Personal Demon (14 page)

“No, Karl, I don’t want you coming around anymore.”

His jaw tightened and I expected it to stay locked for the rest of the trip, but after he turned the next corner, he asked, “Are you hungry?”

My stomach flipped; those words were so familiar. Werewolves have an abnormally high metabolism, meaning a normal restaurant meal is never enough. He’d often have one dinner at six and another at nine, just to avoid calling attention to himself by overeating. Tonight he probably hadn’t eaten at all, so he’d be starving. But to admit to it? That would be to give in to the wolf, to concede that there were some instincts and drives he couldn’t control.

So, when he was hungry, he’d ask if I was, and I’d long ago learned this was shorthand for, “Can we please get something to eat before I start gnawing on the furniture?” Sometimes I’d tease him, but usually I’d just play along and say yes. Then late one night, he’d come to my place hungry after the restaurants in town had closed, so I’d offered to cook for him. And after that, “Are you hungry?” became “Will you make me dinner?” And I always did because it was something I could do for him.

With Karl, taking wasn’t easy. If he went to dinner with one of his Pack mates, he’d always pay, and I’m sure they thought he was being generous—or racking up brownie points to redeem later—but the truth was he couldn’t stand to be indebted. So he’d visit me, he’d listen to me and he’d help me, but he’d never take anything in return…except home-cooked meals. So I did that for him—willingly and even happily.

And now, Karl was asking, “Are you hungry?” In some ways, that hurt more than all his jabs and icy glances.

“Restaurants are probably closed,” I said finally. “Maybe a drive-through?”

He scanned the dark street. “It doesn’t look promising. Do you have anything at the apartment?”

I shook my head.

“I see a convenience store at the next corner,” he said. “They’re bound to have groceries. I’ll buy—”

“No.” I took a quick breath. “No, Karl. I won’t.”

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

HOPE: DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS

I
didn’t offer Karl a drink at the apartment. Not even something nonalcoholic. I wasn’t being petty—like I’d said, my cupboards were bare. Which was odd for me. Even traveling on business, one of my first stops was the local convenience store to get some drinks and snacks for my hotel room. A nesting instinct, I guess, to give myself a stable home base wherever I am. But here I’d been too distracted to even pick up bottled water.

Karl wasn’t looking for details on the job. He already had them—courtesy of Lucas. What had him flying out to Miami was a breach of promise. Apparently, Benicio and Karl had an understanding that we’d repay this debt together. I tried to take the blame, telling him that Benicio had wanted to back out when he learned Karl was away.

“He
knew
I was out of the country. I left him a message before I went.”

My mouth opened, ready with excuses—but when I took a moment to think it through, I knew the truth: I’d been played. Again.

I pulled my legs up under me on the sofa, squirming as if getting comfortable, gazing down until the first flash of humiliation passed.

“He wanted me on this job,” I said finally. “He knew if he suggested waiting for you, I’d be offended and insist on taking it alone.”

There was more to it than that. Benicio hadn’t wanted someone older and more experienced taking a hard look at the job and warning me off. He’d seen that Karl and I were on the outs, and that I’d pounce on the chance to fulfill this debt alone.

“Lucas looked it over,” I said, twisting my new watch. “He didn’t see a problem with it.”

“That’s because he doesn’t have all the facts.” Karl met my gaze. “About you.”

“But neither does Benicio. There’s no way he’d know—”

I stopped, hearing my naiveté. Just because Lucas didn’t know about an Expisco half-demon’s chaos hunger didn’t mean his father didn’t.

“It’s no different from my work for the council,” I said. “I need this. You’re always the first to tell me I need it—get my fill of chaos in a way that doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“No, not that doesn’t hurt
anyone
. In a way that doesn’t hurt
you
. If you can look me in the eye and tell me this doesn’t feel any different than chasing rogue half-demons and sorcerers, I’ll leave. But if you can’t…?” His fingers tapped against the chair arm. “I’ve already spoken to Lucas. If you walk away now, he’ll handle this for us.”

“What if I don’t want to walk away?”

