Lure of the Wicked

by Karina Cooper

  “Did the guest use one?”

  “No.” She swung the binoculars back to the woman and her entourage of Timeless staff. “She probably didn’t even notice one of the help disappear. I’m going to go locate this sneaky bastard and see what he knows.”

  “Sure,” Jonas said. “Be careful.”

  Seventeen floors below, the woman removed her sunglasses, sliding them into her purse as she turned the full force of a megawatt smile on the concierge.

  “Get me those blueprints before— Oh, God.” Naomi’s voice cracked.

  Green light caught on the woman’s white scarf, flared, and Naomi snatched the binoculars away. Threw them as if she could erase the face lovingly shaped by the light of the resort lobby.

  “Naomi?” Jonas’s voice, tense in her ear. “Naomi, what’s going on? What’s happening?”

  “I—” Her lungs seized. Wrenched.

  “Naomi!”

  Shit. Shit, she couldn’t breathe. “I’ll be in touch for the gun,” she managed. She dropped the line, cut him off mid-question as she struggled to pull oxygen into her chest. She raised one shaking hand to the glass.

  The lobby’s golden glow turned into a streamlined seam of light as the doors slid closed on the last of Abigail Ishikawa’s entourage.

  The comm vibrated on the mattress behind her. She ignored it. Jerked the earpiece from her ear and tossed it to the bedspread beside it. Shaking, every muscle taut, Naomi sank to the floor under the window and struggled to inhale. She hugged her knees tightly to her chest.

  She was here. Abigail Ishikawa, in the flesh. Twenty-four years of nothing but locked-down memories, and now her mother had come to Timeless. To her.

  But not for her.

  Never for her.

  And God only knew what name the woman used now.

  City lights streamed through the glass, a faded glow that picked out the pretty, rumpled covers over the bed. The mess of clothes and accessories on the floor at the foot of it.

  But she didn’t see any of that. Not here, as her eyes burned with fury, with the memories she’d never wanted to keep.

  A crackling fire, cheerfully blazing from within a polished mahogany mantel. No pictures lined the gleaming wood. She’d always remembered that. No happy childhood photos. No signs that any of them had ever existed.

  The orange glow filled every inch of the cozy, book-lined study. Katsu Ishikawa wasn’t a reading man, but the books lent him an air of intelligent sophistication. He enjoyed feeling the age of the text around him, knowing they held words to civilizations long since buried.

  To a five-year-old, he was the smartest man in the world. The only person who truly loved her. Who understood her.

  The only parent of two who had wanted her.

  And the woman who had never wanted her had just stepped into the lobby of New Seattle’s premier resort and spa.

  Naomi jammed a fist in her mouth as she fought back the rising tide of panic. She sucked in air through her nose, pried open her eyes to stare at the dark bedroom that was nothing like that penthouse so long ago.

  It didn’t matter.

  She blew out a breath. Took in another. Longer. Stronger.

  It didn’t fucking matter. In. Out.

  Her skin prickled, tingling pinpricks that danced over her face and hands. She breathed, struggling for it, fighting for it.

  Naomi slammed her head back against the wall. It shuddered. The glass rattled. “No,” she gritted out. Pain radiated from the bruise there, swamped the synapses trying so hard to fry her into hysteria. She clenched her teeth, fisted her fingers.

  She inhaled, held it, and launched herself to her feet. She didn’t have time to be broken. The room swam around her, walls taut and hemming her in as she struggled to maintain her balance. Her fingertips tingled, the skin of her face prickling as if a swarm of bees converged on her skin, but she dashed her forearm over her eyes and stalked to the elevator.

  Focus.

  The man who had vanished had been about five feet and six inches. Hundred and seventy pounds, she guessed, forcing her brain to engage. Her nails bit into her palms as she stared at the indifferent panel of the elevator door. Maybe one hundred and sixty.

  Pain fragmented through her chest. She ignored it.

  The sneak had been a porter, or at least someone familiar enough to go unnoticed by the rest of the staff. Carson? No, too short.

