When Wicked Craves Page 5

  “Excuse me?” Irritation bubbled inside, and she urged it on. Annoyance and anger were familiar and easily handled. “I’m happy to be alive, don’t get me wrong, but how do I know I didn’t just go from being their prisoner to being yours?”

  “You’re not my prisoner,” he said.

  “Fine. Then talk.” There were about eight bazillion things she needed to know, not the least of which was how she was supposed to live once the entire weight of the Alliance pressed down on her. Because they would come after her. The shadow world did not sit idly by after it was screwed. And Nicholas Montegue and Petra Lang had just screwed them big time. “At least let me get in touch with my brother. Everything else can wait.” It was a simple request, and one she expected he’d grant easily.

  He didn’t.

  “Later.” He nodded toward a cot that stood in the corner, a blanket folded neatly on top. “I need to see to things. Wait here.”

  “I don’t think so.” She moved forward, intending to get past him, to get out of this tiny little room that was only slightly less claustrophobic than the holding cell she’d so recently been occupying.

  He reached for her, and she jerked away instinctively, realizing as she did that his hands were still gloved, and she was still covered head to toe in the prison-issued bodysuit.

  “Dammit,” she said, that stupid, knee-jerk reaction twisting her up inside more than it should. But it wasn’t just the fact that she’d flinched. It had been one long, horrible, emotionally trying day, which even though it ended up pretty damn awesome in that she was still alive, was still freaky enough to mess with her head.

  Yes, she was beyond thrilled to have been rescued, but she wasn’t a woman who hid in dark rooms, and she sure as hell didn’t want to be someone else’s burden. She’d played that role her whole life, too. And although she knew that Kiril loved her, the fact that their grandmother had bound her twin to her—made him her protector until the curse was lifted—troubled her more than she had ever confessed to him.

  She drew a breath, steadied herself, and decided to try the fly-and-honey approach. “You could have told me, you know. Doesn’t seem fair I spent all of last night thinking that I’d be pushing up daisies right about now.” She meant the words, but she said them with a smile and a lilt to her voice. No accusation there. Just friendly and chatty. She knew how to charm. It was one of the reasons she was good at her job.

  “If I’d told you, they would have changed execution theaters at the very least. Worst-case scenario they would have pumped poison into your holding cell. As soon as the Truth Teller latched onto even a hint of trouble, you’d be dead, and this would be all over.”

  “And what is this exactly?”

  “Sergius.”

  She frowned, thinking of the vampire she’d destroyed. “What about him?”

  “He’s alive.”

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she sat gingerly on the edge of the cot. “Oh dear God.” She drew in a breath, her thoughts a wild rush. “But how? There was a fire. I heard all about it. The ME confirmed that Serge died in a warehouse fire.”

  “Staged,” Nicholas said. “Luke and I took some of his flesh and we burned the place. He’s here, Petra. But he’s not really Serge anymore.”

  She swallowed. “You saved me because you’re looking for a cure.”

  “A rose for the lady.”

  She drew her fingers through her hair and concentrated on the floor. “But I already told you during the hearing prep that I don’t know how to lift the curse. Hell, I told him the same thing before I touched him.”

  Her words were absolutely, 100 percent true. But what she didn’t say was equally true. She might not know how to lift the curse and free herself to touch without harm, but she did know how to cure Sergius.

  Sergius would be free the moment she was dead.

  But no way in hell was she telling Nicholas that. He might have the face of an angel, but at the core he was a vampire. And a vampire wouldn’t think twice about killing to get what he wanted.

  She stifled a shiver, then looked up to meet his eyes. “There’s no way, Nicholas. I’m sorry, but there’s just no way.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” he said. “As should you.” He took a step toward her, and she forced herself not to recede. “Think about it. I was born more than seven centuries ago. You escaped death after your body dissipated into mist. And once upon a time, men without so much as a compass climbed into small wooden boats and sailed across oceans. We’ll find the answer, Petra.”

