The Guardian (7 page)

She was also curious to see if Winter actually worked for BOSP. If so, how did he fit into the whole murder puzzle? He'd said he was only trying to protect her and Kent's interests, yet the two seemed at opposite ends on the truth spectrum. And what about that look he'd shared with Tumseneha in the alley? And what kind of magic blocked his aura? She meant to find out. She closed her iPhone, stuck it in her pocket, and headed for the door clutching the scrap of paper with the BOSP address written on it.

 

Stephen sat in his office, listening to Billie's “Strange Fruit,” watching Fala in his mind's eye exit Starbucks. She jammed her hands in her pocket and squeezed her arms against the cold as she headed down the sidewalk to her car. Her expressive mouth was set in a determined line that he knew well. The auburn highlights in her raven hair caught the sun and glistened, and for a moment the gleam was so radiant her aura peeked through, and it actually hurt him to look at her.

He shifted his gaze downward, to the sensual sway of her hips, her shapely legs working beneath her jeans. Her long legs could wrap around him several times.

His breath grew ragged, even as he felt himself harden. He shifted in his desk chair and scowled. Why couldn't he control this insatiable lust? She was a means to an end. That was it. He didn't like feeling this unchecked. He'd spent his whole life reining in his emotions—well, almost, until hell came knocking on his door. Then she had become a priority in his life.

Impatience for her to arrive at his office nagged at him. For reasons other than his immediate goal, reasons that he didn't want to analyze or even consider, he couldn't wait to be near her again. The thought caused the pain between his legs to grow unbearable.

“That's right, Fala Rainwater. I'm here, waiting,” he whispered.

Then a portal opened in the center of the crystal room and a supernaturally projected 3-D image of Striker Dark, the director of BOSP appeared. The image shot down from the pyramid, all in yellow and blue sunny
hues this morning. Pretty ironic, since Striker Dark was a vampire.

His dead, cold eyes blinked at Stephen from a square face and a sea of blond shoulder-length hair. He was a powerful vamp, about fifteen hundred years old—if his employee record was correct. Stephen thought him older, by the presence he commanded, but he'd never asked Striker. In fact, Stephen knew little about him, other than Striker Dark wasn't the type of boss he'd ever want to get caught deceiving. Stephen had been present when Striker had terminated a few employees, and it still brought back stomach-turning memories. Stephen felt his own pulse getting out of control.

“How's that murder investigation going?” Striker asked, gazing into a specialized, fiber-optic bathroom mirror. His projected reflection glowed red as he straightened his tie. “I'm close.”

“Make sure Kent stays out of the picture.” Striker slipped into a gray tailored coat that fit him like a second skin. “Our asses are in the wringer on this one.”

“I'll handle it.”

“Do you need help with the shifter? She's to be protected at all costs.”

“I've got it covered.” Stephen kept the composed edge in his voice. “She'll eventually trust me. If we brought another agent in on it, she would become a problem.”

“I want updates.”

“You'll have them.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you.” Striker smiled at him, his bloodred lips stark against his pale skin.

Stephen quickly changed the subject. “Where are you off to?”

“Downing Street. The prime minster requires his monthly update on the London office.” He checked his watch. “And I'm running late. Don't forget to brief the new recruit for the Richmond office. We'll talk later.” Striker's image dissolved.

Stephen knew the dark magic protecting him would conceal his emotions and his deception. Still, it didn't keep him from being on edge. If he sought help from anyone, his brothers would instantly die. He couldn't let that happen.

He meditated on Fala, but an impression of her eluded him, and he had to concentrate harder to find her. She was driving now, on her way to his office. He relaxed a little.

Suddenly another telepathic image wavered and shimmered and began to appear in the center of the room. The new recruit? Typical timing for a newbie. He'd have to get rid of him ASAP.

