Sacrifice the Wicked (9 page)

He didn’t have time to hurt.

The operative recovered first, slammed an elbow into Simon’s sternum as he tried to get to his feet. Gasping, Simon caught his arm, wrenched it; rolled with it until he felt as much as heard the joint in the man’s elbow give with an audible
pop.
The operative screamed.

The tattoo emblazoned into Simon’s shoulder scorched white-hot as the air around him froze.

Son of a bitch!

Sucking in below-freezing air that burned all the way to his lungs, Simon rolled away from the witch. The rain-slick walkway between the condominium buildings dug into his side, his face, his back.

Ice crystallized around him. Bitter cold.

He didn’t have the ability to ward this much magic off.

Lightning seared the sky, threw wild shadows across the small alley. Red glinted like molten metal in his peripheral.

His skin felt as if it would peel away from the seal of St. Andrew’s warning burn.

“Simon, get down!”

He collapsed. As icy shards of witchcraft shattered the brick above him, gunshots split the storm-ridden silence.

His? No, his fingers throbbed, too frozen to have pulled his gun loose. Pain fought for dominance between his tattoo and the knife wound in his side. Simon gasped for breath. “Parker?”

Warm hands grabbed at his. Pulled hard. “Agent Wells, get on your feet!”

It took effort. A hell of a lot more effort than it should have. The pain merged somewhere over his entire right side. A tear he couldn’t take the time to poke at, a fall he probably should have thought twice about before he rolled onto his knee.

Oh, yeah. He was a real goddamned hero.

He forced his eyes open, bared his teeth as he grabbed a handful of cold brick. “Dead?” he managed.

“Down, at least.” Concern shaped her beautiful face as she slung his arm over her shoulder. Concern, and more than a trace of impatience. “He launched ice like a missile, which means we need to go. Now. Can you walk?”

With inhuman effort and her support, he struggled to his feet. Agony shredded through his side.

“Car,” he gritted out from between tightly clenched teeth. “Corner. Just need to get there.”

A slim arm slipped around his back.

Grateful for her supportive shoulder, he let her take the lead. Let her guide him as he turned his focus inward and combed the immediate area for anyone else on the move.

People lived in the condos around her; they registered easily. Living things, pinpointed with almost exact accuracy. It was a hell of an ability. Made getting caught by surprise pretty hard.

But every time he forced it, he risked an episode. Degeneration.

Rain pounded them, soaked through his clothes. He couldn’t tell what was precipitation and what part bled through his shirt.

He’d find out. Sweet Parker Adams would have to patch him up again.

She’d just love that.

“Tan sedan?” she demanded.

“That’s the one.”

“Keys?”

He could have forced his hand into his pocket, but right now, straining any part of his body seemed like a bad idea. He leaned on her, just a little bit more. “Pocket,” he said.

She muttered something he didn’t hear, and without warning, she shrugged him against the hood of the car. It pressed into his back, supported him even as she flattened a hand against his chest to keep him standing. He couldn’t help but grin—a painful flash of teeth—as he felt her other hand slide into his wet denim pocket.

It nudged at flesh too focused on the ragged line of fire along his side to respond appropriately, but he was man enough to appreciate the gesture anyway.

“Get that smile off your face, Mr. Wells.” Her tone slid into arctic so easily.

But he knew the truth; she hit inferno just as fast.

When his blood wasn’t trying to escape the confines of his shredded skin, he’d prove it. Again. As much as he wanted.

Until then, he had to make do. As her fingers groped for the small set of keys, he caught her face between his palms.

She stilled.

Simon stared at her. This moment, right now, with the rain sliding over her skin, her mouth wet and red and raised toward his, he could pretend everything was going to be okay.

Nice fantasy.

The keys jangled free of his clinging pocket.

She was a rare woman. Maybe that explained the attraction he had no right to claim. The bone-deep need he’d felt for her since that first day in her lower street office.

Parker’s gaze dropped to his side. Lightning filled the street, painted every hollow and pale curve of her face as she gasped. “Simon.”

He followed her gaze. Blood saturated through his sodden T-shirt. Spread like a gory flower along his side.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmured, and realized he didn’t mind leaning against the car quite so much. Fuck, he hurt. “Maybe you ought to drive.”

