Dark and Damaged: Eight Tortured Heroes of Paranormal Romance: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set (94 page)

He’d suspected she was a Talent, but could she be a Shield-Talent, someone who was immune from the psychic attacks from other Talents? And if so, could she have shielded him as well? Holy Fates. Was that even possible?

Toryn grabbed two beers from the kitchen and handed one to Sean who mumbled a quick thanks.

If his hunch was correct, maybe he could use Keely’s Talent to get into the nightclub. With her by his side, he could waltz in and kill Reaux right under their noses. Those bodyguards would have no clue what was going to happen until it was too late.

Plus, it would give him the perfect excuse to see her again.

It was absurd that he couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t get her off his mind. He tried to brush it off as no big deal—hell, he’d kissed plenty of women before this one—but there was something so…different about her. He took a long swig of his beer, trying to recall if he’d ever been this intrigued by a woman before. But then, he’d never had a woman throw herself at him like that before either. She’d roused all of his male instincts.

But he couldn’t let himself get too carried away. He’d once made that mistake with a Cascadian girl he thought he had feelings for. Turned out she was only using him to get through a portal into Pacifica and left him the first chance she got. He would not make that same mistake by trusting the wrong person again.

Other than the fact that Keely lived somewhere in or around the Circus District, he didn’t know much about her. He didn’t even know her last name. How would he be able to find her? She’d taken off without a word. One minute they were together in the alley and the next minute she was gone. She’d been reluctant to tell him much, but just when it seemed as if she was going to open up to him, the Night Patrol had shown up and spooked her. That girl had secrets and he wanted to know what they were.

He looked at Sean. The man was built like a tank—probably pushing six-six or six-seven—with cords of muscle on top of muscle, his dark skin straining to keep it all in. He looked like a professional body builder, someone whose physical prowess was his most important asset. Not like a guy who spent hours and hours studying and writing computer code before the army got hold of him.

“Vince tells me you’re a Tracker-Talent,” Toryn said.

Sean nodded but kept pecking away on the keyboard.

“What do ye need in order to…uh, track someone?”

Sean was probably wondering why the warrior who hated him the most was asking him all these questions. “An article of the target’s clothing is best,” he said, his tone even.

Damn. He didn’t have anything that belonged to Keely.

Pushing away a strand of hair that had slipped into his face, Toryn quickly redid the knot at his nape and thought about the trashcan where she’d stuffed her sweatshirt. It was probably long gone by now. Then he saw his leather jacket hanging over the back of a nearby chair.

“What about something the…the target recently wore?” He felt a twinge of guilt about referring to Keely in such a callous manner, like she wasn’t really a person but a means to an end. He couldn’t forget the look of sheer terror in her eyes.

Sean frowned and thought for a moment. “But he or she doesn’t own it?”

“No. Is ownership of an item important?”

“That’s part of it, yes.” His dark eyes scanned Toryn’s face.

He was probably thinking:
Why should I help this asshole? He’s been nothing but a jerk to me
.

But then he said, “I’m certainly willing to give it a try.”

Keely carried the cup of water through the tattoo parlor and handed it to the customer at Verla’s station.

“Thanks,” the man said, then knocked it back as if it were a shot of whiskey.

Verla looked up at him over the rims of her glasses. “You doing okay, hon? Want to take a short break?”

“Yeah, that would be great,” he said, sounding relieved. “Need to hit the john, make a couple of phone calls.”

According to the girl at the front desk, Verla had been working on the guy’s intricate sleeve pattern for over an hour.

“Right on,” Verla said, setting down the needle and stripping off her black latex gloves. “Meet you back here in ten?”

“Sure.” The man pushed himself up from the chair with grunt and headed toward the bathrooms.

For the past two days, Keely had sent countless texts to Becca, but all of them had gone unanswered. Up until now, she’d spent every waking moment in the bookstore, sitting near the front door. She only left her post if she had a customer. Whenever a car turned down the street, she jumped, straining to see if it was Mr. Reaux’s limo bringing Becca home.

