Chaotic (6 page)

I walked toward the door and peered at it. “All I can tell you about this is that someone cast a spell on it, and I know as much about spells as you do about demons. It might just alert Tristan . . . or it could immolate us instantaneously.”

“Having no great desire to end the evening in flames, I say we don’t test it.”

“Agreed.” I paused. “I’m sure, then, that he’ll have the other unguarded exits trapped, too. So now what?”

“We’ll skip the ‘fleeing’ part and revert to the second mode of defense: hiding. We’ll start by getting that gun for you, then find a safe place and try to outlast them. Eventually, someone is bound to realize a security guard is missing and sound the alarm.”

“Making it too hot for Tristan to stick around.”

“Or hot enough for us to escape out the front door in the confusion.”

W
hen we reached the hall adjoining the one with the offices, Marsten made me wait while he scouted. When he came back, I could tell the news wasn’t good.

“Tristan left a guard behind,” he whispered. “Either in case we come back or to forestall discovery of the crime scene.”

“Maybe they’re moving the guard’s body. Getting rid of it.”

He shook his head. “Tristan will want it found eventually. That’s his backup plan.”

“But you said—” I stopped. “That was a lie, wasn’t it? About being part of the werewolf Pack.”

“Not . . . entirely. I’m what you might call a quasi-member. But the Alpha—the Pack leader—knows I’m not a man-eater. My reputation in that respect is spotless.”

“So why are you worried?”

“Some members—I’ve done things, in the past, to the Pack and while I’ve had a change of heart in that regard . . .”

“The ink on your reprieve is still wet, and you can’t afford to test it yet.”

“Exactly.”

“Which is why you tried persuading Tristan to take care of the body.”

“No, I was trying to divert his attention from you.” He paused. “But yes, admittedly, I had a secondary goal in mind.”

“Okay, so why don’t we look after it now? Take out Tristan’s guard, and we can move the body someplace safer, to dispose of it later, plus we’ll have my gun.”

One side of his mouth twitched. “For an amateur, you’re remarkably good at this sort of thing.”

“It’s in my genes, remember?”

“But I suppose you want the guard disabled, not killed.”

“Preferably. I’m not ready to completely give in to the dark side yet.”

His smile broke through. “Let’s see what we can do then.”

I
leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, and focused.
The guard was a supernatural, probably half-demon. After a moment, I picked up his vibe, but it was too far away to be in the first office, with the body.

“He’s in the second one, isn’t he?” I whispered as Marsten returned. “The room we escaped from.”

Marsten’s brows shot up.

“Supernatural radar comes with my package.”

“Oh? But you didn’t detect me earlier.” He smiled. “Not even when you ran right into me.”

“I did. That’s
why
I ran into you.” I shook off the urge to explain. “I’m still practicing. The package doesn’t come with a user’s manual.”

“Well, it worked fine this time. He
is
in the second room. Replacing the vent cover. Cleaning up, it seems.”

“Good, then let’s—”

“I’ll look after him. You stay—”

He caught my expression and breathed the softest sigh. “Just stay clear then. As you said, I’m better equipped for this. Provide backup if you want but—”

“Don’t turn this into a hostage situation.”

“Exactly.”

Marsten started to leave, then wheeled back to me. “He’s coming.”

He held his finger to my lips before I could answer. His eyes narrowed as he tracked the footsteps. A moment passed, then he shoved me in the opposite direction, prodding me to the next adjoining hall. We barely made it around the corner before the guard stepped into the hall we’d vacated.

Marsten pressed me against the wall, still listening, body against mine as if he expected the guard to veer around the corner and open fire.

The footfalls grew softer. The guard was leaving. That would certainly make getting into the office easier.

Marsten started to pull away from me, then froze.

“Was it okay?” a muffled woman’s voice asked. She giggled. “I’m kind of tipsy—”

“It was great, babe.”

Marsten winced as he recognized the privacy-seeking couple from earlier. Guess they’d found what they were looking for.

A door opened less than ten feet away. Marsten swore and looked toward the corner, but it was too late to run—we’d risk being seen by the departing guard. But if we stayed here, the couple would recognize him, and if the man got belligerent again, the guard would hear—

Marsten’s mouth dropped to mine. He pushed me up against the wall, his hands wrapping in my hair and pulling it up to shield the sides of our faces. As he kissed me, I felt a stab of disappointment. His kissing was excellent, of course. Polished and perfect, just like the rest of him. For most women an excellent kisser is cause for celebration. But me? I prefer the ardent gropes and kisses of an enthusiastic, if less experienced, lover.

Behind us, the man laughed. “Looks like we aren’t the only ones looking for a little diversion. There’s an empty office right over there, guys.”

Marsten raised his hand in thanks. The couple moved on. I let the kiss continue for five more seconds, then pulled away.

