No Humans Involved (28 page)

The door slammed open, lock breaking. His arm went around my waist, lifting me up and dropping us both to the floor. His arm broke my fall, but we hit with such force that we slid across the hardwood. His hand flew to the top of my head a split-second before it crashed into the bed leg.

I smiled up at him. "Always a gentleman."

"Not always," he said, and, with one hard thrust, he was inside me.

Part V

SHE KNELT ON THE living room floor of her condo. The blinds were drawn, but that wasn't suspicious, given the hour. If anyone
had
seen her, he would have been shocked—this upright professional kneeling before an ancient spellbook, surrounded by candles, arcane symbols chalked on the floor. Unexpected, but hardly criminal, worthy only of whispers and raised brows.

The grayish powder in the bowl could be anything—probably wouldn't even be noticed. That was the beauty of it, unlike the dried body parts her nanny had used—those disgusting relics that had to be kept hidden and, when accidentally found, had cost the old woman her job. All that secrecy, shame and pain for something that hadn't even worked. Oh, her nanny had claimed otherwise—taking responsibility for accidents and strokes of good luck. That was how the ignorant practiced magic, seeing success in every coincidental occurrence.

Unlike the rituals her nanny swore by, this magic worked. As for why it worked, the group was convinced the ashes were the key. She'd believed that too. That was the one thing that made the difference between failure and success, ergo it must be the key.

And yet…

What if the magic worked with the ashes because they thought it would? Because they'd wanted this to be the key? Because they'd
needed
it to be the key, to excuse what they had done—taken the life of a child. Guilt, fear and conviction. All powerful motivators.

Three years ago, she'd started experimenting with using lesser amounts of ash. It had taken months of daily practice to see any results. All that practice meant she needed more than her share. Being the one in charge of the burning and the division of material had let her take that extra unnoticed, but she'd hated it. Like a company CEO who pilfered copy paper and printer ink—disgraceful and undignified.

After that initial breakthrough, though, success had come faster with each reduction. It was as if having proven to herself that she could cast with less, she'd overcome a mental barrier that said otherwise. It didn't work with all the spells. Thus far, the group had mastered just over a dozen, and fewer than half of those worked with significantly reduced amounts of human remains. But it was progress. Moving toward the ultimate goal, the one she was testing tonight.

She cast the spell again. A simple one that created a spark—barely enough to light a cigarette, but a building block to better things. One must master the elementary levels first, in magic as in all things.

After casting, she blew a fingertip of ash. The spark flared. She tried again, and was again successful. Then she reached over, picked up a moist towel and carefully wiped her finger, removing all traces of the ash.

She cast the spell. Nothing happened. Again. Nothing.

She swallowed her disappointment. Must remain calm and focused. She dipped her finger in the ash. Cast. Blew. Spark. Again. Another spark. Wipe the finger off. Cast. Failure. Cast…

The air ignited in a tiny pop of light and heat.

She took a deep breath and leaned forward, palms pressing into her thighs as she exhaled. Then she allowed herself a smile.

Only a small spell, to be sure, but she had proven her theory. She could cast without the ash—without aids of any kind.

She resisted the urge to try again. Take the success and hold the memory, untainted by later failure. That would bolster her determination, knowing that the last time she'd tried, she'd succeeded.

She picked up the bowl of ash and poured it back into the jar, watching it slide down. Here was the cement that bound the group together. Bound them in fear and guilt.

There was more than one kind of power and this one was just as essential to her quest as anything magical. She must keep the group together and striving forward, seeking and searching, working with her to achieve her goals.

To do that, she had to keep them killing.

MORNING AFTER

I WOKE UP TO AN EMPTY BED. For me, that's usually a "morning after" relief—saves those invitations to an unwanted breakfast and the "I'll call you" lies, an awkwardness topped only by "what was your name again?" For the first time in my life, on waking to an empty bed, I rolled over and cursed.

