Living With the Dead

by Kelley Armstrong

  * * *

  COLM

  Colm watched the couple walk out of Robyn Peltier's apartment minutes after he'd seen the cops leave. The place was a regular Grand Central Station, his mom would say.

  He backed farther into the cubby by the waste-disposal chute, but they headed the other way, toward the stairs. He continued to watch them through his mind's eye. Their figures were faint against a shimmering background, as if seen at the bottom of a lake through a dirty, glass-bottomed boat.

  It was a struggle to keep a fix on them. He'd been light-headed all evening - probably from not eating all day. After last night, his stomach was in a permanent knot, refusing to accept even the thought of food.

  He'd killed a man. Shot him in the back. He'd had to, of course, for Adele. She'd been so grateful. And his reward... He shivered now, thinking of it.

  Besides, the man had been an outsider. The kumpania taught that killing a human for survival was no different than slaughtering a cow for food. But last night, watching the man die, Colm hadn't been so sure.

  Still, it was over. He'd done the right thing, and now he had to focus on helping Adele again.

  The couple was about halfway down the hall now, moving fast, the man holding a backpack in one hand, his other on the woman's back.

  Colm wished he could see the woman's face. She looked pretty. He watched her rear moving under her tight pants and felt himself harden. His gaze moved to the man's hand, so confident, so intimate, her hair cascading over his fingers. Beautiful hair, black curls spilling down her back. Nothing like Adele's short, straight, dirty-blond hair. Guilt surged at the comparison, but it trickled away as he imagined what it would be like to touch the woman's hair, to wrap it around his fingers, to see it hanging down as she rode above -

  Fresh guilt slapped the image out of his head. She was human. Unfit. Unclean. Even to entertain the thought was a betrayal -

  The woman glanced over her shoulder, as if she'd heard his thoughts. His heart pounded, and her image faded. He concentrated on pulling it back, working so hard that the vision snapped into focus, nearly crystal-clear.

  Even with the frown, she was pretty. Brown skin and golden eyes like a cat -

  "What's wrong?" The man's voice was soft, but carried down the quiet hall. He stopped, pulling her farther into his protection as he scanned the corridor. "Did you - ?" The next words sounded like "sense something?"

  The woman shook her head and tore her gaze away. She murmured something too low for Colm to hear and they continued to the stairwell. Colm struggled to hold the vision, but by the time they reached the last flight, the scene blinked out.

  Colm had presumed they were part of the investigation. Friends of Robyn Peltier's helping the police to find her.

  After seeing their cautious glances, though, he reconsidered. Both had been dressed in dark clothes. They'd taken the stairs, not the elevator like the police. Again he saw that backpack swinging from the man's hand.

  Colm hurried after them.

  * * *

  HOPE

  We're being followed." Karl said this as casually as he'd remark on the weather.

  "Cop?" Hope whispered.

  He shook his head.

  "Curious neighbor?"

  "I don't know. I can only hear and smell him."

  "Then how do you know - ? Ah. The smell is male and you hear only one set of footsteps. The way he's following suggests he's not a cop. Sneaking after us."

  "Very good. So, what should we do?"

  Hope knew he wasn't asking her advice. With Karl, she'd always be the student. She was fine with that. She was dating a professional thief almost twice her age - she'd long since stopped worrying about the appropriateness of the relationship.

  The question was an opportunity for Hope to build confidence in her ability to make good choices. For the demon, the answer sprang to mind with the weight and surety of a sledgehammer blow. She should turn around and confront their pursuer. She had a gun and the element of surprise. Grab the upper hand, shove it in his face and let the sweet chaos of his reaction rain down.

  The moment the demon tossed in its two cents, her conscience reared up with the polar-opposite response. Deny the demon. Don't engage - escape.

  After considering both arguments, she told Karl what she thought they should do.

  Two minutes later, Hope was making her demon very happy as she waltzed into the path of her pursuer.

  She didn't have the heart to tell it there was no kick-ass confrontation coming. The demon probably knew that, but was keeping silent, hoping for an emergency change of plans, cheered by the gun hidden in Hope's pocket.

