Living with the Dead (32 page)

HOPE

Hope raced down the fence line, Rhys's feet pounding behind her. She rounded the corner. Still no sign of an opening. Why would there be? The motel wouldn't encourage anyone to cut through its property.

She pressed herself against the boards and waited, her eyes half closed as she tracked the pound of Rhys's shoes. Closer, closer...

He came around the corner and she pounced. She caught him in a hold, but this time he was ready and before she could flip him, he countered, throwing her onto her back.

"Hope, you have to listen to me."

Hope hit him with a head strike, grabbing his outstretched arm and slamming her open palm under his chin. He should have flown back. But he recognized the move, countered with a wrist twist and threw her to the ground again, harder this time, wind whooshing from her lungs, head hitting a rock, fireworks of pain and light exploding. He stood over her, his lips moving, some new variation on "Let's talk about this," but the gong ringing in her ears drowned out his words.

The demon wended through her body like an electric eel, sparking and jolting with every twist, battering itself against Hope's insides, fighting to escape. It had escaped before. Once Hope had even seen it in a mirror, a nightmare version of herself, wild with rage. Now it whipped through her, begging to be free.

So Hope set the terms... and opened the gate.

She flew at Rhys, martial-arts training forgotten, animal instinct – demon instinct – taking over, tackling him with everything she had, a dervish of nails and feet and fists. Expecting another scripted martialarts move, he staggered back. She launched herself at him. They went down.

If any low-flying plane had passed over at that moment, Hope suspected they'd have seen a scene straight out of a Tasmanian devil cartoon as she scrabbled in the dirt with Rhys, a dust cloud enveloping them.

Throughout the fight, she kept control. And it was glorious, the purest adrenaline and chaos rush imaginable. Sweeter even than surrendering to the demon. Sweeter because, for those few minutes, her halves found their whole, demon and conscience in sync. Which was not to say the demon didn't push the boundaries, tossing out suggestions that involved the permanent destruction of body parts – eyes, ears, teeth... and parts no guy really deserves to lose. But she controlled the demon and she used it.

It worked fine until Rhys pulled out a whip-thin strap of plastic that Hope didn't even notice until it was fixed around her wrist. She jerked back, thrown off enough for him to take advantage, flipping her onto her stomach and snapping the cuff around her other hand.

She rocked and writhed, trying to kick, but he stayed out of reach. He grabbed her hair and ground her face into the ground. She coughed and spat dirt – and a few obscenities.

He leaned over her. "I want to talk to Hope."

"Who the hell do you think you're – ?"

His fist tightened in her hair, jerking her head back. "I want to talk to Hope."

She bucked and flipped fast, the demon power-boosting her strength. Her feet flew up, scissoring around his waist and throwing him to the side with a deftness that left her blinking.

He fell face-first. As he pushed up, Hope pounced, landing on his back, knees digging into his spine as her hands twisted wildly, trying to break the strap cuffs. She felt the tie slide over wet skin, and glanced over her shoulder to see her wrists bloodied.

The surprise of seeing blood was enough to make her pause. When Rhys bucked, she fell back. He shot up and lunged for her. She scrambled to her feet and kicked. When her foot didn't make contact, she swung off balance, shoulder-checking the fence with a crack.

Rhys grabbed her shoulders and whammed her face-first into the fence. A splinter drove into her cheek and the demon screamed, as outraged as if she'd been stabbed. Fresh adrenaline pumped through her and she flailed, writhing and kicking.

Rhys slammed her against the fence hard enough to knock her wind out again, and this time her body said to hell with what the demon wanted,
it
had had enough, and she leaned against the wood, panting, sweat dripping into her open mouth, eyelids fluttering, legs trembling with exhaustion.

"Good," Rhys said. "Now let me talk to Hope."

"What the hell are you? An exorcist?"

A humor-free chuckle. "If I have to be."

He flipped her around to face him, pinned her by the shoulders, then leaned down toward her face.

"I know you can hear me, Hope."

"Of course I can. You're spitting in my face."

He inched back and lifted his chin before continuing. "I know it feels good, letting the demon take over. But I need you to take control. You're getting hurt – "

"Because you keep throwing me around. Hello? I'm
in
control. No head spinning, see? I could manage projectile vomiting, though, if it'd make you feel better."