 

Thirty minutes later, Fala passed the massive grounds of the Catholic University of America. She turned down Michigan Avenue, slowed, counting the addresses on the buildings. She pulled over across the street from a Gothic stone structure. A huge lawn, brittle and napping through winter, surrounded a Greek temple, but on a smaller scale. Doric columns bordered the perimeter of the rectangular building. There were no windows, unless they were hidden. The only opening she could see was massive front doors, at least twenty feet high. A small drive, covered by a stone arch, led around to the back
of the building. It wasn't a very welcoming place, and it looked rarely used.

She glanced again at the address she'd written down. Then at the small sign that hung on one of the stone columns: Library of the Divine Spirit.

A library? There were no guards, no fences, no security cameras; nothing that hinted a highly secretive government office existed inside. It looked just like what the sign said it was: a religious library.

Had she written down the wrong direction for the BOSP office? Or was this some kind of tactic by the State Department to keep the general public out of the office indefinitely? Feds and their tricks.

Fala started to drive away, when a limousine crept from around the back of the building. It slowly made its way down the drive. NOMED 1 was on the license plate. The windows were darkened and she couldn't see who was driving. She ducked as the car crept past. And in that instant she recognized the anagram in the name. “Nomed” was “demon” spelled backward.

Fala hit the speed-dial number for the station and recognized the voice of Lizzy, one of the daytime desk sergeants. She worked the morning shift and hadn't been in the attack, though her voice sounded on edge. “Hey, Liz,” Fala said, “how about those dogs hitting the station last night. Freaky thing, huh?”

“Yeah, terrible. I've got a mastiff. I know the mayor will go crazy and outlaw all violent breeds from the city. I'm not giving up George—”

“I'm sure you won't have to.” Fala knew she'd never give up her own pet, and she quickly changed tracks.
The less said about the attack the better. “Can you run a plate for me?”

“Sure, what is it?”

Fala gave her the license number.

After a few minutes, Liz came back to the phone and said, “That's registered to… You're not going to believe this. I don't even believe it.”

“Who?”

“Adolph Hitler.”

Fala frowned. Clearly a prankster. Or was he? Was he another of BOSP's finest agents? Maybe this was the correct address after all. “Thanks, Liz, I owe you lunch.”

Fala wondered when she would be able to meet that obligation. She'd receive her powers and marry within the week. She should have put in her resignation two weeks ago, but she'd been procrastinating on that, too. Nothing like avoiding the inevitable.

She made a face as she hung up and exited the Bug. She shivered as she skulked across the lawn, her boots whispering against the frozen grass. She peered behind oak tree trunks, ducked along a privet hedge. When she drew close, the building's gray walls towered before her. She pressed her back against stone and hustled around the perimeter, checking for a door or entrance or a window.

Nothing. Just solid stone.

How had Adolph exited the back of the building?

Her search took her completely around the perimeter. She kept a cautious eye on a stand of nearby oaks, the street, the lawn, waiting for the charm to warn her that Tumseneha might be hiding somewhere near. But it
remained still. Now if she only had a charm to let her know when Winter was around.

Carefully, she crossed the portico and stood before the doors. She glanced up and had to crane her neck to see the top. One way in. One way out. For the moment.

There were no handles on the doors, or knobs, or anything, just five inches of heavy wood painted black. Fala ran her hand along the edges, looking for a button.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She recoiled, twisted around, and looked into Winter's unwelcoming face. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“What?” He closed the foot of space between them.

She stepped back and her back hit the door. “Sneaking up on me,” she said, his hot breath sending tingles down to her belly button. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body through their clothes.

“Seems like you're the one doing all the sneaking.” He slapped an arm on the door, pinning her between him and a wall of solid oak.

F
ala managed a perfect glare, though his closeness made it hard to think, when his gaze lazily dipped down her neck, roamed over her jacket and paused at her breasts, then lower still to her crotch.

His hot stare languished there so long blood pooled in her cheeks. “I need some answers, Winter,” she said, sounding annoyed while her insides fluttered and shivered and turned molten.

