Marked by Passion (23 page)

Worse: he didn't get up.

Walking to him cautiously, I prodded him with my boot. He didn't stir.

"Shit." I reached down to check his pulse. I wilted in relief when I felt its steady beat.

Instinct told me to get the hell out of Dodge before anyone else showed up. Common sense told me to find out who he was. So I leaned over and patted him down. My hand stilled at what felt like a knife.

Gulp. God, I was lucky he hadn't pulled that out. I used to be good at knife fighting, but that was fifteen years ago. It wasn't like I could count on
tu ch’i
protecting me—I had no idea what I did to create that barrier.

At least it wasn't a gun.

I swallowed again, put the knife in my coat pocket, and continued searching. Finding his wallet, I slipped it in next to the knife and hurried away before someone noticed me with him. I walked fast—but not so fast that I attracted attention—all the way home.

Inside, I leaned against the front door, locked it behind me, and then started to shake. I knew it was adrenaline letdown. Okay—maybe it was a little shock, too. Being attacked was the last thing I expected tonight.

He'd wanted the scroll. How did he know I had it? And who the hell was he?

I reached for his wallet, fumbling with my pocket because my hands were trembling so badly. I dropped it. Tucking the knife under the futon mattress, I picked up the wallet as I sat and opened it.

There was no ID—no driver's license, no credit cards, nothing that gave a name. There
was
a scrap of paper with my name—my real name—written on it, as well as the address of the bar. And a wad of money. Hundred-dollar bills.

Frowning, I pulled them out and quickly thumbed through them. Thirty. Three thousand bucks in cash. To get the scroll? What else could it be?

I'd figure it out later. Right now, I needed to make sure the scroll was safe and hidden. I'd attack this plan again. In daylight. Maybe with a hired bodyguard. I stood up, touched my waistband, and froze.

It wasn't there. I felt down my pants legs, but it wasn't there, either.

Gone.

Where could it have—

Oh,
shit.
I lost it during my skirmish with the thug.

I dashed back out the door. I
really
didn't want to go back to that alley, but I had to check to see if the scroll was there.

I ran the whole way to the scene. Knowing better than to rush into the dark alley, I leaned against the brick wall and peered around the corner. Nothing. He was gone.

"Damn." After a quick survey of the area, I walked to the spot where I'd left him knocked out. There was no sign of anything. Including the scroll.

As if in punctuating the situation,
tu ch’i
slammed through me until I felt like I was drowning in it. The scroll wasn't in my possession anymore—logically, it shouldn't have been this strong now.

Using all my willpower, I choked it back, and the effort left me wilted. Somehow I stumbled home, slamming the door open in my haste to get inside. "Wu, come out. I need you."

No answer. Contrary bastard that he was, I knew he could be hiding. I picked up a pillow and looked under it. "Wu? I'm pouring kerosene on the scroll and I'm going to torch it again. You better come out and stop me."

I waited for several long minutes, but there wasn't any sign of him—not even a rustle of chilly wind.

He was gone. I knew it instinctively.

Dropping my head in my hands, I sank down onto the futon. What would happen to him? I'd wanted him gone, but I didn't want him in some bad guy's hands. Would he be okay?

Guilt stuck in my throat. I wanted to get rid of the scroll, but not like this. Not to some unknown thug who would use it to rob banks. Or something worse.

Armageddon flashed in my mind.

"Oh, God." I dropped my head in my hands. "What have I done?"

I
hear footsteps behind me. I look and see a man
—
shadowed and hulking.

My heart pounds. I run.

He chases, his footsteps echoing in the dark.

Go faster. And faster. But he gets closer
—
I can feel him gaining on me. His breath hisses in my ear.

An alley ahead.

Go
—lose him.
I turn.

And I stop. He's lying in the middle of the path. I know he's dead.

Have to check.

I inch forward, kneel next to him. Grab a shoulder and pull. Heavy. Pull harder. The body rolls over, onto my legs.

I look down.

Not the man
—Mom.

"No."
I scream, but there's no sound.

Her lips move, her eyes lifeless and unseeing.

"What?" I bend to hear her.

