Sacrifice the Wicked (19 page)
“Did you plan this with her? Did you tell the good doctor you were going to screw the Mission director to keep me out of the way?” she asked bitterly. “What’s the big deal, you’re dying, right?”
His heart wrenched.
Stupid, stupid move.
“It’s not like that.” Simon pushed off the door frame, forced himself upright and focused on her. The only thing in the room bright enough—
real
enough—to give him a beacon.
She couldn’t know that.
“Then explain it to me,” she began, and cut herself off with a savage, raw sound that didn’t quite reach laughter. “Never mind. Don’t lie. I saw the list, Mr. Wells.
You’ve
been killing my agents.”
“Please.” He strode across the living room, managed to find the back of the chair. His hand closed over his jeans. He jerked the pants over one leg, struggled into them. “I’ve been killing
Salem
agents. I gave up everything to get
you
out safe. You heard her.”
“Did you know I had the syringe?”
“No. But it’s a sure bet Sector Three found out.”
Parker stared at him. “You’ve been reporting on me.”
“I haven’t.” Patience fractured. So did the truth. But he couldn’t tell her everything, not like this. He sucked in a breath as he pulled the jeans over his hips. The floor tilted. “Did you leave it at home, Parker? Is that why you won’t tell me where it is?”
“It’s
Direc—
”
Simon didn’t let her finish. Leaving his jeans unbuttoned, forcing himself to move through the pain shattering his skull, he closed the distance between them.
Caught her hand as it flailed at him, seized her by the front of her blouse and forced her back. So fast, so savagely, that all she could do was stumble until her back slammed against the wall and the painting he’d already rattled crashed to the carpet. Wood splintered.
Simon panted, his heart hammering within the cage of his ribs. His fingers ached from the force of his clench around her wrist, pinned against the wall above her head, but he didn’t care.
She wouldn’t break. She’d promised him.
But he’d broken her, all right.
“It’s not,” he growled. “It’s Parker. Parker fucking Adams, Church heretic, Mission traitor, dead woman walking.”
Love of his goddamned meager life, for all the good that did her.
She jerked her hair from her face. Her cheeks blazed red, anger and something worse. Something hurtful and vicious.
Something betrayed.
Like he didn’t see that coming.
“You can’t—”
“Yes,” he said, a violent growl over her, his fist clenched at her blouse collar. “I can.”
Without giving her the chance to evade him, to answer him, he jerked her body off the wall and seized her lips in a kiss that would prove it.
He could. He could take from her this act of disobedience, could force her to confront the
real
reason she was so angry. It wasn’t just the list. She knew as well as he did that he’d had plenty of time to kill her and hadn’t. That the agents on that list were double agents, degenerating witches. It wasn’t even the lie, although that didn’t help.
What it was came on a groan so frustrated, so impatient and angry and torn, that it wrenched out of her chest. Even as her mouth opened under his, strained against his as if she’d climb into his mouth and wear his skin. Her free hand speared into his hair, fingers clenching as her tongue stroked against his in desperation; a need so intense he could practically taste it.
He’d gone and stolen something from her. Because he was an asshole and couldn’t help but trade his useless, deteriorating heart for hers. And she hadn’t even noticed yet.
God damn it.
His body responded even beyond the pain. He pushed her back against the wall, but this time, as her back hit it, she dragged him with her, until he pinned her hips with his. Her chest flattened against his own, so right and so wrong and not nearly enough contact. Never enough.
Need and anger and regret all warred within him. He wrenched his mouth away, gasping for air. For sanity, for . . . God, for a chance.
No more chances.
Her eyes, dark and endless, opened. Shuttered. Her fingers loosened from his hair. “Let go of me,” she ordered, so softly he almost could have missed the ice. Almost.
Even with her body straining against his, clothed against his seminakedness, soft and warm and everything he wanted, he knew he’d lost her.
No less than he deserved, anyway. He got his final fling.
But he still had to try. At least try to get her out of this mess, talk some sense into her.
“Listen to me,” he said evenly. “And then you can do whatever you want.”
Her jaw set, her lips, swollen from the brutal kiss she’d encouraged as much as suffered, gleaming damply. So beautiful.
Not his.
“I already told you how I was made,” he said, but wearily. He couldn’t help it. Last-ditch effort. “Mattie made damn sure that no matter what, we’d never live past a certain age, but she made a fail-safe. A fix.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because I think that she suspected even then that we’d become a problem. That her husband’s intentions would . . . change.” His hand fisted against the wall. “Juliet Carpenter was her attempt to redress the wrong. It’s one part DNA, one part . . .” He shook his head, eyes squeezing shut against the vicious clamp around his skull. “One part witchcraft. Juliet’s power ties in to the fix.”
