“Trust me,” he’d said with a grin.
Not on his life.
But Parker had taken the choice out of his hands, and here they were. Nestled in a boat in the middle of the Old Sea-Trench, watching craggy cliff walls slide by.
The sun had come out an hour ago, a rare day. Although its muted warmth helped take the edge off, anxiety still draped over his shoulders.
It’d been a mere thirty-six hours since the Mission had gone dark, and too quiet.
“Here we go,” Phin warned. “Brace yourselves!”
Simon gripped one edge of the boat, his knee nudging hers. She held onto him with both arms, but she stared out at the formless canyon. Fascinated?
Or cataloging every turn. He had more than a suspicion about how her brain worked.
Phin navigated the boat along the fast-moving current, his mouth pursed in concentration.
Simon frowned. “All I see is—”
“Hey.” Parker pointed, her eyes widening. “There’s a fissure.”
“What?” He looked out over her head, but all he saw was more rock. More faceless cliff and stone and craggy edges.
The boat scraped along the cliff side, metal screaming over stone. As Simon braced himself, held Parker as they rocked, he glanced back at their guide. “Are you—”
And then it stopped.
Suddenly, without warning, the boat slipped through a cavity Simon hadn’t seen, pitched forward, and sent him sliding backward off the small bolted seat.
Parker’s laughter ended on a squawk of surprise as his arm tightened around her ribs, pulled her with him to the boat floor.
Her elbow nailed him in the chest. He grunted, but for the first time in what seemed like too long, warmth—genuine laughter—filled him.
“Whoops.” Phin bent, propping the oar on the boat floor, and offered Parker a hand. “Sorry about that.” His brown eyes twinkled. “Welcome to the sanctuary.”
From Simon’s position on his back, all he saw was blue sky muted by a faint trace of clouds. But it was warm—a lot warmer than it had been only seconds ago in the trench.
And it smelled like sulfur. That warm, spicy mix he’d only ever smelled here.
Parker managed to get to her knees with Phin’s steadying hand. When her face lit up, her beautiful eyes shining like the sun, Simon’s heart filled with it. “Simon. Look!”
Gripping the edge of the boat, he pulled himself upright.
The crescent-shaped canyon carved into the trench had stolen his breath the first time he’d ever set foot into it. On one side of the point, Matilda had built a green house—small, cozy enough for one but clearly stretched for more. Tents had been erected on the shore, and a wooden pier jutted into the greenest, stillest water he’d ever seen.
“Oh,” Parker breathed. She grabbed his arm. “It’s so warm.”
“Volcanic hot springs,” Phin told her.
Simon knew.
The boat glided across the bottle-green water. As they approached the pier, the door in the green house with its mismatched windows opened.
Parker went still beside him.
Naomi West stepped out onto the porch—the same porch where Matilda had taken her poison. Where she’d shot him.
And died.
Simon’s hands clenched at his sides.
“This will be fun,” Parker murmured. Her tone slid into the even, cool notes he’d learned meant she was reapplying her armor.
He didn’t blame her.
Naomi was a wild card.
The boat nudged the pier. Quickly, Phin stepped onto the creaking wood, offered a hand. “Ladies first.”
She glanced at Simon.
He nodded.
When she took Phin’s hand, Simon met the man’s forthright scrutiny. Though his lips twitched, Phin said nothing as he helped Parker to the dock.
Simon climbed out on his own.
He’d never met Naomi. Not directly. Reports had suggested she was a knockout, and as Simon and Parker crossed the shore and approached the porch, he couldn’t help but affirm the description.
Her black hair was a spiky, magenta-streaked black mass, short enough at her chin to bring attention to bone structure even Simon recognized as exquisite. Her mixed-Japanese features lent her an exotic beauty the rest of her fulfilled—long legs, trim figure. Lethal as hell, by all accounts. It was no wonder Parker had chosen her to deal with the Clarke problem. She’d fit right in with the beautiful people.
