The Taken

by Vicki Pettersson

“Thought you were an angel?” she shot back before she could stop herself. She held up a hand immediately. She didn’t want to injure anyone else. She certainly didn’t want to argue. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  No. Kit shook her head. “Look, I know that you’ve been there and done that as a P.I., but I’ve spent my entire adult life investigating these sort of stories as well. Sordid tales about murder. Stories that invite people into lives they’d never lead, or want to. But they weren’t just stories.” She shook her head, and slumped against the cool wood of the white ranch fence.

  “When I was sixteen I had to read the headline blaring the news of my dad’s murder over the front page of my own newspaper. When I was twelve my mother’s obit took up a whole page inside. They were more than just stories then, and the same goes for all the bylines since. Same goes for now.” She looked directly up, and though close, Grif’s expression was blurred by her tears. “But I think I’ve started something here that I can’t stop. And I have a bad feeling about how this story is going to end.”

  “No, Kit,” he replied lowly. “As long as you’re alive, it can be stopped.”

  “But they’re not alive.” Kit wiped at her eyes. “It’s too late for Nic and Paul.”

  “It’s too late because someone else decided to play God.” His gaze didn’t waver from her face as another emergency vehicle edged by the already crowded entrance. “It’s much easier to destroy a life than it is to live one.”

  Kit laughed bitterly at that. “You don’t have to tell me. Every time I create something good in my life, someone else comes along and sideswipes it.” She sniffed. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  She sounded bitter and hopeless, a combination she found repulsive in others and intolerable in herself. But tonight, with her ex-husband’s blood so thick in the air that the horses couldn’t settle, she found it fit like a vintage glove.

  “Kit.” Grif spoke more softly than she’d ever heard him speak before, like she’d break if he raised his voice. “God gave us this life, and one of its cornerstones and greatest gifts is free will. Unfortunately some people use that gift to harm others.”

  Kit gave a half-laugh and straightened. “Yeah? So where was my mother’s free will? Because the last time I saw her she was a bag of bones gagging on her own saliva. She weighed so little her body seemed hollow, and she couldn’t breathe without the help of a machine.

  “Mankind didn’t do that, Grif. A murderer didn’t do it. God did it. He set her up, and then he sideswiped her just to watch her fall.” Steeling her jaw, she lifted her chin. “So as far as I can see? People are just following in His footsteps. Guess we really are made in His image after all.”

  Then she whirled, and strode away. Eyes were on her as she walked to the far fence, and not just Grif’s and Dennis’s. She cut her gaze left as she leaned again against the cool wood, and saw that awful Hitchens eyeing her like she was his next meal. Ignoring him, she looked back into the empty pasture and wondered what she was really upset about.

  The words about her mother had surprised even her. Of course, she wasn’t foolish enough to think she’d recovered from that loss. But she’d survived it, then lived with it, and thought she was doing well . . . at least until recently.

  Now her life was under attack, and she was shocked to find how fragile everything she’d built really was. She was dumbfounded, too, to find that while people were being ripped from her life like paper dolls from a chain, she longed to be the one who’d be gone first.

  I, she thought on a pitiful half-laugh, want my mommy.

  Yet all she had was herself.

  Then Grif rejoined her side. Kit shot him an annoyed glance. Even when he was trying to be sweet, she thought, he was damned contrary. Tucking her arms around her body again, she turned to him. “Not exactly the Kit Craig you’re used to, is it? Don’t worry. The dark mood only hits when someone close to me dies. It’ll pass soon. Until the next time, that is.”

  This time his hand closed over her arm when she tried to turn away. With the mere pulse of those fingertips—tensile, she thought, fighter’s hands—he drew her back. But what kept her there was the bruised intensity of his gaze.

  Grif cleared his throat. “I don’t have a lot of friends. Those I once counted as close are long gone, but I was never an easy man to know. I was a loner as a kid. I played only in my mind. I chose individual sports over team. That’s how I got into boxing.”

