Bound Guardian Angel (19 page)

“Could have fooled me.”

“Fuck you, Micah.”

Micah was in her face in two seconds flat.
“I don’t like you. The only reason you’re here is so you can tell
me everything you know about who broke into my apartment and why,
and then you’re outta here. Got that? So talk before I lose the
last thread of my patience and throw you out that window.” He
jacked his thumb over his shoulder to the blue plastic tarp
billowing in the wind.

She met his gaze glare-for-glare. “I’m
shaking.”

“You should be.”

“We’re getting nowhere,” Trace said flatly
as he stepped between them.

How about that? For once, the voice of
reason came from Trace.

Micah’s expression hardened briefly then
lost its rough edges as he took a step back. Cordray held her
ground, not ready to give in. Then again, she’d conditioned herself
for eight hundred years to be a tough-assed bitch who refused to
give an inch. It was the only way she’d survived.

Strained silence stretched between them.

“Fine,” Micah said a moment later.
“Truce . . .
for now
. Let’s just get through
this.”

Cordray scrutinized him and Trace for a
moment. “Agreed.”

“All right then.” Micah toed a shard of
glass and let out a perturbed breath. “So, tell me what happened
here.”

She told him about how she’d spotted
Skeletor scaling the side of the building, the high-tech gadget
he’d used to shatter the window, and how she’d decided to
investigate, only to realize after she got there that this was his
apartment. “That’s why I was late last night,” she said. “I was
here, trying to ascertain exactly what this asshole wanted.”

“So what did you find out?”

She sighed and turned toward the hall
leading to the master bedroom. “Not as much as I would have liked,
but my gut says this guy knows you.”

“Why would you think that?” Trace asked,
chewing on his wooden matchstick as if it were a toothpick.

She looked from him to Micah. “Women’s
intuition and centuries of bounty hunting.” She let that sink in
for a moment then added, “That, and he seemed to know right where
to look.”

“Look for what?”

“You tell me.” She led them into the
bedroom. “I found him in here. He didn’t go anywhere else. Passed
right by all the priceless art in the living room—the antique sword
on the wall. He went straight for the safe.”

Micah flipped on the light, entered the
closet, then knelt in front of the wooden box still sitting on the
floor in front of the open safe. With a frustrated sigh, he plucked
the empty purple pouch off the floor. “He took the ankh?” His voice
held a stab of concern. He stuffed his hand inside, even though the
pouch was obviously empty.

“That’s what it looked like to me.”

Trace brushed past her, sending up her
sensory hackles, and lowered to his haunches to peer inside the
box. Cordray could see from where she stood that it was filled with
gemstones, antique gold jewelry, and dozens of small, priceless
trinkets.

“All this, and the only thing he took was an
ankh?” Trace said. “That must be some ankh.”

Cordray brushed her hand up and down her arm
where he’d touched her as he passed. “That’s what I thought.”

“Why did he take it?” Trace looked at Micah.
“And why didn’t he take any of this?” He gestured toward what had
to be at least a quarter-of-a-million dollars’ worth of precious
gemstones and gold in the box. “What’s so important about an ankh
when he had all this to choose from?”

Micah shook his head. “I don’t know. My
father gave me the ankh right before he died.”

Both Cordray and Trace bobbed backward,
eyebrows shooting high in their foreheads. Hearing Micah mention
his father was like hearing Satan talk about
his
dad. You
just didn’t associate a paternal connection with someone like
Micah, who seemed to have been conceived from the same
midi-chlorians responsible for Anakin Skywalker’s birth in
Star
Wars
.

“What was it for?” Cordray asked, exchanging
glances with Trace.

Micah’s eyebrows furrowed harshly. “He never
had a chance to tell me. But it felt important, so I kept it. I
figured someday I would learn why he wanted me to have it.”

Cordray searched her memory for anything she
might have missed. Anything that could provide some clue as to the
importance of an Egyptian ankh. She recalled reading something a
long time ago in one of Bain’s historical texts about ankhs, but
she couldn’t recall specifics.

“Did your father say anything that might
hint at its purpose?”