  In the supernatural world, using a gun was considered a sign of cowardice. Hope didn't play by those rules. She couldn't afford to. Having the ability to sense danger only protected her so far. All the aikido lessons in the world weren't going to save her against a charging werewolf or armed human killer, both equally likely in her line of work. So she carried a gun. Always.

  When they'd neared the end of the wall, she'd done the "Damn it, I forgot something" charade, throwing up her hands and gesturing at the apartment. Karl had nodded and said loudly that he'd bring the car around.

  He headed across the road, then circled back on the other side of the wall, where he was now lying in wait.

  Whoever was following them was hidden in the bushes along the wall. Hope couldn't see him, but his vibes blared loud as a siren. Fear. Anxiety. Misgivings. She caught the emotions and a jumble of thoughts, too muddled to distinguish whole words. As she drank in the chaos, the demon perked up.

  See? He's afraid. No danger here. No need to wait for Karl. The daughter of Lucifer doesn't need a werewolf to protect her. Show him what you can -

  Hope gagged the demon and kept walking.

  Their pursuer moved with her, the bushes rustling loud enough for Hope to track his progress even without the chaos siren.

  See? He's an amateur. Easy prey. Just -

  She veered from the wall so she wouldn't make him any more nervous. The demon withdrew, sulking.

  As Hope neared a place where a large tree overhung the wall, she caught a vision flash of Karl crouched at the top of the wall, hidden in the tree's shadow, waiting to pounce. The vision was oddly distorted, like looking through old glass, and she stopped short, confused.

  The bushes erupted. As Hope wheeled, a figure leapt out, gun raised. She opened her mouth to warn Karl, but chaos blasted off the figure - absolute terror, so strong she reeled back, her shout a strangled squeak.

  Karl's dark form was already in midjump. He twisted out of the way, but the figure didn't fire, just lifted the gun, then spun and ran.

  Hope recovered in time to see a flash of a boy's face, freckled with red hair, not more than sixteen. The shock of that stunned her just long enough for the boy to streak past.

  She tore after him. Karl's footsteps pounded behind them. Hope kept her lead but as quick as she was, the boy was faster. He made it through the propped-open rear exit and slammed it shut before she got there.

  Hope yanked on the door handle. Locked. She was fumbling with Robyn's keys when Karl caught her hand.

  He whispered, "Let him go," but his vibes screamed a very different message, the wolf gnashing its teeth as its prey escaped.

  Karl's gaze moved to the parking lot, reminding her - and himself - of the police stakeout. They couldn't afford to be seen hanging around, much less be caught racing after the boy.

  "We scared the crap out of him," she whispered. "He won't be coming back."

  Karl nodded. Whether he believed that or not, it got them away from that door. One last lingering look, and they headed for the car.

  * * *

  COLM

  Colm huddled under the stairs, shaking so hard he thought he was going to throw up.

  He'd been so busy watching the woman he'd forgotten all about the man. It had only been a fluke - or survival instinct - that sent him a vision flash of the man crouched on the wa
ll. He could still see him jumping, his face hard and eyes gleaming, lips pulled back. Even in memory that look made Colm's bladder twitch. In real life, it had made him turn tail and run.

  He'd seen the man twist in midflight, yet still hit the ground running. An eight-foot wall and he'd jumped down effortlessly. No hesitation, no bracing for a fall.

  He wasn't human. That look on his face hadn't been human.

  He remembered the woman in the hall, turning. The man had asked if she'd sensed something.

  Sensed how? Magic? Was she a witch? The man some kind of half-demon?

  But why would supernaturals be in Robyn Peltier's apartment?

  Maybe because they were looking for the same thing he was: Robyn Peltier. Or the photograph.

  What if that photo wasn't an accident? Irving Nast had tricked Adele into that meeting. Maybe he'd had Portia Kane take the picture to blackmail Adele into working for the Cabal. Before Nast could get the photo, Adele had stolen the cell phone. So now these two supernaturals had to retrieve a copy from Robyn Peltier.

  So Portia Kane had been a supernatural secret agent? That sounded crazy. But what if the Cabals knew about the kumpania and what they did for a living? Wouldn't a celebrity supernatural be the perfect lure to draw them out?

