Bloody Vows

by Lisa Renee Jones

  I claim the center of the floor, where there are pillows for just this reason—my need to have space to work—eat my chocolate and start writing notecards. Everyone involved with the case gets a card on a pinboard on the wall: Emma Wells, the men in her life, including the mysterious Jamie. Officer North, Danica Day, Andrew, me, Kane, Pocher, and my father. When I put the card on the board with my father’s name, Kane eyes me and then sips his Bailey’s.

  I lean back on the desk to stare at the pinboard I’m using for the case and cross my arms in front of me. Kane glances up at me and I say, “Pocher is having some charity event for my father. Apparently, we’re both invited.”

  “Someone is playing a game,” he replies dryly.

  “Like the killer who sent us an invitation to Emma Wells’ wedding,” I say, my mind back on the case. “I wonder if our invitation looks like the rest of the invitations? If it does, then whoever sent it had to have access to her supply.” I grab a notecard and write “Invitation” on it before pinning it on the board. “Jamie was close to her,” I say. “That was obvious. It could be him—”

  “Or her,” he suggests.

  “True. It could be a female. Either way, Jamie, the possible lover, doesn’t fit the bigger picture of pulling me into this.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s too narrow a view,” I reply. “Something doesn’t fit.” I grab another piece of chocolate.

  Kane stands and grabs my mug. “Coffee, no Bailey’s this time?”

  “Yes. Please.” My lips curve. “See. I say sorry and please.”

  “And fuck you,” he comments. “Often and well.” His lips curve now and he leaves the room.

  “And someone was saying ‘fuck you’ to me tonight,” I murmur softly.

  I need more to go on, but at this point, I don’t even know enough to build a profile of the killer.

  No cause of death.

  No proof of sexual contact or the lack thereof.

  No cameras for a visual.

  Kane returns, offers me my coffee, and we both get back to work. My to-do list includes finding out the source of that camera outage and digging into the past life of Emma Wells. Is her murder about her past or her present? Of course, it could be about me, and she was just an innocent victim, but that just isn’t sitting right with me.

  Time ticks onward and I’m sitting on the floor when exhaustion kicks in. I lay down in the middle of the stacks of papers and shut my eyes.

  “Let’s go to bed.” At Kane’s voice right above me, I blink him into view. He’s on a knee beside me and I think I might have had my eyes shut longer than I thought. “Let’s go to bed,” he repeats.

  “Not yet,” I murmur, shutting my eyes again.

  “You don’t do well without sleep. And you barely have any details on this case. You’re killing yourself for nothing.”

  My lashes pop open. “I only need four hours,” I argue.

  “It’s three in the morning. I predict the phone will be ringing by seven.”

  “Three?” I frown. “Already?”

  “Already,” he confirms, standing up to offer me his hand and I decide he’s right. I’m done. I need to be in bed, but my mind is still working.

  I let him help me to my feet and then catch his arm. “Jamie,” I say as a thought hits me. “Something about Jamie is bothering me. And I don’t mean the obvious reasons like he has a throwaway phone. Something else.”

  “You’ve been saying that for about four hours. You’ll know why beyond the obvious reasons tomorrow. You always do. Bedtime, Agent Love.” His arm settles around me and I let him guide me into the bedroom. A few minutes later, I’m in his T-shirt, he’s in pajama bottoms, our phones are charging, and we’re in bed, lights out. Kane wraps his big body around me, almost as if he thinks I’ll run back to Purgatory if I get the chance. But I won’t.

