Sweat trickled down the back of her neck. The silence was no longer comfortable, but simmering.
“Tell me, Annie,” Jack said. He ran his fingers down the leather-wrapped handle of her sword. “What does a person like you do?”
“What most people do. Try to hold a job, try to have a life outside of one.”
“So you work?” Metal sang as he pulled the blade half out of its scabbard and examined the edge.
“Yes.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Nights.”
“In medicine?” He tugged the sword higher, lifted his brows. “Surgery?”
She suppressed her grin. “No. Although when I can, I volunteer at the Lady of Mercy.” Donating time, and as much blood as she could afford to give.
“The urgent care clinic in West Philly?” His eyes narrowed when she nodded. “They’ve got a remarkable reputation. Normal rate of success and recovery for nonlife-threatening wounds. But for GSWs, stabbings, vehicular accidents—which a clinic usually doesn’t even handle—the mortality rates are half that of a well-equipped hospital.”
“That’s what happens when you’ve got a bunch of nuns praying next door.” Vampire blood couldn’t perform miracles, but it accelerated healing, and a transfusion temporarily strengthened the recipient. “How do you know what kind of reputation an inner-city clinic has?”
“It’s all part of the job.”
She glanced over, caught the sardonic edge of his smile. Yes, she thought. Somehow, the FBI had become aware of the vampire community. They might not know what they were looking at, but they must know it was unusual.
“Investigating miracles, G-Man?”
“Only on a volunteer basis.” His gaze fell to her waist as if he could see through the jersey to the healed skin beneath, then he nodded at the blade. “And when you aren’t helping the nuns’ prayers along, Annie, are you using this on demons?”
“No. I wouldn’t have a chance against one.”
Uneasy with the direction he was taking, she cupped her palm over the butt of the sword handle. Jack didn’t offer any resistance; he let go, his fingers dancing lightly over her wrist as she pushed it into its sheath.
A simple touch, and need sizzled, burned, from her fangs to her womb.
Shivering, she pulled her hand away, fisted it against the steering wheel. Her head began aching again; raising her psychic blocks didn’t help.
With a frown, Jack lowered the air-conditioning, then shifted toward her. “Annie—”
“I use it on people like me,” she interrupted flatly. She hadn’t wanted to frighten him, was hoping that when he figured it out, he wouldn’t see her as evil, as damned—now she was afraid he’d cast her in the role of a saint. “If they break the community’s rules, I hunt them down, then cut through their heart or take their head. And I’m paid well for using that sword, Jack. I’m good at it. Better than I ever was with a scalpel.”
Jack was silent for a long minute. “And a bullet wouldn’t do the job,” he finally said, apparently recalling the shot she’d fired into the demon’s forehead.
“A bullet works better on people like me than one of the nephilim. One in my body would slow me down, one in my brain will drop me to the ground. I’d probably look dead for a few minutes. Then I’d get up.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “You’ve gotten up.”
Remembered pain rose like bile through her voice. “Twice.” And the first time had been the worst.
Without a word, Jack slid his hand over her knee, squeezed. A warm touch, one she knew wasn’t meant to arouse, but the bloodlust roared through her.
God, there were times she hated it. Hated how it overwhelmed every other emotion, how it took away choice. Unless it had been satisfied, it reduced everything to fucking and feeding.
She battled the hunger, trying to hold on to the comfort he offered—and knowing that the bloodlust meant she wouldn’t be able to hold on to him. Not for long.
And he needed to know that the changes in her weren’t just surface, weren’t just about speed, strength, or hair color.
“That’s where it went,” she told him. “I’m not the one with the big heart and smile anymore.”
“All right, Annie.” Another squeeze, and his hand fell away from her knee. She was wrestling with her disappointment when he added, “You’re heading for Center City. You live downtown?”
“Yeah. It’s convenient.”
His laugh was short, disbelieving. “Convenient? What neighborhood?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Annie,” he said softly.
She clenched her teeth, then admitted, “Old City. About three blocks from your place.”
“Jenn’s.”
“Whatever.” She glanced at him, but Jack wasn’t watching her as she’d expected. His eyes were closed and he’d tilted his head back against the headrest, looking as if he intended to nap—except for the grin widening his lips.
His position exposed his throat. She swallowed hard.
“Annie.”
Her response was a low growl.
His brows rose, but he continued in a matter-of-fact tone, “As soon as I’m not half-drunk, I plan to kiss the hell out of you.” Without opening his eyes, without losing his grin, he added, “The road, Annie.”
Shit. She straightened the steering wheel, managed, “I’ll be moving as soon as I find Cricket. I can’t stay in Philly.”
“Moving on.” He lifted his head, met her gaze. “I’ve recently decided that it’s time to do the same.”
FIVE
ANNIE’S BUILDING WAS A NEWER HIGH-RISE, METAL and glass—the kind Jack’s father would have called an Old City eyesore and an insult to the city’s history. He’d spent considerable rage and money trying to block the construction of any structure that the Founding Fathers wouldn’t have built themselves.
But the old man had raged himself into an early grave, and Jack liked the contrast of old stone and modern steel—the city, moving on.
It was going around.