  Grif gave his head a little shake, like he hadn’t meant for all of that to spill out. “Anyway, I made sure anyone had to work hard to get to know me. As if my friendship and company is some great gift, right?” He chuckled for them both, but Kit was listening now, and caught the self-consciousness in the way he moved his shoulders.

  “Anyway, it’s no coincidence that I married the one woman who did work to get to know me. I mean, when someone looks past the rubble of all your faults, digging to find the good in you, it’s . . . appreciated.” Grif squinted into the empty meadow. “I asked her once why she didn’t just leave when I was surly or distant or, you know. Too talkative.”

  Kit huffed. Was there anyone less talkative than this man? “What’d she say?”

  He shrugged, and the accompanying self-consciousness this time was sweet. “She liked my way. She said there was magic in how I moved around the world, my every action so tightly controlled that when I finally did relax—when I turned that energy in her direction—it was like being spotlit.”

  He paused a moment before his small smile shifted to a frown. “She also said I was like a lone island that would be there long after the buildings and monuments other men had built turned to dust. She thought it was a compliment, but how could she know? It’s all dust.”

  Kit pursed her lips. “I’m sorry . . . is this your pep talk?”

  Grif shrugged.

  “That’s it? You’re done?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Kit was suddenly furious. “Then what’s the point? Why bother living or loving at all? Why set yourself up for inevitable heartache?”

  Grif didn’t even change his expression. “Because it’s still worth it.”

  Worth it to watch everyone around you die? she wondered, screaming inwardly. Worth it to know you could be next—no telling when or how? Worth it when some asshole could take the gift of free will and turn it into a weapon, a curse?

  “You’re wrong,” she said, furiously wiping a rogue tear from her cheek. “I’m beginning to think it doesn’t matter at all.”

  Then Grif put a hand to her cheek, and the magic he’d referred to before stole the breath from her body. “It always matters, Kit. Didn’t you tell me that?”

  “But—”

  His fingers stroked her cheeks. “Trust me. Even if you die today, and never step foot on this mudflat again, love always matters.”

  She shook her head until his palm dropped away, then immediately wished it back. God, she thought, tears filling her eyes. She didn’t want to want him and she damned well didn’t want it to matter. “I don’t think you understand, Grif. People drop from my life like flies. And I don’t know if I’m just used to it by now or just fucking stupid, but I’ve kept spinning my stories, working hard to live deliberately—in print, in the way I dress, in the actions I take, all the way down to the damned car I drive—like doing all that would give me a say in the whole process. But I don’t have a say in anything, do I?”

  He swallowed hard, and she knew she was right. Even the man who pretended to be an angel couldn’t deny that. No one had any say in their fate at all.

  This time she was the one to lay a frigid palm over his. “If God wants to smite you dead, He can. If a murdering cop wants to sneak into your home, he can, too. I mean, if you—Griffin Shaw—wanted me dead,” she shook her head, “there wouldn’t be a damned thing I could do to stop it.”

  “But I don’t want you dead,” he said, in a low, fierce voice. “I don’t.”
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  Yet there was little he could do about it if someone else did. She let her hand drop away. “Maybe you should just go, Grif. Two people have been murdered in the span of one week. My gut tells me it’s precisely because of their proximity to me.”

  “I’ve been closer to you than anyone else this whole week,” he countered hotly. “And my gut tells me that’s exactly what’s keeping me safe.”

  “That’s a very strange thing to say.”

  He shrugged. “That’s my way.”

  And, despite it all, she liked his way, too. But she couldn’t say that now. Dennis was walking toward her, which meant she’d soon be standing before Paul’s parents. If she wasn’t strong, their grief would mow her down. “I know I’m not supposed to care about this. Paul was an asshole throughout our marriage. He was an asshole to you. He was an asshole tonight. But no one deserves murder. And . . .”

  When she only shook her head, mouth still open, Grif finished for her. “And you loved him, once.”

  She nodded. So maybe Grif was right. Maybe love—even an old, discarded one—did always matter.

  “Ready, Kit?” Dennis said, joining her side.