  He’s right, I think, as my lashes grow heavy. I’ll know why this Jamie thing is bothering me in the morning. And I’ll feel like an idiot for not figuring it out sooner. Maybe he’s–I’m sticking with “he” right now because it feels right in my gut—maybe he’s even someone I know. He did leave me a jar of blood. Or not. Maybe it wasn’t him who killed Emma and left me that jar of blood at all.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I wake to the buzzing of my phone, my lashes lifting, disorientation coming fast and hard and then fading. I’m in bed, on my back, and the room is dark, which may or may not be compliments of the blackout blinds. Kane is draped partially across me. I decide right then that he’s a much better bedmate than my shotgun Cujo, which I’ve favored since moving back to New York. But then, Cujo was lost when my mother’s house burned down. I forcefully shove aside the decision to rebuild as I have for weeks. So much so that I shut my eyes again, holding onto the moment. My phone has stopped ringing. Good. This mattress, with Kane’s body as a blanket, are the best. The very best. Maybe even better than chocolate. My phone starts ringing again. I groan and reach for it, glancing at the caller ID to find my boss calling. It’s also eight in the morning.

  I answer the line. “Director Murphy.” I glance at Kane, who tilts his face skyward and groans softly before throwing away the blanket on his side. “Isn’t this your day off?” I ask, refocusing on the call.

  “Why did I hear about your new case from someone else, Special Agent Love?”

  “It’s Thanksgiving,” I reply, fighting the tartness that wants to slide into my tone. “I was going to call you tomorrow on my way to the autopsy.”

  “Let me get this straight,” he says, his tone sharp enough to have me throwing away my blanket too while steeling myself for what comes next. “Our friend,” he adds–that’s his way of discreetly referencing Pocher—because he’s a paranoid bastard who thinks everyone is always listening in—“our friend,” he continues, “is alive, you’re engaged to Kane, which by the way I had to find out on my own, and the victim of a murder last night was wearing a wedding dress. And let us not forget that there was a jar of blood with your name on it left at the crime scene. What part of that said wait to call Director Murphy?”

  At this point, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed and Kane’s crossed the room to disappear inside the bathroom. “I’ve been working on being more thoughtful, Director,” I comment. “Please. Thank you. Waiting until after Thanksgiving.”

  Kane leans back into the room and mouths, “and fuck you, please” before he disappears again.

  I’d smile, but Murphy snips that away real quick with a reply of, “What you’re working on is pissing me off all over again. Don’t patronize me.”

  “First you’re my boss. That would be a stupid move. And surely you know by now that I don’t patronize. That’s not my thing.”

  “Stop talking, Agent Love, unless you plan to say something of consequence.”

  “Okay,” I say, angling for a reason. “I’m not solid on what I’m about to say yet, but I have a strong belief that this could be an Umbrella Man copycat or protégé of Roger’s. Not our friend.”

  He’s silent three beats before he asks, “Why?”

  I don’t immediately answer and not because the line may not be safe. Because every answer I give him, he could counter. Yes, this whole case feels beneath Pocher, and it feels like him asking for trouble he doesn’t need, but with the morning light, I’m clear on one fact: that doesn’t mean he’s innocent. There could be a motivation I’m missing. A distraction he’s creating to keep me and/or Kane from seeing something else. And he could just be driven by his grief to be careless. This entire crime could be driven by grief and anger that I cannot dismiss as a human reaction—yes, even Pocher is human. Maybe. Or a demon. I’m not into that shit, but if I were, he’d be on my demon list. And so, I say quite professionally, “Because my job is to look at all possibilities.”

  “There are no coincidences, Agent Love,” he reminds me. “Isn’t that what you always tell me?”

  I grind my teeth. Truly, I’m
getting sick of everyone repeating my own words but I roll with it. “That’s true,” I counter, “but I’m also not stupid enough to believe the obvious.”

  “Good answer. Dig deeper. Call me tomorrow after the autopsy.”

  “Wait,” I say when I’m sure he’s going to disconnect.

  “Yes, Agent Love?”

  “Danica Day and Officer North. I don’t like them.”

  “I’ve come to know you don’t like many people.”

  “That’s true, but in this case, it’s about agendas. Perhaps the wrong ones. Do you know anything about either of them?”

  “I don’t, but I’ll look into them. Call me tomorrow,” he adds again, and when he would hang up, he adds, “And Happy Thanksgiving, Agent Love.” He disconnects.