  We. Nice thought in theory, a little bit harder in practice. She didn’t really do “we” all that well. She hadn’t had much practice in that department. Not unless you counted Kiril, but he was her brother, her twin, half of herself if you believed some of that mystical nonsense about twins and magic and curses. “I need to call Kiril,” she said. “Not later. Now. He’s got to be going out of his mind wondering what the hell has happened to me.”

  “Most likely he believes you’re dead.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because the Alliance damn sure isn’t going to tell him otherwise. Do you think they’re going to announce an escape? No. They’re going to look quietly for you. They’ll use a small team so that word doesn’t leak. And if they find you they won’t be dragging your ass back to prison. They’ll execute you on site and all the paperwork will show it happened today in a small theater in front of the Tribunal witnesses. You want to get the target off your back, you help me lift your curse.”

  “Turn me into a woman who’s not a dangerous entity as defined by the Fifth International Covenant?”

  “Exactly. Take away their reason for executing you.”

  “I’m all for that,” she said. “And Kiril can help us. He’s powerful.” She glanced at Nicholas, and saw the power in him, too. The power, and the determination to see this mission of his through.

  And that was another reason she wanted Kiril with her. She wanted her brother watching her back if Nicholas ever found out the truth.

  “He is. And that kind of power can be tracked.” His stern expression softened just a little. “I’m sorry, Petra. But if you think about it, you know that I’m right.”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  He looked at her hard, so hard he seemed to be looking right through her. “Petra,” he said, his voice coming from far away. “You know I’m right.”

  “You’re right,” she said, although she didn’t know why she was saying it.

  Or, yes she did. She was saying it because it was true. He was right. It made sense, and he’d put the plan together and thought it through—had days and days to plan and think, and she was only now getting sucked in. Of course her reactions were knee-jerk. But if she would just step back, she’d see how much sense he made. “Right,” she repeated even though she didn’t really want to say that at all, and deep down inside she was calling herself a fool and an idiot and a weak-minded liar.

  “I’m going to go out now, but I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll wait,” she said placidly, then sat on the cot and smiled up at him, all the while wondering what the hell she was smiling about.

  She watched as he left the room. Then the sharp click of the lock snapped her back to herself and she launched herself across the room and pounded on the thick steel door, furious that the low-down, cheating vampire had actually resorted to getting into her head and poking around in her mind simply to win an argument. “Dammit, Nicholas Montegue! You let me out of here!”

  He wasn’t going to, though, and she didn’t bother pounding for long. Instead, she went back to the cot and stared at the door, just waiting for him to return.

  Just waiting to show him that getting inside her head was the very last thing he wanted to do.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sara Constantine looked up as Tariq paused in her doorway, but there was no fear in her eyes. Not even the slightest flicker. And that annoyed Tariq even more than the fact—unproven, but damn
near certain—that she’d aided a prisoner’s escape.

  In front of her, a poltergeist rose from one of the guest chairs, then turned his attention to the doorway as well.

  “Tariq, right?” Sara said. “With RAC? How can I help you?”

  So she hadn’t heard. That would explain the lack of a reaction. He stepped into the office. “I’m no longer with RAC,” he said. “I’m on assignment to the Alliance.”

  “Oh?” Still no fear, but there was a wariness in her voice that made him happy. He stepped farther into the room, signaled for the creature at his left to step into the doorway—and into Sara’s line of sight. “Morain here is a Truth Teller,” Tariq said. “I’m not sure if you’ve made his acquaintance before.”

  “What do you want, Tariq?” She gestured to the piles of papers spread out over her desk. “I don’t have much time.”

  “No,” he said. “You don’t.” He crossed to her desk. “Step aside, Constantine. I need to review your keystroke log.”

  Her already pale skin turned a shade paler, but she stood, her attention not on him, but on the poltergeist. “J’ared, would you ask Martella to contact Mr. Bosch? I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I think he’d like to know about the way Alliance agents are treating Division’s prosecutors.”

