Blood of the Wicked (2 page)

If Lydia Leigh had taught her children anything, it was how to rebuild.

She stepped off the broken stoop as lurid purple light flickered through the dismal drizzle. Each do-over just got harder and harder, but hell, she didn’t have much choice. Witch hunters killed witches.

Exclamation point.

Her boots splashed in stagnant puddles, stirred up loose grit and gravel. She barely noticed when a wide shadow detached itself from the mouth of the alley, then hesitated when it stepped into her path. She didn’t have time for this.

Pink neon outlined his heavy build, the blaring smear of tattoo ink and the light-catching saturation of beaten synth-leather spiked with metal. Big. Grabby, probably. He seemed the type.

She’d dealt with it before. A casual smile, a flirty wink, a breezy reminder of the bouncers right around the corner, and he’d be back inside eyeballing someone else.

“Nice.” The burly man spread his arms to block her way. “Way nice. Easiest score I ever made.”

Vapors washed over her; alcohol and the spicy afterburn of something less than legal, even in the Perch.

Just her luck.

She shaped her mouth into a sassy smile and made damn sure it reached her eyes. “You’re in the wrong spot, honey. All the best girls are—”

“Right here,” he drawled, bending until he was all but nose to nose with her. The scent of sweat and beer wafted over her face in a nauseating combination.

She stepped backward before she could stop herself, giving ground she knew was going to cost her.

Never show weakness.

“I’m on a break,” she lied smoothly, praying he was too far gone to notice the heavy backpack slung over her shoulders. “You want to see me dance, you’ll want to be inside in five minutes.”

“Maybe I’ll just see you wiggle right here.” He took another step forward. Jessie’s body tensed, mouth dry.

Shit. She didn’t have
time
for this. Any minute, that hunter was going to come sniffing. The back of her neck itched with the certainty.

Neon popped overhead, highlighting the alley around them in vivid purple. It bled through his full brown beard, glittered off his array of facial piercings and toothy smile. It picked out a lot of sweaty, veined muscle.

And the leering jester inked into one thick arm.

I see death and a laughing joker.

Her heartbeat leaped into her throat. “Fuck,” she whispered, and jumped when he laughed.

“Not yet, baby,” he said, reaching for her. Her vision tunneled in on the biker’s stained, shit-eating smile, and without warning, Jessie’s patience guttered out.

She felt herself go. Almost like when she tapped into the power that simmered beneath her conscious mind, but this was sharper. Angrier. Focused.

He was every man who’d ever leered at her. Every man who’d ever groped her in the dark confines of every bar she’d worked at. The ones who’d laughed at her and her baby brother on these goddamned merciless streets.

Jessie’s body surged into motion before her brain made the call. She stepped into him, into the wild clasp of his arms, and pure satisfaction rippled through her as his smile cracked into surprise. Her fist collided with his smirk and sent him reeling.

His flat features contorted into shock. Rage. “Bitch!”

Adrenaline pushed her forward; she tried to dart past him, choked on her own collar as a meaty hand snagged the back of her jacket and hauled her back into the alley. Slammed her back against the broken, pitted brick, hard enough to force the air from her lungs. Jessie’s vision dimmed as she swung again, connected with something metal on his coat, and yelped as her arm went numb from fingers to elbow.

If the joker gets his hands on you, Jessie, that’s it. That’s the beginning of it all. Don’t stop for him.

Her brother’s voice, the memory of it, rang sharply in her head. Too damn late.

She tried to jerk away, cried out again as his fist tagged her mouth. Pain exploded inside her skull, lights flashing violet and pink and red as she dropped to her knees.

Blood pooled on her tongue, coppery and warm. Jessie choked on tears of pain, of humiliation and fury, even as she struggled to get off her hands and knees, and hit him again.

And again. And—

“What the
fuck
,” she heard, and a riot of energy roiled around her. For a dazed moment it looked as though her attacker split into two, dancing awkwardly away from her like two halves of a broken mirage. One staggered upright, thick and meaty, the other long and lean as they wrenched apart. With a bellow, the biker swung at the second man who was nothing more than a trim, fast-moving shadow dancing just out of his reach.

Jessie shook her head hard, forced herself to her feet. She stumbled hastily for the alley mouth.
Get out, run like hell.
She couldn’t get caught up here, not as long as that hunter was—
Oh, God
.

Her knees buckled violently. She whirled to plaster her back against the wall, grabbed rough brick for support as she stared at the fighters.
Him
. Shocked, she jammed her fingers against her bleeding mouth.

