Made for Sin (9 page)

To his surprise, she was smiling when he looked at her. “Shit, I could have done that.”

“Probably wouldn't have been as fun to watch,” he said without thinking. Good thing he was already walking past her, leading the way toward his house. She probably hadn't even heard him.

Whether she had or not, he wasn't sticking around to find out. He motioned her to follow him and slid into the shadowy backyard of the house on the corner, five down from and behind his. The feeling of something wrong got stronger with every step. The breeze flowing past him carried darkness, a sinister tinge of black magic that made the beast pace and twitch. Death rode on that breeze, death waiting for him down the street. They were at his house. Someone was at his house, and they weren't potential clients and they weren't potential informants and they definitely weren't there to give him a copy of
The Watchtower.

So he'd have to be extra careful. The next yard up had a chain-link fence; he bypassed it, keeping low as he and Ardeth made their way past the Peetes' house. That was when he spotted the guy standing in his own backyard, only a few feet from the wall of his house. Not a familiar guy, but a familiar type: around six feet tall, weight around 190, maybe, short hair, the butt of a gun just peeking over his waistband in the small of his back. That was a guy there for a reason, and that guy made the beast growl exactly the same way the unseen sniper had done earlier.

The next house up belonged to the Diazes. Mrs. Diaz, bless her, was an avid gardener, and several flowering shrubs and trees marked the border of their land. Very handy to slip into, which he did, pulling Ardeth along by the hand and ducking down so the thick leaves hid them from view.

Her fingers wrapped around his upper arm; her breath tickled his ear. Jesus. “You know him?”

He shook his head—which was harder than it seemed, because turning in her direction too much would bring his cheek in contact with her lips. “You?”

She shook her head, too, pulling away from him enough that he could see her do it.

“Okay.” Luckily it was a breezy enough night, and they were far enough away, that Mr. Backyard there didn't hear them as long as they whispered. Even more lucky that they both had a lot of professional experience with being very quiet. “I can sneak up behind, I think, and grab him. He'll see me once I get into my yard, but—”

“No. Here.” She dug around in her bag and produced a small silk pouch, from which she pulled a long, thin silver chain. It glimmered in the patchy moonlight through the leaves. “Put this around your neck, and when you get close to him, get it around his, too. It'll keep him quiet.”

He took it from her and held it up in front of him, letting it dangle from his fingers to pool on the ground. The beast gave a little shiver. “A Malphasian Baffler? Where'd you get this?”

Even in the darkness he could see her raised-brow smile. “Stole it, where do you think? It won't make you invisible, though, or totally silent. It'll just muffle any sounds you make and make it hard for him to see you until you're really close—you still have to be careful, okay?” Her hand, still on his arm, squeezed it. “Don't get shot.”

Yeah, that was definitely one of his goals anyway, not getting shot. It was still nice of her to say. He nodded and slipped the chain around his neck, making the beast shiver again. He couldn't tell if it liked it or not, but then, he didn't give a damn. If it had been up to him he'd have made the thing miserable every minute of every day.

Time to test the baffler. He crept away from Ardeth—if he was spotted, he didn't want to lead them right to her—and through the bushes to the end of the Diazes' yard. Next to their house was the Grahams', and the desert willow that sprawled in the middle of their Astroturfed property. He darted behind it, and from there to the kiddie playhouse their daughter had recently outgrown. It still made a handy cover, though, as he slipped around it.

Which put him behind his own house, only fifteen feet or so away from the man who, thankfully, still seemed unaware of his presence. He lifted the rest of the baffler, gathered it in his left hand, and charged.

Ardeth was right. The baffler didn't make him invisible. But it did conceal his presence enough that he managed to get only a foot or so away before he was noticed; the baffler fell around his uninvited guest before the guy could suck in enough breath to shout, and Speare made sure that wouldn't happen by catching him in a choke hold—the beast started leaping around the second his skin made contact—and dragging the man backward, back toward the abandoned playhouse. Kind of an odd place to question someone, but any port in a storm, he figured.

