Rapture

by J. R. Ward

  The removal he'd felt in his younger self slipped back into place over the center of his chest, as if the memory had recalibrated his internal hard wiring, tightening him up like a car that had had alignment problems: As he regarded the woman across from him, it was from a vital distance, a chilly objectivity putting space between them even though their chairs were no farther apart.

  Emotions could be so easily faked, as he himself knew.

  The smile he gave her felt different on his face--but also very familiar. "I'm perfectly fine."

  The waitress came over at that moment with his huge breakfast, and as she put it down, he could have sworn Dee sat back and smiled to herself in satisfaction.

  Standing with the maitre d', Mels was through being StalkerGurl. Bad enough that she had come to the Marriott on the hunt, but to have found Matthias with that nurse? Now she had two reasons to feel like crap: She didn't respect herself, and only a fool would compare anything but Sofia Vergara to that other woman.

  As a plate the size of a countertop was put down in front of Matthias, he looked across at his eating companion with a sly smile, and--

  His head turned for no good reason just as she pivoted away.

  Their eyes met, and instantly, that cynical expression of his changed into something she couldn't read--and told herself she didn't care about.

  Whatever. This was none of her business.

  And she was certainly not going to bother with anything theatrical. Instead, she calmly headed for the lobby's revolving doors--

  "Mels!" came a hiss behind her.

  There was no pretending he hadn't come out after her, and no reason to ignore him.

  "I didn't mean to interrupt your breakfast," she said as she halted and he came up to her. "And I'm on my way to a meeting. When you didn't answer your phone, I figured I'd swing by."

  "Mels--"

  "That story you asked me to check out was true. Except they spell the last name with an E. Child'e'. The son died of an overdose, and the father was at the scene when it happened. The daughter is still alive--a defense attorney up in Boston. Father works for the government in various capacities. At least that's what's been in the papers. I can't speak to things that aren't in the public domain." As he just stared at her, she kicked up her chin. "Well, what did you expect me to come back with?"

  He rubbed his face like his head hurt. "I don't know. I...When did the son die?"

  "Not long ago. Two and a half years, maybe--"

  "Your breakfast is getting cold."

  Mels glanced over at the nurse. The woman was focused solely on Matthias as she approached, like he wasn't talking to anybody.

  Okay, the female looked incredible in that dress, her body turning what was quintessentially demure into hot-dayum--

  Abruptly, a flashback from the Seinfeld epi with Teri Hatcher shot through her head...yeah, those double-Ds were probably real and spectacular, too. Meanwhile, she herself relied on Wonderbra technology to push her into a C-cup range.

  "I was just leaving anyway," Mels said. "I'll be late for my meeting otherwise."

  This got her a dismissive look from the nurse, those dark brown eyes not just hands-off, but fuck-off. "Come on, let's go back to the table."

  Matthias just kept staring at Mels, to the point where she felt as if he were trying to tell her something. But he had cold eggs and hot legs to worry about, so his proverbial plate was full enough without her.

  She threw them both a wave and fell into the foot traffic funneling out through those revolving doors.

  On the far side, the sunshine was bright and cheerful as she headed for Tony's car, and the sedan was warm inside. Settling into the driver's seat, she gave herself a stiff lecture before starting the engine--except it didn't do any good.

  Not even the part about how a man who was mysterious and unavailable was likely to, given her reporter's instinct, seem oh, so much more appealing than your average schlub--but that didn't make him a good bet.

  Maybe this was why she was still single. It hadn't been for lack of dating invites. It was more likely the fact that the men who had asked her out had had steady jobs, and nice enough looks...and their memories.

  No shadows, no excitement.

  Nah, she was into someone with a possibly shady past and a breakfast companion who had Barbie's body and TV-commercial hair.

  Healthy, realllllly healthy.

  Starting the car, she nudged into traffic, her rendezvous with Monty the Mouth set for a park about seven blocks from the hotel.

  At least the timing of it all was in her favor: If she had to go back to the newsroom and pretend to be working while she stared at her computer screen, she was liable to lose it.

  Goddamn men, she thought as she found another free meter, pulled a better parallel and got out.

  Following the instructions she'd been given, the whole thing with Monty had shades of spy movies, with her going over to a bench under a specific maple tree. All she needed was a newspaper to hide behind and a secret word and they'd be in total shaken-not-stirred land.

  Monty showed up ten minutes later, in plain clothes that marked him as a swinger type. He was in a good mood, the subterfuge clearly giving him the kind of drama injection he needed.

  "Walk behind me," he said in a low voice as he passed by.

  Oh, for crissakes.

  Mels shifted to the vertical when he got ten feet ahead of her, and she kept his meandering pace, wondering why the hell she was putting herself through this.

  After a little stroll, they ended up down at the river's edge, at the big Victorian boathouse where people launched their canoes and sailboats when the weather got warmer.

  Stepping inside, her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim interior, the diamond-paned windows not letting much of the sunlight in, the racks of rowboats and stacks of buoys and lineups of paddles and rolled-up sails making the place seem crowded. And it was loud in a sense, too--all around, the water clapped in and out of the docking cribs, the slapping noises echoing through the empty slips--

  With a sudden explosion, barn swallows shot out of their early nests, dive-bombing them both before escaping into the open air.