Micah shot her an angry glare. “If he had,
don’t you think I would have told you?”

She took a deep breath and bit back her
usual, snarky reply. Now wasn’t the time to add insult to injury.
“I’m just trying to help, Micah. I thought maybe I could help you
remember something he might have said or—”

“He said it was important that I keep it
safe. That the ankh couldn’t fall into the wrong hands. That’s all
he had time to tell me. Our village was under attack by a dreck
raiding party. Then he and my mother died, and he never got the
chance to tell me the full story. You happy now?” He flung the
purple pouch into the box, pushed himself to his feet, and paced
past her into the room as he combed his fingers through his hair.
“Is that what you wanted to hear? That he never got to finish
telling me the ankh’s purpose because he was murdered?”

“Of course not.” Cordray’s heart hurt for
him. No one should lose someone they loved like that.

Micah spun and scowled into the closet at
the open safe. “Yeah well, I figured if I waited long enough, I’d
eventually find someone who could fill in the blanks my dad never
had the chance to.”

Trace stood. “Looks like you did.”

“Yeah,” Cordray said, “and I bet Skeletor’s
hands are exactly what your dad referred to as the wrong ones.”

“He’s going to be lucky to
have
hands
after I get through with him,” Micah said, marching into the
hall.

She and Trace exchanged concerned but wary
glances then followed him.

Their investigation had uncovered more
questions than answers, but what Cordray wanted to know more than
anything else was, who was Skeletor, and what did he know about
that ankh they didn’t?

Chapter 12

After investigating the apartment and not learning
much about the thief who’d taken Micah’s ankh, Cordray took them to
the location where she and Skeletor had fought.

Trace tried to follow Skeletor’s trail, but
it was practically nonexistent then went completely cold the moment
he exited the alley and turned in the direction the thief had gone.
It was almost as if the guy hadn’t been there at all.

Perplexing. Trace could follow just about
any trail as long as it was less than forty-eight hours old,
sometimes even older. But Skeletor had fallen off the face of the
planet the moment he left the alley. It didn’t make sense.

They scoured the area for hours, searching
for any trace of Mr. Sticky Fingers, but the only clue they found
that he’d even existed was his discarded mask. Just north of the
river, near the Trump Tower, they found it in a dumpster in a small
parking lot between buildings. The left cheek and jaw were smashed
from where Cordray had struck it.

“Do you think he left it to mock us?”
Cordray said, eyeing the mask with a look of vengeance.

Trace sniffed the inside, picking up
Skeletor’s scent for the first time since the alleyway. He shrugged
and tossed it toward her. “Who knows?”

She caught it and took a whiff, probably
locking in his scent the same as he had before handing it over to
Micah so he could do the same.

“He won’t stay hidden forever.” Trace swept
his gaze around the surrounding buildings and along the Riverwalk.
“We’ll find him eventually.”

And when they did, Trace would have a little
fun with the fucker. After all, Skeletor had messed with his best
friend. His keeper. His master. No one fucked with Micah without
fucking with him, too.

“Cool that shit, Trace,” Cordray said,
obviously inside his head.

How the hell did she do that without him
feeling her?

She shrugged one shoulder almost
coquettishly then turned away. “It’s a gift.”

“Yeah well, stop gifting me with your gift.”
He didn’t like his thoughts invaded, but ever since the incident
back at Micah’s, when she’d seen his memories about his mother and
hadn’t peeped a word about them, some of his animosity toward her
mind-stripping habits had fizzled.

“What are you two talking about?” Micah
said, tossing the mask back in the dumpster.

“Trace wants to take a crack at Skeletor’s
nog for making you a target,” Cordray said.

“Good for him.” Micah began scouring the
rest of the parking lot for clues. “It’s nice that someone has my
back.”

“Not good,” Cordray said before Trace could
second Micah’s sentiment.

Micah stopped scanning the pavement and
frowned at her. “Why the hell not?”

