Sacrifice the Wicked (7 page)
As if anyone cared anymore about greenery and nature.
Parker sat on the edge of the fountain, one hand buried in her trench coat, the other holding an umbrella open over her head. The rain cooled the air, gave it enough of a mild bite that she didn’t relish getting a soaking.
Pedestrians passed on the other side of the fountain, a long line of black umbrellas and the occasional colorful designer pattern. Cars glided by, wheels forging through the collected rainwater as the built-in gutters worked to direct the flow away from the streets.
On the park’s side, the paths remained empty.
As far as Parker knew, only the occasional jogger or strolling couple wandered through the meandering trails. It wasn’t big enough for a full run, and there were better places—gyms and cultivated tracks—where exercise could be more comfortable.
She tended to stick with the Mission facilities herself. How long had it been since she’d last wandered through the evergreens?
Years, at least.
Her clearest memory involved an eager set of hands and the risk of getting caught.
A faint smile touched her mouth as she shook her head. That was a long time ago. A somewhat less difficult time, though the orphans collected in the Mission boardinghouse always knew where they’d eventually end up. The Church cultivated everything—parks, people.
Conspiracy.
She shifted on the cold, hard ledge, transferring her umbrella to the other hand. Her gun was in reach, but she couldn’t leave it out for anyone to see. It’d take some doing to get it if she needed it.
She hoped Jonas was right.
She couldn’t risk extra backup on this one. Not if what the analyst said was true. Anything, any clues, as to GeneCorp’s nature and interests would help her.
Help the Mission.
She resisted the urge to check her watch.
“Miss Adams.”
Her head whipped around so fast that the umbrella tilted. A man caught the edge, sent water leaping out from the waterproof material in a miniature version of the fountain.
He wore a long coat, virtually identical to hers but for the black color, belted over what looked like dark jeans. Not exactly suit-and-tie wear. His lean build and wet curls didn’t offer anything to make him stand out, though his angular features were handsome enough.
Not as striking as Simon.
And she really didn’t need to be making
that
comparison.
His smile reached his warm brown eyes. “Pleasure to meet you face-to-face,” he said lightly. He let go of her umbrella. “May I sit?”
Her eyes narrowed as the memory clicked into place. “Phi—”
“There’s no need for that,” he said hastily, folding to the ledge beside her with elegant ease. “Let’s just keep this as informal as possible.”
“So you say,” she said slowly, shifting to keep distance between them. Not that she expected Phinneas Clarke to do anything but charm her to death.
The man had a reputation. A little less than a year ago, he’d run the city’s premier resort and spa for the wealthiest and most elite. Coming from a prominent family himself, the spa had done very well among the wealthy set.
Until a rogue missionary had infiltrated it, culminating in its destruction—and the defection of one of her top agents.
Phin Clarke’s mother had died in the ensuing fallout. Parker had tried to keep tabs on them, to get to the bottom of the events that had ended in so many questions, but a few months later, the Clarkes had vanished completely.
That made them guilty as hell in her book, but she’d never had anything to go on.
Until now.
He studied her, a kind of half smile shaping his mouth. “I suspect you have a lot of questions.”
“You have no idea,” she said evenly. “Let’s start with where you’ve been.”
“Safe.” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers, elbows braced on his knees. If the rain dripping through his sodden hair bothered him, he didn’t show it. “I have a lot of contacts, and I’m only telling you this because I think you’re going to need my help more than you know.”
“I’m listening,” she said.
“You’ve probably figured out by now that there’s a pretty big shake-up in the Holy Order.”
“I’m learning that.”
“After everything that happened at Timeless,” he said, studying the wet, dripping park laid out in front of them, “we waited out your investigation, pretty sure you’d never find anything to pin on us. After all,” he added, a glint in his dark eyes as they slid to her, “he was
your
missionary.”
Not quite. Joe Carson was a rogue element from another city, a transfer with an agenda all his own. But she let it slide. “It was the witchcraft that bothered us,” she replied, every word mild as spring rain.
His eyes crinkled warmly. “The people who revealed themselves weren’t our witches, either. What was left of the Coven of the Unbinding took an interest in Timeless.”
“So you say.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” He clasped his hands loosely, elbows braced on his knees. “Not long after Joe Carter, a handful of covert operatives came after us.”
Parker narrowed her eyes in sudden anger. “I ordered no such thing.”
