Lure of the Wicked (18 page)

Momentarily scattered, Naomi’s hand flattened over the bandage. “Fine,” she said. “It’s only a scratch.”

“Is it related?”

She nodded, once. “Given how bad the conditions were, only a trained sniper could have made that close a shot.”

Gemma’s eyes narrowed. Flickered in a steely resolve that Naomi couldn’t misread. “Why did you tell Phin it wasn’t related to this?”

God damn it! Didn’t he keep any secrets from his parents? Naomi sighed. “Because,” she said, gritting her teeth, “if I had told him that I was after a trained killer, he wouldn’t have let me do my job. And,” she added as the woman stared at her, “you
know
he would have tried to take on Carson himself. Gemma, Carson’s an assassin. What did you want me to say?”

Gemma took a slow, deep breath. Then, quietly, she met Naomi’s eyes and asked, “Who was the sniper aiming for?”

This lie sprang easily to her lips. “Me.”

“Fine.” The woman straightened, rounded the desk, and gestured Naomi out of her way. “Then I’ll get your information.”

Naomi stepped aside. “Just like that?” Suspicion unfurled in her chest, her voice. “No more questions?”

Placing her hands on the top of one plastic organizer, Gemma straightened her shoulders. Without looking at Naomi, she said quietly, “I have a lot of questions, Miss Ishikawa. I want to know who you really are and what you intend with my son.” Naomi flinched. “I very much want to know where one of my guests is, and whether she’s in danger.”

That was news. “Who?”

Gemma raised her eyebrows. “Katie Landers. She’s Jordana’s assistant.”

Naomi flashed to an image of the mousy brunette seated alone in the breakfast nook and rapidly calculated the odds. “When was she last seen?”

“Yesterday, about mid-morning.”

“What’s her room?”

“Jordana’s suite, seventh floor.” Gemma smoothed back her curly hair and shook her head. “When this is all over, Miss Ishikawa, I really do expect answers.”

“Someone will be in touch,” Naomi replied by rote, knowing it for the bullshit it was. The Church didn’t make apologies.

Then again, the Church didn’t usually drop agents in the middle of the superrich and elite.

“The Holy Order?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Naomi said. “They hold all the cards here. I’m just an agent.”

Gemma’s smile flipped crookedly. “I doubt that very much, Naomi. So then what you’re saying, what you told Phin, was true?”

“Which part?” Naomi said flatly.

The woman’s smile evened. “Touché, Miss Ishikawa. The Church doesn’t suspect us of doing anything illegal? We’re not under suspicion? Accused?”

Naomi shook her head. “I’m sorry. You’re just the foxhole.”

“Then I’ll get your information,” Phin’s mother repeated simply. “You’ve had plenty of time to do worse than a little lock breaking and some white lies, and you haven’t.”

Worse? Naomi’s smile bit hard. One corpse down and how many less-than-white lies up? She’d done worse, all right. She’d do even worse before this was done. But she said nothing as Gemma studied the labels on the boxes.

“Understand,” she continued in her crisp, efficient way, “Timeless and this family are the most important things in my life. If anyone,
anyone
, tried to hurt them, there would be a reckoning like the world has never seen.” She glanced over her shoulder.

Naomi stilled.

“You understand that feeling, don’t you?”

Fists curling, Naomi stepped back. Retreated. “Thank you for finding those files,” she said, and knew she was acting like a coward. Leashed tension tightened every word. “We’ll keep them confidential.”

“I’m sure you will.” Gemma bent to a box on the second row. “I’ll send them along. Anything else?”

“Blueprints?”

Her smile was sad. “They don’t exist.”

Naomi nodded, once. “I thought as much. I’ll just—”

“Naomi?”

She didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to hear what the woman with Phin’s dark, knowing eyes had to say. But she did.

Because anything else would be unacceptable.

Coward
.

She braced a hand on the door frame. “Yes?”

“Will you be staying long?”

Killer
. “No,” she said. “Just long enough to take care of the mess.”

