Thirteen

by Kelley Armstrong

  Elena glanced over at Clay. She wanted to tell him not to listen, just go ahead, finish Malcolm off. For Jeremy's sake, they had to kill Malcolm and never let Jeremy know he'd been alive. But when Clay glanced toward Malcolm, the guns swung his way.

  "Please," the guard said. "I don't have any quarrel with the Pack, but I was sent to get this one. I need you to walk away."

  "Do you?" Elena said, meeting the man's gaze. "What if you came in and he was already dead?"

  "Then I'd have to explain why I didn't stop you. And the men who left him here would have to explain why he wasn't better secured. He's valuable Cabal property, ma'am. I'm going to insist on this."

  When she looked over at Clay, he shook his head. He was right, of course. As leader of this mission, she had to concentrate on keeping him and Savannah safe.

  "Later," Clay murmured. "We'll handle this later."

  He walked over to where Malcolm still lay on the ground. "Now that I know you're alive? I won't rest until you're not. Remember that."

  TWENTY-SIX

  Only two guards tried to stop us as we made our way out of Nast headquarters. The rest pretended not to notice us. One even distracted his comrades so we could sneak past.

  In the immediate aftermath of Thomas's death, the staff had turned to Josef, the senior high-ranking Nast. But as the shock passed and news of what happened spread, many must have been reconsidering that. Sean was heir, meaning he was now CEO, meaning it might not be wise to stop his sister from fleeing the building. Especially now, when word had spread that I really was his sister.

  The moment we'd cleared the building and any cell blockers, Elena's phone started vibrating. It was Lucas. We ducked between two vans in a nearby lot and she passed it to me while we caught our breath.

  "We're out," I said. "And you?"

  "Twenty minutes ago," I heard Adam say in the background. "Where the hell were you?"

  "Adam was concerned," Lucas said.

  "So I hear. We ran into . . . a werewolf Clay knew from years ago. There was a fight."

  Lucas didn't ask for details. He knew that any mutt we bumped into would take advantage of the opportunity to fight Clay, and he'd have no choice but to stop and defend himself.

  "Can you put Elena on?" Lucas said. "They have a car, and we all need to get to it."

  I handed over the phone. Elena gave Lucas directions as Clay started moving us along.

  "We're not telling Jeremy about Malcolm," he said when Elena hung up.

  Elena didn't answer. When I glanced over, she was just walking, carefully scanning the road.

  "I'm talking to you, Savannah," Clay said. "Elena doesn't need to be told that."

  "We aren't telling Karl either," she said. "Malcolm's resurrection is staying between us."

  "Why not Karl, though?" I asked.

  "Because I don't want competition over who gets to kill the bastard," Clay said.

  "Malcolm killed Karl's dad when he was about fifteen," Elena explained. "Not a fair fight, if the rumors are true."

  "Mutt hunt," Clay said as he checked around the next corner, then waved us onto the sidewalk. "Malcolm and the Santos men used to track down and kill mutts, even if they were staying out of trouble, minding their own business. Karl's lucky he got away."

  "I think Karl blames himself for what happened," Elena said. "But it's not the kind of thing you can ask him about. He doesn't need this now, though."

  We got to the car just before the others showed up, then we drove to Bryce's condo. I'd never been there, not surprisingly given that until two days ago, Bryce and I hadn't been on speaking terms. Sean had keys, also not surprisingly. He figured it wouldn't be under surveillance, since the Nasts knew Bryce was in Miami, too sick to move. We could hole up for a bit and decide our next move.

  From the outside, the building was exactly what I would have expected from Bryce. Very Nast. Ultramodern, with BMWs and Mercedes filling the lot, and probably more MBAs in the halls than in the Harvard School of Business. Not one of those professionals, bustling to or from work, said a word to us.

  Walking through the door to Bryce's place, though, was like walking into an entirely different building. It was painted in greens and rusts and oranges, oddly natural shades for a guy who snarked about the camping and hiking trips Sean took with Adam and me. The furniture was all chosen for comfort, big chairs and deep sofas. There were books, too, shelves stuffed with them. Along with stacks of music. Stacks covered in dust. Bryce had been a music student before our dad died. It was hard to remember that now.

