Living with the Dead (10 page)

ROBYN

Robyn awoke to the smell of breakfast sausage. Caught between sleeping and waking, she lifted her head with Damon's name on her lips; hot breakfasts had been his specialty. One bleary look around the motel room reminded her where she was.

Fighting the impulse to lie back down and pull up the covers, she tracked the smell to take-out boxes on the dinette, pushed aside to clear a spot for Hope's laptop. Hope sat with her back to Robyn as she read the screen. There was no sign of Karl. The bedside clock said it was past nine. So much for her resolution to jump into the investigation first thing in the morning.

Hope was so engrossed in her reading that she didn't hear Robyn approach. The file on the laptop display looked like records with dates and blocks of text. But before Robyn could get close enough to read it, Hope glanced up.

Hope closed the file window and stood. "Karl grabbed breakfast. It should still be warm."

"He's out already?"

Hope handed Robyn a coffee. "Just walking around the block, getting a feel for the neighborhood and stretching his legs."

A rap at the door.

"And there he is."

Hope checked the peephole before opening the locks. Karl greeted Robyn, then set his take-out coffee on the nightstand.

Hope's gaze followed him. "Everything okay?"

He nodded. "There's a convenience store around the corner and some restaurants a block over." He took a sheaf of pamphlets from his pocket. "I picked up take-out menus from the ones that were open." He turned to Robyn. "They all deliver. While I'm sure you're tired of being cooped up in here, you should stick to delivery for lunch. Keep the doors locked and only open them if you're expecting an order."

She glanced at Hope, who was dumping her leftover coffee in the bathroom sink. "You're heading out?"

"Just for a few hours," Hope said. "We'll be back after lunch."

"I'd like to go with you. Help out."

"You're safer here," Karl said, taking out his keys.

"I – "

"Hope and I need to attract as little attention as possible. It's better if you stay here."

She hadn't thought of that. "Then what can I do here?"

Hope and Karl exchanged a look.

"I want to do
something
."

"We have Internet access," Hope said. "There are a few things you could look up."

Scraps to make her feel useful. "Whatever will help. Just tell me – "

Hope's cell rang and she snatched it from the table, as if grateful for the interruption.

"Lucas, hey," she answered. A pause. "Yep, I got it last night. Thank Savannah for me. It's a match."

A string of uh-huhs. Hope grabbed her notepad and started jotting things down. Robyn tried to see it from where she sat, but Hope's writing was an illegible scribbled shorthand. She always joked it was so no rival could steal her notes, but Robyn knew she'd always written that way, her brain speeding ahead, pen scrambling to keep up. Like everything else in Hope's life, function came before form.

Karl seemed to be able to read it, though, murmuring questions for Hope to ask. Robyn had been able to read Damon's scrawl, too.

"Is that like a scheduled surrender?" Hope was saying.

Hope must be talking to her lawyer friend. Or wasn't it Karl's friend? It didn't matter. Damon's friends had been Robyn's, too. Or so she'd thought, until she'd been uninvited from a New Year's party two weeks before she left Philly.

She shook her head, scattering the memories.

"I'll call you later, then," Hope was saying. "I really do appreciate this."

Pause.

"Yes." Her gaze shot to Karl. "He's right here."

Her fingertips caressed the desktop, face averted as she listened. Then she handed the phone to Karl, gaze following as he took it outside.

"Did you say something about a scheduled surrender?" Robyn asked.

It took Hope a moment to answer. "That would buy us more time, but it won't work in a murder case. He's setting up a short-term scheduled surrender, if we don't find something by six."

Her gaze tripped to the window, as if trying to see Karl's silhouette through the drawn drapes.

"So we have – " Robyn checked her watch. " – just over eight hours. Show me what I can do."

HOPE

Karl had driven three blocks in silence before Hope spoke.

"I wish you wouldn't do that."

He made a noise in his throat, as if waiting to hear which infraction she was referring to before committing himself to a response.

"Sneaking around asking Lucas for updates on Jaz. It would be easier if you'd just give him your number, you know."

