Sacrifice the Wicked (25 page)
K
ayleigh’s stomach burned steadily, a knot of pain she imagined as a blob of acid—eating away at her insides, burning a hole through her stomach lining. As a scientist, she knew better than to let her imagination carry her off.
But as Kayleigh Lauderdale, the woman, she wondered if she’d eventually have to cope with a hole right smack in the middle of her gut.
It had been a full day since the mess at the Mission. Twenty-four hours, and she’d been unable to reach her father.
He probably had his hands full. She’d paced and fidgeted and hid in Laboratory Seventeen—her own lab. Over half of it remained sealed in plastic protectors, dustcovers protecting the equipment from time and wear while Kayleigh focused on her father’s needs.
Since stepping in for Nadia Parrish, she hadn’t had time to work on her own projects. Only Eve.
It had . . . consumed her.
It consumed
him.
She paced by her workstation, her gaze falling on the small plastic tube propped in front of her keyboard.
She should have begun work on it.
But then, she’d been waiting to talk to her dad, and Laurence Lauderdale wasn’t picking up her calls.
No, wait, that was dramatic, wasn’t it? Kayleigh could imagine what her father was going through right now—reports to the bishop, hearings about Parker Adams’s betrayal.
That made the second director to betray the Church.
Kayleigh squinted, hands shaking as she jammed them into her lab coat pockets. Staring at the capped syringe, her mind flashed instead to that room.
That horrible, stifling room, with Parker’s screams and—and—
The overhead lights flashed.
No, that wasn’t right. They flared, developing a low-key corona, an aura that shuddered through her head.
She flinched, rubbed at her eyes as her eyeballs throbbed into a fully formed eye-strain headache. She knew all about these. Added to her ulcer and insomnia, and she was falling apart.
Was this what it took to be a leader of scientists?
Kayleigh stumbled to her chair, found it by feel, and collapsed into the ergonomically curved seat. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tension wrapped up behind her forehead to fade. To at least ease off.
Stomach, head.
Heart.
She felt sick all the way through.
Resting her fingers on the workstation, they settled instead over the plastic tube with its strange substance inside. Was this it? The end to her efforts?
She cracked open an eye. The glare from the lights wasn’t so horrible that she couldn’t work.
And since her dad was busy . . .
He is butchering innocent people.
It couldn’t be true. She knew it wasn’t true. Those people were test subjects, already doomed to die.
And more would without her help.
But what does he want to do with them?
The thought wormed its way into the throbbing space behind her eyes. Wriggled there, slimy and seditious.
What was it he’d always told her?
Make a better world, Kayleigh.
She lunged to her feet so fast, the blood drained from her brain. Left her lopsided and clinging to the table.
A little darkness. That’s all she needed. Just enough to take the worst off the eye strain. Then she’d begin analyzing a sample from the syringe.
Bury herself in work. In her task. One step at a time.
One hand over her eyes, she crossed the silent lab, ripped the plastic covers off two of the analysis machines on her way to the lighting panel inset by the door. The tech, programmed to waken when the covers came off, hummed softly.
Let her father work all of this out. She was going to save lives.
She drew the light sliders down to dim. The coronas faded from each lamp, down to a faint haze. It would do.
“Hey, computer,” she called.
“Query.”
“Turn on all systems needed for in-depth analysis of viscous contents.” It was easier than listing all of them. The computer knew what she meant.
“Engaging.”
Nodding, Kayleigh strode for the workstation—and the bit of murky liquid that was going to make her father very happy.
“The following equipment has—”
As she reached for it, her ears plugged.
The mechanized voice droned around her, unintelligible.
Her vision narrowed. Tunneled. The syringe slid out of her fingers, hit the edge of the table, and clattered to the floor as Kayleigh collapsed.
The plastic tube rolled across the pristine linoleum.
It left a trail of burning gold. A fiery comet, burning all in its wake.
And then she saw nothing.
T
hunder crashed overhead, the end-of-summer storm turning the sky into a playground of blue, purple, and murky black. The rain slammed to the streets in a curtain of gray, limiting visibility to a narrow corridor of blurry lights and acid-tinged mist. The hour hovered somewhere between midnight and one.
