Penumbra (18 page)

Not a good thing when she was supposed to be protecting the minister.

Although
that
was most definitely not the only reason she was here. She glanced at the other man at the table. Wetherton's meet was a tall, thin man who didn't appear to be another politician. His brown suit was rumpled, his face haggard and unshaven, and there was nothing polished or practiced about the way he spoke. On first sighting him, she'd thought he was a reporter. But after watching him for the last four hours, she'd revised that to criminal. There was something very guarded about the way his gaze continually roamed the room.

There was also something oddly familiar about him, though she'd swear she'd never met or seen him before. It wasn't even so much his looks as his feel.

If that made any sense.

She'd managed to grab a couple of shots of him with her wristcom and had sent them to Izzy, asking for a full search to be done. She figured the name he'd given her—Chip Braggart—was just a little too weird to be true. And she couldn't remember seeing him listed among Wetherton's known associates. Even as tired as she was, it was doubtful she'd forget a name like that.

And why was Wetherton, a government minister, meeting with the likes of Braggart? Was he a contact from the real Wetherton's past, or was he a part of the clone's very recent past? Or was he even, perhaps, the contact between the made man and the creator?

Very likely, she thought, studying the cold wariness in his dark eyes. This man was more than just a petty criminal. And there was something very familiar in the way he moved, the way he reacted.

She frowned, trying to chase down the feeling, but at that moment, the presence of evil crawled across her skin like foul electricity, making it hard not to react instinctively and draw her gun. She placed her glass on a nearby table and casually looked around.

For quite a few minutes she couldn't see the threat. The main dance floor was too crowded, and the table-lined edges were too shadowed. Then the strobe lights pulsed, briefly illuminating a group on the far side of the room and flashing off the hair of one man, making it gleam like a beacon of molten red.

The hair color of Hopeworth's creations. And the face of the man who had tried to kill both her and Wetherton last night.

Only it couldn't be the same man, because he was dead. And although this man's features were almost identical, his nose was just a little bit sharper.

Unlike the rest of the people in his group, he was neither talking nor drinking, but simply standing still as his gaze roamed the confines of the room. When his gaze neared where she stood, she ducked back into shadow, but she had an odd feeling he'd know she was there anyway—that he would feel her presence as easily as she felt his. When she risked another look in his direction, he was gone.

Fear shot through her. The hunt was on.

She pushed away from the wall and walked across to Wetherton. “I'm sorry, Minister, but we need to leave.”

Wetherton glanced up, his expression annoyed. “I'm not finished here yet.”

“Sir, I have reason to believe your life is under threat. Continue this conversation in the car if you must, but right now we need to move.”

His scowl deepened. “It would be inopportune for Mr. Braggart and I to be seen together right at this moment.”

“Minister, you asked the SIU for protection. If you do not wish to follow my advice, I can only presume you do not, after all, wish such protection.”

Wetherton sighed, though it was more a sound of exasperation than compliance. “If you insist—”

“And I do.”

He glanced at Braggart. “We'll continue this tomorrow night, then. Make sure you bring the information I requested.”

Braggart nodded, but his gaze was on her and a chill ran down her spine. There was something in his eyes that suggested he saw more, knew more, about this situation and about her than she could ever guess. Yes, this man definitely
knew
her. How or why she couldn't say, but she had a feeling she'd better find out, and quick.

Wetherton downed the remainder of his drink in one gulp and dug a hand into his pocket. “I'll call my chauffeur to make sure the car is waiting out front.”

Sam scanned the immediate area, but she couldn't see the flame-haired stranger. Yet she could feel him. His presence itched at her skin, stronger and closer than before. “Hurry,” was all she said.

Wetherton made his call and rose. “Let's go.”

She waved him ahead of her. She didn't have eyes in the back of her head, and with the crowded state of the nightclub, she wasn't about to leave his back unguarded. At least if she followed, she'd have a chance of seeing a threat coming from the front or the sides.

