“You ready?” he asked, tucking the folder back under his arm.
“I feel violated,” Zachariah commented as he joined him. He paused before adding, emphatically, “Again.”
Ashton frowned and waited for him to catch up before starting toward the exit. “I’m sorry,” he said, remembering the feeling vividly. Sometimes it seemed like the medical care afterwards was just as traumatic as the incident itself. “I wish it’d been avoidable. Going through all of that is never comfortable.”
“You say that like you’ve been there before,” Zachariah said as they stepped onto the elevator.
“I have, remember?” Ashton said. “Three times, and it was just as bad every time.”
As the elevator’s doors slid shut, Ashton took a second to study Zachariah. The younger man looked a lot better than he had when Ashton had managed to dig him out of the cellar in Bolivia; hell, he looked better than he had when they’d first walked into the building, even after the medical care Ashton had given him. The medical personnel in the Agency’s facility had done a good job of patching him up, Ashton recognized as he examined his face. He had a split lip that they obviously couldn’t do anything for, and there was a cut near one of his eyebrows that had been bandaged, and the swelling and bruising on his face hadn’t gone down, but he looked healthier, despite the wearied look in his green eyes.
“So what are we going to do, Ash?” Zachariah asked, and his nickname stirred up a pleased little flutter in Ashton’s stomach. He pushed the feeling aside and looked up at the elevator doors; they were sliding open in a suggestion that they exit the elevator, and Ashton motioned for Zachariah to follow him as he replied.
“We’re going to do what Director Hartley has ordered us to do,” he explained. “While you were getting checked out by the doctors, I was reading up on all of this, trying to get a handle on it.”
“You seem to be taking this remarkably well for someone who wasn’t sure he believed me earlier,” Zachariah commented.
“It’s not that I didn’t believe you,” Ashton said as they walked across the marble-floored lobby toward the front doors. “I just…well, werewolves, Zach. I don’t know many people that would believe that. I’m still not totally sure I do. But I do what I’m ordered to do, and that’s that.” He held the folder up to emphasize his point. “So I’m willing to go with it for now.”
“I suppose it’s too much to hope for that you’d be that easily accepting,” Zachariah commented.
They stepped out into the bright sunlight—was it really still day?—and stood on the sidewalk just beyond the doors, separated from the street beyond by a parking lot and another sidewalk. The air was slightly chilled, but it was nothing Ashton couldn’t handle. He shaded his eyes against the sun, squinting at the bustling traffic, and Zachariah asked, “So where exactly are we going to go?”
Ashton sighed. “Well, you need more time to rest after everything you’ve been through,” he started.
“I’m fine, Ash.”
“Yeah? So what did the doctor say?” Ashton asked. “And don’t lie to me, either. I can tell when you’re lying.”
Zachariah sighed, a tired, beleaguered sound. “The doctor said I need to take it easy for a day or two before I do anything strenuous,” he said, the word almost a monotone. “I asked him to define strenuous, and he said anything that involves me breaking a sweat.”
“Anything else?” Ashton prompted.
The younger man sighed again. “Of course,” he muttered. “I have to minimize any physical impact that might have an effect on the injuries on my back. Some of them needed stitches, but it was too late to put them in, so he used some gluey stuff to close them up for now. He said they’ll scar ugly, but I’ll be okay.”
“And?”
He sighed. “And it doesn’t appear I have any…damage from what happened after the beating.”
Ashton couldn’t help but notice the delicateness with which he stepped around the word “rape.” It was always hard to admit when something like that happened, and Zachariah was feeling that for the first time in his life. Ashton felt an irrational urge to comfort him, but he refrained, instead simply giving his arm a light squeeze before letting his hand drop to his side. “Well, then, now that I know what the next step is,” he said, “which is rest for you, I have some idea of where we can go.”
“Which is?” Zachariah prompted.
“My place,” Ashton offered. “It’s not that far from here, and I have an extra bed.”
“Why do you have an extra bed?” Zachariah asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Because my guest house has too many bedrooms and I didn’t have anything else to put in it,” Ashton replied, digging his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolling through the contacts list for the taxi service he preferred using. After placing a call for a pickup, he stuffed it back into his pocket and walked away from the front doors, picking a spot to lean against and taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
“You smoke?” Zachariah sounded surprised.
“Only when I’m off duty,” Ashton replied as he lit one of the cigarettes. He exhaled a puff of smoke, turning his head to blow it away from the other man.
“You don’t look like the type to smoke.”
“There’s a type?” Ashton asked, raising an eyebrow quizzically. “In case you didn’t notice, we live and work in high stress situations fairly frequently. I’m actually more surprised that you don’t smoke.”
Zachariah shrugged. “It’s just a habit I’ve never gotten into.”
“Count your blessings, then,” Ashton said, even as he took a drag off his cigarette. “It’s a fucking dirty habit.”
“So why don’t you quit, then, if it’s so dirty?” Zachariah asked.
“According to my Agency trainer, I’m lacking in proper motivation.” He looked past Zachariah to see a familiar yellow vehicle pulling into the Agency’s parking lot, so he stubbed out his cigarette against the side of the building and nodded toward the taxi. “Our ride is here.”
