by Jory Strong
"Leave," Hayden growled, eyes going amber and lips lifting in a snarl.
She went to the door. Dane joined her there.
What's wrong, Mal? Don't love Dane enough? He's not really family so you'll sacrifice him?
No. Maybe it was worse than that.
Coward.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He touched his muzzle to her hand, forgiveness in his dark eyes.
She blinked tears away and said, "Let's see what we can find out about the Jane Doe."
She waited until they were in the Jeep to call Nathan.
He answered on two rings. "Iosif make the meet last night?"
"Yes. But he was a no-show today. The room where he's been staying was trashed."
Nathan sighed and she could picture him scrubbing his hands over a face lined with perpetual exhaustion.
"I'll see if I can find out anything."
"Can you look something up for me? I'm wondering if a body was ever identified."
She pulled the date and location from the clipping and gave it to him.
Fingers tapped on a keyboard. Paused. Tapped some more. A mouse clicked.
"Never ID'd."
Her palm grew slick against the phone. She needed something belonging to the girl.
"They're holding her in the morgue?"
"No. Last week they cleaned house. Sent fourteen hundred unclaimed or unidentified out for mass burial. Says here that her ashes were in that batch."
"Where'd they go?"
"Royal Oaks this time around. You think you have an identification?"
"No. Did the coroner list cause of death as an overdose?"
"Heroin."
Dane's black eyes bored into hers, his message clear. Stop fucking around, Mal. Do what you have to do.
"Can I get a case summary and a picture?"
More keyboard taps, a click, the pause in Nathan's breathing enough to make her fingers tighten on the phone.
"She looks like Amanda Edson and Iosif's girls. What's going on, Mallory?"
She slid her hand along the curve of the steering wheel, stomach churning and the scent of carrion rising from her skin. "You're seeing what she looks like, not me. I'm hunting a skip who keeps a newspaper clipping about this junkie in his wallet. It's a long shot, but it might lead me to him. That's all. Can I get the case summary and a picture?"
"I hope you're playing it straight with me."
Nathan's voice had hardened. Her hand tightened on the steering wheel. "You know as much as I do."
The silence went on for an eternity.
"I'll leave an envelope out front for you."
He hung up before she could say thanks.
News flash, Mal. No good deed goes unpunished. Yours won't keep you from ending up like the rest of us.
Shut up, Bastian.
The hand holding the phone dropped to her thigh, her gaze followed, snagging on the Taco Bell cups left from the trip to capture Jimmy Ray Gano. Longing swept in with the memory of the kiss that had come after the takedown.
She rolled the phone in her hand, wanting to call Matthew just to hear his voice, wanting to wallow in the scent and warmth she associated with him, wanting just to be a woman in the early stages of getting to know a man she thought could be the one.
Foolish. Impossible. Dangerous, for him physically, for her emotionally. He'd already gotten too close. There couldn't be a repeat of the kiss.
She dropped the phone onto her lap and drove to the police station, retrieving the envelope with a quick in and out.
Nathan had supplied two photographs. The first was taken where the body was found.
Death hadn't softened the girl's face, hadn't muted the look that said addict, prostitute, runaway.
Like Amanda Edson.
Mallory slipped the discovery scene behind the second picture, a standard cadaver shot, pre-autopsy, the body lying naked on a work table, making it impossible to miss the small breasts and lack of pubic hair.
"Ignore the face and track marks on her arms, she could pass for a girl just beginning puberty."
Dane touched the tip of his nose to the inside of one of the girl's elbows and then the other.
"I see it. Only one of them looks fresh."
Mikhail's track marks always looked old. From time to time they disappeared altogether.
"So she was clean, at least for a while. Then forcibly overdosed, or given the means to do it herself when he got tired of her."
The summary sheet didn't offer anything new. She stuffed everything back into the envelope and tossed it onto the dashboard.
The dead might offer answers.
Her stomach roiled. She hated trapping them.
Dane pushed against her, offering momentary comfort before rooting around on the floor in front of the passenger seat. He came up with a toy action figure in his mouth. A shake of his head flung it toward the front window where it landed on the envelope as if to say, Better the unknown than the ones you love.
"Pragmatic, Dane. Careful or I'll start mistaking you for Hayden."
That gained her a silent snarl. But he'd made his point.
"We'll hit the cemetery next."
* * * * *
Chapter 16
Caleb lifted the pay phone receiver.
Zack answered on the first ring.
"I'm in," Caleb said.
"That was quick. I'm awestruck. How far in?"
"Officially working with Mallory."
That got a soft whistle. "Anything useful?"
"We're looking for three Russians, two missing girls and their mother, brought over and now probably being exploited by traffickers."
"Just the kind of guys a vigilante group would think deserved to be executed."
Don't you?
Caleb's heart skipped a beat at how easily the thought had come.
"That's my read," he said.
"You need anything?"
"More information might speed things along." He gave Zack the names of the porn production companies, the strip club and the online bride operation.
"I'll see if anyone is looking or has already looked at them. Don't expect instant cooperation from other agencies."
