Vigilante Mine (26 page)

"A little late for gossip," Ryan said.

"I called first." Brennan hesitated, but lifted her gaze from her drink. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. "Ryan, I need to talk to you."

"What's wrong?" He'd never seen her so unguarded.

The corners of her lips pinched so hard they turned white, but she pulled her shoulders back and shook her head. The motion revealed at least a dozen small, fresh scratches on the side of her face, half-concealed by the makeup she usually took great pains to apply. His eyebrows furrowed as she swept past and he shut the door to the conference room behind them. What else was her makeup covering? Bruises? Had she been attacked?

Concerned, Ryan dropped a hand over the packet she placed on the table. "Brennan, what happened?"

"Trust me, this," and she plucked his hand off of her folder, spreading out pages full of Ohanzee glyphs that blurred the instant he glanced at them, "is more important."

"Research?" Ryan asked.

"Prophecies." Her smile ended with a wince, as if her jaw hurt.

A whip of anger sped through his muscles. "Did someone hit you?"

"Leave it alone, Spiritwalker," she snapped. "I know you have secrets. Let me have mine."

The ringing in his ears lifted on a swell of sound and Ryan closed his eyes until the wave passed. Brennan had used the term before. This time, more than a simple translation lay behind the word.

"I'm sorry." She blew out a breath. "And I'm sorry for coming to you like this. I just didn't want to be too late."

"I'm listening," Ryan said.

She pushed a piece of paper forward. "The prophecy starts roughly with forcing two people together. 'A spiritwalker is fated to meet the key to true potential.'" She looked up. "A spirit-mate."

His mouth went dry.

"The way the symbols line up, it's supposed to be a meeting sealed with a kiss. But I was wrong earlier. It's a kiss of violent change, not death
—
"

Ryan stopped her, feeling as though all the blood had left his body.
Fate. Violent change. Sealed with a kiss.
Coincidence. It had nothing to do with the night he shot Amanda and ignited a war. "What does the rest of it say?"

"This page, here." She slid him another set of pictographs. "This says, 'Two are one when evil controls the scale of life and death.' And this one is badly smudged but I was able to get a few words, 'Sever, grow, link, die.' Nasty stuff, I think."

"Link, die. Sounds bad." Ryan repeated the words numbly, struggling to accept the concept. Was this new Listening connection with his spirit guide dangerous enough to kill? "Why are you telling me this tonight? Now?"

"Well," she paused, leaning back in her chair, "I know you met someone."

Sealed with a kiss.

His Spirit-mate. Amanda. He laughed, but it came out hollow. "So you thought I should know she's part of some crazy mystic soulmate thing from my mother's people?"

Her eyebrows disappeared under pale bangs. "Please. Like you need relationship advice. It's a meeting, not a wedding. These Ohanzee legends are all about choice anyway, not destiny. It was the timing, that's all. The scale of life and death bit, with the murders around town every night. When I found the pages your father dog-eared for you
—
"

"Back up." His temples throbbed harder. "My father did what?"

"The cipher I found in his journals helped me finish the translation. Didn't seem like he was ever able to make heads or tails of the text, but he never wavered on the point that those passages belonged to you. Really, the how isn't as important as the end result. The whole dying thing feels pertinent. It is pertinent. The 'evil' it's talking about is happening now. Or hadn't you noticed there's a serial killer running around outside?" She re-stacked the pages neatly in front of her, bold curiosity flickering like a candle to light up her face. "It's all real, isn't it? Everything I've been reading. You've met this Spirit-mate woman."

Did that mean what he felt for Amanda wasn't real, the attraction no more than a new quirk to his out-of-control ability?

Ryan stared at Brennan. "Legends are just that. Stories."

Her bloodshot eyes sharpened with disbelief. "Ryan, you're a good friend. I respect you. But I've also had a really, really long night. Don't get dodgy with me."

He pointedly studied the side of her face.

