Kate settled in on a purple velvet overstuffed armchair, clutching her drink like a talisman.
She was homeless, damned, and about to be dangled in front of a serial killer.
What would Buffy do?
“Mind if I sit here?”
She glanced up. It was a good looking blond guy, wearing a suit. He was gesturing to the couch next to her. She shrugged, taking a long, cold sip of her sugary drink.
“See you’re a Frap fan, too,” he said, holding up a matching one. “Can’t get enough sugar, myself.”
She shrugged again. Go away.
They’re pretty busy this morning, huh?” he tried again. “Just loud enough music, friends catching up, people doing business meetings. Lot of bustle.”
Do I fucking look like I feel like talking? She wished she’d thought to bring a book, her usual dodge for chatty coffee patrons.
“You could have pretty much any conversation, and nobody’d ever notice,” he continued affably. “Like, if I said your boss is probably going to get you killed… not a single person would realize what we’re talking about.”
She choked on her whipped cream.
“Now, now, you all right?” She noticed a hint of an accent, the smoothness of the South, with something a little more exotic.
She took a closer look at him. He was tall, almost skeletally thin, and his eyes were a pale, pale violet, like a lavender satin prom dress. The color, paired with his intensity, was disconcerting.
“Who are you?” she said, when she could finally speak.
“Glad you asked,” he replied. “I’m Cyril. Cyril Roman. And you must be Kate, Thomas’s newest… employee.”
“You,” she said, as the name clicked. “The guy who signed him.”
“Yes, indeed,” Cyril said, with a cheerful draw from his Frappuccino. “No, don’t get up. I’m not here to hurt you.”
She hovered at the edge of her seat, adrenaline kicking in. “Sure you’re not.”
“Just here to talk, darlin’.” He pushed the Southern, his whole attitude a sort of just-plain-folksy casual. “Wanted to discuss something is all.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Ah, but that’s not the question, is it?” he countered. “The real question here is, why should you trust Thomas Kestrel? Am I wrong?”
“He saved my life.” At least, he did before he came up with his brilliant “let’s use Kate as bait” plan.
“Did he, though?” Cyril sent her a Cheshire cat grin. “Or did he just set you up to sign you? The more souls he has, the more power he gets. And odds are good you’ll die before he does. You’re a human shield, kiddo.”
She squirmed. Her father called her “kiddo.” Hearing this guy, who looked maybe twenty-seven if he were a day, call her the nickname was just weird.
“He’s using you. You need to get free.”
“And that’s where you come in, right?” She stood up. “I’m out of here.”
“I can help you.”
“Leaving,” she said, taking a few steps. He got up, followed her.
“You know how to break free, right?” he said, under cover of the non-descript quasi jazz, business travelers and, coffee-office patrons. “You just need to kill the one who signed you.”
“Okay, that’s not happening,” she said sharply. “Get away from me, or I’ll call a cop. And in this town, trust me, I know cops.”
“I’m not saying that you have to kill him, for pity’s sake,” he said. “I’m saying I’ll kill him.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you shitting me?”
He made an X over his heart with his finger. “Scout’s honor.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If you want to kill him, you could just do it without telling me. So why are you here?” She waited a beat. “Because you want something from me. No—you need something from me.”
“I’m just trying to look for an opening,” Cyril said. “I signed him, sure, but he’s been—if you don’t mind my language—a real pain in the ass. If I’d known what a handful the guy was going to be, I don’t think I would’ve bothered.”
“Wow. Poor you.”
“He’s wily, I’ll give him that,” Cyril said. “I just need a little help setting him up. Then I’ll take him off your hands. How ‘bout that? You get to walk away a free woman. Little sadder, little wiser, but free. What do you say?”
She thought about it for a long, quiet minute.