“They’re gone,” I said.

Marsten frowned, as if surprised—and disappointed—that I’d noticed. I tugged my hair from his hands.

“Okay, coast clear,” I said. “Let’s go.”

He let out a small laugh. “I see I need to brush up on my kissing.”

“No, you have that down pat.”

“She says with all the excitement of a teacher grading a math quiz . . .”

“A-plus. Now let’s move. Before someone else comes along.”

W
e reached the office safely. This time, the door was locked, but Tristan hadn’t trigger-spelled it. He must have assumed we wouldn’t come back. The door lock was only for snooping partygoers or privacy-seeking couples.

Marsten gave the handle a sharp twist, and it snapped open.

“I’ll find my purse,” I said as we hurried inside. “You pull the body out.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I flipped on the light and looked around. No obvious sign of my purse. It must have fallen—

“It’s gone,” Marsten said.

“No, I’m sure it just fell—” I glanced up to see him leaning over the desk. “You meant the body?”

A grim nod. He pulled the desk farther from the wall, then glanced at me. “Find your purse. I’ll find this.”

He leaped onto the desk, hopped into the gap behind it, bent and disappeared. I resumed my purse search. I looked under the desk, beside it, between the desk and filing cabinet—every place my purse could have fallen when Marsten yanked me off the desk earlier.

Marsten popped back over the desk, started to crouch, then noticed me watching.

“What?” I said when he paused.

“I have to sniff the floor.”

“Then sniff the floor.”

Again, he paused, as if trying to think of a dignified way to do it. I sighed, and turned my back to give him privacy.

A moment later, he said, “Nothing. They must’ve carried him out.”

“Meaning you can’t pick up the trail. Not of the security guard, at least. But what about Tristan’s guard?”

“Questionable. I can try, but it’s difficult to do in human form and without getting on the floor, close to the scent.”

“Which is a whole lot tougher to do in a semi-public place.”

He motioned for me to keep looking, and pitched in, checking the other side of the room.

He continued, “I’ll still try tracking. I know a few tricks.”

“Ah, so
you
did get your user’s manual.”

“Most werewolves do.”

“Oh, right. Most of you are hereditary. So your father . . . ?”

“Raised me and taught me everything I needed to know about following a scent.” A quick grin. “Although there was usually a diamond or two at the other end.”

“Your father raised you to be a thief?”

His gaze chilled. “My father raised me to have a career suitable for a non-Pack werewolf who can’t stay in one place without being rousted by the Pack or his ‘fellow’ mutts.”

“The Pack doesn’t let—?”

He cut me off with a wave, his anger receding. “It’s not like that anymore. Not entirely. But in my father’s day, a nomadic life was a must, and thieving skills helped.”

“Tell you what, then. You don’t slam my mom for setting me up on blind dates, and I won’t slam your dad for teaching you to steal.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. No jabs against well-meaning—if occasionally misguided—parents. As for your purse . . .”

“It’s gone, isn’t it? Tristan or his guard found it when they were cleaning up, and they took it to erase any sign of me being here.”

“Most likely. As for the body, though—”

“Billy?”

The voice echoed down the hall. We both froze and turned toward the closed door.

“Billy? You down here?” Then softer. “Damn kid.”

It was a security guard, looking for his dead colleague. Marsten waved for me to get behind the desk, and we both jumped on it just as the door opened.

“You!” the guard said.

A flashlight beam pinged off our backs. Marsten slipped his arm around me in an awkward, interrupted embrace. We looked over our shoulders to see the same older security guard who’d “helped” me open the janitor’s closet. He speared Marsten with a glower.

“Get lost on your way to the bathroom again,
sir
?” he said. “This is bigger than that storage closet, but I’m sure the young lady would be more comfortable in a hotel. There are two right down the road.”

“Uh, oh, yes, of course,” Marsten stammered. “We weren’t—that is to say, we wanted to look around the museum, see the sights—”

“Oh, I know what sights you wanted to see,
sir.
” He waved us off the desk. “You’re a long way from the dinosaur exhibits.”

We complied, getting off the desk and pretending to straighten up. The guard continued to glare at Marsten, as if disgusted that a man wealthy enough to afford tickets to this gala couldn’t spring for a bed.

“There’s a Holiday Inn three doors down,” he said as we walked past. “But I’m sure the lady would prefer the Embassy, which is—”

A movement at the door stopped him. One of Tristan’s guards strode in. He’d swung around the right side of the door, meaning he hadn’t noticed the security guard against the right wall. His attention—and his gun—were on us.

“I thought I heard voices,” he said to us as the security guard stepped up behind him, surprisingly silent for a man of his size. “Good thing I came back. Tristan will—”

The security guard pressed the barrel of his gun between the younger man’s shoulder blades.

