Cold Hard Secret (Secret McQueen)

by Sierra Dean

  There would be some bruising.

  I released the window ledge and dropped to the street, landing in a crouch on both feet, with nary a broken bone to complain about.

  Too bad I’d lost precious chase time by hanging around.

  I ran into the street, sticking close to the buildings to avoid too much undue attention. At least the sword was in a sheath, and with the smooth design of the katana it didn’t appear threatening at a quick glance. I’d seen people with more menacing umbrellas.

  Dodging a few slow-moving pedestrians, I scanned the crowd for a sign of Desmond or the man he was chasing. Given I was a mere five four, it wasn’t easy to see much of anything from my lowered vantage point. Hopping up and down to see over people’s heads was always an option, but it tended to take away from my polished badass veneer.

  Instead I kept moving and tried to judge where the crowd was parting unnaturally—as though someone was forcing their way through it. The din of shouts and curses helped too. Apparently Parisians weren’t big fans of being shoved.

  “Va ta fair foutre, salaud!” someone growled ahead.

  Being raised in Canada by a Creole-French grandmother, I had picked up a passable amount of the language. I wasn’t fluent, but I could get by. And naturally, as a teenager, swears had been the most exciting thing to learn. So I didn’t need a translation to know the guy was saying Fuck off, asshole. It sounded much more cultured in French.

  It also helped me pinpoint which direction I was going.

  I wove my way through the crowd, grateful to find people were either uninterested or more focused on Desmond than on me. My slight frame made it easier to avoid people than it would be for the six-foot-tall werewolf, who cut an intimidating silhouette even in his human form.

  The smaller man must have still been ahead of him because the crowd was parting in two discernible waves, like the ripples off a pair of stones thrown a few feet apart. Soon the people began to thin out, and I was able to see my quarry clearly. Desmond barreled after the other man at full tilt, and they both ducked into another alley.

  I was getting sick of alleys.

  Frankly, I was getting sick of France too. I hoped when we caught up to this guy, we could beat something useful out of him and finally figure out where Peyton was hiding.

  A little killing would do me some good.

  Chapter Three

  Desmond already had the guy cornered when I skidded into the alley. In Paris the alleys weren’t so much back lanes as leaner connecting streets too narrow for cars to pass through. This made it extra difficult as far as cornering went, because the lane was a straight shot through.

  But Desmond had caged the man between his arms and was growling at him in a way that reminded me he wasn’t human at all.

  I drew my gun and approached the pair, both men glancing up at me in the same instant.

  The guy we’d been chasing was reed thin and only a smidge taller than I was. His hair was actually dark blond but had looked brown because it hadn’t been washed in quite some time. Ditto his skin, smeared with soot and dirt. It was impossible to tell what color his tattered clothing used to be.

  “Who do we have here?” I asked Desmond.

  “Meet the Mouse.” He pushed the guy hard against the wall, making him let out a squeak to do his namesake animal proud. “I’m told if there’s something going on in the city people don’t want getting out, Mouse knows about it. Isn’t that right?”

  The man looked at me again, his eyes a shockingly bright shade of blue against the filthy veneer of his face. He was barely a man at all, maybe twenty at best. More like a teenager, though.

  “If he lets you go, are you going to run? Because I have better ways to bring you down than he does.” I held my gun so he could see it. “It’s rare for me to miss, but if you’re running, I might aim for the shoulder and accidentally hit your neck, know what I mean?”

  Mouse nodded.

  “So, kid, let’s talk.” Desmond took a step back, crossing his arms and fixing the boy with a stern no-nonsense glare. I liked seeing him let his inner alpha out to breathe. Living in Lucas’s shadow couldn’t be easy for him.

  “Wh-what do you want?”

  “We’re looking for a vampire,” I said, wanting to see what his reaction would be. If he thought the idea was ludicrous or shocking, chances were good he wouldn’t have useful information. I was pretty good at reading people’s expressions.