  The fear that Tariq had hoped to see in Sara’s face flared in the eyes of the poltergeist, who sped from the room like a spectral cloud.

  He turned his attention back to Sara. “Move.”

  “I don’t report to you, Tariq. And until Mr. Bosch tells me to quit working on this brief, that is what I’m focusing on.” She put her hands on her keyboard and continued typing, her demeanor suggesting he was nothing more than the custodial staff, come to mop the floors.

  Goddamned little bitch.

  He pressed his hands to her desk and got in her face. “By the power vested in me by the chairman of the Shadow Alliance and the high examiner of the convened shadow Tribunal presiding over the matter of In re Petra Lang, I order you to step away from your computer. Now.”

  Slowly, she lifted her hands from her keyboard. Even more slowly, she nodded. Then she pushed her chair back and rose to her feet.

  Tariq circled the desk and slid into the chair. Behind him, Sara stood stock-still. She’d fucked up, but good, and he was going to nail her ass to the wall. He was going to goddamn smell the fear on her. He was going to see it, he was going to taste it. And he was going to rub fucking Lucius Dragos’s face in it.

  “Morain,” Tariq said, as he navigated into the security profile and patched through to the relevant logs. “No sense you standing around twiddling your thumbs. While I’m taking a peek at Ms. Constantine’s computer, you take a peek into her head.”

  “You have no cause—no cause at all—to get into my head,” Sara said, taking a step backward, and eyeing Morain, who had aimed a toothy smile her direction.

  “Don’t I?” Tariq asked as he punched in the final digits of the Alliance security code that allowed him to access the keystroke log that the Alliance had planted in all Division computers across the globe. He pushed away from the desk, the wheels of the chair sending him a good two feet back. With one hand, he indicated the monitor with a flourish. “On the contrary,” he said, reviewing the binder release code she’d entered earlier that day. “I think I have all the reason in the world.”

  And there it was—fear. Bitter and sharp. It seeped from her pores and hid in the lines of her face. And as Morain stepped closer to her—his hand outstretched for the touch that would take him as deep into Sara’s mind as Tariq had gotten into her computer—that fear filled the room like a wave of cold air.

  The girl was fucking terrified.

  And considering what she’d done, she damn well should be.

  “Stop.” The voice from the doorway was firm and hard and held authority rather than fear. Tariq turned and found himself looking at the lined face and salt-and-pepper hair of Nostramo Bosch, the subdirector of the violent crimes unit, and Sara’s immediate boss. Beside him, two uniformed security trolls stood waiting, arms crossed, faces flat and angry.

  The subtle scent of cinnamon wafted into the room as Bosch took a step inside.

  “I’ve got the Alliance backing me,” Tariq said. “And I’ve got some interesting shit on Ms. Constantine’s computer.”

  “Whatever you may think you have,” Bosch said, “I assure you it does not justify the use of invasive measures. Not without a ruling of cause. And whether you’re working for Division or working for the Alliance, Agent Tariq, you are not authorized to make that call.”

  “Is that right?” Tariq said, edging up close to the old man.

  “Cross me,” Bosch said, his voice low and harsh and deadly, “and I assure you that you will regret it.”

  Tariq hesitated, debating. On the one hand, if he backed down now, his authority would be compromised. On the other hand, he didn’t know a single person who had ever seen Bosch put his powers into action. And according to the rumor mill, that was because no one ever survived an encounter with the man, a shadower who refused to make his allegiance known. A crossbreed of any number of species, possibly with the blood of all seven major groups flowing through his veins.

  Well, fuck.

  His phone chirped, and Tariq was never more glad for an interruption than he was right then. He flipped it open, shooting Bosch a contemptuous look and then giving the elder his back. “Go.”

  “The brother’s approaching Division.” It was Elric, one of the members of the team Tariq had assigned to watch Kiril Lang, just in case Petra tried to make contact.

  “Any sign of the girl?”

  “None. He’s heading in the main entrance now. Probably going to the ninth-floor reception area.”

