“So how do we kill one of these?” she asked.
“Assuming you even have a loup-garou problem, I have no idea,” Marie admitted. “I’ll have to do some research. Is there a number I can call you at when I find something?”
“Riley, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Scott murmured, his voice low in her ear. “We don’t want anyone to have any information that can be used to track us if it falls into the wrong hands.”
“Oh, come on, it’s Marie,” she said. “I know her. She’s fine.”
“I know what you both do for a living,” Marie said. “Even though everything seems to have gotten a bit more complicated than the last time I saw Riley. Regardless, I understand the need for secrecy, and your secret is safe with me.”
Scott still looked dubious, but he didn’t say anything as she gently elbowed him in the ribs. “It’s not a big deal,” she urged. “I trust her. You should, too.”
“I don’t,” he said. He glanced at Marie and added, “No offense. I don’t trust anyone.”
“No offense taken,” Marie replied.
“It’s fine that you can trust her, Riley, but you can’t ask me to do the same,” he added. “I don’t know her like you seem to.”
Riley hesitated then nodded. “Okay, fine. I understand. But if you can’t trust her, then at least trust me.” Then, to Marie, “We’ll stop back in tomorrow afternoon and see what you’ve got.”
“Here’s my phone number in case you end up needing it,” Marie said as they stood to leave, snagging a scrap of paper from the table and scribbling down her phone number. “And be careful. Both of you.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about us,” Riley said cheerfully, tucking the paper in her back pocket. “Because the two of us, there’s not much of anything that can take us down.”
Four
Brandon wondered where Ahm and her werewolf companion/bodyguard had gone as he sliced a bite from the steak on the plate in front of him, ignoring the rest of the patrons in the hotel’s restaurant. Since they’d left his hotel room earlier that day, he hadn’t heard a word from them. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Who knew what she and that werewolf were getting up to?
Speaking of…Timothy fucking Chambers. Brandon hadn’t realized that any of the Chambers were still alive; he’d figured Zachariah had killed the last one—Nathan, the Alpha werewolf of his family—three years before, especially considering the infighting and slaughter in the Colombian turf wars that followed his demise. He should have known better than to think Nathan wouldn’t have had an in-family backup. It seemed that that family just couldn’t be killed off.
Brandon hacked another chunk of steak apart and stuffed it in his mouth, not really caring about how undignified he probably looked. His mind wasn’t on his dinner; it had turned to the major topic at hand for him: Riley Walker. Or was it Riley Hartley these days? It was so hard to keep up with that sort of thing. He couldn’t believe that his boss had gone back on his word that Riley would remain unharmed, but really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, that was what his boss was known for.
His cell phone started buzzing in his pocket, and he startled and almost dropped his fork. He set his utensils carefully against the edge of his plate and slipped the phone out of his pocket. The number on the screen was unfamiliar, and he almost didn’t answer it. But then, thinking of what Ahm could be up to, he lifted the phone to his ear as he pressed the “answer” icon.
“Hall,” he said, keeping his voice pitched at a level that wouldn’t carry to the surrounding tables.
“I hope you’re keeping yourself busy,” a woman’s voice said, and it took him a second to realize it was Ahm on the line. Speak of the fuckin’ Devil…
Brandon looked down at his plate and his half-eaten steak. “Relatively so,” he replied.
“You should pay for your dinner,” Ahm said. “And you should pack up and leave your hotel.”
“What for?”
“You should get a new, more comfortable one in New Orleans.”
“Why would I want to go to New Orleans?” he asked. “There are entirely too many tourists there.”
“And there is one of our wayward Witnesses there, too,” Ahm told him. “Her and her companion.”
Brandon’s heart skipped a beat. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to—”
“And you won’t,” she interrupted. “You’ll do as you’re told. And right now, I am telling you to go to New Orleans. I will meet you there tonight.”
“Where are you now?” he asked, glancing at his watch. It was just past two in the afternoon.
“I’m in Washington, D.C.,” she answered, much to his surprise. “I’ll be there by about ten tonight.”
“How will you know where to find me?” Brandon pushed. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and set it on the table beside his plate then signaled to the waiter for his check. And how the fuck are you going to get from D.C. to New Orleans in eight hours? he didn’t ask. No way she's going to catch a plane in time. Hell, he couldn’t help but wonder how she got to D.C. so quickly.
“I’ll know,” Ahm said, and then she hung up.
Brandon looked at his phone’s screen and scowled. If there was anything he despised, it was someone hanging up on him. He checked the time then tucked his phone back into his pocket and pulled out his wallet to pay for his meal. He had to get back to his hotel room and pack up what few belongings he’d unpacked.
Clearly, he had work to do.
The dream started off the same way they always did: Ashton sitting on his park bench, watching the birds. He shouldn’t have been surprised by it anymore, though it seemed like every time this dream happened, he always caught himself marveling that it was, indeed, happening again. But, like last time, there was something subtly different. This time, the skies weren’t the pure, cloudless blue they’d been the last time Ashton had been there. On the horizon, so far away that he almost couldn’t see them, storm clouds had started to accumulate, fat cumulonimbus balls of cotton towering up to brush the heights, their undersides shadowed in dark gray. They looked ominous, and the thought crossed his mind that he should leave his bench and seek shelter before the storm got there and unleashed its fury on the pretty little park.