  Sean and I settled onto a couch in the living room. Clay and Elena had gone into Bryce's home office to call Jeremy and then the twins. Lucas was on the phone to Paige. Adam was hanging back, pretending to check out the artwork on the walls in the hall, giving me a moment with Sean.

  The kitchen--which I could see through the living room door--was the only place that seemed to have escaped Bryce's redecorating. It was all spotless white and gleaming black and glistening stainless steel, like something off the cooking shows Paige watched.

  "Kitchen doesn't get a lot of use, I see," I said. "Seems all three of us got the takeout gene."

  My voice startled Sean. He looked at the kitchen, as if replaying what I'd said. Then he shook his head.

  "Bryce cooks. He's really good at it. He used to say he was going to be a chef one day. Dad took us over to France when Bryce was twelve so he could go to a cooking school there for our vacation. Granddad . . ." He paused. Cleared his throat. "Granddad gave him shit for it. Said Dad was filling Bryce's head with nonsense, but you know Dad. Anything we--" His voice cracked. "Anything we wanted. As long as we were happy."

  I put my hand on his arm and leaned against him. He hesitated a moment, then hugged me, his face pressed against my hair, and I could feel him shaking.

  "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm really, really sorry."

  He took a deep breath and spoke to the top of my head. "I hated what Granddad did to you and I hated how he treated Bryce, but he was still . . ." Another deep breath. "I saw other sides of him. Better sides."

  I sat up and met his eyes.

  "I hope he went someplace . . ." He shook off the thought and cleared his throat. "It was good seeing Dad. Really good. I wish Bryce could have been there."

  I nodded and leaned against him again, as he seemed to struggle to be happy about that part, to find some good in this hellish day. He couldn't quite manage it. Seeing our father, only to lose him again, had hurt, like me with Mom.

  Sean straightened suddenly. "Bryce." He got to his feet and started for the hall. Lucas came in, Adam behind him. Sean said, "I need to be the one who tells Bryce about Granddad."

  Lucas nodded. "I thought you'd want to. I already told my father that, though I believe he'd presume the same. Bryce woke up about an hour ago, but they've put him back under."

  "Put him under?" I said.

  "Medically induced coma," Sean said. He drew in a deep, ragged breath. "He's not doing so well, Savannah. I need to get back to him."

  "Me too. I mean, not that he wants to see me--"

  "He does. But I should go now, even if only for a day." He needed to stake his leadership claim with the Cabal. But his brother came first. He always would.

  "We'll go to Miami right away," Adam said. "Is the jet here?"

  "It is," Lucas said. "You should go soon."

  "You aren't coming back?" I said.

  "Not yet. I need Adam to stay here, too."

  "What? No." Adam stopped as he'd been about to sit beside me. "Sorry, Lucas, but whatever's going on, I need to sit this one out. I'm in rough shape."

  "He is," I said. "Those bruises aren't all from today. The guards who arrested him beat the crap--"

  Adam cleared his throat.

  "Sorry. There was a fight. His ribs are cracked. He needs a break."

  Adam nodded.

  "Never thought I'd hear that," Sean said, managing a smile.

  Adam looked abashed, muttering
that he'd be fine in a day or two.

  There was a moment of silence. Adam squirmed. I did, too. We both wanted to go back to Miami so we could have some time alone together. Under the circumstances, it was selfish, and we knew it. Finally, with an apologetic look my way, Adam said, "Lucas, if you really need me . . ."

  "I do. I'm sorry. I don't need you to fight, just to get us into some difficult places."

  Adam looked up. "If you need me to disintegrate doors when you've got werewolf strength and unlock spells, we're talking heavy fortifications."

  "We are. Also multiple points of entry and multiple security systems." He turned to Sean. "When Bryce woke up, he told us where he thinks they're holding the Dahl boy."

  Larsen Dahl was the clairvoyant toddler whom Bryce had helped the liberation movement kidnap. Bryce been trying to infiltrate the group by giving them something they wanted so he'd be able to gather information. He'd been planning to take Larsen back and then give the info to the Cabal. Giles had seen through the ploy, though, and Bryce's "reward" had been that shot they'd injected him with.