Gemma nodded. “Will you tell Phin before you go?”

Oh, Jesus. “He’ll know,” Naomi said evenly. Without her having to say a single word, he’d figure it out.

She was a killer. Not a therapist.

“All right,” Gemma said. “Try not to hurt anyone.” She turned back, cracked open the sealed flaps of a box, and Naomi fled.

Try not to hurt anyone
.

That just wasn’t her specialty.

Chapter Fifteen

S
he’d struggled only a little.

Joe didn’t bother hiding her body any deeper than he had to, and the locker wouldn’t afford him much time at all. Of course, he didn’t need much. Either he’d get what he needed soon or he’d be dead. Naomi West was closing on his heels.

He could sense her.

It was now or never.

The rumors, the legends, were true. He knew it in his gut, and his hunches had never been wrong. That’s what made him a damn good missionary. The best. Hunches and action.

Experience and raw instinct.

His gut told him that the fountain was here. That he’d find it at last. He just needed the right key. And the right lock to fit it in.

He’d found it all right.

This time, it’d taken so much longer. The wiring, the setup, all of it had taken so much more time than he’d thought. First he’d needed the girl’s key card. With that he could open the seventh floor suite. From there, it was a hop, seam, and stretch along a maze of passages that put him on the beauty floor.

From there, he could get anywhere without being seen. And no one would be the wiser.

It annoyed him that the interior halls didn’t lead to any of the staff offices, but after relieving the useless bitch of her key, some clever reprogramming had granted him all the access he needed. That left him with a brief showing in the elevator camera, but he was banking on this being over before he registered as more than a blip in a uniform.

Secret halls, digital brilliance, and murder waiting to happen.
God
, he loved his job.

And though he gave the pretty boy some credit for trying to keep his office files secure, his pussy coding system hadn’t deterred Joe much.

Information was a wonderful thing. He knew that the family collected all the details so meticulously for a reason—to help and soothe and comfort, and whatever the fuck all else. In his hands? It became a weapon.

Weapons were so much more entertaining.

He’d selected the next target and boy, howdy, was it going to be a winner. Abigail Montgomery was just some broad with money, far as he could tell, but it gave him the edge he needed. Her relationship to Naomi West, no matter how vague they thought it was, was going to get him the in he wanted.

Hands shaking, he’d worked for two solid hours. He’d rested only briefly when his fingers refused to cooperate any longer, then forced himself to keep working.

Keep twisting and stripping and tying.

Now it was ready. Abigail was in his sights.

When she went down, Naomi would show up, and her ties to this place would force the witches to reveal themselves. To break their silence and show their treasures.

Rich, spoiled, selfish people. They hoarded what should be his. Guarded from the world what should be shared. With him, god damn it. With people like him.

Naomi would also come, he knew, because he’d made her angry. Joe hadn’t meant to hurt his fellow missionary. He’d been aiming for Clarke; to create an injury that would send them all scrambling to reveal the fountain.

Instead she’d pushed the boy out of his sights and he’d tagged her instead. She’d bled so much, and for a moment he’d been worried that he’d killed her. Death was too far out of reach, even for witchcraft, but he’d been lucky last night.

God had seen to it that his accident, his sloppiness, was met by revelation.

Healing Naomi had been the Clarkes’ undoing. They had it. They had his treasure, his salvation. He hadn’t returned soon enough to catch it in action, but he’d seen her walking around. Clear as day.

The fountain existed. Now he just needed to get his goddamn hands on it. Just like his contact had said.

He had found the lock. Now he just had to force the key.

Chapter Sixteen

N
aomi made it halfway to the garden before she remembered that a thoroughly sexed-up Phin had taken over her bed. She drew to an abrupt halt.

Gemma had said he’d gone to his own suite, but was he waiting for her again? To bring breakfast as she’d said?

Fuck that. There was no way she’d go back to her suite now.

She ignored the small voice in her head that said she was a coward. Shower. She needed a shower first, and then she’d check in with the Mission. If she was lucky, they’d have something for her. A plan that didn’t involve waiting around for her target to make another move.