Well, assuming she’d lost the array of facial piercings at the time. A silver hoop nestled into the center of her lip glinted as she braced her folded arms against the porch rail. More rings decorated one eyebrow, a stud and hoop glimmered in her nose, and he’d bet there’d be more under her shredded jeans and loose sweatshirt.
Her eyes, a mix of blue and violet, weren’t kind. “Well, well. Little Miss Parker goes on walkabout.”
Simon’s lips twitched.
“Miss West.” Parker halted several feet from the porch.
Phin strode past them, his mouth set into a crooked slant. “Quit it,” he said lightly as he jumped the porch steps. A boundless font of energy, Simon thought. Phin’s jeans were worn and stained, and his flannel shirt—much like the ones Simon favored—didn’t mark him as anything special, but the way he moved did.
Confidence, assurance. Like Parker, something about him suggested topsider, but here he was. As far from topside as a man could get.
And he seemed to be doing all right.
At least, if the way he snagged Naomi’s arm, spun her around, and pulled her into his arms was any indication. “Phin, hey!”
“Hey, yourself.” Phin held her tightly. “I’m glad to see you again, sweetheart.”
“It’s been three hours,” she protested. The compressed edge to her mouth softened. Just a little.
“It’s been too long,” Phin countered, nuzzling her color-streaked hair. “Be nice to our guests.”
Unable to help himself, Simon reached out. Laced his fingers with Parker’s.
Her palm was damp.
Nervous? A chink in the armor, after all.
“Relax,” he whispered.
She shook her head.
“Trust me,” he added dryly. “Of the two of us, you have the least to worry about.”
“I know,” she murmured.
The calm acceptance, the flicker in her eyes, gave him pause.She knew? Knew what?
Another figure stepped out from the lush foliage to the right of the pretty green house with its roof of purple flowers, and Simon’s shoulder squared.
Showtime.
The woman who approached from the hidden cove on the other side of the crescent point had short black hair, a rounder figure, and a face Parker recognized immediately.
She stiffened.
Simon’s grip tightened around hers in silent warning.
Juliet Carpenter transferred a small basket to her hip, her green eyes shuttered as she approached the porch. She didn’t smile.
But she didn’t run, either.
Simon met her accusing gaze. “Hello, Eve.”
The basket Juliet carried hit the black-sand ground just as Naomi vaulted over the porch railing, a curse on her lips.
Beside Parker, Simon braced himself. Secrets and unspoken accusations filled the too-tense air.
No. None of this. No more.
Parker stepped in front of Simon, arms outstretched to the side, squaring her shoulders as Naomi closed the distance in a smooth, leashed surge of fatal intent. “Stop it!”
Phin jumped down the porch steps. “Naomi, don’t.”
“That’s not her name,” the ex-missionary snarled.
She filled Parker’s space, a bullet ready to tear through anything in her way.
Enough was enough.
As Simon grabbed her shoulder, Parker stepped into Naomi’s approach—grabbed her by the sweatshirt, one arm curved around the woman’s waist.
She might not fight, but Parker knew how to get in
the way.
And angry missionaries didn’t scare her.
“That’s enough,” she yelled.
Her voice pierced through the canyon, echoed back eerily.
Naomi stopped. With one hand twisted in Simon’s collar, she’d managed to brace her forearm against Parker’s throat—one flex of lean muscle away from crushing her larynx, or worse.
Slowly, her eyebrows climbed, fine black arches pierced with rings on one side. “Holy shit,” she drawled. “Look who’s suddenly got a spine.”
“I always have,” Parker said evenly despite Naomi’s arm at her neck. “You never bothered to look.”
“Let them go, sweetheart.” Phin’s arm tightened around Juliet’s shoulders. She hadn’t moved. White-faced, she stared at Simon behind Parker.
Pretty girl. A witch named Eve.
Matilda’s chosen.
Simon wasn’t a complete blank slate. Parker didn’t need anything else to fit the pieces into this particular puzzle. Slowly, she loosened her hold on Naomi’s waist.
