Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel)

by Maegan Beaumont

  Recognition narrowed Nickels’s eyes a bit, the look he gave him pushed at the corner of Michael’s mouth, turning it up in a sardonic grin. “Sorry, Captain, visiting hours don’t start till nine,” he said, waiting to lower the gun just a beat or two longer than necessary before tucking it away. Nickels shouldered his way into the kitchen, clipping him on the way in.

  Michael let him pass with a soft chuckle before shutting the door behind him. “Please, won’t you come in?”

  Nickels muttered something that sounded like fuck off, his eyes traveling around the room, arms crossed over his chest. From the seashell magnets Miss Ettie used to stick her shopping list to the refrigerator to the red gingham apron she kept hanging on a hook next to the stove, the cop saw it all. He was silent for a minute or so. “What are you doing here?”

  “Making pancakes,” Michael said, ladling batter onto the griddle, focusing on dotting it with perfectly formed rounds. “What are you doing here?”

  Nickels dropped his arms, his fists banging against his thighs as he did. “I mean here, asshole—what are you doing in San Francisco? Did Sabrina call you?” Now the cop sounded angry, so Michael decided to make it worse by aiming a shit-eating grin over his shoulder.

  “Maybe she did.” He ran the spatula around the edges of the pancakes, waiting for bubbles to appear on the surface before giving them a flip. “Maybe it’s none of your goddamn business.”

  “I need to talk to her. Now,” Nickels nearly shouted, killing Michael’s grin in an instant.

  “First off, keep your voice down—people are sleeping. Second,” he said, letting his gaze drift to the set of fists the cop had his hands cranked into, “if you plan on using those things, let me know so I can give these a flip before I beat you to death.”

  Nickels obviously heard truth in his casual tone because he relaxed his hands slowly before pulling out a chair to sit down at the table. “Look,” he said, running a hand over his all-American haircut. “I just got off the phone with her partner. He’s all twisted up about a hooker getting slashed in the Tenderloin.”

  Michael nodded, ran the spatula around the edges of the pancakes, waiting for bubbles to appear on the surface before giving them a flip. “Yeah, she said she caught a case last night,” he said, without turning around.

  “She didn’t catch anything. She was down there pulling her Lone Ranger routine again. One of her groupies made the jump from obsessive letter writing to heinous murder. She was there trying to—”

  Michael turned, his thoughts going instantly to the envelope he’d found in her jacket pocket. “Letters?”

  “Yeah, thanks to you she’s the pin-up girl for every whack job, wingnut, and loony tune in the Western Hemisphere, and one of them’s started killing,” Nickels said, his expression was a mixture of superiority and disdain. “She left last night, hell-bent on finding some woman who she was convinced knew something. According to the police report her partner got a hold of, Sabrina found her a few seconds after he slit her throat.”

  Michael focused on the pancakes. Gingerly sliding his spatula under each of them and lifting them gently off the griddle and onto a plate. “And you just let her go? Alone?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Handcuff her to the bed?” Nickels’s tone said he knew he fucked up, which was the only thing that kept him from killing him.

  “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do, genius.” He switched the burner off and wiped his hands on a kitchen towel before turning around to finally meet the cop’s hard glare. “How long? How long has it been going on?”

  “For months.” Nickels shook his head. “It started with roses. Red roses—every day, same time. Yesterday a red envelope shows up in her weekly ton of mail, and then yesterday morning some rich co-ed turns up with her heart cut out. From what Strickland would tell me, this guy is ritualistically killing young women, and he’s pretty damn sure it’s got everything to do with Sabrina.”

  FIFTY

  Sabrina came up swinging, a ragged scream locked in her throat, arms and legs flailing, fighting off a monster who was long since dead. Grabbing at her throat, she was sure she’d find a wet trail of blood left by the knife that had only seconds before sliced across it. Nothing. There was nothing beneath her hand except the wild pulse that slammed its way through her carotid.