Wetherton shoved his way out of the club, seemingly oblivious to the angry retorts thrown his way. She followed, her gaze constantly on the move, watching and waiting. The foul energy of the flame-haired stranger followed them. He was close—very close. And yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't pick him out in the crowded confines of the dance club.

The sooner they were in the car and away from here, the better.

They exited the main room and were striding up the long hallway to the front doors when Sam risked yet another look behind her. Though no one else had entered the hallway after them, the doors were still swinging, as if someone had. And she could certainly still feel him. A shiver ran down her spine. If the flame-haired stranger was a Hopeworth creation, who knew what other abilities he had? Invisibility might be a figment of fiction and comic books up until now, but if
she
had the capability to fade into shadow, then how much more of a step was it to create someone who could fade into shadow
and
light?

Not much, she thought, her gaze straying to the deeper shadows to the left of the swinging doors.

Was it her imagination, or did something stir in the half-lit corners?

Another shiver ran down her spine and she pressed a hand against Wetherton's back, pushing him a little.

He swore at her, but nevertheless moved faster. Two security guards opened the door for them and the cold night air swirled in, thick with the promise of rain. Sam shivered again—this time with the cold—and glanced around for the minister's car. It was up the street, parked in a bus zone, and was a little too close to the nearby alley and its encroaching shadows for her liking.

But the foul energy of the stranger was behind her, still in the nightclub, and the shadows ahead held no threat as yet.

It was just nerves, nothing more, that made her fear them.

She grabbed Wetherton's arm and propelled him forward as she slipped her other hand inside her coat and wrapped her fingers around her gun. The cool feel of the metal pressed against her flesh was comforting, and some tiny part of her relaxed a little.

It shouldn't have.

T
HEY'D BARELY REACHED THE CAR
when the sensation of wrongness rolled across her skin. Not from the man who'd followed them from the club, but from the alley and the shadows. Sam whipped the car door open, thrusting Wetherton inside as the feeling of wrongness sharpened.

Something was about to attack.

She slammed the door shut, barely avoiding the minister's feet, and swung around.

She'd expected it to be the red-haired stranger.

It wasn't.

It was the vampire Stephan had unleashed to attack Wetherton. Sam drew her weapon and pressed the trigger, but the vamp moved so fast that the bright beam of the laser tore through his shoulder rather than searing his brains to dust.

The sharp smell of burned flesh filled the air and he snarled—a shrill sound of anger. Then he was upon her, spindly arms flying, face gaunt, his pupils mere pinpricks.
A junkie in need of a fix,
she thought, and wondered if it was just blood he needed or actual drugs.

She ducked his first blow and let fly with one of her own. Her fist sank deep into his stomach, but he didn't even grunt in response.
Too far gone,
she thought as he snarled, revealing elongated teeth.

A shout came from the direction of the club entrance—one of the bouncers, telling her to knock it off. Like that was going to happen! She blocked another of the vamp's blows, then hit him over the head with her gun as hard as she could. He staggered back, shaking his head and spraying blood in the process. It splattered across her coat and face, stinging like fine acid. But she ignored it and raised her weapon.

“Agent Ryan, SIU,” she said, speaking loud enough that the rapidly approaching bouncers might hear. “Raise your hands and don't move, or I
will
shoot.”

The vampire either didn't hear, didn't understand or simply didn't care. He just snarled and launched himself at her.

She pulled the trigger.

The shot hit dead center in the middle of his forehead and burned through his skull, cindering flesh and bone and brain matter along the way.

He dropped dead at her feet and didn't move. She didn't look down. She barely even dared to breathe lest the smell make her lose the control she had over her stomach.

Instead, she wiped her face with the sleeve of her coat, then got out her badge and showed it to the two horrified bouncers. They stopped immediately, the aggression that had been so evident moments ago slipping away. Then she tapped her wristcom and made a call to the SIU.

