Failure. Mission Director Parker Adams didn’t like the word. Failure meant someone, somewhere, didn’t do their job right. Which came down, simply, to the fact that she was the one who failed.
She stalked down the hallway, heels clicking on the scarred floor, shoulders ramrod straight. She knew every eye in the office would be at attention and on her until she was out of sight; expected it, after the reprimand she’d lashed them to the bone with.
If any of them still had skin, they weren’t going to give her another reason to strip it.
Two teams. Two freaking teams had answered the Church’s alarm, and both had come back empty. No clues. No suspects. Nothing but reports of Church operatives they’d never heard of before and a burning building.
The fire brigade had contained the worst of the blaze, but Parker wasn’t as concerned about the fire brigade.
Where had she gone wrong?
The report Jonas had sent her had pointed to the very same address the alarms had originated. Evidence of anything was scarce enough that Parker suspected either something highly illegal or—as it was the Holy Order of St. Dominic they were talking about—highly political. Which meant top secret.
Which meant something better than Sector Five clearance.
Every motion rigidly leashed to icy control, Parker pushed open the office door.
And froze.
Simon Wells perched on the desk, the defined muscles of his back gleaming in shades of gold and crimson. His dark hair fell over his eyes as he struggled to reach the lurid hole leaking sluggishly down his lower back.
Her eyes narrowed, even as bile rose in the back of her throat.
Don’t be sick. Blood was part of the business.
“Why the hell,” she asked with deliberate, frozen calm, “aren’t you at the infirmary?”
He barely afforded her a glance over his shoulder. His eyes were dark. Empty aside from the pain filling them. Still, he smiled lazily. “Don’t like needles.”
It came out much too awkwardly for Parker to assume he was all right.
She turned, opening her mouth to call for medical aid.
“Please, Mission Director.”
She hesitated.
“Just need . . . to get patched up, that’s all.”
Parker turned slowly, her palms damp as she braced them at her hips. Her suit was black today, austere and authoritative. And a color that wouldn’t show sweat as she surreptitiously wiped her hands on the fabric.
Simon Wells watched her, his rangy body half turned. He held out a clean white square, marred only by a bloody thumbprint on one side. “I could use your help,” he said quietly.
Oh, no. Oh, please, not this. Her stomach fluttered with sudden butterflies.
The man looked like hell. A bullet hole decorated the front and back of one side, blood dried to flaky stains where his own sweat hadn’t kept it moist and brilliant red. His cheek was split, and the waistband of his jeans was almost black with the amount of blood he’d lost.
He wavered, and Parker shut the door, crossing the small office to grab his shoulder before he fell off the desk.
“Fine,” she said, summoning up as much asperity as she could. “But I want a report while I clean this up.”
Again, that easy smile shaped his mouth.
It didn’t, Parker noticed as she took the bandage from his hand, reach his eyes.
“You’re a good woman, boss,” he said, turning again so she could reach the torn, gleaming flesh in his lower back.
She stared at it for a long moment before gently, cautiously, she began wiping at the blood surrounding it. More trickled out, slow and thin. “Now,” she added, just in case he’d missed the command inherent in the statement.
“Don’t have much to say,” Wells said. Pain thickened his voice. “Went down on a Holy Order mission with Tobias and got shot. Don’t remember much after.”
“What mission?”
His broad shoulders rippled with muscle as he shrugged, only, to hunch again. “Shit,” he muttered.
“Don’t move,” she ordered. Gently, she applied the square of woven fabric to the hole and pushed. Hard.
His breath slammed out from between his suddenly clenched teeth.
Hers lodged in her throat as she forced herself to brace her free hand on the warm, solid muscles of his back. “What does the entry wound look like?”
Lucky for her, she sounded normal. And he couldn’t see her face.
“Could reach that fine,” he replied, gritting it out. “You’re a saint.”
