Micah (3 page)

“Let's go meet Special Agent Fox.” When I took my hand away from his lips, he just nodded. One of the reasons we worked as a couple was that Micah knew when to let it go, whatever the “it” of the moment happened to be.

This was one of those times when I truly didn't know why he put up with me. Why anyone put up with me. I didn't want to ruin this. I didn't want to pick at Micah and me until we unraveled. I wanted to leave it alone and enjoy it. I just didn't know how to do that.

We got our bags settled, and off we went. We had FBI to meet and a zombie to raise. Raising the dead was easy; love was hard.

 

We met the Feds at the baggage return area, as arranged. How did we know who the FBI agents were in the crowd of people, most of the men dressed in suits?

They looked like agents. I don't know what it is about FBI training but Feds always just seem to look like what they are. All flavors of cops tend to look like cops, but only FBI looks like FBI and not plain cops. Don't know what they do to them down in Quantico, but whatever it is, it sticks.

Special Agent Chester Fox, agent in charge, was very Native American. The short hair, the suit, the perfect fitting-in couldn't hide the fact that he was so very not like the rest of them. I understood now some of his pissiness on the phone. He was the first Native American agent that I'd ever found involved in a case that had nothing to do with Native Americans. If you happened to be Native American, you could usually look forward to a career of dealing with cases that called for your ethnicity but not necessarily your talents. Cases involving Native American issues were also not usually career makers, though they could be career breakers. Another interesting thing about the FBI and its dealing with Native Americans was that if you looked Indian enough, they would assign you even if the case involved a totally different tribe, with a totally different language and customs. You're Indian, right? Aren't all Indians the same?

No. But then the American government—whatever branch—has never really grasped the concept of tribal identity.

The agent with him, I knew. Agent Franklin was
tall, slender with skin dark enough to actually be black. His hair was cut shorter and closer to his head than the last time I'd seen him in New Mexico, but his hands were still graceful and nervous. He smoothed those poet's hands down his overcoat. He caught me looking and stopped that nervous dance. He offered me a hand just as if he hadn't called me a slut to his partner.

I took his hand. No hard feelings here. I even smiled though I knew it didn't reach my eyes. Franklin didn't even try to look pleased to see me. He wasn't rude, but he didn't pretend he was happy either.

“Agent Franklin, I'm surprised to see you here.”

He took back his hand. “Didn't your friend Bradford tell you I'd been reassigned?” He said
friend
like he meant more, and the rest was bitter. Not obvious bitter, but it had that feel to it. Nothing he said was rude enough to start a fight, but it was close.

Special Agent Bradley Bradford was head of the FBI's Special Research section, which dealt with preternatural serial killers, or crimes involving the preternatural.

There'd been a lot of controversy about splitting those crimes out of the Investigative Support unit, the one that usually handled serial killers. At short acquaintance, Franklin had made his feelings clear on the situation. He'd been against it.

Since Bradford was his boss at the time, that had been a problem. Apparently, Franklin had been reassigned, a nonvoluntary reassignment. Not good for a career in the FBI. I was taking fallout for a political squabble that I'd had nothing to do with. Great, just great.

I started to introduce Micah, but Fox beat me to it. “Callahan, Micah Callahan.” Fox was already offering his hand and smiling, way more broadly than he'd smiled for me. How did an FBI agent know Micah? “You look good.”

Micah smiled not quite as broadly, like he wasn't as happy to see Agent Fox. What the hell was going on?

“Fox, I . . .” Micah tried again. “The last time you saw me, I was still in the hospital. I must have looked like shit, so I guess anything's an improvement.” I could hear the uncertainty in his voice, though I
doubted anyone else could. You had to know him really well to hear that note in his voice.

“Someone who came that close to dying is allowed to look like shit,” Fox said.

I knew then that this probably had something to do with the attack that had made Micah a wereleopard. All I knew about it for certain was that it had been violent. Once someone uses the words
violent
and
attack,
you don't press for details. I'd figured he'd tell me more when he was ready.

Micah turned to me. His face was having trouble deciding what to do, and I was betting he was glad that the glasses hid his eyes. “Special Agent Fox was one of the agents who questioned me after my attack.”

I hadn't known that his mauling had gotten federal attention. I couldn't think why it would have but I couldn't ask that here and now because it would be admitting too much ignorance. Also, I wasn't sure how much Micah wanted to share in the airport with people walking around us.

I covered. I can do blank pleasant cop face with the best of them. I did it now. “What are the odds that
he'd be the agent in charge of this case?” I said, smiling, as if I knew exactly what we were talking about. I'd give Micah a chance to explain later, when we didn't have an audience.