The woman drew back, but her eyes glittered dangerously as they flicked to Simon. “One wrong word—”
“We’re all on the same side here,” Phin said tersely. He squeezed Juliet’s shoulders. “No one’s going to hurt anyone. Juliet’s safe, Nai, I promise.”
Simon’s hands settled over Parker’s shoulders in like reassurance. She stumbled as they pulled her back, well out of Naomi’s reach, fingers tense. “The hell are you thinking?” he demanded.
She shook her head, shrugged off Simon’s grip. “Juliet. I’m Parker Adams. This is—”
“I know who you are.” As greetings went, it wasn’t promising. The girl patted Phin’s hand on her shoulder but pulled it off with a lift to her slightly square chin. “He was there in that facility.”
Simon stepped into Parker’s peripheral. “I’m sorry.”
Juliet’s eyes widened.
“Look,” he added, pitching his voice to carry. It firmed. “My name is Simon. I wasn’t born with it.” He reached up, dragged down the collar of his thermal shirt. The tattoos inked on his tanned skin stood out in stark relief. One seal of St. Andrew.
One bar code.
Parker watched Juliet’s face. Every sign seemed to point to her as the key to this reunion. The cue the others would react to.
Someone they all wanted to protect. A good girl.
A girl with the secret to Simon’s survival.
Juliet’s eyes flicked to the stamp. She swallowed hard.
“Like you,” he continued, tone gentling as he let his collar go, “Matilda made me.”
“Why?”
Parker stepped aside as the question slipped from the witch’s lips.
This wasn’t her conversation.
But as she backed away, folding her arms over her chest, she watched Simon just as closely.
His jaw was set, features ridged with strain. Tension. Only part of it was the effort he was making to remain steady. She knew the signs by now. But did they?
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s one of the many things I don’t know. Who I am or what she wanted from me.”
Juliet’s arms folded beneath her breasts, twined into the pale blue T-shirt she wore. Too big for her. Maybe Phin’s. “Go on.”
Naomi shook her head. “What’s it matter?” she demanded.
“Christ, Naomi,” Phin murmured and folded his hand over her mouth. He dragged her against his chest, her back to his front, and grunted as her elbow collided with his side.
A pang hit Parker’s heart.
“I don’t have anything left to go on with.” Simon spread his hands. “All I know is that Matilda made me from her own genes. She wanted me to do something, but before I could ask, she—”
His eyes flicked to the porch.
“She died.” Eyes flashing, Naomi tore Phin’s hand from her mouth. “You shitfucker son of a—”
Parker tensed, ready to throw herself at the woman—risk the ass-kicking she knew the ex-missionary could level on her. But Phin grabbed the woman by both arms, more daring than she would have given the topside playboy.
“Stop it,” he ordered. “Naomi, let him finish!”
“I’ll kill him,” she snarled. “He practically just admitted to killing her!”
“No.” Simon stepped back, hands raised. But he didn’t square up. Didn’t meet Naomi’s challenge with anything but raw honesty. “I came here, it’s true. But by the time I arrived, she was already—” Pain flickered in his expression. “She chose to drink poison. I’m not lying.”
“We couldn’t fucking tell if you were,” Naomi shot back.
Juliet flinched.
“He’s got the scar from where she shot him,” Phin said, and somehow, when he spoke, even Parker felt soothed. The man had a way about him. He spoke, and she wanted to listen. A real charmer.
“It just proves he was here,” Naomi spat. Her eyes flashed. “Why are we trusting him?”
“Why are we trusting him?” Juliet echoed, but quietly.
Parker couldn’t let this degenerate into something worse. “Please,” she said.
All eyes turned to her. Sudden and direct.
Simon’s banked, pain to anger. Anger to the cold, shuttered edge she was starting to associate with some misguided attempt to fix things.
What could she do? Please what?
She didn’t know, but she had to give it her best shot. And she knew how to crack Naomi’s edge. The woman had been the best missionary Parker had ever seen.
But she’d softened.
Slowly, Parker sank to her knees. The black sand shifted underneath her.
