Touch of Evil

by C. T. Adams

  Leo crossed massive arms over his chest. “No. You were the aggressor. Kate took care of your man until you got here and then you attacked her. I’m not stupid. I’ve been watching the whole scene since you walked in.” He turned and pointed toward the door. His voice raised until it was a bellow. Grown men have quaked in their boots at that voice. “Now, if you don’t get your ass out of here and take that drooling zombie of yours with you, I’ll call the cops so fast your head will spin!”

  9

  I helped Leo clean up the place after Amanda left. Joe wanted to be a big brother and follow me around all day but I had no intention of letting him. So I lied. I told him that I was going to go back to my loft, and I would . . . eventually.

  Whether he actually believed me or not, he gave in I think the way. I dealt with Amanda had opened his eyes a bit to what I was capable of. Or he had his own agenda. I’d like to think the former, but the latter was far more likely. Still, you know what they say about gift horses. I’d get more done, quicker, without my brother dogging my heels and I needed information, fast.

  With that in mind, I headed toward the center of downtown. The 16th Street mall runs from Civic Center Station by Colfax a couple of miles down to Wynkoop. It’s the beating heart of the downtown area. They’ve closed it to all but pedestrian traffic and the shuttle buses that run north and south along a central boulevard with street vendors, seating, and the occasional fountain. The shuttle is free, with stops on every corner. It’s always crowded with an eclectic mix of business and street people; going to work or going nowhere.

  I seldom take the shuttle; it’s too crowded and despite the bus company’s best efforts—including video surveillance—I know of more than a few people who’ve had their pockets picked. Walking is good exercise, and it gives me a chance to see people.

  I’ve made friends with most of the regular street vendors. Pete’s my favorite, for a very particular reason. He’s a small man, probably only 5’2”, if that. Today he was wearing his standard uniform: jeans, a Rockies baseball cap, sunglasses, baggy Hawaiian print shirt over a sparkling white undershirt and faded jeans. He sells overpriced sunglasses from a wheeled wooden cart that sits in the center island between Stout and Curtis streets. I have a bad habit of losing sunglasses, so I visit him often. Today, I was hoping to pick up both a pair of shades and information.

  “Hey, Pete.”

  “Uh, Kate. You’re back.” He didn’t sound happy to see me, which was unusual enough that I commented on it.

  “It’s just . . .” Pete looked around nervously, licking his lips. “Monica . . .”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I know. Monica wants me dead. But the queens are taking care of it.”

  Pete’s lifted his sunglasses so that I could see the earnestness in his beady brown eyes. “You’re joking, right? No, Kate, you’re confused. Monica wants you alive. And I sure as fuck wish I could say that the queens were controlling her. It’s getting a bit dicey for me to even be seen with you.”

  He stared at me intently, willing me to understand. My mind went back to Monica’s words in the hospital: “I want you dead. But not quite yet. I have other plans for you first.”

  Pete dropped his shades and turned away. He didn’t look at me, but began wiping fingerprints from a pair of glasses as he spoke in a near whisper. “She had somebody else picked out, but the girl up and disappeared. The replacement the queens sent is dead; and they don’t know how she did it.”

  I heard “girl” and “disappeared.” My warped brain immediately tied it to the pretty blue-eyed blonde in the photo. I didn’t have any proof but it made sense. Amanda might think the Thrall was a godsend. I was pretty sure Dylan didn’t. As Herd he’d know if Monica had plans for Dusty. He’d also know their plans for me. Was he setting me up? I tried to think clearly, but terror had tied my stomach in knots. The queens couldn’t contain Monica? What had she become? I felt my head moving from side to side and I felt cold in the warm July sun.

  “Not only no, but hell no. Not only hell no. Fuck no. No way. I am not playing Host to one of those things. I’d rather be dead.”

  “You’re thinking too small, girl. No mere Host for you. Uh-uh.”

  His words made it crystal clear. She wanted me to be queen. It was finally her time and now it was my turn. Mine or Dusty’s. Monica would know that adamant refusal would be my reaction, which is why it would be the perfect revenge, but also why she had a back-up. She’d been smart enough to try to drug me first—suicide was not supposed to be an option.

