to refuel. I’ll be back to try again as soon as I’ve got enough juice.”

Caleb said nothing.

She paused, hand on the door, and slid him a thoughtful, speculative stare. “I just about gave myself an aneurysm healing your wounds, Leigh.”

Well, that explained his general lack of pain. Caleb glanced at her. “Thanks.”

Her eyes narrowed. Flicked to Silas. Then, saying nothing else, she left. The door closed quietly behind her, leaving Caleb trapped in the stifling one-room house with the man who wanted him dead.

And the sister Caleb had already risked everything to save.

Power going haywire? As much energy as it took to fuel the visions, if it were just going and going, it could explain the fading.

Loss of control. Caleb braced his chin on his fists, staring blankly at the floor. Magic going haywire.

Like Juliet.

And like Juliet, his sister had been tattooed with a bar code. Like Juliet, she’d simply always had it.

What was the connection?

Silas’s thumb stroked back a lock of golden hair from Jessie’s eyes. It shook.

Fury carved another notch into Caleb’s restraint. “Look—”

“She never gave up on you.” The rumbled voice slammed through his uncertain words; quiet, but with an impact that plowed into Caleb’s head like an avalanche.

He jerked his head up.

Silas didn’t look at him. He laced his fingers through Jessie’s and stared somewhere past the bed.

Caleb closed his eyes.

“Nothing to say to that?” Silas chuckled, the sound filled with knives. “Guess I’m not surprised. You’re the one who left her to die.”

Caleb’s shoulders went rigid. Every muscle in his body locked. What could he say?

The man was right.

He’d turned her over to a coven who wanted to kill her—her own brother—while a missionary obligated to destroy her ended up saving her life.

Sacrifice. Wasn’t that what Lydia Leigh had taught her children? Sacrifice to survive. Sacrifice for love.

He’d done that.

He’d done it all for her. Murdered and lied and schemed and manipulated, atrocious things he’d sold his soul to do. He’d done
everything
for her. For her and the city Jessie loved so much.

The city he hated. Magicians and fools.

His fingers tightened over the ring. Wasn’t it all supposed to
mean
something?

Then Silas had saved her. He owed the man everything for that; he’d wanted nothing more than for Jessie to be happy. To live her life.

Wasn’t it
supposed
to be happily ever after for her?

Not . . . this.

“She never gave up on you, though,” Silas repeated, and Caleb exhaled hard, an angry sound. Silas didn’t look back. “Even after she learned about all those people you killed. And after you tied her to that fucking altar—” His voice broke. With inhuman effort, he gathered himself again. “She made me promise. If you ever showed up again—”

“I don’t want to—”

“Too bad.” Silas’s gaze dropped to Jessie’s pale, pixie features. “Your sister made me promise to give you a chance. A fucking chance to prove yourself again.”

A chance. God
damn
him.

“Now,” Silas said hoarsely, “I wish I never did.”

Caleb shot to his feet as something black and nameless seized hold of his head. Across the small room, Silas stiffened.

Wordless, echoing with a rage he didn’t know how to channel, Caleb strode for the door. It slammed shut behind him, shut on the pathetic image of the big ex-missionary hunched over the frail figure of his lover.

Of Caleb’s sister.

For a long moment, fists shaking at his sides, Caleb stared over the green bay and saw nothing but Jessie. The girl who had raised him after their mother had been murdered. The girl who had taught him to lie to survive, to stay low and out of sight.

The woman he had once
seen
burning in a fire set by the coven he’d then set out to destroy.

For what? For her to die anyway?

“Shit,” he said through a throat gone tight and ragged. “Shit. Shit, fuck, no.” It wouldn’t end like this.

It would not—
could not
end like this.

Jessie hadn’t given up on him. He’d be damned if he gave up on her.

He leaped off the porch, pushed the ring into his pocket and sprinted across the flagstones. In the ravaged depths of his mind, he knew what he needed to do, and his body acted on instinct while his thoughts raged on.