His mouth tightened a fraction before he smoothed it out. “I’m asking you to reconsider, Hope. Whatever you think of me right now, remember all the times you did take my advice, because you knew it was in your best interest. This is the one arena in which you cannot accuse me of self-interest. I’m thinking of you and what I think is best
for you,
knowing you as well as I do.”

I glanced away. Angry—even sarcastic retorts—flitted past, but I didn’t pursue them. Couldn’t.

“I can do this job.”

“Yes, you can. The question is: should you?”

I lifted my gaze to his. “I think I should.”

His fingertips massaged the leather arm. “This is about last year, isn’t it? About what happened with Jaime?”

For a moment, I was back in that room, lying on the cold concrete. The killing room. I felt the unbelievable chaos of those horrible deaths swirling around me. I heard the fear in Jaime’s voice. Heard the clomp of footsteps outside the room. Knew they were coming for her, death was coming for her and, for just the briefest moment, felt an undeniable thrill of anticipation. It had only lasted a second, but I hadn’t trusted it to stay gone, hadn’t trusted myself not to do something to make the situation worse so I could feed off the chaos. So I’d told her to knock me out.

I shook my head. “This has nothing to do with—”

“—with testing yourself? Seeing how far you can push it? How far you can
control
it?”

“We’ve been through this and—”

“And you’re not going to discuss it. Fine. But tomorrow morning, Hope, I’m going to talk to Benicio. You don’t need to be there, but if you want to have your say, you’re welcome to join me.”

“I will.”

“Good.” He checked his watch. “It’s too late to check into a hotel—”

“Just sleep on the damned couch, like you planned to.”

I pushed to my feet, strode into the bedroom and tried not to slam the door.

I WENT TO
bed, but didn’t sleep. The tequila and the chaos highs had worn off and now, alone with nothing to occupy my brain, my thoughts slid back to the heist. Unlike my adventures on behalf of the council, there was no second wave of chaos bliss to be found in the replay. I thought of how many people we’d scared—blameless people, terrified by us, just for kicks.

I reminded myself it was a job, like my council work. No matter what I thought of the Cabals and their methods, a crisis with the gangs would ripple throughout the supernatural community. Brokering a peaceful deal—

or, at the very least, one with minimal bloodshed—was a just cause.

But the guilt came not from participating in the heist, but from enjoying it. No,
reveling
in it. I thought of that sixteen-year-old girl, what we’d done to the biggest night of her life, and I recalled what I’d thought—that we were, in fact, doing her a favor. I remembered that, and I was disgusted.

In the morning, the guilt wouldn’t be as sharp, the edge dulled by acknowledging that, yes, I’d made a mistake; yes, I wasn’t proud of myself; and yes, I wouldn’t let it happen again. But now, in the dark of night, lying alone in bed, there was nothing to do but think about it.

If I had the apartment to myself, I’d have gotten up—read a book, watched TV, done whatever would distract me until morning. But with Karl in the next room, I wouldn’t even turn on my bedside light to read, desperately wanting him to think I was sleeping soundly, my conscience as free as his would be after a heist. So I lay there, staring at the wall, watching the clock tick through the hours.

I waited until six-thirty, the earliest I reasoned I could pretend to wake up. I showered and dressed, dragging it out past seven before I finally emerged.

Karl was already at the table, reading the
Wall Street Journal
and drinking coffee from one of the china mugs supplied with the apartment. On the opposite side of the table was a take-out cup of coffee, a bakery box, a newspaper and a pharmacy bag.

He didn’t say a word as I walked in, just slid over a mug and plate from the center of the table, and resumed his reading.

I opened the bag. Inside was a tiny bottle of eyedrops. I looked from it to the extra-large coffee and knew, as silent as I’d been, that I hadn’t tricked him and I’d been a fool to think I could.

It didn’t matter that Karl had probably never passed a sleepless night after a heist. He knew me. As much as I hated to admit it, the proof lay here before me, not just in the eyedrops and caffeine, but in everything. The coffee, double cream, no sugar. Inside the bakery box, a blueberry bran muffin. The paper:
USA Today
. Even the eyedrops were my brand, and the “sensitive eye” formulation I used. There were married couples who didn’t know each other as well as we did.

