Lure of the Wicked

by Karina Cooper

  “Somewhere on the lock, there should be a jack. Insert that bit and let me know when it’s ready.” He spoke slowly, easily, his tenor reassuringly steady.

  “You sound like an info-feed line.” She ran her fingers over the lock casing, bent until she could see the underside.

  “And that’s why you love me,” Jonas said cheerfully. “Is it in yet?”

  “Baby, you say all the sweetest things.” Naomi whistled softly as she found the tiny hole in the casing, ringed by bands of metal. The tiny device slid right in, clicked faintly. “It’s in.”

  “Hold on while I do that thing I do so very well.”

  Biting back a smile, she waited as the lock’s digital screen jerked sharply, fuzzed, and went abruptly black. She didn’t touch it, barely breathing as she listened to him work over his keyboard like a performing pianist.

  The screen blinked back on, flashing yellow. She heard the tumblers spin inside the door, heard them slide back and click into place. “And access granted,” Jonas said in her ear.

  “You’re a wonder.” Naomi turned the doorknob. It spun easily, opened just as easily. Phin wasn’t stupid, no. But maybe a little too confident in tech that people like Jonas ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope, I’ll be in touch soon.”

  “Good. We need to get the report from last night.”

  Naomi frowned. “Is Miles okay?”

  “Not even a scratch,” Jonas reassured her. “Mighty ticked, though.”

  “Yeah.” Naomi rolled her shoulder. The one that should have hurt. “He can join the club. Have you run the blood?”

  “No match,” Jonas said with a sigh. “We’re looking at a relative unknown.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Hopefully that was the last of the witches,” Jonas said, optimism practically leaking into her ear. “Good luck. Get to it and keep in touch.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered. She turned off the comm, frowning at the neat stack of plastic containers arrayed against the far wall. The room boasted only a desk, a monitor, three chairs, and that overwhelming stack of boxes for furniture.

  The office was clean. Way, way too clean. Nicely decorated in more masculine tones of dark wood and shades of burgundy and dark, damask gold, but too clean.

  Pristine, even.

  Did the man even use this thing?

  Circling the desk, Naomi gave it a brief look-over and shook her head at the chair tucked neatly into place, the complete lack of fingerprints on the monitor, and the clean keyboard built into the polished surface of the desk.

  Phin Clarke was a neat freak. Given the state of her suite this morning, this didn’t surprise her. Even the leather chair lacked the kinds of nicks and scratches that the Mission office collected like blue ribbons.

  Frowning, she turned toward the rows of boxes. Each boasted a label, a panel with neat, printed block letters, but they made no sense to her. A code. Some sort of personal security process.

  Not stupid at all. “Damn.”

  “Can I help you find something?”

  Naomi spun, one hand automatically reaching for the gun that wasn’t tucked at her shoulder. Her fingers closed on the bandage under her sweater, her heart pounding as she met Gemma Clarke’s assessing brown eyes.

  The woman leaned against the doorjamb, her tailored suit sunshine gold and accented by an ivory blouse. Her hair was pinned up, so much nicer than Naomi’s messy knot.

  Swallowing hard, Naomi lowered her hands to her sides. “Mrs. Clarke.”

  Phin’s mother stepped into the room, surveyed it quickly. Finding nothing out of place, that astute gaze slid back to her. Narrowed. “What are you looking for?”

  She could lie. Very little could explain her presence in a locked office, but she could lie about what she intended.

  But looking into Gemma’s shrewd eyes, she knew it wouldn’t matter. “Mrs. Clarke, I can explain.”

  “I expect you to,” the woman said, her tone not entirely friendly. “But first, I would like to know why my son performed a rather dignified walk of shame into the family wing this morning.”

  Oh. “Fuck,” she muttered.

  Gemma’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed. I would also like to know why the Church saw fit to infiltrate”—she held up a hand as Naomi opened her mouth—“yes, I mean infiltrate my business with spies.”

  Naomi fisted her hands against her hips. “What did Phin tell you?”