Ardeth materialized from the little plastic building when he arrived there with his captive in tow. How the hell—she must have moved while he was subduing his new friend, who had, obligingly, passed out. Nice. She motioned him inside and closed the door behind them.

A tiny picnic-style table sat to the right, with attached benches on either side. To the left was an equally small bed of thick plastic designed to look like wood, and the walls were covered with decals depicting furniture and framed pictures, along with a few “appliances” jutting out. He felt like a giant.

Ardeth was apparently thinking along similar lines. “Goldilocks would think you're here for revenge.”

“How apt.” Oh, that was weird. His voice came out strangled, barely audible; his throat felt clogged. Well, at least he knew nobody could start shouting and calling the other intruders to the playhouse. What a shame that those plastic floorboards didn't fall under the baffler's spell, and would boom like a bass drum if he just dropped his captive on them, which was what he'd like to do. Instead he set the guy down as quietly as he could, waiting for him to come back around so they could question him.

It didn't take long. Only thirty seconds or so passed before the guy took a huge, gasping breath that would have been loud if not for the magical muffle. His eyelids fluttered and opened, his gaze casting wildly around what was probably a pretty bizarre place to wake up.

Speare didn't give him time to make sense of it. He fisted the guy's collar in his hand to keep him pinned to the floor and raised his other fist so it was directly in the guy's line of vision. The beast roared, as it had been doing since the moment Speare touched the guy; it loved violence, and Speare had to admit he was liking the idea of it himself, at that moment. That was his home. The man he held down had invaded his home, and intended to ambush him and do him harm. The only thing keeping him from giving the guy's dentist a chance to buy a new summerhouse was his need for information. “Who sent you?”

Ardeth, crouched at the guy's side, took her hands out of his pockets and shook her head. “No ID.”

Damn it. No name, no way to connect the guy to a crew without his help.

Worse, people who made a point of leaving their ID at home were generally people up to no good. Leaving the ID at home was a pretty big indicator that the crime planned was a lot more than a little punching and questioning.

The guy's response to Ardeth's declaration was to yell. Or, at least, to try to yell. Speare's fist stopped the shout before the baffler did, turning it into a pitiful little
gawp
sound instead.

“Nobody can hear you,” Speare informed him, struggling to hear his own voice over the effect of the magic and the beast's glee. “So you might as well just say it. Did Fallerstein send you? You work for him?”

The guy looked at him then. Holy shit. His eyes—those weren't normal. They weren't human eyes. They were snake's eyes, a vertical pupil set in a thick rim of gold, and when Speare jerked in surprise, an equally reptilian smile formed on the man's face.
“Gethleshi.”

The beast's roar turned into a scream. A scream like Speare had never heard, a scream that made him think his skull was about to split open. Pain and power in equal measure reverberated through his head, through his entire body, knocking the breath from his lungs and the sight from his eyes for one hideous moment before they snapped back. It was all he could do to keep his grip on the guy, who clearly knew the effect his utterance had had—or at least knew it would have some effect. His widening smile was proof of that.

“Speare?” Ardeth's voice seemed to come from very far away. Good. Made it easier to ignore.

He punched the guy again, not holding back so much this time. His rage needed a vent, and maybe the beast would calm the hell down a bit if he fed it. “Who sent you here? Why are you here?”

Was it his imagination, or was the man's entire face going reptilian? No, not reptilian, specifically. Just…wrong. His features were shifting, changing. Not fast enough to see clearly, but it was happening just the same: the nose going wider, flatter, while the ears grew longer and the teeth lengthened. What the hell was he?

Something with a voice like thousands of insects. “They come across, and they go back. They wait in the dark, wait for the opening, and now a new one may come. One to win all wars and bend all wills, and those in his favor rule from thrones of gold.”

Every word made the beast turn and stomp harder. Every word made Speare feel sicker. He didn't dare glance at Ardeth, who must have been terrified. And he'd gotten her into this. He should have told her to get out of town the second they were shot at, damn it. He had enough connections. He could have had her sent anywhere, somewhere nice and all expenses paid, until this blew over.

Please God, let it be something that would blow over.