  As her heart settled back into a normal rhythm, she said, "So what have you got?"

  Monty took out a large, flat envelope and handed it over. "I printed these out at home this morning."

  Mels slipped a finger under the metal butterfly clip and freed its hold. "Who else knows about this?"

  "At the moment, just you and me."

  One by one, she slid out three color photographs, all of which were of the victim: the first was a full-body with the shirt down, the second closer with the shirt up, the third tight on what appeared to be a series of runes.

  Cecilia Barten.

  That was the name that went through Mels's head as she examined the images: Sissy had been another girl, younger, and far, far outside the kind of life where getting murdered was a job hazard. Her body had been found in a quarry just recently with the samekind of characters carved into her abdomen. She'd had her throat slit, too. And she'd been blond.

  "You saw the pictures from the crime scene, right?" Monty asked.

  "Yeah." Mels refocused on the close-up. "The skin was red, but there was nothing like this on it. Wait, so tell me, off the record if you have to--how did this go down? You said you were a first responder--"

  "The first responder. I went into the room with the manager, and promptly followed procedure. I cordoned off the door and called for backup."

  "Where was your partner?"

  "She'd called in sick, so I was out alone--budget cuts, you know how it is. No replacements. Anywho, while I was waiting, I took the pictures."

  She hated people who used the word anywho. "You moved the shirt."

  "I was examining the body and the scene in my official capacity."

  Creep. "Why take the pictures at all though, if the official photographer was coming?"

  "The real question is, Where did th
at lettering go."

  Man, this just wasn't right, Mels thought.

  Looking over at him, she asked, "So what can I do with this?"

  "Right now, nothing. I don't want to be accused of tampering with the body."

  But you did, didn't you. "So why give these to me?"

  "Someone has to know. Maybe I'll go to de la Cruz--or maybe you can put this out in the CCJ and just say it's from an anonymous source. The thing is, the time of death was clocked at around five or six, so the killing happened fairly soon after whoever took the room occupied it. I got there at, like, nine fifteen. That leaves four and a half hours for someone to get in there and get out."

  What he was missing, though, perhaps deliberately, was the fact that those runes had disappeared between when he'd arrived on scene and when the CPD photographer had taken pictures. The body couldn't have been alone for very long and scarification didn't just up and disappear.

  This was really not right.

  "Okay, just let me know what you feel comfortable with on my end," she said. "Whenever you decide."

  He nodded at her like they had sealed some kind of a deal, and then started to walk off.

  "Hold up, Monty--quick question on something else."

  Her source paused in the doorway. "Yeah?"

  "You know that man they found dead at the Marriott?"

  "Oh, you mean the stiff in the delivery entrance? The one who disappeared from the morgue?"

  Mels stopped breathing. "Excuse me?"

  "You didn't hear about it?" He came in close to share the report. "The body's gone. As of this morning."

  Impossible. "Someone stole it. Out of the St. Francis morgue."

  "Apparently."

  "How does that happen?" As Monty shrugged, she shook her head--and knew that whatever was going on with the missing corpse, it wasn't good. "Well, I hope they find the damn thing. Hey, you don't happen to know what kind of bullets were in that vest the victim was wearing?"

  "Forties."

  "And I heard there was a tattoo on the body?"

  "I don't know. But I can find out."

  "I'd appreciate it."

  He gave her a wink, and a sly smile. "No problem, Carmichael."

  When she was alone, Mels went through the pictures again, one by one...and decided Caldwell probably had another serial killer on its hands.

  Not exactly the kind of job security she or the CPD were looking for.

  And she had to wonder if he wasn't a man in blue.

  As Devina folded her napkin beside her empty breakfast plate, she smiled across the table at her prey. All in all, things were going well. Matthias was starting to remember, and that little door she'd opened about his father had brought back just the kind of light she liked to see in his eye.

  That old man of his had been key, of course, the beginning of the evil, proof positive that infection could happen even human to human, not just demon to human.

  But she had to be careful to walk that line.

  "I'll get the check," Matthias said, lifting his hand to signal to the waitress.

  "You're such a gentleman." She reached into her bag and started shifting her lipsticks from left to right, counting. "I'm glad we ran into each other."

  ...three, four, five...

  "Stroke of luck." He glanced over at the window, like he was making plans. "What were the chances."

  ...six, seven, eight...

  "What are you going to do today?" she asked, her heart starting to beat as she closed in on the end of the count.

  ...nine, ten, eleven...

  He answered her with something she didn't follow, but then, she was nearly finished.

  Twelve.

  Thirteen.

  As she exhaled, she took the last tube out and popped the lid. Focusing on Matthias, she willed him to watch her mouth as she exposed the soft, blunt tip of the lipstick and began to run it over her flesh.

  He did precisely as she wanted, but the response was not what she was after, the regard clinical, not sexual. As if she were an instrument he was briefly considering using.

  Devina frowned. When he'd stepped out to go chasing after that fucking reporter, there hadn't been any of this remoteness. He'd been naked while fully clothed, trained on that woman like she was something inside of him, rather than separate and apart.

