First Blood

by Susan Sizemore

  Her face was expressionless when she glanced back up, but her gaze hesitated at his neck before she met his eyes, and Jack had to pretend that his heart wasn’t pounding, that his knees didn’t feel as if a mad scientist had been at them with a quart of novocaine and a blunt hammer.

  She’d broken into his house to drink his blood.

  Holy Christ. Welcome to reality, Jack.

  “I also risk those close to me.” She spoke calmly, but there was fear in the way she stood so still. No longer the hunter holding herself back, but a woman expecting a blow—and he realized that if he didn’t step carefully here, it was Annie who risked being hurt. “And I appreciate you offering to help, but if you are disgusted or scared—”

  “Annie, please. Disgusted? Scared?” He put a fair amount of sneer into the word. “I’m Special Agent Jack Harrington, FBI.”

  Her lips twitched, but her gaze remained clear and steady. “If anything you discover about people like me bothers you, I wouldn’t think less of you for leaving.”

  Did it? Maybe it should, but right now the image of her feeding wasn’t bothering him. No, the memory of how she’d climbed into his bed produced a much different response.

  Which meant that he could be sick or perverted—or still completely messed up over her.

  “Did you hear those three letters, darling? F—B—I.” Jack stalked toward her, put a swagger into it; he’d have flashed his badge if he’d still had one. When her shoulders began shaking, he maneuvered close and pushed his advantage. “That’s ‘Fucking Balls of Iron’ to people like you. You could ram your knee into my dick and it’d just ring like the Liberty Bell.”

  It began as he’d expected it would, with a snicker that she tried to suppress. Then she grabbed the edges of his jacket and pressed her forehead to the base of his throat, hiding her face, laughing wildly.

  Jack grinned in response. God, that was familiar and sweet. A deep, uncontrollable laugh, the type he knew would continue on, bubbling up again before she could stop it.

  But his grin lasted less than a second. Then his heart expanded, filled his chest with unbearable pressure. Annie, Annie, Annie. His eyes closed, his arms enfolded her against him.

  He was holding her again.

  It didn’t matter how this miracle had happened. Only that it had. And he wouldn’t let her go.

  His embrace tightened, but his joy and wonder slid away as her shakes became shudders, her sobs as deep and uncontrollable as her laughter had been.

  He waited it out with an aching chest and a thick throat. Jack Harrington, formerly of the FBI—unable to do anything but listen to her cry.

  “Annie,” he whispered into her hair when it finally subsided, but he didn’t have anything to say except her name again. “Annie.”

  “God, Jack.” Her voice was small, muffled against his shirt, and he had to strain to hear. “Ten days, I’ve been walking through this city. And no one knew. One hundred and thirty of us, gone, murdered, and no one knew. No one grieved, or wondered, as if we’d never been real, as if we never existed. As if we never loved, never had families. All of us, just phantoms.”

  And he knew who to blame for that. Jack stared over her head, his jaw set.

  “And then there you were.” She drew back, pushing the moisture from her cheeks with the heels of her hands. No red eyes or nose; if anything, she was paler than before. “Of all people, it was you.”

  He framed her face with his hands. Cool skin, cold tears against his palms. “We’ll find Cricket. And we’ll make the rest of it right.”

  SIX

  ANNIE LED JACK TO THE BEDROOM CRICKET HAD used, grateful of the opportunity to compose herself. How long had that been building up inside her? She didn’t know, hadn’t expected it, yet she couldn’t summon any embarrassment for breaking down.

  Even shared, the weight of one hundred and thirty lives was heavy—but it was easier to bear.

  And maybe, for the first time since she’d returned from New York, the dreams in her daysleep wouldn’t amplify that weight into a mountain.

  Her daysleep. Damn it.

  “Jack.”

  His expression was distracted as he glanced up from the bureau drawer he’d opened—the one that still contained the change of clothing Cricket had brought. “She as crazy about clothes as some girls?”

  “Yeah. Maybe more than some.” Cricket didn’t have many connections with kids her age; those she did, she worked as hard as she could.