“There’s a storm coming,” a familiar voice said, and Ashton turned his head to see Sera approaching on his right. She was wearing the same clothes she’d worn last time she showed up in his dream—all black, though they looked like this time they were made of some sort of cloth, not leather—and her long blond hair was twined up in a thick braid.
“You came back,” he said, his voice betraying his surprise.
“Of course I did,” Sera replied. She sat down on the bench beside him, crossing her ankles and relaxing back as if she didn’t have a care in the world. He eyed the distant storm again. It didn’t look as far away as it had before. “We weren’t done with our conversation.”
“Not through any choice of mine,” Ashton muttered.
“On the contrary,” Sera replied. “You’re the one who lied to me last time I was here. I don’t take too kindly to being lied to.”
“I didn’t lie to you,” he protested.
“You did,” she said. “You told me you come here often. You did not divulge that this is just a dream for you.”
“Yeah, well, you’re just a figment of my overactive brain,” he replied. “A figment that apparently can get independently offended.”
Sera laughed at that, a soft little snort that sounded like she was trying to suppress it. “Oh, you have no idea,” she said. Despite her mirth, she looked almost sad. “Do you remember anything?” she asked, almost tentatively. “About your life?” And then, hesitantly, she asked, “Do you remember me?”
For a heart-stopping moment, Ashton wondered if this woman was some fragment of his forgotten past leaking out from his subconscious mind, some figment he couldn’t remember no matter how hard he tried. Was she a sister? A friend? A…wife?
God, he hoped it wasn’t the latter. If he’d had a wife in his previous life—from the one he’d had before the apparent accident that had caused him to lose all memory of himself and his life prior to Damon finding him on the National Mall in D.C.—he had no idea how to tell her that no, he didn’t remember her and, besides, he greatly preferred men now. Zachariah, in particular.
But no, he didn’t need to say a word. Sera’s sad expression had faded slightly, shifting into one of understanding. She already knew the answer to whatever he had to say.
“It’s okay,” she assured him. A hard gust of wind swept across the park and blew his hair back from his forehead. “Not all of us come out of it undamaged.”
“All of who come out of what?” he asked.
She looked like she had said too much and regretted it. “A storm is coming,” she said again, avoiding answering his question as she glanced up at the sky above them.
The deep gray clouds were positioned just above them now, black and pregnant with rain. As he followed her gaze to the clouds, lightning flashed in them, branching out in a spider web of electricity and pulsating light. “You told me that before,” he said, looking back at her. “Do I know you? Why are you here?” Sera didn’t answer; she simply stood and turned away from him. He jumped off the bench and started after her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her around to face him. “Answer me, damn it,” he demanded. “Who are you?”
“It’s not time for that yet,” she said. “You’re not ready.” She turned and walked away.
“Not ready?” he called after her. “I’m more than ready. Please! Tell me what you want with me!” She didn’t answer, just kept walking away from him.
And before he could follow her, chase her down to demand answers, the clouds above him opened up. But instead of water pouring down, it started to rain feathers.
Zachariah couldn’t sleep. His brain was too busy trying to cope with the gladness he felt at having Ashton up and about again. It was a ridiculous reason to be so stirred up, but he couldn’t help it. He had no idea what had happened while he’d been out with Angelique, but whatever it was, it’d gotten Ashton out of bed, showered, and eating. But not, he observed, shaving; his face was still covered with a healthy amount of stubble. Zachariah had never seen him with more than a light dusting of facial hair before. Oddly, it suited him. Ashton must have thought so, too, because he hadn’t shaved it off but had trimmed and neatened it.
Zachariah gently brushed his fingers over Ashton’s facial hair. Ashton startled awake, his eye flying open, and he breathed out a word that sounded suspiciously like, “Feathers.”
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Ashton took a deep breath through his nose and blew it out through his mouth. “It’s okay,” he mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I wasn’t sleeping well anyway.” He shifted onto his side, tugged the sheets back into place, and squinted at Zachariah through the dimness. “You look like you haven’t slept at all.”
“I haven’t,” he admitted. “I can’t seem to relax enough.”
“Mind too busy?”
“Yeah, worrying about you.”
“Sorry,” Ashton said quietly. “There’s no need to worry about me anymore, though. I think I’ve managed to find myself again.”
“I’m always going to worry about you. If I didn’t, I bet you’d start stressing over whether or not I care.” He slid closer to Ashton, smiling and running his fingers over the beard again. “Have I mentioned I actually kind of like this? It makes you look so…distinguished.”
Ashton laughed softly and turned his head to kiss Zachariah’s fingers. “And here I was choosing to not shave because I felt too lazy to bother with it.”
Zachariah scooted a little further over and climbed on top of Ashton, straddling his hips and practically laying down on top of him. “Sounds like you need something to get your blood flowing and your energy going,” he joked.
