by Jory Strong
That point was anchored by a crouching Mikhail.
Mallory claimed east, her unmarred forearms appearing pale and virginal in the moonlight.
Hayden suppressed a laugh, knowing Mallory wouldn't appreciate either sentiment or analogy.
She sat cross-legged, so there'd be less instability, less waste of blood and pain. The soul jar was jabbed into wet ground in front of her, its gaping mouth angled toward the photograph at the center of the grave.
He claimed north, holding a second candle barehanded. He began another of the spells their sire had taught him, the ancient, archaic words learned a whip-strike at a time.
The candle flamed, fed by the magic Mikhail channeled. It built, racing Hayden's heartbeat and nearly ripping a howl from his throat as hot wax came to a rest against his fisted hand.
The candle at the center of the grave caught fire.
Dane bayed then, low and deep, a dark forest and treacherous swamp call.
Wraiths rose from the grave like wisps of fog.
Ten, twenty, thirty, drifting up and away without substance or human form.
The number built, fifty becoming a hundred, five hundred, nine. More, his ancient words and concentration on the picture like bait and hook.
Finally the girl shimmered into existence, transparent, unable to articulate the details leading up to her death, unable to be communicated with or ordered to respond to questions.
He funneled what magic he could into her.
Ethereal wisps took on color, becoming white blouse and plaid skirt, a schoolgirl's uniform, though green and red and yellow quickly faded. The white thinned as his hold on her weakened and she slid downward, drawn toward buried ashes and fragments of bone.
Now, Mallory. Do it now!
Mallory sliced midway between left wrist and elbow, pain screaming up her arm, far greater than the cut warranted.
Blood flowed easily, quickly, drawn downward. It mixed with the water creating the circle. It splashed on the mouth of the jar and slid inside to collect at the bottom.
The spirit turned, held by unfinished business or murder or awaited judgment, hungry for blood and pain and now focused on hers.
It lingered near the picture and grave dirt and candle, suspecting a trap or simply unable to come until magic and spell reached a crescendo.
Hayden's words grew faster. Magic rubbed and pressed against her skin like a Hound's greeting.
Finally what had manifested of the girl moved, coming toward her, darkness and light combined, like a reflection on water beneath a full moon.
Mallory wanted to close her eyes, to deny she was responsible, but she held them open.
At the edge of the circle, the girl dissolved into wisps and followed the trail of blood into the soul jar like a macabre version of a genie entering a lamp.
In the center, the candle flared and burned away entirely.
Fire sparked from the candle in Hayden's hand to the circle, traveling counterclockwise and leaving the bowl in front of Dane dry of water before passing to Mikhail then coming toward her.
Mallory held the scream as melted wax stoppered the mouth of the jar at the same time the fire cauterized the cut she'd made on her arm, healing it as it filled her nostrils with the smell of burning flesh and her mind with memories of the day their sire held his brand to her skin.
Her upper body swayed with relief when the fire left her, but the nightmare memory raged in her mind until the flames reached Hayden and extinguished.
"Let's get out of here," she croaked, rising, shoving the soul jar into Hayden's backpack the instant she reached him.
The woman spooked Caleb. Fuck, why not admit it, right now just about anything did. Weird piling on weird, adding jitter to the bad feel he'd had about this assignment when the pictures related to it were laid out on the table between him and Zack.
A husky laugh jarred him. He jolted, aware of fingertips lightly stroking the back of his hand.
What the fuck? I'm better than this.
But, pride be damned, he took a step back, eliciting another laugh, this one less husky and more knowing.
It jacked his heart rate. Raced his brain. Had she made him last night at the Brass Ring after all? Shared her suspicion with Hayden? Were they playing him now?
But on the heels of that thought came memory, of their last encounter. Of getting lost in thoughts of the assignment in Oakland.
Coincidence. Just coincidence.
He looked through the window. Relief slammed into him with the Jeep's approach.
Hayden's Jag trailed it, headlights off, though the moon shone so brightly that neither car was hidden by night.
Caleb waited until they'd gotten close, opened the gate then closed it after they'd passed through. A few key strokes and the security system controlling the external cameras was in countdown mode, giving them fifteen minutes to get clear.
The woman—he hadn't asked her name and she hadn't volunteered it—sauntered out of the office. He stopped in the doorway. The Jeep was a couple of yards away.
The junkie got out of it. He lifted his face toward the moon. The sight of the brand on his arm against the cemetery backdrop sent a shiver through Caleb.
"You need to look at anything in here?" he asked Mallory.
She shook her head in the negative. He set the office alarm, secured the office door. "Cameras are back online in fifteen. You find what you were looking for?"
"There was no body."
"We hit the Brides' office next?"
"Yes."
The junkie dropped to the ground, his body jerking in a violent seizure.
Caleb moved, pinning Mikhail's legs while Hayden grabbed at his arms. And then fuck, fuck, fuck, Mallory was tying off, pulling the syringe and shooting heroin.