  The Cabals were devious and endlessly resourceful. They'd created an interracial council, supposedly to protect supernaturals, but if you ran to them, you'd be turned right back over to the Cabals. They set up one of their own Cabal sons - Lucas Cortez - as a so-called crusader, but if you ran to him, again, you'd end up back in the hands of the Cabal. You could never underestimate them, never be too paranoid. That's the lesson the phuri had drilled into Colm's head from birth.

  But if Portia Kane had taken the photo for the Cabal, why not just send it to them right away? Why mail it to Robyn Peltier?

  As he calmed down, he was ashamed of himself for panicking. That couple weren't supernaturals. So he'd seen a man jump from an eight-foot wall. Big deal. Stuntmen did it all the time. This was L.A.

  He was making up elaborate stories to excuse the simple truth that he'd screwed up. How he would have loved to return to Adele, say he'd followed a suspicious couple and found Robyn Peltier. He imagined how she'd react to that, the look in her eyes, the taste of her kiss, her voice murmuring in his ear, "How can I ever repay you?"

  He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the fantasy back. He'd still find Robyn Peltier for Adele. He wouldn't mention the couple to her. No need to expose his cowardice. She'd sent him to retrieve a personal item from the apartment and he would, then he'd use it to find Peltier. His powers might be immature, but surely he could boost them for a reward he wanted badly enough.

  Since puberty the elders had been preparing him for his eventual role, teaching him all the skills he'd need as a contributing member of the kumpania. Lock picking had come early. When you first got an assignment, you'd need to steal personal items to make a connection. After that, getting a valuable celebrity shot sometimes meant being someplace you weren't supposed to be. Being able to open locked doors and disarm alarms came in very handy.

  As he approached the door, he slid the pick into his hand, then set to work.

  There was something not quite right with the locking mechanism. As his frustration mounted, he forgot the second part of any breakin job: keeping a constant watch on his surroundings. He didn't hear the whoosh of the elevator doors until they were closing.

  "Can I help you, son?"

  A uniformed officer started toward him, shoulders squaring. Colm closed his fingers over the pick and pushed it up his sleeve.

  "I was looking for Miss Peltier. She bought some chocolate almonds from me for band."

  The officer stopped in front of him. "Band?"

  "A band trip. I go to LACHSA." When the officer looked confused, he said, "Los Angeles County High School of the Arts." A school he could claim, no matter what part of the city he was in. "I was going to tell her the almonds will be late."

  "You live in the building?"

  Colm nodded. "With my mom. Number 304."

  The lies came effortlessly. More lessons taught from birth. No matter how innocent the question, lie.

  The officer seemed to consider taking him down to 304 and Colm was mentally preparing his excuse and escape plan, but after a moment, the officer asked, "When's the last time you saw Ms. Peltier?"

  "Last Tues - no, Wednesday. I was waiting out front for my cab to school."

  The officer reached into his pocket and handed Colm a card. "If you see her again, give me a call."

  "Is something wrong?"

  "We just need to talk to her."

  Colm read the card slowly, hoping the officer would walk away. But he just stood there, waiting for Colm to leave. After a moment, he did.

  Once again, Colm stood in the first-floor stairwell. He'd tried to remotely watch the officer, so he could sneak back up, but he was so nervous he couldn't concentrate. Even clutching the officer's card didn't help.

  There was no way he was getting into that apartment now. He couldn't talk his way out of being caught up there a second time.

  He wished he could call Adele, but she'd been summoned into a conference with the phuri. With Portia Kane dead, they'd waste no time assigning her a new subject. They always had several on backup. Everyone needed to pull his weight.

  In the meantime, he'd come up with a version of events that put him in a better light. No mysterious couple. Certainly no walking into their trap. And there'd been two - no, maybe four - cops searching the apartment. He'd waited for hours, but they hadn't left. Adele couldn't blame him for that... he hoped.

  * * *

  HOPE

  Hope called Robyn from the car. Robyn sounded as if she'd been sleeping, groggy, confused. Hope said they had her laptop and some clothes and were going to pick up food before coming back. They'd be there in an hour or so.

  Then, with the danger past, Karl wanted to hear details of her plans for a cabin getaway. Hope was happy to oblige... in every way.

