Why the Devil Stalks Death

by L. J. Hayward

  Mr. Cesare answered his quiet knock within moments. “Nishant.” Relief relaxed his face. “I’m so happy to see you, what after the commotion yesterday morning. I knew it was a mistake, those police—”

  “Thanks, Mr. Cesare.” Jack felt bad for cutting him off. He’d always taken the time to listen to his elderly neighbour, knowing the man didn’t have many visitors and only his dachshund, Short Round, for company. “But it’s not all cleared up yet, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh.” His weary, lined face creased further into a worried frown. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Is Ethan with you?” He peered down the hallway.

  “No. He’s somewhere safe, don’t worry.” It warmed him to know Ethan had made friends with the sweet old guy. “I didn’t want to disturb you, but I need to know if you’ve noticed anyone around my place since yesterday morning.”

  If the Judge was as good as he appeared to be, and if Ethan or Garrote had been around looking for him, Jack doubted his near-sighted and partly deaf neighbour would have noticed them, but it wasn’t in Jack’s nature to make assumptions.

  “No, son. Of course, I’m not as sharp as I used to be. Were you expecting someone?”

  “Not exactly. What about Shorty? He notice anything?” The dachshund was a good guard dog and absolutely devoted to his human.

  Mr. Cesare’s expression crumpled. “Shorty’s not here. He had to go to the vet yesterday afternoon.”

  “Shit.” Jack gripped the old man’s arm compassionately. “What happened?”

  “They think he was poisoned. I found him chewing a toy I’d never seen before yesterday, and an hour later, he was vomiting and couldn’t stand up.” Tears glimmered in his faded eyes.

  Fuck. Whichever of the heartless fucks who’d resorted to hurting an animal would have Shorty’s and Mr. Cesare’s pain taken out of their hide. One thing Jack knew for certain, it hadn’t been Ethan. He would put himself in harm’s way before letting an animal get hurt. Besides, he and Shorty were old friends, and Ethan wouldn’t have had to poison the dog to get past him silently.

  “The vets think they got it in time.” Mr. Cesare tried to sound positive. “We just have to wait and see if there will be any lasting damage.”

  Jack’s hand curled tightly around the butt of his gun inside the helmet. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. Do me a favour, okay? Don’t answer the door to anyone you don’t know, and if you see anyone or anything suspicious, call this number any time, day or night.” He handed over a card with Lewis’s direct line on it. “He’s a friend of mine. He’ll be able to help you with anything that comes up.”

  Mr. Cesare took the card but frowned at it. “This all seems very dramatic.”

  “I know, sir, but please humour me.”

  Patting Jack’s arm, the old guy nodded. “Of course, son. Of course. I hope you get this trouble sorted out soon.”

  “Me too.”

  After Mr. Cesare had closed and locked his door, Jack continued his cautious way to his apartment, wondering if he shouldn’t just have his neighbour taken to a safe house. Even as he thought it, Jack dismissed it. Rocco Cesare had assured Jack he would only leave his home feet first and not before.

  By his door, Jack set down his helmet and, USP in hand, unlocked it. Anyone waiting for him inside would have been able to bypass the security system and as such could turn on the screen hooked up to the camera on the door. They’d know he was outside. Shoving the door open, he dove into his apartment, going into a low roll and coming up with his back to the kitchen counter, crouched below the overhanging top. He tracked across the living room and dining area with the gun. There was no movement, no bodies visible. No sounds of someone behind him in the kitchen, but when dealing with the level of operator he was, that meant next to nothing.

  His nerves were steely calm as he slowly eased around the counter, scanning the kitchen and finding it empty. Efficiently and thoroughly, Jack checked the rest of his place, uncovering no hidden assassins or psychopaths and no signs of disturbance. There was, however, blood in the bathroom.

  It was dried in small splatters across the vanity, like they’d dropped there while whoever it was leaned over the sink. Jack opened the mirrored cabinet above it, finding nothing out of place. Thanks to Ethan’s obsessive tendencies, everything was ordered by size so it would be easy to notice if anything had been disturbed. Closing the cabinet, he caught sight of his own face.

