Personal Demon (22 page)

I took the rest of the details, then signed off.

I was jotting down a list of steps to pursue when Paige appeared, this time bearing toasted and buttered English muffins for two, and a coffee for herself. I took the plate and mug and filled her in.

“I don’t think your father’s involved,” she said finally.

That was, as she knew, my first question and the one I least trusted myself to answer.

“I’m not discounting the possibility—” she said.

“Always wise,” I murmured.

“—but, unless I’m missing an angle, I can’t see the advantage for him. He hired Hope to infiltrate the gang.

Granted, he’s also hoping to woo her to the dark side, but he’s a practical man, and he’ll want value from the job, so there’s no sense sending her in if he plans to squash any whiff of rebellion three days after she starts.”

“Agreed.”

“Has she spoken to your dad since?”

“She was supposed to check in this morning, but Karl turned off her alarm and made the call himself.

Probably wise. He’s better equipped to gauge my father’s reaction.”

She nodded. “When it comes to bullshit detecting, Karl’s a natural.”

“He told my father that Hope had been on a job with the gang the night before and was still sleeping and, according to Karl, my father gave no indication that this was a surprise or that he was expecting anything else. He told Karl she could call later if she wished, or wait until tomorrow’s check-in.”

“Any chance these guys took off?”

I tore a piece of my muffin. “Hope says they were happy with the gang, even after being beaten and robbed.

And Karl concurs. They weren’t going anywhere from what he could see.”

“So what are their theories?”

“Hope suspects rogue elements in the Cabal.”

“Like what happened to her.”

“Precisely. Karl is looking at an inside job, specifically the gang leader. He wants me to investigate him.”

“The leader has a beef with the Cortezes so he takes out his own guys and blames the Cabal? Devious. Not surprised Karl came up with that one. What does Hope think?”

“He hasn’t mentioned it to her. He’s also not telling her about the blood, which, admittedly, I don’t understand. Hope’s hardly the sort to fly into histrionics at the supposition that these young men met with violence.”

“She’s involved with one of them.”

I frowned.

“Hope’s involved with one of the guys. Probably this Jaz.” She set down her coffee cup. “Karl doesn’t want to tell her about the blood, meaning she’s more attached to them—or one of them—than a casual acquaintance would imply. Karl doesn’t know them, but he’s certain they didn’t up and leave town. And, from the way Karl spoke of them, he has some issues with this Jaz. Why would Karl have a problem with a young man whose disappearance has Hope so worried? One word.
Sex.
” She picked up her coffee and sipped, considering. “Or, at least, sexual jealousy. There was a relationship or the threat of one.”

“I missed that completely.”

“I could be wrong. But if I’m not, then we have to consider another suspect.”

“Karl.”

LUCAS: 4

PAIGE SETTLED AT HER COMPUTER,
preparing to run investigative searches on the gang members.

As moral as Paige is, she’s also an experienced hacker from her college days, and sees no reason not to use those skills in pursuit of a just cause.

The concept of breaching ethical boundaries to reach a morally acceptable goal is something Paige struggles with more than I do, though it’s always an issue in our line of work. But if the breach leaves no obvious victims, and only puts Paige herself at risk, then she doesn’t hesitate to do it.

It was now seven—or ten in the East—making it a reasonable hour to begin placing calls. I was reaching for the phone when a call came in for Paige from Gillian MacArthur, one of the students in her “Sabrina School.”

Paige mentors a small group of young witches, long distance, those without ties to others. Life can be difficult for witches. Their primary institution, the Coven, is more interested in hiding a witch’s powers than in strengthening them.

The witch-sorcerer divide doesn’t help matters, not when the Cabals are run by sorcerers. Witches and sorcerers are historical enemies, a ridiculous prejudice that carries over to this day. According to the witches, they took the less powerful sorcerers under their wings, taught them stronger magic and were rewarded by being thrown to the Inquisition—getting them out of the way so the male spellcasters could rule the supernatural world unopposed. More specifically, it is the original Cabal—the Cortezes—whom they blame as the instigators. Our sorcerer version tells us that witches did indeed help us better hone our innate abilities, but when we became too powerful, they turned us over to the Inquisitors, and we retaliated by doing the same to them. I suspect the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

With an impotent American Coven and exclusion from the Cabals, witches lack a strong place in the supernatural world, something Paige is trying to change. Her Sabrina School is one step in that direction. Today, though, she kept the call short, promising to phone back, then handed the receiver to me.