  Afterward, still parked where they'd stopped, she took out the laptop. She didn't like snooping through Robyn's files, but if Portia's killer was the supernatural Hope had sensed in the club, she'd better get a look at this picture before Robyn did.

  Proof of their existence was something supernaturals would kill for - not only to protect themselves from exposure, but to save their ass from the council, the Cabals and every pissed-off supernatural who'd come gunning for them. But when Hope found the picture it was exactly what Robyn said: a picture of Jasmine Wills in the most god-awful outfit imaginable.

  Karl leaned over. "Is she going to a costume party?"

  "Even I can tell this is one criminal fashion faux pas. Criminal enough to turn Jasmine into a murderer? Portia takes it and calls Jasmine to gloat. Jasmine knows where she'll be that night. She goes to Bane with a gun, planning to threaten Portia. But if you take a gun to a fight, you'd better be damned sure you can control your temper because all it takes is one tug on the trigger."

  "True."

  "But if it was Jasmine, Portia would have recognized her. So maybe this isn't why her killer wanted the cell phone. Maybe she only went after Rob because she was a witness. Or maybe she didn't go after her at all. A woman definitely shot Portia, and Rob was sure a guy killed the undercover officer. A partner? Totally unrelated?" Hope rubbed her temples. "Okay, tell me to stop blathering."

  "Never. I like your blathering."

  She glanced over at him. "Are you okay with this? It seems I'm always dragging you into some mess or another."

  "You don't drag. I follow for the entertainment value." He angled the laptop more toward him. "So, we have this photo of a girl in an ugly dress. She's on a sidewalk. In the background, there's a store window. Behind her, we have a couple - "

  "Shit. Isn't that - ?"

  Hope turned the laptop back for a better look. She'd been so blinded by the hideousness of Jasmine's outfit that she hadn't even noticed th
e two people at the edge of the frame. A middle-aged man in an expensive suit and a girl barely out of her teens, deep in conversation.

  "That's a Nast."

  Karl frowned, leaning over the armrest for a better look. Hope turned the laptop toward him again and pointed to the man.

  "You recognize him?" he asked.

  "No, but I recognize the look."

  The Nasts ran the largest of the four North American Cabals. Their head office was in L.A. Hope had more contact with the Cortezes, out of Miami, but she'd seen enough photos of the Nasts to recognize one. Sixty-five years ago, they could have served as poster boys for Hitler's Aryan army - tall, broad-shouldered, blond-haired, with bright blue eyes. Handsome in a severe, arrogant way, as if they'd sooner crush you under their Gucci loafers than speak to you - and with most Nasts, you were wise to take that as a warning.

  Hope pointed at the photo. "If this guy is a Nast, you can bet this is why Portia Kane was killed for this photo. As for why..."

  "I doubt that girl beside him is his daughter."

  "Given the fact that sorcerers don't have daughters, I'd say it's a sure bet. And she's too young to be his personal assistant. If Portia Kane accidentally snapped a photo of a middle-aged guy with his post-pubescent mistress, that hardly seems worth killing her for. But we're talking about a Cabal. If this photo could damage the reputation of a top exec, he'd want it back. Portia Kane and Robyn would be considered expendable." She opened the mail program. "But all that hinges on this guy being a Nast. If you can drive until I pick up a wireless connection, I should have an answer for us by morning."

  Hope didn't need to wait until morning. She sent an e-mail, then called to leave a message at Lucas's office, not wanting to bother him at home so late. But someone answered the office phone.

  "Cortez-Winterbourne Investigations. Ridding the world of evil, one demonic entity at a time."

  "I hope that's not how you normally handle the office phones, Savannah."

  "Absolutely. Weeds out the cranks and telemarketers, let me tell ya."

  "What are you doing there so late?"

  The line hissed, as if Savannah was getting comfortable. "Working my ass off as always. You know those Cortezes. Work supernaturals into the grave, then bring 'em back and work 'em some more. So I'm here and I just got your e-mail. Now, let me get this straight. You have this photo, everyone who touches it goes on some kind of death list, and now you're sending it to me. I've seen this in a movie, you know."