Neon flickered, seared, and she saw tanned skin, black ink, and rough denim as the witch hunter blocked with his left forearm, snarled something, and curved out a wicked right hook.

His body moved like an oiled machine, brutally efficient as he followed up with two jabs to the drunk’s nose and an elbow that crunched loudly on impact.

Blood spurted, near black in the neon light.

“Run!” The witch hunter threw it over his shoulder, only to twist awkwardly when the biker stomped hard on his knee. Jessie saw his face go shock-white, heard his agonized grunt of pain.

Fury and fear forced her to move. She caught her backpack in one hand, swung it with all her might. The black canvas bag sailed through the violent neon air, graceful as a brick, and slammed into the side of the biker’s head with a dull crack.

He toppled, slowly.

Jessie stared in horror. He didn’t move. God. Had she killed him? She had enough problems without adding murder and cops to the list. She panted for breath, unable to suck in enough air to keep spots from mottling the corners of her vision. Was he dead? She didn’t know if a thirty-pound bag could kill someone of that size, and she desperately didn’t want to check.

She reeled.

Strong fingers curled over her upper arms. “Hey!”

She blinked. Stared into a face carved from something even more unyielding than the brick surrounding them. “Can you walk?” he asked. Demanded.

Jessie’s brain flailed. “Is he—?”

“Try,” he ordered, and hauled her bodily out of the alley.

He was limping. It was the only rational thought she managed to form, and wordlessly she ducked under his arm and slipped it over her shoulders. He hesitated, resisting her, but she dug her fingers in to his side and held on. She felt the flex and slide of hard muscle as she fisted her hand in his shirt.

As much as Jessie wanted to slip away from him, use his injury to put as much space between them as she could, she couldn’t just leave him there. He’d helped her. She had to help him.

And the truth was, she needed something to hang on to, just for a moment.

She followed his lead as he pointed to a rusty orange pickup truck. He wrenched open the door, half lifted, half shoved her inside the driver’s side, and pushed her farther over as he swung up painfully behind her. He wasted no words, and she had plenty of time to study the implacable set of his features as he gunned the engine and slammed it into drive.

Talk about a rock and a hard place.

A witch hunter. And a hero, at least for the five seconds it was taking her brain to process and reboot.

He’d saved her.

She’d saved him, too. She wondered if he’d have been so heroic if he knew who and what she was. She’d bet her tip money that he’d have left her there to die if he’d had any real clue she was a witch.

As the truck pulled a U-turn, tires squealing, Jessie twisted to see if the drunk had moved. She glimpsed him facedown, dead still, exactly where they’d left him. And her bag. Shit!

The hunter took a left, swerved around a trailer. “He’ll live.”

“Lucky him,” seemed harmless enough. Vacuous enough. Jessie glanced at the witch hunter as he adjusted the rearview mirror with one rough hand. Despite his terrifying vocation, he appealed on some deep level. A rough shadow darkened his angled jaw. It framed a mouth that bowed at the top, which she’d noticed the instant he’d sat down at her bar.

She’d briefly toyed with the idea of leaning over the counter and tasting it. Now she was glad she hadn’t. Not even for the extra tip money that flirty act would have netted her.

His hair curled in short waves, dark brown and shaggy, and Jessie couldn’t help but admire his easy strength as he’d hauled her down half a city block, even despite his limp.

It was the same strength he’d probably developed strangling innocent people in the night.

She set her jaw.

Anger rolled off him in palpable waves, an aura of fury that she didn’t need preternatural senses to recognize. Long, all-too-capable fingers gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity as he drove with purpose.

Drove where?

Death and the laughing joker. Two different people? Shit. Caleb’s prophecies never made
sense
.

Jessie scraped back the fringe of fake red hair with one shaking hand. “Thanks for the help and all.” His mouth twisted. “But,” she continued lightly, “you can drop me off here.”

He didn’t reply, didn’t slow down. Didn’t acknowledge her. She bit her lip, winced when it throbbed in protest.

It had to be a coincidence. She’d never heard of a witch hunter saving a witch just to kill her himself. Unless he was a real freak of nature.

Or didn’t recognize her in her disguise.

Short red hair, no makeup, street clothes designed to blend; it was a far cry from the vamped-up brunette bartender he’d met. The alley had been dark. He’d seen a woman in trouble.

Could she stake her life on a witch hunter’s good intentions?

Would she be heading to her own death if she did?