The man—the creature, whatever it was—on the ground in front of him started to laugh. Almost like it had heard him thinking. He raised his fist, ready to give it another punch in whatever that was it was using for a face, but before he could do that the thing spoke again.
“Ha'ta renuthor al caraliphia.”

Another scream from the beast—a different one, not as agonizing but still not pleasant—that blurred his vision but didn't take it away. He was able to see those inhuman eyes roll back up into the thing's head, to see it go still as it died.

For a long moment he just sat there, his hand still holding the thing's shirt, staring at its empty, twisted visage as if he could get some more information from it, as if words would appear scrawled across it that would tell him what he needed to know. What the fuck was that, and what the fuck had it said that caused the beast to go supernova like that?

And, of course, what the fuck did it want with him?

Ardeth lived surprisingly close to his place, in a house a lot like his, set back off the street in Paradise Palms. He followed her succinct directions there with caution, and he could sense her apprehension as they approached her street, but he didn't feel any presence when they got there. Nobody was waiting for them.

Which meant his suspicion—well, at that point it was more like a certainty—was correct. It was him they were after, whoever “they” were. He hadn't suggested sticking around to try to question another one after their freaky snake friend's body had capped the bizarreness by melting and disappearing, and if Ardeth had wanted to try, she hadn't said anything, either. So it was still just a mysterious “they” he needed to find, before “they” found him first.

She obviously knew that, too. “You can spend the night here,” she said, opening the door.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “Yes.” It was right there, ready to jump out.

But he couldn't. “I don't think that's such a great idea.”

“Oh, don't worry.” Her long up-and-down look sent a spark of something that was definitely not fear through him. “I haven't fallen prey to your manly charms. You get the spare room.”

Right. “Yeah. That's not—look, we both know it's not you they're after, so I've already put you in enough danger. I've got some people I can call, people who don't live in the city and who owe me a favor or two. You can get out of town tonight, and stay anywhere you want. Another country, even, if you have a passport. I'll pay for everything.”

He'd expected her to be surprised but to pretty much jump at the offer. He'd expected her to consider it, at least.

What he did not expect was for her to laugh. A real laugh, that same light, pretty laugh he'd heard a few times already. “And miss all the excitement? Are you kidding me? I want to know how this ends.”

It was his turn to grab her arm, before she could finish crossing the threshold. “This isn't funny. You saw that thing. You want one of those showing up here? A dozen of them? Let's not make you a target—”

“I can take care of myself, Elvis.”

God, give him patience. “I'm sure you can. But I'm responsible for you being in this—”

“Oh, knock it off. Nobody is responsible for me but me, and I'm staying right here.”

“You're being ridiculous.”

Oops. Her eyes narrowed. Better fix that, fast. “Sorry. I just don't want to see you—anybody—hurt because of me.”

Especially given how many people were hurt because of him on a regular basis. Every one of those marks on his chest reminded him of that.

Her expression softened a little. A very little. But hey, it was something. “I appreciate that. I do, honest. But…you're not the only one who wants to know who's behind all this. I knew Frank Mercer. It could have been me—it looks like it almost was me—who procured the demon-sword that killed him.” She bit her lip. “You're not the only one who has a sense of responsibility here.”

One more try. “You're not responsible for any of this. And there's a difference between responsibility and danger. That thing back there wasn't human, but it sure as hell was evil. If it comes here, looking for me—”

Her hand on his cheek silenced him as effectively as if she'd tossed a sponge down his throat. Did she touch everyone so much? Was that a thing people did casually, like that? Aside from women like Cookie Doretti—women who were way off-limits—he'd never spent much time around women who touched him unless they were touching him below the belt or obviously would be later. And women like Cookie Doretti touched him because they touched every man they met, either as a power game or an attempt to get attention. Or both.

The point was, he stood there for a second, struck dumb by her warm, soft palm against his skin, that amazing perfume filling the air, and he had no idea why or if that was what she wanted.

