by C. T. Adams
My eyes widened and I felt Joe stiffen beside me. I felt light pressure as Joe lightly gripped my arm. But he didn’t need to stop me, or even console me. While I hadn’t realized Dylan and Amanda had married, it was logical. And it’s not like I would have received an invitation. Still, I was surprised at my own lack of reaction. I had expected . . . well, something. But I felt no hate, no sadness or anger. I would be more upset if Gerry Friedman got married than I was at hearing Dylan had.
Matt extended a leather gloved hand and I took it. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Quinn.”
“Councilman Quinn, Ms. Reilly. Your duly elected representative, I believe. I surmised from Dylan that you live nearby and this is my district.” Ah, so that’s why Joe had raised an eyebrow. He reads the papers more than me. I shook his hand and managed not to snort derisively. So he was a city councilman—big whoop. I’m not much interested in politics. But I was interested in why he was wearing gloves on a warm July afternoon. It was odd, and I felt another prickle on the back of my neck.
Dylan was babbling on, oblivious. “His daughter is missing.”
That would make the girl Amanda’s niece. It took a moment, but I thought I remembered her. I could vaguely recall a young blonde girl coming to visit Amanda, back when we used to be friends. The girl couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen now.
“I want you to find her.” Matt’s voice was heavy with the authority money and power give in the “real” world. Money and power don’t impress me much. Matt could sense it. It didn’t make him happy.
“I want her safe.” Dylan said softly.
I gave Dylan a wry smile. Found and safe can be two very different things.
“How long has she been gone?”
“Three days.” Matt answered.
“The police haven’t had any luck?”
Dylan shrugged. It was a gesture that said nothing, and everything. She might be fine. Some runaways are. Most aren’t.
“How old?” I asked, even though I thought I already knew.
Dylan answered. “Sixteen.”
Yep, it was the one I remembered. “Picture?”
Matt reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew an elegant leather wallet. He pulled a photo out of a thin plastic sleeve. It was old enough that the blue background was getting that greenish tinge, and the surface was cracking. The kid in the picture looked to be about ten years old. An angelic looking blonde with wide blue eyes stared out from one of the generic school photographs kids hate. I absolutely remembered her now, but the picture was useless six years later.
“You don’t have anything more recent?”
He glared at me. I was supposed to wither. I didn’t. Instead, I handed the picture back.
“She’s gone goth.” Dylan announced.
I tried to convert the white lace schoolgirl in the photograph to a teenager with oddly dyed hair and body piercings. It wasn’t easy. She could look like anything. But it explained why Matt didn’t have pictures. Goth would not be a style that made him happy. It was, no doubt, why the kid had done it.
“Name?”
“Her name is Becky.” The brother-in-law’s voice was heavy with disapproval. Which probably meant that the kid went by something else. Becky is too vanilla for a goth.
“What’s her street name?” I asked Dylan. He might not know, but sometimes a semi-cool uncle gets confidences a stuffed-shirt stepfather doesn’t.
“Dusty.” Matt spit the word out like an obscenity.
I looked over at Dylan. He appeared to be counting to ten, or maybe fifty. I didn’t blame him. His brother-in-law was an ass. Still, if Dylan thought the girl wasn’t ready to be on the street she probably wasn’t. Probably. I would at least check. Make sure she was still alive.
“I want her safe.” Dylan repeated.
Matt glared at him and turned the cold steel gaze to me. “I want her back.”
My eyes locked with Dylan’s. “I can only do so much.” It was a warning. The girl could be gone or dead. More people die in this town than make the news. Street people and runaways can and do disappear without a trace.
“Try?” Dylan was begging. It made me frown. First, it wasn’t like him. Too, it reminded me of feelings I’d rather forget.
“No promises.”
He agreed. “No promises.”
“All right. But I’m going to need a few things.”
“Like what?” He grinned at me then, sapphire eyes sparkling. For just a moment there was a glimmer of the old magic.
“How much?” Matt’s voice cut between Dylan and me like a knife: cold, startling and a little bit painful.
“Excuse me?”