Simon leaned against a lamppost, collar turned up against the rain and feeling twice over the consistency of hammered shit. Hands buried in his pockets, he shivered against a cold that leached the warmth from his very bones—a cold too intense to come from the rain.
Time. It all came down to time.
In the alley behind him, Parker waited with an impatience he could all but feel boring into his back. She didn’t like having to wait in hiding. Simon couldn’t blame her; this whole thing had been her idea to begin with. But he wouldn’t risk the chance of recognition.
Every feed from entertainment to news to police band had gone supernova with the story. Mission Director Parker Adams, traitor to the Holy Order. Armed and dangerous. Wanted at all costs.
Dead or alive.
Preferably dead
.
She was too recognizable, and they lacked the freedom topside to find the things Simon knew how to requisition in the lower streets. Her assets had been frozen almost immediately, and whatever allies she might have made as director were either too scared or unwilling to help her now.
He didn’t have the money or the contacts up here to keep her safe.
But damn it, he had to try.
The comm, clenched in one fist, hummed, a short, staccato fluctuation Simon wasn’t sure he didn’t imagine. He waited. Another thrum against his palm cut off only halfway through its standard duration.
Simon flinched as his head spiked a complaint; a bolt of pain through the back of his skull. Why most of the pain started there, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Whatever the reason, dead would soon enough be dead.
When his comm vibrated again fifteen seconds later, he pulled the device from his pocket and flipped the lid. “Talk to me.”
“Oh, man.” Jonas’s voice cut through the rain, his tension. Even through the pain, but it wasn’t kind. Usually so pleasant, tonight it lanced through his senses and scorched everything behind it.
Simon squinted, wiping away the stinging rain from his eyes with his free hand. “That sounds bad.”
“Let’s just say that you are seriously going to love these guys,” Jonas replied lightly. “Like, fall down and worship.”
“I’ll take that bet.” He glanced down the empty street, then into the alley behind him. He couldn’t see Parker from where he leaned, but that meant no one else could, either. The shopping district had long since emptied for the night. “Talk to me.”
“Okay, between May and me, we’ve managed to cross enough wires to focus attention away from the sec-line for about three minutes.”
“Not long,” Simon said, frowning. “Are you sure we’ll get through?”
“It’s all you’ve got. They’ll change guards at two-fifteen, and if everything goes right with our calculations, there shouldn’t be a wait. It’s the quiet shift.”
It would have to do. “Who’s our contact?”
“You’ll be meeting them in about half an hour. Where do you want to meet?”
“You aren’t arranging that for me?”
“What, and ruin your mysterious man in the rain routine?” Laughter filled the tech’s voice. “I’ve got you tracked, and your ride’s on the way. Stay there if you want, or meet somewhere less, uh, empty for distraction purposes, but decide now.”
Easy. “We’ll wait.” Simon stepped out of the hazy light, fading into the alley as he transferred the comm to his other ear. “I’ve got Parker with me.”
A shadow detached from the depths of the alley. In the broken light afforded by the violent display overhead, he saw her scrape both hands through her sodden hair, pulling it away from her face.
She looked exhausted. Smudges under her luminous blue eyes told a tale of strain and anxiety that he didn’t have to be psychic to know was for him. He’d scared her earlier. That fucking nosebleed, which was starting to taste less and less like blood and more like he’d licked a copper wire.
It couldn’t be a good sign.
“Thanks, Jonas.”
“That’s why I’m king of the wave.” But Jonas hesitated, and even through the fog in his head, Simon recognized it.
“What?” he demanded. Parker tucked herself against his side. One slim arm wrapped around his lower back, under his jacket.
Like she could support his weight if he pitched over. One corner of his mouth hiked up, his heart torn between raw pain and something so much warmer. Love and loss. Fear and pride. He tugged her closer with one hand, pulled her fully into the shelter of his body; tucked her between the wet alley wall and him.
Jonas sighed. “How are you doing, man?”
“Can’t complain.” It was all he’d say with Parker right in front of him. Her free hand curled into the front of his jacket.
“He’s lying,” she offered.
Ears like a cat.