  I groan and set my phone down. Kane appears in the bathroom doorway. He’s still naked from the waist up, his shoulder resting on the frame. “Problem?” he asks.

  Isn’t there always? I think as I stand and Kane crosses to stand in front of me. “I was wrong.”

  In other words, he was listening to my conversation therefore I know exactly what he means. “We’re back to Pocher, right?”

  “We can’t rule out the fact that he’s still human, no matter the monster we know he is. He could be operating on grief. He could be distracting me, and us, while he plots something bigger. I need to go and see him. And I need leverage when I do.”

  He catches my hips and walks me to him. “Give me time to hear back from my people.”

  “How long?”

  “It’s Thanksgiving. I need a few days. And as for the leverage. I’m it. He knows my uncle wants to rule the world and if not for me, he’d have already started wars that would disrupt the goals of the Society.”

  “And yet, you don’t run the cartel,” I say tightly.

  His eyes darken. “Is that a question? Again? Because no matter who I am, or am not, if you think I won’t use it to protect you, then we have a problem.”

  “You didn’t think that was enough in the past,” I say, which is exactly why at one point, he set it up to look like a rival gang kidnapped Pocher’s brother and Kane saved him. In exchange for my safety of course. “What changed?” I ask.

  “It changed, Lilah,” is all he says.

  “Then I need to know why,” I argue.

  “The more you know, the more you’re compromised. Don’t push, Lilah. You won’t like the answer.”

  “Don’t push,” I repeat, and it’s not a question. I demand. In other words, he’s telling me I was right earlier. We’re back to secrets. I don’t like it. And so, I do push. I push away from him. “I can’t run in this weather. I’m going downstairs to workout,” I add, referencing the gym and sparring area he had installed years back, even before my attack. I try to move past him to get to the closet where I can get dressed.

  He catches me to him and rotates to press his back to the doorframe and hold me in front of him. “We’ll spar together.” His voice is dark, his eyes darker. “I’ll help you change.”

  “No,” I say, my hand firmly on his bare chest, and the thunder of his heart beneath my palm defies his cool, calm, fuck-me-into-submission attitude that he knows won’t work. But I guess he has to try. He isn’t tattooed up like his father before him, I think rather randomly, though it’s really not that random at all. Kane doesn’t need ink on his skin to tell the story of who he is and what he does. The world knows when he walks into a room that he’s a leader. But he’s not my leader. He still doesn’t seem to get that.

  “Lilah,” he says softly, and in that moment, he’s all kinds of dark and wrong for me. And yet, I’m just as dark and wrong, and I still want him. I still want his ring on my finger. But he promised me no more secrets.

  “I need to workout,” I say, pushing out of his arms, and this time, he lets me go.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I hurry into the closet and exchange Kane’s T-shirt for leggings, a sports bra, a tank, and sneakers. When I enter the bedroom again, he’s missing. Of course. He’s got things to do that he needs privacy to get done. Anger burns in my belly, as does the challenge of a murder unsolved, that claws at me with unforgiving insistence.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m on the mats working on the karate I’ve been mastering for years, since my attack, since my promise to myself I’d never be weak without my weapon again. Kane has pressed me to freshen up as of late, to use it more often, to practice. On that, he’d been right. I’d softened up on my karate, and I feared, become too dependent not on my firearm, but on a blade.

  And so, I do practice the best I can on my own.

  Another fifteen minutes later, Kane appears on the opposite side of the mat, and I swear the man drips arrogance and confidence no matter if he’s wearing an expensive suit or as he is now, sweats and a snug T-shirt.

  “Let’s spar,” he challenges, and I don’t argue an invitation to punch and hit him right now.

  And so, we do.

  We spar, exchanging blows, kicks, maneuvers, anger, and tension beneath each, a charge of attraction and frustration raging into something far more complicated. We become more intense, and soon, we tumble onto the mat and he rolls on top of me, staring down at me. “You want the truth.”

  “Yes, damn it,” I hiss. “I want the truth.”

  “You don’t want to feel like you need my protection.”