  A dream … just a dream.

  She pushed herself into a sitting position, tilting her head against the heavy oak headboard, gasping for air, arms and legs shaking.

  Wade was dead. He was gone and he could never hurt her again—

  You sure about that, darlin’?

  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to slam the door on the pressure that was building inside her, threatening to spiral out of control. Deep, slow breaths, in and out, while she corralled a heart that practically stuttered against her rib cage. She didn’t have time for this shit.

  Urania is waiting.

  Untangling herself from the sheets, Sabrina swung her legs over the side of the bed and planted her feet. It was still dark outside, but it didn’t matter. Experience told her that there’d be no more sleep for her. Glancing at the clock, she let out a groan. Five thirty in the morning. She had to be on the field and ready to qualify in an hour and a half.

  She was ready in less than fifteen minutes, throwing on a pair of black cargo pants and a navy blue SWAT T-shirt before lacing up her boots and tucking her SIG against her hip. Last, she fished an evidence bag from her coat pocket and bagged the note she’d found in the alley last night. Hopefully the courier would get here before she had to leave.

  Easing through her door, she pulled it shut as softly as possible before taking slow, silent steps past Michael’s bedroom door, heading for the back stairs that led into the kitchen.

  She wasn’t sneaking out. He told her he had every intention of going on about his business without getting in her way; she was just doing the same. Gathering her hair into a ponytail, she tied it back with an elastic band as she took the stairs quietly. Hopefully, Miss Ettie’s coffee pot was set on a timer so she could grab a cup while she waited … she could hear the low-pitched murmur of male voices. Two of them. Stopping a few steps from the bottom, she listened. One of them was Michael. The other one was too quiet to make out.

  Expecting to see him talking to the courier Ben had promised her, Sabrina deposited herself into the kitchen, her boots landing harder than she’d intended. For just second she was sure she was still dreaming.

  Michael was at the stove, flipping pancakes like a short-order cook, what looked to be enough to feed a small army already stacked on a plate on the counter next to him. Nickels stood on the other side of the plate, back against the counter, cup of coffee held casually in his hand.

  Nickels looked up as soon as she stepped into the room, lifting the cup he held to his mouth to drain the last of his coffee. “I talked to Richards—he knows there’s no way in hell you’ll qualify for the team, not with the condition your leg is in,” he said, letting his whiskey-colored gaze drift down the length of her to rest on her thigh.

  “How does he know that?” she said, shifting her gaze to the stove, where Michael was pretending to focus on pouring batter onto the griddle. Shame smoldered against her cheeks and neck. For some reason she didn’t want him to know how lame she actually was. That it was her own fault her leg hadn’t healed properly.

  Nickels shrugged. “I told him. He agreed to put you on the sniper rotation until you get a couple weeks of PT under your belt so you don’t have to worry about qualifying for a while.” He lifted a fresh pancake off the stack. “You’re welcome,” he said before taking a bite.

  Now Michael looked at her, casting a sidelong glance at her over his shoulder. The heat of his gaze crept across her face, making the shame she felt feel like a cool breeze in comparison. “Funny, I don’t remember thanking you.”

  “That’s becau
se you’re rude,” Nickels said around the food in his mouth. “You’re lucky I think it’s cute.”

  Now the heat in her cheeks had nothing to do with shame. “Damn it, Nick. It’s none of your—”

  “I know, I know—it’s none of my business. You don’t need my help,” he said. Setting his empty cup on the counter, he tossed the remaining pancake in the trash. “You don’t want me interfering. You can take care of yourself. Congratulations—you’re badass.” Straightening his huge frame from its casual slouch, he stepped away from the counter and walked up to her to drop a quick, hard kiss on her mouth, his eyes locked on hers. He broke away, shooting a look at Michael over her shoulder before giving her a grim smile. “Call your partner,” he said on his way out the door.

