Into the Woods (73 page)

“I killed him.” Jason couldn’t look at her. “It’s my job, fighting hand to hand. It was instinct. I’m sorry.”

His head came up, and she felt like he had kicked her in the gut.
Was he lying?

“This was my fault.” He shifted his bloody hand to gauge the bleeding, pressed it back, and leaned against the wall. “Can you call me an ambulance? I don’t feel so good and I think the car’s shorted out for good.”

Numb, Grace felt for her phone, having to make the call three times before the link would hold long enough. Her balance was off. They wouldn’t let her ride in the ambulance if she couldn’t master it between now and then.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispered as he sank to the floor, propped up against the wall. “It was mine. You saved my life. Please come and work with me so I have the chance to save your life in return, huh? I’ll never live this down. Stabbed by a damn kid.”

She closed the phone, her fingers shaking. Zach was dead on the floor, his face going as pale as Jason’s. “I can’t,” she said, but not for the reason he thought.

“Why?” he whispered, wincing as his fingers moved, and she looked away, going to the window to look for the ambulance.

Because I love you, and I will kill for you. I don’t want to be that person
.

But she couldn’t say it aloud.

FOUR

T
he sun was bright, and Grace squinted as she strode toward the Strand’s tower. She felt alone without Hoc, but taking him back into the hospital to visit Boyd would make her stand out, and standing out was the last thing she wanted today. She was depressed, her failure with Zach weighing heavily on her. They hadn’t allowed her into the room when they told his mother what had happened, but she’d been down the hall and heard her anguish. Every word the woman had said was true. It was a shitty place to be.

Squaring her shoulders, Grace paused at the crosswalk for a slow-moving van. When it passed, she started across, her pace bobbling when she saw Jason waiting for her just outside the twin glass doors. He was dressed in full military blues, the light sending glimmers of shine from the silver threads in his cap and the metallic toe points as he slowly pushed up from the planter he had been leaning against. There was a plastic-covered coat with a feminine cut lying beside him, a matching cover with the elite’s triton lying atop it.

“You look great,” she said as she stepped up onto the curb, and he smiled, taking off his sunglasses and tucking them away. “They have you back on duty already?”

He shrugged, touching his side and wincing. “Limited duty.”

Her gaze touched on the jacket and cap, then came back to him. “I’m here to see Boyd. He’s gone, isn’t he,” she said, making it into a statement. Why else would Jason be here?

Sure enough, the man’s smile faded. Behind her, Grace listened to little-girl complaints as a harried mother ushered her child inside.
To get her tested, or to visit their injured father?

“Grace, I’m sorry. I’m the only one who knows you were going to deadhead him. You can still enter the elite. Just tell them you were going to pass him.”

Arms around her middle, Grace looked up at the blue sky, squinting at the light. “No.” She’d rather stay where she was than work with people she couldn’t trust. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do now. Balance. She had no balance. Boyd was gone, her job in doubt. Nothing made sense anymore. She was at a crossroads, and she couldn’t see through the fog.

“Is that your last word then?” Jason asked tightly, and she nodded.

He sighed, seeming to relax as he looked at his watch. “Do you have the right time?” he asked, seemingly out of the blue.

Her teeth clenched, and she forced them apart as she thought of her day, stretching long and alone. “Yes, of course,” she said, knowing that her erg balance, at least, was spot on.

“And what time would that be?”

The hint of eagerness in his voice pulled her attention down. Mistrusting this, she glanced at her watch. “Nine twenty-eight.” Visiting hours started at nine-thirty. She had known Boyd was leaving today, just not when. To be early had seemed prudent. Now it looked like a desperate attempt to grasp at the edges as her world was jerked out from under her.

Jason’s eyes were smiling. “That’s what I have, too.” Carefully picking up the jacket and cap, he looped his arm in hers, turning them both back to the double glass doors. “Come on, I don’t want to be late.”

Grace went with him, not caring. “Late for what?”

He let go of her long enough to open the door. “You’ll see,” he said cryptically.

The plastic-scented air of the Strand’s tower took her, shocking her out of her funk. “Jason . . .” she said, eyeing the cap.