“It was all a terrible misunderstanding,”
he would say.
“I did not mean to worry you. Please, accept my apologies
...
”

But of course that never happened. Becca was still gone, and Keely had no idea what to do to get her back. She hoped her sister was still in the Circus District somewhere. No doubt she was scared. Terrified, even. Had that bastard hurt her? Was she calling out for help but there was no one to hear her?

Keely pressed a hand to her forehead to quell the rising panic. When they were kids, they used to pretend they could communicate with their thoughts, giving each other hard stares from across the room in an attempt to transmit what they were thinking. If only that was her Talent. She’d know where her sister was and could come in with guns blazing and rescue her. If she had a gun. Okay, maybe a knife then. She could get a knife, a thin little switchblade that would fit in her pocket, then go there and stab that sonofabitch.

She sighed. Being a Shield-Talent—a crappy one whose abilities to ward off other Talents were limited and sporadic—would not cut it. She was only kick-ass and tough in her imagination.

Becca, on the other hand, was good at what she did. With a simple touch, she was able to project various thoughts and feelings to another person, get them to believe all sorts of outlandish things—a Talent that came in handy when selling
fortunes
. If Becca had been able to use it to get away from her captors, she would have done it already. Or prevented herself from being taken in the first place. The thing was, Mr. Reaux knew the people he extorted money from were Talents. He probably knew how to prevent—

Hell, maybe
he
was a Shield-Talent and immune to anything Becca could dish out. Just like Keely.

If only she and Becca weren’t Talents. Then she’d call the authorities and let them handle this. But that wasn’t the case, and she was Becca’s only hope. The buck stopped at her.

For a fleeting moment in the alley, she’d almost confided in Toryn when he demanded to know what was going on. He was so insistent that she nearly caved. But no matter how safe she felt in his presence, she couldn’t risk telling him the truth. There was too much at stake.

Panic and worry clawed up her spine again at what Becca must be going through. She didn’t want to think about it. She just wanted her sister back.

After Verla covered her workstation, Keely followed her out the back service door, where her friend lit up a cigarette. Harvey, the owner of Freak Ink, was out having a smoke, too. (It sounded like
free kink
when you said it fast, which was how Harvey wanted it pronounced when someone answered the phone.)

“I know you’re worried, Keely,” Verla said. “I’m sure it’s just one of Reaux’s scare tactics. You’ll see.”

“What’s going on?” Harvey asked, frowning.

Keely explained to him what had happened as she absently picked at the label on the bottle of water she’d grabbed on the way out. The lump in her throat that she’d been trying to ignore gave way to a sob. “It’s…it’s my fault she’s gone.”

Harvey cursed under his breath.

Exhaling a puff of smoke, Verla stepped over and put a hand on Keely’s shoulder. “Like it was your fault you got mugged on your way home from the bank by an angry mob of self-righteous protesters?
Bastards
.”

Harvey spat out a short burst of brown spit then took another drag of his cigarette. Guess if you wanted a nicotine hit, you might as well go all in. She wouldn’t be surprised if he were chewing a piece of nicotine gum, too.

“There’s something going on over at Aphrodistic,” he said. “Something very hush-hush.”

Keely’s breath hitched. “What kind of something? Why do you think it could involve Becca?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. One of my regulars is a bartender there. But given that a few other Talents have gone missing after talking to Reaux—attractive young women like your sister—I’m just guessing it’s related.”

“There have been others?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Who?”

“You know that girl who works at the coffee place?”

There were dozens of coffee shops and carts in the District, but she had a pretty good idea who he meant. “You mean Hanna from Circus Coffee?”

Hanna, a former dancer who quit to have her son, was a popular bikini barista. Word would get out on social media that she was working the coffee cart that day, and within minutes there’d be a long line. Suddenly every male in the area, and some females, needed a caffeine fix. An old man on a video ad for Circus Coffee proclaimed he goes there to get a drink from Hanna because it’s the biggest thrill of his day.

“That’s the one,” Harvey said. “I was talking to Yvonne—”

“The woman who owns the cart?” Verla interrupted.