“We know,” he replied, shrugging his rain-soaked shoulders. “We figured that out. But we also figured out that until the power play balanced, we weren’t safe. So, now we are. Or,” he amended ruefully, “were, until Juliet Carpenter ended up on one of your lists.”
Fine, but that told her virtually nothing except that this had been going on for too long. Covert operatives? They weren’t hers, which meant either her missionaries were acting without her orders, or Sector Three had involved themselves. She’d long suspected the latter.
She hated that she suspected her own people.
“So why am I here?”
“Because I have something you’ll want to look at,” Clarke said. He reached into his coat pocket, hesitated when Parker stiffened. “Relax. It’s not a gun. I’m just getting out a package.”
“Why you?” she demanded. “Why do you have this?” Whatever it was.
Clarke’s smile revealed dimples at the corners of his mouth. “Can I say that you’re not alone? Is that cheesy?”
It might be, but hearing it managed to worry her and soften the knot of anxiety in her gut at the same time. “Who else is working with you?”
“Can’t say.” Thin plastic crinkled. He drew out a wrapped container, a zippered bag no bigger than his palm and too opaque to see through. Balancing it on one hand, he offered it to her, his gaze steady. “And we’re not
exactly
on your side. But you need this.”
“What is it?”
“An answer,” he said cryptically. As her fingers closed over the mysterious bag, his other hand covered them. Pinned her hand between his and held her. “Be careful. If I’ve learned anything this past year, it’s that the people you’re playing against don’t play by the rules.”
Parker bit her lip, her grip tight on the umbrella handle as she stared at the man she should have been arresting. “How do you know what’s going on?”
“We’re very well informed.” Again, his smile, and a somewhat sheepish duck of his head. “
Surprisingly
well informed, even. But we’re . . . sort of stuck. Giving you this might move things along.”
“To what end?” she demanded.
“You know what?” He gave her hand a squeeze. “We really don’t know. But you’ve got the scientists and labs. And now you have something that could change the outcome of this fight. Maybe you’ll figure it out. If you need me,” he added, blinking away the rainwater, “talk to Jonas. It’s not easy to get up here, but I’ll do anything I can.”
Confusion made her slow. Shaking her head, she extricated her hand—and the bag. “Tell me what this is, and maybe I can do more for you.”
“It’s a piece of the puzzle. It’s . . .” He hesitated, obviously working through an answer. “It’s something Sector Three will want. Wants now, actually. I’d give you more, but the time you’ll spend figuring that out is going to give us time to move. You understand our caution.” His teeth flashed—a smile charming enough to melt the pants from most girls, she was sure. Parker wasn’t most girls, but even she could admit Phin Clarke had a way about him.
Maybe it came from having two mothers. Maybe it was raw genetic luck.
But she was Mission Director Parker Adams. She couldn’t be charmed.
“I see,” she replied coolly. And she did. He had to know that she’d have him tracked the instant she could.
“Just keep it out of their hands,” he added, sobering. “We’re taking a big risk here. If they get that, it all goes to hell. Okay?”
“I understand.” Only that part she didn’t. Not completely.
Clarke nodded, pushed a hand through his wet hair, and got to his feet. Shaking off his soaked coat, he sighed deeply. “Well, lovely meeting you. Be careful, Miss—”
“It’s Director.”
He paused, looking down at her with a trace of one dimple at the corner of his mouth. “For now,” he said cryptically and tipped an imaginary hat.
It was such an old-fashioned, out-of-place gesture that Parker’s eyebrows flew up as a grudging whisper of appreciation flickered.
She throttled it back behind an icy mask. “This doesn’t clear you, Mr. Clarke.”
He winced faintly. “Somehow, I don’t think anything short of an act of God would do it. Good-bye, Director. Good luck.”
Turning his collar up, Clarke strode deeper into the park. She watched him, her jaw shifting as she fought years of training—of duty.
She should have arrested him.
Instead, his black coat and dark hair quickly faded, swallowed up by the shadows clinging beneath the rain-soaked trees.
Her fingers tightened on the soft plastic case. Glancing down, she studied the oblong container. What would it hold?
Was it a trick?
It didn’t
feel
like one.
Parker glanced left to right. Seeing no one else, she plucked at the zipper, pulled it open, and cautiously spread the flaps apart.
A single syringe nestled in the bottom, filled with a murky liquid that didn’t slosh so much as ooze when she tilted the case for a better look.
Drugs? Something else?