  The witch? He seemed similar enough. Did he have the run of the place?

  Could it be all of this fucking prison’s people were in on this mess?

  In on Carson’s plot, or witches?

  Were they the same problem? Had Naomi stumbled on a nest of covert witches? A new coven?

  Damn it.

  She swallowed back an aftershock of anxiety, locking her jaw around the rapid pulse of panic simmering under her skin.

  A minute. She needed just a minute, and then she’d call the elevator. The last thing she needed was some other sympathetic guest asking after her well-being. Gossiping about her.

  Worse, she didn’t need rumors getting back to Phin.

  His face appeared entirely too easily in her mind; eyes dark as chocolate, sweet as sin. The memory of Phin’s smile dragged over her raw nerves like a physical caress, and Naomi jammed her fists against her eyes until they burned.

  She’d been stupid to tease him like that. To cross that boundary and let the easy confidence he wore so well eat away at her control until she’d fallen to abstract pieces in sheer pleasure.

  She’d been stupid, but she wasn’t wrong. The family sure as hell wouldn’t risk their own affluent business harboring witches, or assassinating Alexandra Applegate under their own roof. The man liked his designer suits too damn much.

  The plain silver door slid open on a hiss of released compression. Blearily, working on automatic, she reached for the guest card tucked into the waistband of her rumpled pants.

  Then remembered she hadn’t punched the call button.

  A circle of blue light seared the skin of her abdomen.

  “Jesus—” She whirled to the side, danced back from the stocky man who launched himself out of the elevator at her. His fingers closed on her skin, grasped wildly as she wrenched away.

  He didn’t need contact to make it hurt.

  Naomi’s smile was all teeth. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  He thrust out a callused hand, and she focused on the faint brown lines etched into his palm. Magic seared the air. Invisible, it skipped over her skin like a thousand tiny stingers, and the seal blazed in answer, beating away the intrusion. Blue light poured from the mesh fabric of her pants.

  The tattoo burned like a bitch when it repelled witchcraft. Too much pain.

  Teeth bared, he stalked toward her, forcing her to stagger back toward the bedroom. Less room. She wanted him cornered. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

  The witch didn’t give her time to put distance between them. He closed on her. Ate up the carpeted floor beneath his workman boots and left her backpedaling too fast for balance. She tried to dodge, tried to think through whatever magic that fucking tattoo of his wove.

  He lunged at her; she wrenched back. Too slow. One broad palm slammed into her stomach and she buckled.

  Her head. The seal. Her back as she collided into the sharp edge of sliding door between sitting room and bedroom. Her vision went supernova through the pain infecting the inside of her brain.

  She gritted her teeth as one large hand fisted in the front of her athletic tank. “Witch hunters,” he growled, yanking her away from the supporting panel. His eyes filled her vision, snapping blue. He walked her backward, into the bedroom. “The only thing keeping you alive right now is the fucking tattoo you all wear.”

  She bared her teeth. “That’s what you think.”

  “Won’t matter for long.”

  He punched like a goddamn tank.

  Naomi spun with the momentum of fist to face, pain exploding across her nose. The scab split, crack
ing like so much brittle meat, and blood splattered across the elegant dupioni comforter as she crashed into the mattress and rebounded.

  The pressure of his magic eased, ebbed for a split second. She hit the floor, rolled away, and leaped to her feet before he could catch her again. Blue light flickered against the dim interior. Reflected in the witch’s bottomless blue eyes.

  “What do you want?” she demanded. Buy time. She needed to get him away from the absorbent carpet.

  Blood was a pain in the ass to hide.

  He flung out a hand, and the angry buzz of oncoming magic filled her head again. “Doesn’t matter what I want,” he replied tersely. “The boss says you’re toast.”

  “Boss?”

  His fingers splayed, and for a split second, Naomi swore that the faint brown lines of his odd tattoo blistered red.

  She squinted through the pressure squeezing her head. “Who sent you?”

  “Who sent you?”

