by Natasha Hoar
“The fact that you survived that last encounter wasn’t a ‘good sign.’ It was pure dumb luck.”
Rachel’s skin felt chilled by the sense of dread that settled over her at Jo’s words. She couldn’t allow herself to dwell on that emotion, though. She didn’t have any more time for second-guessing and self-pity.
“Jo, I have one more favor to ask.”
“Anything, honey.”
“I may need something to intimidate a righteous bitch into doing the right thing. Nothing too flashy, though.”
A wicked smile curved Jo’s full lips. “This has got you doing all sorts of things you weren’t trained for, hasn’t it? I’ve always said rescue mediums needed a little more bite to their training.”
A wry quirk turned the edges of Rachel’s mouth. “Hey, I was more than prepared to handle Mrs. Famularo up at the women’s shelter.”
“Yeah, but rumor has it she was this close to kicking your ass through a wall.”
“God’s sakes woman! How do you hear these things? And for the record, I was almost shoved through the wall.”
Laughing, Jo turned away toward a much smaller rack of weapons. “I have just the little sweetie you need.”
“Is it easy to get the safety off?”
Jo’s hand paused midair. “Actually, it is.”
“Good. Hand it over.”
Chapter Seven
Rachel sat on Kit’s porch, her back to the previously locked front door. Dusk was closing in rapidly around her, casting long, cold shadows between the houses and across the road. She shivered slightly, her body aching a little more with every tense moment she sat there. She didn’t have time to feel sorry for herself, though. She could feel the wraith gliding through the house behind her—now that she’d engaged the thing, she would be able to sense it until it was released. “Hold on, buddy,” she murmured. “Or at least wear yourself out some so I have a fighting chance when I get in there.”
A silver Audi S5 Cabriolet eased up the road and parked directly in front of her. Rachel curbed the urge to curl her lip back in a snarl as Sylvia exited the car with a particularly defiant smirk. “What up, girlfriend?” the bitch cooed as she sashayed up the stairs to the porch.
“So glad you could come.”
“When you called and said you had something to show me, I got all excited. Is he gone?”
Rachel stood slowly. She’d only have one chance to get this right. Sylvia remained focused on her right up until—
“Holy shit! What happened to the door?”
Rachel took two strides, grabbed Sylvia’s arm and pinned it behind her. The other woman tried to struggle, but with one hand on Sylvia’s wrist and the other buried deep in her perfectly styled hair, Rachel didn’t waste any time. “Time for a house call,” she said, shoving Sylvia toward the kicked-in front door.
“What are you doing? Stop!”
Sylvia’s tone was rising, becoming pitchy from panic. She struggled vigorously, but Rachel pushed her on. A shadow swam into view just beyond the entrance. “Oh wraithy!” Rachel called out. The shadow swirled back and forth like a shark enticed by blood.
“You’re insane! Stop it, stop—”
Rachel twisted awkwardly and kicked the door open with the toe of her left boot. As it swung, she shoved Sylvia’s face forward. On the other side of the door, the wraith pushed his face forward to meet her. Sylvia’s screams almost overwhelmed the wraith’s roar of defiance, but not quite.
“Shut up, unless you want me to throw you inside,” Rachel snarled, holding her in place with some difficulty. Sylvia froze, her breaths heaving past tears born of terror. The wraith eyeballed her and ignored Rachel. “Who is this man?”
“I don’t know—” Sylvia screamed as Rachel made a move to shove her inside. “It’s Kit!” she yelled, then whispered in a hoarse tone again, “It’s Kit.”
Rachel tasted bile and fought down a shiver of disgust. “How did it happen? Did you hurt him? Kill him?”
“No.” Sylvia was shaking so badly that Rachel thought she might collapse in her grasp. “He just changed.”
“So he really is a rodach?”
“Yes.”
“They’re extinct!”
“No.” Sylvia turned her head slightly, a curious look in her eye. “One survived. He had children who had children… Our grandfather was supposed to be the last one. After all, our dad never developed the condition. But it just skipped a generation and started again with Kit.”