“Not hardly. Give me another piece.” She took the square he handed her and very carefully peeled the blood-soaked one off his back. Quickly, she covered it again, forcing another swiftly indrawn breath from the agent. “Where is Mr. Nelson now?”
“Dead,” he told her, so matter-of-factly that she blinked at the back of his head.
He was filthy. Clammy and bloody, stained by dirt and whatever else he’d been up to without her knowledge. Or consent. The ends of his hair dripped rivulets down the skin of his back, and she watched one slide past her hand. Past the wound.
“And your mission?” she asked again.
“Can’t say,” he replied. “But it’s over.”
“Over?”
“I’m a free agent, now.” His head drooped, and Parker was forced to brace her legs, splaying her free hand at his shoulder before he slid away from her. “Parrish’s department is gonna . . . gonna take some time to reboot. Got no one t’answer to.”
Silently, Parker reached for the medical tape by his hip. Using her fingernails and teeth, she tore strips long enough to secure the bandage in place. Her clean, soft hands looked almost obscene against the bloody mess of his warrior’s body.
But that’s why she was the director.
And he the missionary.
“That should hold until you get it stitched,” she said, her voice suddenly too loud in the strained silence of the office. She stepped away, but didn’t remove her supporting hand until she was sure he wouldn’t fall.
He gripped the edge of the desk, his arms bulging as he carefully leveraged himself to the floor. When he turned again, nothing but simple gratitude shaped the angles of his face. Not even pain.
The man was good.
“Thank you,” he told her simply. “Sorry ’bout the mess.”
He wasn’t out of danger yet. The faintly too-thick way he was talking told Parker he was still suffering from blood loss. She reached for the comm clipped at her waist even as she ordered, “Go to the infirmary. I’ll have Rosario meet you—”
“Already said,” Wells cut in as he turned for the door. He grabbed the bloodied T-shirt he’d slung over one chair and crossed the office on mostly steady legs. At least he wouldn’t keel over.
Yet.
“Then,” Parker said, annoyed, “go to the mess hall and drink something.” The look he shot her over his shoulder as he thrust his arms into the T-shirt sleeves forced her to add, “Something nonalcoholic. That’s an order.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled the T-shirt over his head and Parker forced herself not to flinch as the pattern of blood decorating the stretched fabric became jarringly obvious. The white bandage peeked through the hole left behind.
What the hell had happened?
“Agent Wells.”
He stopped in the doorframe, hand on the doorknob, half turning to raise a dark eyebrow at her.
“You are under no means,” she said, every syllable etched in glacial emphasis, “a free agent. I expect you fit and ready for duty as soon as possible.”
His lips twitched. “Yes, ma’am,” he said again, and closed the door behind him.
Parker glanced at the wads of bloody cloth left behind, at the faded imprint of a crimson handprint smudged on the corner of the desk.
And the docket folder left on the chair. Operation Wayward Rose.
Thoughtfully, she picked up the folder and studied the surface. Everything Jonas had been able to find
, which wasn’t as much as she’d hoped, was in this folder. Everything on Juliet Carpenter.
Everything she’d been able to compile even without Mrs. Parrish’s order to do so.
Slowly, she ran her thumb along the flap’s neat crease. And the faint trace of blood left behind.
The comm at her waist buzzed. Without looking away from the bloody evidence, she fit the earpiece to her ear. “Mission Director Adams.”
“It’s Jonas, ma’am.”
“What is it?”
The man sighed. “News for you regarding Operation Wayward Rose.”
“I’m listening.” She didn’t sit. She didn’t move the discarded bandages from their surreal spot across her desk. She simply studied the folder, and listened as Jonas filled her in.
“I sent in the routine report through the usual channels—”
“Which I have in my hands.”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, I got notice back from, uh . . .” He hesitated. “Not you.”
Jumped. Again. Parker’s grip tightened on the folder. “Who?”
“Classified. The electronic signature’s from the mainframe, though.”
Damn it. “And?”
“All activity regarding Operation Wayward Rose is to cease immediately,” Jonas told her. “All of the Mission’s data is to be sealed and passed to Sector Three.”