Caleb snorted. "As if. Use extreme caution. Hayden Welker is already digging. I don't have a feel for how good he is."
"Noted. Anything else?"
"No. We'll probably hit the Brides' office tonight. Should be an easy in and out."
"Check in when you can. Be safe."
Caleb hung up but didn't lift his hand from the receiver. His time overseas and undercover had taught him how interchangeable the role of hunter and hunted could be.
He didn't like the level of fear he'd seen in the guy at the rooming house, didn't like that Iosif had gone missing, and the shit left in the suitcase… Men who devolved to that extent were usually brutal sociopaths who enjoyed inflicting pain and terror.
Mallory had the dog and the weapons. Neither made her invincible.
She could be killed. But he didn't think that would be the first choice of men like the ones they were after. His gut twisted and burned at imagining her beaten and kept locked in a room or chained to a bed in some brothel across the border.
He called in a favor.
"Speak," a distorted, mechanical voice said.
He'd never figured out if he was talking to a live person, or artificial intelligence programmed into a computer, but considering he didn't have to identify himself, he leaned toward a computer running a voice recognition program.
"I need a tracking device. Small enough to fit in a piece of jewelry."
It'd mean walking a thin line, acting on his desire for Mallory but not sleeping with her. He couldn't go that far, despite how much he wanted her. He couldn't make love to a murderer—suspected murderer—even if he believed the traffickers deserved death.
"Specify the jewelry."
He went with his gut.
"Make it a dog tag, without identification." Something he
could wear, something he could claim was a lucky charm, something that would remind him he was on job. "Inscribe it with the message: Freedom does not come free."
"Acknowledged. Delivery date?"
"Immediate."
"Address."
There were drops he could use but he wasn't worried about being compromised. He gave the apartment address and hung up.
The taste of the kiss returned along with the remembered feel of Mallory's body against his. It'd happen again. It had to go further than that or slipping the tag's chain around her neck wouldn't play.
Jesus. What did I just do?
* * * * *
Royal Oaks Cemetery ate up a large amount of real estate. Its boundaries were marked by a line of dark green hedges concealing the shiny silver of chain link fencing. Security cameras were positioned at outside corners as deterrents against after-hours vandalism, against trespass by teenagers on a dare and humans labeled crazy for a belief in the supernatural.
Mallory was pretty sure there would be other cameras inside the cemetery grounds. They'd be discreet in deference to visitor grief.
Tasteful wrought iron kissed the end of the hedge wall at the entrance while tracks from one side to the other confirmed the presence of a gate that closed at sunset.
She smiled at seeing a plaque that read No Dogs Allowed. If only they knew there was truth to the myth that hellhounds could be found in graveyards.
Lush grass swept around memorial markers like a green blanket meant to keep the dead comfortable and peacefully asleep. Huge old trees dotted the pastoral landscape. A winding road allowed for a drive-by viewing with the feel of a country escape.
There were visitors, mostly elderly, though a mother with a young daughter and younger son stood next to a grave.
For an instant they became her mother and Sorcha and Austin, grieving for Phillip.
Mallory's heart compressed, beating hard against the tight clench of the fist surrounding it.
No. She'd find another way to keep them safe if Phillip made good on his threat and took a job elsewhere. She'd find a way to make him understand that taking them away was far more dangerous than leaving them in L.A.
She parked along the edge of the road. The scent of freshly cut grass mingled with decaying flowers and recently placed bouquets.
Threading her way through the markers, a sense of disquiet grew. She could have found the mass grave with her eyes closed.
Goose bumps rose on her skin. She shivered. She'd never been so aware of the dead, of the souls that lingered unless freed by some karmic force, that hadn't been claimed by Reaper Lords or beings from Rahmiel's realm.
Sod covered the earth that had been opened to receive the bagged remains of the cremated. She crouched. There was no escaping this. The dead always had answers, though getting them was costly, and without hair or ashes or bone, it took luck to get anything useful.
They needed to come here at night. They needed to summon the girl left behind the dumpster. They needed Matthew to disable the security because she'd refused the gun.
Dread wrapped around her, tight and suffocating. She couldn't shake the thought that she might be sacrificing Matthew to save what she could of her humanity.
It can't be helped.
The words were empty comfort.
She tugged the cell phone from her pocket and made the call.
Matthew's voice spread heat and ache through her chest. "Where are you?" she asked.
"Where I said I'd be."
"You've been in?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"I can deliver on my promise."
"Tonight."
"If necessary."
"Hayden hasn't found anything better. Can you break away to check another place?"
"Related?"
"No." The lie came without hesitation. She'd keep him safe. Somehow she'd find a way to keep him safe.
"Where?"
"Royal Oaks Cemetery."
"I'll meet you by the office. It'd be better to go in as a couple."
She returned to the Jeep and drove to the parking lot. The earlier resolve to keep Matthew at as much of a distance as possible wavered with the remembered taste of him, the remembered feel of him pressed to her, his hands warm against her sides.
