For Love or Vengeance (4 page)

Chapter Five

“You’re so pretty-y-y.”

He moved in time to his song, prancing around the table bearing his instruments of mayhem. In one hand he held cheap costume jewelry mucked up with gore from his earlier victims. Dancing the fingers of his other hand across the gleaming steel knives, probes, and clamps neatly laid out on the table, he grabbed one long, sharp probe, and tossed back the boa he wore around his neck.

With the probe gripped elegantly in his hand, he neared the naked young man strapped to an adjacent table and continued with his serenade.

“Oh so pretty-y-y…”

He smiled and leaned his face close to that of the handsome male whose eyes bulged with terror. Muffled sounds escaped the gag around his victim’s mouth, although he would soon remove the binding so the young man could sing.
He loved to hear them sing
. He trailed the sharp point of the probe along the perfect skin of the man’s face, leaving behind a nasty scratch.

But the scratch was nothing compared to what was to come.

Nothing compared to what he had suffered
. It hadn’t been bad enough that he’d lost the use of his legs. They’d rejected him time and time again for one role or another. He was “never right for the role” but he’d known what they meant. They didn’t want a cripple ruining their production.

But no one could refuse him now, he thought as he started singing once and smiled at the pleasant tune. He knew what was soon to some.

“Oh so pretty and witty and…dead.”

Helene’s eyes blurred from reading the long list of numbers on the LUDS from all four victims’ cell phones and even a landline. As it turned out, victim number four might have been totally technologically challenged, but he had definitely known how to use both his phones.

Even with her super-human ability to speed-read and interpret the data, the overload was taxing. Besides, she had never really been good with numbers. Maybe it was because she was a binary kind of goddess: “1” stood for good, and “0” stood for evil. In her book, that was all that was needed to mete out justice.

As she let her mind play with all the numbers, mentally arranging and rearranging them in orders that might make sense, she leaned back in her chair and dragged her hair away from her face. Once again the numbers melded into a jumble, warning her that even goddesses needed a break.

Did her partner?
She looked over at Sanchez.

His head of caramel-colored hair was bent down as he went through the weekly newspapers they had found at the homes of three of the four victims. All his attention was now focused on those materials, but during the long course of the day she had known when his attention had been on her.

It had been disconcerting to feel the change in his aura as desire slipped out before he reined it back in. His need had awakened a corresponding pull within her. But his determined control had brought her an unusual spurt of disappointment.

Which made no sense
. Disappointment meant she had been hoping he’d do something about that desire. She didn’t normally bother with mortals. They were too frail and inconsequential. But it was getting harder to think that way about Miguel as she spent more time with him.

Miguel was anything but frail and inconsequential. He was bright, respectful, and responsible, and she was finding it very easy to work with him. When combined with his looks, those qualities made him even sexier. Which was making it difficult to battle her attraction.

Needing a jolt of sugar and caffeine to get her focused once again, she rose. “I’m going for coffee. Can I get you something?” she asked, the earlier camaraderie lingering.

“Actually, I’ll come with,” he said, stood, and grabbed his jacket, slipping it over his broadly muscled shoulders.

She asked, surprised, “You’ll come with?”

He finished shrugging on the jacket and stared at her, a boyish grin on his face. “Yes, as in go with you to get a cup of coffee, because I need a break and partners do that kind of thing.”

His voice was almost singsong and obviously teasing.

She didn’t do teasing all that well, but somehow found herself kidding him in return with, “Really? Do partners maybe also spring for cinnamon scones?”

He rounded his desk, tucked her arm into his, and said, “If that’s what floats your boat.”

With gentle pressure he urged her toward the elevator. Once they were there, she shifted away from him. His presence continued to be a challenge, and if she really admitted what would float her boat—she would probably shock the hell out of him.

And possibly herself.

She was silent while they waited for the elevator, trying to restrain her wayward thoughts. But her partner didn’t seem to understand she needed a little space.

“Find anything in the numbers yet?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

Miguel waited for Helene to ask him how it was going, but she didn’t, hard nut that she was. So instead he mimicked, “And how are you doing, Miguel?” He lowered his tone. “Not finding much yet, Helene.”