She clenched her teeth before she said something rude in front of her agent.
“I’m under orders to destroy all backups, ma’am,” he added apologetically.
Parker scowled, mind working rapidly. “Fine. Do so.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A beat. “Ah, the folder I sent—”
“I shall have it to you within the hour,” Parker said. “You may be assured that you will have all currently existing copies, do you understand?”
Another pause. Then, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll begin the data demolition immediately.”
Parker clicked off the comm, raising her eyes to the window separating her office from the busy cubicles now less manned than before.
Most of the agents had gone out to find something useful to do, she knew. Only those who rarely left their terminals remained, and they studiously avoided looking in her direction.
She sighed.
They heard her coming down the hallway, she was sure of it. All remaining eyes lifted to her as she cleared her throat. “Operation Wayward Rose is now ended,” she said. “All data is to be compiled into one drive, sent to Agent Stone, and existing data destroyed. As of this moment, this operation is classified. Am I clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, ma’am!” in various stages of irritation and relief almost made her smile.
Almost.
“Agent Eckhart, I want an updated status on Ghostwatch,” she continued. The balding man nodded once and bent over his terminal. “Send Mr. Neely to me as soon as he arrives.”
“Ma’am,” Eckhart acknowledged.
“I’ll be back in the topside offices within the hour,” Parker continued, daring anyone to bat even a flicker of a relieved eyelash. “I expect future operations to end with no less than complete success, am I once more clear?”
“Yes, ma’am!” replied the small crowd.
She nodded. And without another word, leaving Wells’s mess behind and tucking the docket firmly under her arm, she strode for the elevator. Once inside, she touched the communication button and said, “Bring the car around. We’re returning topside.”
“Yes, Mission Director,” said a tinny, masculine voice.
Parker glanced down at the folder under her arm.
Politics. Not on her watch.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Silas carried her to the grave site. Juliet wanted to walk, but every limb felt as heavy as cement blocks. Just sitting up had taken everything she had.
Now he set her gently on the ground beside the small, packed mound. One of the obsidian flagstones had been placed at the head, and Juliet stared at the symbol until it blurred beneath a wash of tears.
“Jessie says it means home,” Silas rumbled. He loomed over her, over the grave, his arms crossed over a chest miraculously healed from Naomi’s efforts.
Juliet nodded. “How?” she asked, and had to clear her throat to add, “How did she die?” She didn’t know exactly what happened, or when or why, but she’d been out long enough to make her throat scratchy and rough.
It was Silas who had been sitting beside the bed, staring absently off into space. So he stood beside her now, his expression grim. And sad, she realized.
She hadn’t known Matilda at all. But he’d obviously liked her.
Juliet touched the earth as he said over her head, “I don’t know. Naomi’s witchcraft—” He hesitated. “Her magic doesn’t work on the dead. We found blood spatter on the side of the house, so maybe . . .”
He trailed off, and Juliet closed her eyes, her fingers digging into the dirt. Maybe when they’d all come after her, it had left the witch alone. Defenseless.
Hard fingers closed on her shoulder, squeezed gently. “The last thing she told us,” he rumbled, “was that you needed to be found and brought back. At all costs, Rosy. She knew what that meant.”
She shook her head. “No life is worth mi—”
“I suspect,” he said over her, cutting her off with a warning flex of his fingers, “that she always knew more than she let on. If she died this way, it’s because she meant to.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Is it?” The foliage whispered and rustled around them as Silas crouched, his hand warm and solid on her shoulder still. “I think she went out the way she wanted. That’s not so bad. We all should be so lucky to get that choice.”
Juliet closed her eyes. But silently, unable to get words past the sudden lump in her throat, she covered his large, callused hand with hers. Gratitude. Comfort.
She didn’t know.
Footsteps crunched on the ground behind them. “Hey.” Jessie’s voice, soft.