Simon glowered at her as Jonas’s laughter spilled out from the frequency. “We’ll be here when your contact arrives,” Simon said sharply and snapped the case closed. Shoving the comm back into his pocket, he opened his mouth, but she beat him to it.
“I don’t know why you hide it,” she said, leaning back against the alley. Her eyes closed, red-tipped lashes spiked with rain fanning her cheeks. “He’s seen the list of degenerated subjects, he knows.”
Simon braced one hand against the wall by her side. It let him lean without crushing her with his weight, took the edge off the aches in his body. The exhaustion that was more than just fatigue. “Because I still have things to do. And bitching about it won’t help. Parker—” Her wet hands, chilled by the rain, tunneled under his jacket. His shirt. He hissed out a breath as they found his skin, splayed wide over his stomach. “Dirty.”
“Could be,” she replied, a glint of blue laughing at him from under her lashes. Those fingers crept higher. Along his sides. Dug short fingernails into his skin, and even pain wasn’t enough to dull the sudden pulse of need tightening low in his gut. “How much time do we have?”
Oh, Jesus. To think anyone ever thought her cold. Simon crowded her into the wall, bracing his weight on his forearms, and took her rain-wet mouth in a kiss that soothed him in ways he’d never be able to explain.
She didn’t hold back. Her lips opened for him, sweet and warm despite the acid-tinged rain he tasted on her.
As her fingers tightened against his chest, as his cock made abundantly clear exactly how little time they had, Simon nipped at her lower lip. “Behave.”
“Or what?”
Another nip. Hard enough to elicit a gasp, her eyes flaring with heat and pleasure caught on this side of pain. “Christ,” he murmured, soothing the hurt away with a flick of his tongue. “There isn’t nearly enough time in the world to explore you.”
This time, the pain that flickered in her bottomless gaze had nothing to do with the physical.
Clumsy. Simon gathered her in his arms, turned so his back flattened against the wall, and wrapped her in his coat. Wordlessly—what could she say?—Parker tunneled into his warmth. She was soaked to the skin, but he didn’t care.
“I’m sorry,” he said, nuzzling into her wet hair. His arms tightened around her. “More than you’ll ever know.”
“Quit it.” Her fingers bunched in the back of his shirt. “You keep talking like it’s a done deal. It’s not. I swear to God, I’m going to get that syringe back—”
“Parker.”
“—if I have to hunt Kayleigh down—”
“
Parker
.”
“—to hell myself—”
“Fuck.” Simon caught her chin, tipped her face up and smothered the fierce stream of words with another kiss; another melding of lips and breath and heat that had her swallowing her diatribe on a ragged moan.
Not all heat. He heard her fear, tasted her frustration as he swept his tongue inside to rasp against hers. He poured everything he had into that kiss, everything he didn’t know how to say. Love and need and fear for the future—
her
future, without him. Her body melted, boneless against his.
Lights cut through the alley.
Simon didn’t think, didn’t have to. Reacting purely on instinct, he spun, tucking Parker behind him, one arm holding her in place against the alley wall as he reached for the Colt under the jacket.
A silhouette loomed into the alley mouth, backlit by the rain-hazed streetlamp. “Please don’t shoot me,” came a masculine voice easy on the ears, but unfamiliar.
“Hands up,” Simon growled, shaking his head hard as vertigo slipped in under his senses. Shit.
“Okay. I’m unarmed.” Hands splayed on either side of the silhouette. “Jonas sent me.”
Parker stiffened behind him. “Mr. Clarke?”
“Phin’s fine,” came the calm reply, although the man didn’t move.
Simon lowered his gun. “Phin Clarke. I should have known.”
“I’m not alone.” The shape of a hand beckoned. “We need to get going.”
Parker gently pushed at Simon’s back. “It’s okay, Simon.”
As far as her safety was concerned,
nothing
was okay.
But his director didn’t take her cues from anyone. She sidled out from behind Simon, hooked an arm in his, and said flatly, “He’s rocky on his feet.”
“Parker, damn it.”
Phin stepped fully into view, a lean man with dark brown curls plastered to his head and—
Simon squinted. “The hell are you wearing?”
The man’s very white teeth flashed in a smile as he took Simon’s other arm. Because it beat falling on his face, Simon let him. “The same kind of thing you’ll be wearing in about ten minutes.”