  “I don’t want you to repeat what you told my son,” Gemma said, and her tone was as matter-of-fact as her regard. The woman had a bullshit meter Naomi could only envy. “I want to know what your mission is, and how it’s going to interrupt our lives.”

  Naomi took a deep breath. “It won’t,” she said, and added quickly, “at least not any more than it already has. I just need a few things and then I’m out of your hair.”

  “Such as?”

  “I need the guest lists for the past two weeks. Day-trippers and residents.”

  Silence greeted her candid relay. Silence, and one shaped brown eyebrow.

  Naomi had slept with this woman’s son. She’d spent the night screwing him until they were both blind with exhaustion. Even now, her body ached, pulsed with the memory of it.

  And Gemma knew. It probably didn’t make her look very good in the woman’s eyes.

  Not that she gave a damn what anyone else thought.

  She shifted uneasily. “Look,” she said, spreading her hands, “I’m here to put a stop to something that might be a problem. I don’t want to cause trouble, I want to stop it.”

  Gemma’s mouth thinned. “Does this problem have anything to do with the body found this morning in the laundry facility?”

  “What the hell are you—” Naomi frowned. “A body?”

  The woman propped a round hip at the edge of the desk. She didn’t bother softening her tone. “One of my maintenance employees, Miss Ishikawa. Mark Vaughn. He was found with his skull caved in, quite dead and buried in a vat of towels.”

  Maintenance. Naomi thought fast. “Does maintenance have key cards to every room?”

  “Of course.”

  Shit, shit, fucking two-timing luck. That answered that. The bastard witch had easy access to her room. But why? She set her jaw. “Yes,” she lied. “He’s one of the reasons I’m here. How long has he worked here?”

  “Three weeks.”

  Was the timing right? Naomi took a step forward, stopped abruptly and stared at the ceiling. “Did he have any friends?”

  Gemma watched her, wary. “Not many. A few of the other employees.”

  “Does maintenance have the run of the building?”

  “They have to,” Gemma replied, and her brow furrowed as Naomi’s fist punched through the air.

  “That’s it!” she crowed. Carson bribed the witch into letting him in. It had to be as simple as that. Once the maintenance man was no longer useful—trying to kill her twice was about as fail as she could imagine—Carson must have just taken a copy of the man’s maintenance keys and called it good.

  But a hunter working with a witch?

  And why remove him from the armoire?

  Shit. She’d figure that out later. “Yes, Mrs. Clarke,” she said in more even tones, “I can tell you it’s only getting worse. I think that my target, Joe Carson, has already tried to kill one guest, and succeeded in killing your man.” Lies upon lies. She was so fucking good at them anyway. “Gemma, believe me, I’m not out to hurt you.”

  “Aren’t you?” The woman adjusted the rolled up cuff of one sleeve, smoothing the wide, flat fold. “How is your shoulder, my dear?”

  Momentarily scattered, Naomi’s hand flattened over the bandage. “Fine,” she said. “It’s only a scratch.”

  “Is it related?”

  She nodded, once. “Given how bad the conditions were, only a trained sniper could have made that close a shot.”

  Gemma’s eyes narrowed. Flickered in a steely resolve t
hat Naomi couldn’t misread. “Why did you tell Phin it wasn’t related to this?”

  God damn it! Didn’t he keep any secrets from his parents? Naomi sighed. “Because,” she said, gritting her teeth, “if I had told him that I was after a trained killer, he wouldn’t have let me do my job. And,” she added as the woman stared at her, “you know he would have tried to take on Carson himself. Gemma, Carson’s an assassin. What did you want me to say?”

  Gemma took a slow, deep breath. Then, quietly, she met Naomi’s eyes and asked, “Who was the sniper aiming for?”

  This lie sprang easily to her lips. “Me.”

  “Fine.” The woman straightened, rounded the desk, and gestured Naomi out of her way. “Then I’ll get your information.”

  Naomi stepped aside. “Just like that?” Suspicion unfurled in her chest, her voice. “No more questions?”