  “You should leave town.”

  I took a slow, deep breath. I wouldn’t panic. I would not panic. “Leaving town would be running, Pete. Prey run. I am Not Prey.” I heard my voice as if from a distance. It sounded strangled and almost a full octave higher than usual.

  “Prey, Not prey, who gives a fuck?”

  I took another deep breath. When I spoke again I managed to sound calm. Nothing could make me feel it. I was terrified. My pulse thundered, pumping adrenaline and blood through my veins.

  “If I run I am Prey. They can hunt me down and kill me like an animal. If I am Not Prey they have to treat me as an equal.” I said it as much to reassure myself as to educate him. Because right now I needed reassurance.

  “Better you than me.” He shook his head. “Shame you couldn’t have been out of town a couple more days. Then the whole thing would’ve gone down without you winding up in the middle of it.”

  “I should be so lucky.” I grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the cart at random, and pulled out my wallet. I let him keep the change from the twenty. The warning he’d just given me was worth at least ten times that much. But oddly, an offer to pay more would probably have insulted him.

  “Thanks Pete.”

  He gave me a look that held pity and worry in equal doses. “Watch your back, Katie—watch it like a son-of-a-bitch.”

  “I will. Believe me!”

  I pulled on the glasses and turned back the way I came. Despite the sunshine and the heavy black leather, I was cold. I felt . . . exposed and, damn it all, terrified. What I most wanted was to get home and get my neck guard on. The zippered leather jacket would protect my arms long enough for me to fight. The inner thigh . . . they’d have to have me pinned or unconscious to get me there. But my neck was vulnerable right now and that was terrifying. Because one little nip is all it takes for them to be able to use their mind control on you. Strength of will was all that had saved me when Monica chomped onto my leg last time—and she’d just been a baby.

  A sudden hand on my arm made me reach to where my knives should be, but of course they weren’t there. What in the hell had I been thinking? The answer to that, of course, was that I hadn’t. Been thinking, that is. I’d been too distracted by Tom and pissed at my brother. I mentally kicked myself for being an idiot and prayed that I’d actually live to regret the mistake since dead or infested I wouldn’t regret anything.

  I spun on my heel to face . . . Morris Goldstein. He jumped back a half-step, as if startled by my hostile reaction. He coughed slightly, covering his mouth with a pudgy hand. “Ah! Ms. Reilly! I’m so pleased you’re back from Paris. You were on your way to see me?”

  Morris is one of the least threatening men I’ve ever met. Short and balding beneath his skullcap, with hazel eyes made wider by thick square glasses. His suits are perpetually rumpled, and his English, while good, is very heavily accented.

  “Actually,” I started to argue, but Morris had already tucked my arm into his and was pulling me down the mall in the direction of his office. I’m almost a full foot taller than him, but the pace he set was fast enough that I was actually struggling to keep up.

  He was talking a mile a minute, the words a blur of Hebrew-accented English.

  “Marta has been trying to reach you all morning! We need you to go to Tel Aviv at once. Such luck I have to run into you! I’ve acquired the most amazing stone! It’s a 2.37 carat D-flawless, just arrived from a small town in Arkansas. Found by an
elderly tourist—never in my life—purchased it for a song. I’m certain it will be very soft on the wheel to become a stunning pear cut. Yes, yes, God is on my side! One package to deliver and another to bring back.”

  He was still babbling about his latest find as we reached the Diamond Exchange Building where he has his office blocks down the street. Whew! I was breathless, and I wasn’t even the one doing the talking.

  Always the gentleman, he had me precede him into the elevator. He chattered all the way up to the eighth floor, mostly scolding me about my absence of jewelry. He punched the series of numbers that unlocked the outer office door, then held it open for me. Marta was not at her desk. He called out, but there was no answer. He frowned, stepping behind the desk to look at her computer. He furrowed his brow and then looked at the printer. His eyes widened and he smiled. “Ah! The ink has finished. She must have gone to the supply room in the back.”

  He bounded around the desk once more and moved me toward one of the plush cushioned chairs. “Sit. Sit, and I will call the cutter to tell them you arrive Wednesday. Marta will return shortly. You will wait, yes?”