"I wasn't sneaking. I could hardly discuss it in front of Robyn – "

"And what was your excuse the last time? Or the time before that? Did you honestly expect me to think Lucas is just calling to chat?"

Another block of silence.

Karl cleared his throat. "About Jasper – "

"Is he dead?"

"No."

"Escaped?"

"No."

"In imminent danger of escaping?"

"No."

"Then I don't care."

She turned to the window, nails biting her palms. Did Karl really think she'd want to know how Jaz was doing? Did he think she'd care?

Last year, after their disastrous first attempt to shift from friends to lovers, she'd tried taking the rebound remedy. If there was one word to describe Jasper Haig, it was fun. He bounced through life with enthusiasm, and he'd pursued Hope with gusto, not caring how big a fool he made of himself. In short, Jaz was everything Karl was not – and exactly what she'd needed... or so it seemed at the time.

Jaz was currently incarcerated in a maximum-security Cortez Cabal prison, his execution stayed only while they studied his rare supernatural powers.

Hope knew Karl's main concern was for her safety. Like any good villain, Jaz had vowed to come for her when he escaped, convinced that she was still the girl for him.

And as hard as Karl worked to control his wolf side, there were two instincts that were as strong in him as in any werewolf Hope knew. One was the instinct to protect. As the only person Karl cared about enough to protect, she bore the full brunt of that.

The second was the territorial instinct. The feminist in Hope might be horrified at the thought, but she knew she was Karl's territory. To the wolf, she was his as much as he was hers, to be protected and defended against all comers.

Karl tried to be smooth about it, made jokes about his jealous streak, but when a man looked Hope's way, she saw his hackles rise. The first time he'd seen Jaz, she'd been drunk, straddling his lap and making out with him, as close to having sex as you could get with your clothes on.

Karl couldn't forget that.

It didn't matter that she'd come back to Karl, that she'd chosen him before she'd found out Jaz was a killer. It didn't matter that since his return, she hadn't looked at another man. The human in Karl knew he had no cause for jealousy, but the wolf couldn't forget that somewhere, out there, he had a rival plotting to take his mate.

"I'm sorry," Karl said finally.

They were at a stoplight. She looked over, meeting his eyes, searching for chaos vibes before tearing her gaze away. As tempting as it was, she shouldn't use her powers to read him and gauge his sincerity. Trust him or don't. No shortcuts allowed.

"I do check with Lucas periodically," he said. "His father is supposed to provide me with updates, but I don't trust Benicio to be prompt or truthful if it's not in the Cabal's best interests."

"Did you think I'd disagree?"

"I didn't think you needed the constant reminders that Jasper is still out there."

The light changed and he drove another half-block before adding, "And I don't want you to think I'm obsessing about him."

"Are you?"

"I think about him as little as possible, but I'll rest easier when the writ of execution is carried out."

"Agreed. Make a left at the next street." When he did, she went on. "What's the other thing you're keeping from me?"

Again his gaze shunted her way, trying to figure out which infraction was now the topic of discussion.

Hope sighed. "Are there really so many? Honesty, Karl. It's a good thing."

A twist of a smile. "Perhaps. But in my case, complete and full disclosure of everything I've done in the past would
not
be a good thing. If you're referring to recent events I haven't disclosed, though, there's only one, and it isn't a secret, just a subject I wasn't ready to bring up."

"Until you take care of him?"

He shot her a reproachful look. "Do you think I wouldn't warn you of a potential threat?"

"Another werewolf in L.A. isn't a threat to me – "

"Yes, it is." His tone was firm, almost sharp. "I know you think otherwise, but I'd appreciate it if you humored me on this." Another turn and he concentrated on it more than necessary, struggling to find a lighter tone. "What gave me away? A stray thought last night when I came back?"

"I don't need my powers to read you, Karl. I'll admit, I didn't notice anything wrong last night. I was too busy going along with the drugstore excuse for Robyn – which, by the way, was clever. Sorry I didn't get it right away."

"She didn't notice."