  “This is Paris,” he replied. “You’re going to have to narrow things down a bit for me.” He had a soft accent, not French, maybe English. It was hard to tell with the near-whisper quiet of his words.

  Not only did he know about vamps, he knew how plentiful they were in the city. Paris was the seat of Europe’s council, where the Tribunal was located. In a sense it was bold as hell for Peyton to come here and thumb his nose at the vampire version of “the man”. But it was a city people could easily get lost in, regardless of how small it was.

  He was proving this all too well.

  “I’m looking for a vampire named Alexandre Peyton.”

  “Merde,” Mouse spat. Shit. Couldn’t mean anything good. “The Angel of Death?”

  It had been ages since I heard Peyton called by that moniker. I’d been sixteen the first time I met him, before I worked for the council, before I had a werewolf boyfriend. Hell, my acquaintance with Peyton predated my sense of self-preservation, since the guy had damn near killed me.

  To thank him, I’d ripped out one of his fangs.

  It was the only surface wound a vampire couldn’t heal, and he’d never forgiven me.

  Oh yeah, we went way back.

  In his heyday he’d been famous in Europe. His sadistic appetites were well-known among the vampire community, the nasty violence at odds with his beautiful, youthful face.

  The Angel of Death.

  “Where is he?” My voice hitched up, making me sound a lot less calm and cool than I was pretending to be.

  “Look, lady. You don’t want none of him, okay? People go in, they don’t come out. He might be pretty, or whatever. Maybe he’s great in the sack, I dunno what you two are into. But it’s not worth it. Some vamps it’s a bite and flight. They take your blood and bounce. But not this guy. This guy will use you up until there’s nothing left.”

  Yup. Sounded like the Peyton I knew and loathed.

  I couldn’t blame him for going a bit blood happy now that he was free again. Because of me he’d been chained in silver for over a year and starved the entire time. If I was deprived of food for a year…well, I’d die. But if I were a normal vampire and denied the feed? I’d be ravenous. A bottomless pit of hunger. It was no wonder he was eating his fill and then some.

  I wasn’t trying to defend the actions of a serial-killing maniac vampire, but I got it.

  Maybe it was time to start worrying, since I was sympathizing with Alexandre Peyton.

  “Does it seem to you like I’m on a mission to get my rocks off with him?” I waved the gun again.

  “I dunno. People can get weirdly motivated when it comes to vampires. The blood, the sex, the whole, you know…immortality thing.”

  Point taken.

  “I’m not here to fuck him. I’m here to kill him.”

  “And this guy?” Mouse jerked his chin towards Desmond.

  “Trust me, I’m not planning to fuck him either,” Desmond replied dryly.

  “Hardy-har-har.” Mouse adjusted the front of his sweater with deliberate slowness, as if to say, Look what you did to my lovely clothes. “Fine. I’ll tell you guys where to find him. But I ain’t doing it for free.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I stepped closer and crammed the gun under his chin, letting the barrel tickle his barely there stubble. “You’ve mistaken this for a bartering agreement. We’re not exchanging anything. You’ll give me what I want and I’ll take it. End of story.”

  He let out a muffled meep, but kept talking. “He’s dangerous. I give up a guy like that, and he’s going to c
ome after me. It needs to be worth my while.”

  “He might come after you. But I have you right now. Which is scarier?”

  Mouse met my eyes with a dead stare. “Him.”

  “You don’t know me very well.”

  “I know anyone who wants the Angel of Death dead is probably a good guy. The good guys don’t run around killing people.”

  I released him and stepped back, lowering my weapon but not putting it away. “Don’t be naïve. There are no good guys anymore. If you don’t tell me where to find him, I’ll find someone who can. But you better believe I’ll give Peyton your name instead.”

  “Wh-why would you do that?”

  “Because you’re wasting my fucking time.” I turned to Desmond. “This guy is useless. Let’s kill him.”

  Mouse’s gaze darted between me and Desmond, his blue eyes going wide. “Okay, okay. No money. Just don’t tell anyone you got the info from me, okay? Jesus.”