Still smiling, he shoved the cap and jacket at her. “Hold this, will you?” he said as they halted at the elevators. She watched, her alarm growing as he ran a card through a reader, and the executive elevators at the end of the elevator bank dinged.

“The upper levels?” she said, alarmed. “I said
no
.”

But he pushed her forward into it. It was only his good mood that kept her moving, kept her pliant. “Don’t ruin it,” he cajoled as her sneakers sank into the rich red pile.

The doors closed, and Jason scanned the bank of buttons as if unfamiliar with them, making a positive grunt when he found the one he wanted and pushed it. The lift rose, and Grace looked at him in his dress blues, perfect from his trimmed hair to his metal-tipped shoes—ribbons in between. Licking her lips, she glanced at her tatty sneakers, then the jacket she was still carrying.

Was he humming?

Her ears popped, and the doors slid open to a white-and-silver reception office. The woman behind the desk looked up, then back down at her work. “Have you ever been up here?” Jason asked as he strode confidently forward, and she obediently followed.

“Once.” Her shoes were silent on the whitewashed wooden floor. The furniture was sparse, all wood, no metal. The air felt rich with ozone, soothing her jangled nerves. Windows spread along one entire side, letting the light in with an odd gray feel. They were at the top of the tower, and she felt a wash of nervousness.

Jason waved to the secretary and she nodded as if expecting them. Leaning across her desk, she buzzed them through a glass door. “Officers Stanton and Evans are here, sir,” she said as Jason opened it for her, and Grace’s worry grew. They were expected.

The hallway beyond was dark where the reception room was bright. Rich mahogany and lavish furniture that no one ever sat in decorated the long hallway. The electrical interference was almost nil. It should have been like wrapping herself in a fur, but instead, she grew more uncomfortable. It was nothing compared to her dismay when Jason stopped at a wide oak door. The name on it widened her eyes.
Rath Walters?
He was the head of the elite, Jason’s boss and sort of hers, seeing as he could pull strings from the hospital to the Strand’s elementary school.

Again she looked at Jason, comparing his sharp military bearing to her casual clothes. “Did you bring this for me?” she asked, holding up the jacket in explanation, and Jason nodded, beaming.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Her heart pounded as she ripped the plastic off and threw it into a posh-looking can that had never seen trash before. Mouth dry, she turned her back to him, and he helped her put it on, arranging her hair over the collar. The silk lining whispered over her shoulders, the silver tracings in the fabric iced over her like snowflakes. She shifted her shoulders to test the fit, then zipped it up all the way to cover her neck as Jason’s jacket was. It was a perfect fit, but then they had shared a closet for years.

“And your cover,” he said, frowning as he looked at her shoes. “I can’t help you there, but at least the black pants don’t clash.”

She adjusted the cap, then took it off as Jason faced the door and knocked. She’d never met Walters but had seen him once at graduation. The man was huge, almost obese. Her thoughts darted to her decision to deadhead Zach and her refusal to pass him in to them, then his accidental death. “I’m not changing my mind,” she said, frightened that Jason might try to lie for her. But it was too late. Either they were pissed that she’d thumbed her nose at them and deadheaded him, or pissed that she had killed him to avoid the conflict of morals.

“I know. That’s why we’re here.” Jason took off his own cap when Walter’s robust “Come in!” filtered out through the heavy door.

“You want to try making some sense next?” she whispered, and Jason opened the door, gesturing for her to go in first.

“You going in or not?” he prompted.

It was his eager, proud smile that convinced her, and squaring her shoulders, she exhaled and tugged her jacket down and went inside.

Walter’s office continued the dark wood theme, as sophisticated and rich as the man she remembered chatting over champagne and cheese with the rest of the elites. Windows encompassed one entire side of his office, and the light coming in turned the mahogany into a rich, almost glowing red. The rather rotund man was standing before the windows, turned slightly to see them come in. Hoc was sitting at his heel.

“Hoc!” Grace exclaimed, wondering how the dog got here, then flushed. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, telling Hoc to stay down with a small finger motion as the excited dog
click-clacked
his merry way to her.

“Not at all.” Walter’s rich voice rolled out to fill the office, as warm and dark as the wood he surrounded himself with him. “That’s what I like about dogs. They don’t give a fig about ribbons and bank accounts. Thank you, Jason. I appreciate you bringing Grace up. And Hoc. He’s a part of this, too.”