  Surprisingly, he didn’t look too bad. Not too tired and not too stressed, considering the tickets and serial murderer with some sort of grudge against him. There was a touch of worry about his eyes, but mostly he just looked grim and determined. Sure, he had very few facts right then, but he knew the outcome he was aiming for, and that gave him confidence and purpose. Whatever, whoever, was out there, waiting for him, wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

  Even if his biggest obstacle turned out to be Ethan.

  From the back of his linen cupboard, Jack retrieved a small forensic kit. All assets had one or two of them in their personal residences for times such as this so they could collect evidence for the Office before the police showed up. With no intention of involving the cops at all, Jack went back to the bathroom and swabbed each of the blood drops, clearly labelling each sample. That done, he sprayed a light layer of fluorescent solution around the rim of the mirror, then shone the small black light torch on it. As expected, there was a cluster of smudged fingerprints around the lower left corner, where it was gripped to open the cabinet. However, further up the side were a set of two clear and one partial print, as if someone had rested their hand against the glass, perhaps leaning there after a fight that injured them. It was far from conclusive, but Jack used the small, disposable camera in the kit to take photos of them all the same.

  As he was packing up his gathered evidence, another thought struck Jack. Clearing his gear out of the sink, he turned on the hot water, full bore, and waited. After a minute, the steam billowing up from the sink coated the mirror and condensed on the cool surface—except for where someone had written a message.

  Eight numbers on three lines. The first two lines were most likely latitude and longitude. The third wasn’t as clear but probably specified a time. 10:30 p.m. that night? Or last night? Was it a message to him from Ethan? Or whoever had poisoned Shorty? Was it a trap?

  Jack snapped a photo with the camera and with his implant as well. Trap or not, meant for him or not, it was a point on a map he could target.

  Jack left and, after checking the bike for tampering, headed to his next stop. Bathurst Street was about a fifteen-minute ride from Jack’s place, but if a man didn’t want to be followed it was about twice as long, which gave Jack a ten-minute window on his hour before turning on his tracking. Coming here, though, was precisely why he hadn’t wanted to be tracked.

  The penthouse apartment was exactly as he’d last seen it. Immaculate, stylishly furnished, his hastily removed tie and jacket still hanging over the back of a chair and his unfinished beer on the table.

  For a minute he let the memories flood his body. The relief of finally being together after so much frustration. Of finally being able to relax without anyone knowing where they were, or that they were together. Christ. It had felt so fucking good to not have to think about anyone else. Just them and how bloody good it was to hold each other. All the restraint and barriers gone.

  Inevitably, Jack was drawn to the big, plush leather couch, facing the perfect view of Hyde Park. It had been night, of course, when he was pushed down into the corner of the couch, his body slowly awakened and electrified by skilled hands and lips. Then, Jack hadn’t seen the outside view he gazed at now, paths dissecting the vibrant green of Hyde Park, the majesty of St. Mary’s cathedral in the distance. He’d been consumed with the most amazing blowjob of his life.

  Jack dragged himself away from the view and locked all those memories in the filing cabinet. Memories that had once been glorious, but now so potentially painful. Done wallowing, he searched the pen
thouse.

  There were no clues, no signs of habitation, no hints as to where anyone involved in this mess might be.

  Leaving, Jack couldn’t decide if the lack of evidence was a good or bad thing. Good because it meant the location was still a secret. Bad because he really needed every hint he could get right then.

  As promised, Jack turned on his active tracking and sent a ping to HQ, letting them know where he was. Which wouldn’t mean much to them because he was on the move, cutting through the traffic and bending road rules to a point just shy of breaking them. The more erratic he was, the harder he would be to follow, to predict—to ambush. He took the evidence from his apartment to a drop point for the Office, sent a message in to have it picked up, then continued on to the Oaks Goldsbrough Apartments.

