He caught her by the back of the head, blocked her fist with one forearm. Her knuckles cracked against bone. Naomi yelped as he slammed her head to the top of the car. Swore as her skull reverberated, bone to metal.
Way too familiar.
He’d always been a hands-on kind of dick.
She lashed backward, snapped out a foot that found vulnerable flesh, but he twisted, trapped her, slid in behind her. Suddenly pinned to the wet hood of the car, she struggled against a man as solid as stone, his hips to her back and one hand flattening her face to wet metal.
“Don’t,” he warned, and Naomi’s chest tightened. She gasped for air. For sense.
For sanity to come back.
“Silas.” It barely croaked out of her too-swollen throat.
Silas Smith had been a good hunter. A good friend, until he’d fallen head over dick for a witch.
That witch led him to his death.
Now, with his callused hand pressing her face to the cold metal hood and the warmth of his body pinning her flat, Naomi couldn’t ignore the truth.
He wasn’t dead.
Clearly he wasn’t dead, and that meant he still worked for them. The other side.
He’d betrayed her.
“You’re hurting me,” she snapped.
His hand tightened over her head. “Like hell. If I let you go, you’re not— Fuck me.” It broke on a gasp, a thrash of mangled air as Naomi shifted, liquid quick, and rammed her elbow back into his sternum.
He staggered, opening the opportunity for her to hook a foot around one knee and jerk. Hard.
Silas hit the ground wheezing.
Naomi spun, weight on the balls of her feet, and backed away, fists clenched hard, ready. Waiting. There was no way in hell she’d roll around on the ground with a man twice her size.
His death had been good to him.
Silas had lost none of his muscle, none of his lethal grace as he sprang back to his feet, one big hand rubbing at his chest. His skin was oddly tan, healthy.
He watched her warily from gray-green eyes.
“You son of a bitch,” she said tightly. “You backstabbing turncoat shitfu—”
“God damn it, Nai.” It rumbled from his chest, impatience. Tension.
And . . . fear?
Good. He deserved to be afraid. To wonder if she’d put a bullet right between his fucking eyes. She circled him, watched him. “How’s the witch-bitch?” A flicker of fury, of menace in his eyes made her smile flatly. “Dead, then? Like you’re supposed to be?”
“Jesus.” Silas put his hands out to the side. “Shut up for one second and listen—”
“You made your choice.” Naomi pulled the gun from her coat, raised it fluidly, and cupped one hand under the other as he shifted hard. “Don’t move. I’m not going to stand here and listen to whatever lies that bitch put you up to.”
“Naomi—”
“I said no!” The words wrenched from her chest. Too hard. Too telling.
Silas froze, closing his eyes. Sympathy. Jesus Christ, she didn’t need his pity.
“Save it,” she said, quieter with effort. “I don’t have time to put you where the Mission can get you, so I’ll just have to shoot you and call it a day.”
“You think you can?”
“Honey,” she drawled, finger tightening on the trigger. “You’re the least of my problems.”
Or he should have been. She had so much more to do, so much more to be worried about, but her arms ached, shoulders too rigid as the lethal barrel centered on his chest. It shook, just enough.
Grimly she widened her stance, firmed her grip.
He’d betrayed her, betrayed the Mission. He was as much a heretic as the witch he’d decided to help.
Silas watched her.
She swallowed hard. In his eyes, in the smoky green depths of his steady gaze, she saw the boy he’d been years ago, the stocky kid who’d pulled her nine-year-old ass out of the tree when she’d tried to run away from the orphanage.
She saw the shape of his mouth, quick enough to smile before the severity of the Mission had beaten it out of him.
Out of them both.
He eased closer. “I’m not your enemy,” he said quietly. “I never have been.” A pause, and then a wry slash to his mouth. “Mostly.”
She raised her chin. “Don’t move.”
“You’re not going to shoot me, Nai.” Slowly he reached out a broad palm, wrapped his fingers around the barrel. “You would have if you could. I’m not here to fight with you.”