“I didn't know that you were an animator,” Fox said, still talking to Micah.

“I'm not.” And Micah left it at that.

Fox waited for him to add more, but Micah smiled and didn't. Fox would have let it go, but Franklin didn't. Some people just can't leave well enough alone.

“Are you a vampire executioner?” Franklin asked.

Micah shook his head.

“You're not a federal marshal.” And Franklin said it like he was positive.

“No, I'm not.”

“Let it go, Franklin,” Fox said.

“She's brought a civilian along on a federal case.”

“We'll talk about this in the car,” Fox said, and the look he gave Franklin stopped the taller man in midsentence.

Fox asked me, “Do we need to wait for more bags?”

“No,” I said. “We're going back home tomorrow, right?”

“That's the plan,” he said, but his face was not happy, as if the whole thing with Franklin was still bothering him.

“Then we're ready to go.”

He actually smiled. “A woman who packs light—that's rare.”

“Sexist,” I said.

He gave me a nod. “Sorry, you're right. I apologize.”

I smiled and shook my head. “No sweat.”

He led the way out the doors, and there were two cars waiting. One had two other agents with it, and the other was empty and waiting for us.

Fox spoke over his shoulder at us. “With the new regulations, even the FBI doesn't get to leave cars parked unattended.”

“Glad to hear the new rules apply to everyone,” I said, more for something to say than because I cared. I wanted to look at Micah and was afraid to. Afraid if I gave him too much attention, he'd fall apart or feel
like he had to explain in front of them. Of course, by not looking at him, he might think I was mad about him not sharing details. But . . . oh, hell.

We were pretending he was just my assistant. Holding his hand or giving him a kiss might expose that lie. Or give Franklin even more reason to think I was sleeping around. I hadn't thought about what it might mean to introduce Micah as my assistant. I guess I hadn't really thought it through at all. In my own defense, I hadn't had time to come up with a good explanation for why I needed to bring my boyfriend along.
Assistant
had seemed like a good idea at the time.

I did the only thing I could think of to reassure him and keep the assistant thing going: I patted him on the shoulder. It wasn't much, but he rewarded me with a smile, as if he'd known the mental gymnastics I was going through. Maybe he did.

Fox drove. Franklin rode shotgun. Micah, the briefcase, and I rode in the backseat. The other car followed us as we pulled away.

“We'll drop you at the motel,” Fox began.

Micah interrupted him. “Actually, I booked us into the Four Seasons.”

“Jesus,” Franklin said.

“The FBI won't pick up the tab for the Four Seasons,” Fox said.

“We wouldn't expect it,” Micah said.

I sat there wondering why Micah had changed hotels, then realized that Fox had said
motel
. Oh. Micah wanted a nicer place for our first night alone together. Logical—so why did it make my stomach tight? What was he expecting of our first night alone?

“Are you really going to let her bring a civilian into our case?”

Fox looked at Franklin. Even from the backseat it didn't look friendly. “I suggest, strongly, that you let this go, Agent Franklin.”

“Jesus, what is it about her?” Franklin said. “She blinks those big brown eyes and everyone just looks the other way while she breaks a dozen rules and bends the very law we're sworn to uphold.” He turned around in the seat as far as the seat belt would let him. “How do you do it?”

Fox said, “Franklin,” and the word was a warning.

“No, Fox, it's all right. If we don't get this settled, Agent Franklin and I won't be able to work together, will we, Agent Franklin?” My voice wasn't friendly when I said all that. “You want to know how I do it?”

“Yeah,” Franklin said, “I do.”

“I know how you think I do it. You think I fuck everyone. But I've never met Fox, so that can't be it. So now you're scrambling, trying to figure it out.”

He scowled at me.

“When you thought it was just sex, just a woman sleeping her way through her career, you were sort of okay with it, but now, now you just don't get it.”

“No,” he said, “I don't. Fox is the most by-the-book agent I've ever worked with, and he's letting you cart around a civilian. That's not like him.”

“I know the civilian,” Fox said. “That makes a difference.”

“He was a victim of a violent crime. So what? You knew him how long ago?”

“Nine years,” Fox said in a soft voice, his dark eyes on the traffic, hands careful on the wheel.

“You don't know what kind of person he is now. Nine years is a long time. He must have been a teenager then.”

“He was eighteen,” Fox's careful voice said.

“You don't know him now. He could be a bad guy for all you know.”

Fox glanced in the rearview mirror. “You a bad guy, Micah?”