“You knew what was happening and you knew how to help him.”
She stared at Rachel a long moment, opened her mouth—
“Yes.”
The warmth drained from Rachel’s body at the sound of the rodach-wraith’s voice. Both women looked at the creature whose eyes were still locked on Sylvia.
“Yes. Yes! YES!”
The wraith threw himself at the invisible energy sealing him inside the house with such force that the entire structure shook. Sylvia shrieked and managed to dive backward, breaking free of Rachel’s grasp. It took a split second for Rachel to turn around and make a grab for the other woman. As she did, a large, gloved hand came out of nowhere and shoved her.
Right into the wraith.
The wraith’s arms snapped around her. He crushed her against his body, squeezing the life out of her. She didn’t have time to fight, didn’t have room to breathe. The wraith’s icy breath hissed along her flesh, lifting the life energy from her faster and faster. She tried to raise her hand to reach for the dagger tucked into her pocket. As her eyesight began to blur, she could sense the first presence connected to her sigil, feel its desperation that she couldn’t escape—
“Absentis!”
Icy black fluid sprayed across Rachel’s face and neck, and the wraith jerked backward. His arms slackened for a moment, and she was yanked forward out of the house. Gasping, she looked back to see the wraith staring down at his hands. His body began to shake as he noticed the massive hole where his heart should have been.
“Kit!”
The wraith looked up at her, face full of shock. Then, without so much as a peep, he faded into a thick swirl of smoke that seeped rapidly through the floor and into the basement. The black droplets of spectral blood evaporated off Rachel’s face and followed suit.
“So that’s the wraith. Or rather, the rodach.”
As sanity bled back into the world around her, Rachel became aware of Janus’s arms wrapped around her shoulders. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“You’re welcome. Don’t worry—he’ll survive that attack spell just fine. He’ll be grumpy as hell for the next hour or so, though.”
“I’m serious, Janus. You’d better explain yourself. And stop rubbing my arm! I don’t need you ‘soothing’ me.” She wrenched free but stumbled from sudden light-headedness. Janus rolled his eyes and pulled her back against his chest.
“Honestly, woman.”
Rachel’s eyes fluttered as warmth seeped into her body. Janus was subtly infusing her with healing energy. It was an incredible gesture to offer a non-fae—one punishable by the fae high council. It couldn’t, however, banish the thick knot of dread that settled suddenly in the deepest part of her stomach.
“Janus, why are you here?”
He took a moment to reply. “You aren’t accusing me of trying to kill you, are you? Perhaps you failed to notice, but I just pulled you from the proverbial fire.”
“Answer the question.”
“I decided to see for myself what you were up against.”
“So you could set me up to fail? No dice, buddy.” She pushed away once more. “I’m well on my way by myself.”
His lips thinned just a touch, and he clenched his hands momentarily. “Trust me, Rachel, if I wanted you to fail at your task, I have enough resources at my disposal that you would never be able to trace the attack back to me.”
“Two and two generally makes four.”
“Not today, it doesn’t.” He turned away and stalke
d down the stairs toward his still-running red Cadillac CTS-V that stood angled sharply across the road, front door flung open. Sylvia’s Audi was nowhere to be seen.
“Did she come to you? Did Sylvia ever contact you?”
He paused at the bottom stair. “Yes, she did. She wanted the name of someone who could extricate the wraith. Preferably not a rescue medium.”
“Not a rescue medium?”
“She was quite emphatic about it.”
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t say. There was a distinct sense of desperation in her tone, though.”
Rachel snorted. “You didn’t think to maybe use your big bad fae telepathy on her to check that it wasn’t simply a case of her batting those pretty eyelashes to get a favor out you?”
He shrugged, a maddeningly charming smile hinting at the corner of his mouth. “Who said she was effective?”
“Janus, I don’t have time—”
“I told her I’m not into housekeeping.” He turned away and started back toward the car.