  Well, that had been easier than I anticipated. Of course I wouldn’t have killed Mouse or sold him up the river. I was an assassin, not a complete monster.

  He went on. “Near the Alma-Marceau metro station you can get access to the sewers. He’s not in the touristy part.”

  “There’s a touristy part of the sewers?”

  “Yeah, there’s a museum. You don’t want to go there. There’s a section that’s really badly flooded most of the year. Even though they try to keep it drained, it’s not much good. You can get to it from one of the metro access tunnels. Once you get through the watery section, he’s in there.”

  “In the sewers.”

  “Yes.”

  Why couldn’t rogue vampires hang out in moldering old castles or rent penthouse suites at the Ritz? Too obvious? Too clichéd? I didn’t relish the idea of wading through the muck of the Paris sewer system to find Peyton.

  “Are you bullshitting me? Because if you are, I will seriously ruin your life.”

  He shook his head so hard I thought his brain might be rattling. “That’s where he was as of Thursday. I know someone who’s running supplies in. He hasn’t seen the lair itself, but there’s a drop point about a half mile past the access tunnel. They leave cash, he leaves the goods.”

  “I thought you said no one came out alive.”

  “Yeah, well, vamps can’t exactly take out an ad in the paper asking for reliable delivery boys, know what I mean?”

  “Good help is so hard to find,” Desmond added.

  “And I helped you. You’re gonna let me go now, right?”

  I engaged the safety clip and holstered my gun. “If I find out you lied to me… If I go wandering around in the wet sewers and find nothing? I’m going to come after you, Mouse, you understand me? And don’t think I won’t find you, because I will. You’re a hell of a lot easier to track than he is, and a hell of a lot easier to kill. So I’m going to ask you one last time: are you lying to me?”

  “N-no, ma’am.”

  “Then get the hell out of here.”

  Chapter Four

  Without more time to plan, going into the tunnels would be a fool’s errand, but it didn’t stop me from wanting to check them out.

  Much to my chagrin, the fastest way to get to the Alma-Marceau metro station was to take the train. I wasn’t a fan of underground travel at the best of times, and being crammed into a car with dozens of other people while my tension was at an all-time high? It was a recipe for disaster.

  Desmond and I emerged from the train onto the platform and were both immediately assaulted by the ammonia stench of urine. The station itself was in decent enough condition—well lit, minimal garbage on the ground—but the whole place reeked of piss.

  I wrinkled my nose, trying to pretend the scene wasn’t making it hard for me to breathe. Humans would most certainly be able to pick up on the odor, but it was different for supernaturals. Both Desmond and I had a heightened sense of smell, and his was sharper than mine. I cut a glance sideways at him, and though his expression was stony, a sheen of tears dotted the corners of his eyes.

  Yeah, he was definitely smelling it.

  “Let’s make this quick,” he grumbled.

  I smirked and jabbed him playfully with my elbow. “Hey, if Mouse’s tip pans out, you and I are going on an adventure in the sewers. Think of how nice those will smell.”

  “I have to hope it’s better than this. It smells like forty-eight people pissed all over the floor.”

  “Forty-eight is an oddly specific number.” I rubbed my nose, allowing my hand to linger so I could smell the soap from our hotel instead. Anything would be better than the piss. “You can’t actually discern forty-eight different kinds, can you?”

  Desmond snorted. “No, thank God. Just one kind, and it’s awful. Can we figure out where this entrance is and get the hell out of here?”

  “You don’t need to ask me twice.”

  We wended our way through the sparse crowd. Due to the late hour, the train had been nearly empty. Even big cities like Paris and New York had quiet hours, stretches of time where a person could find themselves alone. For us, it was lucky we were moving around during the slowest part of the night. No one looked twice at the weapon strapped to my back, and I didn’t need to explain what Desmond or I were up to.

  On the platform, most people moved towards the exit while a few lingering passengers boarded the outbound train. Soon we were by ourselves and able to do what we had to without fear of being questioned.