"So you're back?"

"I never went anywhere. I control her; she doesn't control me."

"Her?"

Hope flashed the image of Karl for the demon. Karl in trouble. It was like being seven again, telling her mom about the riding instructor who liked to caress her rear as he boosted her onto the horse. Like her mom, the demon went wild, protective instinct kicking in full steam. The snarling, teeth-gnashing dervish returned, thrashing until the bite of the handcuff strap knocked her sober.

"There." She flicked her head to toss sweat-sodden hair out of her eyes. "If you'd like a better demonstration, just undo this strap." She flashed her teeth then, a warning smile, pure Karl, another lesson assimilated and never used until now.

Rhys blinked and eased back. "So it can be controlled." His lips moved. It took a moment for her to recognize the expression as a smile. "I was right."

"Yes, apparently – " Hope nailed him in the shin with a satisfying crack. " – you were."

He staggered back, wincing.

"Now cut this strap and walk away or – "

"I'm on your side, Hope."

Another classic fight line. Her laugh came harsh. "Of course, you are. That Cabal SWAT team attack? Total misunderstanding."

"Yes, it was the Cabal. Which means, I had nothing to do with it."

"Because you couldn't possibly be working for the Nasts." She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. "You set us up. Friday night, when we went by to check out Irving Nast's place, you were there. You followed us, then you set Grant Gilchrist on our trail. You were trying to find Adele for Irving and didn't want us getting to her first."

Hope expected him to say he'd been at Irving's place for the same reason they'd been – scoping it out. An equally plausible excuse. But after a moment, he scooped up his ball cap, pulled it on and said, "Yes, that's how I found you were involved and, yes, I was hired by Irving Nast to find Adele. But I'm not a Cabal employee. I'm an independent contractor."

"A mercenary."

"Not the word I'd choose."

"You don't like it? Well, I don't like being tied up. So how about you let me go and I'll promise never to call you that again."

"Yes, Irving Nast hired me. He thought that was clever – getting one clairvoyant to find another. I was making sure he
didn't
get her. A Cabal rips the soul from a clairvoyant."

"Considering who we're talking about – killer of cops and celebutantes and innocent bystanders – I'm not convinced a little soul ripping isn't in order. And, no, that isn't the demon talking."

"Adele is... broken."

"That's one way of putting it."

His gaze flicked away, her flippancy unappreciated.

"You've got me, okay?" she said, toning it down a notch. "I surrender. Now take me to the Nasts."

"You don't believe me."

"I want to go – "

"Marsten's fine, Hope. The Cabal wouldn't touch a Pack werewolf, and unless Grant was wrong, that's what Marsten is, and the Cabal knows it. If they wanted him dead, they'd have shot him. They just tranquilized him, neutralizing the biggest threat first."

"Fine, so take me – "

"I can't do that when I'd be in as much trouble as you. And they don't
want
me going back. Don't you get it? This is a set-up. Do you think letting us escape the front door was an oversight?"

"No, it's proof that you're working for them. They let you go so you could get me out and pretend to have rescued me."

He rocked back on his heels. "What are my vibes telling you? Anything negative there, besides frustration? Anything to suggest I'm lying?"

"As a mercenary – hired gun, hired spy, hired con artist, whatever – you're a professional liar." She met his gaze. "Right?"

He tugged his cap brim, as if adjusting it, a subconscious attempt to pull back under its shadows. A man who preferred the security of anonymity.

"A professional liar can outwit an Expisco," Hope said.

"Not if you were properly trained."

How much
did
he know about Expiscos? This was the second time his words suggested she wasn't the first one he'd met. The demon jumped to attention, straining forward with questions. Hope hauled it in and muzzled it.

"What possible reason would I have to fake-rescue you?" Rhys said. "To lead me to Adele? You have no idea where she is."

"Okay, then. I'm useless. So let me go."

"You aren't useless to
me
. I brought one operative on this mission, and your boyfriend killed him. I need help, and I have a feeling you're going to be a lot more useful on this mission than Grant."

"What mission?"

"You haven't asked why the Cabal let me escape that hotel room. What does Irving want?"