Six years ago, Annie living in a place like this would have surprised him; it was too expensive, and too sleek, cold. But the widening of the doorman’s eyes as he took in Annie’s jersey and loose, faded jeans told Jack that sporty and casual wasn’t her typical look anymore, either.
“It’s the security,” Annie murmured as they crossed the lobby toward the elevators. Jack frowned, and she glanced at him. “That’s why I’m here. They couldn’t stop a demon, and they’re not so good that I can’t sneak a sword in under my jacket—” She gestured with the coat she’d folded over her forearm. “—but because a human probably won’t break in while I’m sleeping. And the fireproofing and extinguishing systems are top of the line.”
Security reasons, he could believe, particularly after she’d described her job. But was she serious about the last part? That tiny smile was playing around her mouth, and Jack couldn’t decide.
He followed her into the elevator and studied the set of her shoulders as she punched the button for the top floor. The doors slid closed, her features reflected in the mirrored panels.
Sweet Jesus, but hers was a face that haunted a man. Beautiful, unforgettable. He could look at her forever and never tire of the soft curve of her lips, the stubborn angle of her jaw, the glacial clarity in her eyes.
Her gaze met his. Awareness snapped between them, bringing his cock to instant, aching hardness. She lowered her lashes, hiding her expression—but he saw the raw need and the way she fought it: her mouth flattening, her fists clenching.
The hairs on his arms rose. His breath quickened.
Not just the clothes, the sword, the smile. Something else had changed within her, and it was hungry. Dangerous enough that Jack could readily accept that those who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—control it had to be hunted and killed.
It didn’t strike him as human, yet it was nothing like the alien horror of the demon, wasn’t frightening. There was no room for fear when his instincts were telling him
to hunt, capture, hold.
And do whatever it took to keep.
“Annie,” he said quietly, and stepped closer. “Don’t move.”
She didn’t, except to look up, watching him in the mirror. Her body was rigid. If he hadn’t recognized the hunger within her, he’d have thought it was the petrified stance of a doe or rabbit preventing herself from running, instead of a predator holding herself back.
He lowered his mouth, let it hover above the bare skin of her nape. Was it difficult for her to stand so still, exposed and vulnerable? He listened for the rush of her breath, but heard nothing.
Only his own.
But she shuddered as his palms curved around her waist. Beneath the jersey, her muscles were taut.
“You’re still half-drunk, G-Man.”
Remembering his promise to kiss her, he laughed softly, felt her shiver when his exhalation skimmed her neck. “Not half. Only about one-quarter now.”
“That makes all the difference.” But even as she rolled her eyes, she tilted her head to the side, allowing him easier access. His hands slid higher, and he almost groaned. Her nipples were hard.
So was he. Christ, like a stone. And being a quarter drunk probably did make all the difference. If not for the alcohol dulling the edge of his arousal, he might have come just from the perfect weight of her breasts filling his palms, the thundering race of her heart.
Annie. The sweet scent of her shampoo made his head swim. His thumbs flicked; she sagged back against him. He pressed his lips to the soft skin below her ear.
And froze.
His gaze met hers in the mirror. A long second passed, broken by the chime of the elevator, the doors sliding open.
Annie strode out of his embrace without looking back.
SHE’D looked back once before, in the form of a single phone call that had been a good-bye, and it had torn her apart. Six years ago, Jack hadn’t known what he’d heard—but he realized it now.
Gallagher had been the one to contact Jack the morning after her father’s heart attack. And although Jack had spent the day trying to get a hold of her, Annie hadn’t returned his call until after night had fallen.
Her fractured sobs had brought him to his knees, and her refusal to let him come to her had left him feeling lost, useless. He’d thought her repeated apology—I’m sorry, Jack, I’m so sorry—had been for shutting him out.
It had hurt that she hadn’t wanted to lean on him, but he’d fought his resentment, knowing it was out of place in the face of her grief. And a day later, when Gallagher told him she’d been killed in an accident, Jack’s only emotion beneath the agony of loss had been the relief that his resentment had remained silent. That the last time he’d spoken to her, it had been words of love and support.
But maybe it would have been easier for Annie if she had walked away with anger at her back. Easier if she’d thought there was nothing to come back for.
Jack had regrets—God knew he had them. He’d second-guessed himself thousands of times: What if he hadn’t agreed to give her time, had pushed his way into her grief, had stayed so close that he’d have been driving the car? But never had he imagined that she’d been out there, alive. If he had, nothing on Earth could have prevented him from going to her.
And knowing Annie, nothing on Earth could have prevented her from returning to him.
But demons might have . . . or a being with cold, pale skin, who wouldn’t need to breathe during a minute-long elevator ride.
What if her sorry hadn’t been for shutting him out, but because she’d been forced to leave him behind?
Shaken by the onslaught of memories, by the new, unsettling notion of what Annie might be, Jack joined her at the door to her apartment. Her head was down, and she fumbled through the pockets of her coat, producing a key. Wordlessly, he took it from her trembling fingers, let his hand linger against her cooler one.
His gaze fell to her mouth. If she happened to smile, if he kissed her, what would he find there? He suspected he knew.