If he’d tried to take it, if he’d so much as pulled a fraction of an inch, Naomi wasn’t sure that she would have taken her finger off the trigger. But he didn’t. He just pushed, firmly, resolutely, until the muzzle pointed down. Safely tucked toward the ground at his feet.
Her arms jerked.
“I’m not dead, Naomi.”
A wash of tears all but knocked her on her ass. She buckled, righted herself, and threw her weight at him instead. He caught her, staggered.
“Oh, Christ.” Pure panic. He grunted in pain as she rammed her fist into the heavy muscle at his shoulder. Into his stomach, braced for the impact. Into his chest. She dropped the gun and hammered at him, sobbed incoherent words of rage and relief and frustration. She pounded against the rock-solid wall of muscle and flesh and witch-loving heretic and it wasn’t enough.
As he took the worst of it, as he turned his face away, taut with apology, with regret—with the innate inability of a man confronted by a hysterical woman—Naomi grabbed his collar and kissed him hard on the mouth.
His eyes widened.
Narrowed as she jerked her knee up into his groin. He wasn’t fast enough. Soft flesh gave way to bruising bone.
Silas buckled.
She let him go. Gasping for breath, she braced herself on her knees and watched him hit the ground, hunched over the balls she knew would be too fucking sore to play with for a while. Served him right.
“Fuck,” he swore, gasped it. “Why?”
“You’re supposed to be dead!” She threw it at him, her accusation rough and furious, sharp as a knife. “Why couldn’t you stay dead?”
He groaned. “I may as well be.”
“You’re fucking not, are you?”
“I thought,” he gritted out between bloodless lips, “that’s what the kiss was for.”
“In your dreams.” Naomi sniffed hard, wiping at her eyes impatiently. “What the hell are you thinking, Smith? You can’t talk to me. You can’t show me you’re alive and then just expect to walk away. I’m still a fucking missionary, even if you aren’t!”
Grunting with the effort, Silas pushed himself back to his feet. Stiffly, gingerly, he hunched over the crippling pain of his bruised groin, braced against his knees until Naomi could see his eyes begin to uncross.
He cleared his throat roughly. “That’s, uh . . . Christ, Naomi.”
Despite the pressure behind her eyes, too damn much emotion clawing at her, a smile caught at her mouth. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m here because— damn. Exactly because you’re a missionary.” He straightened by increments. Groaned. “Fuck me.”
“Good luck with that,” she bit out, but a wash of guilt slipped under the anger. The hurt. She turned away, retrieved the gun she’d dropped to the wet ground. “What do you want?”
“I want you to go back to Timeless. And you need to do it now.”
She jerked straight, spun to stare at him. At the intensity of his eyes, glittering in his still-pale face. “How the fuck—”
“They’re in trouble.”
“Homicidal maniac stalking the joint? Yeah, I’d say.” She rolled her eyes. “What’s new there?”
“There’s more than just the one,” he replied grimly.
“What?”
“Remnants of this city’s Coven of the Unbinding cell are in there, too,” Silas said, his voice hoarse with the effort.
“I knew it!”
“No, Nai,
” he replied roughly. “They’re not there because Timeless let them. They’re rogue, too.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“I know you killed one,” he said, cupping himself as if it could take the pressure off. His mouth still pinched. “Jesus. But there’s more, and your rogue agent just locked down the building.”
Naomi stilled. Every nerve shimmered to sudden, complete attention. “Locked down,” she repeated. If it came out hoarse, breathless with fear, Silas didn’t ask.
He checked his comm. “Twenty minutes ago. He’s got the family, some staff, a couple of guests. One’s wounded.”
She paled. “Details?”
“Not many.” Gingerly Silas took a few steps. “I have someone on the inside, but contact’s sporadic. Do you trust me?”
Stiff with anger, with sudden biting terror, Naomi smiled flatly. “Not ever again.”
“How about for the next hour?”
“You have a plan?”
He nodded, face grim. “But you’re going to have to let me drive.”
Naomi glanced at the sleek, beautiful car. Back at his face, so steady. So hard. Missionary mode.
Except he wasn’t a missionary anymore.