If she wasn’t, well, she’d come up with something.

She was good at coming up with
something
.

Going back to her residential suite to waste time screwing Phin again wasn’t going to be on that list.

Not when her breath caught at the very thought of it.

She strode past the residential wing elevator, turned instead toward the double doors of the pool hall. There were showers there, complimentary soap to strip Phin’s scent from her skin. Her hair.

Scrub it from her mind.

Pushing inside, she scoured the wide, echoing room. Tile flashed back at her, blues and greens complementary to the blue water of the pools and hot tubs, the lush plants saturated in the humid air. A tropical paradise at the highest reaches of New Seattle.

The sound of water filled the room to an echoing rush. Warm jets, the crystal-clear waterfall in the far corner, and under it, the steady hum of the electricity that kept it all going.

A uniformed attendant rose from the side of the pool, his attention focused on some kind of tubed thing in his hands. The smile he gave her was brief as he passed. “The pools should be fine for swimming,” he assured her. “The tanning beds are awake and I’ll be bringing beverages to the dressing room in just a moment.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, but he was gone. The door swung back and forth behind him. Efficient, anyway.

Absently Naomi scratched at the seam of the bandage, her gaze drawn to the sealed sauna. The glass had been replaced already.

They worked fast.

Her heels echoed in the vast, humid space, catching on the rosy slate tiles in sharp, staccato rhythm. Water lapped at the colorful rim of each pool, surrounded her with the echoes and ripples of what she supposed was a soothing sound.

Never mind an old woman nearly died here.

The dressing rooms split into two sections, two signs. Naomi pushed open the women’s door, already pulling the sweater up over her head.

Abigail Montgomery looked up from applying her makeup in the wide, multipaneled mirror taking up the entirety of one wall. Naomi froze.

She was dressed in what Naomi assumed was the latest in resort fashion. Her white pants were pristine, crisply pressed, and her boat-neck blouse was a brilliant jewel green. She looked gorgeous, glowing, polished.

Processed for beautiful.

Her smile was perfunctory at best, a slash of glossy pink indifference. “I’ll be done in a minute,” she said in the same tones she’d used to dismiss Naomi just yesterday.

Cool. Cultured. Indicating clearly that anyone else should wait for her to finish before stepping into her precious air.

Naomi’s fingernails scraped the door as her hands curled into fists. “Don’t worry about it.” The words should have choked in her throat, they were so tight. She turned back to the main hall and hesitated, jamming her elbow against the door when Abigail said, “Wait a second.”

Naomi couldn’t force herself to go. Couldn’t say anything around the tight knot in her throat. She should have kept walking.

She didn’t know why she waited.

Behind her, Abigail set down her lipstick. The metal tube clattered against the polished marble, and Naomi half turned to see the way Abigail leaned a hip against the counter, arms crossing over her chest.

Blue eyes narrowed in deep thought.

Only she wasn’t considering new jewelry or the latest line of topside fashion to fill her never-ending closets with. Not this time.

“I’m sorry if this seems rude,” the stranger who was her mother said, speculation lengthening each word and grating over Naomi’s already exhausted nerves, “but have we met at some event or foundation before? Do we know each other?”

Naomi nearly laughed. She choked back the bitter sound, knowing that if she let it out—if it worked its way past the vicious ache in her chest—she wouldn’t stop.

Instead, drawing fatigue around her like a cloak, Naomi said quietly, “No. We don’t know each other.”

“Are you sure? What’s your name?”

Naomi closed her eyes. “Ishikawa,” she said, so low the word barely reverberated in the air as sound. “Naomi Ishikawa.”

The door swung closed on Abigail’s sharply indrawn breath, but Naomi didn’t stop to see if she’d come out. She wouldn’t.

Her mother had never come for her.

Wordless with rage, with weariness, Naomi skirted the divide and pushed into the men’s room. It was empty. Clean. The shelves had been stocked with masculine fragrances and soap that smelled like wood shavings, and she grabbed whatever came to hand.