“I say,” she murmured, “that the next time you’re in Oakland, asking if I’m going to sell a man out to his death, you might want to stay in your car. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
“Do you really think Thomas isn’t going to use you?” he said, and his voice had an edge that sounded older. No, it sounded ancient. “He signed his soul, Kate. He’s not some kind of ‘good guy.’ He’s as bad as me, maybe worse.”
She shook her head. Thomas was being an asshole with the whole bait thing, but really—her judgment wasn’t that far out of whack. Thomas wasn’t evil. Self-serving, maybe. Short-sighted. More than a touch narcissistic, and occasionally grossly insensitive.
Technically, that could describe every man she’d ever dated.
“Don’t believe me?” Cyril’s smile was like a wolf’s, fierce and dangerous. “Just wait. One day, probably soon, you’ll see. When it comes down to him or you, you’re the one who’s going to lose.”
“Life’s rough,” she shot back. “Wear a helmet.”
“I can sweeten the pot,” he said, his voice low, his expression persuasive. “I understand your family is in a bit of a financial bind. If it’s money you’re looking for, I can give you whatever you need… and I have quite a bit. Consider it a bonus.”
“You need to leave,” she repeated. “Now.”
“Here.”
She looked at the business card he held to her like it was a grenade. “No.”
“You can burn it. Throw it away,” he said, and pressed it into her palm. His hand was papery-dry, she noticed… and cold. “But I want to at least give you the opportunity to get yourself out.”
With that, he turned away, walking briskly. He threw out what was left of his Frappuccino.
She sipped at her own drink, now watered down and syrupy, the plastic cup covered in condensation. She looked at the card, then took a few steps toward the trash can.
If it’s a choice between him and you… would Thomas really choose you?
She let the card linger for a minute.
Then, slowly, she tucked it in her pocket.
Just in case.
…
Thomas circled Yagi on the mats in his private gym, on a lower floor in the Havens. He was wearing his suit, while Yagi was in his training uniform of black sweatpants and a white T-shirt, barefoot. They both held wooden knives.
“Keep in mind—you’ve got to kill him with the knife. He can shoot you,” Yagi said. “I will do what I can to protect you from outsiders interfering, but when it comes down to it, you must kill him yourself. That is crucial.”
“I know,” Thomas muttered, forcing himself to focus. Which would have been easier if he could just stop picturing Kate’s wounded expression from this morning.
You really could have handled that whole thing better.
It had been a while since he’d had sex, admittedly. As crazy as his life had been, especially since Elizabeth’s death—and thinking of Elizabeth brought on a whole new round of guilt, not surprisingly, especially when chained to Maggie’s fresh suicide—he just hadn’t pursued women. He couldn’t trust anyone, for one thing. And a combination of vengeance and need, plus being married to his businesses, had frankly made sex a low priority.
That said, last night had been really damned good. He knew that. It actually freaked him out a little, how good it felt to be with Kate.
Suddenly, Thomas found himself flat on his back, Yagi looming over him.
“That,” Yagi said, in his usual calm voice, “is going to get you killed. Do yo
u need to meditate?”
“No, I do not need to fucking meditate,” Thomas growled, getting up off the mat, embarrassed.
“Because saying you lack focus is a gross understatement.” Yagi’s eyebrow raised. “Is this about Maggie?”
“No.”
“Kate, then.”
Thomas didn’t respond.
Yagi took a step away. “I have to ask again—are you serious about gaining your soul back?”
“I am serious about killing Cyril Roman.”
“It isn’t precisely the same thing.” Yagi frowned a little. “He has not survived all these years on luck. He is cunning and cruel. He will do what you don’t have the stomach for without blinking. That is how he wins. To beat him, you also must do the thing you don’t have the stomach for.”
“Is this about using Kate to trap Victor?” Just the words turned his stomach into a knot of ice, but he didn’t let it show. “Because I agreed to that.”
“Then we need to set it up, and quickly,” Yagi said. “Because I get the feeling this isn’t about—”
The house phone rang, surprising them both. Thomas frowned, getting up off the mat and heading for the phone. “Hello?”