  Nodding, she leaned into his embrace and let him wheel her away. Yet they hadn’t taken three steps before Grif’s gravelly voice rang out behind her, louder than she’d ever heard it before. Loud enough that even Hitchens turned and looked, all the way from across the lot.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Katherine Craig. I’ll spend every waking hour of this life helping you find out who’s really responsible for these deaths. ’Cuz it’s not you. It isn’t even Paul Raggio’s fault, no matter what else he’s done.”

  Kit put a hand on Dennis’s shoulder, asking him to wait. “Do you think Chambers is responsible for this?” she said lowly, when she was again square with Grif.

  “What part of this case have we touched that doesn’t have his name on it?”

  Kit dragged her fingers through her hair. “And yet he remains untouchable.”

  “Nobody’s untouchable.”

  She considered that for a moment, then lifted her hand to his stubbled cheek. It had the island of a man swallowing hard. She gave him a small smile. “You remember that, Griffin Shaw.”

  Because even though keeping him near had Kit questioning her own mental health, for some reason he, too, very much mattered.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dawn was tugging at the skyline by the time Grif headed back to Tony’s, carefully navigating the wide streets in Kit’s precious car. If what remained of the night had a scent, it’d be heavy ash and cheap perfume. If it had weight, it’d be a hangover. If it had emotion, it’d be regret. The whole damned thing—from Chambers’s party and Ray’s skin club to the call that’d led him and Kit to death—had left a bad taste in Grif’s mouth. It was the taste of humanity’s underbelly, and he wished there was some way—other than the obvious—to wash it away.

  On top of it all, Anas was stalking him. Grif couldn’t see her, but he’d have known it even without her appearance at the stables. The ability that allowed him to open locked doors and communicate with the Pure and feel the combustible heat in Hitchens’s heart was also an instinct. It was an inborn lightning rod, giving him advanced warning, if not protection, from an oncoming storm. The angel was near, she was furious, and she was making it clear she still wanted Kit dead.

  Which put her and Grif at absolute odds. Because Grif was no longer here just for himself, or even for Evie. His wife was long dead, and whatever restitution he could give her would be a cold, unknown comfort. However, Kit was warm and alive, and if she were to perish now, he wouldn’t feel mere guilt.

  He’d want to die, he realized . . . and then he’d want to die again.

  The thought pulled his chest tight. If he wasn’t careful, his headache would return. Sarge might be controlling the strength of his fierce mental attacks, but it also seemed the longer he was on the mud the more he could do the same.

  But he still couldn’t find his way around this damned city. Where the hell was the entrance to the Country Club?

  Grif turned his mind back to Chambers as he searched. He believed, though he couldn’t prove, that the man was behind the murders of those closest to Kit. He also believed and couldn’t prove that those murders were linked to the list initially acquired by Kit and Nicole. More than that, he thought as he finally spotted the club’s exclusive entry, the man’s openness with Grif about the sexual frat parties, and his willingness to host them at his personal property, meant he was also unconcerned with the world at large discovering his little secret. And why would he be? All those men gathered in one room like powerful little lemmings . . . and not one of them was talking.

  And people love to talk, Grif thought, cursing as the road dead-ended before him. Backing up, he wondered what sway Chambers held over the powerful politicians, entertainers, and judges. The cameras in those rooms were part of it, but that wasn’t why Nicole Rockwell had died. Like Kit, she’d no idea about his estate parties.

  So back to the Wayfarer Motel. To something connecting the two sexual enterprises. But what? Grif thought, finally spotting Tony’s long horseshoe entry. And who?

  Pulling the car to a stop at the top of the private drive, Grif inwardly patted himself on the back for seeing Kit’s little treasure safe, and stretched into the night. Exhaustion was etched on his insides. Fatigue was something else he’d forgotten about his mortal years.

  And the bone-weariness cost him. Grif had already shut Tony’s front door when his intuition caught up with his thoughts. The dregs of the weighty, ash-strewn night weren’t ready to be washed away after all.

  A shadow lunged. Six feet, one-ninety, favoring his right. Grif leaped left . . . right into Lance Schmidt’s iron grip.