  “I accepted a private guard without a blink.”

  “That’s not what I mean. We are stronger together, yet you didn’t even tell Ghost you were my woman to back him off. He could have killed you.”

  Ghost being one of the deadliest assassins on the planet, and he’s right. I didn’t. “First, we were barely a couple again then. And second, you underestimate me.”

  “You underestimate him.”

  “I don’t. I know he’s a killer. But Ghost needs to know who’s in charge and that had to be me or he’d see me as weak.”

  “Now he’s obsessed with you, Lilah. That leads no place good.”

  “Obsessed? What are you talking about?”

  “He shows up too often to sit well with me. You need to consider my opinions.”

  “I do,” I say. “I value every opinion you have. What is this, Kane? And what does that have to do with the truth?”

  “Everything,” he says tightly.

  “Everything?”

  “The problem and the solution. You don’t accept my protection.”

  “I don’t need to be protected. That’s not why I’m with you. I hope like hell that’s not why you’re with me.”

  “The Society isn’t one serial killer you can stab to death, Lilah. They’re a deep, dark underworld. You want to face them? You need protection. And that’s not weak. Recognizing that makes you stronger.”

  “Why do you think I said I need leverage over Pocher?”

  “Why do you think we were invited to the fundraiser together? You’re connected to Pocher’s political protégé and now I’m officially connected to you. Pocher needs your father to get elected. He needs him to be protected even after he’s elected. I assure you he’s promised the Society he will make it happen. He knows he can’t kill me. He knows I’ll kill him if he kills you. That means he needs to make peace with me and us. And that’s your leverage for now.”

  “Right. Why didn’t you just say that?” I frown with a realization. “And you said that the more I know—”

  “That you’re compromised,” he supplies. “I know. But it wasn’t something nefarious in some secret box, Lilah. It was this. I was avoiding this conversation and after a cold walk on the beach, I decided that was a mistake.”

  I glance away from him and look at the ceiling before I roll toward him onto my side. He doesn’t roll toward me. There’s more to this conversation than his side of the coin. “You’re wrong,” I say.

  He finally rolls toward me. “What does that mean?”

  “You think the cartel connection
protects you, but your father was murdered. You can be, too. I can be, too. We aren’t protected.”

  He sits up. “I’m not my father.”

  I sit up. “Famous last words.”

  He touches my face. “I need you to trust me, beautiful.”

  “I do, but you aren’t as invincible as you think.”

  “Good thing I have you to protect me, then. I’m not resistant to your protection.”

  He’s not talking about my badge, not literally. He’s talking about my job, the one that drives my character, and his. “I’m not afraid of taking your protection, Kane.”

  “I didn’t say afraid, Lilah. But maybe that is the problem. Maybe I should have. We’re engaged and you’re still afraid.”

  “Afraid? Afraid of what?”

  “Of depending on me or anyone else.”

  I open my mouth to object and press my lips together. I’m not sure I can tell him he’s wrong. I have my own black box of bullshit that drives me and I know it. He knows it, too.

  My cellphone rings, and frustratingly, because of my job, I can’t just ignore it. I dig the damn thing from the side pocket of my leggings to find an unknown number. I show it to Kane and then frowning, I answer the line, “Special Agent Love.”

  “It’s Danica Day.”

  “Danica Day,” I repeat, glancing at Kane. “This isn’t the number you gave me earlier.”

  His brow shoots up. He thinks the Thanksgiving Day call is as strange as I do.

  “Right,” she says. “I gave you my office number. This is my personal number. That jar of blood was just driving me nuts,” she says. “I snuck to the office before my family arrived and I had start to cooking. Bottom line. I’m here. I tested it. You were right. It’s pig’s blood.”

  “This is not a surprise,” I comment, but the confirmation doesn’t sit as easy as I thought it might.

  “Yes, well, I read up on the Umbrella Man last night,” she continues. “He used pig’s blood to make it rain blood over the victims. This just doesn’t fit that scenario.”