“Thomas, my boy. Good to hear your voice. I trust I’m not interrupting anything?”
For a blink, Thomas froze. “How did you get this number?”
“Now, now, don’t play coy,” Cyril said, sounding amused. “I know you’re pretty fancy, what with your special hoodoo consultant and top notch security, but do you really think that you can keep me out of something I really want to get into?”
Thomas looked at Yagi, who already had his iPhone out and was tapping away quickly.
“Tell your friend he doesn’t have to trace. I’m calling from my house. And we both know you can’t touch me.”
“Not until I get the others,” Thomas pointed out, keeping his voice calm, almost bored.
“Yeah, that hasn’t really worked out, has it?” Cyril said. “I heard how badly you botched your first little foray into the big leagues. Embarrassing. Victor’s not even one of my A-list signatories.”
Thomas felt rage burn him. “I’ve got a year.”
Now Cyril sighed. “I mishandled you,” he said, his drawl a mockery of Thomas’s own. “I pushed too hard, and I got a little hot tempered. Totally uncalled for. But don’t you think you’ve postured enough? You proved you’re a big boy, that you can stand up to me, blah blah blah. Let’s patch this up, hug it out, do whatever men do these days. And move forward.”
“I’m not cutting a deal with you,” Thomas said. “I don’t want to be your slave.”
“I prefer the term associate.”
“Slave,” Thomas repeated. “You don’t have any leverage on me. Not since—”
“Not since you drove your fiancée to her death, right,” Cyril agreed. “Like I said, there’s strong, and there’s stubborn. You want to call your own shots; I can respect that. Come over to my house, sign some amendments, and let’s see what we can do about expanding that little empire of yours.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Thomas said mildly. “How about I locate all twelve of your power base, destroy them, and then grind you to dust?”
“Still touchy, I see,” Cyril said. “We’ll talk again when you’re not having your man period, shall we? ’Bye.”
Thomas growled at the phone, then slammed the handset into the receiver. Then yanked the phone off the wall.
Yagi’s eyes glinted like obsidian. “I’m surprised he hadn’t started putting out feelers sooner. He must be nervous if he’s trying to charm you or needle you.”
“He’d better fucking be nervous,” Thomas snarled.
Yagi crossed his arms. “If persuasion won’t work, he’s going to want to coerce you into cooperating. Barring that, I imagine capture will be the next best option, simply so you will stop your pursuit. I don’t think he’s ever had any signatory as intent on killing him as you are.”
“Which is why he formed the power base,” Thomas said, forcing himself to breathe deeply—to calm down. He wouldn’t give that sonofabitch the satisfaction of working him up. “See, Yagi? I have listened to your lectures.”
Yagi ignored his smart-ass remark. “I don’t think he’d torture you, for fear of killing you before the vesting period is completed or before you renegotiate the contract in his favor. His best chance of capturing you is when you are trying to kill his signatories.” He sighed. “Which explains Victor’s call. This Victor trap is about drawing you out. Cyril doesn’t care about Kate, even if Victor does. Cyril wants to get you, and he’s probably instructed Victor to help him do it.”
“Yagi?” Thomas said, at the end of his rope. “At least do me the courtesy of acting like you believe I’m not stupid.”
“Really? Then you realize that your getting involved with Kate O’Hara gives him the best bargaining chip in the world,” Yagi snapped, finally irritated. “If he gets any sense that she is more to you than simply an employee, she’s going to have a target on her forehead. You might be able to stand up to torture, but you couldn’t even leave her to die when she was just a liability—when you could have gotten Victor if you’d just left her behind. And that was before you slept with her!”
Thomas sprang, pinning Yagi against the wall, the wooden knife against his throat. “I. Can. Handle this.”
Yagi’s eyes gleamed, for a split second shifting from black to a brilliant, animal-like yellow. Then he shoved Thomas back. Thomas barely managed to stay on his feet.