  Walking the full length of the platform, we checked the tile-covered walls for a point of easy access to the area that lay beyond. There were no obvious entrances, just the stairs leading up to the street. We worked our way down to the platform’s end, to the point of no return, where pedestrians could not pass.

  About fifteen feet past the station proper, where the train tunnel began to turn, was a small access door set into the wall. Through the dim light I was able to make out the sign: Réservé aux employés.

  “I think that’s our best bet.” I angled my chin towards the tunnel, not wanting to draw too much attention since people had started filling up the waiting area again.

  “Seems like the most obvious choice.”

  “So we come back tomorrow night, then. Pay a visit to an old friend.”

  His mouth formed a thin line. “Don’t you want to take some time, formulate a more thorough plan?”

  I shook my head, feeling totally focused on the task before us. “Time isn’t going to help this. We go in. We find Peyton. We kill Peyton.”

  “I guess I should be grateful you’re saying we.” He tugged my ponytail until I looked at him, and we both shared a smile.

  He had good reason to make that jab. For a long time I’d been the kind of woman—girl, really—to rush headlong into the fray with next to no concern for my own personal safety. I would go at it alone, because the idea of risking anyone else was unforgivable. Over time I started to realize I couldn’t keep doing things the same way. Relying on others wasn’t a weakness, it was a necessity, and I had people in my life who were strong enough to fight alongside me.

  Except sometimes they weren’t.

  A vision of Holden’s gaunt face tried to creep into my mind, but I struggled against it, imagining him as he was the night I’d left for France. He was healthy, robust, and though he was pale, that was hardly anything new for him. I imagined his dark hair, the color of coffee, and his brown eyes, full of life in spite of his lack of pulse.

  Holden was fine. He’d survived our ordeal with The Doctor the same as I had. Maybe better. He hadn’t been brutalized like I was. And maybe it had something to do with the fact he’d already died once, while I still cherished my mortality, but the incident didn’t seem to be bothering him the way it did me.

  He wanted me to move on like he had, but I was struggling to put things behind me. Maybe I wasn’t as strong as he was.

  And admitting I was low on strength made it easier for me to acknowledge I needed help. I would kill Peyton on my
own, but I’d need Desmond’s help to get me there.

  “Yeah. We,” I repeated.

  “Okay. I won’t argue, but we do need to consider what we might be up against. I’m sure he’ll have minions or something.”

  I couldn’t contain my laugh. “Jesus, Des. It’s not Despicable Me. He’ll have some low-level vamps around him at best. Knowing Peyton’s style, he will probably have a few baby vamps.” My throat constricted, cutting off my laughter. Alexandre Peyton had a thing for turning new vampires. He’d done it before, setting one on my scent to kill me. That vampire—Brigit Stewart—had ended up becoming one of my dearest friends.

  Until she’d been killed.

  Talking about baby vamps was apparently one of many touchy subjects I needed to avoid.

  Desmond sensed the change in my behavior and gently placed a hand on my shoulder. He kept his distance, allowing space between our bodies, and for once my immediate response was not to pull away. I stepped closer and ducked my head under his chin. For a moment he must have been surprised by my willingness to be held because he did nothing. Then both his big arms wrapped around my back, and he drew me in tight, letting his bulk shield me from the outside world.

  “We’ll get him,” he whispered, stroking my hair. He felt warm, almost hot. Werewolves tended to have elevated body temperatures, whereas my own skin was usually cool or lukewarm. Against my own tepid skin, his felt downright steamy, reminding me how much I missed touching him and falling asleep with him beside me. Desmond always felt so alive to me, like the little miniature sun at the center of my private universe.

  “I know.”

  And I almost believed myself.

  Chapter Five

  I didn’t want to take the train again, so we left the metro and headed into the night-darkened Paris streets. Desmond took my hand, and riding the wave of confidence from the platform, I let him. It felt nice, having him touch me. I wasn’t sure I was ready for anything more intimate, but this…this was good.