The barest tilt of her lips told him he might be making inroads on his taciturn partner, so he continued, raising his pitch once more. “If we’re not finding anything, Miguel, maybe we should try running through all the victims’ backgrounds again.” Then lower. “Yeah. And their credit card purchases, address books, and anything else they’ve got lying around.”

She finally looked at him, but with a growing glimmer of a smile. “You work hard at being annoying.”

“But not as hard as you work at being a cold-hearted bitch,” he said, but again with a lilt of humor to soften his words.

“Actually, the bitchiness comes naturally. It’s being nice that’s a ball-buster,” she said, deadpan, drawing a chuckle from him.

“Well, as long as we understand each other,” he said as they exited the elevator, left the FBI building, and walked the couple of blocks to the nearest Starbucks.

It was late, almost ten, and the staff was cleaning up as they arrived. The cashier pasted on a smile and took their order while a barista with dark circles under her eyes and a sleeve of tattoos grabbed the cups to fill their orders.

They were silent once again while they waited, and after prepping their coffees, exited into the comfortable autumn night. Pedestrian traffic had dwindled, but taxis and other vehicles still rushed past on the streets as they strolled back to the office.

After they had taken sips of their coffees, he asked, “Seriously, though. Do you feel as if we’re following another round of dead leads?”

“Possibly. Although I did notice an uptick in phone activity immediately before the possible dates of their disappearances,” she said.

“I wish I could say the same about the trade newspapers the victims had. They have all kinds of casting calls and news, but nothing that connects back to the victims.”

Helene nodded, took another sip of the fragrant coffee, a caramel macchiato this time. “It’ll happen. I just…”

Miguel understood her unspoken words. She was hoping they would put something together before the next victim was killed. He wanted to do the same, but based on all the information, they were no closer to a clue. All he could do was echo her sentiment.

“It’ll happen.”

They continued walking, sipping their coffees, the time companionable despite the silence. As they approached Federal Plaza, Miguel caught sight of ADIC Hernandez hurrying away from the building in the direction of Tribeca.

He pointed with his cup at the ADIC. “Someone is sure in a rush to get home.”

Helene watched their boss race westward. Even from this distance, with her second sight she could feel Hernandez’s excitement. In a burst of mental connection, two words formed in her mind—
Blood Bank
.

“He’s got a hot date,” she told her partner with a knowing smile, certain she hadn’t misread the signals from their ADIC. But what did going out have to do with a blood bank?

“Lucky him,” Sanchez murmured.

She glanced over at him and noticed a sad expression on his face. For reasons she couldn’t even begin to understand, she once again couldn’t resist teasing her partner. “What’s the matter, Sanchez? Feeling a little lonely in the Big Apple?”

He stiffened beside her. His sadness was nearly overwhelming, impossible to miss as his aura changed to a troubled blue-red.

“I’m sorry, Sanchez. I—”

“Miguel. The name is Miguel, and I don’t need someone like you feeling sorry for me.” He quickened his pace, leaving her in his dust.

Someone like me?
She tore after him, caught up, and grabbed his arm. She whirled him around forcefully. “Someone like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

His face was stony. “It means that no matter how intelligent and beautiful you are, it can’t make up for your apparent lack of a heart. Do you ever feel sympathy for anyone else? For yourself?” Miguel reached over and plucked her hand off his suit jacket as if removing a piece of nasty garbage.

She didn’t know why it mattered what he thought, or how that simple action was more painful than a knife thrust to her middle. But it hurt—something she hadn’t thought possible after so many years of guarding her heart against both gods and mortals.

Her shoulders sank and she battled the tightness in her chest that almost choked her reply. “What do you know about real pain? About the humiliation of being lied to? Of being abused?”

The world shifted then, as if Atlas himself had heard her agony and moved to her side. But it wasn’t Atlas who stepped forward and tenderly brushed aside the curls that a soft autumn breeze had blown onto her face. It was no god who dared to trace his thumb along the ridge of her cheekbone and wipe away a mortified tear.

