All Things Wicked

by Karina Cooper

  She was grateful for it. Whatever lingering remnants of the satisfaction she’d felt at his hands had flipped to fear. And to anger.

  How dare they? How dare they continue to harass her? To interrupt what had been a moment of pure . . . pure. . .

  Pure stupidity.

  She winced as she stubbed her booted toe against the raised edge of a stone. His grip tightened, made sure she was standing, then let go. In the gloomy light that was all the storm provided of what had to be late afternoon, Caleb’s expression was grim. He raised a finger to his lips.

  She nodded. Not a word. She could do that.

  Slowly, he eased out of the fronds, bending back the foliage so she could climb out. The rain battered the volcanic sand to black mud, which squelched as she stepped into it.

  Skin crawling, she studied the small beach. Nothing moved. Only the rain, sharp and steady, and the plants that bent and swayed beneath the pressure. The steam rolled like a living thing, a specter of gray pushed and scattered by the rain pouring into the hot springs.

  “I don’t see anything,” she whispered.

  He stood. “Keep down, keep low. Stay on my tail no matter what.”

  “Got it.” She hesitated. “Caleb?”

  He cupped the back of her head with one broad palm, his eyes meeting hers. “We’ll get you through this, Jules.” He let her go and strode toward the far bank of giant fronds.

  Juliet shook her head. “It’s not me I’m worried about,” she muttered at his back, and sprinted after him.

  She managed to close half the distance when the rapport of gunfire echoed from the house across the valley.

  Caleb broke into a run. She lengthened her stride, only to flounder when he stopped abruptly. Mud speckled her legs as he whirled, face white and set in wild edges, and tackled her at the waist.

  She hit the ground, every muscle and bone jarred, but the back of her head rebounded off his palm instead of the rock she expected. “Roll!” he roared.

  She did. The world tilted, end over end as she rolled over and over, until the foliage slammed into her back and she was left staring at splotches of mud leaping into the air where they’d been only moments before.

  Caleb covered her body with his, wrapping his arms around her head and holding her tightly to his chest. His heart thudded in her ear.

  Thunder boomed directly overhead, a crack of sound that covered his curse. “Crawl!”

  Blindly obeying his orders, her own heart hammering a staccato beat of terror between thunderous surges of electricity, Juliet pushed to her hands and knees and crawled along the foliage line.

  More gunfire peppered through the steady thrum of rain. Her chest squeezed. What was happening at the house?

  Were the others dead? Fighting?

  Oh, Jesus, Caleb’s sister was vulnerable.

  Caleb grabbed her ankle. When she looked back over her shoulder, he pointed at a rocky outcropping tucked into the side of the crescent point. The bay’s volcanic water licked against the edge of a shelf, just big enough to hide one.

  She shook her head vehemently.

  “It’s either you or me,” Caleb said tightly, his eyes narrowed beneath the fringe of his dripping air. The rain traced his features, saturating both of them to the skin, and she shivered. “Can you shoot someone?”

  “If I have to.”

  “Have you before?”

  Juliet hesitated. He read it as clear as day on her face, and mouth twisting, he surged past her on the narrow path. Without saying anything, he reached back, grabbed her arm, and yanked her to her feet.

  Her skin crawled, as if it would peel back from the bull’s-eye she felt sure was painted between her shoulder blades. She stared at the empty black maw of the nearly hidden cleft and balked. “I can’t—”

  He spun her around, gaze fierce as he grabbed both shoulders and pulled her to him. “Don’t make me watch you die, too,” he said savagely, and kissed her. Hard. Angry.

  Desperate.

  Before she could do anything, say anything, kiss him back and beg him not to leave her, he pushed her into the narrow opening and melded away into the storm.

  She staggered, slammed against the back of the small crack, and clenched her teeth. Pain shredded through her elbows, her shoulders, as they hit the rock.

  Terror speared through her mind.

  Her chest.

  Stole her breath.

  Alone. He’d left her alone. He’d left her.