“If I failed and you moved in fast enough, you could have a ‘wraith on a chain.’ It would make a great addition to your team of lackeys.”
He paused, his back toward her.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about that, Janus. I know you have a bag of fae tricks that could make it happen too.”
“That I do. But what good would a creature driven mad by pain be to a man whose business relies on immense discretion?”
“Is torturing goblin-folk who miss a few ‘security’ payments really called being discreet these days?”
“Give a goblin an inch, and the entire pack will move in to make knockoff Prada out of your pretty hide.” He stepped into his car and closed the door. He eased the electric window down as he pulled the car alongside the house. “That voicemail you deleted the other night wasn’t to woo you. I called to warn you about her.”
Rachel’s mouth opened and closed without a sound. “Why?” she finally managed.
“Call it instinct. She asked all the wrong questions for an anxious woman with supposedly pure intentions. Besides, it’s never a good thing when humans, outside of our regular contacts, seem to know as much as she does about our clandestine little world.” He started to roll his window back up.
“Janus, wait.”
The window paused. He cocked his head slightly to one side, eyes almost glimmering in the shadows of the car’s interior.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Rachel.”
She ran a shaky hand through her hair as the Cadillac drove away. A brisk breeze whipped across the porch, and she shoved her free hand deep into her jacket—
Her fingers brushed against the sharp edge of a card.
She pulled it out tentatively. A simple white business card with Janus’s personal emblem embossed on the front. On the back, written in his impeccable scrollwork, were an address and an apartment number.
She lifted her gaze toward the end of the street, but Janus had already rounded the corner. She tapped the card against her other hand. She owed him one.
Damn it.
Chapter Eight
Rachel watched from down the hallway as Sylvia shoved fistfuls of clothing into the soft-sided bag on her bed. The other woman was sobbing so loudly that she hadn’t heard the lock being picked or Rachel entering on light feet across the apartment’s plush carpet.
Rachel’s gaze fell on Sylvia’s handbag thrown haphazardly across the entrance hall table. Flicking a look down the hallway to ensure Sylvia was still engrossed in her packing, Rachel quickly rifled through the bag’s cluttered pockets. Old habits drew her hand along the inner lining of the bag as well, searching for hidden opportunities.
Bingo.
She opened the carefully concealed division and pulled out the palm-sized leather-bound book. As she did, a white card with a telephone number fell onto the table. Rachel picked it up, her heart skipping a beat as she thought for a moment that Janus— No. She flipped the card back and forth. No emblem. No clue if it was his or his lackeys’. God only knew she was familiar enough with them to recognize their reliably obvious handiwork a mile away. She studied the number a moment. It was unfamiliar but registered through a Canadian cell phone company. Easily traceable, at least for some of her more creative contacts.
Later, she mused. Once Sylvia was dealt with.
She turned her attention to the book. It was beautiful—hand bound and handwritten in the tiniest yet still legible script possible. It was split into three small sections, each in a different language, and each with identical sketches of the wraith form on the first page of the divisions.
Rachel flipped through the yellowed pages as quickly as she dared. She wasn’t exceptional at languages, but she could make a solid guess that apart from ye olde English, the other two were Gaelic and what appeared to be Russian. The back page had the beginnings of a fourth language, but she had no idea what it could be. Turning back to the English version, she scanned it rapidly. It was a highly detailed explanation of the rodach-wraith transformation process. According to the book, Kit would have been in excruciating pain for at least a month prior to the start of the physical transformation. She curled a lip in disgust. Had the poor man even been coherent when he’d signed over his life to his leech of a sister?
She almost missed the end of the final paragraph on the last delicate page of English script. Her eyes widened and her breath hitched as she read and reread the method to help recall the wraith’s memory. She lifted her head, slipped the book and card into the same pocket as the iron dagger and withdrew the S&W Bodyguard .38 revolver Jo had given her.