  Getting the boy--and his parents--back was a priority. Equally important was the chance to take their captors hostage--they might be able to answer some questions about the movement. I offered to help, too, but Lucas said no, that I really had been through enough. They needed me back at headquarters to explain everything. And for another reason: they needed me there to keep me safe, because as far as a faction of the Nasts was concerned, I'd just murdered their CEO.

  Thomas and Josef had hoped to somehow overthrow the Cortezes by putting me on trial with false evidence. How? As Sean said, it was likely just a step in a long plan. It didn't matter now, because Balaam had twisted their plot to his own advantage.

  The murder of Thomas Nast would drive the Nast Cabal into chaos when it could least afford it. Since Balaam had pretended he'd done it to save me, I became the scapegoat. Make me--Lucas Cortez's ward--the scapegoat and you ensured there would be no alliance between Cabals to fight the liberation movement. Put Sean on the run with me, and you further divided the Nasts, rendering the biggest Cabal impotent in the face of this threat.

  Such an elegant play. A move truly worthy of a lord demon. I'd be whole lot more impressed if I wasn't at the heart of it.

  We left shortly after that. The Cortezes had moved the jet to another regional airport, not yet being monitored by the Nasts.

  Sean and I spent the flight talking. I was worried about him. Really worried. He'd just lost his grandfather. He might be losing his Cabal. He'd severed any relationship with Josef, and I knew that stung, because while they hadn't been on good terms lately, they had been close once. Josef's son had died shortly after our dad, and they had bonded over their shared loss.

  Now Bryce was sick. Very sick. If he died, what would Sean have left? Me? He loved me, I knew, but I was still the outsider who didn't really understand where he came from, what it meant to be a Nast.

  So I was worried. And I had no idea what to do about it except sit there and listen, and offer words of hope about Bryce and the future. So that's what I did.

  PAIGE

  Troy pulled the SUV into a tiny lot near the private airstrip.

  "We'll sit out here and wait for the jet," he said.

  Paige nodded. If she got out, the guards in the SUV behind them would need to get out in order to watch over her. Then she'd need to make conversation with them. Maybe not "need," but "should." Any other time, that wouldn't be a problem. But she'd passed the point days ago of being able to make small talk. She just wanted to curl up in the backseat and disappear for a few minutes.

  When her cell rang, she was about to ignore it. Then she realized it was Lucas.

  "Is this a bad time?" he asked when she answered.

  "Never."

  She bit back her next words. The usual words she'd say when they weren't together. I miss you. Now it would only remind him that this wasn't one of their usual little separations, off chasing cases, hating being apart, but still loving what they were doing. There was nothing to love here, and with each passing day that weighed on him a little more.

  "Is Savannah's flight on schedule?" he asked.

  "It is. She'll be here any minute."

  "Good." A long pause. Then his voice dropped. "I miss you."

  Paige gripped the phone tighter. "Miss you, too."

  More silence.

  She cleared her throat. "So . . . how's the weather?"

  A bubble of a laugh burst across the line. "The weather in L.A. is perfect, as always. And there?"

  "Crappy, as always."

  A chuckle now. "I had a call from Mitchell DeLong. Do you remember Mitchell?"

  "Vaguely. Necromancer. Lives in Seattle."

  "Correct. Except that last night, apparently, he was near Portland, heading to a cemetery to perform a summoning for a client. It was late, and he was tired and driving erratically. An officer pulled him over and discovered that Mitchell had forgotten to properly stow his summoning materials, including three desiccated human fingers."

  "Never good."

  "Particularly when dealing with a small-town police force that doesn't appear to understand that desiccated flesh indicates extreme age. They're quite certain the rest of Mitch's victim is nearby and they're holding him until they find it. He'd like me to come in and clear the matter up."

  "Uh-huh. Did you tell him we're a little busy?"

  "I did. He hadn't heard anything about the situation. No matter, though. He understands that we are otherwise engaged and therefore has offered to pay double our usual fee."

  Paige smiled. "Has he?"

  "In light of that, I suggest we consider the offer. I'll tell my father that while we realize that this end-of-the-world business is important, we do have a detective agency to run, bills to pay, a reputation to uphold, and so on. We'll simply pop up to Portland for a couple of days."

  "Me too?"