Her eyes, vividly blue and somehow emptier than he ever imagined, met his without reserve. Without fear.
Without . . .
Well. He never had a right to expect anything more than a few wild hours.
“I fail to see the relevance,” she said, wrenching at his grip.
“God damn it, Parker, I’m trying to explain!” He glared at her, stared down at her too-white face and felt like a fool. But he had to try.
She had to hear him. He had to make her understand. Had to.
“Juliet’s name was Eve. If that syringe came from Mattie, then it carries the Eve sequence. Don’t you see? You can’t tell Kayleigh—” Her eyes flinched. He verbally stumbled, caught himself and finished grimly, “You can’t tell her where it is. Tell
them
. That sequence will give Lauderdale everything he wants.”
“He already has everything he wants,” she spat.
Maybe. “But he doesn’t have you.”
He watched his words strike home—saw it in the sudden way her nostrils flared, as if he’d scored a hit. Drew blood.
So it wasn’t fair.
Fuck
to fair.
He pushed on, doggedly. Desperately. “Mattie had the opportunity to give me the data. She didn’t then. Maybe she knew I wasn’t ready to turn, not all the way. Maybe she knew the time wasn’t right. I don’t know. She killed herself instead.” And it cost him to watch her do it. He couldn’t do it again.
“How could the time be wrong?” The question ripped out of her; so much anger. So much pain. “How could it be
any more
right than before —” Her teeth clicked together so hard that he felt the aftershocks in her body.
Simon flinched. “If Lauderdale gets that code, there will be no stopping his army. Mattie wanted me to fix her mistakes, not add to them.”
“All you want is that syringe for yourself,” she threw back. “You’ll say anything, Simon. Whatever your end goal is, you’ll throw over anyone to do it. I’m not like you.”
How could he make her understand? His fingers tightened on either side of her head. Spasmed with the force of it, of the wild storm of emotions unleashed under his skin. His heart.
“I know,” she said quietly, her eyes bright. Too bright. Too many secrets too dark. “It’s the only thing that can save your life.”
“
Fuck my life.
” Her eyes widened at his near roar, and she wrenched her face to the side as if she’d escape him just by shaking his gaze. Simon wouldn’t let her. Couldn’t let her. Forcing her to face him, his fingers digging into her jaw, the side of her head, he met her furious gaze with his and growled, “It’s not about my survival anymore.”
“You’re lying.”
“Believe what you want, but I won’t damn this city for your pride, Parker. Don’t give them that serum.”
Her lips curved, but there was nothing warm about it. “You already damned me. You damned the only people I
know
I can trust. Why stop there?”
The casual cruelty with which she flung the accusation carved a hole in his chest.
His grip loosened. As pain fractured his senses, he slumped, managed to brace his elbow against the wall beside her and didn’t fight her as she slipped out from beneath him.
Leaning against the wall for balance, his forehead thudded against cool plaster. “It’s too late, Parker. Don’t do this.”
She said nothing, but as he turned, grasping for support, he watched her collect her shoes. Her coat.
He closed his eyes. “Mattie killed herself so that I wouldn’t have to.”
Parker hesitated, hand on the doorknob.
“So that I wouldn’t have to pull the trigger on my own mother, or lie about it to Laurence. He’d know. He owns us all, Parker. He made us, he monitored us, he fucking wrote the program.”
Silence.
God, he hurt. All over. Inside, outside. Too much. “Now,” he continued wearily, “he’s made his move, half your team is dead or worse. I wasn’t fast enough to keep up with the old man, and time’s caught up with me. You can’t fix this, Director.” And for the first time, he couldn’t bear to drawl the title.
The door opened beside him. Parker hesitated. Then, quietly, evenly, she replied, “I can’t let them die.”
“You can’t save everyone,” he retorted, pressing his palms against the wall. “You can’t even save me.”
“Jesus, Simon. You wouldn’t let me if I could.”
Simon winced as the door shut, hard enough to send echoes drumming through his head. “You’re wrong,” he whispered roughly, knowing it didn’t have a chance in hell of reaching her now.
The closest he’d ever get to confessing the chaos of emotions under his skin.
They didn’t have time for this.
He
didn’t have time for this.
As he dug two fingers into his temple, his gaze fell on the comm she’d dropped to the floor.
That was it. He’d done his best.
Maybe he could tell that to Mattie in whatever kind of hell the devil reserved for people like them.
Slowly, every muscle aching with effort, Simon knelt to the carpet. He dragged the comm toward him, flipped it over and found the list. Skimming it fast, he cursed.
I can’t let them die.
Stone, Silo, Williams, Smith—four people he knew weren’t Salem Project agents. Four people likely to turn against the glut of witches in their midst.
Pawns. All of them, pawns to Parker’s queen.