“No, sir,” Micah said.

“That's it?” Franklin said, and he looked like he was going to work himself into hysterics or a stroke. “You ask if he's a bad guy, and he says no, and that's good enough?”

“I saw what he survived; you didn't. He answered my questions when his voice was only a hoarse rasp because the killer had clawed out his throat. I worked for Investigative Support for five years and what was done to him is still one of the worst things I've ever seen.” He had to slam on the brakes to keep from hitting the sudden line of traffic in front of us. We all got very well acquainted with our seat belts, and then he continued. “He doesn't have to prove anything to
you, Franklin, and he's already proven anything he ever needed to prove to me. You are going to lay off him and Marshal Blake.”

“But don't you even want to know why he's here? What she brought him for? It's an ongoing case. He could be a reporter for all you know.”

Fox let out a long, loud breath. “I'll let them answer this question once, just once, and then you let it go, Franklin. Let it go before I start having more sympathy with why Bradford had you reassigned.”

That stopped Franklin for a second or two. The traffic started creeping forward. We seemed to be caught in rush-hour traffic. I thought at first that the threat would make him give it up but Franklin was made of sterner stuff than that.

“If he's not an animator or a vampire executioner, then what does he assist you with, Marshal Blake?” He almost managed to keep the sarcasm out of the “Marshal Blake.”

I was tired of Franklin, and I'm not that good at lying. I'd had less than two hours of sleep and had to fly on a plane. So I told the truth, the absolute truth.

“When you need to have sex three, four times a day, it's just more convenient to bring your lover with you, don't you think, Agent Franklin?” I gave him wide, innocent eyes.

He gave me a sour look. Fox laughed.

“Very funny,” Franklin said, but he settled back in his seat and he left us alone. The truth may not set you free, but used carefully, it can confuse the hell out of your enemies.

 

The hotel was nice. Very nice. Too nice. There were people in uniforms all over the place. Not police—hotel employees. They sprang forward to get doors. To try to help with luggage. Micah actually let a bellman take our bags. I protested that we could carry them. He'd smiled and said to just enjoy it. I hadn't enjoyed it. I had leaned against the mirrored wall of the elevator and tried not to get angry.

Why was I angry? The hotel had surprised me, badly. I'd come expecting a clean-but-nothing-special room. Now we were going up in a glass and gilt
elevator with a guy in white gloves pressing the buttons, explaining how the security on our little key cards worked.

My stomach was a tight knot. I had crossed my arms under my breasts, and even to me, I looked angry in the shiny mirrors.

Micah leaned beside me but didn't try to touch me. “What's wrong?” he asked, voice mild.

“I didn't expect this kind of . . . place.”

“You're mad because I booked us into a nice hotel with a nice room?”

Put that way, it sounded stupid. “No, I mean . . .” I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the glass. “Yes,” I finally said, voice soft.

“Why?” he asked.

The elevator doors opened and the bellman smiled and stood so he held the doors open but left us plenty of room to move past him. If he'd figured out we were fighting, it didn't show.

Micah waved me in front of him. I pushed away from the elevator wall and went. The hallway was what I'd expected from the rest of the hotel; all dark,
expensive wallpaper with curved candlelike lights at just the right intervals, so it was both well-lit and strangely intimate. There were real paintings on the wall, not copies. No big-name artists but real art. I'd never been in a hotel so expensive.

I ended up in front with Micah close behind and the bellman bringing up the rear. I realized halfway down the dark, thick carpeting that I didn't know what room I was looking for. I looked back at the bellman and said, “Since I don't know where I'm going, should I be in front?”

He smiled, as if I'd said something clever. He walked faster without seeming to hurry. He took the lead and we followed him. Which made more sense to me.

Micah walked beside me. He still had the briefcase over one shoulder. He didn't try to hold my hand; he just put his hand down where I could grab it if I wanted to. We walked like that for a few steps. His hand waiting for mine, my arms crossed.

Why was I mad? Because he'd surprised me with a really nice hotel room. What a bastard. He hadn't
done anything wrong, except make me even more nervous about what he expected from me on this trip. That wasn't his bad, it was mine. My issue, not his. He was behaving like a normal civilized human being. I was being churlish and ungrateful. Dammit.

I unwound my arms. They were actually stiff with anger and holding so tight. Shit. I took his hand without looking at him. He wrapped his fingers around mine and just that little bit of touch made my stomach feel better. It would be all right. I was living with him, for God's sake. He was already my lover. This wouldn't change anything. The tight feeling in my chest didn't get better, but it was the best I could do.