This wasn't the time for a pop quiz. But as Hope squirmed, she could tell she wasn't getting out of these strap cuffs until he let her. "You know where Adele is. Irving has figured out you're not handing her over. He thinks if he swoops down on us and you escape, you'll run off to warn her. Lead him to her. That's why he had one of his men suggest they know where she is."

"Suggest?"
Rhys laughed. "That was one of the most obvious tricks I've seen. There's a reason Irving hasn't shot through the Cabal ranks."

He took a penknife from his pocket and flicked it open.

"Your hands," he said.

"I'd like to keep them."

"And you aren't going to if you keep yanking at that strap, digging it in deeper." He flipped Hope around and sliced off the cuffs. "Now we need to get that cleaned up. I have a first-aid kit in my car. Then we're going to the kumpania." Seeing her expression, he shook his head. "You don't even know what that is, do you? Remember what I said about being in over your head? The kumpania is where we'll find Adele."

"But that's exactly – "

" – what Irving wants me to do? Yes."

"I'm not helping the girl who – "

"I'm not warning Adele. I'm warning Neala." Again, he saw her confusion. "Colm's mother."

"Your wife."

He shook his head, gazed down as he returned the knife to his pocket. "Not for a very long time. But she saved my life once. I owe her."

"So you're going to warn her about the Cabal."

"And, more immediately, about Adele. Which she already suspected. I just didn't listen. She tried – "

He broke off, shaking his head and prodding her along the fence line.

Hope dug in. "Whatever problem you have, it's
your
problem. Mine is Karl and Robyn. I don't even know where Robyn is – "

"Picked up by the Cabal, I'm sure. You want them back from the Cabal SWAT team, and I want to get to the kumpania without that SWAT team on my tail. The two goals, I think you'll agree, are not mutually exclusive." He took her elbow. "Come on."

FINN

That sprint along the motel had burned off Finn's anger, and when he saw Robyn clutching the gun, the first thing he noticed was not the black hole of a barrel, but those slender hands trembling. Robyn struggled to hold her expression immobile, eyes narrowed, in a desperate attempt to hide her terror. It was a look Finn knew well. He'd seen it on too many people at the other end of a gun, fighting to show that they weren't scared, that they
would
pull that trigger, and that made them ten times more dangerous than the most hardened gangbanger. Because at the smallest move, the slightest sound, they fire before their brain could interfere.

"You don't want to do this," he said.

Robyn's laugh wobbled as much as her hands. "Are you going to remind me of the penalty for shooting an officer of the law, Detective? I bet that comes in handy, doesn't it? Your boss sends you after someone like me, and if I stand up to you, you just play the cop card, make me think twice about defending myself."

"My boss?"

"The people you work for."

"I work for the city of – "

"Cut the crap, Detective Findlay. Hope already figured out your game."

"Hope?"

"Ah, so now you're going to pretend you never met her."

"If you mean your friend, Hope Adams – "

"That's the only Hope both of us know. Only you didn't know her as well as you thought. You overlooked that magic power detector of hers."

"Magic power?" He remembered interviewing Adams, remembered being afraid she'd somehow pick up on his secret.

"Are you going to parrot everything I say? I bet that's what they teach you at double-agent school, huh? In case of exposure, whatever your interrogator says, repeat it back?"

"Double-agent – " He stopped himself. "I don't know what – "

" – I'm talking about. Lesson two: deny everything. Now you'll tell me that Hope's wrong, you don't have supernatural powers."

He felt his jaws part. He wouldn't go so far as to say it dropped, but it definitely opened.

"Better yet, gape at me like I've lost my mind."

He shut his mouth.

"Over the last few days," she continued, "I have had very good cause to question my sanity, but if I know one thing right now, it's that I'm not crazy and nothing you can say is going to convince me otherwise. Now, are you going to tell me you don't have supernatural powers?"

He should deny it. He'd been raised to do that until he was married, and then only to tell his wife, warning her the same way he would if his genes carried a disorder.

But Robyn Peltier would see his lie. She'd condemn him for it worse than she'd ever condemn him for the truth. Considering she was a fugitive currently holding a gun on him, her opinion shouldn't matter. But it did. And he knew if he was going to solve this case, and find not only justice but truth, his answer – and her opinion – would be critical.

