Guardian Demon (GUARDIAN SERIES) (17 page)

“That is the mistake that demons make when they take on a new role, Agent Taylor. They lack commitment. I don’t.”

His voice had altered, too. Not the harmony, not the echoing abyss of his dragon form, but a man’s voice. Deep, with a touch of New England. But not just the sound was different; even his words and their rhythm had changed. Taylor searched his features, his expression, searching for a hint of Michael the Guardian. She couldn’t find one.

That was . . . weird. She was used to Guardians shape-shifting and looking completely different. She wasn’t used to a different man inhabiting the same skin. And she wanted the real Michael back.

That was weirder. “So who is Michael Smith?”

“Now that’s a question. You could say I’m from a wealthy family, that my parents were influential in the community, that I had all the advantages of money and class. And I did have it easy. I coasted through school, got my JD—”

“You’re pretending to be a lawyer?” Taylor had to laugh.

“No. I never got any further than my degree. Because around that time I realized that I should serve the people I came from, give back something. So I joined the corps for eight years, saw action around the world. In the meantime, my parents died and my sister broke under the pressure of being so damn good all of the time, so I came back and put everything in order. Then a few years ago, I was recruited by a shadowy law enforcement agency called Special Investigations. I’m not sure about them yet, and I know they aren’t sure about me. But I like the work.”

So this
was
Michael. But the condensed, human, alternate-universe version of his life. It kind of made sense. And she suddenly didn’t mind this version so much. “This is the story you’re taking with you to knock on doors—a background to inform your personality?”

“Yes.” He stepped closer, forcing her head to tilt back. “But I’m taking more than that. Because ever since I moved to San Francisco, I’ve been butting heads with a local detective. And I’ve tried to ignore how she’s gotten under my skin—but yesterday I ran into her again, and one second she’s telling me to stay the hell out of her face, and in the next second my mouth is all over hers and I never want to stop kissing her.”

Oh, real subtle. “So she punched you.”

“No,” he said softly. “She kissed me back. And that’s my problem now. I should be focusing on this case. But as I’m walking from door to door, I’m remembering how her lips softened beneath mine, and the way she smelled like red wine and smoke, and how fucking hot her mouth was. I’ll be thinking of seeing her again tonight. And I’ll be wondering if I’m the luckiest bastard in the world, or if I’m completely screwed.”

Jesus, he was good. With a few sentences, he’d taken her into that kiss, until she could smell and feel and taste him. She barely had enough sense to say, “I think you’re screwed.”

“We’ll see. Until then, I’m at your service, Agent Taylor. You need anything, just give a shout.”

The way he looked at her mouth, Taylor couldn’t doubt the kind of service he was offering. She swallowed hard, but her voice still sounded husky. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will,” he said, and the predatory slant of his brows suddenly looked a little wicked instead. Holding her gaze, he took two steps back before pivoting toward the door. All business again.

Would he keep up that persona? She moved to the front window and watched him on the sidewalk. He still had that Agent Smith stride, determined and confident, but now with an air of distraction. His head was down, the tip of his thumb rubbing back and forth over his bottom lip—as if thinking of a kiss.

God, she could almost feel it, too. She touched her fingers to her mouth. The night he’d transformed her, his lips had been so warm. She’d thought they’d be hard, like kissing stone. But they’d just been firm. Gentle as they’d parted hers.

With a shake of her head, Taylor jerked her hand from her mouth. What was she doing? What was
he
doing?

She backed away from the window. This wasn’t just manipulation. She was being seduced.

Yet she still couldn’t figure out why. And it shouldn’t have been working.

It
wasn’t
working. The sudden sensitivity at the tips of her breasts and the empty ache between her legs didn’t matter. The memory of that long-ago kiss didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to have sex with him.

But at least now she knew why Savi had called him Michael Smith. How many different people could he be? Each one culled from different aspects of his real history, reflecting some part of himself—and he had a hundred lifetimes to draw from.