“If it comes here,” she said, “then it's in for a big fucking surprise. And if it decides it wants me, who's to say it won't find me anywhere? Isn't it better that I stick near you? Or do you not think you can keep me safe if it shows—”

“Of course I fucking can,” he said, offended in spite of himself. And in spite of his worries that maybe he couldn't. That
word,
that word the man-thing had said, made the beast feel like it was going to die. Like Speare's head, his body, had become too small. Jesus, was it possible for the beast to grow somehow? To squeeze him out? “That's not the—”

“Good.” She smiled. “So get the hell inside, okay? Before my neighbors notice me bringing home a strange man in the middle of the night. Mrs. Theopoulis gossips about me enough as it is.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and headed inside, leaving only the imprint of her skin against his, a phantom touch lingering like the scent of her perfume.

“Are you coming?” She switched on a lamp, so her next sentence seemed to come from within a painful halo of light. “Want a drink?”

“Sure,” he said, blinking. Closing the door behind him felt like admitting something. He didn't want to think about what it might be. “Thanks.”

She crossed the white-tiled floor to the kitchen—also white—and pulled a bottle of vodka out of the freezer. From the counter she grabbed a bottle of bourbon; she held up both of them. “Which?”

“I don't care.”

She shrugged, and poured vodka into one short, thick-bottomed glass and bourbon into another. The glasses looked expensive, like most of the stuff he saw. The lamps were elegant stalks of silver, futuristic and sleek against the white walls. The furniture was white—velvet? Suede. It would have looked sterile, except for the dark wood tables and green plants everywhere. One wall held a long wooden bookcase full of books; on the others hung landscapes of stormy seas, wild and mournful at the same time. Not prints, either, he saw as he stepped close to one to inspect it. Real paintings.

“Those were my dad's,” Ardeth said, appearing at his side. She handed him the bourbon. “He loved Achenbach.”

He could see why. Whether they were actually good paintings, like art critics would appreciate, he didn't know. What he did know was that they tugged at him. Spoke to him, though he wasn't quite sure why. “Originals?”

“Stolen right off the gallery walls,” she said. “He planned each one for years. Didn't usually steal things for himself, but he wanted those.”

“Why? I mean, why didn't he steal things for himself?” Or maybe why did he keep asking questions he shouldn't have been interested in and that were none of his business?

“Bad for business.” She headed for the kitchen to refill her glass and returned with the bottle, too. She'd taken her shoes off at some point, he noticed. Her toenails were bright red. “If you get caught stealing for a client, you were working, you know? But if you were stealing for yourself, you were wasting time. You go to jail, you don't even have any of the pay upfront to cover bills or costs inside.”

“So why do it?”

She sat down in the low white bucket chair set at a right angle to the couch. Funny how perfect she looked against all that white, dressed in black with her pale skin and vibrant hair. It wasn't at all the sort of place he'd imagined she would have, but it made sense at the same time. He bet it was easy to clean. He bet she wanted something with no dark corners or hidden spaces.

“Because we all have something we want,” she said. “Because there's always one score we want to make just for ourselves, one impossible thing we dream about and fantasize about.”

When he was younger, in the years after the beast made itself known, he'd spent hours dreaming of getting rid of it. He'd visited every spiritualist, demonologist, every crackpot exorcist in the world—at least it felt like that—and more than a few who weren't crackpots at all, who really knew what they were doing. None of them could budge it.

A few had said they could, but might kill him in the process. He'd told them to do it. They'd found out too late that the beast wouldn't allow that to happen. It wouldn't let him kill himself, either. He was stuck with it, and he'd finally stopped pretending freedom might be possible. He'd stopped fantasizing about it.

How would it feel to still dream about achieving the impossible, and getting something he'd always wanted?

“So what's yours?” Shit, he'd said that, hadn't he? He hadn't meant to. Somehow the words had just formed without him planning it. Maybe because he could feel her eyes on him, watching his reaction. Gauging it. Figuring him out.

“Oh, you know.” She waved a hand. “The same ones everybody in my line of work dreams about. The
Mona Lisa,
the Hope Diamond, that kind of thing. Robbing a casino.”

“I don't believe that,” he said. “I think there's something you want. You just don't want to tell me what it is.”

Her lips curved. Damn, that was a sexy smile. He bet she knew it, too. “A lady has to have her secrets.”