The junkie went still, blissed out or dead, Caleb almost didn't care which. Anger erupted, directed fully at Mallory. "Ever thought of getting him treatment? Putting him in rehab?"
Her nostrils flared.
Fine.
Let her smell his anger.
Let her hear it.
Let her read it in his face.
"It's not that simple."
Fuck that. "Yeah, it is, Mallory."
"The less you involve yourself in our affairs, the better," Hayden said, voice like black ice. "We're all killers."
Mallory capped the syringe, jammed it into her jeans pocket along with the length of cord she'd used to tie off her brother's vein. "Speak for yourself, Hayden."
"Time will tell, won't it, Mal."
The junkie roused. Together they got him on his feet and into the Jeep's backseat.
Caleb climbed into the front, slamming the door and fighting the urge to grab and shake Mallory, to yell in her face like a drill sergeant and order her to break away from her brothers and stay away from them. Exactly the opposite of why he'd been sent under.
"Let's go. Cameras are going to start rolling."
Hayden sped off with the woman. Mallory drove to where he'd left the Harley after doing the cemetery recon.
He got out of the Jeep, unlocked the helmet.
She followed him, hand going to his arm like she didn't want to part mad even if they were on their way to the same place. His heart rolled over like a trained dog.
He turned to face her.
Her cell chimed. She hesitated but took the call.
Her gaze dropped from his face. Her shoulders rounded, body deflating.
His arms went around her, pulling her against him as if he could shield her from the danger sneaking up on her and protect her from hurt.
"Thanks for letting me know," she said, voice subdued.
She leaned into him, arms going around his waist.
"Who was that?"
"They found Iosif in an alley close to the strip club he followed the Russian to. He's dead."
"Are they sure it's him?"
"Yes. That was the cop who sent Iosif to me. He's at the morgue now. There was a second body in the alley,
a homeless man. Both of them were beaten and stabbed."
Caleb's arms tightened on her. He rubbed his cheek against her silky hair. "Not your fault."
"I should have—"
"He didn't tell you everything. If you'd known you could have protected him." He touched his lips to her neck. "All the more reason to hit the office tonight. Now."
Iosif deserved justice.
"I've got to detour and collect Hayden. We need someone on the outside, someone besides Dane."
"Do it." Only his lips crashed down on hers for a hard long kiss before he let her go.
* * * * *
Chapter 19
From the lobby of his office building, Linden watched the black sedan glide to a halt in the passenger loading zone.
He'd rather be home. That was the truth of the matter. Tonight was a family movie night, a time to cuddle on the couch, eating popcorn and drinking soda.
He hated missing it but it couldn't be helped. This needed to be handled.
With the girl in his possession he could last months without having to kill again. He could spend hours at a time around Aubrey without fear and unwanted fantasies creeping in.
The same brutish man who'd delivered the scripts emerged from the driver's seat and came around the rear of the car to open the door, ushering Linden in without a pat down, without gaining confirmation that he had left his cell phone behind as instructed.
A show of trust? It surprised him, though it soon became evident the driver was ensuring they weren't being followed by taking side streets and getting on and off the freeway.
Linden didn't bother trying to engage in conversation.
A half-hour later the car stopped. He grimaced at seeing the low-end strip club that was apparently their destination. Could it get any more tawdry?
They pulled around back, gliding to a halt within a few paces of another sedan, identical to the first with its tinted windows. In this city they were as ubiquitous as the nondescript rental car he'd left parked near the office as a safeguard, just in case he needed it, just in case he acted on the offer represented by the photographs.
"We change cars," his driver said. "I pat you down here."
It was a thorough search and Linden felt a trickle of fear at the type of men he was dealing with.
When they were on their way again, the driver said, "Vadim makes his apologies. To meet him, you must not see where we go. This is acceptable to you?"
The sudden race of Linden's heart and shortness of breath said no.
He answered, "Yes."
A black hood was passed back to him, making him visualize stark Russian landscapes and executions carried out in the cold. He donned it.
Unlike the turn-filled trip leading to the strip club, this one felt like a direct route.
Finally the car slowed to a crawl and he heard the sound of a door rolling up.
They stopped. The engine was turned off. The metal door rolled down behind them.
The driver said, "Is okay to take off the hood."
Linden did and got out of the car, not waiting for the door to be opened for him.
Korotkin strode toward him, a wide smile on his face. He wore a five-thousand dollar suit, as he had at the party, but this place only made it more obvious that he was a man playing dress-up. Beneath the veneer of couth and the clothes purchased to apply sophistication, the Russian was, and would always be, a brutish wannabe.
"My apologies for your method of travel," Korotkin said, extending his hand. "But you understand the necessity of it, yes?"
"Certainly."
"Good. Good. Come."
Linden followed. They were in a warehouse. Half of it was empty save for some broken pallets that looked as though they'd been left behind by a previous tenant.
An open movie set left no doubt as to what type of film was produced there. The background matched the one in the picture of the two girls, though that shot had only captured the corner of the bed, a subtlety he believed was accident rather than design.