A hundred lifetimes, and he’d survived them all. Taylor hadn’t even made it through half of one yet and had already managed to fuck it up.

She’d also become as distracted as Agent Smith. Except that he was knocking at a neighbor’s door and doing the job while she was just standing there.

She kicked her own ass up the stairs and into Brandt’s office. No computer. Most likely he had a laptop to take with him. Law and history books on the shelves. Meticulous receipts in a file. God love him. She rifled through, keeping half an ear on Michael and his conversation with the neighbors. The perk of superhearing—he wouldn’t have to tell her what they’d said.

Unfortunately, so far they’d noticed zilch.

Nothing popped up in the receipts, and the timeline looked the same. No purchases starting two weeks ago. She vanished the file into her hammerspace to examine more closely later and texted Jake.
I’m seeing apartment expenses in D.C.?

His residence when the Senate is in session. Shared with two legislative aides.

Great. Maybe the cheese was moldy because he’d forgotten to clean out the fridge before going.
Could he be there now?

Nope. Alejandro checked out the apt. Senator is on a legislative break for state work in Columbus. Brandt should be there, too.

So at least she and Michael had come to the right place first.
Any other residences?

He still owns the family place in Bellevue, just outside of Seattle. Visits three/four times a year.

She texted a thanks and headed for Brandt’s bedroom. Bed made, nothing out of order. A walk-in closet as organized as his receipts. No empty hangers, no gaps between the suits, his overnight bag and full-sized luggage up on a shelf. That made sense. If he kept an apartment in D.C., he’d travel light. Maybe take a briefcase, his computer. No need to lug around the clothes.

And a demon wouldn’t need his clothes at all. They could just create their own.

So what did this tell her? That the last time Brandt had left this house, he hadn’t intended to be gone for very long—or was headed someplace where he wouldn’t need much extra stuff. Or, if he’d been forced out of the house, someone had cleaned up any evidence of a struggle. So it didn’t tell her much.

Except that the demon hadn’t made the video here. Not a single flag in any of the rooms. She couldn’t picture a flagpole standing in a shared apartment, either. But a senator’s offices—or the home of a political family?

That would fit. She exited the closet and saw that Michael had either teleported back into the house or had quietly snuck back in—and, despite the suit, he was Big Warrior Guardian again.

“I want to head over to the senator’s offices and visit his house in Seattle next,” she said. “I’ve just got the bathroom to look through first.”

“You’re not finished?”

Searching through an entire house? She was doing a crappy, rushed job as it was—

Oh.

“Superspeed, right? Oh, shut up,” she said when he laughed. That low, harmonic rumble did stupid things to her head. “Did you learn anything from the neighbors?”

“You didn’t listen?”

“I did. I just want to know if you latched on to the same things, and if we came to the same conclusions.”

Michael nodded. “He used his vehicle to leave and return each morning and evening. No one saw him use another form of transportation. They never saw any visitors, only Brandt. But he hadn’t been eating anything, and this house doesn’t smell as if a human has been living here recently. I believe it confirms that a demon had been impersonating him for several weeks.”

She thought so, too. “Impersonating him during the day, at least. He could have easily flown off at night. That’s probably what happened on Friday. The demon parked the car and didn’t even go inside. He just flew off. The video was uploaded, his work here finished.”

“Yes.”

“But why park the car? So that no one would realize he was missing right away?” An abandoned vehicle might have tipped someone off, raised suspicion. “But what would that matter? The video was already online.”

“I don’t yet know what the demon has put into motion.”

Taylor thought he suspected something bad, though. His eyes had darkened, and his features were like stone. Dread was building in her own gut. If the demon had just wanted to fuck with the Guardians, why make Brandt disappear? Wouldn’t messing with his life and reputation just add to the fun? Unless the demon wanted to fuck the Guardians over even harder, by making certain that Brandt never showed up alive.

But the timing would have to be right. If forensics showed that Brandt had died two weeks earlier, his video upload wouldn’t make sense. If it happened after Friday, though, the timeline would work.