  “Got it.” Tariq flipped his phone closed as Bosch signaled for the trolls to flank Sara. “Lang just got here. Go deal with him, old man. You’re the face of the Alliance here at Division, right?”

  “Take her to holding on Alliance Representative Tariq’s authority,” Bosch said to the trolls. He turned to face Tariq. “No Truth Teller. No interrogation. She gets her phone call and she’s held until she retains an advocate.” He cocked his head, sending the trolls toward the door, Sara Constantine scared but proud between them.

  “Constantine,” Bosch said, and touched her sleeve as she passed. For the briefest of moments, something soft crossed his expression, but by the time he turned back to Tariq, his expression was hard.

  “She fucked up, Bosch.”

  Nostramo Bosch looked him straight in the eye, and Tariq saw nothing there except ice. Then Bosch turned and walked out of the room, leaving only silence in his wake.

  “She is my sister,” Kiril snarled, his body frenzied with the power coursing through him. He was in the Division 6 reception area, and he wanted to lash out, to set the world to spinning, to bring down the damn PEC from the inside out, and it was taking every ounce of self-control to not do exactly that.

  Why he was bothering, though … well, that was the real question, wasn’t it? Because if Petra was dead … if he’d lost her …

  Around him, the wind began to whip, ripping at his clothes, making the papers on the receptionist’s desk fly. “Uh, sir? You really shouldn’t do that in here.”

  He didn’t answer, and she licked pretty pink lips and refrained from saying another word. Good decision.

  Still, he wanted answers and satisfaction—not to be hauled off to a cell himself.

  Slowly, methodically, he clenched his hands at his sides, willing himself to calm and the storm to fade.

  To his left, a set of doors opened, and an elegant-looking gentleman stepped into the reception area. Not a vamp, not a para-daemon; Kiril couldn’t get a bead on him. But he was a shadower, that much was for certain.

  And that meant Kiril didn’t trust him. Didn’t matter, though. Kiril could hold his own with pretty much any creature that walked this green earth. And they’d fucked with his sister. And that meant tha
t today, the shadowers should be afraid of him.

  “Mr. Lang,” the man said, extending his hand. “I’m Nostramo Bosch.”

  Kiril ignored the hand. “I want to see my sister.”

  Bosch slipped his hand into a pocket. “I realize you’re upset, but nothing could be served by seeing her now—”

  “I have a right to see her body.”

  “No. Actually, you don’t.”

  “Screw that.” It was bad enough she had to die alone, no way these sons of bitches were keeping him from her. He looked at Bosch, imploring. “I’ve always been there for her. Always. And you people have no right to steal that from me.”

  For a moment, he thought he saw sympathy flash in the elder man’s eyes. But it was gone as fast as it had appeared. “The Alliance has executed her, Mr. Lang. Nothing will be gained by viewing her body.”

  “Goddammit, I need to see her.” He could still feel her, and until he saw her body, he knew that he’d never get through his head that she was really and truly dead. “You had no right,” he said. “No right. She was human.”

  “She was condemned by an Alliance Tribunal,” Bosch said, his voice flat. “Its jurisdiction is clear.”

  “Its jurisdiction is shit,” he spat, and around him the wind began to rage.

  Bosch didn’t appear the least bit rattled. “Mr. Lang, you have my condolences, but it’s time for you to vacate the premises. Please, let me have one of Division’s agents give you a lift home.”

  “Fuck your lift and fuck you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not—” He stopped, pain and failure overwhelming him. Their grandmother had bound the two of them, charging Kiril with the responsibility of watching over Petra—of protecting her from the world and the world from her.

  He’d failed. Epic fail, actually. And he was paying the price now.

  But maybe not as deeply as he’d first thought.

  He could still feel her.

  “Mr. Lang?”

  “I’ll go,” he said, because there could be only one explanation. “You fuckers won’t help me, so I might as well go.” He needed to get out of there. Needed to leave fast, get home, and meditate.