She stalked down the corridor silently, gun lifted, arms braced to fire. She watched Sylvia dart back and forth across the bedroom, grabbing things, shoving them into bags. As the other woman ripped a zipper shut on her largest bag, Rachel turned on the revolver’s laser sight. A red beam of light closed the gap instantly between the gun and Sylvia’s back.
“I want to know two things. One, who pulled you out of harm’s way but felt the need to push me into it? And two, where’s the last snowboard Kit was working on?”
Sylvia froze, and Rachel realized the other woman was stunned to hear her voice. She turned slowly, the red light running across her shoulder and nestling deep between her breasts. Sylvia noticed the light, lifted her chin in defiance and quickly swallowed her shock. “How did you get in here?”
“Doors tend to open for me. Have since I was a kid. Now, tell me what I need to know.”
“He said he wanted you alive. I had no idea he’d push you—”
“He who, Sylvia? I’m kind of on the clock here.”
Her lips clamped shut.
“Was it someone you called? Maybe that number on the little white business card?”
“You went through my things?” Her eyes widened and she launched herself forward a step.
“Uh-uh.” Rachel took a step forward too, making the small revolver just a little more obvious. “I don’t need to kill you with this thing. But I can make you hurt enough for you to wish I had. Now talk!”
Sylvia slowly sat on the bed, a sly, wicked grin gracing her glossy lips. “You think you’re the only one with a pop gun?” Her hand slid back rapidly beneath a nearby pillow.
“Don’t you dare—”
“What the hell?” Sylvia’s mouth fell open, her hand whipping back and forth under the pillow.
“Lose something, beautiful?”
Rachel felt cold metal press intimately against the side of her head. Out the corner of her eye she could make out a meaty male form. Sylvia went as white as a sheet.
“Hand it over.”
Rachel bit her lower lip and slowly eased the revolver back toward the man. “Reagan, I presume.”
“You could say that.” The revolver vanished and a large hand planted itself between her shoulder blades, shoving her toward the bed. She stumbled, trying to turn as fast as she could to face the man. She
guessed he’d slid her gun into the large pocket of his bulging leather coat, while keeping his own gun—a GLOCK 25—aimed toward her and his ex. “Where’re you goin’, Sylvia?”
“None of your business.” Tears streamed down Sylvia’s cheeks. Although she was putting on a brave face and a reasonably strong tone of defiance, she was shaking like a leaf.
“If you’re packing your bags, you must have the money to leave.” He grinned, his horseshoe moustache cutting off the corners of his lips. His voice was calm, low and mockingly sweet. “Where are you hiding it this time?”
Her mouth opened a tiny bit and then closed. She licked her lips, and for a brief moment her eyes took on a calculating gleam.
Rachel felt a sudden sickening drop in her stomach. “Sylvia, don’t.”
“It’s in the house. I hid it in the house.”
“Nice one, babe. I couldn’t quite figure out why you kept going back there, but now it’s starting to make a little more sense.” He tipped his head toward Rachel. “You know, she always did like the prettier things in life. I guess it was a good thing her brother up and disappeared so he wouldn’t be able to control her spending.”
“He never controlled my spending,” Sylvia spat.
“No.” He raked his eyes the length of her well-dressed body. Sylvia shivered, looking away with a scowl. “I guess he didn’t.” He jerked the pistol toward the door. “Both of you, up. Not a sound as we’re walking, got it?”
The elevator went straight to the underground parking, so they managed to avoid crossing paths with the building’s other residents. Sylvia took the wheel of the Audi, Rachel sat shotgun and Reagan squeezed himself in behind his ex-wife. They eased out into the glittering evening traffic without fanfare—just another car in the throng heading out of Vancouver.
“So, what’s the connection between you two? Clearly my little wife—”
“Ex-wife,” Sylvia growled, knuckles white on the leather-wrapped steering wheel.
“Has something you want.”
“A snowboard. A very special one-of-a-kind snowboard that belonged to her brother.”