by J. R. Ward
Bill nodded. “I will.”
And then she was out in the morning sunlight which was surprisingly warm. Stopping, she looked up to the sky, squinting and covering her eyes with her hand. She had never before thought of the sun as something to avoid, outside of the skin cancer thing.
Being a redhead and all.
Now, as she tried to focus on the great glowing ball, she felt her heart skip beats—
The door burst open behind her and Bill jumped out. There was a pause, and then they were giving each other a hug.
“Anything I can do,” he said as they pulled apart. “I’m there for you.”
“Just take care of your Lydia, k?”
“We can still go hunting,” he offered. “You know, for things that go bump in the night.”
Jo thought of everything she’d witnessed firsthand. Everything she now knew. “I think I’m going to retire my paranormal researcher hat, too.”
“You’re giving up? I tell you, one of these days we’re going to get our proof.”
“I don’t think there’s anything out there… that shouldn’t be there.”
Jo gave his arm a squeeze, made another promise to call him, and then hustled off for her car. As she got in, she tossed her purse into the passenger seat and looked at all the wrappers in the wheel well. The fact that Syn had sat there just a matter of nights before. And gone back to her apartment. And made love to her…
“Stop it.”
She was putting the car in reverse when her phone went off again and she almost let the thing go. The idea that it could possibly, maybe, okay-probably-not-but-still, be Syn was the only reason she went bag diving, and when she pulled out her cell, she cursed.
McCordle.
Well, she needed to talk to him anyway.
Accepting the call, she continued backing out of her parking spot. “Hey, I was going to c—”
“I need you to meet me ASAP.”
“Listen,” she said as she put the car in drive, “I’m not working at the CCJ anymore. Anything that has to do with—”
“Where are you?”
“I’m leaving the paper. Which is my point. You need to get in touch with Bill. He’s back at work now—”
“Meet me at Market and Tenth. There’s an alley one block in on the left.”
“I told you. I’m not with the CCJ anymore. You need to take all this to Bill—”
“This is about you, not the articles you’ve been writing. Come now.”
* * *
“I’m not going out into the field tonight.”
As Syn spoke the words, he did not look up from his position on the floor of his bedroom suite’s closet. He did not sit up. He did not get up. He did not lift his eyes.
It wasn’t because he wanted trouble with Tohrment, who was the organizer of the shifts, the pairer of fighters, the buck-stops-here for everything war related. No, he didn’t look up because he did not want trouble.
“I know,” Tohr said. “You texted that you’re taking yourself off rotation to everybody. I guess what I’m interested in is why and what your plans are if you don’t go out to fight.”
Syn closed his lids against the glare of the overhead light—which the Brother had turned on as soon as he’d walked in, uninvited.
“I don’t have any plans,” Syn said.
“You sure about that?”
“Yup.” He repositioned the wadded-up shirt he was using as a pillow. “No plans at all.”
“You’re just going to keep lying here after sundown?”
“I may go to the weight room. Might go downtown for a burger. You never know where the mood will take a person.”
“Syn.”
When the Brother didn’t say anything further, Syn became aware that he was going to have play pupil tag or this looming thing Tohr was rocking, coupled with these awkward, unanswered inquiries, was going to continue till the end of time.
“What,” he said as he glanced in Tohr’s direction.
“What’s going on with you?”
“I’m developing the skills necessary to be a throw rug. This requires a great degree of horizontal work and concentration.”
“Listen, I know about Jo Early—”
“Yes, you do. She is a half-breed I was trying to protect, and she’s related to Butch and Manny, and she’s on the verge of her transition. No, I’m not going to be the male she uses. Her brothers are aware of this, and that’s all there is to know about absolutely everything.”
“When are you coming back on roster?”
Syn looked away to the vacant hanging rods that made a circle of the walk-in. “I don’t know.”
“So you’re out permanently?” Before Syn could back off the Brother, Tohr spoke up. “And no, I’m not going to back off. I’m responsible for partnering up all of the fighters, including the Band of Bastards. I have to know your intentions so I can plan.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t…” Tohr lowered himself down onto his haunches, those navy-blue peepers sharp as blades. “You realized what is at stake, right? You’ve been knee-deep in the cesspool of this war for centuries, just like the rest of us. And you’re quitting at the end? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Syn debated whether or not he could let the insult slide, given that, considering his reputation, what was wrong with him was kind of self-explanatory. But then he thought about Jo.
Meeting her had changed a lot for him. Had changed… pretty much everything. And he had the strangest sense that if he spoke of this, if he said it out loud, it would be real. It would be forever.
Sitting up slowly, he prayed he could get the words out.
“I don’t want to kill anything anymore,” he said in a voice that cracked. “Ever.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Jo went where Officer McCordle told her to go, even though when she got to Market and Tenth and found the alley, she wasn’t sure which side of it she was supposed to turn in to. She went left on a whim, and when she saw the squad car, she pulled up grille-to-grille with it. Getting out, she was totally numb.