“Yeah.” Her voice shook. “Maybe.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

P
arker slammed the car into drive and did everything she could to keep her gaze focused on the empty street. The rain poured in sheets of gray, rattling the metal roof and pinging off the hood like liquid bullets.

She could drive in the rain. No problem there.

What she couldn’t handle was the bloody T-shirt and the man beside her. What she couldn’t stop thinking about was the man in black missionary armor collapsing into a twitching tangle of limbs as the bullets she fired tore through him.

She knew as well as anyone else the weaknesses of that armor. It was her job.

But she’d never killed a man before.

Now what?

That part came easily to her hastily compartmentalizing mind. The operative they’d fought off was a witch. Like Simon. One of Sector Three’s? He was too outfitted not to be; that was
her
armor. Her people’s designated uniform. Either Lauderdale was requisitioning her uniform, or his people had already supplanted her own.

Just like Simon had tried to tell her.

Damn it.

Right now, she focused on getting them the hell out of the area.

Her fingers tight on the wheel, she flattened the gas pedal without warning. The engine revved loudly, and Simon hit the passenger side door with a muffled grunt of mingled pain and alarm.

Don’t look.

She didn’t have to. The flash of red in the reflected glow of the car’s dashboard told her more than she ever wanted to know. Her stomach twisted up so tight, it corkscrewed all the way into her throat in a splash of bile.

Setting her jaw, she guided the four-door sedan—in better shape than she expected, given its age—along the dark street. It took less than a minute to break out of the ring of darkness.

Parker unclenched her jaw before it locked. “Start talking, Mr. Wells.”

He took a slow, deep breath, audible even over the car’s still-warming motor. “Parker?”

Her temples throbbed. “What?”

“Thank you.”

That just about stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She shot him a quick, suspicious glance, sparing her attention from the road for a fragment of a second.

He stared down at his shirt, the hem pulled out as if to ease the pressure from his side. But his mouth turned downward. A thin, tight line. “You saved my life.” His gaze raised to her. Flickered. “Thank you.”

She looked away. For a long moment, all Parker could do was drive. The silence filled the space between them, so thick she could imagine reaching out and seizing a handful. Twisting it up into knots; shaping it into the words she wasn’t sure how to say.

What
could
she say?

The truth.

“You’re welcome,” she said quietly. “I’d do the same for any of my people.”

“I’m not your people.” But his voice didn’t lash; didn’t even harden. Truth given right back to her, easily spoken.

Her shoulders stiffened. “Which brings me to my questions. That was witchcraft activating my seal.” And she’d forgotten how badly it hurt when it flared. The skin between her shoulder blades still itched. “One of your peers?”

A flicker of a smile, dry as dust. “Yes.”

“Why are you fighting them?”

“Because they want to kill you,” he replied, voice strained and muffled beneath the hem of his raised T-shirt. Motion beside her drew her gaze as easily as if he’d flashed a neon sign; she couldn’t stop herself. Her gaze flicked to her right.

Her head spun.

So much blood. Bright red, spreading like a gory flood. Soaking into his shirt, painting his skin.

His eyes glittered. Narrowed. “Parker? Parker!” He lunged, cursing, and seized the wheel as the vehicle drifted onto the curb. The car rocked, righted under his control.

Parker sucked in a hard breath, smelled the coppery fragrance of his blood and hastily jammed a finger onto the window control. “Stay over there,” she said sharply, just as he ordered, Keep your eyes on the road!”

She slammed the back of her hand against his wrist, forcing him to let go of the wheel.

“Agent, I just shot a man.” Every word blasted out of her on an icy promise she wasn’t sure she had it in her to fulfill, but she was close. Damned close. “You need to start talking, or I will pull this car over and take my chances with whatever witches are left.”

Blood. Bullets in the dark, a body she’d dropped with a well-timed shot from a gun she’d never had to fire off the range. And in her safe neighborhood, too. Things like this didn’t happen in topside New Seattle. Sec-comps routinely patrolled the streets, streetlamps lit the residency districts to near daylight. Curfews in the residential districts kept the loiterers away.