  The demon tucked her lips in and released them, feeling her mouth plump back up--and to make sure he got the point, she inserted a thought in his head of her mouth around his cock, sucking, pulling, swallowing.

  It didn't work.

  He just glanced over at the waitress, took the check she gave him, and wrote his room number down.

  The sound of a hard wind rattling all the windows in the place had people looking around, including Matthias: Sitting across from the guy, Devina seethed, her temper flaring and touching the elements outside the hotel, kicking up a gale that came from the south.

  All she could think of was how Jim had toyed with her--and now this lame-ass cripple, who was going back to Hell as soon as this round was over, was blowing her off.

  Bastards. Both of them.

  She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. "How long are you staying?" she bit out.

  "Little while longer."

  True enough. Things were moving fast with him, even if he didn't know it, and this round was going to be over very quickly.

  Maybe she should take him up to his room and remind him that he was a man, not a robot--and that those "injuries" weren't going to be a problem as long as he was with her.

  Good luck with your reporter on that one, she thought.

  "I'm heading out right now," he said. Like he was dismissing her.

  Devina narrowed her eyes, and then remembered that she had a role to play. "Well, I'm sure I'll see you around."

  "Seems like it. Good luck with your mother."

  As he turned away, she kind of wanted to fuck him for reasons other than the round. He had the same kind of strength Jim did--as well as that essential elusiveness.

  She should have paid more attention to this man when she'd had him. Fortunately, he was going to come home soon.

  In the meantime, she needed to take care of that reporter. That was not the kind of influence she needed in this game.

  And accidents happened all the time. The Maker couldn't find fault with her for that.

  Matthias took a cab to the offices of the CCJ and waited in the parking lot behind the building. He figured Mels had borrowed that Toyota to come over to the hotel, and sure enough, her friend's ride wasn't parked along with all the other beaters with trash in them.

  As if having a wastepaper basket for a whip was part of the journalist job description.

  Hanging out by the back door, he stood to the side, bracing his ass against the building, and leaning on his cane. Overhead, clouds came in and covered the sun, the shadows on the ground taking over as the sunlight faded away.

  He was being watched.

  Not by the stragglers who came and went out of the exit...or the smokers who lit up, exhaled like chimneys for a brief time, and went back inside...or the people driving around the crowded parking lot looking for a spot.

  It was a steady, constant watching from a fixed position over on the right.

  Could be someone in one of the cars parallel-parked along the outside perimeter of the newspaper's lot. The only other option was the roof of the building across the way, as its walls had no windows.

  He needed to get some ammo. Without bullets, the forty with the silencer that he'd "borrowed" from Jim was nothing but a delivery system for blunt-force trauma--which wasn't exactly useless. Just not quite as deadly or long range--

  The Toyota he'd been waiting for eased around the corner and pulled in. When the car stopped abruptly, he knew she'd seen him.

  Mels parked in the first available, got out, and walked over with her chin up and her hair blowing in the breeze.

  "Working off your breakfast with a good walk?" she asked.
r />   A subtle sting inside his chest lit off as he met her eyes, and it gradually intensified, the sensation becoming hard to breathe through.

  "I'm sorry," he said roughly.

  "What for?"

  All he could do was shake his head, his voice gone. The cold, calculating clarity he'd felt after the visions of the past had come to him was gone. In its place, he was a destination undefended, stripped of fortifications.

  "Matthias? Are you all right?"

  Somehow it happened: He stepped forward and put his hands on her waist...and then he was holding her close, putting his face in that hair she'd left loose.

  "What happened?" she said softly as she started to rub his back.

  "I don't..." Ah, shit, he was out of his damn mind. "I can't..."

  "All right, it's okay..."

  They stood there together as thunder rumbled like the skies disapproved, and lightning flickered across the underside of the cloud cover.

  Goddamn him, but he wanted to stay where they were forever: When he was against this relative stranger's warm body, there was no past and no future, only the present, and that lack of landscape or horizon was a kind of shelter--

  Rain started to fall in big drops, to the point where it was as if they were pelted with marbles.

  "Come inside," she said, taking his hand and using a pass card to enter the building.

  A strange chemical perfume in the air tingled in his nose. But it wasn't floor polish or window cleaner; it was ink from the presses.

  "Here," she said, going over to a maroon door, turning a handle, and pushing the way open with her hip.

  The conference room beyond had mismatched chairs and a long table that was a cobbled-together mishmash of components, the Frankenstein of office furniture. There was a Poland Spring watercooler in the corner, though, and she went over and got him a paper cup full.

  "Drink this."

  He did as he was told, and as he swallowed, he tried to pull it together.

  Mels hopped her butt up on the table, her legs swinging back and forth slowly. "Talk to me."

  Ah, shit, how could he tell her what he remembered? For fuck's sake, why had he even come here....

  Well, at least he knew the answer to that one. He wanted to be honest with one person. Finally. He just had to make the connection with her, like he was in a free fall, she was a rope to catch, and the words he needed to speak were the grip he'd have on his lifeline.

  "I killed my father."