"No," he said.

"So you
are
going to deny it."

"I mean no, I'm
not
going to deny it."

She took a second to recover, loosening and regripping the gun.

"Can you put that down?" he asked.

"Right now, this gun is the only thing guaranteeing me the truth."

"No." He met her gaze. "It isn't."

She faltered again, her fingers peeling off and finding new holds. Then, slowly, she lowered it to her side.

"You have them, don't you?" she said.

"Who?"

"Hope and Karl."

"I don't have any – "

"Your employer does, then."

"My employer – " Finn exhaled, air whistling through his teeth. "Okay, let's back up. Who do you think I work for?"

"The man in the photograph. The one Portia sent to me, that started this whole thing."

"You mean Irving Nast?" He took out his badge. "This didn't come from a cereal box, Robyn. You can call in the number right now and check. I'm a real detective."

"Of course you are. That's the beauty of it. They get you on the LAPD and anytime a crime involves you people – "

"You people?"

She flushed, as if caught making a racial slur. "Your... your sort. People with... supernatural powers. Werewolves, demons, clairvoyants, whoever works for the Nasts. If they get into trouble – or cause it – you swoop in and clean up, keep your world a secret."

There was, Finn reflected, a bizarre logic to that... once you got past the part about werewolves and demons employed by a nefarious organization posing as a Fortune 500 corporation, which, he admitted, was rather a large roadblock.

"Irving Nast... ?" was all he could say.

Robyn crossed her arms, gun dangling from her fingers, fixing him with a sharp look of disapproval. They'd finally gotten past the parroting and denials, and now he was backsliding.

"If I'm working for Irving Nast, why was I at his office a few hours ago?"

Her disapproval slid into disgust. Obviously if he was working for Irving Nast, he'd have reason to meet with him.

"I went to question him on this case," he said. "Instead I met Sean Nast. Does that ring a bell?"

"Should it?"

"Ask Hope. She met him an hour ago – right after I left the Nast offices. You think that's a coincidence?"

She uncrossed her arms.

"Hope did meet with someone, right?" he prodded.

"Yes, a contact."

"Who was Sean Nast, the guy I met, who stonewalled me, shooed me out of his office, then raced off to meet your friend. So I would suggest
I'm
not the one working for the Nasts."

Robyn shook her head, her arms falling to her sides now. "Not Hope. Sean Nast is her contact in that organization. You talked to him, so he called her..."

"And I followed her from that meeting to this motel. All of which should mean I don't work for Irving Nast."

It wasn't a bulletproof argument and her look told him so, but she did ease back, thinking.

"You do have some supernatural power, though, right?"

"If you call it that."

"Hope said you're a necromancer."

That was the second time this week he'd heard that word. He didn't like the way it made him feel – uneasy and unbalanced. Like being the star in every school play, coming to L.A. and finding yourself one of a thousand actors who'd starred in every school play.

"I have no idea
what
a necromancer is..." Robyn continued.

It took a moment to notice her watching him expectantly.

"It means... ghosts," he said. "I see ghosts, communicate with them."

He braced himself for her eyes to light up, for her to say, "You can talk to the dead? My husband passed away six months ago. Can you... ?" He'd promised Damon he wouldn't tell her, not yet. But if she gave him that look, if those green eyes lit with hope, if she asked...

But it didn't register. Maybe because he'd said "ghosts" not "the dead." Maybe because, right now, Damon was miles from her mind.

"You talk to ghosts," she said, nodding as if assimilating. "Okay, that I can live with. It's a lot easier to believe than some of the others."

"Others?"

"The – " She stopped, studying him. "You really don't work for the Nasts, do you?"

He shook his head.

"You know nothing about the Nasts, do you?"

He shook his head.

"But you do know you're a necromancer."

"If that's what it's called, I guess so. I just know that seeing ghosts runs in my family."

"But the rest of it... ? Clairvoyants? Demons? Werewolves?"

"Uh, no."

"Oh, boy."

As silence settled over them, a figure flickered to Finn's right, by the side fence. An arm appeared. Then a leg in midstride. Finally a faint figure shimmered, heading his way. A few paces later, Damon popped into full view.