Jesus. Three days had already passed. They needed to find this guy before it was too late.

“We don’t know the demon’s plan,” she said. “So let’s follow the little we know for sure.”

*   *   *

Since Michael was still in that suit, Taylor let him hold her closer than necessary as they teleported, just to prove to herself that his body didn’t affect her. It didn’t matter that she was too busy trying not to be sick all over the top of a downtown office building to notice if any warm tingling started beneath her skin.

She chalked it up as a win.

His hand lingered at her waist when she stepped away. “All right?”

“Yeah. But I need another minute.”

Not to steady. Taylor hadn’t worried about running into anyone at Brandt’s house, but in a senator’s office, she wouldn’t pass. She pulled a hairbrush in from her hammerspace, flipped her head upside down, and started in.

Two and a half years of bedhead. Ouch and motherfricking ouch.

Done with the underside, she flipped her hair back up and noticed Michael’s dark frown.

“Do you enjoy hurting yourself?”

“Maybe. Why?” Would he try to protect her from this, too?

“You could shape-shift and create new hair.”

No, she couldn’t. If she tried, her body might end up looking like a mutant potato. Because even though she’d shape-shifted before, Michael had been in her head helping her through it.

And thinking of that would just piss her off. Which might be what she needed—why
wasn’t
she still angry at him?—but wouldn’t help Mark Brandt.

So she’d think of something else. She’d think of what the demon might be planning, try to figure out his purpose and where he might have taken Brandt. “Have demons tried to expose the Guardians before?”

“Several times. But only individual Guardians who had been posing as humans. We’ve never operated from a centralized location on Earth before.”

Because Caelum was their centralized location. “I suppose there was no Internet to spread the word so quickly before, either.”

“Yes. I usually do not wish a return to cuneiform. Today I do.”

“Clay tablets? I suppose that would slow things down. Though rumors must have spread just as quickly.”

“Not as quickly as a video.”

She scraped her hair back into a ponytail. “So we’re advocating a return to cuneiform? At least there’d be less porn.”

“Not true. Many men were creative with a stylus.”

Taylor grinned. He would know. “I bet the first time a caveman picked up a stick, he drew boobs in the dirt.”

“Only after he drew his own penis as twice its true size.”

She gaped. Had
Michael
really just said that? His grin told her that she’d heard it correctly—and now she couldn’t stop laughing. True or not, she absolutely believed most guys would do exactly that, today or ten thousand years ago. Michael could probably joke about it because he didn’t need to exaggerate.

Oh, God, and his smile was gorgeous.

And that kind of thought needed to stop. Closing her eyes, she got hold of herself, steadied her breathing. No more of this.

Mark Brandt. Senator’s office. Do the job. “Did you perform a psychic sweep?”

“Yes. No demons.”

So Brandt’s impersonator still hadn’t come in to work. They hadn’t expected anything different. Carefully, she probed the minds in the building, trying to sense their emotions.

An overwhelming flood rolled over her tongue in a sickening miasma. Too many people, too many feelings. She couldn’t sort through them.

“One at a time,” Michael said softly. “Picture the building as a distinct space and move from top to bottom, feeling out each mind as you encounter it.”

“That’s what you do?”

“Yes.”

But a lot faster, she knew. His psychic sweeps lasted less than a second and encompassed huge areas. Eventually she’d work up to that. For now she picked her way through the building. Not many strong emotions. Some bored, some frustrated. Minor worries here and there, some satisfaction. But one cluster of minds was uncertain, uneasy. Just five people.

Senator Blackwell and her staff?

“That video names the senator,” Taylor said. “If people have seen it, they might be getting calls. Damage control is probably in full effect.”

“It is. I have heard two of them on the phone, denying the existence of an infection or cover-up, that they believe the video was taken out of context, and that Brandt will soon clarify the statements made.”

He’d parsed all of that through the office noise? She heard lots of voices, but also phones ringing and footsteps and copy machines and clacking keyboards and the ventilation system. Obviously she’d have to practice—but it could wait.