  No. He’d be back. He wouldn’t leave her for long. He’d come back for her.

  He had to.

  Her fists tightened against the stony cliff face, fingernails digging hard enough into her palms to draw blood, but it didn’t help.

  He wouldn’t leave her.

  Wouldn’t I? he’d asked her. It seemed like ages ago.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, shuddering. Lightning shimmered across the sky, little more than a narrow line above her head, and she wrapped her arms around her chest.

  He’d already left her once. He’d do it again.

  They all left.

  Juliet pushed away from the wall, tears thick in her eyes, her throat, and stumbled across the uneven ground. The tiny chasm walls clung to her, scraped across her arms, her hands as she felt for the opening.

  The rain slapped against her face as she staggered back into the open. A glint of blue shimmered in the dark, and strong arms folded around her.

  Fear slammed into raw, angry relief. “Caleb,” she sobbed, clinging to his sodden coat.

  Lightning flashed. In the nanosecond of light, everything sheened with purple and white. Dark eyes narrowed. Rain slicked over a face both broad and hard, set in edged lines that shifted as those arms tightened around her. Wet metal glinted in her peripheral.

  Relief flipped back into terror.

  Juliet shoved at the man’s broad chest with all her might, screaming. Pain rocked through her temple. Detonated through her skull. Her vision flashed, purple and white and raw, bloody red, and she sagged.

  The world shifted. Suddenly, Juliet found herself folded in half, a shoulder digging into her soft middle. Lethargy sucked at her, clung to her as she tried to shape the words. “Cale—Caleb . . .”

  The breath slammed out of her as the shoulder rammed into her stomach. She choked, struggled to scream and couldn’t shape the thick cobwebs of her thoughts around it. Her head throbbed.

  Help . . . me. . .

  The world faded.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rain sluiced over the cracked glass windows. Director Adams reached over without looking up, turning up the lamp on her borrowed desk until the bright light washed away the storm-shrouded gloom infiltrating every inch of the city.

  Summer storms were the worst. Sudden and violent.

  And about as familiar as anything else in New Seattle.

  Parker rested her chin in her hand, poring over the new Mission docket the bloody old bat had left her. Operation Wayward Rose. The call sign suited the woman’s name, Parker thought. Juliet.

  She doubted anyone below topside education would get the reference, but that didn’t bother her.

  Old books didn’t see much play in this world.

  Parker tapped the end of her pen against the readout frame as thunder rattled the glass. No matter how many times she read the file, it didn’t change.

  As director, she controlled every case that crossed her desk. Many at the same time. At least three main offices served as headquarters where Mission teams came and went, and there were at least eighty-six sanctioned safe houses at any given time. The men and women and monsters on the list were mass murderers, ritualists, and even worse.

  Some unknown girl had single-handedly jumped the most dangerous witches known to the Mission, and Parker wanted to know why.

  Juliet Carpenter.

  It meant nothing. But because she didn’t like not knowing, Parker ran the name through the Mission database again.

  Like the five different attempts befo
re it, the search came up blank.

  “And that,” she murmured, studying the error message on the computer monitor, “is the problem.”

  Any name on the list should have had something.

  She took a deep breath, checked her watch, and gave up all pretense of patience. Clipping the tiny comm earpiece to the shell of her ear, she punched in Jonas Stone’s comm number by memory.

  Parker memorized everything. It was her thing.

  The earpiece vibrated faintly as the signal searched for the frequency.

  The line clicked over. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Parker blinked at the clear, almost perfect tenor voice. “How did you know it was me?” she asked, curiosity getting the best of her. “I’ve never contacted you directly.”

  Pleasant amusement filled his voice as he replied, “I’ve got nearly every frequency on the Mission database keyed in, ma’am. Including yours.”

  “I assume that information is kept secure, Mr. Stone?”

  “Unbreakable, ma’am.”

  “Good.” She pulled the digital readout closer to her. “Operation Wayward Rose. What’s your status?”