It was a quiet meal. Not like us at all. Usually, even while reading our different papers, we’d exchange a steady volley of comments and quips about the articles. Newspaper reading as a joint activity, like so many other things we did together—each doing our own thing, maintaining our independence and yet finding a way to share it.

That morning there was no anger in the silence, though. It felt almost…cautious, as if fearing that opening our mouths would lead to a fight, and this joint meal—albeit a silent one—was as close to comfortable as we could manage.

After breakfast, I called Benicio for my daily check-in. I said nothing about the heist or about Karl, but did mention that I might learn something later and, if I did, could I call him? He said he’d be at the office all morning.

We left at eight thirty.

THE FIRST HALF
of the trip was as silent as breakfast. Then Karl mentioned he’d checked in at Stonehaven after coming back from Europe, and I asked after Elena and Clayton and their eighteen-month-old twins. And there we found the perfect neutral topic: babies.

I asked how the little ones were doing and how they were growing and what milestones they’d reached since I last saw them. As adorable as children were, neither of us had the slightest interest in them, but it was a subject we could discuss without fear of it devolving into a fight. So we stuck with it for the rest of the trip.

WE WALKED IN
the front doors of the building that Jaz had pointed out the other night: Cortez Cabal headquarters. I’d wanted to keep our entrance low key, but should have realized things were never low key when Karl was around.

Every female eye turned his way as we entered the lobby. Karl is rarely the best-looking man in a room, but when he walks in, you can be forgiven for thinking he is. He has that proprietary confidence usually only seen in men like Benicio Cortez. In Karl, though, it tipped over into an “I know you’re watching me” arrogance that made it even harder to look away.

Karl ignored the women, but if any man looked my way, Karl met each furtive glance with a level stare.

Establishing territory. It didn’t mean anything. He’d do the same with any woman at his side—friend, lover or acquaintance. The wolf peeking out.

The lobby itself was spectacular but not ostentatious, and that’s not an easy look to achieve, no matter how much money you spend. The foyer was large without being cavernous. Dark doors blocked the sun and good soundproofing muffled the street sounds, plunging the visitor into a peaceful oasis, complete with two walls of aquariums, a ten-foot-square “sand garden” with a half-toppled castle, a wall fountain, driftwood benches and a handsome young man gliding about with a tray of iced water.

Those milling about the foyer were mostly tourists. Human tourists, probably here to check out the nineteenth-floor observatory. All good public relations. To them, Cortez Cabal was simply Cortez Corporation—a huge company like any other.

As Karl veered toward the front desk, I excused myself to get a closer look at one aquarium. I knew how Karl planned to get past the receptionist and a man’s charm is always more effective when he doesn’t have a woman at his side.

Before I could leave, his grip tightened on my elbow, holding me back as he surveyed the area—his gaze touching on and evaluating everyone in the lobby. Again, typical werewolf, however much he denies it.

As I admired the fish, I watched Karl’s reflection in the aquarium glass. He was talking to the receptionist, doing nothing as blatant as flirting, simply giving her his undivided attention. She fell for it. They all do. Of course, I’m not one to talk.

A few minutes later the receptionist sent us, with a security guard escort, to a private elevator. We stopped on the top floor. Judging by the generous use of marble and the bank of receptionists and secretaries, I guessed it was the executive level.

“This man insists on speaking to Benicio Cortez. He wouldn’t state his business.”

The receptionist on duty there glowered at the guard, as if to say that we should never have gotten past the front desk. The guard pretended not to notice, probably already preparing his “I did what I was told” defense when this breach of protocol was investigated. Blame would fall on the lobby receptionist, and I felt bad about that, but if she could be so easily swayed by a good-looking charmer, she shouldn’t be in charge of the main gate.

The receptionist turned to Karl. “And you would be…?”

“An emissary, here on behalf of my Alpha.”

“Alpha? You mean—”

The receptionist exchanged a glance with the guard, who took a slow step back from Karl before stopping himself. Karl’s lips twitched, fighting a smile.

“Hector Cortez is in,” the receptionist said. “That’s Mr. Cortez’s—”

“I know who Hector Cortez is. I doubt you want me returning to my Alpha telling him I was granted an audience with the second-in-command. Mr. Cortez understands the importance we place on hierarchy, which is why he always speaks to the Alpha himself.”