Grace’s awe at where she was vanished. “I am not changing my mind,” she said, wishing she was brave enough to throw the cap in her hand away.

Jason fidgeted. His smile was the only thing keeping her from storming out of here. That, and Hoc now lying on her feet, his tail thumping happily. “Hurry up, Walter,” he demanded, making Grace’s eyes widen at his familiarity. “I can’t stand it.”

The older man smiled as he came forward to sit on the edge of his desk. “So tell her! That’s why you’re here. Apart from the fact that you’re the only one Hoc would go with—and I wanted him here for this.”

Here for what?

Nodding sharply, Jason took her cold hands in his as if he was going to ask her to marry him. “Grace, the elite have their own collectors. It’s not a formal position, one that we occasionally take from time to time—”

“You want me to be a collector for the elite?” she interrupted, flushing in anger. “I told you no! I am
not
going to compromise myself just so you can break and twist things to your satisfaction! Allowing Zach in would have been a grave error.” She glanced at Walter, her jaw clenched. “Sir.”

Hoc’s waving tail slowed, and Jason’s brow furrowed as he tightened his grip on her hands until she yanked away. “Will you let me finish?”

Walter shifted his bulk. “No wonder the woman refuses to work with you,” he grumbled. “You’re making a mess of this. Grace, Jason was evaluating you for entrance into the elite. Refusing to pass your latest, unsuitable catch into the Strand won your place with us, not the other way around.”

Grace’s held breath left her in a rush. Understanding crashed over her, and her knees threatened to buckle. “You lied to me?” she accused Jason, but the man was beaming at her, taking her hands again. “You told me they wanted a high-ability thrower at all costs.”

“And they got one,” he said, grinning. “Congratulations, Grace.”

Shocked, she could do nothing.
He’d been testing me? Son of a bitch!

“You’ve not been scrutinized as most of the elite’s members,” Walters said as he moved back behind his desk. “Most of them we’ve known since grade school. The idea of making you part of the elite—a young, untested woman of great power and control . . . No, we had to be sure.”

Shocked, she sank down onto a chair, then bounced back up again. The elite? The chance was real? “But . . .” she said, looking frantically at Walter to see if it was a bad joke. The man was smiling, and he gestured to Jason.

“I told Walter how well you and Hoc work in a small force team, even if you did almost kill yourself starting his heart. The Strand wants to see what you and Hoc can do, so I’m taking you into my team, work you in, let you freelance Hoc as you see best. If human/dog teams have an advantage, you’ll eventually head up a new group of your own.” His smile widened and sparkles of familiar energy prickled through her palms though he wasn’t touching her. “That is, if you want to.”

Walter turned from where he had been pouring thimble-sized drafts of a dark liquid. “Welcome to the elite, Grace,” he rumbled as he handed her one, then another to Jason.

She looked down at it, blinking as she realized it was coffee—the amount of which would give her a mild buzz, nothing more. The memory of Zach dead on the floor of the abandoned granite pit rose up, swamping her. “I can’t,” she whispered, gently setting the cap with its elite emblem down on the nearby chair. “Sir, this is an honor, but with all respect, I decline.”

“Decline!” Jason exclaimed, and Walter rumbled as he backed toward the window as if wanting a better view of the two of them. “Why! It wasn’t your fault that Zach died!”

At her feet, Hoc thumped his tail apologetically. Grace set her drink on the desk. “May I be excused, sir?” she barked out, her chest feeling as if it was caving in. She wanted this, and yet she had to say no.

Jason took a breath to protest, and Walter cleared his throat. “Jason, will you excuse us?” the heavy man interrupted smoothly.

Clearly frustrated, Jason eyed Grace’s stiff stance and Walter’s easy assurance. Ears red, he crisply set his untasted coffee on the desk beside Grace’s. “Sir,” he said respectfully. “Grace,” he added, his tone accusing. Without another word, he spun on a heel, strode to the door, and left, shutting it softly behind him.

Grace stood stiffly, her dog miserable at her feet as she stared past Walter at the empty sky. She was in hell. What else could you call being handed everything you ever wanted and knowing you didn’t deserve it?