  Stone hesitated. Keys clattered in the background, wrapped in white noise. Electricity, maybe. Machines. “I realize that you gave me two hours, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “I’m looking for a very, very tiny needle in a really large city,” he said slowly. “The crawl is still compiling.”

  “How long?”

  “Soon, ma’am. It’d be sooner if I could dedicate every resource to the search. If you need me to drop everything else—”

  “Unnecessary,” Parker cut in evenly. “Get me what you can when it’s time, but I’ve got something else I want you to look for in the interim.”

  “Above Ghostwatch?”

  Parker checked the delicate gold watch at her wrist. The filigree face ticked faithfully. “What’s the status of Ghostwatch?”

  “Miles is in position and keeping tabs on the supposed mark, but I have to tell you, ma’am, I don’t think we’ve got the right one.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The MO goes against everything this woman is doing. Either she’s the best actress in the universe, or it’s not her.”

  Momentarily sidetracked, Parker studied the dark glass window beside her, sheets of rain picked out by the flickering streetlights beyond. Natural light didn’t make it down this far on average, but the pitch-black quality suggested that topside wasn’t seeing much daylight through the storm clouds.

  She shook her head. “Stay on her.”

  “Banking on acting school, ma’am?”

  She tipped her head, once more checking her watch. “Are there any other leads?”

  “Two. Eckhart’s tracking one from his desk.”

  “And the other?”

  “Compiling over here.”

  “Fine. Don’t pull Miles until you either catch her, or clear her. No guesswork. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied good-naturedly. “About the extra work on Wayward Rose?”

  Parker snapped her fingers. “Juliet Carpenter. I want you to run her through every system you can get access to.”

  Another hesitation on the line. Parker stood, smoothing down her pantsuit, her smile a grim line as he said slowly, “I don’t mean to be rude, ma’am, but I’m already doing that.”

  “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” she replied in level tones. “Every system you can get access to. And I want you to begin on the Church’s mainframe.”

  A whistle punctuated the line. “I don’t have access to that one.”

  “Let’s not play games, Mr. Stone.”

  Another pause. Then, “So, you want me to . . . uh, crawl all the databases. Right. Yes, ma’am.” Every word was cautiously even. “I’ll be giving you this information directly, then. Anything else?”

  “You have your orders, Agent Stone. Be in touch.”

  Parker pulled the mic off her ear, pinching the tiny metal bit between thumb and forefinger as the unit on her desk went dark.

  She would be damned, she thought, if the Church pulled her teams into something less than aboveboard. Not without informing her every step of the way.

  She was responsible for the safety of her missionaries. She would make the decision to put them in jeopardy, or get them out.

  And if Mrs. Parrish was playing politics, Parker wanted the dirt.

  The lights in the office flickered, quick enough that she paused to rub at her eyes. The lower level electricity grids were slipshod at best, but Parker knew the Mission offices maintained private generators just for this sort of problem.

  Muttering, she swiped the comm unit from her desk and inserted the earpiece into its designated holder, crossing to the door as she did. She swung it open, mind already on her mental to-do list, and froze.

  Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as six feet and five inches of raw man filled the space behind the door.

  Simon Wells lounged in the frame, fingertips caught loosely on the upper ledge and muscles idly bulging. His blue tank top sported a vee of sweat, his hair damp against his forehead. Workout pants slung low on his hips, button-down legs open at the bottom to fall over trashed sneakers.

  The pose showed off every mouthwatering muscle in his arms and shoulders, and the smile shaping his mouth could only be called easy. Indolent.

  Parker stiffened as his hazel eyes mirrored her own study, from the crown of her neat copper hair to the tips of her pristine, four-hundred-dollar shoes.

  “What?” she snapped, and caught herself as his mouth lifted at the corner of his damned smirk. She forced calm. “What do you need, Mr. Wells?”

  “I caught the lights flickering.”

  His voice was easy, too. Everything he did was easy, she thought crossly. Easy smile, easy way of speaking, easy appraisal.