"So you smelled another werewolf last night, then went out this morning scouting. That's when I caught on, from your expression when you came back. Is he near?"

Karl shook his head. "If he was, I'd have moved us. I caught his scent last night, but it was in the air and I couldn't find it on the ground to track. I didn't have any better luck this morning. I suspect I miscalculated the wind and he was farther away than I thought."

"Do you want to go after him now?"

"No. We have work to do. I'll look for him tonight."

ADELE

Never trust a boy to do a woman's job,
Adele thought as she marched toward Robyn Peltier's apartment door.

Colm was sweet and useful, but he could be as thick as a board. Not stupid, just inexperienced. When his plan to steal a personal item failed, he was stumped. His only backup plan was to try again tonight. She couldn't wait that long.

When she told him what she planned to do, he'd freaked out. It was crazy, dangerous. Colm didn't understand that to get what you wanted in life, you had to make bold moves.

It wasn't his fault. They'd been raised to hide, not make waves. They were one of the most powerful supernatural races and what did they use those powers for? Pandering to the cult of celebrity. It was humiliating.

She still smarted from last night's meeting with the phuri. Portia Kane had been Adele's first assignment, and she'd done a damned good job, earning her keep and contributing extra to the kumpania coffers. Remarkable for what should have been a training exercise. Even Neala had been grudgingly impressed.

So how did they reward her? By giving her a true celebrity as her next target?

"You've done such a fine job with Portia, Adele, that we'd like you to continue that with Jasmine Wills."

Jasmine Wills? She could have spit in Neala's face. Was she going to spend her life chasing spoiled, empty-headed twits?

If it hadn't been for that photo, she'd be free of the group by now. It didn't matter. She still planned to be free, hopefully before she had to produce results on this new assignment. The others might have better jobs, but they had no hope of freedom. They were too indoctrinated in the kumpania's culture of fear to ever leave the kumpania – they'd certainly never have the nerve or the brains to think of actually going to a Cabal and getting a job on their own terms.

For most in the kumpania, that indoctrination began almost from birth. As toddlers, kumpania clairvoyants underwent "the lessons," which instilled a terror of the Cabals so deeply embedded that they'd need only to glimpse a face on the street to start sweating. Instinct would take over and they'd flee or fight, doing whatever it took to escape. By the time Adele got the lessons, though, she'd been six – four years older than kumpania children. They'd given her a healthy fear and respect for the Cabals, but not the gut-level terror the others felt.

"Perhaps we should not be doing this," the super said, huffing as he hurried to keep up with her.

She fixed him with a wide-eyed look and affected a honeyed accent. "Oh, I don't want to get you in any trouble. If you'd like those officers to escort me, I completely understand. But they said it was okay. I don't think they wanted to be disturbed while they ate their lunch..."

"I guess if they said it was all right..."

"Or you can call Portia's momma. She's awfully upset right now, but I'm sure it wouldn't be too much of an imposition..."

His eyes rounded, hands lifting. "No, no. That poor woman. She has been through so much."

"She'll be so grateful to you for helping us out like this."

The portly little man blushed as he unlocked the apartment door. He paused before swinging it open. "Miz Peltier's things should not be disturbed. She is a very nice lady."

Adele touched his shoulder. "I know exactly what it looks like. Poor Portia wore it the last time I saw her, at the breakfast after our cousin's wedding." Adele sighed. "She looked so pretty. That's how I'll always remember her. Miss Peltier was real sweet to dry-clean it for her, but Portia's momma is worried that with all this nasty business, she might not get it back."

The super ushered Adele inside. She'd hoped he'd wait at the door, but the nasty little man kept right on her heels, twittering away about her family's tragedy while making damned sure she didn't mess up his precious tenant's apartment.

She opened the closet.

"Are you sure you know – ?" he began.

"Course I do. It's right here."

She grabbed a silk blouse that Portia Kane wouldn't be caught dead in, but looked expensive enough to pass muster with the super. As he bustled her out, Adele looked wistfully at the clothes hamper. Dirty clothing always worked better. But he wasn't going to give her any opportunity to snatch something. She could only hope Robyn was, like her, too frugal to send her blouses to the cleaners after every wearing.