"Right. Fine. Keep your secrets." She flung herself back in her chair. "I'm patient."

Sever, grow, link, die.

He smacked the table with a fist. His emotions were his own, not some prophesied obsession. "I'm not letting a story give me relationship advice, either."

"She's gotten under your skin, huh?"

"Brennan."

Her lips tipped up on one side and she held up her hands. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger."

The zealot's timeline, Zach's seizure, Brennan's prophecy, even the digital display on the wall clock said he was running out of time. Dawn was fast approaching, and Klepto had to get to Amanda. Ryan pushed out of his chair and winced as the scrape of wood on carpet abraded his eardrums. "You said those pages were for me. What about my brothers?"

"I haven't gone through all the boxes. Things should go much faster now that I've got the cipher." She dropped her gaze to the table. "I understand if you want me to stop looking." Her head came up, determined hazel eyes locking on his. "But for the record, whatever you're up against, whatever trouble she's in, I'd prefer to help."

The night Romeo had first spoken to him, a series of barks Ryan suddenly understood like a second language, the dog had helped him prevent Zach from running headlong into a burning building. So when Drak and then Torpedo had followed in Romeo's footsteps, Ryan had known what to expect. Bark, growl, and yip translation for him and Romeo had grown into full-blown, mind-to-mind telepathy though. One day soon, his brothers would hear their spirit guides, clear as human speech, inside their heads. Tying Brennan's research to truth was his chance to get ahead and stop playing guinea pig.

But these weren't his secrets alone.

"City's under curfew. Stick around here for the night." He was stretched too thin to protect everyone he cared about, 24-7, but McLelas Financial would provide safe haven. If she'd accept help.

"And the translations?" she asked.

Ryan jerked open the conference room door. "Stay until morning, and I'll think about it."

Reasonable priority number
one: Catch Klepto in the act. Reasonable priority number two: Put a serial killer away for good. Amanda sighed. Dutiful reminders weren't enough to stop the worry over Ryan's head injury, the wish his brother hadn't been hurt, nor the less-altruistic, irresponsible dreams of a night ending in the condo. Her flirtatious troublemaker had been so still for long, long minutes as she tried to pry the doors open and break the useless, shatter-proof windshield. It had taken both her and Jay to rouse him. What if Ryan had a concussion?

She wanted hours just to touch him. Every inch of skin bared, massaged in a 100% innocent post-truck accident inspection. Her fingers curled as fantasies surrounded her like a heated blanket. Ryan's arms would have been far more accommodating than her cold, lumpy couch.

And the sex?

Amanda caught her breath at a tangle of wanton memories that made the apex of her thighs heat and clench. She'd never hear jazz music the same way again.

"Play Klepto's game, secure his trust, find the evidence before dinner. That's what matters," she whispered to the dark. "How can you be thinking about a romp under the covers while the city's under attack by a psycho who likes to break into your house and leave you roses?"

Klepto wouldn't catch her unaware and in bed a second time.

Bed. Ryan. That wild look in his eyes when he came with her name on his lips. He'd asked her to be his date for the fundraiser. Ryan, infamous for parading around a different woman on a daily basis, had admitted he wanted her for more than one night.

She swallowed hard. How many more? With the cameras rolling, how long would it take the playboy to become bored with his new lover?

Every light in the living room and kitchen went out, leaving only the half moon to drench her house in shadows. Instinct blotted out her unsettling questions. She slid to the floor, her high heels sinking into the carpet as the back door cracked open. A masculine silhouette entered the kitchen with slow, quiet footsteps.

A split second later, her security system wailed.

Klepto went down like he'd been shot.

She crouched lower, scooting around the couch to get a line of sight on his attacker. Back door intact and closed. No one else in sight. Klepto was sprawled on the tile, his hands over his hood, his body shuddering as if the strident tone of the alarm had dealt him a physical blow.

"Turn it off!" A growl, a plea, a howl of such animalistic pain she almost couldn't recognize the words.