His eyes snapped back up and his pupils turned to pinpoints. “If I give them to you, maybe you'll start to trust me.”

“If they check out.” His aura was like a dormant thing she couldn't feel, or grasp, or make sense of, but she perceived the coiled energy in him that waited to come alive and pounce. No, it would be a cold day in June before she trusted this warlock.

“They will.” His eyes gleamed in a predatory way that
set her on edge and made her heart pound. His scar was visible and it brought out the harsh ruthlessness in his face and the fact he didn't care if his answers checked out or not. “Now that you're here, want a tour?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

“All you had to do was call me and ask for one, you know.”

He waved a hand in the center of the door and a laser beam of blue light shot out, instantly reading his fingerprints. Then the door creaked on its massive hinges, sounding like all the early bones of Greece being shaken free from their graves.

The door opened so suddenly Fala lost her balance.

He grabbed her before she fell and his solid length pressed against her body. His lips were half an inch from hers. She felt his body tense as if he were holding back an urge. For a second she wanted him to kiss her, to let go of that tight restraint pulling at him, but then she noticed his eyes. They weren't all silver. Gold flecks gleamed in them as well, the opaque metallic depths unyielding as marble. The coldness she saw there caused her composure to slip and her own pulse to throb in her ears. Did she want him to kiss her, or did she want to run as far away from him as she could?

“We'd better get on with it.” Finally he let her go. “After you, madam.”

Said the warlock to his prey.
She hid one trembling hand in her pocket and slid the other up to her Colt. The cold metal helped stiffen her weak knees as she shot him a guarded glance. “After you.”

He hadn't missed the defensive move, and he quirked
a brow at her, his lips thinning. “Very well, but you've nothing to fear.”

Just those lips, hands, and perfectly deadly male hormones. Fala trailed him into the vestibule and her jaw dropped open.

Bookcases, thousands of them, ran floor to ceiling. It looked like the largest library imaginable. But she didn't detect the musty, aged-paper scent of books, or the physical energy emitted from them. It was an illusion.

He seemed to read her mind. “Security. Works on the retina.” He raised his deep voice to a command. “Clear.”

The illusion vanished and she stood looking at a hollow cavity with a crystal pyramid in the center. The top rose up to the ceiling and beyond. Sunlight rayed out from it and blinded her for a second.

“This is my office.”

“Now I know where my taxes are going.”

He didn't laugh, but his lips stretched as if he contemplated it. “Come in.”

The closer she drew to the pyramid the more its concentrated power throbbed against her senses, dissecting her, making her flesh want to curl up one atom at a time. The invasion raised the fine hairs along her neck and arms. Something about its origins made her nervous. Magic wasn't supposed to feel alien and crushing and on the brink of something forbidden, but this did.

She stopped and said, “We'll talk here.”

He looked at her, eyes like a hunting wolf's. “Afraid?”

“Just don't like the vibes it's putting off.”

“I admit they can be overwhelming if you're not used to them.”

She turned the conversation. “Who was that leaving here a few minutes ago?”

“New recruit. An unclean.”

“What's an unclean?”

“A demon who seeks redemption. He'll be with us for a while,” Stephen said flatly.

“Oh.” She wondered how long the demon would be held accountable for his actions. An eternity if the license plate was any indication. Was BOSP a kind of work release for evil souls? What had Stephen done to get hired? And who actually ran it? She turned the conversation. “You said you were protecting Kent's interest in this murder case. Is that true, or were you given the case just to get close to me? I'm confused about that.”

“Protecting both of you is my responsibility.”

“What are you protecting him from?”

“That's classified.”

“Not when it comes to finding a murderer.”

“Believe me, Kent's not the killer.” His lip curled in an infuriating way. “He's not inhabited by a werewolf.”

“How do you know that?” She searched his eyes for lies, but they remained cold, impenetrable.