  "Of course."

  "Thanks." She smiled and settled into her seat, curling her legs up under her.

  A moment of silence, then he said, "We are going back, Paige. I know that's the elephant in the room, the topic we are both trying so hard to avoid--whether all this will mean we can't go back to Portland, to the agency, to our regular life. Whether my responsibilities at the Cabal will at last prove too great to ignore. They won't, I promise. My father is healthy. The Cabal is healthy. This tragedy at the Nasts will ripple through all the Cabals, and will require some additional work from me, but once this is over, we're going home."

  "Okay . . ." She said the word carefully, uncertainly. Go home. It sounded so simple. So obvious. Why wouldn't we go home? We had a house, an agency, a life there.

  But they had a life here, too. Even a home, having finally accepted a condo from Benicio a few years ago. They had work here, too. She used to think that applied only to Lucas. But, although she had no job title, no official responsibilities, her inbox and voice mail were always filled with messages from Cabal employees asking this or that, needing this or that. If they couldn't get to Lucas, they came to her.

  Did that make her his assistant? He'd say no. Emphatically. She was his partner. And yet to the rest of the Cabal, "assistant" was closer to the truth.

  God, how she would have bristled at that ten years ago. Playing helpmate to her husband? Never. She was Paige Winterbourne, former Coven leader, leader of the interracial council. But life changes. Perspective changes. She'd come to understand that Benicio wasn't going to award her a VP title anytime soon, and if he did, it would only be to please Lucas. She'd come to understand, too, that Lucas needed her help. He needed her support--her wholehearted support, untainted by envy or ego. He needed her to be there, at his side, the one person he could count on to keep him on the right path, call him on the bullshit and have his best interests at heart--always. As long as he thought of her as his partner and treated her as such, that was all the validation she needed.

  "I mean it, Paige," Lucas said after a mo
ment. "I know my father will require our assistance once this is over. There is work to be done. But we're going home first. He'll get a few days of our time to deal with the aftermath. Then we go home. We rest. We take care of business at the agency. And when that's done, we come back to do more . . . until we can leave again." A pause. "Sound like a plan?"

  She smiled. "It does. A good plan."

  "Then that's what we'll-- Hold on." He covered the receiver and murmured a few words, then came back. "That was Adam. I need to go. Tell Savannah he says hello."

  "I will. I think that's her ride coming down right now."

  "Good. I'll call when I can."

  Paige stood at the edge of the tarmac, as close as they'd let her get to Savannah's plane. Closer than any regular person would ever get, even to a private flight. There are, admittedly, advantages to being Benicio Cortez's daughter-in-law.

  She found herself straining for that first glimpse of Savannah. She'd spoken to her on the phone earlier, but only for a moment or two, both of them surrounded by others, unable to really talk.

  Was Savannah upset that Paige hadn't gone to L.A. with Lucas? She couldn't--he'd needed her to stay in Miami. Paige was sure Lucas told Savannah that. Even if it slipped his mind, Savannah would have understood there was no place for Paige at that hearing. But logically understanding wasn't the same as emotionally understanding. Savannah had been arrested for treason by her father's own Cabal. She'd watched her mother disappear from her life again. She'd seen one grandfather killed by the other. And Paige hadn't been there for her.

  But she was here now, eagerly waiting for Savannah to step off that jet. Was it enough? She hoped so. God, she hoped so.

  When Savannah first appeared, there was a moment where Paige thought Eve had somehow stayed in their world after all. It was just that fleeting first glimpse, a tall woman with long, dark hair, her arm hooked through Sean Nast's. Of course, it was Savannah. But somehow--chalk it up to exhaustion--Paige expected to see a girl get off that jet. The girl she remembered, the one who always needed her, as hard as she tried to pretend otherwise.

  Paige didn't think of Savannah as her daughter. She'd never tried to take Eve's place. Being only a decade older than Savannah had always made that easy. Savannah was like a little sister and, eventually, as probably happens with most little sisters, she became a friend. When Paige watched her step from that jet, she realized the "little" part was gone now. Savannah didn't need Paige to hold her hand and tend to her bumps and bruises. She could look after herself. Paige was happy about that. Proud of that. But maybe, just maybe, a little sad, too.