He knew the game. He knew the pieces and would force the hand of fate, even if it killed him. He’d
see
what he had to do and take care of it. Back in the ruins, Juliet had peeled him open with a wild flare of her magic. Sharper than he’d ever known. For a moment, a split second, he’d
seen
.

He’d see those visions again. The answers were there.

But he needed
her
to do it.

Promise me.

Not this time.

He found Juliet on a black sand beach at the opposite end of the crescent bay, her bare feet mired in the wet sand and the warm, green water lapping the shore. Sulfurous vapors danced around her, licked at her skin. Touched everything he wished so fucking badly he didn’t know the feel of already.

He surged out of the hedge of fronds like a man possessed.

She jerked in surprise, tried to jump to her feet, but the sand she’d buried her toes in sucked at her balance. She flailed, staggered, and fell to her knees as he loomed over her.

Her eyes flashed at him. The hot spring water soaked into her borrowed skirt. “What—”

Caleb grabbed her upper arms and yanked her upright. The sand gave way with a soft, wet, sucking noise. “How much do you hate me?” he demanded.

Her lashes, tinged by a faint golden sheen without her mascara to mask it, widened. “What?”

Don’t do this.

“How much,” he repeated between gritted teeth, dragging her face close to his, “do you hate me?”

“I don’t—”

He shook her, hard enough to snap her head back in shock. Hard enough to clack her teeth together, to see a flush of red climb her cheeks. “I gathered your coven together,” he said tightly, every word rasping with the effort as the darkness filled him. Swallowed him. “I brought them together knowing that I’d already set bombs across the field.”

The color in her cheeks heightened.

Please. . .

“I watched them as they burned, Juliet. Your friends. I set them on fire. Have you ever smelled burning flesh?
Have you?
”

Her eyes glistened, and something in Caleb’s chest twisted. Hard. “I hate that,” she said softly, her lips trembling. “I hate that you throw it in my face. I hate that you used me for a shield when those witches came after us—”

Caleb set her down, hard enough to jar her words loose, but she jerked her chin up. Shoved at his chest.

He staggered back a step.

“I hate that you had to do it,” she continued, even as a tear slid from her pale green eyes. “But you took the bullet for me, Caleb. You think I didn’t notice?” She shook her head, the black fringe of her hair sliding over one eye. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but you won’t get it from me.”

Rage battered at him. Clawed into his throat, his lungs, forced itself through his lips in a wordless, helpless, inhuman sound.

Juliet took a step back, flinching.

He matched it, forcing a step forward. “Tell me you hate me,” he ordered. He needed to trigger that spill of power that tried to get into his head. Needed to crack her open, to force the visions that would tell him what to do. How to do it.

No matter what it did to him, to her, he had to know. To help.

She backed away and he crowded her, step for step. Foot for foot. The black sand clung to her bare feet, her hands and skirt. “Tell me you hate me for pushing you against that wall and taking you that night,” he growled.

Her lips parted, eyes wide. A breath shuddered from her chest, but she shook her head even as her back came up hard against the cliff wall. He flattened both hands by her shoulders, caged her with his body.

A whisper of warning ghosted through his head; a murmur of raw lust speared through his gut. His temples twinged.

“I—” She licked her upper lip. “I always—”

She’s just a rose. . .

No. She was the key. She could tear him open. Without his sight, Jessie would die in that bed. Everything he knew, everything he loved would go up in smoke.
Again.

Not if he could help it. So he pushed her. Pinned her. “You hate me,” he said fiercely, leaning in until her breasts curved into his chest, soft and warm and like a punch to his nerves. Crowding her until she couldn’t possibly miss the telltale signs of his arousal against her thigh. “Tell me you hate me for fucking you. For leaving you.”

Her eyes squeezed shut. She tried to turn her face away, but he caught her chin in one rough hand and forced it back. “Tell me to fuck you again,” he told her, so softly that she gasped. “That you want it.”