“What about your bag?” Zachariah asked.
He waved the question off. “I’ll get it later. Come on.”
The ride to Ashton’s home in the suburbs was quiet, and he spent it alternately flipping through the folders Damon had given them and glancing at Zachariah out of the corner of his eye. The man seemed uncomfortable, but Ashton wasn’t sure if it was because he was still in some level of pain or if he was uncertain about hanging around Ashton’s home for a few days while they hashed through the new information that had been dumped on them. He was tempted to ask, but a surefire way to make someone even more uncomfortable than they already were was to question them about why they were in the first place.
Another possibility of why he was so uncomfortable around Ashton floated through his mind in the form of tiny snapshots from that last night they’d spent together three months before. Ashton shifted in his seat, suddenly a bit uncomfortable himself. His train of thought definitely did not need to go in that direction. Instead, he made a vow to keep his eyes—and his thoughts—on the information in the folder on his lap. Zachariah had been through enough. The last thing he needed was Ashton acting lecherous after everything he was dealing with.
Ashton didn’t begin to feel truly comfortable until he and Zachariah actually reached his home, the small guest house that he’d been renting for the past several years, taking up most of the backyard space of the house it resided behind. He led Zachariah up the small paver path to the guest house’s front door and unlocked it as the younger man looked around the backyard.
“Whose house is this?” he asked, motioning to the larger, two-story house that blocked the view of the street beyond.
“Director Hartley’s,” Ashton answered, ushering Zachariah inside and shutting the door.
“You live behind the director? No way,” Zachariah commented as he walked through his living room and looked around unabashedly. Ashton didn’t respond to his comment; he was too busy notic
ing the dust on his television screen, the general air of disuse in the house, and the one stray cobweb in the corner of the room near the ceiling. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten so lax in his cleaning duties—but in his defense, he hadn’t exactly been home in about a month. Maybe it was time to consider hiring a once-a-week housekeeper to step in and tidy up when he was out of town.
“Real nice space you got here,” Zachariah commented, stopping in the middle of the living room. He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head back, turning in a slow circle to take in the sight of the prints he’d hung on the wall and the plush, barely sat-on couch positioned below them. “Very cozy.”
“Thanks,” Ashton replied. He closed and locked the front door then shoved his hands into his pockets. “There’s beer in the fridge if you want something to drink,” he offered. “The bathroom is down the hall, first door on the left. The guest room’s the first on the right. Master bedroom is at the end of the hall.”
“Good to know,” Zachariah said. “I think I’m going to take a shower while I have the chance.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan,” he agreed. “While you’re in there, I’ll fix us something to eat, and then after we eat, we can weed through the paperwork in the folder Director Hartley gave us and maybe learn something beneficial.”
* * *
Ashton could make a mean plate of spaghetti, Zachariah thought as he sucked another long, sauce-covered noodle into his mouth. It’d been quite a while since he’d had anything resembling a home-cooked meal—at least, not one that wasn’t cooked at a restaurant—so this was a rare treat for him. He swallowed the mouthful of noodles that he’d already scooped into his mouth and attacked the slice of buttery garlic bread that rested on the edge of his plate, swiping it through the sauce on his noodles and popping a bite of it into his mouth.
“Any good?” Ashton asked as Zachariah ate his food almost joyously.
“Are you kidding me?” he replied. He twirled his fork’s tines through the noodles again and scooped some up, shoving them into his mouth. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten in, God, weeks.”
“I aim to please,” Ashton said, picking up his glass of wine and taking a sip. He did, in fact, look pleased at how much Zachariah was enjoying the meal, even though he hadn’t eaten much of it himself. As promised, he waited until Zachariah had eaten his last bite and pushed the plate away before he asked, “So how about we get started with this?” He reached into the seat of the empty chair to his right and lifted the thick folder into view, dropping it onto an empty space on the tabletop.
Zachariah stuffed a last bite of garlic bread into his mouth and leaned back in his chair, massaging his flat stomach. “I think I ate too much,” he admitted. “Please tell me there’s nothing gross in that folder. With as much as I ate, there’s a chance my dinner might revisit.”
Ashton grimaced but didn’t respond, instead opening the folder and thumbing through what was inside. “We’ve got sections on history, who is and who might be werewolves, and—”
“And throw all that in the trash, because I don’t give a shit about it,” Zachariah said. He grabbed his wine glass and downed what was left in it before pouring himself another from the bottle on the table. “All I want to know is who I have to kill and how.” He took a swig of his wine and added, “And I already know the ‘who’ part.”
“Don’t go off half-cocked,” Ashton admonished. “We need a plan. I’m not standing by while you get yourself killed because you’re so hellbent on revenge that you don’t recognize the bad situation you’re walking into.”
“Sheesh, Ash, I know I’m only a level four, but that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot,” he muttered. “I know we need a plan, and I know I need your help.” He downed the last inch of wine in his glass in one big gulp and set the goblet down on the edge of the table. “I just want that bastard dead for what he did to me. I don’t care how we manage it, so long as it happens.”