Of course, Parker didn’t know how many of these security measures had counted on witches posing as clandestine operatives.

And she sure as hell didn’t understand Simon’s role in it.

“I’m sorry.” His voice gentled, even if the hard line to his mouth didn’t. “If I could go back and change it, I would.”

It meant nothing. “Did you know they were coming?” The cold night air whipped through her half-open window. Shivering as it slid through her damp clothes and hair, Parker gritted her teeth. The alternative meant closing her only avenue to fresh, bloodless air.

Simon muttered something rough and annoyed as he stripped his T-shirt off. Followed it up with a rueful, “Another goddamned shirt.”

Because he needed
another
reason to go without one.

Nausea warred with a sudden burst of unwelcome heat.

“Mr. Wells—”

“I’m supposed to kill you,” he cut in, balling up the wet fabric and pressing it against his side. At the best, it hid the bloody tear just over his ribs.

At the worst, it revealed more of his swarthy, beautifully defined skin than she wanted to cope with.

Her internal struggle between throwing up and wanting to lick the surface of his abs would have been worth laughing over if she weren’t soaked to the skin, driven from her home, and spiraling into a nasty spike of temper.

She took a deep breath, hands hard on the wheel, and forced herself to meet his eyes over the bundled cloth. “Okay,” she said, ever so gently. “And you’re not going to.”

“No.” He smiled, even through lines of pain bracketing his mouth. “I like you just the way you are.”

A finger of temper jostled loose. “I appreciate that. Explain to me why I just shot a witch wearing missionary armor.”

“That’s a better question.” But the humor drained from his voice as he shifted, leaning back into the passenger seat. His long legs didn’t quite fit, forcing his knees into the dashboard. “I assume you actually read the Wayward Rose report.”

“Obviously.”

“What do you know about GeneCorp?”

“Not enough.” Her gaze dropped to the dashboard clock. Nearly after midnight. That explained the general lack of traffic. The residences closest to the pinnacle of New Seattle lived among the safest districts, but they operated under strict rules.

Among the common appearance and maintenance demands, the civic body of the Church demanded a midnight curfew, barring emergency personnel.

And those whose authority went beyond. Like a missionary.

Still, getting stopped by the NSRF wouldn’t help anything. She needed to get to safer ground. The club districts, or a late-night restaurant. Something.

He waited for her to signal, to ease into a turn, before he asked, “Exactly what?”

“I have a lengthy list of numbers, no names, and a good portion of them marked as failed.” She took a turn that crossed two lanes, grateful for the quiet streets. “Which I take to mean
dead
.”

“A good guess.”

Guess, nothing. Jonas had been rather thorough. “I know it’s a Sector Three operation, but only because Mrs. Parrish brought
you
on board the same time she foisted Wayward Rose on me.” And because Jonas Stone had to go digging into the Church’s closed-off mainframe to get the data she did have. “I saw the bar codes. Found the link to something called GeneCorp. Followed it to the lab site in the industrial sector where Parrish was killed.”

“Clever girl.”

“
Don’t
patronize me.”

She didn’t need to look to know his gaze pinned on her, scrutiny wrapped in indolent humor. “My mistake.”

She swallowed her anger. “I know it’s some kind of witch lab experiment,” she continued evenly. “And that its roots go all the way back to the old city. Over fifty years.”

“Is that all?”

She shot him a narrow glance. Jerked her attention back to the road as the streetlamps they passed bathed his skin in crimson smears and unforgiving light. It was
just blood
. Everybody had it.

She didn’t mind her blood. His wasn’t all that different.

Red and wet. Harmless.

Liar.

Damn it.

She cleared her throat. The gummy texture in the back of it didn’t ease. “According to the information I acquired—”

“We’ll talk about how, later.”

She ignored that. “According to that information,” she repeated over him, “the project has been moved, shut down, and restarted a handful of times. Far as I know, the Mission wasn’t involved until Mrs. Parrish assigned you and Nelson to my unit and wanted us to do her legwork on Wayward Rose. I don’t know how Juliet Carpenter is related to any of it.”