I wasn't surprised that he'd left, but I'd hoped the promise of a passionate wake-up call would override his usual sense of propriety. Apparently not. He must have slipped out in the night so I'd be spared curious stares and knowing grins when we walked downstairs together.

Old-fashioned, but I couldn't complain when it was one of the things that had drawn me to him in the first place. Always a gentleman. Well, not always…

I smiled, thinking of some deliciously ungentlemanly behavior from the night before. I stretched and felt a protesting throb between my thighs. Maybe that wake-up call wouldn't have been such a wise idea. One unexpected part of having a werewolf as a lover? All that extra energy.

I grinned and rolled over. More pangs of protest. That dull throb between my legs. Tender breasts. Even my lips hurt.

Damn that was good.

The patio door opened. Jeremy walked in, pants on, shirt undone, feet bare, cell phone in his hand. Seeing me, he lifted the phone.

"My morning check-in with Elena. I didn't wake you, did I?"

I shook my head and was about to peel the covers back when I noticed that faint wrinkle between his brows had deepened.

"Everything okay with the babies?" I asked, pushing up onto one arm.

"They're fine. But Elena's already read the L.A. news online. She thinks it's just as it appeared in the articles—that you found a body. I confirmed that." A hand raked through his hair as he looked around distractedly for a place to put his cell phone. "I don't like lying to her."

"I know."

"They're going to find out, after this is done. The council has to know and Elena will need to know first. It'll take some careful explaining. "

"Do you want to call Clay in? Or Antonio?"

He shook his head. "The more people we have around you, the less likely the group will reveal itself. If I need help, I have a backup plan."

He laid his phone down on the dresser. I glanced up at his hair, glistening and damp.

"You've showered?"

"Yes. I didn't disturb you, did I?"

"No, it's just—" I motioned to the front of his pants. "Forgot to zip up."

He frowned. Before he could look down, I stretched and caught his waistband.

"Come here. I'll get it."

He moved to the side of the bed.

I undid his button, opened it, then looked at the zipped fly and smiled. "Whoops. My mistake."

I undid the zipper, reached inside and lowered my head to give him a proper good morning.

LRTER, I was curled up against him. "I was just thinking. This is probably the safest place to be."

"Hmm?"

I propped myself up to look down at him. "If I'm in danger, maybe we should just stay here until it's all over."

He gave a low laugh and rose to kiss my neck.

I sighed. "What you're politely refraining from pointing out is that that the problem won't end while I'm in bed with you."

"I'm afraid not."

"So I suppose we should…" I eyed the cold room beyond, "get up."

"Probably."

He pulled me down to him in a kiss that said we weren't going anywhere for a while yet.

IT WAS midmorning by the time I finally got into the shower. As I dressed, Jeremy slipped out. I was pretty sure it was too late to pretend he'd spent the night on the sofa, but that wouldn't stop him from trying.

I'd hoped we could get a complete update from the police, but even Jeremy's polite charm could only win a grudging summary from the young woman guarding the scene. Yes, they'd uncovered a second body. Yes, they were looking for more but, no, she wasn't confirming that they
expected
to find more.

I'd also hoped to sit out in the garden, maybe find a quiet corner and let the children know I was still there, but the best I could manage was permission to sit on the balcony off my room, and I only got that because—after a brief conference—they seemed to decide there wasn't much they could do to stop me, as long as I wasn't taking pictures of the scene.

We gathered breakfast and went up, leaving the bedroom door open so no one could accuse me of holing up with my lover while I was supposed to be "on the set." Not that I had anything scheduled yet. I'd passed Todd Simon in the hall and he'd only blathered, "Plans, big plans. Be ready for my call, Jaime." My guess? He had this big opportunity and no idea how to use it.

Grady was doing the morning-show rounds. As for Angelique, I'd looked for her, wanting to make sure she didn't feel left out, but I must admit, with the case and Jeremy on my mind, I

hadn't looked very hard. I'd make it up to her at that revival in Nebraska.