Adele had been in her bedroom, clutching Robyn's silk shirt and staring at her photo for an hour, and all she knew was that Robyn was in a motel room.

Fucking lot of good that did. She didn't need the gift of clairvoyance to tell her that's where Robyn would be.

She watched the shimmering vision, trying to find a clue to
which
motel. Robyn sat at a computer, posture perfect, blond hair pulled back in a sleek, gleaming ponytail. Even on the run, her clothing screamed young urban professional. It made Adele want to shred the silk blouse with her nails.

It didn't help that she was trying to concentrate while listening to Lily and Hugh having sex in the next bedroom. Adele had grown up planning to marry Hugh. He was five years older than her and she'd been adopted by the kumpania for breeding, so naturally they'd pair her off with the only unmarried male close to her age. The fact that he was big and broad-shouldered and, in the right light, reminded her of a young Hugh Jackman only added fire to her fantasies. As for Lily, she was no competition. A silly ditz who had yet to successfully complete an assignment. Apparently, the kumpania disagreed.

Even after Lily and Hugh married, Adele hadn't given up hope. Kumpania law said that couples had a year to breed. Then they moved to "stage two," and if that ended with no pregnancy, the fault would be presumed to be the woman's. Lily would become a drone, and Hugh would be married off to the next available girl, which would be Adele.

For the last year, Adele had been feeding Lily birth control pills in her morning coffee. Ironic, then, that Adele herself should become pregnant. But when she did, she'd looked at her options and decided, as fine as Hugh was, there was a better life out there for her. Yet she'd kept giving Lily the pills. It never hurt to have a backup plan. The downside, though, was that the longer it took Lily to get pregnant, the harder they tried and the more Adele had to listen to it.

That soundtrack made watching Robyn at the computer all the more frustrating. What the hell was she doing? Her client was dead. She was wanted by the police and there she was, calmly working like it was any other day.

After another fifteen minutes, Adele stood, the vision evaporating.

Enough of this bullshit. It was time to take a shortcut.

On Saturdays, sandwiched between their two busiest nights of the week, most of the others slept. There would be activity only in the main building, where the drones worked.

Drones was Adele's word for them. When Neala once overheard her using it, she'd been sentenced to the worst punishment inflicted on kumpania youth: a month caring for the seers.

The drones were those whose clairvoyance never developed enough to take their place as full-fledged members. So they'd been given the menial jobs that kept the community running – cooking, cleaning and caring for the children.

The chores with children were most popular, especially with the women, probably because drones were sterilized – the surgery performed by a human doctor who, like his father before him, was paid very well to service the kumpania and ask no questions.

A drone's offspring were certain to have powers even weaker than their parents' and there were only so many menial tasks to go around. Just last year, when the phuri finally agreed that twelve-year-old Suzanne would never be a true clairvoyant, the leader – their bulibasha, Niko – had declared there wasn't enough work for seven drones. So fifty-four-year-old Lizette, showing signs of rheumatoid arthritis, had quietly passed in her sleep. Everyone knew what had happened. No one complained. It was in the best interests of the kumpania.

Adele snuck out back to the tool shed. She moved aside the barrel in the corner, found the keyhole in the floor and inserted the stolen key. The trapdoor sprang open, steps below disappearing into the darkness.

She turned on her flashlight and started down, closing the hatch behind her. At the bottom, she inserted a second key, then pressed the buttons on the ancient code lock. The lock disengaged, and she opened the inner door and headed down the tunnel.

Inside was the bomb shelter. Or that's what the kumpania had called it in the fifties when they'd taken advantage of nuclear hysteria to hire a group of workmen who thought nothing of building a fully operational shelter under the old farm.

The hum of the generator was the first thing Adele heard. A few more steps and the raucous shouts and musical sound effects of a cartoon seeped through the next door. Tom and Jerry, Adele guessed. That was Thom's favorite.