The hotel room had a living room. A real living room with a couch, a marble-topped coffee table, a comfy chair with its own reading lamp, and a table in front of the far picture window that was big enough to seat four. And there were enough chairs to do that. All the wood was real and polished to a high shine. The upholstery matched but not exactly, so that it looked like a room that had grown together piece by piece instead of being bought all at once. The bathroom
was full of marble-and-gleaming everything. The tub was smaller than the one we had at home, let alone Jean-Claude's tub at his club, the Circus of the Damned, but other than that, it was a pretty good bathroom. Better than any I'd ever seen in a hotel before.

The bellman was gone when I wandered out of the bathroom. Micah was putting his wallet back in that little pocket that good suit jackets have for wallets, if your wallet is long enough and slender enough not to break the line of the suit. The wallet had been a gift from me, at Jean-Claude's suggestion.

“Whose credit card did you put this on?” I asked.

“Mine,” he said.

I shook my head. “How much are you blowing on this room?”

He shrugged and smiled, reaching for the bag with the clothes in it. “It's not polite to ask how much a gift cost, Anita.”

I frowned at him as he moved past me to a pair of huge French doors on the far wall. “I guess I didn't think of this as a gift.”

He pushed one side of the doors inward and moved through it, talking over his shoulder. “I was hoping you'd like the room.”

I trailed behind him but stopped in the doorway. The bedroom had two dressers, an entertainment center, two bedside tables with full-size lamps, and a king-size bed. The bed was piled high with pillows, and everything was white and gilt and tastefully elegant. And way too bridal suite for me.

Micah had the suiter in the lid of the carry-on unrolled. He unhooked the hangers from the loops and turned to the large closet.

“This place is bigger than my first apartment,” I said. I was still leaning against the folded door, not quite in the room. As if, by keeping one foot in the other room, I'd be safer.

Micah still had his sunglasses on as he unpacked us. He hung up the other suits we'd bought so they wouldn't wrinkle. Then he turned to me. He looked at me, shaking his head. “You should see the look on your face.”

“What?” I asked, and even to me it sounded grumpy.

“I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to do, Anita.” He sounded less than pleased. Micah seldom got upset about anything, and almost never with me. I liked that about him.

“I'm sorry this is weirding me out.”

“Do you have any idea why it's bothering you this much?” He took off the glasses and his face looked finished, with his eyes showing. The kitty-cat eyes had bothered me a little at first, but now they were just Micah's eyes. They were an amazing mix of yellow and green. If he wore green, they looked almost perfectly green. If he wore yellow—well, you get the idea.

He smiled, and it was the smile he used only at the house. Only for me and Nathaniel, or maybe just for me. At that moment, it was just for me.

“Now, that is a much better look.”

“What?” I said again, but couldn't keep the smile off my face or out of my voice. Hard to be sullen
when you're staring at someone's eyes and thinking how beautiful they are.

He walked toward me, and just that—him walking across the room toward me—sped my pulse, made my breath catch in my throat. I wanted to run to him, to press our bodies together, to lose the clothes and what was left of my inhibitions. But I didn't run to him because I was afraid to. Afraid of how much I wanted him, of how much he meant to me. That scared me, a lot.

He stopped in front of me, not touching me, just looking at me. He was the only man in my life who didn't have to look down to meet my eyes. In my heels, I was actually a little taller.

“God, your face! Hopeful, eager, and afraid, all there on your face.” He laid his hand against my cheek. He was so warm, so warm. I curved my face into his hand and let him hold me.

“So warm,” I whispered.

“I'd have had flowers waiting, but since Jean-Claude sends you roses every week, there didn't seem to be a reason for me to send you flowers.”

I drew back from him, searching his face. It was peaceful, the way it could be when he was hiding his feelings. “Are you mad about the flowers?”

He shook his head. “That'd be silly, Anita. I knew I wasn't the top of your dating food chain when I hit town.”

“So why bring up the flowers?” I asked.

He let out a long breath. “I didn't think it bothered me, but maybe it does. A dozen white roses every week, with a red rose added since you started having sex with Jean-Claude. And now there are two more red roses in the bouquet; one for Asher and one for Richard. So it's like the flowers are from all three of them.”

“Richard wouldn't see it that way,” I said.

“No, but he's still one of your lovers, and you still get something every week that reminds you of him.” He frowned, shook his head. “This room is my flowers to you, Anita. Why won't you let me give it to you?”

“The flowers are a lot less expensive than this room,” I said.