No. It was still a risk, and the laughing joker hadn’t killed her. That didn’t mean she was safe. She’d just toppled the first domino of her baby brother’s worst prophecy. Christ. Shit.

She wasn’t going to die, damn it.

Jessie casually draped her hand on the armrest, her thumb resting on the door release. The second he slowed down, the moment she saw her chance, she’d be gone.

“Don’t even try it.”

“Try what?”

“We’re going sixty. In half a minute, we’ll be on the carousel. You’ll be a smear if you jump, and I’m not slowing down.”

What was he, psychic? Her temper spiked. “I’ll take my chan— Let go of me!” His hard, cold fingers were implacable as he gripped her forearm.

“I didn’t haul you out of that bastard’s rape fantasy to lose you to asphalt,” he said flatly.

Jessie’s teeth clicked. “I don’t need a hero,” she gritted out. “Let me go.”

He did, but only so he could put both hands back on the wheel. “Stay fucking put.”

Her heartbeat roared in her ears. Her lip throbbed, but the small pain was going to be the least of her problems if the jump out of a moving vehicle didn’t kill her first.

Steeling herself, she reached again for the latch on the door.

“Your friend was right,” he said. “You’re a better blond.”

Chapter Two

H
er hand froze near the handle. Silas kept his gaze on the road, but his peripheral vision was perfect. He saw her eyes swing to him.

Jesus,
felt
her eyes on him.

Fury snapped over his skin like a live wire; it barely salved the sheer agony lancing from his toes to his hip. He’d have to sweat it out, even as every angry fiber of his being wanted to turn the truck around and slam it into the overeager son of a bitch who’d laid his damn hands on her.

Who Silas had
paid
to lay his damn hands on her.

His fingers tightened on the wheel. “I almost didn’t recognize you, Jessica. Even after seeing you with the black hair.”

She hesitated, a fraction of a second, before she eased back from the door. “Yeah, well.” She smiled ruefully. Tightly. “We like to change it up. Sometimes the men in there get . . . grabby.”

Fuck
. His back teeth clenched. It did nothing for his headache, either.

Headlights of oncoming cars cut through the dark cab like a searchlight, and he saw her wince as she touched her bloody lip with the back of her hand. He fished out a handkerchief from the same pocket he kept her photo in. “Here,” he said tightly, at least a semblance of civility.

She chewed over her options as she stared at his hand, her mind clearly working. Hell, he could practically smell the smoke. She was probably planning another escape.

He let her, eyes steady on the road. The traffic speed on the carousel didn’t leave any room to jump, not if she valued her life. He could drive all damn night, if he had to.

God knew there was enough road for it. Fourteen years had passed since he’d last taken the New Seattle carousel, but looking at it now made him feel like he’d never left.

The winding highway wrapped around the towering city, ramps connected to each level like the legs of some kind of strangling centipede. Only the natives knew how to navigate the damned thing, and it annoyed him that he still remembered what ramps circled where. Little enough had changed.

A drive through the littered streets of the lower city levels had been enough to make that clear. The desperately poor survived in the deeper levels while the sickeningly rich lived smug and happy topside. The only real place to see honest-to-God sunlight.

Anyone lucky enough to be caught halfway spent his life grazing in those middle civilized edges. Like apathetic sheep, cataloged and separated by profit; industrial, migrant, the middle class with its few twisted trees and shades of sunlight.

The permanent neon lights of the seedier districts barely qualified as civilized. Just this side of acceptable, like the Perch’s less than classy clientele.

Or like the dark streets of a Church orphanage.

Yeah. Fourteen years hadn’t changed much. He still hated this soul-sucking city every bit as much as he’d missed it.

“I’m fine.” Her cool declaration dragged his attention back to the now. Where it damn well needed to be, he reminded himself. The mission, not the past. And not on the unpainted line of her mouth.

Or the mile-long legs he knew she hid beneath those jeans.

Damn it. He thrust the handkerchief at her. “Just take the damn thing already,” he growled. “You’re bleeding.”

Glaring, she grabbed the white fabric. Tore it from his hand, one part temper and mostly impatience. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded. “How do you know me?”

For another long moment, Silas concentrated on driving. It bought him the time he needed. The answers that leaped to his tongue wouldn’t ensure the kind of cooperation he had to get from her.

The sooner he did, the sooner he could leave.

Not a bad start, really. Bloody the woman he had to con into helping the Mission. Don’t let her know that her brother was top of the Witches to Be Executed for Crimes Against Humanity list, and lie through his teeth about what they intended to do when they caught the kid. No problem.