“Yeah, Yvonne. That’s her. I ran into her this morning when I was out walking Fritz. Turns out Hanna missed her shift yesterday. A few customers saw her talking the night before to Davin Reaux.”

“Okay, so Hanna’s missing, too,” Keely said impatiently. “But can we focus on what your bartender friend told you?”

“Apparently they’re getting ready for some big private event over there. The whole place will be shutting down to get ready for it.”

Verla examined her cuticles. “They gonna bleach it out from top to bottom?”

“Private event?” Keely asked. She didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of private event?”

Harvey shrugged. “My friend doesn’t know many details. Just that a bunch of VIPs will be in attendance.”

“What kind of a VIP,” Verla said with air quotes, “goes to an event at Aphrodistic?”

Harvey flicked an ash from his cigarette. “Apparently some heavy hitters. My client thought there were going to be a few professional athletes, politicians. Maybe a rock star or two. All the staff has to sign NDAs. And they’ve let a bunch of people go.”

Keely chewed on her lip. But what did this all have to do with Becca? She’d heard about establishments that catered to the rich and famous, only hiring beautiful people to work there. Women who had a certain look…and certain measurements.

The door to the alley opened and the receptionist poked her head out. “Steve is waiting for you, Verla. Are you—?”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “Tell him I’m coming.”

Harvey held the door open for them.

Keely started to follow Verla back inside when her phone rang.

“I’ll be right in,” she told them.

She pulled the phone from her pocket, glanced at the screen, and her heart nearly stopped.

It was Becca.

***

By the time Toryn and Sean arrived back in New Seattle, the sun had already dipped below the Olympic Mountains to the west, leaving in its wake a thin, gray light. Rush hour was nearly over, most of the commuters having left for home on earlier trains and ferries. For the most part, the sidewalks were scattered with well-dressed and well-behaved people heading to dinners and cocktail hours. It was still too early for the rowdier nightlife crowd.

An array of tantalizing aromas greeted them when they got to the Circus District. Indian curry. Italian pasta. Vietnamese pho. New Seattle seafood. Neither Toryn nor Sean had eaten anything since they left the Iron Haven, so they might have to grab something from one of the street vendors soon.

Sean stood on the corner and looked up and down the street several times. In one hand was Toryn’s leather coat, the one that Keely had worn for a short time. She’d looked so charming, so enticing, with his large jacket draped over her curvy, petite frame, he thought, and a sudden wave of possessiveness surged through him.

“Don’t you have to smell it or something?” Toryn asked, confused.

Sean shook his head. “It’s more of an energy marker that I’m trying to match up, not exactly a scent, although that’s the easiest way to think of it.”

“So are you getting anything yet?” He was unable to keep the impatience out of his tone. Sean had told him it would be a long shot, but that didn’t keep him from hoping for success.

“No.”

They started at the edge of the District, walking the area in a grid pattern so as not to miss a single side street or alley. There were no skyscrapers in this part of town, just a bunch of historic five- and six-story buildings that had clearly seen better days. Sean told him that it had once been a trendy part of town back before the big earthquake hit and turned much of it to rubble.

They had just passed a boarded-up building with a bright orange condemned sign tacked to the front when Sean stopped.

“What?” Toryn asked, almost bumping into him. “Do you have something?”

“I can’t tell,” the other man said, frowning. “But I’m picking up something familiar. It’s coming from somewhere over there.”

Toryn turned his attention in that direction. There was a nondescript building across the street and next to it, a small patch of open space that the city called a park but which was actually only a few benches and a square of grass.

He scanned the people, looking for that telltale mane of red hair. Nothing.

Several food trucks were parked on the curb, but he didn’t see her in any of the lines either. Sean was saying something about being hungry, but Toryn wasn’t listening.

Maybe Keely was inside one of the stores. There was a vegan donut shop that offered palm readings, a pawnshop that promised top dollar for the wedding ring your bastard ex-husband gave you, and Mental Travel, an agency that promised you the vacation of your dreams.