He frowned harder and it wasn't a look I'd seen much on his face. “Is it money that makes the
difference for you, Anita? I draw a decent salary from chairing the Furry Coalition.”

“You've earned the salary, Micah. You average, what, sixty hours a week?”

“I'm not saying I don't deserve the money, Anita. I'm just asking why you won't take this from me, when you take gifts from Jean-Claude?”

“I didn't like the flowers at first either. You got to town just after I'd given up fighting about it with him.”

He smiled then, but it wasn't a really happy smile. More rueful. “We're going home tomorrow, Anita. I don't have time for you to get used to the idea.” He sighed. “I was looking forward to spending some time, just us, and you aren't happy about it. I think my feelings are hurt.”

“I don't want to hurt your feelings, Micah.” I really didn't. I touched his arm, but he stepped out of reach and went back to unpacking. The tight feeling in my stomach returned, but for a different reason.

Micah never fought with me. He never pushed about our relationship. Up until that moment, I'd
have thought he was happy. But this didn't feel happy. Was that my fault because I wasn't enjoying the room? Or was this a talk that had been coming, and I just hadn't known it?

“You know,” he said from the bed, “you are the only woman I know who wouldn't be asking me questions about how I met Agent Fox.”

The change of topic was too fast for me. “What? I mean, do you want me to ask?”

He stopped with the toiletries kit in his hands, as if he had to think about his answer and moving would have interfered with the thinking. “Maybe not, but I want you to want to ask. Does that make any sense?”

I swallowed past my rapidly speeding pulse. This felt like the beginnings of a fight. I didn't want to fight, but without Nathaniel or someone else to help me talk my way out of it, I wasn't sure I knew how to derail it. “I'm not sure I understand, Micah. You don't want me to ask, but you want me to want to ask.” I shook my head. “I don't understand.”

“How can you, when even I don't understand it?” He looked angry for a moment, and then his face
smoothed out to its usual handsome, pleasant neutrality. It had only been in the last month that I'd realized how much pain and confusion he hid behind that face. “I want you to care enough about me to be curious, Anita.”

“I do care,” I said, but I kept myself pressed against the open French door. My hands were behind my back, fingers clutching the door like it was an anchor to keep me from getting swept away in the emotional turmoil.

I puzzled for a way out of the fight that was coming and finally had an idea. “I thought you'd tell me when you were ready. You've never asked me about my scars.” There. That was a valid point.

He smiled, and it was his old smile, the one I'd almost broken him of. The smile was sad, wistful, self-loathing, and had nothing to do with anything pleasant. It was a smile only because his lips went up instead of down.

“I guess I haven't asked about the scars. I figured you'd tell me if you wanted me to know.” He had all the clothes put away, only the toiletries case still
waiting on the bed. “I promised Nathaniel I'd order food when we got here,” he said.

Again the conversational switch was too fast for me. “Are we changing the topic?”

He nodded. “You scored a point.” He said, “You didn't like the room, and it hurt my feelings. Then you didn't seem to care about meeting Fox and hearing more details about my attack. I thought, if she cared, she'd want to know more.”

“So we're not going to fight?”

“You're right, Anita, I've never asked how you got any of your scars. I've never asked you, just like you've never asked me. I can't get angry with you for something I've done myself.”

The tightness in my chest eased a little. “You'd be amazed by the number of people who would still fight about it.”

He smiled, still not happy, but a little better. “But I would really like it if you'd try to enjoy the room and not act like I've lured you here for nefarious purposes.”

I took a deep breath and let it out, then nodded. “It's a beautiful room, Micah.”

He smiled, and this time it reached his kitty-cat eyes. “Just like that, you'll try.”

I nodded. “If it means that much to you, yes.”

He took a deep breath, as if his own chest had been a little tight. “I'll put the toiletries up, then look at the room service menu.”

“Nathaniel was pretty put out that he didn't get to make us a real breakfast,” I said, still clinging to the door.

“I remember when a bagel was breakfast,” Micah said.

“Hell,” I said, “I remember when coffee was breakfast.”

“I don't,” he said. “I've been a lycanthrope too long. We have to eat regularly to help control our beasts.”

“One hunger feeds the other,” I said.

“I'll order food. You look at the file.”

“I looked at it on the plane.”

“Do you remember anything you read?”

I thought about it, then shook my head. “No. I'd hoped it would help take my mind off of the whole being hundreds of feet above the ground situation, but I guess it didn't really help.”

“I noticed just how unhelpful it was.” He raised his hand up. There were still dim marks of my nails. Considering how fast he healed, that meant I'd actually hurt him.