This day was just getting stranger and stranger.
Her comm vibrated. Jumping, Parker grabbed the unit from its pocket clip and checked the frequency number. Jonas. Not surprising. She flipped up the screen but held it to her ear instead of bothering with the earpiece. “You have impeccable timing, Mr. Stone.”
“Yeah,” he said slowly. He didn’t bother to deny the accusation she didn’t have to say. “You have a million questions—so do I, trust me, Director. But I’m afraid that I’m not calling about that.”
“What is it, then?” She righted her umbrella as it threatened to slide off her shoulder, pocketed the case with its mysterious contents.
“There’s been another murder. Within the hour.”
Parker rose. “Who?”
“Agent Jonathan Fisher.” His voice strained. “He was one of my team.”
Her mouth tightened. “Is a crew on site?”
“Two.”
“Make sure Mr. Eckhart sends me the report.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Parker closed the comm, already striding away from the fountain. Mystery or not, the city’s witches weren’t doing her any favors. She had work to do.
S
he was short on answers. Short on leverage.
Long on questions.
Rubbing at her eyes, Parker hung her wet coat on the hook by her front door and set her purse down on the table beneath it. She stretched until the joints in her hips and shoulders popped in muted relief.
The day hadn’t ended well.
Jonathan Fisher had been found like so much garbage, his head a morass of barely recognizable flesh and tissue. The bullet they’d pulled out of the ground had matched half the Mission-assigned armory. Most of her field agents carried a .45. So did any criminal looking to make a sizeable hole.
Signing off on the data made something in Parker’s soul twitch. More evidence, more proof, sent to the Sector Three labs. What else could she do? With every murdered missionary, her questions grew—and the data they sent the labs continued to fail them.
Was Dr. Lauderdale withholding information?
A laughable question. Of course she was. But Parker needed to know if her labs were compromised so badly that Sector Three would keep all data from Domino’s scenes out of Mission hands.
How would she find out? A heart-to-heart with one of the lab techs, maybe. If Sector Three stayed true to form, the grunts wouldn’t know anything about the politics at work. Parker could play on loyalty. Hell, for this, she’d fight dirty and go right for the career throat.
Parker made her way to the bedroom, stripped out of her work clothes, and stepped into a pair of jeans and a white blouse. Mr. Sanderson yawned blearily at her from the nest he’d made on her bed, displaying prominently pointed fangs.
“Hey, baby,” she murmured.
Her hand hovered over the gun she’d stripped off with her work clothes. Would she need it?
She grimaced. Of course she would. She was expecting company, wasn’t she?
Feeling spiky, more on edge than she ever wanted to in her own home, Parker grabbed the gun, checked the safety, and tucked it into her waistband.
Every new murder cost her more than just manpower. Six of her agents were dead, and she had no reason to think it’d slow down now. The strain of the day weighed on her—too much time spent directing missionaries who were losing heart.
And gaining an aggressive edge.
As she returned to the living room, shadowed by the sleepy cat, she flicked on a lamp, rifled through her purse until the case filled her fingers. She stepped over Mr. Sanderson, entered her office, knelt, and inputted a digital sequence into the safe, where she kept what few valuables she considered worth storing. A few nice pieces of jewelry, her backup gun, some documents.
And now, one mystery syringe.
The door swung closed at a touch, the tumblers smoothly clicking into place.
Within minutes, she made herself a cup of strong coffee, fell into her armchair, and stared into the hot, black brew.
She almost laughed. Somehow, she’d gone from a neat, orderly existence to playing hostess for a secret so big—or so Phin Clarke suggested—that it would . . . what did he say?
She rubbed at her eyes with one hand as her gaze unfocused in brief, too-stressed exhaustion.
Oh, right.
Change the outcome of this fight.
To what end?
How could a little syringe do it? What was it? A drug? What kind?
And how could she find out? Dr. Lauderdale all but admitted to keeping tabs on everything coming in and out of the Mission labs. Parker could coerce some information relating to Mission cases from a lab lackey, but she’d be pushing it if she tried to sneak in an extra test.
Her grip tightened on the bridge of her nose.
She had one option, then. Private sector.
Tomorrow, she’d deliver the material directly to a corporate laboratory. Somewhere run by someone she could keep a close rein on. Maybe Toller Industries. They’d done some work for the Church before.