Ashton stared at him for a long moment then nodded. He grasped a thick stack of the papers in the folder and pushed them aside until he was near the back of the materials. “So long as that’s understood,” he said. He took the few sheets of paper out of the remaining scant stack and passed them to Zachariah. “This is everything in the folder on how to kill werewolves,” he said as Zachariah snagged the papers and settled back in his chair to read them over.
“So it basically boils down to stereotypical bullshit,” Zachariah commented as he finished. “Silver, stake through the heart—I thought that was vampires—and that’s pretty much it. what are we supposed to do? Sneak up on Chambers and poke him with a silver steak knife?”
“I don’t know,” Ashton admitted. “I was planning on giving Director Hartley a call and seeing if he has any specific ideas on that, maybe some weapons he can lend us. He didn’t say anything about special weaponry when we were in his office.”
“Typical,” Zachariah muttered. “Brandon does the same crap with me all the time. Thinks it makes the job more ‘exciting.’” He scowled. “The only thing it does is piss me off.”
“Same here,” Ashton said, “though I’m fortunate enough to have a handler that doesn’t pull that kind of shit.” He sighed and took the paper back, tucking it where it belonged before closing the folder. “Why don’t you go get some rest?” he suggested as he pushed away from the table and stood. “I’m going to give Director Hartley a call and see if I can’t harass him into giving us some functional weapons.”
Zachariah nodded and took a second to pour a last glass of wine before standing. “I’m going to take this with me, if you don’t mind,” he said, waving the glass just enough to swirl the red liquid inside of it. “Might help me relax enough to fall asleep.”
“There are sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet,” Ashton offered, his tone absent as he dialed a number on his cell phone.
“I said I wanted to fall asleep, not put myself in a coma,” he replied, even as he started down the hall toward the guest room. Ashton didn’t respond, and as he hesitated just outside the guest room’s door, he could hear him begin to talk into his phone in a low, insistent voice.
The guest bedroom was simply decorated. There was a bed against the center of the wall on the far left, jutting out into the room and covered with a plush-looking off-white comforter. A dark brown wooden dresser with five drawers stood against the wall on the far side of the room, next to a window thoroughly covered by blinds and heavy curtains; a quick perusal inside one of the drawers revealed the dresser to be empty. A similarly empty closet was on the wall to Zachariah’s right near the door he’d entered through, and an unadorned nightstand sat next to the bed. Other than those sparse few features, the room was virtually bare, a barely used stopping point and afterthought put there by the owner.
“Home sweet home,” Zachariah murmured. He thought fleetingly back on his own place in Dallas, its generally disheveled appearance, and decided this was far superior to the place he usually bunked down at between assignments. He plopped onto the edge of the bed—it turned out to be even softer than it had looked—and started toeing his shoes off and pondering his situation as he drank his wine.
To say that Zachariah was in a bad spot mentally as well as emotionally was an understatement. He couldn’t believe that Director Hartley was allowing him to go back into the field without even a basic psychological exam or an investigation into whether or not he’d spilled his guts while in captivity. He’d never known anyone at the Agency who’d gotten through anything like this so easily, but rather than being reassured by the thought, he couldn’t help but worry over when the other shoe was going to drop. Because it would drop; there was no doubt in his mind about that.
I wonder if the director is going to have Ashton interrogate me again, he wondered, and the thought was enough to send a small tingle through his body despite all that he’d endured in recent days. He could handle Ashton’s method of questioning; hell, he’d even enjoyed it to some degree, despite the pr
esence of a gun in the proceedings.
“The wine must be getting to me,” he said out loud, just before tossing back the last of what was left in his glass. He set the goblet carefully on the nightstand and began stripping off his clothes, moving carefully so he didn’t dislodge any of his bandages. Once he was down to his boxers, he turned out the light and crawled into bed.
If he was drunk enough to be thinking sex after everything that had happened to him, then he was drunk enough to put all that aside and fall asleep for a while.
* * *
“I’m sorry,” Damon said the minute Ashton opened his door. The older man stood in the doorway, holding a heavy-looking black duffel bag, his expression bordering on embarrassed. “It’s been so long since anybody was brought in on all of this that I didn’t even think about weapons.” He offered Ashton the duffel bag, which he took gratefully and confirmed that it was just as heavy as it looked. “Where’s Zachariah?”
“Oh, he went to bed a couple of hours ago,” Ashton replied. He lugged the bag into the living room and set it on the couch before turning to Damon. “Can I get you anything?” he offered. “I have beer in the fridge, and I think there’s still some wine left.”
“I’ll take a beer,” Damon agreed, and Ashton turned from the couch to find that he’d let himself in and was standing just inside the door, his hands tucked into his pockets as he looked around the guest house with unveiled curiosity. It’d been a while since Damon had been over, and Ashton had redecorated a fair bit out of sheer boredom in the interim, so he was sure Damon was curious about the new look. He went to the fridge, took out a glass beer bottle from the six pack inside, and handed it to Damon. “So how is Zachariah holding up?” Damon asked as he twisted the cap off his bottle.
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