It was a human. A mortal whom she feared could be more dangerous to her existence than anyone had been in over two millennia.

“I’m sorry, Helene. I shouldn’t have judged you so quickly,” he said, and again caressed her face with his thumb before another tender pass of his hand across her hair.

That simple touch eased past her armor, weakening her defenses. She had to shore them up or risk even more problems with her new partner. Straightening her spine, she defiantly tilted her head up. Combined with her heels, that brought her nearly eye to eye to his six-foot something height. She needed to establish some distance.

“This is the reason partners shouldn’t get personally involved, Sanchez. All you need to know about me is that when it comes time to pull the trigger, I will. Can you say the same?”

He surprised her by brushing aside some more curls and offering a smile tinged with regret. “Let’s hope neither of us has to do any shooting on this case. I’d rather that justice makes sure this bastard fries.”

He turned and they resumed their walk back to the office, both silent.

Helene was certain of one thing—justice
would
prevail. She had no intention of failing.

What she wasn’t so sure about was Miguel. And what
his
intentions would mean for her life.

It was midnight before they decided to call it a night.

None of the information they had sifted through had yielded any nuggets of value, just wasted time.

Helene stood at the door to the building, watching Sanchez walk away. He had offered to escort her home, a chivalrous gesture. She wanted no part of it. Or him.

She could take care of herself. And although she didn’t care to admit it, having him anywhere near her home and a bed might prove seriously dangerous.

Besides, she had taken a moment to look up “blood bank” in their databases and come up with a hit that had surprised her—it was the name of a nearby Goth bar that had seen its share of trouble with the law. Not the kind of place she had expected their über-responsible and seemingly by-the-book ADIC to frequent. The place was so much out of his league it made her wonder if he was working on another case there.

She wasn’t tired and could use something to drive her thoughts away from the encounter with her partner, so she headed off in the direction of the club. According to the map, the Blood Bank was only several blocks away.

She hurried, eager to wash off the stench of human emotions covering her. She shouldn’t have allowed Sanchez to goad her, or to make her feel her attraction for him. Or worse, to reveal things she had kept controlled for so long. Now they had oozed out and tainted her.

A quick pleasure-filled fuck would be just the thing to cleanse herself of the troubling emotions, and of the unexpected need she felt for her too-compassionate and too-honorable partner.

When she reached the Blood Bank, there was no line at the door and the bouncer barely lifted his head as she entered. Inside the club, darkness prevailed. Nearly every surface was painted black. The patrons were also dressed in black, and sported a variety of piercings and tattoos.

She searched for what she knew would be the one spot of color in the room—her ADIC.

She wasn’t disappointed. She easily spotted the khaki of his suit at the back of the club where he sat with a Goth-looking woman.

Interesting
.

She headed in his direction, eager to learn his secrets.

Chapter Six

The woman with the Assistant Director was at least a decade younger than Hernandez, which put her in her mid-twenties. She was dressed in a black cotton T-shirt under a black leather jacket. Her black hair fell in choppy layers against a roundish face with intense eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea.

Pretty, but with a hardness about her that Helene recognized. It mirrored her own.

The woman had known suffering, and a lot of it, despite her young age.

As Helene approached, the young woman met Helene’s gaze dead-on, unafraid. And with good reason. Helene sensed the thrum of undead power pouring off the other woman’s body.

A vampire
.

Or maybe not. The pulse of power was irregular. Either she wasn’t a full-blood vampire, or she had only been recently turned. Too much humanity remained for her to be one-hundred percent vamp.

Seeing the distraction in his date, the ADIC slowly turned to look behind him, but not before cautiously slipping his hand beneath his jacket to rest on the grip of his weapon.

When he realized who it was, a bright splotch of color erupted along his high, sculpted cheekbones and he withdrew his other hand from where it had been holding the young woman’s.

“Special Agent Alexander,” he greeted. So he wasn’t undercover. “Is there an emergency?” He lifted a brow, striving for that annoyed-boss look. It failed miserably.