“Didn’t see me, huh?” the old guard chortled as the other man stiffened. “A word of advice, boy? Always check the room before you walk into it. Now, lower that gun—”

The younger man spun, gun going up, finger on the trigger. The security guard’s eyes widened and he froze. Whatever ex-cop reflexes he had were buried under years of chasing kids off dinosaur displays and foiling amateur thieves.

The old guard stumbled back, as if forgetting he still held a gun. Marsten threw himself at Tristan’s guard’s back. I wish I could say I did the same. God, how I wish I could. But the truth was that I just stood there, shocked into impotence, like the old guard. It all happened in a heartbeat, not even enough time for me to feel the chaos rising, and not enough time for Marsten to make that five-foot leap. The young guard spun on the old, and fired.

Marsten hit the shooter in the side, knocking him away even as the silencer’s
pffttt
still hung in the air, even as the old guard was still falling, bloody hole in his chest, even as I was reeling backward from the chaos explosion.

I hit the floor and, for a moment, could only lie there, system shocked by the high-voltage jolt. If there was any pleasure in that shock, I didn’t feel it. I lay there gasping, mind blank. Then another shot snapped me from my shock and I leaped up, limbs flailing as if I’d been jolted again. Marsten was crouched over Tristan’s guard, who lay in a heap, neck twisted, eyes open and staring.

“The shot,” I said. “Did he hit you—?”

Marsten waved to a bullet hole in the wall, but didn’t speak, just stayed crouched with his back to me, his breath coming in sharp, short pants.

I ran to the old security guard. Even as my fingers went to his neck, I knew he was dead. The bloody spot on his breast now covered half his shirt, and was still growing.

As I looked down at him, I saw him again sneaking up behind Tristan’s guard, eyes dancing as he imagined himself retelling the story of how he’d single-handedly apprehended an armed man. Again I heard his “see, I’ve still got it” chortle as he put his gun to the young man’s back. The hair on my arms rose, and I rubbed them, trying to chase away the chill, unable to pull my gaze from his body.

My first murder. My first witness to death. And, only an hour earlier, peering behind this desk, I’d seen my first dead body outside a funeral home.

Before tonight I’d never even seen a dead body, and yet I’d fancied myself some kind of secret agent. What had Marsten said when I’d asked if he thought me a fool? Naïve, probably, but not a fool.
Probably
naïve? Dear God, could I have been any
more
naïve? I’d pulled a gun on a werewolf thief. I was lucky Marsten hadn’t done what he just did to Tristan’s guard, and snapped my neck.

“I need to hide the bodies,” he said, his voice soft. “You can wait in the next room if you’d like.”

“No, I’ll clean—” I took a deep breath. “I’ll clean up.”

That’s what I did. Cleaned up the crime scene. When I realized, really
realized
what I was doing, my blood went cold.

Oh-ho, so
now
you’re worried. All this time, playing secret agent, and now that you’re actually doing something illegal, you get scared.

I chased the thought back. Yes, I was scared, and yes, I’d been the biggest damn fool—

Enough of that.

As I wiped away evidence of a crime, and watched Marsten hide the bodies in the ventilation shaft—another handy vent shaft—all I could think about was what would happen to my family if I was caught. The shame, the embarrassment, the humiliation, but most of all the “why didn’t we do more to help” bewilderment and grief. And what could I say? “No, no, you got it all wrong. See, I thought I was helping supernaturals with this interracial council, but really I was working for this sorcerer corporation, and then this werewolf . . .” I loved my family way too much to inflict
that
explanation on them.

“It’s clean,” Marsten murmured behind my head. When I tried to give the tile one last rub, he caught my hand. “It’s clean, Hope.”

“Out damned spot,” I said, trying to smile.

“There’s no blood on
your
hands.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” I said softly.

I thought of all the cases I’d solved, the “criminal” supernaturals I’d turned in. I could see that one witch, so terrified she couldn’t even cast a spell, begging me—
begging
me—not to hand her over, swearing it wasn’t that council who wanted her but a Cabal—

“Hope?” Marsten grasped my shoulder, his grip hard enough to push back the vision.

“Sorry,” I murmured. “Just . . . ghosts.”

“Whatever you did, you thought you were—”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? It’s actions that count, not intentions. Ignorance isn’t an excuse. That’s what my ethics prof always said. Ignorance isn’t—”

I champed down on my lip hard enough to draw blood, then pushed myself to my feet. “So no gun, no body, but one guard down.” I paused. “
Three
guards, I should—” I shook it off. “
One
of Tristan’s guards. One goal achieved out of three. Not doing so hot, are we? So what’s next? Resume the plan and find a place to hide?”

He nodded. “We’ll try that.”

That didn’t sound terribly optimistic but, considering our luck so far, I can’t say I blamed him.