I dialed the number from memory. It took six rings for someone to answer. This wasn’t unusual, in a household where no one was ever in any rush to make contact with the outside world and trusted that if the caller was a friend, he’d know to stay on the line.

A woman answered, her greeting friendly but distant, as if she had better things to do, but given that no one else was going to pick up the phone, it had fallen to her, as it usually did.

“Elena, it’s Lucas.”

Her tone brightened. “Hey, Lucas.”

We chatted for a minute, then I asked to speak to Clayton. He was outside with the children, and it took a few minutes before he made it to the phone.

“What’s up?” he said.

No pleasantries exchanged this time. Not even an introductory hello. In anyone else, it would be a sign that my call was unwelcome. With Clay, there was no such subtext. Why bother with hello when I’d know he was there as soon as he started talking? Why ask after Paige’s health, or mine, or Savannah’s, when he knew if we were unwell, he’d already have heard it from Elena? The point of civilities was lost on Clay, and I must admit, it’s sometimes pleasant to get straight to business without wading through five minutes of social conventions.

“I have a hypothetical question to put to you regarding Karl Marsten.”

“What’s he done now?”

“If he felt some attachment to a woman and she began to form an attachment to another man, could his reaction be…violent?”

“We’re talking about Hope, right?”

“Not necessarily. I’m posing it as a—”

“Hypothetical question.” The line buzzed as he moved, probably thumping down onto the sofa, getting comfortable. “If it’s not Hope, then the answer is no, because Marsten doesn’t ‘feel some attachment’ to any woman—hell, to any person—except that girl. But if we are talking about Hope, which I presume we are, then the answer is different.”

“All right, it’s Hope.”

“So she’s getting cozy with another guy, and you’re asking whether he could get violent? Toward her?

No.”

“I was thinking of the other party.”

“The competition? Yeah, he could. Not saying he would, but he could.”

“How violent are we talking?”

“Look, just tell me what’s going on. Yeah, yeah, client privilege or whatever, but you know I’m not about to go blabbing to anyone—including Marsten. Only person I’d tell is Elena, but that goes without saying.”

I explained the situation.

“Shit,” he said when I finished. “So you’re asking whether Marsten would take out his competition permanently? Wish I could cut back your list of suspects and tell you no.” A rustle, as if he was changing position.

“You know Marsten attacked the Pack, right? Six, seven years ago? Because we wouldn’t give him territory unless he joined?”

“You’ve told me, yes.”

“Well, because he couldn’t hold territory, what he’d do is settle in a city for a few months and unofficially declare it his. Any other mutt showed up, he’d track them down and take them out to a fancy dinner. Buy them whatever they wanted, foot the bill, chat them up, be as gracious a host as only Marsten can be. Then he’d tell them they had until dawn to clear out. If they didn’t leave? Elena would get a call or a letter telling her she could remove that mutt from her dossiers.”

“He killed them?”

“Hell, yeah. Marsten’s not stupid. He knows you don’t quash a threat by tossing out warnings, maybe break a bone or two. Kill a few mutts and word gets around: don’t tread on Karl Marsten’s territory.”

“And in this case, Karl’s territory would be Hope.”

“But killing these kids doesn’t send a message to anyone except Hope and, as cold as that bastard can be, I can’t see him doing that. Could he have gone to scare the kid and things got out of hand? Maybe. Or if he felt that he could lose Hope to some kid she just met? Doesn’t sound likely, but who knows. You aren’t asking me if I thought he did it, but whether he could. Short answer: hell, yeah. Now, about this job Hope’s doing. Does Elena know?

’Cause she’ll feel out of the loop if—”

A whisper. Elena.

“One sec,” Clay said.

He didn’t bother covering the receiver.

“Time to go,” I heard Elena say. “Parent and tot swim starts this morning, remember?”

Clay let out an obscenity.

“Is that a no?”