McCordle motioned her over through his front windshield and popped the passenger side door. As she got into the squad car, she felt a stifling warmth and smelled spearmint gum, aftershave, and fresh coffee.
Shutting things up, she turned to the cop. “What’s this about—”
“We have reason to believe there’s a credible hit out on you.” The police radio squawked at a low volume and the laptop mounted on the center console spooled all kinds of data on its matte screen. “I want to show you some footage from the FBI feed.”
It was a commentary on how her life was going that a police officer telling her the mob wanted to kill her was an also-ran.
I’ll see you and raise you I’m-a-vampire, she thought.
Instead of going into the computer, McCordle got out his cell phone. “The FBI got warrants to surveil both Carmine Gigante’s cement business and the Hudson Hunt and Fish Club. The night after Johnny Pappalardo was found dead in that alley, a man met with Gigante at the latter. In that meeting, Gigante acknowledged that he asked the man to kill Pappalardo, and maintained that it had been done in too showy a way. He demanded that the man make things right by killing you.”
“Okay.” She watched the officer tap the screen of his phone. “And?”
“The man said he would take care of it. Your name was specifically used—hold on, I have to scroll through to get the right file.”
“Are you supposed to have this video?” God, she just wanted to go home and sleep right now. “I mean, shouldn’t I talk to the FBI.” Not that she cared one way or the other. “I can call whoever I need to.” And that was a problem, wasn’t it—the no-caring thing. “I mean—”
“Here it is.” He tilted his phone toward her and clicked the volume button up. “Let me know if you’ve ever seen this guy?”
The video was in black-and-white, shot from what appeared to be the upper corner of a windo
wless, grungy office. As she tried to orient herself, she had a mental image of someone drilling a hole in a ceiling’s Sheetrock and feeding in something of a fiber-optic nature. Whatever.
Okay, so there was a man sitting at the desk, a fat, older man who she recognized as Gigante. And then someone came in—
Jo’s heart stopped.
The man was tall and broad. Dressed in leather. And he had a Mohawk.
Swallowing hard, she tried to make her ears work. There was some kind of conversation happening on the little screen, but she couldn’t seem to hear anything. Sure, the phone’s speaker was tinny to begin with and the audio quality pretty poor. Then again, her brain was spinning with the implications—
“You know what, it’s your lucky fucking night. I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to give you a chance for redemption. As opposed to a grave.”
All at once, Gigante’s words came through loud and clear. And then she heard…
“You take care of this reporter problem for me,” the mob boss said in the video, “and I’ll forgive you for fucking up the Pappalardo hit.”
Say no, she thought. Tell him you won’t do it. Tell him—
“I’ll take care of it,” Syn said with absolutely no emotion at all. “What’s the name?”
“Jo Early.”
Jo sat back abruptly. “I’ve seen enough.”
McCordle paused the video. “Do you know him?”
Looking out through the windshield, she traced the details of the alley: the trash that had gathered inside the sunken doorways, deposited by capricious wind gusts. The fire escapes that ran down the buildings’ brick walls, cheap necklaces decorating the flat cleavage between rows of windows. The car on the opposite side that had a busted window, no hubcaps, and a string of curses scratched into its paint.
She thought of the night she had run from the police helicopter with Syn.
Had he planned to get her out of sight in that restaurant to do the hit? And then reconsidered when he’d found out she was like him? As in not human?
If she failed to turn into a vampire, was he going to kill her then? Gigante might be dead, but his organization continued, and from everything she’d learned about the mob, they had long memories. And how was a vampire doing hit jobs for humans? Didn’t that violate the separation of species rule?
As she considered the implications and danger of it all, images filtered through her mind and she tried to mine her interactions with Syn for clues as to his intentions.
“The FBI is going to contact you later this afternoon,” McCordle said. “I wanted to get to you first because I don’t think they realize that just because Gigante is dead, it doesn’t mean you’re safe. I tried to get them to understand this, but they’re short-staffed and focusing on Frank Pappalardo’s retaliation. They’re trying to nail him for Gigante, Senior’s killing before the violence explodes. Meanwhile, you’re here in Caldwell, walking around, unaware of anything. This hit man is at large and Gigante’s son, Junior, is still alive. Who knows what can happen.”
“Thank you,” she said dully.
“So?”
Jo looked over. “I’m sorry?”
McCordle pointed at the screen of his phone. “Have you ever seen this man before?”
Taking a deep breath, she made herself look at the image of her former lover.
“No,” she said. “I haven’t.”
* * *
When you worked a nine-to-five job, it was amazing how much you couldn’t get done during the week. After Jo left McCordle, she filled her car up with gas. She went to the dry cleaners and picked up her single pair of dress slacks. She hit the grocery store, buying some basics and two bottles of Motrin. She retrieved a pair of shoes from the cobbler’s—that had been waiting there for three months.
So it was basically a Saturday happening on a Thursday.
And all the while, she waited for the FBI to call her.