“Agent Sam Ryan, badge number 1934,” she said, when Christine came on the line. “I need a cleanup team at my current location. And please inform Director Byrne that the escaped prisoner has been dealt with.”

“Cleanup team three has been notified,” Christine answered, her digital tones sexier than any computer-generated form had a right to be. “And I've sent a message to Director Byrne.”

“Thanks, Christine.” Sam hung up and glanced at the bouncers. “You want to keep the gawkers back for me?”

They nodded and began to deal with the gathering crowd. She stepped over the body of the vamp and opened the car door. “You all right, Minister?”

He nodded, his face a little paler than normal. “How did you know that vampire was outside?”

“I didn't. He was an entirely different threat than the one I felt before.” She lifted her gaze and let it roam the street. No sense of anything evil or even out of place. Not until she looked past the crowd to the nightclub's entrance, anyway. Braggart was there, watching, a hint of amusement touching his thin lips. And if the tingle running across her skin was anything to go by, the redheaded stranger was there, too, even if she couldn't see him.

Not that she could do anything about his presence right then. She didn't dare leave Wetherton alone. After all, the red-haired man might be nothing more than a decoy meant to draw her away from the minister's side. And though she wanted to get out of here as much as Wetherton did, she couldn't whisk him away until the SIU had arrived and the vampire had been dealt with. Protocol had to be followed, most especially in this situation.

She met Wetherton's gaze again. “I have to give my report to the SIU team I called in, and until then, I'm afraid, we'll just have to wait here.”

He scowled. “Why can't I just go inside and continue my meeting? Braggart hasn't left yet, surely.”

“He hasn't, no. But we're being watched, Minister, and I prefer not to take a risk right now.”

“Watched?” A hint of emotion—not fear, not panic, but something in between—flitted through his eyes. He looked around briefly, then met her gaze again. “By whom?”

“I don't know.” She briefly toyed with the idea of telling him their watcher was more than likely military, but let it go. Until she knew where, exactly, Wetherton's alliances lay, it was better not to give him too much information. For her sake, as much as his.

He grunted his displeasure, then reached forward and grabbed the car's phone. “Shut the door, please. I have a few personal calls to make.”

Ungrateful bastard,
she thought, as she slammed the door shut. Not even a thank-you for saving his life. But then, he probably figured she was only doing what she was being paid to do—risking her life to save his lab-made ass.

When she glanced back at the gathered crowd, Braggart had gone. She studied the street beyond the club but couldn't find any sign of him. Unusual for a human to move so fast in such a brief time—unless, of course, he was something more than human.

And she had a strange feeling Braggart was, even if she hadn't sensed him as such. Why she felt this, she couldn't say, but maybe it was connected to the odd sensation that she knew him. Knew the soul of him, if not the outer layer.

Which in itself suggested a shapeshifter of some kind.

She frowned but let the thought go, simply because it was just another question for which she had no answer.

As she looked back to the club's doorway, she noticed that the red-haired stranger had also slipped away. His presence was a fading tingle, getting more distant by the minute. And the night felt cleaner for his disappearance.

She put her weapon away and leaned back against the car, waiting and watching.

It took ten minutes for the cleanup team to arrive. Two men took care of the vamp's body, while the man in charge—an agent she didn't recognize—took statements from her, Wetherton and the driver.

As he moved on to interview the other witnesses, she opened the door and climbed into the car. “We can go now.”

“About time,” Wetherton muttered, glancing at the driver. “Henry, take me home.”

She didn't comment on his tone or the implication that she'd delayed him on purpose, but simply leaned back in the seat and watched the lights flash by. Exhaustion washed over her, and it was all she could do to suppress a yawn. Thankfully, King Street wasn't that far from his Collins Street apartment. Once the driver had stopped in the secure underground garage, she climbed out and checked to make sure there was no one about, then signaled the driver to pop the trunk. She retrieved her overnight bag and com-unit, then opened Wetherton's door. He grabbed his briefcase, climbed out and headed for the elevator.