She showered under water hot enough to scald and tried to pretend that she wasn’t straining to hear the sound of her mother’s voice over the rush.

Tried to pretend that disappointment didn’t close like a fist when it never came.

Abigail Montgomery wasn’t her problem. She’d get hers, a lonely life without company or love. Every day age drew another scar on her mother’s so perfect flesh. Every day she was that much closer to dying an ugly, twisted old shrew.

Naomi only regretted the fact that she’d miss the declining years. Let the woman spend her blood money on cosmetic surgery and every restorative known to man. Let her fight against age.

Nothing would help her. Nothing.

Naomi wanted to spit in her grave when she died.

But that meant outliving her. The odds of that weren’t high.

Still, she thought as she rubbed herself down with a towel that smelled like warm spice and firelight, it was a nice thought. If a bullet didn’t catch her first, Naomi would go to the woman’s funeral and laugh.

Maybe that would fill her chest with something other than hollow rage.

And maybe, she thought as she dressed, it was the rage that kept regret at bay. Naomi gripped the edge of the bay of lockers and stared sightlessly into the neatly etched numbers, damp towel hanging limply over her shoulders. A drop of water dripped from her hair, slid down her neck. Her cheek.

Dripped into the pink stain at her feet.

She blinked at it. Opened her mouth and didn’t know what to say.

Not this time.

Already knowing what she’d find—if not who—she reached for the locker latch and unhooked the metal bolt.

The body spilled out of the narrow confines like a broken doll, and Naomi stepped back in mute pity. Mousy blond hair pooled to the floor as her skull cracked against the tile, and gravity sucked the rest of her gray-tinged corpse out of the impromptu metal coffin.

Katie Landers.

Hysteria crawled up her spine, but Naomi crouched with an icy kind of calm. As if she weren’t the one reaching out to roll the limp body over.

As if it weren’t her hands that tipped the ashen face up to the light, revealing livid purple bruises around Katie’s throat. That wouldn’t have been pleasant.

But it was the stabbing that killed her.

The scent of blood had always reminded Naomi of metal; something warmer than the tang of the acid rain that pounded the city’s lower streets, something meatier than anything she’d ever known before. In quantities, it filled the nose. The head.

The memory.

She didn’t dream of blood anymore, but the nausea never truly went away. It splashed into her throat now as she tilted the locker door wide. Browned and thick, the dead girl’s blood coated the inside. Pooled on the bottom and caught on the humidity of the pool hall to speckle the floor beneath the locker.

Another one dead. Another corpse. One in the laundry room and one here. All right, so Naomi had killed the witch and Carson had moved the body, but why was Katie dead? It had all the hallmarks of an agent kill. Quick, brutal, and thorough.

Had Carson killed her for something he wanted?

Did she happen to get in the way? See something she shouldn’t?

Christ, was she one of Carson’s plants?

Naomi seized the edge of the locker for balance, but her thoughts of searching the premises turned into a wordless sound of surprise as the lights flickered. Between one breath and the next, the power surged out.

For a brief four seconds, long enough to send Naomi’s heart hammering hard against her ribs, the resort was deathly silent. No drone of electricity. No froth and bubble of water jets.

Impossible.

Every hair on her neck stood straight up as she forced herself to her feet in the pitch black. Failing energy gave way to a new surge of adrenaline clamping around her chest. The power guttered again, struggling to flood back through the fixtures. She crossed the room between flickers, shoved open the door and made it three sprinting strides toward the main doors when a flurry of sparks erupted to her left.

Throwing her arm up over her face, Naomi swore loudly. The crackle of open electrical currents sizzled in the air, and a feminine voice shouted something fast and startled behind her. The sparks faded, scattered to nothing on the tile, and Naomi warily circled a thick bundle of cords hanging from the ceiling.

Electricity vibrated along it, a wicked hum of warning as it coiled like a serpent, alive with a powerful electrical surge. The slack end slithered along the floor, too close to the water.