Devil take it all, what had Kayleigh done? He cleared the screen, input a number. It only thrummed once.
“Where the hell are you, Wells?”
“Why is Jonas Stone on the hit list?”
“I—What?” The word cracked. “He’s not! He’s not a Salem— Damn it, Simon, where are you?”
Fuck.
Fuck
. He pushed a rough hand through his hair. Sucked in a breath and said grimly, “The director’s in the wind.”
“What?” Another crack. Another octave higher. “Wasn’t she
just
— Look,” she added sharply, cutting herself off. “You need to report back here. There’s a lot happening. I— I need to talk to you.”
“Yeah, I know.” Simon studied the comm. “You get one question.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “This isn’t a game, Simon!”
“Don’t I know it?” He swayed. “Ask.”
Kayleigh hesitated. Then, slowly, “Did you manipulate your records?”
He swallowed a laugh. “That isn’t what you really want to know, is it, Kayleigh? Yeah,” he added, humor fading just as fast. “Maybe one day, you’ll find out why.”
“Simon—”
“I did my part, kiddo. Now it’s your turn.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
He grimaced. “It means try to remember who your mother was.” Because he’d done what he could. And it wasn’t enough. Maybe Mattie’s own flesh and blood could do better.
He didn’t have it in him to try.
Kayleigh made a frustrated sound. “Simon, my dad has—”
He snapped the comm closed as the floor slid out from under him.
A
my Silo loved her job.
The Holy Order’s library rivaled anywhere else she could think of. From the prettiest, richest penthouses to the wildest clubs in the lower streets, none of it compared.
A vast landscape of knowledge and learning, the library featured six floors of shelves filled with stacks upon stacks of books. She’d apprenticed here as a little girl, placed with the previous head librarian when the orphanage teachers realized how quickly she learned.
She’d spent her whole life in these walls. Knew them inside and out.
Silo lived in the top floor, a loftlike flat originally serving as an extra reading hall. Large windows overlooked the vista of the city, sprawled out in tiers beneath the highest tower.
The rest of the library tended toward thick, heavy red drapes and the dry, musty fragrance paper achieved once old enough. The lights were designed to be as natural as electrical lights could be, which kept the damaging daylight away from the pages and spines she and the staff maintained.
No book was less than fifty years old. And so many more were older.
Silo lifted a thick volume from the cart beside her. Its leather binding still gleamed, as unmarred as the day it came away from the press that created it. Raised letters under her fingertips glittered with faintly tarnished gold leaf, such a complete waste back in the day.
But so perfect, too.
Silo loved books. She loved the words inside them, the knowledge they imparted. The messages they carried, from the leanest pamphlet to the thickest encyclopedia.
She loved them for the same reason the Church didn’t.
But she was happy here in the Holy Library.
She found the empty slot in the shelf for the book and slid it gently into place. She reached for another, smiled as the title caught her eye.
She’d read it fourteen times.
Silo liked books, loved the library, but that didn’t mean she didn’t pay attention. She knew a lot about the people who came here regularly. Director Adams was one. A good woman. A little overly focused on her job, but who wasn’t in the Mission?
Though Silo was a missionary in the strictest sense of the word, she answered to all the leaders in the area. The bishop, Director Adams, Director Lauderdale. Each had reason to send their people to her library.
All of them had reason to be watched. Carefully gauged. Reported if Silo sensed something wrong in the knowledge they sought.
To date, her own people requested more access to restricted areas than the Church.
But less than Director Lauderdale’s scientists.
Change was in the wind.
Silo only hoped her library survived.
She shelved the worn book, somewhat more dog-eared than the others.
As she collected two more, she tilted her head. Her long, pale blond hair slid over her shoulder as she said, “It’s still early. No one is here but me.”
A footstep rasped behind her. A quiet, subtle click of metal. “Amy Silo?”
She shelved the two books side by side, a matched set. Tenderly, her fingers stroked along the neat row of dark spines. The dyes they’d favored in those days tended toward muted colors. Reds. Blues, greens, and browns. All darker hues. All gilded.
“Are you Agent Silo?”
She braced her hand on the shelf as she turned. “Yes,” she whispered.
Silo loved the library. Loved the early mornings most, when the staff hadn’t yet clocked in and she could work on whatever project fascinated her for the time. Shelving books, reading, researching when the Mission required something more.
She’d hoped to spend her life here.
She got her wish.
As the muzzle flare lit the interior of the fifth-floor archive, the report slammed into the thick drapes, the muffling weight of thousands of books. The Holy Library swallowed the sound of a body thudding to the carpet.
Blood and gobbets of gray matter splattered the colorful bindings. A wet, viscous spray that would have horrified the librarian whose skull it had once belonged to.