It turned out that the minister's apartment was on the top floor, with good views of the bay. The apartment's living area wasn't huge, but the floor-to-ceiling wall of glass made it seem otherwise. The city stretched before them, an unending sea of twinkling lights that merged gradually into the dark waters of the bay.

She dumped her bags on one of the black leather sofas, then caught Wetherton's arm as he walked past her.

“Minister, I should check all rooms first.”

“This apartment building is fully secure,” he said, exasperation in his voice. “No one could get in here.”

“There's no such thing as a fully secure building. All security can be breached, even that of the SIU.”

He grunted, but waved her on irritably. She walked to the nearest room, which turned out to be the bathroom. There was nothing out of the ordinary, despite the marble tiling and the gold-plated taps. The same could be said for the bedroom—though the silk-clad bed had to be the biggest she'd ever seen. It dominated the room, leaving little space for anything else. She walked past it into the walk-in closet and dressing area, noting with a frown that the minister's suits were all top of the line. And there were enough of them that he could wear a different one every day for a month. Surely politicians didn't make
that
much money. Between the apartment, the suits, the family home and the family itself, Wetherton had to be draining himself dry.

Unless, of course, he had a secondary source of income no one knew about.

As she turned to leave, her gaze fell on a grate covering what looked like a large vent. The paintwork around one edge had been scratched, as if the vent had been opened recently, or often. Frown deepening, she knelt and ran her fingers around the covering's edge. It was loose. She pried it open and looked carefully into the hole.

Darkness and air rushed up at her and she shuddered, quickly drawing back. Small places had
never
been on her list of favorites things—especially when they were small places that seemed to drop down into unending darkness.

But why was this here? It didn't appear to be part of the air-conditioning system, as it seemed to go straight down. And if it was a laundry chute, why was it here rather than in the bathroom? And why wasn't there a proper cover?

“What the hell are you doing?” Wetherton appeared in the doorway, his expression darker than usual.

She sat back on her heels and indicated the vent. “What is that used for?”

“It's a vent.”

“One whose cover has been removed many times.”

He shrugged. “They're in the process of placing a laundry chute in the building. Workmen have been in and out all week, fiddling with the damn thing and generally being a nuisance.”

Some of those scratches were more than a week old, but still, the explanation was reasonable enough.

So why did she sense that he was lying?

“It's a dangerous thing to have such an easy access point in your apartment, Minister.”

Wetherton snorted. “No man could fit in that vent, let alone climb it.”

“No man could, but a shifter is a different matter.”

“A bird wouldn't have the strength to shift the grate with its wings or its claws, Agent Ryan. Now, will you just get out of my bedroom so I can go to sleep?”

“Only doing my job, Minister.” She shoved the cover back into place, taking careful note of the existing scratches, then rose. “The agent assigned to the day shift will be here at seven. Do you wish me to wake you at that time if you're not already up?”

“Yes. Now get out.”

She did, but she stayed near the closed door, listening. She wasn't entirely sure what she expected to hear, but there was something about Wetherton that scratched at her instincts. He was up to no good, she was sure of that. And it was something he didn't want
her
to know about.

But the soft sounds coming from the bedroom suggested he was doing nothing more than getting ready for bed. She gave up after a few minutes and walked over to the sofa where she'd left her com-unit. After sitting down, she pressed her thumb into the lock.

“Voice identification required,” the unit stated.

“Sam Ryan, SIU officer, badge number 1934.”

“Voice scan correct. Eye confirmation required.”

She looked into the small scanner fitted into the left-hand side of the unit. A red beam swept over her eye.

“Eye scan correct.” The unit clicked open.

Izzy's pink fluff form appeared onscreen. “It's a little early in the morning to be up and about, isn't it, sweetie?”

“Tell me about it,” she said dryly, and barely repressed a yawn. “Has Hopeworth replied to our request for information about the gray-haired man?”