Carefully and fashionably shredded jeans, something that looked like a cross between a man-corset and a dress-shirt, a synth-leather jacket. Club-wear. The kind of getup a topsider wore when he hit the party streets. “Hell, no.”
Parker smothered a laugh.
Phin only shrugged. “Come on, let’s go meet the cavalry.”
P
arker slid into the back of a plain silver car—not too fancy, expensive but lacking in all the gilded edges of the topside elite—and stared at a neon pink blur as it filled her vision. Dangling from a set of callused fingers just on the edge of—
She hesitated to call them straps.
“Is this a dress or a freakishly bright bondage scenario?” she asked dryly, tugging the material out of her face. She scooted along the seat to make room for Simon beside her and raised her eyebrows as the large man wearing chauffeur black met her eyes through the rearview mirror.
“It damn well better be the former,” Simon growled, plucking the material from her grasp. He opened it, gave the one-piece a cursory glance, then turned narrowed eyes to the man Parker had never met. She didn’t have to.
She’d been all over that docket.
“Silas Smith,” she offered evenly. “Most people think you’re dead.”
“That’s the idea.”
Phin Clarke slid into the passenger seat, his dark brown eyes crinkled with amusement as he shut the door. “Do you two know each other?”
“No.” The man had a voice like a truck engine, deep and powerful. It fit. By all accounts, Silas Smith was a missionary who’d forged a path for himself after a mission gone wrong, long before Parker’s time. His features were ruggedly square, carved of granite, and set in implacable lines.
The eyes in the mirror were gray-green. Cool, assessing. Every inch a missionary, no matter where he drew the line now.
But they hardened to jade ice as his gaze settled on Simon.
The silence between them held volumes—unspoken words, emotions, something. A give-and-take Parker wasn’t keyed in to the right frequency to understand. Finally, Simon nodded. Once. “I owe you.”
“You’re damn right.”
Parker’s mouth curved up. Wry humor. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith.”
He grunted a non-answer.
“I suspected you were alive. And Naomi? She was your partner, wasn’t she?”
“Manner of speaking.” Not a forthcoming sort, then.
“Okay.” Phin pulled a bag from the floor at his feet, passed it over his shoulder. “There’s towels back there, and clothes for you, Simon. Change up.”
“Into this?” Parker snatched the slinky pink material from Simon’s grasp, flushing under his suddenly all-too-wickedly amused scrutiny. “What’re we going to do, make security blind?”
“Oh, they’ll be blind, all right,” Phin said, but his smile evened into a straight, no-nonsense line as he met Simon’s narrowed gaze. “You, too, Simon.” He turned back around, deliberately shielding his view with a hand as the car pulled out into the street.
“I’m not wearing a dress,” Simon declared.
Parker grimaced. “This barely qualifies.” But she unzipped her jacket, aware that Silas raised a large hand and tilted the rearview mirror to the roof.
How chivalrous.
Simon wasn’t remotely the same. He watched her as she shimmied out of her coat, helped her when her sleeves caught on her wet skin. His eyebrow quirked as she unbuttoned her blouse.
The look she shot him didn’t help anything. He only grinned, a wicked slant, and traced a line from her collarbone to her navel as she struggled out of her shirt.
Ripples of nerves, of awareness, shimmied out from that imaginary line. Curled deep inside her body.
“I don’t suppose,” she said to break the awkward silence, “there’s a brush and makeup in there?” Her voice betrayed nothing of the butterflies Simon’s touch lodged in her belly.
His grin deepened.
“Jessie said she put everything you’ll need in the bag,” Phin replied without turning around. “Including a wig. If you need a hand, I’m—”
“Don’t even think about it, pretty boy.” Simon’s voice held nothing back. The leashed menace in the order earned a snort from Silas—that surprised her—and a fierce frown from Parker as she flipped her hair off her shoulder. It slapped him in the chest.
“Thank you, I’m good,” she told the man. “I’ve been to too many meetings to not know how to freshen makeup in a car. By Jessie, you must mean Jessie Leigh.”
Simon caught a handful of her hair, tugged in warning, but tucked it neatly behind her back with gentle fingers.