Matt had his wallet out. He was thumbing through a sheaf of bills thick enough to get him rolled. Even though it was mid-day and neutral territory, it wouldn’t keep the human predators at bay. A junkie with a gun can kill you just as dead as a Host or werewolf. At Bernardo’s, it’s even a hell of a lot more likely.
“Matt!” Dylan was shocked—not only by the offer, but the tone. He shot me an apologetic look. I shrugged to show him I wasn’t insulted, although I did have the right to be.
“What?” That one word from Quinn was both defiant and aggressive.
I interrupted the glaring contest between them, and started reciting a list of what I would need to find the girl. “I’ll need a copy of Dusty’s most recent yearbook, and the names and addresses of her friends, if you know them. If she hadn’t gone goth when school pictures were taken, a recent picture would help. I’ll also need a phone number where I can contact you to let you know what I find out.” I spoke to Dylan, ignoring the asshole brother-in-law. From the corner of my eye I saw Matt’s face flush. Apparently he wasn’t used to being ignored. He was insulted. Aw, darn.
Dylan pulled a business card and a pen from his pocket. He scrawled his home and cell phone numbers on the back. “I want her safe.” He handed me the business card.
It was the third time he’d said that. His voice was almost panicked and his eyes a little too wide. I reached out and touched his hand. The minute my skin contacted his, he flinched. He jerked back and tried to pull away. I held on tight and tried to concentrate.
The minute they felt me, they fell silent. The Thrall was involved somehow. And they knew I knew.
What in the hell was I getting into?
“Katie, what’s wrong?” Joe’s hand fell onto my shoulder. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”
“Dylan,” I spoke very carefully. “I am Not Prey. You cannot lie to me.”
His hand twisted and squirmed in mine like a captured snake. “I haven’t lied, Katie. I swear.” He was just suddenly sweating, beads of water appearing like magic on his forehead.
“Kate?” Joe’s voice had deepened by almost half an octave till it was a rumbling bass.
Matt stood up from the table, his expression sour. “I need to get back to work. You,” he glared at Dylan, “need to get back to your wife.” He took one menacing step forward. Joe stepped in front of him, blocking his way. I felt, rather than saw, Leo coming toward us. My focus was Dylan. Either Joe or Leo would take care of Matt.
“Is there a connection between your brother-in-law and the Thrall?” The tension that sang through his arm told the tale.
“I won’t stand here and be insulted.” Matt snarled.
“Then go.” Joe suggested. “Nobody here’s stopping you.” Matt gave my brother a long, assessing look. He apparently decided that Joe was too tough to take on because he gave a growl of frustration before turning on his heel and stomping off to the door and out of the bar.
“Katie, I . . .” Dylan’s voice was a hoarse whisper as he tried to speak.
I felt a flash of intense pain through the connection I’d created with Dylan. A crushing headache was coming on as Monica fought to assert dominance over Dylan’s mind. Tears streamed from his sapphire blue eyes and his knees buckled. I had to catch him to keep him from falling to the floor. I steered him clumsily to the nearest cha
ir. He collapsed into it, leaning forward so that an elbow was on each knee and his head was between his legs.
Physical contact makes the psychic bond stronger, so I squatted in front of his seat and took one of his hands in both of mine.
“Dylan, why do they want me?”
He opened his mouth. He fought to speak, his face contorting with the effort. The pain was blinding. As clearly as if she were in the room, I could hear Queen Monica’s voice. “Tell her nothing!”
Answer enough. I released his hand.
“I’m sorry, Katie.” Dylan whispered. He looked up, his eyes locking with mine. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know. So am I.”
He reached forward and grasped my hand once more. “I’m so glad you’re safe.” He struggled against their control to whisper to me. “They tried to wreck you yesterday, but I knew you’d get away . . .”
His body slumped forward as he gave up a fight he couldn’t win. I thought back to the one-ton truck with the trailer. Had that been intentional? I would have asked Dylan, but he had gone still and motionless as the Thrall called to him, weakened him until there was nothing left of his own personality. I leaned forward and kissed his forehead. It was a maternal gesture, and a pitying one. I stood. He didn’t look up.