  “You’re not as pretty up close,” Grif gasped, right before Schmidt blew out his kidney. He folded with the bolt of pain, immediately hobbled. The fist that rocked his jaw corrected his posture, and the headache he’d been dodging all night splintered his brain.

  Booted feet caved in his stomach, cracking ribs, then a thud, and he was flipped, his mouth blooming with numbness and blood.

  “Not so pretty, either . . .” he heard, right before steel-tipped toes found his head, his ear. Then he heard nothing.

  His breath wouldn’t come. He was dying—he suddenly remembered it from the first time, and couldn’t help wondering if Sarge would send another Centurion or if he’d be expected to trudge back into the Everlast alone. Probably the latter. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know the way.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t dead yet. Grif opened his eyes—about all he could manage—and immediately regretted it. He’d only suspected that Hitchens was headed down a violent path, but Schmidt’s cold, marbled gaze told Grif that he’d killed before . . . and he enjoyed it.

  Grif almost wished the man would torture him. Then, once Schmidt’s time was up on this mudflat, his soul would be shipped directly off to the forest. He’d have to endure every moment of pain he’d ever caused, and do so at the hands of the relentless, single-minded Third. And, oh, how they’d love to destroy this cruel soul again and again and again.

  But Schmidt pulled out a gun instead. So it was to be silent and fast. Without another word, Schmidt compressed the trigger in a slow-motion squeeze that still lasted too long. Braced for death, Grif could only watch in frame-by-frame increments as the bullet left the chamber.

  Then Grif’s shoulder blades flared with pain as Anne intercepted.

  No. Not Anne. That was an unremarkable name meant for mortal lips. The creature who caught the fired bullet with the sharp edges of pointed teeth was Anas—the Pure, created by God, numbered among the Powers, tribal kin to the Dominations and Virtues, the first of the created angels who controlled demons and guarded the heavens . . . and who, self-admittedly, wouldn’t help a mortal even if her own soulless life depended on it.

  Spitting the bullet back at Schmidt, who flinched, wide-eyed, when it burned his skin
, she checked on Grif with a sidelong gaze and a growl.

  “Your eyes are healed,” Grif slurred . . . or maybe he just thought it. He couldn’t be sure his larynx wasn’t crushed. He couldn’t be sure of anything, because that was when all hell broke loose, though Grif was no longer conscious to see it.

  Memory. Teeth and wings, fire and full-throttle screams. It was all that remained of the chaos following Anne’s rescue. Or maybe he’d dreamed his second death, the blood slowing, the tissue dying. Even Grif’s beaten and bruised flesh merely echoed with the abuse, like a sad note lingering on the air, though paralysis had settled in his bones. When he tried to lift his head, nothing happened.

  “A few more minutes,” Anne said, a giant shadow passing above him. Memory flashed again and he saw her bending, lifting, healing, but then she, and the thought, disappeared. “You’ll never even know it happened.”

  Untrue. His memory had proven intractably stubborn . . . though his flesh was proving as weak and fragile as ever. Yet Anne’s healing touch worked. He was sitting up within five minutes, standing unassisted in ten. Even his back, where his wings had been ripped away, felt strong, solid, and whole. “You saved me,” he said, wobbly as a newborn deer in the middle of Tony’s wide, wood-paneled living room.

  Anne cut him an annoyed look, and his breath caught. Her eyes were blue from corner to corner, and roiling like storm clouds beneath tightly curled lashes. She waited until his heartbeat had settled, then went back to staring out the window as the sun rose over the dewy green.

  “Did you kill them?” Grif asked.

  This time she looked at him like she wished she’d let him die. “Kill a child of God?”

  “Right.” Stupid question. He cleared his throat. “So . . . ?”

  “They left,” she said, back to him. “Ran. Though your would-be assassin accidentally drilled a hole in the side of his partner.”

  “Must have seen a ghost,” Grif said, stretching. That was better. “So how’s his buddy?”

  “Couldn’t you tell? He’ll be dead within the hour.”