  Fuck. Her heels slid on the pile of scattered clothing. Naomi caught herself against the bathroom doorjamb and blinked the stinging slide of sweat from her eyes. Blood glided over her upper lip, hot and metallic.

  “Oh-kay,” she said, mouth curling into a razored smile. “Fine.” She wasn’t going to play this game any longer than she had to.

  On the scale of things, he wasn’t the strongest witch she’d ever faced.

  “You want me, you son of a bitch, come and get me.”

  He bull-rushed her. The stupid ones always did.

  Chapter Nine

  “Excuse me, Mr. Clarke?”

  Phin looked up from the computer monitor he stared at, gaze focusing slowly on Cally Simmons. She leaned in through his open office door. Quickly he rearranged bemused inquiry into a welcoming smile and surreptitiously checked his tie to make sure he hadn’t dropped any of his hastily inhaled tea on it.

  He’d been up even before most of the kitchen staff. Breakfast had been every man for himself.

  Cally’s smile tipped crookedly as she stepped inside. “Is now a good time?”

  “Of course,” he replied. “Come on, have a seat. How are you?”

  Besides tired, which he noted in the bruised color beneath her dark green eyes. Was she sleeping? Not well, by all the signs.

  “Fine, thanks,” she said, sinking into a chair. “I just wondered if I could . . . talk to you for a second.”

  That sounded ominous. He straightened, devoting the whole of his attention to the worried shape of her features. “What can I do for you?”

  “I don’t want to make any trouble,” she began, and he smiled reassuringly.

  “Nothing you say will make it past this office, okay?”

  She pushed back her bangs from her eyes. “It’s just that I really appreciate what you’re doing for me, and I’m not trying to be a hassle. Agatha said not to bother you with this.”

  “Did she, now?” Phin leaned back in his chair, rapidly assessing the woman. She met his gaze with a forthright sincerity that impressed him.

  She was a hard worker. Bright, fairly confident, and easy to work with. He’d never caught her making excuses. He liked her. And he trusted her, as far as temporaries went.

  Admittedly, given he had exactly four of them left on his roster, that trust didn’t extend too far.

  He rubbed at his jaw. “What is it, Cally?”

  She hesitated. “You know Mark?”

  “Offhand, I know three,” Phin replied with a wry smile designed to put her at ease. “Which floor?”

  “Maintenance.”

  “Mark Vaughn, yes.”

  Cally clasped her hands, tucking them between her knees. “He’s gone, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He never showed up for his shift,” she explained. “I only know because I was upstairs in the dining floor when Agatha came to talk to a few of the others about it. I heard her say that he’s never late.”

  Phin didn’t know the older man well, but he knew enough to agree with the assessment. Mark Vaughn was a new hire, but he hadn’t missed so much as a minute of work since signing on three weeks ago. He’d had a stellar application, no triggers on his background check. Not much for talking, but he was a good man for fixing just about anything.

  Agatha had recommended him after he’d fixed her apartment water heater. And now he was missing? Phin resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

  “Mr. Clarke, I know this isn’t normal, but . . .” Cally’s teeth flashed as she sank them into her bottom lip. Again, in a move he recognized as telling concern, she pushed at the fringe of red hair hanging over her eyes.

  She was nervous.

  Phin reached out to touch the desk in front of her, as carefully as if he were offering a hand to a spooked stray. “Cally,” he said gently. “It’s all right. Whatever is on your mind, you can tell me.”

  Her smile flipped crooked. “It’s probably nothing, but I thought I should tell you that I’ve felt a little uneasy lately.”

  “Uneasy?”

  “A kind of hunch,” she explained slowly. “All I know is that when I heard Mark was gone, I wanted to come tell you right away.”

  A hunch. A concern. Damn. “I really appreciate it,” he said, deliberately keeping his tone gentle. “I’ll check with his home address. More importantly for now, are you all right?”

  “I wish I knew.” Her hands twisted at her chest. “I feel like something is waiting, you know? Watching.”

  He frowned. “Watching you?”

  “No,” she said, making a face. “No, I mean, not me specifically, but just . . . watching.”