  FIFTY-ONE

  A soon as the door clicked closed, Sabrina turned around to see if Michael had been watching the exchange between her and Nick. He had.

  “Sit down. Have some pancakes,” he finally said without looking at her. Something about his tone sounded off. Too calm. Too controlled. A clear indicator he was anything but.

  She took a step toward the door, and he gave his pancakes another turn. “You won’t make it,” he said calmly, giving her a look that stopped her cold. “So why don’t you just sit down and have some goddamn pancakes. We need to talk.”

  “Sorry, O’Shea.” She sighed, rubbing a shaky hand across her forehead. “But this little game of Spy versus Spy you’ve got going with Croft really isn’t topping my list of priorities,” she said, jamming her hands into the pocket of her coat, the back of her hand sliding against the evidence bag she’d stuck in her pocket.

  “Right now, I don’t give a fuck about Croft,” he said, turning his back on her again to retrieve a plate from one of the upper cabinets.

  “Then what? That thing with Nick? It was just a—”

  He laughed, loading a plate before slamming it down on the table between them. “Don’t give a fuck about him either. Who’s the note from?” he said, repeating his question from last night.

  Her hand dropped to the top of her thigh, rubbing at the barely healed wound through the rough fabric of her pants. “None of your business.”

  “Same guy who’s been sending you flowers? Same guy who’s been calling you to invite you to murder scenes?” Michael said, the calm in his voice finally beginning to crack. “Same guy who slit some hooker’s throat last night and made sure you found her before she died?”

  She sat down, her ass hitting the bottom step of the stairs she stood in front of with a tired thump. She was going to kick Nickels’s ass the next time she saw him. “Yes.” She stared at her hands, rubbing a thumb over the row of calluses that years of holding a gun had raised along the top of her palm. “Which is why I don’t have time for a leisurely chat over pancakes.”

  “Trust me—a leisurely chat isn’t what’s going to happen here. You could’ve called.”

  She looked up to find him where she’d left him, standing at the kitchen table staring at her, and couldn’t help but laugh. “No, I couldn’t have … you made sure of that, didn’t you? And even if I could, I wouldn’t.” Sabrina shook her head as she stood, adjusting the SIG on her hip before looking at him again. “The only reason you came back is to find out how much of a threat Croft is to you. Wish I could help, but I’ve got another serial killer to find, so … good luck with that,” she said, heading for the door. She’d wait for the courier on the curb outside the house if she had to, just as long as she didn’t have to—

  She’d forgotten how fast he was, how strong. His arm shot past her shoulder, slamming the flat of his hand against the door before she had a chance to pull it open. He stood close, hips and shoulders pressed against hers, slow, steady breaths against the wisps of hair that’d come loose from her ponytail.

  She turned to face him, putting a few inches of space between them. “You’ve got about five seconds to get your hand off the goddamned door.”

  Looking down at her, the corner of his mouth tipped up in a smile that didn’t quite reach the cool gray of his eyes. “You think I came here because I’m afraid Croft poses some sort of threat to me?” he said, seemingly unconcerned by her warning. Reaching for her hand with his free one, he pulled her close. “You think Croft can do anything to me that hasn’t already been done?” He guided her hand to the small of his back, nudging the Kimber he kept there aside so he could press her fingers into the flesh and muscle that covered the bones of his spine. She felt it, the device Livingston Shaw used to keep him in line, and she instinctively tried to jerk her hand away from it. “I’m already dead, remember?” he said, tightening his grip on her wrist before digging her fingers in even deeper. “The only reason I’m here is you. To find a way to keep you safe, and if that means killing Croft and whoever else I have to in order to get the job done, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “I don’t want you involved. Don’t you understand? I can’t—”