But he wasn’t sure he’d convinced himself of it yet, couldn’t make it feel real. And judging by Annie’s reaction, she wasn’t prepared for him to know, either.
A few hours wouldn’t hurt, and would give each of them time to steady.
With effort, Jack forced his contemplation of cold skin and reflections to the back of his mind, and switched gears.
“She had her own key?” he asked. When Annie blinked up at him, he prompted, “Cricket?”
“Yes.” And in the space of a word, her expression changed. Gone was the hesitancy; her gaze flattened and cooled. “She has permission to come up even if I’m not available to clear her through. Security has a video of her entering from street level at oh-three hundred hours on the twenty-sixth of June. She exited, running, just after fifteen hundred hours on the twenty-eighth, carrying her backpack—which was holding, I believe, ten thousand dollars cash and two firearms.”
His brows rose, but Jack didn’t question that as he followed her through the door. Her apartment was spacious. Clean and simple, with low, cushioned furniture and teak cabinetry. “Have all nonresident visitors to the building been accounted for, the times verified with residents?”
Annie nodded. “I knocked on doors.”
“Neighbors?”
“There are four penthouses; only three are occupied, including mine. Northeast corner is a dickhead broker; he’s seen nothing. Probably because his head’s up his ass.” They shared a look. That tiny smile flashed, then she continued, “The Carlsons are in Europe. I’ve checked theirs and the vacancy. There’s no evidence that she’s been in either.”
“Access to the floor?”
“The elevator, two stairwells, and . . . out there.”
Absently tugging at his ear, Jack walked over to the sheet of windows and the glass doors that led out to the wide roof-top balcony—and remembered an impression of glowing eyes, crimson skin.
“It had wings,” he said.
Annie slung her coat over the frame of a shoji screen, then stepped behind it. A dragon with jade and gold scales snaked across the folding panels. “Yes. The transformation was quick; I wasn’t sure if you’d seen it.”
He hadn’t been certain, either. “You’re assuming that someone came in, spooked her, and she ran. Why couldn’t it have been a phone call?”
“Her cell is still at Christine and Stephen’s,” Annie said as he rounded the screen. A cabinet full of weaponry was open in front of her; she reached up, laid her sheathed sword across two wooden pegs. “I’ve got nothing listed on my caller ID, and the redial is still my mother’s number. Cricket doesn’t know about Mom.”
Her holster was next. Jack stopped her before she put it away; frowning, he ran his fingers over the shiny, cracked surface of the leather. The opposite side—the side that wouldn’t rest against her back—was smooth, supple.
A soft, sad smile touched her mouth. “Dad gave this to me on my fourteenth birthday—my first gun. Back then, he still intended to make a cop of me. I’ve kept the holster in good condition, but the last ten days . . .” She sighed, hung it on another peg. “I sweat too much.”
She wasn’t sweating now—but the air-conditioning was cranked so high that Jack was glad he’d worn his jacket. Pushing his hands into his pockets, he studied the cabinet. She’d already replaced the SIG, but there were still several empty pegs.
“The guns and the money came from here?”
“Yes. She could have grabbed them on her way out.” She closed it. No lock, he noted. Dangerous with a kid around . . . unless the kid might need quick access to it, as well.
“You planned for this,” he realized. “Not just defense, but escape. And you included her, prepared her.”
“Not this, exactly. I didn’t know about the nephilim until New York.” She dug a pouch from her jacket, then passed him in a blur. A second later, she strode from the hallway into the kitchen. “We have to be careful of demons—but as a human, Cricket didn’t have to
fear any would hurt her. Anyway, they generally leave us alone.” A shadow crossed her face. “Generally.”
“Then it was a precaution against other people like you.” A drinking glass was in the sink, a spoon and bowl. He opened the freezer, saw the chocolate chip ice cream that matched the dried residue at the bottom of the bowl. The fridge was empty. “The dishes were hers?”
“Yes. I haven’t taken time to clean.”
And hadn’t eaten here in ten days. “Don’t start now.”
She nodded, then crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter. “And you’re right: It’s because of people like me. The community elders—we called them The Five—could be unreasonable when it came to certain matters, and any act that might expose the community was at the top of their list.”
And dead humans would risk exposure. “Hence, your work,” Jack guessed, stepping around the center island to glance into the garbage. The contents resembled his own: Tastykake wrappers, an empty cereal box, several clear plastic bags that looked like—
His stomach lurched. Units of blood. Not so much like his, then.
Refusing to let his instinctive revulsion show, he tamped it down and continued on to the pantry. Snack food, but nothing substantial; just items that Annie probably had on hand if Cricket showed up.
But Annie didn’t have any blood on hand. And she had a reflection.
Maybe he’d come to the wrong conclusion—and hadn’t it been an insane conclusion in the first place? He could have misinterpreted everything: the lack of food, the plastic bags, the rapid healing, her pale and cold skin, her speed, the new pout to her lips.
That was a shitload of evidence to misinterpret.
“Yes,” she said slowly, and he turned to find her standing by the trash bin, staring down at the contents. “And due to the nature of my work, I risk exposure—and risked angering The Five—more than most.”
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