  Phin tapped a finger on the desk. “There are cameras all around,” he pointed out, but the look she levied him suggested that she didn’t appreciate his appraisal of her intelligence. He smiled ruefully. “Not that, then?”

  “No.” Cally shrugged. “I know things look bad for you—for us,” she amended, “but I wanted to let you know that I’m . . . pretty sure that sauna wasn’t an accident. I think Mr. Barker was right about there being an intruder. And,” she added quickly, “if I can help? In any way?”

  “Can you see through walls?” he asked, not entirely joking as he ran both hands through his hair.

  She blinked. Fast. “Would that be helpful?”

  “No, probably not.” He smiled in calculated reassurance, making sure that none of his worry leaked through to bolster her own. Cally was tired; it was obvious that she’d spent more than her fair share worrying about it. “Let me handle this and you just keep your head down, okay? In a few days you’ll be headed out.”

  Cally straightened, her eyes widening. “Out? I thought I was here for at least another three weeks.”

  “We’re going to have to move faster than we thought,” Phin replied. “Any extra scrutiny is going to be a problem for everyone.”

  “Do you think they’ll send people?” Her hands clenched. “Church officials?” Her voice dropped. “Missionaries?”

  “Not if I can help it,” he said grimly.

  “It’s a dangerous thing you do, you know that.”

  As she watched him, her gaze steady and clear, he shook his head. “The alternative isn’t anything I want to be part of.”

  Cally’s smile crinkled her eyes. “You’re a good sort.”

  Maybe. He rose to his feet, circled the desk to enfold her work-rough hand in his. “Thank you. You’re doing great, Cally, just hold out a few days longer.”

  She chuckled, her green eyes a dark slash of wry amusement. “Sir, I can honestly say this isn’t the strangest job I’ve ever had to take on. Don’t worry about me. I’ll let you know if this unease turns into anything tangible.”

  “Tangible?” He hesitated. “Like . . . a vision?”

  “You’ll sleep better if you think so,” she replied with a crooked smile.

  “That’s . . .” Phin thought about it. “Either encouraging or incredibly nerve-wracking.”

  “I’m good. Don’t worry.” She got up
, flattening both hands on top of her head to stretch the kinks from her back. “But I think I need to get some food before I begin work at the dining floor. Do you need anything else? Can I bring you anything?”

  “Just get some rest,” he replied firmly. “You’ve done more than enough.”

  Cally grinned. “Does that mean a raise?”

  “And maybe a pony,” he replied in the same light tone. Her laughter eased some of the tension from his neck as she flashed him a thumbs-up.

  Phin watched her exit his office, bracing his hands on the surface of the desk. After a moment’s thought, his smile fading, he reached for the comm and keyed in the security office’s frequency.

  “Security, Mr. Clarke, how can I help you?” Eric Barker’s voice sounded as tired as Cally’s elfin features had looked.

  Wincing in sympathy, Phin deliberately smoothed his tone. Crisp, professional. “I’m calling to check in on the results of the investigation.”

  “Yes, sir. All guests are accounted for. We’ve begun the process to verify the scheduled hours and whereabouts of Timeless staff, but—”

  “You suspect an intruder,” he cut in smoothly. “Yes, I heard.”

  Embarrassed silence filled the feed. Then, “Yes, sir.”

  Phin sighed. “Who else have you told?”

  “Just the team.” Eric paused awkwardly. “I must have slipped a sweep. I’m sorry, Mr. Clarke, I’ll be more careful about where I speak in the future.”

  “Thank you. In the meantime, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Say the word.”

  “Right now, I need you to contact Mark Vaughn’s home line.” Phin’s fingers danced over the keyboard inset into the polished wood desk. He rattled off the number.

  “Got it,” the security officer replied. “What am I looking for?”

  “His whereabouts. He didn’t show up for his shift today, and I’d like to make sure he’s all right. And,” Phin added as he studied the personnel photo of the gray-haired maintenance man, “find out why he isn’t here.”

  “I’ll be in touch soon.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Phin disconnected the line and stared up at the stucco ceiling.