  Easy flex of muscle as he lowered his arms, hands fisting at his hips.

  “So,” he drawled, amusement slipping into his tone, “I figured I’d come see if you all had some sort of generator.”

  Parker shook her head.

  “You should look into it,” he offered, misreading her attempt for clarity as denial. “Days like this don’t—”

  She flicked her fingers at him, as if by the action he would only just vanish. She couldn’t be so lucky. “We do,” she interrupted. “I was just on my way to see to it.”

  “You, Director?” One of his dark eyebrows arched, and he made no attempt to get out of her way. His body blocked the hallway beyond—her jaw set as she thought it—with ease.

  “Yes,” she said, every word arctic. “Me, Mr. Wells. Is there a problem with that?”

  “Certainly not, ma’am.” He straightened, but he didn’t step aside. His eyes glinted over that telltale smirk. “But you’re busy. Why don’t you tell me where it is and I’ll—”

  “If you’ll get out of my way, I’d already intended to handle it.”

  Wells’s arms rose, forearms bracing against the doorjamb. The sheer arrogance of the idle lean set Parker’s teeth on edge. “I don’t mind doing it,” he told her. “It’s a nice break from training.”

  “Then you need more training,” she replied coolly. “I think you can handle two more hours.”

  The amusement left his face so quickly, it was as if shutters slammed shut. His eyes glittered, harder. Edgier. “You think so?”

  A cold snap gathered in the pit of her stomach. Parker’s chin lifted. “Tell Mr. Eckhart to ramp it up to level five. Your spirits are too high. Clearly, we’re not testing you at your optimal level.”

  Slowly, his muscled arms lowered. He leaned aside, but he didn’t give her a wholly clear path. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled.

  It was a choice. A test. Remain trapped in her office, or push by a man who could break her in two if he felt so inclined.

  Parker refused to be trapped by a Church mole.

  She angled her shoulders to ease by him, trying to touch him
as little as possible, then froze as one sweaty arm braced against the wall in front of her face.

  Heart pounding, she looked up into eyes that met hers without reserve. They still glittered, that odd intensity that seemed to define his every move.

  He was good.

  Hell, he was probably as good as her top agents.

  Parker didn’t want to know that.

  “Yes, Mr. Wells?” she said calmly.

  His nostrils flared as he inhaled. “Whatever perfume you’re wearing,” he told her, “I like it. Wear it again.”

  Reeling under the casual arrogance of the command, Parker didn’t move when he dropped his arm, staring at him for a long, silent moment. Then, eyes narrowing, she said, “Four hours, Mr. Wells. Level five. I expect nothing short of stellar scores.”

  His lips were already twitching into a smile as she turned and strode down the hallway, heels clicking on the scarred linoleum.

  “Yes,” he said to her back, “Director Adams.”

  She paused as a thought occurred to her. Turning, hands on her hips, she asked, “Where is Mr. Nelson?”

  Wells hadn’t moved, watching her. Watching her rear, more like. Men like him were all the same. But his gaze shifted to hers. “Tobias is on a mission.”

  Her eyebrows snapped together. “I approved no such mission. Whose?”

  His eyes crinkled. Laughter. He was laughing at her, blast it. “Let me know if you need help with the generator.” A beat. “Director.”

  Parker turned away before she lost the temper roiling behind her teeth. She picked her way across the open floor, for once grateful that the mid-low teams weren’t the type to stop her to chitchat.

  She didn’t want chitchat.

  She wanted answers.

  If she’d even had an iota of doubt, Wells blew it away. The so-called missionaries weren’t hers to use. They were nothing more than rats, pawns in some greater game, and they weren’t answering to her.

  To whom, then? Mrs. Parrish?

  A sour-faced queen if there was one. But who was playing the game?

  Once she located the maintenance doors, she pushed inside and reaffixed the earpiece to her ear. Stone’s frequency clicked over to his voice. “Yes—”