  “But she didn’t grab these before running.” He nodded slowly, stood up. “There’s nothing wrong with your eyes, Annie, nothing I can see you missed. All signs point to someone coming in.”

  That was what she’d hoped not to hear. “Someone I can’t smell.”

  “That you can’t . . .” He shook his head. “What?”

  “You, people like me, even the old guy tonight—we all have a scent. His was human. And waffle-y.”

  His brows shot up. “He smelled like a waffle?”

  “Not exactly. But kind of buttery, syrupy.” She averted her face when he began to grin, and tried to tame her own. He’d probably only thought that was funny because he was punch-drunk tired, but God, he turned her insides to jelly. “My point is, I can tell when someone has been in my house. And demons—the other kind, not like the old guy—don’t have a scent.”

  Jack pulled his hand through his hair, let it fall back to his side. “Shit.”

  A check of the clock told her only thirty minutes remained until sunrise. Annie was starving, but it’d have to wait until tomorrow.

  “I’m going to crash pretty soon, Jack. I’ll be out all day. Is there anything you need before then?”

  “A picture, if you have one. Names of her friends or classmates— Why are you shaking your head?”

  “Come this way.” As they walked to her bedroom, Annie explained, “I don’t know of anyone she’s close to—and she’s homeschooled.”

  “You disapprove?”

  Had he picked up on that note in her voice so easily? “Not in theory. And I understand the reasons behind it: Christine’s and Stephen’s schedules made it impossible to look out for her during the day.”

  “But?”

  “It’s no life for a kid. And Cricket has adjusted to our patterns, looks out for herself pretty well, but . . .” She trailed off with a sigh and a lift of her hands. “She doesn’t sleep as long as we do, especially in the summer, so she has to occupy herself for stretches of time. She isn’t allowed to go out. And even with movies, books, video games—it’s got to be lonely.”

  And Jack, she thought, would know that better than most. She remembered that he’d told her the same of his own childhood: He’d had everything a kid could want, but was still isolated, lonely.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “What will you do when you find her?”

  Her laugh was short and humorless; she didn’t like to think beyond finding Cricket. “I have no idea. Probably the same thing. Until she’s a little older, I don’t know what else to do. I don’t even know what my situation will be.”

  His curiosity filled his psychic scent, but he didn’t give voice to his question. She didn’t want to explain it yet, anyway. Didn’t want to tell him she would have to find a vampire to feed from—and do everything demanded by the bloodlust.

  She avoided looking at the curtained bed against the far wall of her room. The picture she wanted was on her vanity. After sliding the photo from the frame, she turned and met Jack’s eyes.

  “This is from last Halloween, at Eastern State Penitentiary’s annual scare-fest. She’s not wearing makeup or a wig; just the fangs are fake.”

  She didn’t say anything about her own, and knew his gaze skipped over Cricket’s brown, curly hair, the cute face shedding the last of its baby fat, to Annie’s wide smile.

  When he didn’t respond, she cleared her throat and added, “We, uh, try to do a lot of those things. Movies, events at all of the historic sites—the prison’s her favorite. We’d planned to do t
he Bastille Day one this weekend. I’ve been through the penitentiary three times with her, that twilight tour they do—not to mention visiting every supposedly haunted house in the area.”

  “I’ve done the same,” he said quietly, and pocketed the photo. “She’s alone much of the time. What about e-mail, MySpace? Online friends?”

  Annie blinked, shook her head. “I don’t know. She has a computer in her room. I didn’t think to check it.”

  “We’ll pick it up tonight, have a look around their place. After you wake up.”

  She didn’t miss the emphasis he put on the last. Swallowing down the vestiges of panic, she jerked her thumb toward her bathroom. “I have to get ready for bed, then . . .” Ah, screw it. “You must have worked it out by now.”

  She loved his broad smile, the teasing glint of his eyes— loved them even more for appearing now. “I think so.”

