Touch of Evil (19 page)

He bounded around the desk once more and

moved me toward one of the plush cushioned

chairs. "Sit. Sit, and I will call the cutter to tell them you arrive Wednesday. Marta will return shortly. You will wait, yes?"

I glanced at my sports watch, and frowned. "I really don't have much time."

"Of course, of course! You're a busy woman. I know this. Please, just spare an old man a few moments." His expression was exaggeratedly woeful, but the effect was spoiled completely by the bright sparkling eyes behind his glasses.

"I suppose." I didn't want to. I wanted to go home. But I really couldn't afford to alienate one of my best clients. I thought about the stack of bills on the desk, and then about Monica. I'd give him ten minutes. No more. "But just a few minutes. I really do have another appointment." An appointment with my closet and my weapons.

Morris nodded assent before scurrying in to the inner office.

I took off my sunglasses to look around and tucked them into the pocket of my jacket. The front office of G&S Jewelry Design hadn't changed much since my last visit. Very "office neutral." The actual

"work" is done in a workroom discreetly sealed off behind Morris's personal office and guarded by a formidable security system. This was the public face of the business. The walls were pale dove gray, the carpet a deep turquoise. There was one difference. A brightly colored Monet print had been replaced with an expensively framed article from a jewelry industry magazine. I stood and walked over to get a better look.

I could hear Goldstein's voice booming from his office. He was speaking Hebrew.

When I started getting regular runs to Israel I had decided to learn Hebrew. With my looks, it's not something most people would expect—but it's come in very handy. Without even meaning to, I found myself translating the conversation I was overhearing.

"Ken, ani amtin." (Hello. Yes, I'll hold.) I forced my attention back to the article. It was a personal profile of Morris Goldstein, and spoke very highly of his ability to see a rough stone and determine what the final cut and size will be before it gets to the scaife. Unique talent, that.

"Ken, ken. He kan. Lo, lo Raiti. He loveshet meil" (Yes, yes. She's here. No, I didn't see any. She is wearing a jacket.)"

That perked up my ears. The cutters know and like me but they would not give a jolly goddamn about my wardrobe—except possibly my jewelry. I glanced at my watch again. It was almost eleven o'clock at night in Tel Aviv. My stomach lurched and my mouth went dry. Who in the hell was Morris talking to?

"Ani yachol Le-aker ota Le-reva shaaa, avl Atta tzarich lemaher Ani Hoshev sh-Araba- atenu hochel Le-hishtalet alia." (I can probably stall her for another fifteen minutes, but you must hurry. I would think that between the four of us we can control her.)

Yep. There was that nasty tingling again. I was being set up. Steeling myself against the upcoming onslaught, I opened my senses completely as I heard Goldstein leave his office. There was an angry buzzing in my head and then the murmur of a hundred voices. Damned if he wasn't a Host! I'd never noticed! Then again, I hadn't seen him in person for nearly four months.

I debated simply being gone when he arrived in the lobby. But no, that would be running.

Goldstein was beaming his usual smile when he reappeared. "Good news! The shipment from Sierra Leone has arrived and the stones should be cut by Wednesday."

I kept my body loose but ready. I didn't know what he would do next so I needed to be prepared for anything. My smile probably had a sinister edge. I chose my words carefully. "Atta Tovmeoz meod. Lo Hayiti Choshedet. Aval Atta Yachol Le-Msor La-Malka Shelcha sh-ani lo chelck me- ha-eder sk-he osseffet." (You're very good. I never would have suspected. But you may tell your queen that I am not part of the Herd to be collected.)

Goldstein froze. He began to sweat profusely as his Thrall and through him the queen realized that I not only spoke Hebrew but knew their plan.

My voice was cold and harsh as I continued in English. "Monica, I will deal with you on my terms in my own time. Make no mistake that any of your children who try to control me will pay dearly for it."