  Placing her hands on the top of one plastic organizer, Gemma straightened her shoulders. Without looking at Naomi, she said quietly, “I have a lot of questions, Miss Ishikawa. I want to know who you really are and what you intend with my son.” Naomi flinched. “I very much want to know where one of my guests is, and whether she’s in danger.”

  That was news. “Who?”

  Gemma raised her eyebrows. “Katie Landers. She’s Jordana’s assistant.”

  Naomi flashed to an image of the mousy brunette seated alone in the breakfast nook and rapidly calculated the odds. “When was she last seen?”

  “Yesterday, about mid-morning.”

  “What’s her room?”

  “Jordana’s suite, seventh floor.” Gemma smoothed back her curly hair and shook her head. “When this is all over, Miss Ishikawa, I really do expect answers.”

  “Someone will be in touch,” Naomi replied by rote, knowing it for the bullshit it was. The Church didn’t make apologies.

  Then again, the Church didn’t usually drop agents in the middle of the superrich and elite.

  “The Holy Order?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Naomi said. “They hold all the cards here. I’m just an agent.”

  Gemma’s smile flipped crookedly. “I doubt that very much, Naomi. So then what you’re saying, what you told Phin, was true?”

  “Which part?” Naomi said flatly.

  The woman’s smile evened. “Touché, Miss Ishikawa. The Church doesn’t suspect us of doing anything illegal? We’re not under suspicion? Accused?”

  Naomi shook her head. “I’m sorry. You’re just the foxhole.”

  “Then I’ll get your information,” Phin’s mother repeated simply. “You’ve had plenty of time to do worse than a little lock breaking and some white lies, and you haven’t.”

  Worse? Naomi’s smile bit hard. One corpse down and how many less-than-white lies up? She’d done worse, all right. She’d do even worse before this was done. But she said nothing as Gemma studied the labels on the boxes.

  “Understand,” she continued in her crisp, efficient way, “Timeless and this family are the most important things in my life. If anyone, anyone, tried to hurt them, there would be a reckoning like the world has never seen.” She glanced over her shoulder.

  Naomi stilled.

  “You understand that feeling, don’t you?”

  Fists curling, Naomi stepped back. Retreated. “Thank you for finding those files,” she said, and knew she was acting like a coward. Leashed tension tightened every word. “We’ll keep them confidential.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Gemma bent to a box on the second row. “I’ll send them along. Anything else?”

  “Blueprints?”

  Her smile was sad. “They don’t exist.”

  Naomi nodded, once. “I thought as much. I’ll just—”

  “Naomi?”

  She didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to hear what the woman with Phin’s dark, knowing eyes had to say. But she did.

  Because anything else would be unacceptable.

  Coward.

  She braced a hand on the door frame. “Yes?”

  “Will you be staying long?”

  Killer. “No,” she said. “Just long enough to take care of the mess.”

  Gemma nodded. “Will you tell Phin before you go?”

  Oh, Jesus. “He’ll know,” Naomi said evenly. Without her having to say a single word, he’d figure it out.

  She was a killer. Not a therapist.

  “All right,” Gemma said. “Try not to hurt anyone.” She turned back, cracked open the sealed flaps of a box, and Naomi fled.

  Try not to hurt anyone.

  That just wasn’t her specialty.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She’d struggled only a little.

  Joe didn’t bother hiding her body any deeper than he had to, and the locker wouldn’t afford him much time at all. Of course, he didn’t need much. Either he’d get what he needed soon or he’d be dead. Naomi West was closing on his heels.

  He could sense her.

  It was now or never.

  The rumors, the legends, were true. He knew it in his gut, and his hunches had never been wrong. That’s what made him a damn good missionary. The best. Hunches and action.

  Experience and raw instinct.

  His gut told him that the fountain was here. That he’d find it at last. He just needed the right key. And the right lock to fit it in.

  He’d found it all right.