No, that wouldn’t work. Anyone that big would have Church ties. Maybe a smaller company. One desperate for a little monetary edge. If she had to, she’d dip into her own funds to facilitate the matter. Easy as pie. So why, she wondered as she briefly touched the gun in the back of her waistband, didn’t she feel better?
Fatigue, sure. And stress. She was angry.
She felt hunted.
And she needed a break. Parker lifted one foot as Mr. Sanderson prowled out from under the chair, and allowed herself to melt bonelessly into the cushions. She set her mug on the small stand beside the chair. Rain slammed against the window, accompaniment to the thoughts spinning around and around in her head.
What did she know?
Precious little as fact.
Sector Three had decided to infiltrate—possibly even take over—Sector Five. The Mission already struggled under a new director. Parker wasn’t so arrogant that she thought everything was coming up roses, no matter how hard she’d worked for the past year and a half. The agents who’d worked under David Peterson had had a massive chunk blown out of their trust quotient. Those who’d come out of training since his betrayal were suspect.
That didn’t leave Parker with a lot of steadfast players.
Jonas. She could count on him to support her, but at what cost? He knew about the Salem Project—about Simon Wells and Juliet Carpenter—but he also kept company Parker couldn’t approve of. Phinneas Clarke was wanted for questioning. So, for that matter, was the company
he
kept, wherever it was he hid.
But what were her options? At this point, neither the devil she knew nor the angel she didn’t looked like sure bets.
Simon Wells? Talk about a devil. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t grasp his angle. He was a product of this human testing lab, she got that much. A marked witch. The exact thing she and her people should have been hunting down, sentencing for his crimes.
But he was protected by the very Church she swore to uphold. Protected, and allowed the run of the Mission Parker had prided herself on directing smoothly. Why?
Amy Silo. If Jonas was the technical god of the Mission, then Agent Silo doubled as his research equivalent. She’d earned her place in the Holy Order’s massive library, the undisputed queen of the research stacks. She kept a sharp watch on everything going in and out of her library, and not even Lauderdale himself had the clout to have her removed. A missionary, yes, but even the bishop had to answer to his favored librarian when it came to the Order’s treasured books.
Nothing would turn her from the cause. And the cause had never been the Mission.
The librarian’s cause was knowledge. Knowledge didn’t play politics.
Exhaustion turned Parker’s body to useless fluff. She usually spent long days at the office, but this trumped most. The lunch she’d picked up on her way back from the meeting with Clarke hadn’t lasted past eight, and at somewhere just before midnight, her stomach now felt as if it’d latched onto her spine. Desperate for nutrients.
She was too damned tired to cook.
Parker let out a long, slow breath, staring past the circle of light shedding golden illumination over her chair. Her spacious condo remained dark, one part from the evening hour and mostly from the storm clouds. She turned off every light as she left the room it belonged to. Outside of the lamplight, the living room and kitchen beyond it glinted with the occasional flash of lightning, shadows dancing wildly.
She didn’t like wasting electricity. Not that it mattered in New Seattle. The heights of the metropolis were among the most well-maintained on the electrical grid. Even should the summer storm raging outside cause the power to short, generators redirected all currents back to the top.
It was one of many perks of living high above the rest of the city.
“Damn,” she breathed, smoothing one hand over her copper hair.
Thunder rattled the windows, echoing a flash of lightning that turned the fluorescent light rimming the drapes into purple-white luminescence. At her feet, Mr. Sanderson jumped. Collar bell jingling, he skidded out of the living room so fast that his claws caught at the carpet.
Parker hid her smile.
“It’s just thunder,” she called. “Scaredy-cat.”
“Not,” corrected a low, masculine voice just behind the armchair, “
just
thunder.”
Parker’s heart surged into her throat. The man was a damned ghost; how the hell did he
do
that?
The hard edge of a pistol muzzle pressed into her skull. “No sudden moves,” he warned.
The action mirrored her own only hours before.
He wouldn’t
dare
.
Of course he would. “Mr. Wells, you have ten seconds.” To her relief, her voice didn’t shake even a little. Ice cold, it lashed as deeply as the thunder rolling across the sky.
The point of pain under his gun lifted. “Ten seconds is too long,” he said, but unlike every conversation she’d ever had with the man, there wasn’t anything
easy
about his tone now. “It’s time to go.”
“You must be joking.”
“Not even a little.” He circled her chair, stepping into the pool of lamplight like some kind of golden god rising from the dark. Dramatic. Oddly erotic. Was it the light? The shadows sinking into the carved angles of his face?