Simon rocked back on his heels, expression pained. Shocked. “Parker, no—”
“Matilda Lauderdale knew her husband still controlled the witches from his lab,” she said over him.
Juliet watched her, worrying at her full upper lip.
Simon took a step toward Parker; she threw up a hand. “No,” she said flatly. “Stop. I’m not doing this again.” Let Naomi see the ex-director on her knees. Let her see how far Parker would go.
What it would cost her.
Pride didn’t mean that much when the city—and Simon—was at stake.
“Laurence Lauderdale is the man behind all this,” she continued, her gaze on Naomi now. Challenging. The woman’s too-full mouth twisted as her tongue slid out to lick the jewelry in her lip. “He’s been creating witches by the dozens, maybe even the hundreds.”
“We know,” Juliet said tightly.
“I know you do,” Parker replied, gaze shifting to her. “But what you don’t know is how bad it really is. The Mission is now run by his witches. His daughter—a respected geneticist in her own right—is trying to crack the code that will fix the thing that’s breaking his army. And if she’s half as smart as her parents, she’ll have it done within weeks. Maybe sooner.”
As one, every eye turned to Simon.
His fists clenched by his sides. “It’s true,” he said quietly. “I’m dying. So are all the subjects. They call it degeneration. I’m thirty years old and my generation has lasted the longest, but we’re still—”
“Broken.” Juliet shook her head. “We know.”
“But you aren’t dying now,” Parker said, her eyes on the woman who’d started it all. Juliet Carpenter. Eve. “I need . . . Please, can you help us?”
“You had the fucking syringe,” Naomi pointed out, but even her volume lowered. Tense, her posture rigid, but her fists remained at her sides.
“It wasn’t her fault,” Simon growled, not for the first time.
“Of course not.”
“Of course not,” Phin replied, more firmly. Sincere where Naomi bled sarcasm.
“Shitfuck.” With that snapped judgment, Naomi shook off his hand and stalked away from the group. Within moments, she vanished back around the house.
Phin tucked his hands into his pockets, smile crooked. “That, for Naomi, is polite.”
“I�
��m well aware,” Parker murmured, but without heat.
Juliet knelt, gathered her basket and the odd purple tubers that had spilled from inside. “So the Church has the last of the serum,” she said quietly.
“It’s my fault,” Simon said before Parker could.
She glared at him. “No, it’s—”
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is.” The witch with the pale green eyes looked up, her expression sad. “Simon, I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Jessie and I used the other two syringes Matilda left us. Whatever she needed from me, it’s locked up in my chemical makeup, not my power. All I can do is—”
“I know,” he repeated, his arm tightening at Parker’s waist. “You boost others’ powers.”
Juliet glanced at Phin. “Then why are they here?”
“You didn’t say we were coming?” Parker narrowed her eyes at Phin.
Running a hand through his curly hair, Phin shrugged. “Jonas got in touch. Jessie planned the rest. I just figured if there was a way . . .”
“I came to say I’m sorry.”
Parker’s heart swelled as Simon’s words settled over the small group. Quiet. Earnest.
Honest.
“Before everything, all I wanted was the Eve sequence. I intended to steal it, cure myself, and get the hell out of this city no matter what it took. When Matilda died, I—” He took a deep breath, let it out on a whoosh of unspoken frustration. Anger. “I didn’t care about any of you, any of this, until Parker, and I failed her. I failed all of you.” He looked down at Parker, his jaw shifting.
“You didn’t fail me, Simon. You’re the reason I’m not in an interrogation cell right now. Maybe worse.”
She cupped his cheek. “There’s time.”
“No, there isn’t.”
A new voice fractured the tenuous peace. “There might be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The foliage rustled, large, tropical fronds swaying as another man strode out of whatever lay hidden behind it.
Parker’s eyes widened. Blond hair, incredibly blue eyes. His features were unmistakable. It couldn’t be. “Caleb Leigh? We thought you were—”
“Dead?” He turned his head.
Parker swallowed a gasp.
Dark mission 04 - Sacrifice the Wicked Page 28