“You’re thorough.” He closed his eyes, head resting back against the car’s side panel. “You know everything I know.”

“I don’t think so.” Her tone cooled. “How is Lauderdale involved?”

“He started it.”

And with that single phrase, pieces fell into place. A headache threatened behind her forehead; stress balled into an angry little knot as she said quietly, “And he’s still running it, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“You’re from this experiment.”

“Me and a whole army.” Wearily, he raised his bloody hand to his face, caught himself and lowered it again. “GeneCorp, an entity separate from Sector Three, runs the project, but GeneCorp is run by Laurence Lauderdale, ergo . . .”

Ergo, Lauderdale had his fingers in a lot of pies. She wondered if the Church knew.

“And?” she pressed when silence followed.

“And, nothing. You have all the answers.”

“Bull hockey.”

His snort of laughter only spiked a rising octave to her anger. He lifted the makeshift compress, checked his wound.

The hair on Parker’s neck raised as she forced herself not to look. Not to see the blood smeared on his side, soaked into his hands and bandages and— “Pull over,” Simon demanded.

She shook her head. Hard. “I’m fine.”

“Parker,
pull over
.”

She did. But only because she was fairly sure that if she didn’t, he’d make her.

And if he touched her with a single bloody digit, she was going to vomit. Her guts twisted just thinking about it.

He dropped the bloody T-shirt to the floor at his feet.

As the car drifted to a stop beside a brightly lit line of condominiums—metal and glass, unlike her quainter metal and brick complex—Simon unlatched the door and stepped into the rain.

Parker clung to the wheel and tried to breathe deeply.

Maybe he knew she needed a moment. Maybe he let her take it. She didn’t know. All she knew was that she had to get it together before she lost her cool completely.

The rain slammed into the car, pounded the roof and windshield until all she heard was the force of the weather. Thunder, pellets of water.

It drowned out her heartbeat.

Slowly, her grip on the steering wheel relaxed.

The driver side door wrenched open. Grabbing her arm, Simon yanked her out of the seat. Supported her weight when her feet tangled together, and tucked her, none too gently, between the car’s unyielding metal frame and the half-naked, strangely warm resistance of his body.

Rain sluiced down his face, pounded into his bare skin.

Parker blinked at the sting of it in her eyes. Her mouth opened, but whatever words she’d intended vanished on a breathy sound of surprise, of raw shock, as Simon seized her jaw between thumb and fingers.

“Stop fighting me,” he said, every word a low, aggressive order. “Just stop.”

His thumb dug into the corner of her mouth, forcing her lips to part on a gasp. Her eyes widened. “Those men were under orders to kill you, do you understand that? Do you know what I just threw away to haul your stubborn ass out of there?”

Cold rain slid down her cheeks. Pooled into the collar of her jacket, sent fingers of ice down her spine.

So at odds with the heat of awareness low in her belly. Of her heart’s frightened hammer and the wild fluttering in her gut.

So conflicted.

But the rain washed away the blood. Ruined the only excuse she had to avoid looking at him. He gave her no choice, fingers hard at her jaw, forcing her face to lift to his. Pinning her in place. “Make this easy on me, Parker.”

Her hand splayed on his chest—warm skin, hard muscle. Something about him pulled at her. Why? Because her hormones said so?

She couldn’t lose control of this. Couldn’t let him bully her. She was a director. The boss. The ice bitch of the Mission.

But as his eyes blazed into hers, wild and angry, Parker wondered what he’d taste like. What he’d feel like, wet skin to wet skin, moving over her. Into her. Taking her, dominating her. Right here in the rain.

He could. She knew he could.

And she couldn’t let that happen.

“I’m grateful
,
” she told him. The rain slid over her lips, cool and tangy. She watched his eyes trace her mouth. Darken. “I think that makes us even. Get off of me, Mr. Wells.” Before raw lust and temper overwhelmed whatever good sense she had left.

T
he woman needed a lesson. A thorough one.

Logic assured Simon that he didn’t have time to do it now. Still, he couldn’t help himself. His left hand cupped her skull just over the sodden knot she kept her hair in. Tendrils clung to her cheeks, forced loose by the rain. It helped soften her appearance.