As Jeremy ate, sitting on a patio chair, I watched the scene below. There wasn't much to see. Two technicians were working on the spot near where we'd found Rachel Skye. Tools and equipment scattered about indicated there were more people involved, maybe taking a coffee break.

"The children aren't making contact," I said. "I don't know if they can, with me being up here. Maybe they don't know I'm around. Or maybe they're gone. If they move the bodies, the ghosts might go with them. And then—"

"When this is over, Eve will find them. But, as you both said, it's more likely they'll stay here."

I nodded, staring out over the yard. "Do you think they know what's happening? Can they see what's going on?" I nibbled my lip. "I've never been able to tell how well they see or hear things on this side of the veil. Maybe they're watching their bodies being dug up—"

He'd moved up behind me, hands going to my hips, pulling me close. His lips tickled the back of my neck. I leaned into him.

"Stop worrying, right?" I said. "There's nothing I can do about it."

"Yes, there is. We can catch whoever is behind this. Then you'll free those souls—"

"What if I can't?"

His kisses circled to my ear. "You will. Once we know what was done to them, you can free them. Eve said—"

"Maybe she's just saying that to calm me down, so I don't freak out—"

He turned me around to face him. "Does that sound like Eve?"

I shook my head.

"The children are fine," he continued. "It's unlikely they will leave, and if they do, we'll find them. It's also unlikely they understand what's happening, and if they do, they'll get over it once they're freed, which you will do just as soon as you're able to." His lips brushed my forehead. "Now come inside. Hope's probably wondering why we haven't called—"

"Ms. Vegas?" A rap at the open door. It was one of the guards. "Are you in here?"

I called an invitation and we stepped back into the room as he entered.

"Do you know a May Donovan?" he asked. "Lawyer? Works for some paranormal group?"

"Sure. What's up?"

"She was here this morning. Demanded to speak to you. Started off nice enough, but when I said you weren't available, she got pushy. Came right inside looking for you. We stopped her before she got far, but then she went out back and questioned the police…"

Jeremy stepped up beside me, frowning. "Did she seem upset?"

"Pissed off. Like we were hiding something. She wants you to call her. That Simon guy doesn't want you to—didn't even want me giving you the message—but that didn't seem right."

The Lesson Of The Nymphs

"DAMN IT," I said as I sat on the bed. "She must think this is some kind of scam. A publicity stunt."

"If she didn't lob accusations, she may only want to speak to you," Jeremy said. "There could even be some benefit in doing so."

I looked up at him. "How?"

"The longer we keep this in the news, the more worried the group will become. Having you claim further 'messages' from the victims may not be wise. But working with May Donovan's group… ?" A graceful shrug. "Put the right twist on it, downplaying the spiritualism and playing up the ritualistic aspects of the killings, and she's likely to be quite willing to help."

"To uncover the worst kind of paranormal scam—one with real bodies."

"Perfect. I'll call now, tell her I want to talk."

I phoned the number May had left. The phone rang four times, then voice mail picked up. As I listened to her inviting me to press one to connect to her secretary, I stopped, finger over the button. Then I hung up.

I laid the cell phone on my lap and thought. Then I thought some more. And while I did, Jeremy didn't question, just waited.

"May Donovan," I said finally. "Her accent. It sounds British, doesn't it?"

"I'm not very good with accents, I'm afraid. My language skills come from books, not conversation."

"But it could be British, right? I was just thinking about what Eve said—that Rachel's killer was a woman with a British accent. And I know that seems like an enormous leap, but…" I took a breath, slowing my thoughts and organizing them. "Zack Flynn said May had it in for Botnick. Imagine if she
was
part of this group and knew Botnick was searching for them. What better way to keep tabs on him? Purely professional interest. Even he wouldn't be suspicious."

Jeremy looked thoughtful. Dubious? After a moment, though, he said, "I think it's South African."

"Hmmm?"

"The accent. I believe it's South African."

"Like the folk magic we were investigating?"

He nodded. I called Eve.

I'd barely finished saying her name when she appeared.