  This time, it’d taken so much longer. The wiring, the setup, all of it had taken so much more time than he’d thought. First he’d needed the girl’s key card. With that he could open the seventh floor suite. From there, it was a hop, seam, and stretch along a maze of passages that put him on the beauty floor.

  From there, he could get anywhere without being seen. And no one would be the wiser.

  It annoyed him that the interior halls didn’t lead to any of the staff offices, but after relieving the useless bitch of her key, some clever reprogramming had granted him all the access he needed. That left him with a brief showing in the elevator camera, but he was banking on this being over before he registered as more than a blip in a uniform.

  Secret halls, digital brilliance, and murder waiting to happen. God, he loved his job.

  And though he gave the pretty boy some credit for trying to keep his office files secure, his pussy coding system hadn’t deterred Joe much.

  Information was a wonderful thing. He knew that the family collected all the details so meticulously for a reason—to help and soothe and comfort, and whatever the fuck all else. In his hands? It became a weapon.

  Weapons were so much more entertaining.

  He’d selected the next target and boy, howdy, was it going to be a winner. Abigail Montgomery was just some broad with money, far as he could tell, but it gave him the edge he needed. Her relationship to Naomi West, no matter how vague they thought it was, was going to get him the in he wanted.

  Hands shaking, he’d worked for two solid hours. He’d rested only briefly when his fingers refused to cooperate any longer, then forced himself to keep working.

  Keep twisting and stripping and tying.

  Now it was ready. Abigail was in his sights.

  When she went down, Naomi would show up, and her ties to this place would force the witches to reveal themselves. To break their silence and show their treasures.

  Rich, spoiled, selfish people. They hoarded what should be his. Guarded from the world what should be shared. With him, god damn it. With people like him.

  Naomi would also come, he knew, because he’d made her angry. Joe hadn’t meant to hurt his fellow missionary. He’d been aiming for Clarke; to create an injury that would send them all scrambling to reveal the fountain.

  Instead she’d pushed the boy out of his sights and he’d tagged her instead. She’d bled so much, and for a moment he’d been worried that he’d killed her. Death was too far out of reach, even for witchcraft, but he’d been lucky last night.

  God had seen to it that his accident, his sloppiness, was met by revelation.


  Healing Naomi had been the Clarkes’ undoing. They had it. They had his treasure, his salvation. He hadn’t returned soon enough to catch it in action, but he’d seen her walking around. Clear as day.

  The fountain existed. Now he just needed to get his goddamn hands on it. Just like his contact had said.

  He had found the lock. Now he just had to force the key.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Naomi made it halfway to the garden before she remembered that a thoroughly sexed-up Phin had taken over her bed. She drew to an abrupt halt.

  Gemma had said he’d gone to his own suite, but was he waiting for her again? To bring breakfast as she’d said?

  Fuck that. There was no way she’d go back to her suite now.

  She ignored the small voice in her head that said she was a coward. Shower. She needed a shower first, and then she’d check in with the Mission. If she was lucky, they’d have something for her. A plan that didn’t involve waiting around for her target to make another move.

  If she wasn’t, well, she’d come up with something.

  She was good at coming up with something.

  Going back to her residential suite to waste time screwing Phin again wasn’t going to be on that list.

  Not when her breath caught at the very thought of it.

  She strode past the residential wing elevator, turned instead toward the double doors of the pool hall. There were showers there, complimentary soap to strip Phin’s scent from her skin. Her hair.

  Scrub it from her mind.

  Pushing inside, she scoured the wide, echoing room. Tile flashed back at her, blues and greens complementary to the blue water of the pools and hot tubs, the lush plants saturated in the humid air. A tropical paradise at the highest reaches of New Seattle.

  The sound of water filled the room to an echoing rush. Warm jets, the crystal-clear waterfall in the far corner, and under it, the steady hum of the electricity that kept it all going.

  A uniformed attendant rose from the side of the pool, his attention focused on some kind of tubed thing in his hands. The smile he gave her was brief as he passed. “The pools should be fine for swimming,” he assured her. “The tanning beds are awake and I’ll be bringing beverages to the dressing room in just a moment.”