“She doesn't
have
to,” he said. “It's not a requirement.”

“Uh-huh.” Slowly, deliberately, she rested her toes on the edge of the chunky dark-wood coffee table, as if she had to haul her feet up from the floor instead of just lifting them. Her steady gaze added to the pointedness of the gesture, punctuating it. “But it
is
a requirement that any gentleman who wishes to know those secrets behaves a little less like a dick, and a little more like someone who actually appreciates having a place to sleep tonight.”

“I do appreciate it,” he said. “I just don't want to be responsible if you get hurt or killed, and I think you have to admit that's fair, given what just happened. How would you feel if you were me? You'd be wary, too.”

“I might be.” That soft tone was back. It sent shivers up his spine. She finished her drink, another slow, deliberate movement, and tilted her head. “What
did
just happen?”

Shit. Here it came. Ardeth wasn't an amateur; she wasn't someone unfamiliar with the occult or magical items or anything else. She'd seen his reaction to the words, those hideous, itchy words spoken by the man-thing, and now she was going to want to know why he'd reacted that way and what it meant. And he couldn't tell her that. “What do you mean?”

“Goddamn it,” she said. “Next time you give me a speech about trusting each other and insist I tell you everything, I'm going to tell you to go fuck yourself in the ear. How does that sound?”

He couldn't help but laugh. It was only a chuckle, really, but she apparently found it amusing, because she laughed, too. He really wouldn't have minded hearing that more.

Not that she needed to know that. Not that he ought to be thinking it, either. “I'm laughing,” he said, “at the idea that you have some kind of moral superiority as far as honesty goes.”

“Oh, come on. You're laughing because I said something funny.”

He twitched his shoulders, dipped his head; yeah, he had to give her that one. “Be that as it may.”

“Okay, then. How about we agree we're both a couple of lying hypocrites, and see where that takes us?”

She had to have an angle. He just didn't know what it could be. There were too many options, too many possible games she could be playing with him, and the look on her face told him he didn't have a lot of time to consider them all. So he nodded. “Okay.”

“Good.” She leaned back in her chair and motioned for him to sit down on the couch. “So, what the hell happened back there? That thing said whatever those words were—I've never heard them before—and you looked like you were going to die. I don't mean you looked upset, I mean I actually thought for a second there that you were going to die. Your face went completely white, your eyes went almost black…what happened?”

“Don't know.” Sitting on the low couch made him feel like a troll squatting on a mushroom. There was no place for his legs to go; his knees jutted before him at eye level, and he couldn't separate them too widely without looking like a woman waiting for a gynecological exam.

It was probably comfortable for a tiny thing like her. She probably looked just as perfect lounging on it as she did slouching in her chair. But he felt like an awkward teenager again, all elbows and knees.

Or maybe it was knowing she wouldn't be satisfied with “Don't know” that made him so uncomfortable. Or maybe it was the look on her face that made it clear she was, in fact, not satisfied with “Don't know.” He had to come up with something else. Something more.

“When it said those words,” he said, hearing them again in his head, feeling and hearing the beast snarl and twist just from him thinking them, “something shot up my arm. From touching him. I guess that first word was some kind of power booster or something, and the last ones killed him—a death spell.”

Would she believe that? He hoped she would, figured she wouldn't.

“And that was it.” Her face gave him nothing. “Just words of power, strengthened by physical contact.”

He met her gaze. “Seems that way.”

The silence lasted longer than he would have liked. He couldn't look away from her, since she was watching him for signs of weakness—signs of deception—but being pinned by her eyes like that wasn't exactly comfortable, either. He was pretty good at lying; he did it for a living, after all, just like she did. But lying to her, about something like this, didn't feel the way those lies did. It felt…wrong. Scummy.

He bet it was because she was in danger and he still felt guilty about that danger. That was all it was. Well, that and the fact that the lie made the beast happy—all lies fed it a little, pleased it—and anything that made the beast happy was bound to be wrong.

If she noticed his discomfort, she didn't say anything. She was probably enjoying it. “Okay, then. I guess that was all it was.”