  That was as far as she got. Letting go of her wrist, he stepped into her, forcing her back until her hips banged into the door behind her. “I didn’t ask you what you wanted and I didn’t ask for permission,” he said quietly, the hand he had braced against it slid down, past the heavy barrier of her coat until it found her hip, his thumb pushing its way past her shirt and the waistband of her pants to draw lazy circles against her pelvic bone. “I’m not your partner, I’m not your boyfriend, and I’m not some flavor of the month you can lead around by the nose.” Joined by the rest of his fingers, his thumb cruised around the curve of her hip, finding the row of hard, ridged scars on her stomach. “Despite the best of my intentions, I pretty much do what I want—always have.” His thumb dipped a bit lower, feathering along the underside of her belly button, somehow succeeding in pushing all the air from her lungs. “One of these days my impulsive and insubordinate nature will probably kill me … but right now, I really don’t give a shit.” His shoulders dipped forward just a bit, bringing their faces so close she could see the flecks of black in his irises, darkening his eyes from soft gray to the color of soot. The hand at her waist found the top button of her cargo pants and pushed it from its loop, giving his hand room to move until the tips of his fingers found the waistband of her boy shorts, separating it from the soft skin of her belly to skim along the edge.

  The second her eyes slipped closed, his mouth touched hers and her lips parted, letting him inside. The sensation of his tongue rubbing against her own sent a rush of heat shooting across her skin in every direction. He tasted sweet, like maple syrup and the sugar he put in his coffee, and she tilted her head to the side, deepening the kiss. She felt a rumbling groan against her chest as he shoved her back harder, pinning her against the door with his shoulders while the hand inside her cargos dipped lower and lower …

  There was a knock on the door, a soft-knuckled rap that had her opening her eyes to find him watching her, those eyes of his gone completely black, his hand still between her legs, his fingers slowly working their way inside, completely ignoring the fact that someone was on the other side of the door he had her pushed against.

  “Someone’s—”

  “Shh … ” he whispered against her mouth moments before his tongue pushed its way in again, its rhythm of surge and retract in perfect time with what he was doing between her legs.

  Another knock, this one louder, more insistent.

  The hard pound of it rattled against her shoulders, drawing Michael’s gaze past her for a moment, the hard line of his jaw so tight she swore she could hear his teeth cracking. “If that’s your boyfriend again, I’m gonna have to shoot him,” he said. Easing his hand from between her thighs, he lowered his forehead to the crook of her neck, his ragged breath skating across her collarbone.

  “Boyfriend?” It took her a second to realize he meant Nickels. She turned her face, nudging the café curtain away from the window just enough to see outside. “It�
�s not.” Leaning her head against the doorframe for a second, she closed her eyes, forcing her brain into a semblance of sensible action. Planting a hand on his chest, she pushed him back, giving herself some room to pull herself out of the tailspin he’d sent her into. She rebuttoned her pants and ran a hand over the hopeless mess of her hair before easing the door open just enough to slip through it and onto the back stoop. There stood a middle-aged man with a bald-spot and a clipboard.

  “Good morning, Ms. Vaughn? I was sent by—”

  She gave him the slightest shake of her head, silencing him. Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out the bagged envelope. “I need an analysis run on the blood used to write this letter,” she said. “If it’s confirmed to be human, I’ll need the DNA ran against CODIS for possible matches.” She waited for him to start peppering her with questions.

  He didn’t. Instead he just nodded and took the evidence bag before writing something on the paper stuck to his clipboard. “Would you like me to run possible human DNA against Interpol’s DNA Gateway in addition to CODIS?”

  She nodded, and he checked a box off at the bottom of his clipboard then peeled off the bottom and stuck it to the bag before handing her a work ticket. “You’ll have your results in a few hours. Have a good day.” He gave her a courteous smile, aiming another, more cautious smile directly over her shoulder before he turned and left.

  “What was that about?”

  She didn’t have to turn around to know that Michael was standing in the open doorway behind her and she didn’t have to look at him to see that he’d totally disengaged from what had been happening between them only a handful of minutes ago. It was as if it never happened and even though it stung, the part of her that still possessed a shred of common sense was grateful for the out.