By the time she returned to her apartment, it was almost two in the afternoon. Still plenty of daylight left, and it wasn’t like she had to worry about someone shooting at her. She already knew who her hit man was, and he couldn’t go out in the sunshine.
No worries there.
After bringing in her grocery bags and her dry cleaning, she locked herself inside with the dead bolt and the chain, and put everything away. Then she went through her mail, looking for bills. She had about two months of cash on hand, and a credit card with seventeen hundred dollars of airspace on it. Impending transition and death threats aside, she was going to have to start her job search immediately.
And her financial imperative was almost a relief. If she hadn’t had to worry about something, anything, she would have gone insane.
The FBI called at 4:34—not that she knew it was them from the number. It was only after she listened to the message left by the special agent that she learned who it had been. They wanted her to phone back right away. They wanted her to come to the field office—or the agent could come to her, whatever was easiest for her. They wanted her to know that this was a serious matter, requiring her urgent attention.
Jo put her cell facedown on the table and refocused on her laptop. She had updated her résumé a month ago—almost like she’d known what was coming, huh. So it was the work of a moment to upload it on Monster.com, and start searching receptionist jobs in Caldwell. Long-term goal of departure aside, she figured it would be important to stay put until… well, until her body decided what it was going to do. After that? Who knew.
“Damn it,” she muttered as she sat back.
Instead of resuming the job search, she went over to the CCJ website and browsed through the articles that had been posted in the previous five hours. Was Bill doing that now? It had to be him. No one else was in the newsroom and God knew Dick wasn’t good for anything other than being a dick.
Eventually, she ended up going into the archives and re-reading the articles and updates she had written. She also looked at the photographs of Gigante and his son together, and then Johnny Pappalardo dead in that alley. And mourned the dreams she’d enjoyed for such a short time.
She was still sitting at her kitchen table when the people upstairs came home from work at six.
And she was still sitting there when the sun went down and night came.
And still sitting there when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up at attention.
Without knowing what her instincts were picking up on, she rose to her feet and went over to the front window. She had closed the venetian blinds flat after the butler had left that morning, and she didn’t want to tip off whoever it might be that she was on the alert. Angling herself awkwardly, she tried to see out the gap next to the window frame. Yeah, nope. Plus with the lights on in the apartment, she couldn’t really see anything in the darkness outside.
Walking backward to her bedroom, she snagged her gun from her purse on the way. The lights were off in there, so she went right to her window and looked through the slats—
There was a figure.
Standing right there.
Jerking back against the wall, she fumbled with the gun, taking the safety off. Then she went for her phone, even though she wasn’t sure who to call. The FBI? No, McCordle. Unless… 911? But what was she reporting exactly—
The cell went off in her hand and she jumped. When she saw who it was, her heart pounded.
She was still trying to make up her mind whether or not to answer when voice mail kicked in. But instead of leaving a message, the caller texted her.
I’m outside. Can we talk?
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Syn had felt like it was important to approach Jo’s window by himself. He didn’t want to frighten her, and more than that… he didn’t want anyone seeing how emotional he might get. He’d listened to the voice mail she had left him earlier in the day about a hundred times, and each replay had carved another piece out of the inside of his chest.
She had sounded so alone. So scared.
He had tried to call her every hour, on the hour, and failed to press send each time. He had no clue what to say to her, and now that he was standing outside her bedroom window like a stalker, he discovered that physical proximity had not improved his vocabulary.
The scent of her registered first, that fresh meadow perfume entering his nose and running throughout his body. Then he heard the soft footfalls.
The latter stopped. The former continued to ride the air currents to his nose.
Syn turned and faced the female who had stolen his heart. “Hello, Jo.”
“What are you doing here?”
There had been no way of knowing what his reception was going to be, but he hadn’t anticipated so much anger.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you—”
“What do you want.”
Not a question.
Syn frowned. “Are you okay?”
She walked forward, coming down the side of the apartment building, closing in on him. Actually, she was outright marching.
“I’m great,” she said as she halted in front of him. “And I’m also armed, in case you’ve come here to earn your money.”
As she pegged him with hard, hostile eyes, he took a step back. “What?”
“I saw the videotape.” Before he could ask for a better explanation, she snapped, “The one where you agree to kill me for Carmine Gigante Sr.? To make up for the fact that you didn’t do what you said you would to Johnny Pappalardo? Tell me something, how does a vampire like you manage to become a mob hit man without getting into trouble with the Brotherhood? It strikes me as a risky side gig, given the whole keep-us-a-secret thing.”
“I didn’t hurt you,” Syn said.
The laugh that came out of her was the very definition of sarcasm. “You didn’t shoot me—for sure. But the night is young, isn’t it. And you’re here to check and see whether I’m a vampire or if I’m still a human, right? So tell me something, Syn, what are you going to do if I don’t change. Are you the one who’s going to put me in my grave? I mean, it’s killing two birds with one stone, isn’t it. You silence a problem for the species and collect cash from the mob. It’s a smart move.”