“Leo.” Leo moved around Joe to stand next to me. He looked down at Dylan, rubbing his hands along his tattooed arms as if suddenly cold.
“He gonna be all right?”
“Probably not.” My voice was tired and sad. Dylan had made his bed, but I wasn’t happy seeing him lie in it. I reached into my back pocket and withdrew my wallet. I pulled out a twenty and handed it to Leo. “Give him a couple of shots of whiskey. I’m going to call his wife.”
Joe stared at me wide-eyed, and Dylan started shaking his head no.
I squatted down next to Dylan and looked into his panicked eyes. “You’re in no condition to drive.”
Nobody disputed it. Dylan might have, if he could have talked. But he couldn’t. So I pulled the cell phone out of my jacket pocket and dialed the home number listed on his card.
Amanda answered on the third ring. I didn’t waste time on pleasantries and neither did she. I explained the situation and told her the list of items I needed that I’d given Dylan in case he didn’t remember when he came to.
“I want to talk to him.”
I wasn’t sure Dylan could talk but I passed the phone to him anyway. Leo was back with the shots and my change. I tipped him, and he hurried off. It was almost as though we’d spooked him. Surely not.
“Are you going to be all right? You look like hell.” Joe spoke softly so that Dylan wouldn’t hear.
“I’ll let you know when I find out.” I gave him a wry grin that earned me a scowl.
“Don’t joke. Not about this.”
“Why not? We don’t know what’s going on.”
“Maybe not, but something’s happening. Otherwise why would their Queen have attacked you in the hospital yesterday?”
“If I knew what was going on I’d tell you. I’m being careful, Joe.” I gestured toward the leather jacket I was wearing for emphasis. “I’ll check around; try to see if anyone has any information, but I’m not going to panic.” I gave a long sigh. “But I sure as hell don’t look forward to running into Amanda. That’s something I’d avoid if I could.”
“Then go.” Joe suggested. “I’ll babysit Dylan. We can meet back up at your place.”
“No. Thanks, but no.” Call it a hunch, but something told me that I needed to stay. Amanda wasn’t a Host or even Herd so far as it went but if it had to do with the Thrall, she was in it up to her pretty arched eyebrows.
Joe’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. He also didn’t leave. Apparently he considered himself my bodyguard. Kind of silly, but he is my big brother.
It was forty minutes later when I saw Amanda walk through the door. It wasn’t a fun forty minutes. It’s hard to concentrate on a pool game when there’s a drooling man half-comatose on the floor. There isn’t much else to do in a pool hall, so we sat and drank and talked, after first propping Dylan up against the wall. We’d tried to help him keep his dignity by sitting him in a chair. But he kept falling over and bonking his head. I told myself it would be funny a year from now over drinks.
The air almost crackled around Amanda when she stalked through the bar. She’d always been strong-willed, but there was an aura of power that hadn’t been there when I last saw her. She looked good. She’d held onto the whole tiny stacked cheerleader thing she had going in high school. I’d expected to feel . . . something. Again, my lack of reaction surprised me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing with my husband?” she snarled, repeating the same question she’d asked on the phone. The answer hadn’t changed. That she was jealous of me was just weird. Wow.
I saw Joe’s back go up and I reached over to squeeze his leg to silence him. He wouldn’t buy it. He has even less restraint than I do.
“I think a better question would be why is your husband begging to see Kate?” Green fire flashed in my brother’s eyes and I sighed.
Amanda’s head spun in my brother’s direction, “Dylan would never beg to see Kate!”
“Oh, no?” Joe shot back. “Five messages in two days. Yeah, I’d say he was begging.” I gave Joe a hard look. Needling Amanda was not going to improve this situation.
Amanda took a menacing step forward. I stood. She shoved past me, dropping to her knees next to Dylan. A second later, she noticed the condition of the carpeting, sticky with spills and ground-in dirt, so she changed to a squatting pose with a look of disgust.
“Dylan! Wake up and tell me what the hell is going on!” I winced as she slapped him hard across the face. I knew it was the best way to pull him out of the trance but I didn’t have to like that she seemed to enjoy it. She was about ready to deliver a second blow when I grabbed her arm.