When she opened the final door, it was still almost dark. They kept the lights low to save generator fuel. The seers didn't complain. They'd never known anything brighter, and would scream in pain if they stepped into the sunlight. Or Thom and Melvin would. For the third, Martha, the world was eternally dark.

Martha's crib lay just inside the door. She reminded Adele of the grubs she'd sometimes turned up doing garden work, white and wriggling, blind and limbless. Martha didn't wriggle much – only when her diaper was dirty and starting to chafe, and she'd twist and mewl, the loudest sound she could make, her white face thrashing back and forth, smooth pits where her eyes should have been. If she got agitated enough, she'd dislodge her feeding tube. When Adele had been sentenced to her month caring for the seers, she'd learned to check Martha regularly or she'd have an extra week tacked on if someone needed to reinsert the tube.

Inbreeding made stronger clairvoyants, but every now and then, a seer was born – a very powerful, deformed clairvoyant. To the kumpania, they were revered as gifts from the gods... just not a gift they cared to be blessed with too often. A seer required constant medical care, and the kumpania didn't need more than two or three good ones. Seers were like dishwashing machines, Niko had explained. Having a couple lightened the kumpania's workload immensely. More than that would be an unnecessary expense.

Martha's albinism was one known condition with seers. As for her missing limbs and eyes, Martha's mother had blamed the drugs she'd been taking for morning sickness, their effect made worse by a genetic predisposition to mutations. Or so Niko had told Adele when he brought her down here. She didn't care about the reason for Martha's condition. All that interested Adele was that this slug was the most powerful clairvoyant in the kumpania.

Unlike the other two seers, Martha's brain was unaffected by her condition. Adele had thought about that – what it would be like to spend your life in a crib, sightless, limbless, unable to communicate except through visions.

She'd mentioned that to her kirvi, Lizette – the drone who raised Adele after her mother sold her to the kumpania. Lizette had held Adele and rocked her and comforted her, talking about pity and empathy and the unknowable will of the gods. Adele had listened, and thought Lizette a fool. She didn't feel anything for Martha. No more than she felt for Lizette, smothered in her sleep when she outlived her usefulness.

Her only interest in Martha was in how she might access the powers of that trapped mind, but that secret belonged to the phuri. That was how they guarded themselves against ambitious younger members. Only they could use the seers.

Or so they thought.

She glanced at Melvin, sitting in one recliner, his vacant eyes fixed on the flickering colors of the cartoon. Veggie Boy, she called him, though not in front of anyone. Niko said Melvin was severely mentally retarded. And he wasn't a boy, but a man in his thirties. He looked like a child, though, with his hairless plump body, and his round, smooth, wide-eyed face.

Other than the hairlessness, the brain damage was his only birth defect, but it also made him the weakest of the seers. Adele had heard the phuri debate Melvin's ongoing care, whether he was enough of an asset to warrant keeping alive. But his father was Niko, and while they were supposed to abandon and disavow their blood relations to the seers and drones, as long as Niko lived, so would Melvin.

" 'Dele..."

Adele turned to Thom, who watched her with a sloppy smile, his blue eyes glowing with doglike devotion. Just like his brother.

Thom was a year older than Colm, who knew nothing of his sibling. Colm was supposed to have been introduced to the seers at thirteen, but Neala had convinced Niko that under the circumstances, he should wait a few more years. He needed more maturity to prepare for the shock. He was too sensitive, Neala said, blaming his father's genes. Rhys had been a durjardo – an outsider like Adele – who'd introduced fresh blood into the kumpania. It hadn't worked with Thom, but at least they'd gotten a seer out of it.

When Colm and Thom met, there would be no way for Neala to hide who Thom was. His features were so like his brother's, he could be his reflection... viewed through a funhouse mirror.

Thom had an oversized head, bulging and misshapen. His chair was specially fitted with a contoured headrest to support it. Unlike the other two seers, Thom could leave his seat, though he needed the help of a walker, as his legs were shrunken and twisted.