“Not on your goddamn life,” Naomi said sweetly.
Silas chuckled. It strained. “Worth a shot. Get in. Time’s short.” He rounded the car, walking carefully. Wincing, he slid into the passenger seat.
The rain pounded the street, hammered at the car roof as Naomi pulled the door shut. She tucked the Colt back into its holster and slammed the car into drive.
“What’s the deal in there?”
“A woman down”—suddenly dizzy with relief, Naomi swallowed back a roll of nausea—“and there’s a handful of people all trying to save who they can. The killer’s been using secret corridors.”
Naomi glanced at him. “Are you fucking serious?”
“As a bullet.”
“Where are they?”
Silas reached across her lap and unhooked her comm, the gesture so wordlessly familiar that she gritted her teeth around a wave of bittersweet memory. He slotted a small chip into the jack. After a moment, he held it up. “Partial blueprints. It’s all she could map.”
“How the fuck do you know all this?”
“I told you,” Silas replied, “I have someone on the inside.”
“Who, what?” She eased the car into traffic, movements stiff. Too fucking much tension. “Who just happens to know everything going on in there?”
“Something like that.”
Naomi’s grip ached on the wheel. “Silas.”
“Yeah.”
“When this is over?”
“Yeah?”
She didn’t look at him, her eyes skimming the tops of the spires looming above the carousel. Smoke boiled like a blight into the sky, black on gray. “Run like hell. Don’t ever let me see you again.”
His laugh choked, half a snort. “Yeah.”
They rode in silence until sirens overwhelmed the quiet. Emergency vehicles blitzed by them on the road. Naomi swore, slammed the pedal to the floor, and overtook them again.
“Racing them might not—”
“Fuck off, I’m trying to beat them there,” Naomi growled, deftly spinning the car between two ambulances and a fire truck. Horns blared, sirens wailed, and Silas clung to the door handle like a little girl.
She slanted him a contemptuous smile as they blitzed through the security checks. Yellow and black roadblocks rebounded off the hood, clattered over the windshield, and sent a security agent diving for cover.
In her rearview mirror, a sec-comp skittered higher into the air, its programming likely set to follow any vehicle breaking protocol. “Company,” she said tightly.
“Let it.” Silas hunkered down in his seat. “It’ll bring more help to the hotel.”
New lights flashed on behind them, quickly left behind as they raced up the carousel. The car ate pavement like it was nothing, tearing through the back entrance and squealing into the parking garage. Dead silence wrapped around them like a coffin as Naomi climbed out of the car, her heart pounding.
The smoke wasn’t as thick here. Yet.
She stripped off her jacket, tossed it over the hood, and zipped the Mission suit to her chin.
Silas checked his comm. “There’s a passage here.”
“I hate this place,” Naomi snarled, lashing out with a foot. The car rocked as the impact echoed through the garage. “Hate this goddamn—”
“Naomi.”
She whirled, scraping her fingers through her hair, and didn’t meet Silas’s eyes. “Where’s the fucking passage?”
“Down here.” The feminine voice echoed from her left. Naomi spun, gun in hand, and aimed at the floor as a section of grating shifted. “A little help, maybe?”
Springing forward, Silas bent to the grate, yanked it hard, and shifted the whole thing away. Metal clanged against stone, ringing desperately through the garage. Red hair gleamed in the dim light as he helped Cally out of the hole.
Naomi tucked the gun back into her holster. Tawny eyes met hers. Narrowed.
Brown eyes. Not green. Naomi’s fingers itched. “Shitfuck,” she snarled. Before the woman could react, Naomi grabbed a handful of that shiny red hair and yanked hard enough to send Cally sprawling.
Except it came off in her hand instead.
Waves of tousled blonde hair slid to her shoulders, and Naomi stared into the rueful, impatient face of Jessie Leigh.
The witch Silas had died for.
Silas snatched her out of the air as she lunged. Shook her hard enough to rattle her teeth. “West!” he barked. His voice bounced from wall to wall.
Jessie raised her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said, but Naomi flung an elbow into Silas’s shoulder.
