Absolution (33 page)

Matthias beamed at him. “Excellent question. My contact in New Orleans, whose scathe was called in by one of Murphy’s contacts to help clean up a messy murder scene, saw it all firsthand.” He passed around the first small stack of papers, the testimony of the New Orleans vampire who’d earned himself a king’s ransom by talking, plus printouts of gory photos taken with the guy’s cell phone. Technology was a wonderful thing. “This witness believes the young woman is a witch and thinks perhaps Renz wished to make use of her powers somehow. But she was human, and he took her by force. Also, there’s more.”

Matthias made a show of shuffling his papers. “According to our witness, the person who killed Lorenzo, and at least seven of his New Orleans staff members, was none other than Mirren Kincaid. As you’ll recall from our last meeting, after faking his death for the Tribunal and leaving our employ, the Slayer surfaced as Aidan Murphy’s second-in-command. He was mated to this young human woman witch. Most likely, Renz hoped to use her to force Kincaid into working for him.”

Matthias sensed the power shifting into his control. If the murder of Renz was the first nail in Penton’s proverbial coffin, here was the second. “Since Kincaid is blood-bonded to Aidan Murphy, there’s no reason to think he committed these murders without Murphy’s knowledge. Perhaps even at his instruction.”

Matthias’s contact had also identified William as being part of the slaughterhouse and the one who’d called in local scathe members to help clean up. But Matthias wanted to deal with his errant son himself.

Margaret cleared her throat. “Come now, Matthias. It’s one thing for Mirren Kincaid to kill Renz in order to save his mate—I’m not sure any of us would fault him for that. But to suggest that Aidan Murphy was behind it is a huge assumption.”

The mention of Kincaid’s name, combined with the explicit photos of Renz Caias’s severed head, had stricken the rest of the Tribunal silent. Time for the third and final nail.

“That might be true but for one final issue, Margaret.” Matthias assumed his most sorrowful expression—no easy feat when he was already celebrating inside. “It was also discovered during the course of last night’s events that Aidan Murphy has taken a mate as well, a human female who he proceeded to turn vampire against Tribunal law less than two months ago. We found papers indicating Renz had learned of this and planned to turn Murphy over to the Tribunal, which prompted the attack last night as much as the issue of Mirren Kincaid’s kidnapped witch. I have the documents put away for safekeeping but will be happy to forward copies to anyone who needs further proof.”

Matthias closed his file folder with a flourish. They’d found out about Aidan’s mate by rifling through the contents of Lorenzo’s locked desk drawers, but he didn’t intend to share that, or the fact that the rest of the so-called evidence was being forged as they spoke.

He adopted a conciliatory, apologetic tone. “I know I no longer have the authority to bring these criminals to justice myself, but I appeal to the Tribunal—as I appealed to you earlier—to break up this army Aidan Murphy has built for himself before they start knocking off the rest of us, one by one.” Not to mention he’d be first on the list.

Frank cleared his throat, laying the papers on the conference table. “I believe the Tribunal owes Matthias an apology, and on behalf of the other members, I issue it.”

Matthias nodded at him with a smile. A public apology had been his first demand in order to share the information. How the second demand was received would determine not only how his future played out but maybe all of their futures. He hoped they were smart enough to know it.

When no one objected to the apology, Frank continued. “I also propose we reinstate Matthias to his position as head of the Justice Council and task him with apprehending Mirren Kincaid and Aidan Murphy, with the full support and resources of the Tribunal at his disposal. We want them dead or alive, and of course, that includes the dissolution of the Penton scathe. It’s clear that we were remiss in thinking Murphy’s growing power was benign. Do we need a written vote?”

Matthias held his breath as several Tribunal members exchanged glances but kept their mouths shut. With Renz gone, no one was willing to stick his or her neck out. Margaret Lindstrom stared at the table with her mouth crimped like a serrated knife blade.

“Matthias, will you accept this responsibility?” Frank gave him a restrained smile.

Matthias stood, stuck the papers back in his briefcase, and clicked it shut. “I’d be honored.”

CHAPTER 32

G
lory sat on the cheap plaid bedspread of a no-name hotel just east of New Orleans, watching Mirren sleep, or whatever vampires did during the day. Did they die? He didn’t breathe, but he wasn’t cold, either. His skin grew cool, but it was still soft where it should be and rough where it shouldn’t.

Will was in the room next door. They’d arrived at the hotel with an hour to spare before dawn, after a stop at a local Walmart for four black plastic shower curtains and rolls of duct tape to cover the windows, something for Glory to wear, plus a twenty-four-hour drive-through so she could eat. She’d slept for a while but woke when she heard the hotel’s housekeeping cart rattling around outside and shouted through the door that they didn’t need service.

She finished the second burger she’d bought almost eight hours earlier, hoping it didn’t give her food poisoning, and stretched out beside Mirren on the room’s lumpy bed. They’d covered the windows in this room with the shower curtains and tape, then Will had gone next door and left her and Mirren in awkward silence. He’d hung a do not disturb sign on the door, locked it, and wedged a towel underneath it after examining all the seals for lighttightness. Then he’d locked himself in the bathroom.