“Naomi!”

She flinched, whirling to see the redhead Phin had called Cally beckoning her away.

The cable sparked again, showered a flurry of blue and white. “Be careful, there’s a fuck-ton of electricity through here,” Cally shouted, her voice echoing eerily. “If it hits the water—”

“I get it!” Naomi waved her back. “Go get— Oh, my God.” Her heart jumped into her throat. Tightened. “Fuck,
shit
. Call for help!”

She didn’t know if the woman obeyed. She didn’t know if she’d said it, or only thought it, or if the world had come to a screaming halt for only her.

She sprinted across the tiled floor in seconds, dove cleanly into the water. Half of her expected to be shocked into the next world, electrocuted into so much bubbled flesh and melted bone, but the rest of her could only thrash, struggle as her hands tangled in short blond hair.

In flowing green silk.

Gasping for breath as she resurfaced, Naomi pushed and shoved Abigail’s limp body to the edge of the pool. Every nerve shuddered, violent anticipation, but Naomi forced herself to move. To seize the unresponsive woman by her hair, her clothes, her lifeless limbs, anything that put her over the edge.

It took every ounce of strength she had to do it. Her hair streamed into her eyes, the chlorine stung, but swearing, heaving, Naomi ducked under the surface, visions of charred death by voltage dancing in her mind’s eye, and jammed her shoulder under Abigail’s back.

The woman rolled. Threatened to topple the wrong way. Naomi’s straining breath turned into a scream, and Abigail’s limp body hit the tile.

She wasn’t moving. Dear God, she wasn’t moving, she wasn’t breathing, Naomi couldn’t tell if—

Out
. She had to get out.

Summoning every iota of willpower, she grabbed the edge of the pool and wrenched herself out. She struggled as the water seemed to wrap around her hips, her legs, her sodden clothes. Swearing, cursing, gasping for breath, she crawled over the tile, over Abigail’s inert body.

Blood ran from a gash at the woman’s cheek. It painted the woman’s beautiful face in a cruel mask of crimson, of running mascara.

“Ambulance,” Naomi gasped. She needed, oh, God, she needed an ambulance. She needed help. She needed anyone, damn it, she needed
Phin
. “Help me!” she screamed, even as adrenaline surged through her flagging limbs. She wrenched Abigail into her arms, terror thick and acrid in her throat. Her heart.

Somehow, she didn’t know how, she got to her feet. Somehow she carried her mother away from the coiling, sparking cable. Away from the water that hissed and sizzled as the cable thrashed itself into the pool. The power surged around her as the water sucked out every last current of power; the ceiling lights shattered out in an explosion of glass and sparking electricity.

Somehow Naomi made it to the double doors. Shoved out of them. Staggered.

Warm arms wrapped around hers. Caught her, caught Abigail before they buckled. Phin’s voice. His orders.

His strength.

People moved around her, ants to the anthill under attack, and Naomi let Phin take Abigail from her. He carried her like the woman weighed nothing, an easy, comforting strength as he stood in the middle of chaos and calmly ordered that a gurney be brought, that emergency maintenance be called, that staff see to guests.

The ambulance was coming.

Slowly, effortlessly, Phin restored order.

And she couldn’t watch. Couldn’t watch him stand in the middle of everything and look so cool, so calm in his dress shirt and slacks and newly washed hair. So patient and compassionate and strong.

Cradling the woman who had abandoned her.

The woman Naomi couldn’t allow herself to return the favor to.

Shaking, shivering with cold, with delayed shock, Naomi withdrew from the madness. She withdrew from the bubble of calm that beckoned her, lured her like that moth to a flame more insidious than anything she’d ever known.

Coward
.

Naomi fled.

“G
o.” Lillian pushed Phin away from the flurry of activity around Abigail’s gurney. “I know a problem when I see one,
go
.”

Though it went against every executive bone in his body, Phin obeyed his mother; heard and obeyed the urgency in her voice.

He felt the same gnawing worry in his gut.