“Be sure,” Yagi said, in a low voice. “Because if this goes the way I think it will, there will be a choice—her or you. You can’t be a hero and save your own life.”
“I’m not trying to be a hero.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Yagi replied. “In the meantime, meditate. And for God’s sake, get the woman into that trap and out of your head.”
Chapter Twenty-four
After the Starbucks fiasco, Kate had returned to the hotel and was now pacing around the small, if chic, little room like a fashionably imprisoned tiger. Cyril knew who she was. Where she was. He’d been polite, but he’d also been clear.
It’s going to be Thomas, or it’s going to be you.
There was a knock on the door, and she jumped. “Shit,” she breathed, looking around the room. Why hadn’t she grabbed her baseball bat on the way out of her parents’ house? What the hell was she supposed to use to defend herself? Throw a remote control at him? Snap a frickin’ hotel towel?
“Kate?” The voice was muffled, but familiar. “Damn it, Katie, you in there?”
She almost collapsed in relief, going to the door and peeking out.
“Tim, that you?”
“Nope, it’s Chuck Testa,” he said sarcastically. “Open the door, will ya?”
She’d been closer to her older brother Tim when they were young, but the incidents in San Clemente had driven a wedge between them. Once he’d entered the police academy, she’d rarely spoken to him—unless her parents were angry at her.
She opened the door. “I see Mom and Dad sent their enforcer.”
He scowled, his pale face an older, masculine version of her own. It pissed her off to no end that people sometimes mistook them for twins. He was wearing a white polo shirt and a pair of jeans. His badge hung on the belt.
“Guess you’re not undercover,” she added.
“Only way I could get the front desk to tell me where you were,” he said. “They might not want you staying another night, by the way. Seeing as you’re wanted for questioning in a murder and all.”
“Dick,” she muttered. “What do you really want?”
He shut the door behind him, then took in the little room. He finally sat on the bed. She sat at the tiny writing desk, scowling at him.
“Heard you’ve been having an interesting time at work,” he said mildly. “Thought I might be able to help.”
“You mean you think I’m fucking up, and you have to
bail me out.” She realized she sounded about three years old, and forced herself to take the petulance out of her voice. “I appreciate you stopping by, really. But I think I’ve got to figure this out on my own.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, leaning against the headboard. “I know how you are.”
She couldn’t help it. She bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
And why is it I revert to a toddler whenever my family pushes my buttons?
Tim sighed. “Let’s pretend that a problem is a locked door to an apartment building. Mom would wait, patiently and a little resentfully, until someone came by to let her in. Dad would yell and knock really loudly until someone opened up. I’d figure out a way to break in. But you… ?” He shook his head. “You’d take your car and drive through the front door.”
She frowned. Sometimes she hated her brother. Still, she hated more that he might have a point. Her way of problem solving didn’t work. He was the rational one. The sneaky one.
If anyone had some perspective, it would be Tim. And right now, she wasn’t exactly in a position to turn down help.
“So what is it, Carrot?” he asked, his voice at least a little understanding. “Did Mom and Dad get on your ass about shooting your mouth off to the papers?”
“Yeah.” She winced. “Among other things, anyway. Sort of a perfect shitstorm.”
“I know they come down hard on you,” Tim said. “But they’ve got reasons.”
Kate stiffened. “It’s been years, Tim. How long do I have to keep paying for San Clemente?”
“San Clemente was Dad’s dream job,” Tim said, and Kate felt the familiar shame etch at her like acid. “Not only did you get expelled, you cost him his job and you got a criminal record. For sleeping with a pot dealer at sixteen.”
“It wasn’t like that,” she said, the conversation exhausting her. It was a variation on a theme, a conversation they’d had for years—and then avoided for years. “His boss was a dick who wanted Dad to cover up his son’s crimes, and I wouldn’t have gotten the criminal record if Dad had let that pretty boy asshole get what he deserved the first time I reported it to him.”
Temping is Hell Page 25