She didn’t try to disturb him this time. Instead, she’d gone next door and talked to Will until dawn. He didn’t know everything about Mirren’s history, but he told her everything he could.

A few minutes after Glory returned to the room, Mirren had emerged from the bathroom and slipped into bed without a word just before dawn had cracked over the horizon, and he was out. She’d spent most of the day watching him and thinking.

Glory ran her fingers down his cheek, letting the stubble along his heavy jawline tickle her fingertips. In daysleep, his face was relaxed, his lips slightly parted, his strong, straight nose perfectly formed. She brushed his thick, dark hair away from his forehead—it had started growing out a little again, finally—and curled up next to him.

She’d been convinced that she got through to him at Renz’s house, but he’d crawled back inside his shell as soon as they’d climbed in the Bronco and left the lights of New Orleans behind. Glory considered herself a blunt person. She said what she thought and didn’t have much of a filter. She wasn’t sure she had the finesse to get Mirren through this like somebody smarter than her could do. Someone like Krys, who would know what to say, recognize how to coax him back from the dark place he’d gone to.

Glory would have to try it the only way she knew how.

What she did understand was that he had a split personality—oh, not the kind on soap operas where one personality goes off and acts in ways the other personality doesn’t know about. But there were two distinctive sides to Mirren. On one side stood the warrior he’d been trained to be in his human life, the paid killer he’d apparently been for the vampires for a long time. That person had taken over tonight. The other Mirren, the one she’d fallen in love with, missed beef stew, watched Westerns, drew sketches, was a playful lover. Somehow, she had to convince him that she loved both sides of him.

Only, did she? Could she? She nestled against his heavy right arm, ridged with the beautifully wrought tattoos carved into his skin as some warped kind of atonement. He smelled of the hotel’s harsh soap and clean skin. In New Orleans, he’d smelled like blood and sweat and an almost tangible, cold anger. She couldn’t accept one Mirren without the other. It wasn’t fair to either side of him, or to her.

Closing her eyes, she visualized him at their first meeting. Starving, but unwilling to fully feed from her. Promising to not hurt her like the others had. Taking her with him when it would have been so much easier to leave her with Matthias. The warrior in him had done those things just as surely as he’d killed Lorenzo Caias, not for sport or money, but because Renz had hurt her. Her heart felt too big for her chest, from her connection to him as her mate and from her love for him as a woman.

The bond between them was not back to the steel-cable stage, but it was stronger than when she’d gone back to Renz’s. She did love him, damn it. All of him. She just had to convince him of it. And if he tried to walk out on her, she might have to find her own inner gallowglass.

Mirren felt Glory’s warmth before he fully woke, smelled her floral scent, heard her soft breathing beside him. For a minute, he thought they were in his suite below the house in Penton, and he wondered what she’d cook for him, how they’d spend their evening after they made love.

He opened his eyes.
Shit.
With one glance at the stained motel ceiling, it all came back, right down to Lorenzo Caias’s head hitting the floor a full two seconds before his body crumpled beside it. Mirren shifted to take in the woman lying beside him, wearing a T-shirt she’d picked up at Walmart, her legs tangled with his beneath the sheets. As if on cue, he grew hard and hungry for her, body and blood.

But he’d fucked that up royally, hadn’t he? He needed to get out of here, let her go back to Penton with Will. He’d hide out from the Tribunal, or then again, maybe he wouldn’t. After four centuries, he was tired of fighting. Whatever happened would happen. But he didn’t need to drag Glory and Aidan and the rest of Penton down the shithole with him.

Carefully, he pulled away from Glory and eased off the bed, slipping into the extra set of clothes he’d packed. His movements were silent as he checked his weapons and slid a knife into his pocket. After some consideration, he rolled up the leather tunic and put it in his pack, along with the gun and holster. He needed to travel light. The fringed leather scabbard holding Faolain was propped against the cheap dresser of particleboard, and he picked it up.

“Either put that sword away or get ready to use it.”

Mirren whirled to see Glory sitting up in the middle of the bed, her black hair going in a dozen different directions, a scowl on her face.

God, she was so beautiful he ached for her. He turned back to the scabbard and laid it atop his bag. “Go back to sleep.”

She crawled off the bed and stood in front of the door, her fists on her hips. The gray T-shirt had bright black-and-white flowers on it, and with her tousled hair and lack of pants, it pushed all his sexy buttons. Which definitely didn’t need to happen.

“Move away from the door, Glory.” He took a step toward her, but she didn’t budge. Stubborn, stubborn woman. “Aw, fuck me. What is it you want from me?”

“
Finally
. Thanks for asking.” She advanced on him, fire in her eyes, and he wanted to pick her up and take her right here, right now. Instead, he backed up. He didn’t need to be touching her. He couldn’t touch her and still hold onto his resolve to do the right thing for once.