"I see you haven't left the bedroom yet," she said, plunking onto the bed.

"You got here fast."

"She says, avoiding the subject. I didn't have far to travel. Kris and I have been patrolling. So far, nothing."

"What about this morning. Did you see a woman like this?" I described May. "She talked to the police earlier."

"Yeah, Kris saw her. She said she was a lawyer for the family, freaking out over the damage to the property, wanting to know how much longer they'd be digging up the backyard. Kris listened in, but he knows a lawyer when he hears one."

Jeremy and I exchanged a look.

"Did
you
overhear her?" I asked.

Eve frowned. "No."

I picked up the phone and dialed May's number, then held it out for Eve to listen. At first, she just fixed me with a "what the hell are you on?" look, but after a moment, she said, "That sounds like…" She stopped herself. "It
sounds
like the woman Rachel heard when she was kidnapped. But it might just be the accent. Who is she?"

I explained. As I spoke, Eve's frown deepened.

"Okay," she said when I finished. "She
does
sound like the woman Rachel heard. And she might be from South Africa. And, yes, falsely representing herself as the family's lawyer to get a look around is suspicious, but this is exactly the kind of thing a scam-buster
would
take an interest in—a potential child sacrifice, pseudo-satanic shit. Someone who's so hell-bent on proving the paranormal doesn't exist certainly isn't going to get involved in it."

"It could make a good cover story," Jeremy said. "But Eve has a point. If she's been actively trying to disprove the paranormal for years, that's a very elaborate cover."

"Is it?" I settled onto the bed. "Do you remember what she said when we first met her? She started off on the opposite end of the spectrum. A seeker. Only after getting burned did she switch sides." I turned to Jeremy. "Eve met this guy in the afterlife who was running a poltergeist school. He had the gift, which is rare, but instead of trying to seriously teach others, he used it to entice nymphs to his school… and his bed. Nymphs made an easy target because, in the afterlife, they're always looking for power. They get plopped into a world full of supernatural ghosts, but they themselves have lost their powers."

"Except cheerleading," Eve said. "They make very good cheerleaders."

"When Aratron was here, he talked about the evolution of the supernatural. There are people out there who have supernatural blood, but because their original powers are no longer useful, they don't know it. Isn't it possible that some sense they might be different? I've met people like May Donovan, who seem driven to seek out magic and supernatural answers. Maybe because they have the blood, but not the power."

Eve snapped her fingers. "That could explain why the magic is working. Latent supernatural blood. Like quarter-demon crossbreeds." When I looked at her, she said, "Half-demons don't pass on their powers to the children, right? But they say that the blood still counts, gives any other supernatural powers a boost. So Savannah doesn't have my demon powers, but she probably gets an added bump to her spellcasting."

I passed her words on to Jeremy, who considered them as I went on. "Let's say May Donovan has this drive because of her latent powers. She seeks out knowledge, but gets nowhere. So she flips sides— works out her frustration by uncovering scams while still secretly searching those scams for truth. Even after she found a backdoor in, she'd keep up the front—both searching for new magics and to protect herself." I paused. "Do you think she knows about Hope's powers? Maybe that's why she made contact in the first place."

"Possible," Jeremy said. "But it's equally likely that she simply makes it her business to be involved in everything paranormal in this city, including offering her assistance to a new tabloid reporter who covers the supernatural. If Hope uncovered something, May would be among the first to know."

"Which is exactly what happened."

WE SET about brainstorming. The most obvious way to test our theory would be to take advantage of May's invitation and trap her. But we had no way of knowing how many people were involved or what magics they had.

Almost an hour passed. Then Jeremy's cell phone rang.

"It's Hope," he said before answering. "I should have called her."

A couple of minutes later, he hung up. "Zack Flynn wants to meet with us. He says he has news."

"The reporter? But he's part of the Ehrich Weiss Society, which means he's probably in this magic group with May too, so why—" I stopped. "Because I wouldn't see May or return her call. Now he's giving it a shot."