Her voice is a whisper. "So many deaths, all because you failed."

I bolted upright, scrambling back until my spine hit the wall. I looked down and folded in relief when I saw there wasn't a body across my legs.

"It was just a dream." Sweating, I worked to calm myself.

Tu ch’i
slammed into me like a ton of bricks.

I gasped, grabbing the comforter as the energy attacked me. It exploded up into my body, violently invading every nook and cranny. It filled me, stretching me until I felt like it was going to tear me apart. I could feel my molecules separate with its strength. My teeth gritted against the agony, I screamed.

Everything began to rumble—not a superficial shaking, but a deep-in-the-bowels-of-the-earth quake. The candle at the side of my futon jiggled off the crate I used as a bedside table, and I heard dishes falling out of the cabinet in the kitchen.

Had to get it under control before I did some serious damage. I closed my eyes and visualized gathering all the escaping power to me.

It hurt. And felt futile. Like I was trying to cram it all into a vessel that was already overflowing. My muscles strained, and for a moment I thought I was going to explode.

"Will. Not. Fail." Yelling to gain strength, I swallowed the energy back.

The earthquake died. However, unlike the other times,
tu ch’i
hardly waned at all. Instead, it seethed close to the surface, potent and violent, like it waited for me to be inattentive so it could erupt again. Ten times more intense than before.

I sat there, panting and tense, afraid to relax. I crawled under the covers, knowing I wouldn't fall asleep again. I couldn't—I didn't trust myself not to cause the Big One that caused San Francisco to fall into the ocean.

My phone rang. Without moving, I flailed around until I found it on the floor next to the futon. I looked at the caller ID.

Rhys.

Not thinking, I flipped it open. "What?" I croaked.

"Where are you?" he asked brusquely.

"In bed." I paused. "That wasn't an invitation."

He ignored my comment, which gave me an indication at how serious this call was. "There was an earthquake—"

"We're in California. There are earthquakes every day."

"This was no ordinary earthquake, and you know it. Why are you being so bloody obstinate?"

"You have to ask?"

He exhaled in frustration. "Just tell me if you're all right."

My heart constricted at the caring in his voice. I wanted to lean on him, to tell him everything. To let him help me. He'd know what to do. I opened my mouth to accept his offer, but the words stuck in my throat.

"Gabrielle?"

I shook my head. "I'm just peachy." Before he could question me further, I said, "Gotta go to work. Later." And I hung up.

Queasy from the energy burbling inside me, tired from the lack of sleep, and disappointed—big-time-—I rolled out of bed. I was back to square one. Behind square one. Not only had I lost the scroll, but
tu ch’i
felt even stronger—even wilder—than before.

What was up with that? And I couldn't ask Wu—I knew without a doubt that he was gone.

Guilt. As I gingerly shuffled to the bathroom, I tried not to think of all the things that could happen to a lost spirit. Maybe he'd be more peaceful wherever he ended up.

Yeah. Pipe dream.

The mirror wasn't my friend today. I looked like I'd been hit by a Muni bus. I hurt. Bad. Every cell in my body throbbed, and I knew it wasn't all from the punches I'd taken from the thug.

I gently touched the dark bruises on my side. At least nothing was broken. A broken rib hurt like hell. I knew—eighteen years ago, Paul and I had been sparring with staffs and he'd whacked me hard enough to crack a couple. I winced, remembering how Wu lit into him about that.

The hot water from my shower eased my soreness a little, but I knew the only thing that would really make a difference was if I started training in earnest. Not just forms and shadowboxing, but hardcore sparring. I'd gotten out of the habit of getting pummeled. It sounds bad, but you have to be able to take a few punches in order to handle fighting. "Add taking classes at a studio to the list. Because I've got so much free time."

Getting dressed in comfortable clothes (jeans and a cotton tank top with a long-sleeve scoop neck to layer), I put my hair in a ponytail (for convenience) and dabbed on a little lip gloss (a concession to looking nice). I pulled on my boots and coat and walked to the bar, taking a route that didn't lead me past the alley.