It didn't help to tell herself that she shouldn't want him. It was too easy to imagine them as a couple, hunting skips together, desire tangled with the rush of danger. Acted upon when they got home in takedowns that involved a scramble out of clothing, the slam of flesh against flesh followed by satisfied afterglow and tenderness.
Impossible. Dangerous, more so now that the Reaper Lord had made his appearance.
The scent of patchouli rose off her skin. Rahmiel's assertion slid through her mind.
Your hate for him blinds you to possibilities.
What possibilities? That she could have what she wanted? A human life. A human mate. Human children. Take the gun and even her freedom to roam and hunt in Los Angeles would be a short-lived thing.
So why had he offered it to her along with a boon? Why not give it to Hayden, whose chances of getting caught with it were minimal? Or Mikhail, who pumped heroin into his system to resist the urge to kill, whose death would allow his brother to take his place?
Why her?
You know so little about your sire's realm, about his motivations.
Would it matter if she did? He owned her the way a huntsman owned his hounds. She bore the proof of it on her arm, the brand he'd personally seared into her flesh.
She couldn't pull Matthew any deeper into her life than necessary to find Iosif's family, to find the man the Reaper Lord wanted for his Earthly hunt. But that didn't prevent the wild flutter of her heart at the sound of a Harley's engine, it didn't stop the heating and tightening of her body in anticipation of Matthew's arrival.
Caleb felt the familiar shock of heat at seeing Mallory leaning against the Jeep. Only this time it was harder, sharper, deeper.
Jesus, how many times was this going to happen?
He had a bad feeling it was always going to be that way with her.
He rolled the Harley to a stop next to her. Cut the engine and swung off the bike, removing the helmet and placing it on the seat.
The unaware would never see the camera staring out through the multicolored tile pattern along the top edge of the office wall. They were on someone's screen, maybe—and he understood that was only an excuse for pulling her into his arms.
She tensed, a millisecond of resistance reflected in her eyes before they filled with a vulnerability that was a kick aimed higher, slamming into his heart before she melted against him, opening her mouth for him, her tongue sliding and twining with his.
Heaven. And he didn't want it to end.
He wanted it to go further.
His hands burned with the need to jerk the shirt out of her jeans for a second time that day, to feel the smooth softness of her skin against his palms, the firm muscles that were prelude to a fantasy of her wrapping long legs around his waist, her body pressed tight to his.
His tongue forged deeper, rougher, harder. He felt a shiver of need go through her and that sent an answering one through him.
It was too easy to forget he was on the job. Too easy to forget everything but her.
That first kiss, interrupted by her informant, had only whetted his appetite for more of them. It was impossible to stop at just one now.
A breath separated kisses. Her hands pushed beneath the Harley jacket at his back, fisted in his shirt, holding him to her before flattening and moving to his chest, pushing, reminding him that they weren't alone, that they had work to do.
And still it took willpower to end the kiss, to separate. And even managing it, her scent and taste clung, mysterious forests and wild waterfalls.
"Ready to go in?" he asked.
She licked lips reddened and slightly swollen. He swallowed a groan.
"What's the story?" she asked.
The husk in her voice made it hard to concentrate. He closed his eyes, and it helped.
He thought about visiting Grace's grandmother, Elaine, in the hospital when he'd come home on leave that last time before getting his discharge from the Army.
"My mother is in the end stages of cancer. She wants me to handle this for her, and you're my support."
It was cover, and yet he ached at imagining losing his parents. He'd grieved at seeing how quickly Elaine went from a woman who'd seemed larger than life and full of energy to a frail, pale stranger recognizable only by her smile.
Mallory's arms tightened around his waist in an offer of comfort. He rubbed his cheek against her hair. Brushed a kiss against her mouth. "Let's go."
The window of the Jeep was open. He dropped the helmet onto the driver seat, pulse jumping when Dane's lip lifted, black-abyss eyes catching and holding his, steady and unnatural, transmitting a warning that had nothing to do with the Jeep and everything to do with Mallory.
Is that why she named the dog after her brother? Because of his protectiveness?
It wasn't exactly a trait hounds were known for.
The hair on his arms lifted as he considered how closely Dane resembled the brand Mallory made a point of keeping covered.
Maybe I'll get a chance to ask her.
It brought an image of the two of them lying naked, his hand on her arm, sliding upward to cover the brand.
I don't have time for this.
But it wasn't only their cover story that had him taking her hand and entering the cemetery office.
There were four desks. Two of them were empty. One was occupied by a woman, the other by a man, neither of them obviously working security, though he didn't think security was much of a concern other than as deterrent and assurance.
What the hell was Mallory after here? Next of kin addresses on a skip she was hunting?
That was his brain answering. His gut had a different one.
"I'm Amy," the woman said. "May I help you?"
She was middle aged, wearing support hose. Put her in an old-fashioned white uniform and she could play the role of nurse.
He introduced the two of them and went into his spiel, picturing Elaine because he couldn't manage pretending his mother was dying—that and this case was making him superstitious.