Helene made a point of taking in his finger-rumpled hair and the partially unbuttoned shirt that spoke of a recent quick tryst. When he noticed her perusal, the stain of color deepened on his cheeks and he coughed. “Alexander? Is there something I can do for you?”

She shouldn’t have been enjoying his embarrassment, but she found it refreshing that her dour and demanding boss seemed to be involved with one of the undead. She stuck out her hand to the young woman, and said, “Special Agent Helene Alexander.”

Her ADIC’s date shot a puzzled look at him before finally grasping her hand. “Michaela Ramirez.”

As she shook Michaela’s hand, there was no denying the existence of immortal power. But it was tainted by mortal weakness. Michaela must have sensed the difference in Helene, too. She pulled her hand back and rubbed it briskly, as if to ward off any lingering transfer of power, and narrowed her eyes.

“So you’re with the FBI—” Michaela began.

Hernandez cut her off. “And she’s leaving right now, unless there’s something work-related that can’t wait until the morning.”

With a smile, she glanced between the two of them. “Didn’t mean to intrude, Sir. I just came in to get a drink.”

Before he could reply, she strode away and headed for the bar along the far wall. Like everything else in the place, except her boss, the wooden bar was black, and bore an assortment of ruts and grooves that spoke of a violent past. Figured. She shot a quick glance at the patrons. The club was filled with a rough lot of Goth-type humans. She also felt a number of vampires weaving through the crowd, probably in search of a midnight snack.

“What can I get you?” someone asked, and slapped a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of her.

The man behind the bar had an air of authority about him that said he was more than just a bartender. Tall, with dark, white-tipped hair, he had roped muscles and pale skin. Too pale. She met his steely gray gaze and he bent forward and sniffed the air around her, as if that might tell him more about her. If he was an immortal, he would sense her pulsating power, just as she sensed his.

“What are you?” he asked, leaning his hands on the edge of the scarred bar top.

“I’m Special Agent Helene Alexander,” she replied, reached into her jacket pocket and flashed him her credentials.

Unimpressed, the man chuckled and shook his head. “We’ve had your kind in here before, Special Agent. Ended up joining the crowd instead of fighting it.”

An FBI agent who chose to become one of the undead? Certainly not her Assistant Director
. Hernandez was completely mortal, unlike his squeeze. Helene had sensed nothing unusual about him with her second sight. Or with her touch when they’d briefly shaken hands at their introduction.

She briefly wondered which other agent it might be. “I just came in for a drink, nothing else,” she assured him.

Once again the man just laughed, heartier this time, and leaned his forearms on the bar. The action brought him closer. The overwhelming power of vampire swept over her as he said, “That’s a shame, I could think of some interesting things we could do all night long.”

She eyed him coolly. “What makes you think I’d have any interest in a vamp like you?”

With a wistful smile, the bartender said, “I get the feeling we’re two of a kind.”

“You think you’re like me?” she retorted, but as he leaned toward her again, his powerful immortal aura came close enough for her to read him. His hand brushed hers, and visions of his past rushed through her. Scenes of violence and loneliness. Of abuse suffered at the hands of someone more powerful. She jerked away.

The revelations dissipated, and calm settled over his aura. It was the kind of calm few were born with, and others only obtained by enduring some extreme challenge. A challenge where justice had finally been served, soothing a troubled soul. It was a powerful and enticing kind of calm.

He must have sensed the connection that had sprung between. He said, “Sometimes it helps to just have a friend.”

In all her existence, Helene had never had true friends. Not even among the other gods and goddesses, who were always busy playing games to maintain their standing with Zeus.

“You think we could be friends?” she challenged.

He smiled, shrugged, and placed a shot glass on the counter before her. “Stranger things have been known to happen,” he replied, but in his eyes she caught a glitter of interest that said friendship wasn’t the only thing he had in mind.

Deciding his dare might not only be entertaining, but also help drive thoughts of her too-tempting partner from her mind, she said, “I guess we’ll just have to see, Mr.—?”

“Foley,” he said, and offered his hand. “Daniel Foley.”