Juliet took a deep breath, but any intent she had to stand wouldn’t make it through the weakness dogging her every movement. “Hi,” she offered.
“How are you feeling?”
Silas shifted away, moving around the fresh grave to stand on the other side. Probably, Juliet thought wryly, to keep an eye on his woman as much as on her.
She tipped her head back enough that she could see Jessie. Her expression was sad, but an edge clung to her features that made a faint, weary smile tug at Juliet’s mouth.
It reminded her of Caleb.
Determination, right down to the core.
“Fine,” Juliet replied finally, and Jessie’s eyes rolled. “All right, mostly exhausted and feeling like none of my body parts are doing what I’m telling them to do,” she amended, but with a sigh. “I don’t know what happened back there, but I think it . . .” What?
Stole a piece of her?
She shook her head. “Can we settle for fine?”
“For now.” Jessie raised a small satchel. “While I was out,” she said, “I got to see a whole hell of a lot more than I ever wanted.”
Juliet blinked. “See?”
Silas coughed, once.
She felt her face go up in flames. “You saw us—”
“Aside from that,” Jessie said hurriedly. Shooting Silas a look that promised a sharp word later, she circled around Juliet to sink to the dirt beside her. She set the satchel gently on Matilda’s grave, smoothing the dirt with a gentle finger.
For a moment, only silence filled the quiet calm that symbolized the sanctuary. Even after the attack, after blood had been spilled in its borders, Juliet still couldn’t help but feel safe here.
Maybe it was the people.
Maybe it’s just a nice, quiet place to die.
Jessie sighed. “You know I can see the present. You know that our magic has been going haywire.” Juliet nodded wordlessly. She knew. “You know where we . . .” Her glance darted to Silas, who shrugged in helpless uncertainty.
Juliet rubbed at her face, even that effort feeling as if she pushed through water to do it. “I’m a test subject,” she said, too exhausted to mitigate it. Any of it. The hurt.
The revulsion.
“Case Subject One-Three-One-Zero-Zero-Nine,” she repeated bitterly. “A genetic mash-up of missionaries and witches thrown into a test tube and shaken thoroughly. I get it.”
“We,” Jessie said softly, but with such intensity that Juliet blinked at her. “We are test subjects.” Her smile was faint. “Case Subject One-Three-Zero-Nine-Eight-Four. Lydia Leigh was my mother—my donor,” she prompted when Juliet looked blank. “Caleb’s mother. We’re . . .” Her jaw shifted. “Half siblings. Caleb’s all natural. Or . . . was supposed to be. I have the same tattoo.”
Silas shifted, crouching again to clasp his hands loosely between his knees. He balanced easily on the balls of his feet as he shook his head. “Nothing unnatural about either of you,” he told them flatly.
Juliet smiled at him. Still tired.
Still disbelieving.
But he got points for trying. “Nice guy,” she murmured to Jessie beside her. “You should totally ask him out on a date.”
“Nah.” Jessie’s smile was opposite of Juliet’s in every way. It hurt to look at, so full of love and tenderness that Juliet looked away. “He’s a pain in the ass.”
Silas snorted. “Point being, so what?”
“Well, nothing,” Jessie said, inhaling and exhaling on a long sigh. “Except we’re left with the knowledge that the Holy Order is running the Coven of the Unbinding, at least in this city, and we technically aren’t supposed to exist. We’re products of some kind of genetic experiment, and somehow, we got out.”
Juliet looked down at her hands, clasped tightly together.
“Nadia Parrish and her goons are dead,” Jessie continued, shaking back her hair from her shoulders, “and we’re slowly losing it. Even now, I feel like there’s a million things out there all trying to get my attention.”
Silas’s jaw hardened.
“Some of that is your fault,” she added, and Juliet flinched. “Not on purpose, I know. Matilda once said that you’re a teacup, and it’s cracked, and now all the tea is leaking out. Being near you makes my power go all . . . wobbly.”
All Things Wicked Page 26