  The door to Adam’s suite was crisscrossed with blue and white police tape. As with most security, it worked only to keep out honest people, and Jack had the lock picked and was squeezing through the largest gap in the tape within a minute.

  There were, of course, more memories here. Good ones—the fun, playful fucking; the glimpses into Adam’s life and personality. And bad ones—the argument; unconsciously seeking comfort in Adam’s presence; Ethan’s expression of hurt and betrayal. These, too, got locked away as Jack searched.

  The police had clearly been through the suite from top to bottom, the signs of their thorough passing hiding any evidence of someone else tossing the place, either before or after Adam was killed, or went missing. Hopefully, the investigative team would hand over their report on Adam’s place to Lydia sooner rather than later. Knowing if the suite had been searched before the cops got here would help Jack define a timeline.

  Again, he came up skint for any clues, but he’d had to come here. Not just in case there had been evidence to find, but to satisfy the expectations of anyone following him.

  He’d left the bike in the lane behind the building and was just straightening up from checking it when the bullet hit him.

  “What’s this?” Jack asked as he wiped the soap from Ethan’s back.

  Twisting lazily under the shower spray, Ethan craned his neck to see the spot Jack’s fingers were drifting over. “Hmm. Just a bruise.”

  Jack slapped his bicep gently. “I can see that. How did you get it?”

  “Victoria’s bonnet. I was working on her yesterday and straightened when I shouldn’t have.”

  Absorbing that as Ethan rinsed, Jack settled for watching the water sluice down the lean body before him. Still mellow from wake-up sex, Jack squirted shampoo into his hand and, hauling Ethan close, worked the product into his wet hair. As planned, the scalp massage made the man melt against him. It was one of Ethan’s quirks Jack took shameless advantage of whenever he could. Running his fingers through Ethan’s hair, nuzzling into it, or just stroking the back of his head. The resultant almost-purr was enough to make Jack’s dick warm and thicken. Before the shampoo was washed out of his dark hair entirely, Jack had Ethan pressed up against wet tiles, lips feasting on his throat, their hard dicks in one, slowly moving hand. Having come once in bed, the build-up was leisurely and tender, the hiss of the water joined by Jack’s gasps and Ethan’s husky “Jack,” repeated at least a dozen times. Jack went first, his orgasm feeling like it came from somewhere deeper inside him than just his balls. Somewhere that had been closed off for a very long time, somewhere next to the grenade in his chest, which exploded along with his climax, so it was his turn to melt into Ethan’s body.

  It was Ethan’s lips on his neck and shoulder that brought Jack out of his glowing haze, and the prod of his erection against Jack’s belly that made him sink into a crouch. It wasn’t until the head of Ethan’s dick was at the back of his mouth that Jack remembered the Athens video. He hadn’t blown Ethan since then and nearly choked now, his body automatically rejecting the act in its entirety. Pulling away, Jack coughed on the unusual reaction.

  “Jack?” Ethan ran a hand through his curls. “Are you all right?”

  Jack looked up into his half-lidded eyes. Once, the white irises had unsettled him, but now they comforted, especially when accompanied by brows quirked in concern. The Athens vision was tucked away into the filing cabinet with no trouble.

  “Yeah, just got a little too enthusiastic. I’m fine now.” And proceeded to prove it until Ethan was shaking and moaning and coming.

  After drying off, Ethan pulled on a pair of gi pants and left Jack to dress alone, during which Jack discovered that Ethan had taken him up on his offer to share space in the closet and tallboy. In fact, he had reorganised everything from top to bottom. The amount of clothes hadn’t quite doubled in volume, but somehow Ethan had managed to arrange it all so nothing was squashed in or jumbled together. Marvelling at the thoroughness with which Ethan had attacked the task of moving in, Jack found undies, socks, button-down, suit, and tie without too much hassle, then dressed and joined Ethan in the kitchen.

  “You reorganised the closet and tallboy.” Jack accepted a mug of coffee from Ethan.

  Freezing with his own cup of tea halfway to his mouth, Ethan said, “I can change it back if it’s not all right.”