"Oh, so
now
you can see me. About time. I've been – " Damon turned the corner and saw Robyn, and his face –

Finn looked away, feeling like he had when he'd come home from college early one weekend to walk in on Rick proposing to his girlfriend, his face raw with longing and hope. Finn had known she'd turn him down, and that had made it all the more painful to see, knowing the moment couldn't end in anything except disappointment, as this one would for Damon.

As Finn pretended to look for the ambulance, he scratched the back of his neck, not because it itched, but just to have something to do. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Damon approach Robyn, slowly, warily, as if expecting her to disappear.

Whatever powers had kept Damon from being near his wife had evidently lifted that ban. Maybe because Finn still needed Damon's help to solve this case, and now he needed Robyn's, too. Or maybe just because it was time to let him see her again.

"Uh, Finn? Why is my wife holding a gun?"

Finn turned. Robyn looked confused, as if she was trying to figure out why he'd turned away.

Damon stood beside her, so close his arm was through her. His brows arched as he gestured to the weapon.

"Bobby... pulled a gun on you?"

Finn searched for an excuse. Then Damon smiled, like a man seeing his wife pull a martial-arts move he never realized she knew, proud of her ability to defend herself... and touched with sadness that she had to.

Damon leaned into Robyn. "A brave new world, huh, baby?"

"You don't know the half of it," Finn muttered.

"Detective?" Robyn followed his gaze to her side. "Is there... a ghost?"

Damon pulled back sharply and shot him a look, reminding Finn that he'd promised not to tell Robyn about him. Damon was right – this was no time to tell her. That would come later. After they got through this and she was safe. For now, Damon would just have to be Finn's anonymous spirit helper.

"She figured out that I see ghosts." He gave Damon a meaningful look. "That's it."

"Detective?" Robyn said.

"Yes, it's a... ghost. Can you give us – me – a moment?"

Finn backed to the corner. He was about to turn away, then remembered the last time he'd left Robyn alone.

"It's okay," Damon said. "I'm watching her."

Which he was. Couldn't take his eyes off her, even as he explained to Finn what had happened, how he'd followed Hope to the motel room, then been blocked at the sidewalk and known Robyn must be inside. He went back only to find Finn's ghost radar on the fritz again. He'd been hammering away at Finn for a while before the motel room door opened, and Hope and a man came out.

"Karl Marsten?" Finn kept his voice low, so Robyn wouldn't overhear.

"No, a red-haired guy in some team jacket."

"I saw him."

Damon told Finn that Adams had been in rough shape. Finn presumed it was from the gas, but he hadn't mentioned that part to Damon, who was already eyeing Robyn like a mother hen with a bedraggled chick. Damon said the man seemed to take Adams against her will, but she'd escaped. He'd been about to run through the side fence, taking a shortcut to follow them. Then he'd seen a van around the back, Karl Marsten in the rear of it.

"He left Adams?"

"Not willingly. He was out cold, being loaded in by two guys dressed like SWAT, and I thought you must have called it in. But they'd cut out the bathroom window and taken him through there, so no one would see, which doesn't sound like the LAPD to me."

"They weren't."

"So we have private citizens in riot gear, kidnapping a guy through a motel room window, and strong-arming a woman out the front door... in broad daylight? This case is getting stranger by the minute."

Again, Damon didn't know the half of it, and if Finn stopped to think about it all, he'd get mired in the morass of
his
confusion.

"Where's Adams now?" he asked.

"Over there." Damon pointed to the back fence. "She kicked the crap out of the guy. I know Aikido is supposed to be good self-defense, but man, that was something else. Bobby definitely has to start taking those lessons with her. Way better than a gun."

"So Adams is okay?"

"I think so. When they were going at it, I came back to find you, couldn't, went back and they were done brawling. They seemed to be negotiating." He paused, gaze still fixed on Robyn, and rubbed his thumb over his chin. "I guess I should go check on her. Hope, that is."

Finn tried to think of some way to agree without sounding heartless. They both knew that once Damon left, he might not get this close to Robyn again.

"I'll go." Damon wrenched his gaze away. As he did, he leaned for a better look at the front lot. "An ambulance just pulled in. Is that for Bobby? Is she okay?"