I slammed down my mental shields. I started listening to heavy metal songs in my head, reciting the periodic table, anything that took concentration so the Thrall wouldn't be able to read my mind. I half-expected Morris to try to stop me when I turned on my heel to leave, but he seemed frozen in place. That happens sometimes when the Host tries to fight off the Thrall parasite's commands. It's different than what happened to Dylan, but has a similar outward appearance. Once upon a time Morris had been my friend and I appreciated his effort. I'd have hated to have to kill him. I'd no more than stepped in the hall when the elevator bell dinged. Taking no chances, I ducked into the stairwell. A full eight flights to reach the ground. Ick. I took the stairs two at a time. I considered finding another floor and taking the elevator down but frankly, they would probably think of that. An access door opened above me, and I heard feet thundering down the stairs toward me.

I gripped the handrails and tried a tactic that was both quicker and quieter, sliding down the flights using the handrails the way Bryan and I had when were kids. It takes a long reach and good upper body strength. By the time I'd done four flights my left shoulder was giving me hell. Thank God there were only two more floors between me and the ground. The footsteps stopped. They were listening for me. Their hearing is almost as good as a lycanthrope's. I felt a prickle at the back of my mind as they searched with their minds for mine. I gripped the handrail tighter, stopping my descent. I hovered in mid-air two flights below my pursuers, deliberately concentrating on composing a thankyou note to my old coach for insisting on parallel bar training to strengthen my triceps.

Two more steps and they stopped again. After more agonizing moments, the steps retraced

upward and an access door opened and closed. I hovered for another full minute, ignoring the knifing pain that let me know the shoulder wouldn't stand for much more. Were they both gone? I just didn't know.

I carefully lowered myself down and stood

silently, listening for any movement; any breath. I didn't dare open my senses. If there was still someone above me, it would be like sounding an air horn in the echoing stairwell. On my tiptoes, I eased one boot down onto the next step, using the far corner of the tread, where the rubber was still new and silent. Twice more and I reached the landing. I silently leaned over and rubbed my hands on the floor. There was just enough dust from previous shoes to lightly coat my hands. I carefully removed my watch, tucked it into my front jeans pocket and pushed up the sleeves of my jacket, so the zippers wouldn't contact the metal handrail. They wouldn't cooperate, and kept falling down to my knuckles. Ah, the hell with it! If anyone heard, I'd deal with it then. Grasping the handrails, I slid down quickly and nearly silently. Nobody followed.

I didn't stop at the lobby, but went down the extra floor to the parking level. I'd fight if I had to, but without weapons, and with my shoulder giving me hell it was a risk I'd rather not take.

I carefully opened the door to the garage. It was cool and silent. Here I could safely open my senses. Unless someone were in the structure with me, the thick concrete would block my telepathy. No buzzing, no headache. I was alone. My bootsteps echoed off the parked cars, but I didn't care. I just wanted bright sunshine and people around me. I bent almost double to get under the crossing barrier, and the guard gave me a strange look, but I was out! I walked quickly down the shadowed street. Now, back to the house for my neck guard and every knife in the drawer.

"Psst. Kate!" The hiss of a familiar voice caught my attention. I glanced into the souvenir store to my left and saw Dylan frantically motioning me inside. He pulled my arm and took me to the back of the store. We knelt down behind the racks of

overpriced, cheesy T-shirts with pictures of baby wildlife and pithy sayings, sporting "Always Buy Colorado" labels.

I had to gasp when I finally got a look at him. He was transformed—no longer a sweating, shaking mess. He seemed confident and intense.

"My God! Dylan, what's happened to you?" He shushed me with a look as his eyes raked the area. "We have to do this fast. They'll know I'm missing soon. Here!"

He shoved two photographs into my hands. The first was of a group of kids admiring a tricked out Mini Cooper. The second was a pair of dour

looking teens trying to act cool and goth. Both photos had been taken from a distance. You could just make out features. He pointed to the painfully thin girl in a long black skirt, sporting Jell-O green hair and white lipstick. "That's Dusty last year. I think she's gone to pink or red hair this year. The girl next to her in the tie-dye cropped shirt is her best friend, Voneen. I remember Dusty mentioning that she thought it was cool that Voneen had her own place. It was somewhere over on East Colfax near Clarkson Street by that triple X theatre. If Dusty went anywhere, it was probably to

Voneen's."

Wow! That was the last section of town where I would have looked for them. I knew the place he referred to, but couldn't remember the name. It was something like Nancy's Pleasure Castle. . . . It's a twenty-four-hour triple X arcade and book store, with attached lounge and theater. It covers about a full city block. I'd heard there were some sleeping rooms above the lounge, but never had the nerve to go look. I was afraid I would catch something really icky.