Ashton pressed his hands against Zachariah’s ribs and slid them down to his hips, resting them there like it was where they belonged; his thumbs traced circles on the skin just above the waistband of his pants, dragging over the quarter-sized tattoo of a plain black circle inked there, sending a delighted little shiver roiling up Zachariah’s spine. He slid his own hand down to Ashton’s hip in return, brushing against the spot where the other man had an identical tattoo. “It’s been a while,” Ashton commented.
“God, I know,” Zachariah said, “and I’ve felt every damn second of it.” He braced his hands on the bed on either side of Ashton’s shoulders and nuzzled at his jaw with every intention of getting the aforementioned “something” started, when Ashton turned his head away and looked at the closed bedroom door. Zachariah groaned.
“Did you hear something?” Ashton asked.
“It’s an apartment building, Ash,” he pointed out, tugging his t-shirt off and throwing it across the room before tackling Ashton’s. “I have neighbors. Occasionally, they make noise.”
“Your walls are soundproofed,” Ashton replied. “It almost sounded like…” He trailed off, and in the silence that followed, Zachariah heard the soft, unmistakable sound of one of the locks on the front door clicking open.
“Son of a bitch,” Zachariah whispered. He grabbed Ashton and rolled sideways. They tumbled off the bed on the side furthest from the bedroom door, hitting the carpet hard in virtually the same position they’d been in when they were on top of the bed. Ashton let out a grunt of surprise at the sudden movement but was otherwise silent. Zachariah scrambled across the room, gathered clothes and shoes, and returned to Ashton. “Put these on,” he ordered, shoving the man’s clothes at him before beginning to dress.
“What are we doing?” Ashton asked.
“Getting the fuck out of here,” he said. “If they’re taking the trouble to break in, they’re not friends of mine.”
Ashton finished pulling on his jeans and asked, “Weapons?”
“Just a sec.” Zachariah finished dressing—haphazardly; he wasn’t trying to make himself look good—and reached across Ashton to open the door that took up the bottom half of his nightstand. There was a black safe inside with a biometric scanner on it; he jammed his thumb onto the reader, and the safe beeped softly before its door thunked open. He thrust his hand inside and pulled out two pistols and several magazines of bullets, passing one of the weapons and two magazines to Ashton. He grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand and cued up the call screen.
“Who are you calling?” Ashton asked.
Zachariah didn’t answer. He jabbed his thumb on the second name of his contacts list and put the phone to his ear. It rang twice before there was an answer. “Damon?” he asked.
“What’s going on?” his father asked.
“There’s someone in my apartment,” he answered, keeping his voice low. “Maybe more than one someone, by the sound of it.” As he spoke, a low rumble started, and he tensed; he’d know that sound anywhere. His stomach clenched as it brought back horrible memories from three years before. He shoved them aside as hard as he could and added tiredly, “And it appears they brought a werewolf with them.”
“I’m on my way. Get out of there while you have the chance.”
No sooner had Damon spoken than the familiar click of a magazine being inserted into a rifle reached Zachariah’s ears. He cursed and dropped the phone, shoving Ashton to the floor as whoever held the rifle opened fire. They flattened themselves to the carpet as bullets peppered the wall and blasted through sheetrock and wood, flying over their heads to smash into the windows on the other side of the room. Neither of them attempted to speak until the gunfire had ceased.
“What the fuck kind of werewolf uses a damn rifle like that?” Zachariah gasped. The silence was thick and ringing in his ears, and everything around him seemed muffled. Thankfully, he refrained from shouting like many people would when they couldn’t hear themselves clearly, keeping his voice pitched low.
“The
kind that wants to kill us very badly,” Ashton replied, his own voice quiet.
The sound of high heels—of all things—on the kitchen tile rang out as someone strode into the apartment. An unfamiliar woman’s voice broke the silence. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she said in a sing-song voice. “I can’t kill you if you’re hiding from me.”
“Like that makes me want to come out,” Zachariah muttered.
“Find him,” the woman said. “I’m going to take a look at the computers.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” he chanted.
“What?”
“Riley’s phone number is still keyed into the tracking program on my computer,” he said, looking around wildly for something with which to solve the problem. “I can’t leave without doing something about that. They’ll be able to track her if I don’t deal with it.”
“You’re about to do something stupid, aren’t you?”
“Probably.” He flung the safe open again and rooted through what little remained inside, coming out with an object that vaguely resembled a grenade.
“What the hell is that?” Ashton asked. His eye was wide with a mix of fascination and confusion.
“An EMP grenade,” he explained. “The Unnaturals’ armorer, William, made it. He was experimenting with some new weaponry, ways to take out the computer networks in case someone or something ever breached the facility. He came up with this. Never been tested before but we’ll know right away if it works.”
He pushed away from the bed, shoved a set of keys from the safe into Ashton’s hands, and pointed to the windows on their side of the bed. “You go out by the fire escape,” he instructed. “Make sure it’s clear. I’ll catch up with you in a second.”
Ashton caught his arm before he could slide away. “Be careful,” he said.
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