“Dylan called me to help Matt find Dusty.” I said quietly. I was hoping to avoid a big confrontation. I’d hate to get bounced out on my ear by Leo. Bernardo’s is one of my favorite haunts.
Her brow furrowed and I had to admit it did my heart good to see the wrinkles she was trying to hide with her brunette bangs. “Who?”
“Your niece, Becky. She goes by Dusty now. But I think his contacting me has something to do with Dylan’s masters, too.”
I forced myself not to grit my teeth. It’s none of my business, but seeing him so helpless . . . I can’t imagine how Amanda can actually believe that it’s not only okay for Dylan to be a Herd member, but actually believes it’s beneficial. Like death from parasite-related anemia is a good thing.
She yanked her arm out of my grasp. “Queen Monica would never send Dylan to you.”
She used Monica’s name the way a Brit would say “Queen Elizabeth.”
“You’re absolutely right.” My agreement surprised her. “Who do you think made Dylan into a drooling zombie, Amanda? He contacted me without her say-so.”
The implication was clear. To hide an action from a group mind took a huge effort. That Dylan had been willing to risk Monica’s fury meant that whatever he was up to was very important to him.
Amanda’s eyes narrowed into slits. She sprang up from her crouch directly at me fast enough to take me by surprise. I didn’t even have time to back up before her hands were around my neck.
“You lying BITCH!” she screamed. Her nails dug into my flesh and I gasped. Joe leapt to his feet and immediately grabbed her around the waist and tried to pull her away. It was obvious she worked out, and hard. Ropes of rock-hard muscle appeared under the thin skin of her arms. She kicked backward and caught him in the stomach, pushing him onto the floor beside Dylan.
Amanda pressed me against the table. Her fingers tightened, cutting off my air. I was off-balance enough that I would fall if I used my hands to fight her. Hmmm. I tensed all the muscles in my neck and shoulders so she would have to work to choke me. Then I raised my arms and let her momen
tum carry us backwards. The table tipped, hovered and then fell out from under us as I rolled sideways, carrying Amanda with me.
Her hands loosened but she didn’t let go entirely. She’d been training. Fortunately, those few seconds were all I needed. In mid-air I raised one foot, braced it against her stomach, slid my hands up her arms and grasped her wrists. I tore them away from my neck at the same time that I pushed against her stomach with my foot. She catapulted over the top of me. A crash, followed closely by a scream, sounded behind me and a nine ball slammed into my shoulder. That’s the problem with fighting in a pool hall. Someone’s bound to end up on a table.
I rolled to my stomach and coughed until I retched. I really hate being choked. I used a nearby bar stick to raise me to my feet. I held it crossways to protect myself while I tried to find Amanda’s position. Problem two with fighting in a pool hall—an overabundance of weapons.
I didn’t have to worry. Amanda lay prone on the bar table across the aisle from our table. Balls lay scattered on the green felt around her and probably under her. Even if she didn’t crack a rib, she’d be sore for a week. She was breathing raspily and moaned slightly, but I still didn’t get close enough to check on her. Instead, I stood over her with the pool cue at the ready.
I felt a presence behind me and spun around, stick raised to strike. Leo had finally entered the fray. He grabbed the cue quicker than I could move and yanked it out of my grasp.
“Knock it off, Reilly.” His voice was the stern growl of a professional bouncer.
I opened my mouth to explain . . . and broke into giggles. Leo’s brow furrowed. I guess he wasn’t used to fighters laughing after he’d broken up a brawl.
“Sorry,” I gasped when I could breathe. “But the first words out of my mouth were going to be, ‘well, she started it’ ”
A wry smile turned up one corner of his mouth. “Then I guess my line is, ‘and I’m finishing it.’ ” He pushed me an arms-length back and helped Amanda to her feet.
“Take your man and go,” he commanded after he was sure she could stand. “And if the slate on this table is cracked, you’re getting a bill.”
Amanda’s eyes went wide and her mouth opened. Then storm raged again across her face. “If that table is broken you can send the bill to Kate, thank you very much! I’m the injured party here!”