“Because I've spoken to him. I would have sensed it.”

“Was Kent still dating Sanecki up until her death?”

He didn't look surprised that she had found that one out. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because our rogue-killer werewolf has been up to
her apartment.” She wasn't going to tell him that she'd felt Tumseneha's aura in the mix.

“How do you know that?”

“I went there and he'd left his trail all over the place. And why didn't you tell me Sanecki was into S and M?”

“I didn't think it had a bearing on this case.”

“See, right there, that's why I don't trust you. You're not being up front with me. What are you hiding?”

“I'm just trying to do my job.” His voice dropped to a deadly calm.

“Yeah, does that include stringing me along and holding back evidence?”

“I'm only trying to protect you.” A hint of something registered in his eyes, then the ever-present aloofness eclipsed it.

“You can protect me by telling me the truth.” Fala crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Do you know whose body is being inhabited by the werewolf?”

“No.”

“How well did you know Katrina Sanecki?”

“Never heard of her until I took this case.” His eyes turned razor sharp. “Are you accusing me of being involved in the murder?”

In the murder, she wasn't certain. But he was involved up to his eyeballs. She knew Tumseneha had manipulated the werewolf and murdered the girl. She also knew that in order for Tumseneha to control the werewolf, he had to inhabit the same human's body as the werewolf spirit. But what human they both preyed upon she couldn't be sure. Her best lead was Kent, whom Winter was protecting for some reason. She couldn't forget the eye
contact Winter and Tumseneha had made in the alley. And the fact Tumseneha wouldn't have given up with such a little fight. And why couldn't she sense Winter's aura? What was he hiding? He hadn't lied about working for BOSP. That much was true. But was he somehow in league with Tumseneha? The questions kept coming, and no answers.

“I don't know what to think about you, Winter,” she said truthfully. “All I know is you're not telling me the whole truth.”

“I've told you everything I can.”

“Okay, keep your secrets. I'll discover them one day, you can bet on that.” She shook an angry finger at him. He glared back her, eyes like ice picks. “And one more thing—we're
not
working together, and I don't need a bodyguard.”

She turned and stomped back to the doors. Feeling his eyes like icy daggers in her back. What was he hiding? Something. Oh, yes, and she knew once she found the human vessel Tumseneha and his pet werewolf inhabited, she'd get to the bottom of it.

 

Stephen let her go and gave her some space. One thing he'd learned in hunting supernatural beings: give the quarry all the room they needed to feel secure.

He wished he could have set her mind at ease about Kent and gotten her off Kent's trail for now, but there were things about the senator that he couldn't reveal. The less she knew the better. He'd have to make his move soon. She was a force of nature and not easily stopped.

As if she had read his mind, she glanced over her
shoulder, distrust etched into her face, her eyes spitting blue fire.

Why did he always feel like he'd been kicked in the gut around her? If possible, she was more beautiful when she was angry. He found himself wondering what those shape-shifter eyes would look like when she was sexually aroused…

Focus. Control the lust. Breathe through it. Get her in perspective. She's a means to an end.
He had to bend her to his will, not the other way around. And if he kept his mind clear, he knew just how to control her. He just needed time to seduce that amulet off her neck; something he didn't have a lot of.

With a dismissive arch of her brow, she wheeled and kept walking toward the entrance.

The prospect of seducing her, feeling her pliant in his arms, taking his sweet time undressing her, exploring every inch of her body, made that just-kicked feeling move below his waist.

He couldn't pull his gaze from her leather shoulder holster, the Colt brushing her left side, how the holster straps writhed along her back as she walked, outlining her hour-glass curves. There was something monstrously sexy about a gorgeous chick with a gun. Lately, it had cropped up a few times in his sexual fantasies—well, minus the clothes. And that tantalizing twitch of her rounded ass in those tight jeans. Man oh man, female poetry in motion.