I saw movement and felt a touch on my hair. In my somewhat paranoid state, I immediately lashed out to strike. But Dylan was quicker. He grabbed my wrist in a blur. My heart lurched in my chest as I realized how he'd managed his "miraculous" change. I looked into those sapphire eyes and croaked,

" Why? For God's sake, Dylan—how could you? I can't believe you'd let one of those things . . ." I couldn't believe he'd actually taken that last step and become a Thrall Host.

He smiled sadly. "It's not what you think, Katie. Vickie isn't like Monica. But I couldn't fight Monica's influence without help."

"But you'll die." I felt tears well up and hated it: hated that he could still move me to tears. He reached out and touched my hair, stroking a gentle finger down my face to push away an errant strand. "I'd forgotten how beautiful your hair is." I frowned and pulled at my arm, but he wouldn't release it. "Don't change the subject, Dylan." An amused hint of a smile curled one side of his mouth. "I'm not changing the subject, Katydid." The familiar endearment cut through me like a knife, but I couldn't seem to get any words out of my mouth.

"I don't want Monica to have Dusty, and I don't want her to have you. I want you alive, and happy and with me for the rest of my life. I've been checking around. Vickie treats her people right. One of her Hosts is still healthy after twelve years." His words were a buzz in my head. Even with him touching me, I couldn't feel the Thrall Host inside him. "With you?" I finally blurted. "That's insane. What are you talking about?"

He gently traced a warm line down my jaw and I felt my body react. His face grew serious. "Just what I said. I was a fool, Katie. I've regretted what I did every waking moment for the past two years. I've never loved Amanda like I loved you. I hurt you, and I can't tell you how sorry I am. But I want to make it up to you." He suddenly looked lost. "I .

. . I mean . . . oh, hell! "

He moved forward like liquid and pressed his mouth to mine. His hand reached behind my head and pulled me tight against him. His tongue slid in between my lips before I could breathe. Then I was lost in the feel of his jaw moving against mine, lost in the sweet, familiar taste of the man I used to love. The careful shell that I'd constructed around my heart was cracking. He held my wrist tight in his and I could feel a fine trembling running through strong new muscles. My other hand was trapped against his rock-hard chest.

But I was terrified that if I searched with my tongue, I'd find fangs behind his teeth. I tried to pull away, but the fingers sliding through my hair held me like steel. The kiss was hungry, needy, and part of me was reminded of nights long ago filled with cries and moans on cool sheets. The beginnings of a beard scratched my chin as his kiss deepened. When he moaned, my breathing grew ragged and he tore feelings from me that I'd thought were gone. But just when I was about to give in to my own need and free my arm to clutch at him, I

remembered the truth. He wasn't mine anymore. He could never be mine. And I wanted someone else now.

I pushed and pulled at the same time, separating us. "Stop it, Dylan." He let me go and I moved back even further, clutching the photographs like a lifeline to the present. "Don't make me think that there's a chance for us again. I can't believe you. I don't trust you. I'll find Dusty, but please—go back to your wife and stay there."

He met my eyes and stared long enough with

darkness in his gaze that I shivered. "No, Katie. I'll go, but not back to my wife. I have to leave until Monica is gone." He pushed himself to his knees and then got to his feet as though raised on strings. It was unnerving. He turned started to walk out of the shop, but then turned his head and looked down at me, still huddled on the floor. "But I'll be back, Katydid. I won't let you get away a second time."

I couldn't think what to say to that. My jaw just kept working silently long after he walked out the door. It took a few more moments for me to collect myself enough to get to my feet. I stood in the shop for a minute longer. If he was going into hiding, it was better that we not be seen together. But the fact that I still cared enough to wait scared the bejeebers out of me. It wasn't fair to Tom, or to me. I looked again at the pictures. Of course, none of this was fair to Dusty. Not at all. I put the pictures in the back pocket of my jeans.

Why was Dylan hiding and whose side was he

on? From what he said Vickie must be a different queen—but from where, and what was she doing here? I had too many questions, and not nearly enough answers.