  “And it doesn’t frighten you?” she asked, then waved off whatever answer he’d have made. The important thing was, he hadn’t already pulled his gun on her. “Never mind. Balls of iron, all of that.”

  “Yeah.” He hesitated for an instant. “About that, Annie.”

  “What? No ding-dong?” When he grimaced and laughed, she tilted her head at the bathroom door. “Come in and tell me, Jack. And I want to hear how you knew about Tanya, Daryl, and the others—but we don’t have much time.”

  HE’D resigned from the Bureau.

  At her sink, Annie slowly rinsed cleanser from her face, trying to absorb the news.

  It was the one thing she’d never expected him to say. In his way, Jack had been as driven as Annie. He’d once told her the FBI had figured into his plans since his teens—the ironic consequence of his father leaving him alone with super-heroes, detectives, and spies for company while the old man tended to business. And although his father had clearly believed Jack would abandon the FBI and take over the reins when he’d made Jack the sole beneficiary in his will, Jack had simply sold off stock and most of his properties to more interested parties, and carried on as he’d begun.

  She’d never thought he’d give up his career—and she’d never have asked him to, any more than she’d have asked him to remove his own arm. But if she had . . .

  God, what if she had?

  Swallowing against the ache in her throat, Annie patted her face dry and sank down onto the gold brocade chaise tucked in the corner. On the sill beside the oversized claw-foot tub, candles sat in hardened pools of wax. Plate-glass windows overlooked the balcony, and a dark slice of the Delaware River showed through two buildings nearer the shore.

  The bathroom was extravagant, but this was the one place she allowed herself to slow down, to linger.

  And it was where she’d spent so many hours dreaming of what might have been. Remembering Jack’s touch, his mouth, the easy perfection of every minute she’d spent with him. Her fingers and imagination had been poor substitutes—and though she’d treasured every friendship she’d had in the past six years, safety had demanded that she maintain a certain distance.

  Safety. No, even if she’d known he’d eventually leave the FBI, her choices wouldn’t have been different. Jack’s dedication to his job wasn’t the only reason she hadn’t gone to him the night after she’d been transformed. It wasn’t the only reason she’d stayed away in the years following.

  “It doesn’t mean I can’t help you find Cricket, Annie.”

  Startled, she glanced at Jack through wet lashes. He’d braced his shoulders against the linen closet door, crossed his arms over his chest. His stiff tone suggested he’d taken her extended silence as disappointment.

  “It’s not that. I’m just surprised.” She tugged the elastic from her hair, absently ran her fingers through the tangles. “It was voluntary?”

  “Yes.” Jack crossed the room, sat beside her. “I wasn’t asked for my resignation—but by then it was a relief to my superiors. And to Gallagher.”

  She tried not to gape. The poster boy had become a problem? “Why? What happened?”

  “According to your sources, the nephilim happened.”

  That was too recent. He’d said by then. “No, I meant—”

  “What led up to it?” At her nod, he agreed, “I’ll start at the beginning then. In any case, it’s all related.”

  Her brow furrowed. “To the nephilim?”

  “Apparently.” He bumped her thigh with his, and a hint of his teasing grin reappeared. “This could take a couple of minutes. We should get comfortable first. Hold on.”

  She let herself relax when his arm came around her waist, allowed him to turn her until they were both reclining on the chaise, facing each other with the crook of his elbow pillowing her head.

  Jack couldn’t really be comfortable, not with his jacket on and his weapon under it—but neither his psychic scent nor his expression suggested that he was in a hurry to move.

  Neither was Annie. And the bloodlust burned, but even if it consumed her whole, left her weak and starving, she wouldn’t ruin this moment.

  “Can you light those candles with your mind?”

  She blinked; then a laugh shook through her. “I wish. Why?”

  “For atmosphere.” He paused. “And I saw it at a séance once.”

  He’d attended a séance? “It was probably a parlor trick.” Impatient, she prodded his ribs with her forefinger. “Talk, G-Man.”

  “Five years ago—the same month Jenn and I separated— Gallagher and I got a line on a guy who’d been forging IDs. And feeling it out, we ran across what initially looked like a racketeering operation.”