The new, unstained T-shirt clinging to every muscled line of his torso?
Parker shifted. Met his gaze, raised an eyebrow. “I’d rather sit and talk.”
Holstering his gun in one smooth motion displayed the muscles in his upper arms and shoulders, outlined by his nylon shoulder rig. His khaki-colored T-shirt clung to the lean definition of his chest, beads of water dripping from his hair. She watched a droplet slide across his temple, trace the sculpted line of his angled jaw as he stared at her.
Challenge.
“Sorry, sweetheart. We can’t do that.”
Something had changed. Between his suspension and this confrontation, something felt different. Even when he gave every appearance of seriousness, his eyes usually laughed at her. Now, she saw nothing but impatience in their glittering depths.
Did he know about her meeting with Phin Clarke?
Would it matter if he did? The gun’s grip nestled into her palm, hidden at the small of her back.
“Trust me,” he said quietly.
What did it say about her that she wanted to?
Idiot
.
Because she wanted him off-guard—because she wanted to touch—she slid her left hand into his. He pulled her to her feet with the same easy surge of power he gave everything else. Pulled too hard, folded her too neatly into his embrace, one arm banded across her back.
It pinned her to him. Tucked her against his longer form as if she were made to fit in the hollows of his body.
Parker’s breath caught.
His exhaled on a hissed curse as the unyielding muzzle of the pistol in her right hand slotted into the groove of his sternum. His eyes narrowed, thick dark lashes shielding whatever gears ground in his head.
She didn’t know. Couldn’t read him. All she knew was that every breath only highlighted how much space there
wasn’t
between them. Clarified how much the smell of him filled her senses. It sparked a chain reaction from head to chest to that knocking ache between her legs, no matter how much he made her angry.
The man was a menace.
For a long moment, only thunder split the silence.
Parker allowed herself a small smile. “I never make the same mistake twice, Mr. Wells.”
“So I see.” His answering smile revealed the edge of his even white teeth. It crinkled the edges of his eyes, forcing a knotted weft of appreciation through the determination she clung to.
Her grip tightened on the pistol.
“I’m going to have to break you of this habit you have.” A silken promise. “Guns aren’t for playing.” His arm banded like iron around her lower back. Forced her so tightly against him that she knew he had to feel the knot of a bruise forming around her gun. He didn’t try to disarm her. He should have. The man was a missionary, no matter who’d put him there.
Men like Simon Wells didn’t allow people to pull guns on them.
Instead, contrary to every expectation, his free hand slid up her back. Mapped her spine, traced over the seal of St. Andrew nestled between her shoulder blades.
As his fingers dug into her hair, cupping the back of her head, her smile faded. “Let me go.”
“Will you shoot me?”
“Count on it, Agent Wells.”
“Oh, well.” The tone should have warned her. “Even a dying man gets his last request,” he murmured.
She stiffened. “Don’t you—
Mmph
!”
Simon’s kiss wasn’t the same. This wasn’t a simple meeting of lips and breath and skin. Something had changed.
Something infected his laid-back façade.
This kiss stripped away every thought of denial, of protest. He didn’t tease her or gently engage. He claimed. He took. His lips covered hers, scorched where they touched her. Sent tingling shivers from her lips to her spine to her fingertips.
To her molten, swirling insides, suddenly too hot. Too wild.
The end-of-shift shadow at his jaw scraped her sensitive skin as he tilted her head, changed the angle to deepen the kiss, set fire to her blood and made her forget about the gun in her hand. The syringe in her safe.
The secrets, the lies.
Somehow, he always managed this. Managed to get in under her skin. Beneath her guard. Closer than she ever wanted him.
Her hand flattened against his chest, just by the gun he ignored. Muscles flexed, leaped under her touch.
Everything in her wanted to feel skin, not damp fabric.
His
skin, his heartbeat trapped beneath his flesh. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt. Slid under.
Something ragged and unrefined guttered in his throat as she found smooth, ridged muscle; something that raised every hair on the back of Parker’s neck and curled like a rough hand between her legs.
Like steel given flesh. Like . . . like shaped aggression, strength made human.
Everything about him turned caution to arousal. Fear to need. She wanted him. She couldn’t deny it, not when her body thrilled with every flick of his tongue against hers. Her eyes had drifted shut; she didn’t know how. She didn’t command it.
