Sacrifice the Wicked (11 page)

She raised an eyebrow, unconscious mimicry of his. “Okay. I’ll do that.”

“Good girl. Now go home. Make sure I get that report. And, young lady?”

She paused.

“You get lots of rest.”

Kayleigh nodded, tucking back a lock of her shoulder-length blond hair. Pictures of her parents assured her she took after her dad more than her mom. She sported his eyes, his hair color when he was younger.

But Matilda Lauderdale’s determination lived on in Kayleigh, or so her dad often said. She had a habit of staying too long, working too late, on any project that captured her mind. Picking it apart, looking for the patterns.

“I will,” she assured him and bent over the desk to drop a kiss on top of his head. “I feel fine.” Which was true. Tired, a little frazzled sometimes, which led to the occasional headache and eye strain. A little heartsick on the bad days.

She was pretty sure she had an ulcer.

But otherwise fine.

“Sweet dreams, little girl.”

“Night, Dad.” Because lecturing
him
about the same thing wouldn’t get her anywhere, Kayleigh departed his office. The door clicked shut behind her, and before she’d even made it out of the anteroom, she heard his voice again.

“Change of plans.”

Another call. Another late night. Who was he meeting with now?

That was her dad, the director.

She made a mental note to find him that specially designed mic before too long.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

P
arker clung to the back of the passenger seat because the handle over the window had long since broken off. Given Simon’s driving now, she could imagine how. “Where are you going?” she demanded.

The streets whipped by in a rhythmic pattern of streetlamps and traffic lights. They’d made it out of the residential zone, but he wasn’t slowing. Deftly, Simon spun the steering wheel, taking a corner so hard the car shuddered. The tires shrieked wildly, rubber peeling against the smooth topside streets. “Somewhere to wait the night out,” he told her over the din.

She twisted, stared through the back windshield. With the curfew zone cleared, more cars filled the streets, more lights in blue- and white-tinged pairs. “Who’s following us?”

“Could be any number of people,” he replied, as nonchalant as ever. “Could be nothing.”

She shot him a look he didn’t bother turning his head to see. “More of those witches?”

“Possibly.” The lights they sped under pooled through the car, painting his body in mouth-watering edges of muscle and shadow. The man needed to put a shirt on.

Preferably one not covered in blood.

Parker turned, slamming her back into the seat, and glared out the side window. But she clung to the seat belt strapped over her chest. “If Sector Three sent them after me, this needs to be brought up to the Church,” she pointed out. “It’s illegal for them to pull an operation on another sector—”

“You don’t get it, do you?” He still didn’t look at her, and though she knew he had to focus on the road, the lapse grated.

She bit off her curt reply and angled for something cooler. “Explain it to me.”

Simon’s smile flashed. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, in that patronizing way he had that
also
grated.

Everything about this conspired to shred her patience.

“Let me put it in plain terms.” He spun the wheel, taking another corner so fast that it slammed her against the restraining belt. She gasped.

His hand flattened against her chest. Strong. Supportive.

Right between her breasts.

Parker’s teeth clicked together. She grabbed his wrist, threw his hand away from her as if it reeked of something foul.

Another grin. Indolent as hell. “Anything happening now is so covert the bishop won’t know it’s going on. There’s going to be an internal shift in the Holy Order’s upper echelon. Bet on it.”

“How do you know?”

“Put it together. I’m not the first witch in the Mission, right?” She flinched at his so-effortless use of the word. A
witch
. God help them all. “Peterson was only the first caught. You can count on at least half of your missionaries bought out or turned. The director is thorough. Nadia Parrish was a beast, but she knew the game better than Kayleigh Lauderdale ever will.”

“Meaning I should just let this happen?” she demanded.

“No,” he replied patiently. “It means that it’s already too late. The whole house of cards is coming down, and
you’re
on top.”

Parker shook her head. “I don’t buy it. There has to be something I can do.”

“Don’t bother. Everything’s linked up. The Coven of the Unbinding, Sector Three, the Mission.” Now he looked at her, smile gone. Eyes dark and filled with . . .
sympathy
?

No, it had to be wishful thinking. She didn’t need sympathy. Couldn’t.

“How do you think David Peterson got to be Mission director?” he pressed. “You can’t skate by the tests every missionary goes through, you know that. The labs in the Magdalene Asylum do all the Mission’s tests. Someone knew he was a witch.”