  The sudden uncertainty in Ethan’s voice and expression caught in Jack’s chest. This wasn’t what he’d wanted when asking Ethan to live with him, but perhaps he should have expected it. The whole situation was completely new to him, and added to the fact he’d stopped working, it wasn’t surprising Ethan might feel unsettled.

  Jack wrapped his free hand around the back of Ethan’s tense neck and dug his fingers into his damp hair, needing to reassure him. It took a moment, but Ethan pushed into the touch, as he always did, and relaxed a fraction.

  “It’s perfect,” Jack said firmly. “Exactly what I wanted.”

  Resisting his instinctive reaction to the touch, Ethan morphed his hesitation into scepticism. “Exactly?”

  Fingers fisting in Ethan’s hair, pulling his head back and exposing his throat, Jack smirked. “Exactly.” He dove in and kissed from clavicle to jaw.

  Ethan’s moan quickly changed into a mocking sigh. “Don’t you have a job to get to?”

  “Eventually.” Jack nipped the tender skin under Ethan’s jaw a couple of times, then released him. “I had to give them a little demonstration yesterday, to prove my point about the perp possibly slipping through the security cameras. It went over so well I’m planning another one for today.”

  Free, Ethan opened the fridge and retrieved bacon, eggs, and tomatoes. “Which entails being late?”

  “Actually, yeah. Did you go shopping yesterday?”

  “I did. Eating takeaway every night isn’t ideal.”

  Meaning Ethan didn’t like the apartment being regularly visited by random strangers. Jack didn’t mind but a second reason came to him as well.

  His suspicions were confirmed after a look at the stocked fridge. “And the makings of butter chicken just happened to leap into your trolley.”

  “Perhaps.” He fought it, but a grin broke over Ethan’s face. “Maybe you could make it tonight?”

  Resisting the urge to do something extra stupid, Jack shrugged. “Maybe. If I get home at a decent time.”

  Between them, they got breakfast underway and as they sat at the table—Ethan firmly steered Jack and his plate away from the couch—Jack was content enough to ask something he’d been curious about for a while now.

  “What is it with the hair?” He watched Ethan carefully for a response. “You love it when I touch your head.”

  Ethan went still, only for a moment, though, but when he relaxed, he kept his gaze on his food. Breaking the wobbly yolk on his fried egg, he dipped the corner of his toast into it, then put it down and pushed his plate aside. Just when Jack thought he should apologise for upsetting him, Ethan spoke.

  “I don’t recall much from my early childhood. I believe I told you once I was blind until I was six, or thereabouts.”

  Jack just nodded. Ethan talking about his past was so rare he didn’t want
to disrupt the flow.

  Sugar Babies were born with tissue across their eyes. These days, the surgery to remove it was much more successful and readily available. Back when Ethan was born, it had resulted in a high percentage of permanent blindness. As such, they’d held off on operating until the babies were older, but six was still much older than most kids were when undergoing the procedure.

  “As such, I have no memories of my mother’s face. I have a vague memory of her singing. At least, I think it’s her. It’s a lullaby, so I choose to believe it was she who sang it to me. By far the strongest memory I have is her running her hand through my hair. Sometimes it was to comfort me. Sometimes to comfort her.”

  Ethan went silent and motionless again. Once more, though, Jack only had to wait about half a minute before he found the words—or perhaps the courage—to keep talking.

  “Sometimes it was neither of those things. Those times, she would stroke my head as I was falling asleep, and say, Paul, ma petite erreur.” Slowly, Ethan raised his face to meet Jack’s gaze, a faint challenge in his expression.

  Keeping his face neutral, Jack processed the information encompassed in Ethan’s words.

  He was French, not British. Jack had more than half doubted the English accent was real right from the first time they met. A fake accent was an easy way to throw people off the mark while in disguise. Ethan’s French accent was perfect to Jack’s unaccustomed ear, but then so was the English one. That was the obvious revelation and one Jack could accept easily enough. It was the second one that made his stomach tighten in sympathy and shared pain.