Chairs had been positioned randomly to face the set with its king-sized bed and faux fur throw rug, cheap entertainment for those who dealt in flesh.
A sour taste filled Linden's mouth though he was careful to keep any hint of disgust and revulsion from his expression. Soulless, that's what the Russian was, to traffic in human beings. It made him feel unclean to be in Korotkin's company and that didn't change after entering the plush office.
"Cigar?" Vadim asked, hovering at the corner of his desk while his guest sat. "They are Cuban, of course."
"Another time, perhaps, as we discuss scripts. I can't linger tonight."
"Ah, that is too bad." He was disappointed, but the tacit acknowledgment they would be working on movies together offset it.
The outside space was primitive, a place to sort the newly arrived merchandise and hold those of interest or higher-risk, but here, luxury ruled, as fine as any other office a man such as Linden would do business in, and the bedroom just beyond the closed door allowed for sampling the merchandise in comfort.
"I'm sorry to hear you are pressed for time. I arranged entertainment."
Rather than take a seat as planned, he walked to the bedroom door and opened it, keeping his attention on Linden—yes, now they would be Linden and Vadim. He had no need to look at the whores to verify they were naked on the bed and engaged in sex.
These two enjoyed their work. But even if they didn't, they knew better than to disobey one of his orders. A word from him, and instead of being stars, they would spread their legs for five dollars a man.
"The blonde is Polina. The brunette Tania."
"I appreciate the offer, but no, not tonight."
"You are sure? They are very talented, with legions of fans."
"I am sure." Said with a polite touch of regret, but a firmness that would make it awkward to continue the conversation.
If another man looked as uninterested and unimpressed as his current guest, he would have been offended, but for Linden there was respect. They were alike, the two of them, not men to be controlled by their cocks. Not men who'd let a woman distract them from important business.
"Leave," he told the whores, more satisfaction coming from their immediate obedience than from the sight of their naked bodies as they went quickly to the office door. "Tell Fyodor to take you home."
To Linden, he said, "Brandy? Vodka? A glass of something else? My bar is fully stocked. Surely a drink should mark your visit here, yes?"
Linden heard the barest edge in Korotkin's voice. The Russian had accepted the refusal of the Cuban cigar and the women—as if he'd ever put himself in a compromising position where he might be photographed—without taking offense, but the refusal of a drink would be a slight not to be forgotten or forgiven. As it happened, he felt in need of something, a prop that would feed the illusion he had no vested interest in what came next other than as an agent trying to head off trouble with a client who might otherwise be jailed.
"Vodka."
Korotkin's smile indicated it was the perfect choice.
"Straight?"
"Of course."
"Excellent."
The Russian went to the bar. He poured vodka into fine crystal glasses and returned to take the seat next to his rather than the one behind the desk.
Korotkin lifted hand and glass. "To men with much in common."
"To men with much in common."
They touched glasses, both of them downing their drinks.
Korotkin laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Yes, much in common. Another?"
Linden smiled, wondering if the Russian's goal was to make him careless with drink. "One more. That's my limit. As you can imagine, I've got a client anxious to hear from me."
Korotkin laughed again, a loud jovial sound. "And scripts to read, yes?"
"Most definitely."
They drank a second round.
Korotkin stood. "Come. I wish I had a better selection for you, but you can understand th
ere is greater risk with this type of merchandise."
"Certainly."
They entered a narrow hallway with rooms on either side, the doors close together and locked from the outside. Korotkin said, "This time, it is a gift, between you and me. Return the gift or don't. Things play out as they will. But next time, we will set a reasonable fee, one where both of us profit. Yes?"
"Of course."
Korotkin stopped near the end of the hallway and unlocked a door on the right. "Do not worry about being recognized. They do not know this city or its people. Even if they did, they are close with one another. They know better than to speak of certain things, especially when one of them remains here."
He opened the door to reveal a mattress pushed into a corner. The girls huddled on it, clinging to each other. They wore the same gowns they'd been photographed in, but up close, he could see the cheapness of the material.
The hint of freshness he'd glimpsed in the picture translated to a horrible vulnerability, to innocence victimized. They trembled, and he thought of Aubrey, tucked away in bed, undamaged, and she would remain that way, safe during his nightly check and the goodnight kiss she often partially awakened for, her mumbled "Daddy" only reinforcing how precious she was to him.
Taking one of these girls away from here would be a mercy. But which one?
"The one on the right is Angel," Korotkin said. "The other is April."
He doubted it. He doubted the Russian knew for sure which of the names the girls had been forced to accept along with their captivity and exploitation.
"They are twins?" If so, then it probably didn't matter which of them he picked.
"Nyet. No. The one is older by a year." A casual flick of Korotkin's hand might have indicated either girl.
A year could make all the difference. There was only one way to be positive of the choice, but he was reluctant to ask the Russian for what he needed.
The girls clung, their fast breathing filling the silence. The longer it went, the more anxious he became to escape the Russian's warehouse.
Finally Korotkin barked an order and the girls stood, cowering, hopeless despair preceding the glassy look of minds retreating from terror and horror.