The realization put a cold ball of fear in her stomach. And an angry swatch of stubborn impatience. “There’s always something to be done,” she said quietly. “Get me to the lower street offices, and I’ll prove it.”

His jaw hardened.

“We still have a chance,” she told him. “Jonas is trustworthy, and he can get word out to—”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” The car spun wildly as he wrenched the wheel, sending Parker into the door. She clung to it as the car rocked. The sedan’s engine revved as the tires found traction. Brightly lit signs whizzed by, neon and lights.

As the car stopped suddenly, forcing Parker to brace her hands on the dash in nervous surprise, his hand dropped to her seat belt latch. It snapped open. She registered his intent too late.

Before she could argue, fight him off, anything, he caught a fistful of her jacket and hauled her bodily over the gearshift. Her knee slammed into the door, elbow hitting the window so hard it sent shock waves through her fingers.

But her body settled over his like a warm blanket, knees sliding to either side of his hips. Parker’s breath caught—anger and something much less simple. Much more insidious.

She tried to brace her hands against his chest, leverage herself as far back as the steering wheel would let her, but he captured them in one easy grip. Trapped her hands between his body and his hand.

Right over the snug place where her legs framed his waist.

Too much heat. Not enough air.

His left hand caught her chin, forced her to stare down at his upturned face. Something angry and wild and
focused
turned his eyes to diamond facets in the neon glow of the club signs.

“This isn’t a game,” he said, every word a soft promise of velvet menace. “This isn’t a popularity contest.”

Parker’s mouth dried with fear.

“I don’t have time to walk you through the steps,” he said tightly. “The only thing Lauderdale wants more than you out of his hair is the genetic sequence that’ll unlock his army. Everything’s all blown to hell, and I’m not letting you get caught in the blast, Parker.”

Parker stared into his eyes, her pulse thick and fast in her throat. Too loud. “Why?”

His index finger traced her lower lip. Killed with just a touch whatever words she might have scraped together.

Damn him.

Damn her own response to him.

His finger slid from her lip. “Because you’re the one good thing the Mission has going for it.”

Such brutal honesty. But it was a line. It had to be.

Parker turned her face away. “Let me go, Simon.”

“Say please.”

She stiffened. But the act only ground her against his body. Sent shock waves through her own. She sucked in a jittery breath.

“Too late,” he murmured, his fingers sliding around the nape of her neck.

“But the tail—”

“Lost him four blocks ago.” His voice thrummed through his chest. Seemed to lick a path across every nerve she possessed. Slowly, inexorably, he pulled her head closer. Tugged her toward him, undeniable.

The man knew how to play the game, she’d give him that.

Parker grabbed the denim ridge under her hands; felt his erection underneath his jeans, firm against her knuckles. His eyes flared, smoldered with awareness. With warning.

A warning she needed. And a warning she wanted to ignore.

But the heat uncurling between her legs told her she tread on dangerous territory. She rocked, once.

Simon’s grip tightened on the back of her neck. With a low, muttered “Fuck
,
” he pulled her close enough to seal the space between them. His lips found hers, unerring in the neon-speckled shadows. Just as firm and confident and
real
as she could want.

She leaned into his kiss, let her body soften. Tried to put a lid on it as her blood surged in wild answer to the rasp of his tongue flicking over her lower lip. It teased her. Tasted her.

“Simon,” she whispered.

She needed him to let go of her hands. Before the rest of her body forgot everything but the warmth of his skin against hers, the taste of his mouth.

Sex with him would be so good. She could all but sense it, feel his leashed control as if it were a current running under his skin. He’d drive her wild. Take her in hand, mold her to fit him until she lost everything.

And he was a witch. A killer. Even if he came from some godforsaken experiment, it didn’t change what he was.

He was everything she was sworn to protect the city from.

But he was also the only person who’d told her anything about any of it.

Her eyes drifted closed, catapulting her into a realm of sensory overload as his fingers slid up into her hair. Pins finally gave, loosened by rain and his own insistence. The heavy mass uncoiled, tumbled down her back. As his mouth feasted on hers, as his lips coaxed hers apart and his tongue flicked against her own, he tunneled his hand into her hair and seized a fistful.

She gasped against his mouth, eyes flaring wide.

His other hand slid into her jacket, curved around her waist. Held her firmly against him, nestling her against the hard length of him beneath his jeans. So good.

So dangerous.