  I glanced at my sports watch, and frowned. “I really don’t have much time.”

  “Of course, of course! You’re a busy woman. I know this. Please, just spare an old man a few moments.” His expression was exaggeratedly woeful, but the effect was spoiled completely by the bright sparkling eyes behind his glasses.

  “I suppose.” I didn’t want to. I wanted to go home. But I really couldn’t afford to alienate one of my best clients. I thought about the stack of bills on the desk, and then about Monica. I’d give him ten minutes. No more. “But just a few minutes. I really do have another appointment.” An appointment with my closet and my weapons.

  Morris nodded assent before scurrying in to the inner office.

  I took off my sunglasses to look around and tucked them into the pocket of my jacket. The front office of G&S Jewelry Design hadn’t changed much since my last visit. Very “office neutral.” The actual “work” is done in a workroom discreetly sealed off behind Morris’s personal office and guarded by a formidable security system. This was the public face of the business. The walls were pale dove gray, the carpet a deep turquoise. There was one difference. A brightly colored Monet print had been replaced with an expensively framed article from a jewelry industry magazine. I stood and walked over to get a better look.

  I could hear Goldstein’s voice booming from his office. He was speaking Hebrew.

  When I started getting regular runs to Israel I had decided to learn Hebrew. With my looks, it’s not something most people would expect—but it’s come in very handy. Without even meaning to, I found myself translating the conversation I was overhearing.

  “Ken, ani amtin.” (Hello. Yes, I’ll hold.)

  I forced my attention back to the article. It was a personal profile of Morris Goldstein, and spoke very highly of his ability to see a rough stone and determine what the final cut and size will be before it gets to the scaife. Unique talent, that.

  “Ken, ken. He kan. Lo, lo Raiti. He loveshet meil” (Yes, yes. She’s here. No, I didn’t see any. She is wearing a jacket.)”

  That perked up my ears. The cutters know and like me but they would not give a jolly goddamn about my wardrobe—except possibly my jewelry. I glanced at my watch again. It was almost eleven o’clock at night in Tel Aviv. My stomach lurched and my mouth went dry. Who in the hell was Morris talking to?

  “Ani yachol Le-aker ota Le-reva shaaa, avl Atta tzarich lemaher Ani Hoshev sh-Araba-atenu hochel Le-hishtalet alia.” (I can probably stall her for another fifteen minutes, but you must hurry. I would think that between the four of us we can control her.)

  Yep. There was that nasty tingling again. I was being set up. Steeling myself against the upcoming onslaught, I opened my senses completely as I heard Goldstein leave his office. There was an angry buzzing in my head and then the murmur of a hundred voices. Damned if he wasn’t a Host! I’d never noticed! Then again, I hadn’t seen him in person for nearly four months.

  I debated simply being gone when he arrived in the lobby. But no, that would be running.

  Goldstein was beaming his usual smile when he reappeared. “Good news! The shipment from Sierra Leone has arrived and the stones should be cut by Wednesday.”

  I kept my body loose but ready. I didn’t know what he would do next so I needed to be prepared for anything. My smile probably had a sinister edge.

  I chose my words carefully. “Atta Tovmeoz meod. Lo Hayiti Choshedet. Aval Atta Yachol Le-Msor La-Malka Shelcha sh-ani lo chelck me-ha-eder sk-he osseffet.” (You’re very good. I never would have suspected. But you may tell your queen that I am not part of the Herd to be collected.)

  Goldstein froze. He began to sweat profusely as his Thrall and through him the queen realized that I not only spoke Hebrew but knew their plan.

  My voice was cold and harsh as I continued in English. “Monica, I will deal with you on my terms in my own time. Make no mistake that any of your children who try to control me will pay dearly for it.”

  I slammed down my mental shields. I started listening to heavy metal songs in my head, reciting the periodic table, anything that took concentration so the Thrall wouldn’t be able to read my mind. I half-expected Morris to try to stop me when I turned on my heel to leave, but he seemed frozen in place. That happens sometimes when the Host tries to fight off the Thrall parasite’s commands. It’s different than what happened to Dylan, but has a similar outward appearance. Once upon a time Morris had been my friend and I appreciated his effort. I’d have hated to have to kill him.