Amanda flung herself at the alarm panel but when the blaring siren died his attempt to rise ended with him swaying on his hands and knees. She had a ridiculous urge to make sure he was okay. To apologize, when she could have been sprinting for the phone. Not that calling the police was the best option. Breaking and entering wasn't the evidence she needed to ensure his life sentence.

Amanda crouched by his side and pressed her palm to his still-quaking shoulder. "Klepto? What happened?"

"Alarm," he groaned.

Her intuition was broken. It had to be. Compassion had no place in her plan to send this man to prison.

"You're not allowed to die on my kitchen floor." Amanda dropped to her knees, the tile frigid against her bare skin as she draped his arm over her shoulder. "Felled by an alarm. What kind of master thief are you, anyway?"

Impartiality wavered as the intimate position shoved her ear against his chest, his breath warm on the back of her neck. This man, mint and danger, should not interest her hormones in the slightest.

Should not have been waiting for Klepto while thinking about Ryan.

Under the pretense of shoving his body upright against the island she slid her hands around his waist to check discreetly for the bulge of a weapon. Clear. Amanda let go, but Klepto slumped forward. Her hands slammed into strong shoulders, pure muscle under leather. No shoulder holster, either. He was weakened, at her mercy, and she couldn't lock him up before he led her to the stolen showstopper bullets or the gun. Everything that pointed to him as the serial killer so far was, at best, circumstantial. At worst, coincidental.

"If you're done feeling me up, I could use some Tylenol."

Amanda braced herself with a palm on the counter. Her fingertips hit something warm. Wet. Blood? Pinprick lights from her security system glinted off a dark smudge.

She shot an alarmed look between her hand and the man before her. "You're bleeding."

"Ear," came the disoriented reply.

She reached for his hood. He didn't look up, but one of his palms connected blindly with her arm, his glove slicked with more of the blood he'd streaked across her countertop.

"Don't."

Amanda dropped her hands to the hem of her shameful, tiny dress. Another head wound. Déjà vu kicked at her gut and she canned it viciously. Ryan might tread in some gray areas, but he was absolutely not a murderer, so her brain could just forget about lining him up beside Klepto.

"Stay put." She stepped around the counter and whipped a few paper towels off the roll by her sink.

If her quest for evidence proved fruitless and he didn't recover enough to show for the fundraiser, at least she'd have DNA. Awesome. Fantastic.

Useless. The killer had been so careful at every murder scene, an ID alone wouldn't be enough to tie him to the case.

Klepto would again walk free.

Amanda's frustration peaked. She dreaded dealing with the syndicate world but the Jones Group meeting was her best chance to gain this man's confidence
—
and access to the evidence she sought. She glanced at him. Klepto's shoulders rolled forward, his head hung lower. He either recovered now or her window of opportunity was gone. Rapid-relief painkillers in hand, she yanked on the fridge door. The light stayed off.

"You better get the power back up before we leave, Klepto. I'm not coming back to a cold house." She grabbed a bottle of water before returning to his side.

"That attitude of yours really shines when I'm bleeding," he mumbled, then downed the pills without touching the liquid. His hand no longer shook as he reached for the paper towels and shoved them under his hood. "And here I'd even brought my new associate a gift."

Triumph flared through her veins even as disgust at his first gift resurfaced. She was in. Now she had to get him moving. "Another one? You shouldn't have."

"What
—
" He looked right at her as his question choked off, the shadowed maw of his hood giving away nothing of the mysterious man beyond.

He'd died and
won the sex-angel lottery. Through pain-streaked vision, Ryan had an eyeful of black satin and creamy, bare skin. Her nightgown hugged feminine curves and gave way to long, long legs, heels sharp as knives and red enough to set fire to the dark. He longed to trace the smooth fabric with his hands, to crush her to him, every silken curve tucked against his skin and yes, those legs wrapped tight around his waist. Hell, he wasn't picky. She didn't need the nightgown.