“Don’t you get it? That’s what this guy
wants.” Cordray waved her hand toward the surrounding skyscrapers.
“For all we know, he’s watching us right now, listening to
everything we say. And he’s probably getting a Skeletor boner at
the idea that Trace wants to turn his brains into worm food.
Remember, this guy is an adrenaline junkie. He loves the risk for
the simple fact that it raises the stakes and gives him something
real to play for. And what’s more real than his own life?”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Micah
said.

“No, but I’ve chased enough bounties to know
the type. He fits the profile.” She let out a derisive breath.
“Hell, he exceeds the profile.”

“So, what do you propose?” Trace said. “That
we invite him for tea and cupcakes?”

“I’m not big into cupcakes,” Micah added
with a smirk as he knelt to investigate what appeared to be burnout
from a motorcycle tire. “I vote for Trace’s plan.”

“Worm food it is,” Trace said. “Sorry, C.
You’re outvoted.”

Cordray sighed and shook her head. “Males,”
she muttered. “Always thinking with your fists or your dicks, but
never with your brains.” She joined Micah and nodded toward the
black skid mark on the pavement. “That’s from his bike. It had a
fat rear tire like that. I bet he left it as a calling card to let
us know he was here. He knew we’d find the mask. Cocky bastard.
He’s playing with us.”

Trace studied her as she stood next to
Micah, her long braid draped over her shoulder, her eyes sharp as
she took in the surroundings. Under all that makeup she usually
wore, he’d never noticed how pristine her skin was. How smooth and
flawless. Without a smoky layer of eyeliner shaping her eyes and
dark-red lipstick coating her lips, she appeared youthful, even
innocent, and he liked the natural, pink shade of her lips. It made
them appear dewy and lush . . . beckoning.

For the first time, he noticed her rounded,
high cheekbones and gently upturned nose, like a bunny’s. It was a
kissable nose, if a nose could be considered kissable. Hell, her
whole face was kissable. Even her elegantly arched eyebrows, which
perfectly framed her almond-shaped eyes, begged to be tasted.

“What are you staring at?” she said,
frowning.

Trace snapped out of his thoughts and
blinked, realizing she was glaring at him. “Nothing. Just realized
this was the first time I’ve seen you without your mask on.”

“My mask?” Her eyebrows cut more sharply
toward the bridge of her nose.

“Yeah. All that Gothic shit you wear on your
face.” He waved his hand in her general direction and shrugged
indifferently. “You might actually be able to pass for a female now
instead of an ogre.”

“Aw,” Cordray tilted her head sarcastically.
“Such sweet words. I’m not sure what’s better, a compliment from
you or coming down with Ebola.”

“Would you two stop bickering,” Micah said,
standing. “I thought we’d called a truce.”

Trace kept his gaze locked on Cordray’s.
Something was different about her. Or maybe he was just beginning
to feel differently
toward
her. Either way, something
between them had changed in the past eight hours. And, to be
honest, he kind of liked how it felt.

His gaze slid to Micah’s. “Sorry. Couldn’t
help myself.” He glanced back toward Cordray, who was looking at
him as if she didn’t know what to make of his behavior.

Something about Cordray made it impossible
not to insult her, but only because he wanted her to insult him
back. He actually enjoyed the verbal sparring. It was like they
were competing to see who could one-up the other. To see who could
throw the greatest insult. But this competition had no play clock,
no final whistle. Life was the playing field, and any time they
were near each other, it was game on.

The eastern sky was beginning to turn from
inky black to midnight blue. Dawn wasn’t far behind. “It’s getting
late,” Micah said. “The sun’s going to be up soon. I’ll talk to Io
about hacking into the city’s security cameras to see if I can
uncover anything else.”

They began making their way out of the
parking lot.

“Good idea,” Cordray said. “While you’re
doing that, I’ll look through Bain’s records to see if I can find
out anything about that ankh. I seem to remember reading something
about ankhs somewhere in his archives.”

“How do you get away with calling him Bain
instead of King Bain?” Trace said as they hit the sidewalk. “Are
you special or something?”

Without missing a beat, Cordray said, “We’re
hunting down a cat burglar who broke into your pal’s apartment,
stole what I’m assuming is a priceless artifact, and we have no
clue as to his identity or why he did this, and you’re concerned
with how I refer to our race’s sovereign?”