And . . .
go
.

“My name is Silas Smith.” She watched him silently, his handkerchief a white stain at her chin. “I’m a government agent, and we need your help.”

Goddamn, that sounded lame. Even to him.

“Ah.” A noncommittal sound. She might as well have called bullshit, but to his surprise, she asked mildly, “And what do you want from me?”

“We’ve been looking for you for weeks.” She stiffened, so subtly he would have missed it if he wasn’t hyperaware of her every move.

Which pissed him off. Telling himself he was only watching her for signs of escape just pissed him off more.

He hoped the missionaries choked on this shit later. “Fuck me,” he muttered, and scowled at her sudden snort. “Look, the short story is that your brother’s gotten himself mixed in with a bad crowd.” Silas glanced at her across the semidark cab. “The kind of crowd that gets attention from agencies like mine. We need you to help us find him.”

Her mouth pursed. “Firstly, even if I had a brother—”

“You do.”

“Even if I
had
a brother,” she repeated stubbornly, “I have no reason to trust you. Where’s your badge? Your official— I don’t know.” She gestured at him, her long fingers devoid of jewelry or polish. “Your uniform or whatever?”

Silas caught himself eyeing her bare hands and wondering if she lived with anyone. Was she sleeping with anyone? The file he’d been given had been sparse.

If she was, the guy had to have the patience of a saint to date a stripper.

He shook his head. “Not that kind of agency.”

“Great,” she muttered. “Of course not.” She folded her arms, creasing the snug neoprene beneath her breasts. “And if you find this person, what do you intend to do?”

“
When
we find your
brother
,” Silas corrected tersely, “our intent is to use him to gain access to the rest of the group and dismantle it.”

“Why him specifically?” Jesus, she was quick.

But he had this much thought out. “Caleb Leigh’s been flagged by our security forces. According to his file—and yeah, he’s got a file,” he added, cutting off the question he heard forming in her sharply indrawn breath. “He’s just a dumb kid in over his head.” He glanced at her just in time to see her lashes narrow. A fraction. “We’re not in the habit of nailing dumb kids to crosses for kicks, but we know an in when we see one.”

Lies upon lies upon lies. He jerked his eyes back to the road before her honey brown eyes saw more than he damn well wanted to show. He wasn’t sure he could explain the anger. Or the too-sharp awareness of her body heat, inches away.

And she was nobody’s fool. “Why should I believe you?”

“You shouldn’t.” At least that much was true. Silas drove across three lanes of traffic, ignored the horn blaring behind him as he cut off a sleek silver racer. “But what are your choices, Jessica?”

“Jessie.”

His gut kicked. “Jessie,” he repeated quietly. Her eyes flickered. Silence stretched, all but vibrated as the gears in her head turned over and over.

Hell, he could practically see the sparks.

Finally her wide, bare lips twisted in bitter resignation. “You’re the man with the badge, so I guess I don’t have any choices, do I?” She kicked one black-booted foot up on the dashboard. He winced. She didn’t notice. “Fine. What do you need from me?”

“Answers.” Silas didn’t smile.

She’d been too damn easy.

Sister to a witch. As soon as the Mission got their hands on her, she was as good as screwed.

She shrugged. “Ask away.”

“Not tonight, it’s late. Where should I take you?” He glanced at her. “I can pick you up in the morning.” Like hell. He’d camp outside her place all night and ransack it later, if he had to.

Her lashes dropped, shadowing her cheeks as she studied the blood-spotted handkerchief stretched between her fingers. “I don’t have a place.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“Where I can,” she said, and raised her chin.

That stubborn, silent spark of pride found an answering twist of memory, of corded sympathy, in Silas’s chest.
Shit
. No place to sleep? He at least owed her that much.

Quickly, before he could change his mind, he curled his fingers around the steering wheel and sliced across two more lanes of traffic. The carefully maintained engine thrummed. “I know somewhere.”

“I don’t—”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Jessie.” The shadows in the cab hid his face as he checked the GPS unit wired to the topside of the dash. “You have my word.”

And in between the waves of pain radiating from forehead and knee, all Silas could smell was bullshit.

R
elief that he hadn’t asked her about her supposed lack of living quarters warred with righteous fury. The bastard was trying to use her to get to her baby brother.

Just hearing
Agent
Smith say Caleb’s name brought bile to the back of her throat.

The guy had nerve. Serious nerve.