“That’s a ‘why the hell can’t we just buy a pool?’”

“We can, but this has nothing to do with swimming lessons and everything to do with social interaction.”

Another, stronger epithet.

I considered hanging up, but if I did, Clay would call me back, annoyed, never understanding that I’d consider it rude to be privy to a private conversation.

“They love being around other children,” Elena continued. “Did you see them at the playground last week, Kate toddling after the older kids?”

“She was stalking them.”

A sputtered curse, from Elena this time. “She’s eighteen months old! She was not—”

“Classic stalking behavior.”

“And I suppose Logan hiding in the bushes was part of the ruse. She’d steer them into the trap, then he’d spring out—”

“Shit, I never thought of that.”

An exasperated groan, then a sharp “Hey!” from Clayton, probably as he got a poke or pinch. The phone line crackled.

“Lucas?” It was Elena. “Please excuse Clay’s rudeness, again.”

“That’s quite all right. Tell him I’ll talk to him later.”

“I’ll have him call you back…if spending an hour in a pool crowded with humans doesn’t traumatize him too much.”

“It makes me uncomfortable,” Clay said in the background. “It does not—”

“Bye, Lucas.”

“Good-bye, Elena.”

The line went dead.

HOPE: BIRTHDAY PRESENTS

I
woke alone, and flashed back to that Valentine’s “morning after.” This had better not be another case of next-day jitters. While his explanation of that next day made the memory less painful, I wasn’t enduring round two.

As I pushed off the covers, the door opened. Karl walked in with coffee. Hot and fresh—from the same place he’d bought it yesterday. Even if there’d been a coffeemaker and supplies, he’d have gone out. Having tasted his coffee, I was grateful.

I took a sip and closed my eyes. “Mmm.”

“I bought a few groceries. Eggs, bacon, bread—presuming there’s a toaster.”

“You’re going to make me breakfast too? Wow.”

He gave me a look. “You know I don’t cook.”

“Well, I sure hope this means you plan to try. Expecting me to cook breakfast isn’t a good way to sell this mate business.”

“Does that mean I should cancel the offer on the cabin in the Poconos?”

I laughed and swung my feet out. “I’ll make you breakfast, Karl, but only because it’s your birthday…and because, in comparison to the cabin and baby-making, it seems relatively benign. First, though, I’m having a shower—” The rumble of his stomach cut me short. “Okay, first breakfast.”

“Thank you.”

I headed toward the closet, but Karl tugged me back. “You don’t need that.”

“If you’re asking me to cook you breakfast in the nude then, yes, it is your birthday, but no. Bacon spatter is very, very hot.”

He handed me the button-down white shirt he’d worn the night before.

“Oh, you want me to wear your shirt. Little show of property rights?”

“You can’t just humor me and put it on without comment, can you?”

“At least I didn’t accuse you of wanting your scent on me.”

He helped me into the shirt. “I believe I’ve already accomplished that.”

“Which is why I suggested a shower…”

“I wasn’t complaining. In fact—”

“Don’t say it. Please.” I looked down at the half-buttoned shirt. “Do I at least get to put on panties?”

“It’s my birthday.”

“Gonna milk that for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”

“Gonna try.”

I STARTED FRYING
bacon and making toast. The toast would go cold before I put the eggs on, but this was only the first batch. Even without Karl’s grumbling stomach, his pacing would have told me he was starving. So I fed him two slices and that seemed to be enough to let him turn his attention to other matters…like getting his hands under my shirt as I stood at the stove.

At first he just moved his fingers over my thighs and rear, stroking and tickling. Then he eased his fingers between my legs. I flipped the bacon and shifted, and his fingers slid in. I stood there, spatula raised, bacon forgotten…until the stink of burning pork reminded me.

“Distracted?” he said as he pushed his fingers in deeper.

I bit back a moan. “Maybe. But you’re the one who wants breakfast, so if I burn it…”

“Not your fault.”

I arched onto my toes and wriggled. Then I felt something that definitely wasn’t his fingers. I leaned forward, lifting up—and caught a spray of bacon grease in the face.

He pulled me back, then leaned down to murmur, “Sorry. It won’t work very well anyway. Not unless we get you a stool.”