It dug into the tender muscle of his neck. He only grunted, wrestled her back from the hole, and slammed her back down on her feet. Hard.
Her ankles tweaked a warning.
“That’s enough,” Silas snarled.
Naomi thrust her face inches from his. “You son of a bitch. You’re still—”
“Gemma Clarke is dying.” Jessie’s calm intensity wrapped around Naomi’s brain and squeezed. Hard.
She whirled. “What?”
“Do I have your attention now?” Sympathy filled her golden brown eyes, edged with something fiercer. Something Naomi hadn’t recognized the first time they’d met.
Raw determination. Dedication.
Fuck. She pushed away from Silas, shrugging off his large hand in disgust. “How?”
“The missionary shot her. I can take you there.”
Naomi glanced at the yawning hole at her feet. “Through there?”
“He hasn’t figured out all the halls,” Jessie said, nodding. “But time’s running out, Miss West. He’s set fire to the outlying wings and the others can only work so fast.”
Naomi’s smile cut. “Others.”
“The witches not part of the coven,” Jessie replied quietly. “We’re all fighting them. It’s not pretty.”
Pretty. Fuck pretty. Naomi slammed her gun back into the holster. “Take me in.”
Silas shifted. “I’ll—”
Jessie put a hand on Silas’s chest. Palm to heartbeat. Naomi flinched, turned away as something raw and emotional filled his face.
The same emotion mirrored in the witch’s expression.
“You need to go find the others,” she said quietly. “The accused witches and supporters Phin tried to evacuate are trapped in the basement, you need to find them and get them to safety.”
Silas scowled, catching the nape of her neck as if it would make his point that much sharper. “I’m not leaving you,” he said roughly.
Jessie’s laugh was as smoky as the hand on his cheek was tender, and Naomi’s shoulders stiffened.
He loved a goddamned witch. A witch.
And if it was the kind of spell the Church swore it had to be, she’d carve off her own tattoo an
d eat it. Goddamn him.
“I’m not alone,” Jessie said softly. “Naomi will protect me.”
The look Silas slanted Naomi should have gutted her where she stood. She lifted her chin, refusing to look away.
Silas let out a hard sound. Frustration. Resignation. “Be careful,” he said. Pleaded, damn him. “Sunshine, you be careful. Promise me.”
“It’s not my fight, remember?” Jessie eased up to her toes, kissed him with all of that raw passion and something so much softer. Gentler.
Naomi couldn’t watch. Not this. Not while Silas held a witch close, kissed her as thoroughly as Naomi had ever known a kiss to be.
Jessie touched his face, so sweetly, and then jerked her head at the hole. “After you, Miss West.”
Silas’s fists clenched. “I love you.”
“I never liked you,” Naomi shot back, and couldn’t help a fierce surge of amusement as he made a rude gesture in her direction.
Behind her, Jessie laughed. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “Go do what you have to.”
“Thirty minutes,” he said fiercely. “Thirty fucking minutes, not a second more or I’m coming in after you. You hear me, West?”
“I hear,” she muttered, and stepped into the hole. The instant Naomi sank into the gloom beneath the parking garage, she knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as that. Smoke curled around her chest. It ghosted around her with every motion, burned her nose and throat.
Jessie landed behind her, shoes scraping against the concrete flooring. “Gemma needs you first.”
“Where’s Phin?”
The witch pushed past her, clicking on a flashlight that shattered the dark. Tendrils of gray curled into the beam. “Gemma first,” she repeated.
“God damn it—”
Jessie turned, the flashlight beam suddenly stark in Naomi’s face. She swore, her night vision shattered, and couldn’t see to stop it when Jessie’s hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of her collar.
“You listen to me,” Jessie said tightly, her voice a lash of tightly leashed fury and pain. “Fifteen people are dead. Do you understand that? Only eight of them were caught in that fire, and we’re not counting the witch you killed.”
Naomi seized the thin wrist under her chin, but she didn’t use it. Didn’t twist her grip and send the girl flying.
Maybe it was the passion.
Lure of the Wicked Page 23