"So it would seem. I told Hope to stall him and said we'd meet her in thirty minutes."

"Go out? Is that safe?"

"We'll be careful. But we have to go to her. There's someone I need to talk to."

BEING A Saturday, Hope had spent the day at her apartment, waiting for instructions from Jeremy. When we arrived, he walked to the head of the narrow road leading around her building. There he stopped, sniffing the air. When the way was clear, he crouched to pick up a trail.

When he straightened, he led me down an alley. I knew if he didn't explain, it was either because he didn't want to worry me or because he didn't want to speak prematurely.

We looped around another building coming out… somewhere. My sense of direction is lousy and here, surrounded by buildings, I didn't even have the sun to check. Another road, another alley.

When the dirt under our feet turned to gravel, Jeremy motioned for me to wait. Then he carried on, slowly and silently, not so much as a rock rolling underfoot. As he approached an alcove, he eased along the wall and stopped at the edge. Though he was too far and too hidden in shadow for me to see clearly, I could picture him sniffing, listening, waiting.

Then he stepped out into the opening.

"Hello, Karl."

His voice echoed down the empty alley and was drowned out by a curse of surprise. Jeremy motioned me toward him.

There, in the shadows, was Karl Marsten.

A recent addition to the Pack, after several years of "fence-sitting," Karl was a jewel thief, and looked like Hollywood's version of one. Dark haired with sharp features and sharper gray-blue eyes. With his pressed pants, linen shirt, Italian loafers, faint tan and manicured fingernails, he looked like an action hero idling on the sidelines while his stunt double worked up a sweat for him. But from what Elena said, he was quite capable of working up that sweat all by himself, and those expensive clothes did little to disguise a powerful build. A dangerous man hiding beneath the veneer of a bored sophisticate.

By the time I arrived, he'd overcome his surprise and was eying Jeremy with a half-smile that seemed almost rueful.

"Dare I ask how long you've known I was around?" Karl said. "Or, perhaps not. You'll shatter my delusions of stealth."

I looked at Jeremy. "So that's whose scent you've been picking up these last couple of days. Elena didn't have him standing by in Arizona after all."

Jeremy said, "I'm not the one he's been watching."

He directed my attention across the way, where we now had a perfect view of Hope's backdoor entrance.

"I was… concerned," Karl said.

"Because she called and told you she was investigating some occult business, and you thought she was doing it on her own."

"Which isn't to say that she couldn't handle it on her own, but I knew Jeremy was in town and Elena wanted me nearby in case of trouble. Discovering that it involved you meant there was no reason not to stay close, keep my eye on—"

He stopped, gaze fixed on something over my shoulder.

Hope started toward us. "I sensed a werewolf and thought it was Jeremy, so I came down to meet him. I should have known better. Werewolf plus chaos equals only one person I know. Care to finish that sentence, Karl?
Who
were you keeping an eye on?"

Genuine dismay rippled Karl's composure. "I was—"

"Doing his job," Jeremy cut in. "Watching me, at Elena's behest."

"Ah." She gave Karl another hard look, one that said she didn't believe it, but would take it up with him later. "I suppose you might as well join us, then."

"With such a welcome, how can I refuse?"

"With such an entrance, how can you expect a welcome?" Hope turned on her heel and headed for her backdoor. "At least I didn't come home to find you in my living room again."

"I was testing your security."

"You just like pushing your luck. One of these days you've going to spook me on the wrong night and push it right into an early grave."

WHEN WE reached Hope's apartment, Karl looked around.

"I see your mother's been here," he said. "She has impeccable taste."

"She does. And she's single. Close to your age too. Want her number?"

He only strolled into the living room and stretched out on the sofa.

"Make yourself comfortable," Hope said, tossing her keys on the counter.

"I am, thank you. And I'll take a Scotch and soda when you have a moment."

She flipped him the finger. He smiled. As she invited us to sit and offered coffee, his gaze followed her, lips still curved. She tossed him a bottle of Perrier. He caught it easily and we started to plan.