She reached the doors. They wouldn't open, and she faced him, huffing under her breath, arms crossed over her breasts, those fiery eyes scorching every nerve in his body.

“Let me out of here.”

“My pleasure.” He took his time, enjoying the pout on her lips, the way her braid had fallen over her shoulder and curled around one high-tipped breast, the tapping of her boot on the floor. He envisioned her naked, and that pain in his gut warmed his blood better than a shot of bourbon.

“Open sesame,” he commanded.

“Real cute,” she snarled back.

Even before the computer opened the door fully, she slipped through and disappeared from sight.

“Later,” he whispered to the empty doorway.

He'd have to keep tabs on her. He was even looking forward to it now. She was a challenge, all right. A scrumptious one. And when he had reeled her in, he knew he'd take more pleasure in having her than he should. But it was all for his brothers' sakes, he reminded himself. He waved a hand and disappeared back into his office, but a 3-D image of her shapely backside stayed with him.

 

Fala's feet pounded the stairs as she climbed up the three flights to her apartment. She had called Kent's office, but his secretary said he wouldn't be in until much later in the day. There was no answer at his home, either. She would have gone to his residence and checked it out, but it was daylight and she'd have to wait until dark to sneak in. Then fatigue had set in and the lack of sleep made her dizzy so she had come home, bones weary from all that had happened in the past twenty-eight hours. She needed sleep.

She thought of her visit to the BOSP agency. Su
pernatural government agencies, disguised as libraries, that hired warlocks and demons? What was the world coming to? Oh, she knew. Winter was ruthless, capable of anything, and that was why the feds had hired him. It was plain he enjoyed the power it gave him, too. And obvious he liked secrets.

His frigid silver eyes surfaced in her mind, and she forced them away as she reached another landing.

The silver image of the Maiden Bear around her neck remained silent, so she continued climbing up the brownstone's narrow passage. The steady creak of the stairs beneath her feet, a familiar cadence that had always annoyed her, now sounded oddly comforting.

And what about Tumseneha? Her only lead to him rested with Kent. She had to question the good senator as soon as she got some rest.

She reached her apartment door and shoved in the key. Fuzz, her pet rabbit, had been waiting for her, and he hopped over and sniffed her boots. She reached down, picked him up, and kissed his nose. “Miss me, Fuzzster, my man?”

Fuzz wiggled his nose in reply. He was a sable English Angora with tufted ears, gorgeous blue eyes, and thick, silken, wooly fur that made her want to constantly stroke him. If he'd been a human, he'd have broken many a woman's heart.

“I know you're hungry.” She held the plump little creature in the crux of her arm and headed for the kitchen.

She walked through the small living room, toward her efficiency kitchen. A tiny bathroom and one narrow bedroom comprised the rest of her apartment. She
couldn't afford much on a detective's salary. Thanks to Crate and Barrel, sleek mahogany tables and a tan leather love seat provided her living room with a not-so-sparse feel. The one window in the room looked out at the brick wall and fire escape landing of the next brownstone over. Not the greatest view, but it was hers.

In three long strides she stepped into her petite kitchen. Cooking wasn't her thing, so the size suited her. She avoided domestic duties like the plague—well, she did make runs to the Laundromat when she ran out of clean underwear.

She changed Fuzz's water and poured rabbit chow in his bowl. “Hmmm, tasty. Here you go.”

She set him down in front of his food.

He looked up at her with his big blue eyes and seemed to say,
Thank you.

She took off her shoulder holster and gun and laid them on top of the small fridge. After grabbing a bag of corn chips and carton of chocolate milk, she left Fuzz to dine alone.

She ate a chip, balancing the bag in one hand and the milk in the other while she walked to her bedroom. Her footsteps echoed hollowly on the old pine plank floor. She liked the empty sound, the herald of independence, the declaration of her own life. In less than a week she'd have to give up her apartment and go back to reservation life, and Akando. She'd never have solitude again. Or freedom. Not a happy thought.