Not that I was worried that the thug would be waiting for me again—lightning didn't strike in the same place twice, right? I just didn't want to tempt fate, especially since it seemed fate was toying with me lately.

I let myself in, turned on the lights, and unlocked the front doors. Opening a bar didn't take much effort— unless Vivian closed the night before. And, true to form, she'd left things messy enough to tweak me.

Today I didn't care. In fact, I welcomed it. The more to do, the better. I attacked everything she left and tried to brainstorm—
tried
being the operative word.

Around three, two suits walked in. The moment I saw them I knew they were cops—it was in their stance and the way they scanned the bar. Since they were so dressed, they had to be detectives of some sort.

Frowning, I studied them while they checked out the one boozer in the bar. The older one was beefy—not fat, more like an aged linebacker. Laugh lines made his face look open, and his nose was sunburned. His clothes were rumpled, like he'd been sitting in a car for too long.

The younger one was sharp: his clothes, his dark hair, his dark eyes. Latino. I pegged him for his early forties, only because of the gray at the edges of his hairline and the world-weary look in his eyes. He looked relentless. Crisp. Uncompromising.

Tu ch’i
leapt to the surface. I could feel the earth begin to stir, but, hands clenched, I capped down on it tight before anything weird happened.

Without warning, his eyes latched on to me and did a thorough visual inspection. I couldn't tell if it was business or masculine appreciation, but given how I looked, I figured it was the former.

Which in turn made me frown, because buttoned-up men weren't my thing. Especially if they were cops. "Can I help you?"

He flipped open his badge and held it up. "I'm Inspector Rick Ramirez with the SFPD Homicide Detail. This is my partner, Inspector James Taylor."

"But not that James Taylor." The linebacker flashed his badge and a smile as he perched on a barstool. "I'm more handsome."

Not knowing how I was supposed to answer, I nodded politely and quickly returned my attention to the younger cop. He was the one to watch out for.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions," he said, taking a small notebook out of his breast pocket.

I broke out in sweat as I remembered beating up that guy and leaving him in the alley. "Regarding?"

"A murder that happened last night a few blocks from here."

"Oh." What a relief—this had nothing to do with me. For a moment I'd thought the thug was pressing assault charges. "Sure. I don't know how much help I'll be, though."

He studied me for so long it made me uncomfortable.

Even his partner noticed it. "Are you going to just gawk at the pretty girl, Ramirez, or are you actually going to get on with this sometime soon?"

He shot the linebacker a look that would have silenced most people.

The older cop just grinned. "May's making a pork roast tonight. You know how much I love her pork roasts." He turned to me. "There's a whole lot about May I love. Damn fine woman. Too bad she won't marry me."

"Why won't she marry you?" I asked.

"Says it'd interfere with her independent nature." He shook his head. "Are you married?"

"No."

"Shame, pretty girl like you." Inspector Taylor gave his partner a meaningful look before asking me, "I suppose you're an independent woman, too?"

His beleaguered tone made me grin. "Afraid so."

Ramirez rubbed his temple. "Are you two done?"

"Just waiting for you to get started, boy."

Shaking his head, Ramirez flipped open the notebook. "What's your name?"

"Gabrielle Sansouci."

"Gabrielle, huh?" Taylor's face scrunched in thought. "French?"

"My mom was French. Everyone calls me Gabe." I watched the younger one scribble the info down. Even his handwriting looked crisp.

"Were you working last night?" he asked after he finished.

"Yeah. Until ten," I preempted, knowing it'd be his next question.

"Alone?"

For a second I thought he was asking me if I went home alone. I blushed when I realized my mind was the only one in the gutter. "Alone until seven. Then Vivian came in. Vivian Redding, one of the other bartenders here. She closed last night."

"Will Ms. Redding be in later today?"

"Around seven." Or eight. Punctuality wasn't one of Vivian's strong points.

"Gabe, did you notice any unusual activity around the bar?" Taylor asked.

Pursing my lips, I shook my head. "It was pretty much like any other night." Including that I'd been followed home, but that was a different story.

Ramirez reached into his inside breast pocket. "Can you tell me if this man came into the bar last night?"