To think she’d saved his life. Or at least saved him a beating. She should have let them beat the snot out of each other in that filthy alley.

And yet, despite the fact that he was her enemy—
Caleb’s
enemy—she couldn’t keep her eyes from sliding sideways. The man had a presence, she’d give him that. He filled up space in ways that made her feel like she wasn’t getting enough air.

Every breath she took smelled like old leather, rusting metal, and something warmer. Decidedly masculine. His fingers were scarred, his face edged, even his clothing was worn. She had more than a suspicion about the definition of his muscled body beneath that jacket.

A hard man with a hard body, in clothes easy to move in. And, she reminded herself harshly, easy to kill in. She probably sat in the trace remains of some poor dead witch even as she thought it.

But his hands looked strong and capable. Protective. She watched him guide the steering wheel with easy, sure movements. Studied the leather cord around his wrist and the polished wooden beads tucked against his tanned skin.

White letters gleamed in the dark.
Nina
. His wife? His daughter?

It didn’t matter, she thought, and gave herself a mental shake. Silas Smith, agent of the Holy Order of St. Dominic, was the enemy. She had to remember that. And if the Church was after Caleb, then it meant they knew he was a witch.

If they knew he practiced, what did they have on her?

What in God’s name had Caleb gotten mixed up in that would put him on the Mission’s radar?

The questions tumbled end over end inside her head until she thought she’d scream. Or punch something. Not that she’d managed to get anywhere by punching anything so far.

Jessie shifted, propping her other foot up on the seat. She rested her chin on her knee. “So,” she said slowly, letting the word fill the silence in the cab for a long moment. He glanced at her, eyes shadowed. “Tell me about this bad crowd Caleb’s involved with.”

More silence. And then, “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

Annoyance gathered sharp on her tongue. She swallowed it back, hard enough to mildly offer, “About a year.” That was true, at least. A whole year since he’d vanished in the night, leaving everything behind. Including her.

“Long time,” he said.

No kidding
seemed unhelpful. She shrugged, smiled flatly. “Siblings argue. We fought with the best of them. About a year ago, Caleb decided he’d gotten tired of listening to me and split.”

She’d never had problems lying. Her lies had saved their butts more often than not. They had been fed, clothed, occasionally hired on a bank of lies.

Hell, it helped that these lies sounded plausible, arguing siblings and hotheaded tantrums. She wasn’t going to tell a missionary that her brother had foreseen something that had scared him so badly, he’d taken off with only a few cryptic metaphors and a warning.

Don’t find me, Jessie. Don’t even try.

She’d been jumping at shadows since. For good reason, apparently. The laughing joker didn’t kill her, but God knew the future came in riddles.

Shit, shit, shit.

Jessie watched him as he watched the road, telling herself it was only so she could catch it if even a hint of dishonesty flickered in his too-rugged features. The fact that she had an itch to rub her cheek against the black shadow of his planed jaw was something she’d do her best to ignore.

He glanced at her again. Even in the dark, she felt the weight of his gaze.

She had an insane urge to cover her chest with her arms. Not that the jacket she wore was even remotely indecent—and she had to get a grip. She was
not
fantasizing about the enemy.

Or his tousled dark hair, or the shape of his mouth as he spoke, or—

“What do you know of the Coven of the Unbinding?” he asked suddenly, and Jessie shook her head, relieved for the distraction.

“The what with the who?”

He frowned. “It’s a terrorist cell,” he said, and shifted the truck up to speed. Jessie grabbed the bar over the window as the cab shook ominously. “Terrorists who do a hell of a lot of scary shit, all in the name of an ideal that doesn’t care who or what they hurt.”

Jessie straightened.
Shit!
A coven. “And you think Caleb’s in with them?” It took effort to keep her voice steady. Curious, not panicked.

Covens meant groups of witches. Groups of witches meant Mission intervention. Slaughter. Hunts.

She shook her head again, the very picture of loyal certainty. “No way. There’s no way my brother would be in a terrorist group, not ever.”

He didn’t look at her again. “Maybe.”

“No,” she repeated loudly. “Not
maybe
.” She shifted, braced against the seat as a massive transport rumbled past them on the New Seattle byway. “Look, when Caleb was thirteen, he accidentally ran over a cat on his motorbike. He cried for days, Agent Smith. Days. And you think he’d be in some sort of terrorist group?”

Jessie still remembered holding him as he sobbed, knowing there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to help. He’d told her he should have seen it coming. His gift was the future.