  “Organized crime?”

  “Yes. Payouts to a circle of individuals in return for protection.” Jack shifted a little, as if settling in, and managed to pull her closer. Always sneaky. “Then one morning the guy washed up in the Delaware with a couple of holes in him—”

  “Bullet holes?” And human, if his body hadn’t disintegrated in the sun.

  “His throat cut open to his spine, and stab wounds to his heart from a dagger or similar blade.” Jack’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “No unexplained injuries. And that’s when an occult specialist out of the San Francisco office showed up. What we had, she said, wasn’t mob activity at all, but a Satanic cult. She had files—other cases she’d worked—and comparable evidence to back it up.”

  “So you let her in on the investigation.”

  He nodded. “Partly as a courtesy, and partly because it was her area of expertise. Her record spoke for itself. She knew her shit, and neither Gallagher nor I were going to waste a resource like her. Lily Milton.”

  He spoke the name with the bemused tone of a man wondering, in hindsight, how he hadn’t seen the snake coiled beneath a rock until it bit him.

  Then his eyes met hers again, and he smiled. “You remind me of her. Especially now.”

  Annie shot up to her elbow. “What?”

  Her eyes narrowed when his smile widened. “You’re thinking there was a spark. Nothing like that. I wasn’t interested in being interested, and she once said that Boy Scouts like me were the first to stab a woman through the heart.”

  “And how, exactly, is that like me?” Annie asked in a dangerously low tone, tracing her finger in an X over his chest. His heart was pounding beneath her fingertip, in her ears. “I’ve got a soft spot for good boys.”

  Jack made a rough noise and grabbed her hand, held it still. “I thought I did for good girls, but Jesus, Annie, this dark side of yours does it for me, too. I don’t have a single soft spot on me right now.” He stared at her for a long second; then, with a slight groan, he focused over her head. “I have no doubt that if Agent Milton expended a little effort, she could have any man on his knees and begging. Probably for a riding crop on his ass.”

  Annie sputtered into laughter. “Well, now—”

  “You wouldn’t have to expend any effort.”

  Something inside her melted. As cover, she made a show of glancing around. “The lack of men on their knees a
nd begging for a whip suggests otherwise.”

  “Maybe it’s just me, then.”

  He looked at her again, his gaze dark with need, and she dropped her head to his shoulder. Her hand flattened over his heart; her breath fluttered over his pulse. The bloodlust raged.

  After a moment, he cleared his throat. “As I was saying, you both have a way of moving that suggests power beneath it—and not just physical. I used to watch you in the ER, Annie. It was chaos, but as soon as you stood over a patient, everyone fell into line around you, began controlling it. With Milton, you just wondered who she’d pissed off, keeping her in the field instead of in charge of an office. The difference is, you work with people; you don’t bump heads. She’s the type who does.”

  “She bumped yours?”

  “No. Gallagher’s. She started talking about some of her cases, demons and . . . vampires, like they were real. Only, she did it with this little smile. So I thought she was pulling his leg—and when she saw that it was pissing him off, she pulled it harder.”

  “Oh,” Annie realized quietly. “She knew. And she knew Brian did, too.”

  “Obvious now, right? And I’ll admit she had me half-convinced, enough that I started asking a few different questions, looking at different angles. Not expecting to find anything— except people who thought they were connected to some bloodsucking demon god.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “No. Practically overnight, every single person in that payout circle disappeared. So did everyone linking us to the circle. In her report to our SAIC, Agent Milton gave the opinion that they’d run to another city—that the lack of finesse during our initial inquiries tipped them off to our interest. Furthermore, that the speed of the investigation had been hindered by my pursuing leads of a fantastical nature.”

  The load of bitterness behind the word told Annie that was exactly how Agent Milton had phrased it, but she couldn’t focus on the implications of it. Her stomach had condensed into a lump of dread.

  Five years ago. Every single person in that payout circle disappeared.

  Oh, God. Annie knew what had happened to them. She’d been there.