He tugged at her scalp, sent a shaft of raw lust straight to her core. Something wicked in her loved it. He was strong, demanding. The warmth of his palm at her waist, her ribs, pulled a breathy sound from her throat.

His fingers slowly curved over her breast.

She flattened her hands against his bare chest.

“Playing with fire,” he chided softly, his firm mouth quirking up into a knowing smirk. His eyes, heavy-lidded but still so sharp, darkened.

The heat of his palm saturated through her blouse. She could feel her nipples hardening, groaned with it as his fingers unerringly found the nub hidden beneath the beige fabric. Circled it. Teasing.

Fire filled her veins. Need rose, overwhelming logic and anger and fear. He tugged at her hair, pointedly. Firmly.

She sucked in a shaking breath as her body clenched, suddenly flooded with her own rampant craving.

How? How did he know exactly how to make her wild?

“You make my life difficult,” he whispered, angling her head to send his breath over her ear.

She shuddered. “You started this.”

“Oh, make no mistake. When you come to me,
Director,
it will be because you want it.”

“Oh, God.” Parker closed her eyes, every word a razor across her nerves. Her embarrassment.

Her
want
.

As if aware, as if sensing it, his voice roughened. “It won’t be in a car, it won’t be rushed or hurried. I’ll draw out every second until you’re begging for me. Whenever you’re ready.” Slowly, deliberately, his teeth closed on her earlobe, jolting a current of need through every part of her. “I’ll make you scream.”

She was so ready
now
.

And that was the problem.

H
ow simple would it be for him to take her right now? In the front seat of his sedan, her back tight against the steering wheel, her body cradling his. Letting him in. Riding him.

From ice to fire. It was that easy.

It was that dangerous.

Simon’s hands closed on her waist, forcing a gasp from her lips as his fingers left her breast. Spots of color rode high on her cheeks, probably courtesy of the same genes all that red hair came from. It tumbled just past her shoulders, thick and straight; all but glowing beneath the neon lights.

Redheads. So much trouble.

“But first, we should get out of view,” he said into her ear. She shuddered.

And then she stiffened.

Simon didn’t bother hiding his laughter as he flexed his arms, lifting Parker off his lap and depositing her back into her seat. A few feet away, standing in the circle of light beneath a street corner lamp, a small group of club-rats cheered.

The advice they offered wasn’t as muffled as she probably wanted.

The color in her cheeks spread to her forehead, her neck. “You’re despicable.” Her voice shook.

Simon raised a slow, thoughtful eyebrow. “You don’t sound embarrassed.” He eased the car into drive once more and navigated through the parking lot. “Relax. Given the painted-on getup they sported, I doubt yours was the only show tonight.” He glanced at her, but she didn’t give him her face, staring out through her window. Her hands clenched in her lap.

Simon relented, letting silence fill the car as he concentrated on navigating through the club district.

The topside club sectors were similar to the ones in the lower streets only in that there seemed to be a prolific love affair with neon. The words spelled out in the wealthy upper stratum of the city were much more classy than the typical
Girls! Girls! Girls!
found below, and the interiors of the clubs tended toward dancing and dining rather than poles and naked flesh.

But the amount of people filling the sidewalks, waiting in line, grinding in wide voyeur-friendly windows of some of the establishments were as familiar to him as breathing.

A man could lose himself in this kind of crowd.

Which was exactly the point.

He glanced at his unwilling guest. Met her scrutiny with raised eyebrows. “Yes?” he prompted.

“You’re a witch.” The word went sour in her voice.

He couldn’t blame her. “Yes.”

“You were made in a lab.”

“I’m a genetic smoothie, created from a missionary and a witch.” A specific witch, but she wouldn’t know the difference. Heresy was heresy. When her fine red eyebrows winged upward, he shrugged. “Most of them are. There’s something about the way missionaries are cultivated that promotes higher survivability in the gene therapy process.” Assuming one ignored the fact that they all died sooner rather than later.

He didn’t want to get into that now. It was enough that she was asking questions, that she wasn’t trying to get back to the quad and get herself killed.

“How?” she demanded. “How do they get material from a missionary? What material?”

“Yearly physicals. Skin, hair, and yes, even bodily fluids. They harvest the genetic material when we go in to the clinic.”

Her eyes narrowed to blue fire. “The hell they do.”

He shrugged again. “It’s the truth. That’s half the reason the Mission pulls from specific orphanages, you know. You’re all trained from the moment you show up, developed along very specific lines. It does something, helps the process along somehow.”