  I’d no more than stepped in the hall when the elevator bell dinged. Taking no chances, I ducked into the stairwell. A full eight flights to reach the ground. Ick. I took the stairs two at a time. I considered finding another floor and taking the elevator down but frankly, they would probably think of that. An access door opened above me, and I heard feet thundering down the stairs toward me.

  I gripped the handrails and tried a tactic that was both quicker and quieter, sliding down the flights using the handrails the way Bryan and I had when were kids. It takes a long reach and good upper body strength. By the time I’d done four flights my left shoulder was giving me hell. Thank God there were only two more floors between me and the ground. The footsteps stopped. They were listening for me. Their hearing is almost as good as a lycanthrope’s. I felt a prickle at the back of my mind as they searched with their minds for mine. I gripped the handrail tighter, stopping my descent. I hovered in mid-air two flights below my pursuers, deliberately concentrating on composing a thank-you note to my old coach for insisting on parallel bar training to strengthen my triceps.

  Two more steps and they stopped again. After more agonizing moments, the steps retraced upward and an access door opened and closed. I hovered for another full minute, ignoring the knifing pain that let me know the shoulder wouldn’t stand for much more. Were they both gone? I just didn’t know.

  I carefully lowered myself down and stood silently, listening for any movement; any breath. I didn’t dare open my senses. If there was still someone above me, it would be like sounding an air horn in the echoing stairwell. On my tiptoes, I eased one boot down onto the next step, using the far corner of the tread, where the rubber was still new and silent. Twice more and I reached the landing. I silently leaned over and rubbed my hands on the floor. There was just enough dust from previous shoes to lightly coat my hands. I carefully removed my watch, tucked it into my front jeans pocket and pushed up the sleeves of my jacket, so the zippers wouldn’t contact the metal handrail. They wouldn’t cooperate, and kept falling down to my knuckles.

  Ah, the hell with it! If anyone heard, I’d deal with it then. Grasping the handrails, I slid down quickly and nearly silently. Nobody followed.

  I didn’t stop at the lobby, but went down the extra floor to the parking level. I’d fight if I had to, but without weapons, and with my shoulder giving me hell
it was a risk I’d rather not take.

  I carefully opened the door to the garage. It was cool and silent. Here I could safely open my senses. Unless someone were in the structure with me, the thick concrete would block my telepathy. No buzzing, no headache. I was alone. My bootsteps echoed off the parked cars, but I didn’t care. I just wanted bright sunshine and people around me. I bent almost double to get under the crossing barrier, and the guard gave me a strange look, but I was out! I walked quickly down the shadowed street. Now, back to the house for my neck guard and every knife in the drawer.

  “Psst. Kate!” The hiss of a familiar voice caught my attention. I glanced into the souvenir store to my left and saw Dylan frantically motioning me inside. He pulled my arm and took me to the back of the store. We knelt down behind the racks of overpriced, cheesy T-shirts with pictures of baby wildlife and pithy sayings, sporting “Always Buy Colorado” labels.

  I had to gasp when I finally got a look at him. He was transformed—no longer a sweating, shaking mess. He seemed confident and intense.

  “My God! Dylan, what’s happened to you?”

  He shushed me with a look as his eyes raked the area. “We have to do this fast. They’ll know I’m missing soon. Here!”

  He shoved two photographs into my hands. The first was of a group of kids admiring a tricked out Mini Cooper. The second was a pair of dour looking teens trying to act cool and goth. Both photos had been taken from a distance. You could just make out features. He pointed to the painfully thin girl in a long black skirt, sporting Jell-O green hair and white lipstick. “That’s Dusty last year. I think she’s gone to pink or red hair this year. The girl next to her in the tie-dye cropped shirt is her best friend, Voneen. I remember Dusty mentioning that she thought it was cool that Voneen had her own place. It was somewhere over on East Colfax near Clarkson Street by that triple X theatre. If Dusty went anywhere, it was probably to Voneen’s.”