Requiem for the Dead

by Kelly Meding

My hands came up to his shoulders. He tensed with that contact, and my stomach fluttered with nerves. I wasn't good at this seduction stuff; I was going with whatever felt right. Touching him definitely felt right, and the simple sensuousness of it was stoking my own arousal. I trailed my fingers down his arms, tracing muscles and bone and skin, down to his hands, which I lifted and put on my hips.

  He did not move on his own.

  I flattened my palms over his pecs, allowing my fingers to skate lightly over his nipples, and he growled. It was a human growl, though, and that shot a bolt of pleasure straight through my midsection. The hands on my bare hips squeezed a fraction harder. I took another step closer, obliterating the distance between us. My breasts pressed against his chest. His erection, hot and hard, was trapped against my belly.

  "Fuck," he whispered.

  I nuzzled his cheek with my nose. "Yes, please."

  Fingers tangled in my hair and pulled my head back with a gentle tug, and then his mouth devoured me. Wyatt's kisses were always special, often intense, but this was different. This kiss was a declaration, a claiming, more so than any of the dozens of kisses we'd already shared. I opened for him willingly, wanting him in me in every way possible, and his tongue licked inside my mouth. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders to keep him there, hips moving on their own as the need for friction overwhelmed me.

  My lips tingled faintly with a soft brush of otherness that had been there ever since Wyatt's infection. Unlike the full-blooded Lupa, his saliva wasn't dangerous to me or anyone else. His blood, on the other hand, could be, especially if it came into contact with an open wound. My handy healing powers would likely allow me to defeat any sort of infection, but Wyatt wasn't one to take unnecessary chances on things that might cause me pain.

  So I wasn't surprised when he had the wits to break the kiss. His eyes were still black, with only a thin ring of silver, but more silver flashed deep within the iris. The wolf wanted out, to dominate, but Wyatt was fighting to stay in charge. "Evy, what about—?"

  "I have condoms."

  He blinked, and his face melted into something between awe and joy. Then a wicked grin made my knees wobble. "How many?"

  "Let's find out."

  I pulled, and he helped me walk backward to the mattress on the floor. It wasn't fancy, and it wasn't wine-and-roses, but nothing about our relationship had ever been those things—mythical things written in books about perfection and forever. It had always been real—messy, loving, hurtful, painful, and in the end, worth every hug and tear and moment simply spent holding each other.

  Wyatt turned and laid down first, then pulled me on top of him. I laughed as I settled with my knees braced on either side of his hips. I caught him in another tingly kiss. Our hands roamed, relearning familiar swells and valleys and plains, teasing and touching. He relaxed beneath me, his initial fear and hesitation disappearing behind confidence and control. Mouths found intimate places, and he brought me through one orgasm and close to a second before we made good use of those condoms.

  All three of them.

  Chapter Four

  Monday, September 1

  5:45 am

  I could have stayed on that thin mattress, tangled up with Wyatt's body, for the rest of my afterlife—if it wasn't for the sudden need to pee. The pressure in my bladder pulled me out of a very comforting slumber, and clued me into the fact that the world was waiting for us outside this bank vault.

  Damned world. Go away.

  "How long have you been planning this?" Wyatt asked in a sleep raspy voice.

  I raised my head from its pillow on his chest and met his gaze—all pleased man, with no sign of the wolf. "Couple of days."

  "With Gina's help?"

  "Mostly. I think sometimes she still feels bad about trying to blow me up."

  "I think she's just getting better at making and holding onto friends. She's really good at putting up walls."

  I didn't know all of Kismet's losses, but I did know some of them. Her Hunters were her family, and losing Felix had hurt her terribly. Nearly losing Tybalt a few weeks before that to a Halfie bite (his life saved when Milo cut half his arm off to stop the infection). Losing Lucas two years ago, who'd been not just her Hunter but also her lover. The devastation of the Triads, which was an organization she'd helped build in its earliest days. And there was an entire back story I was missing that had to do with her changing her name—something I'd learned thanks to a nosy PI named James Reilly, who was now on our payroll.

  "Most of us are good at putting up those walls," I said.

  "Just means those of us who love them have to work harder to break them back down."

  "Are you talking about me or Gina?"

  "Among others." He crooked a finger beneath my chin, and I slid up higher so I could kiss him. A gentle, good-morning kiss that made my angry bladder feel a little less important. I pressed my face into his throat and kissed the faint scars left behind from the Lupa's attack.

  "You're remarkable, Evy."

  I looked up and quirked an eyebrow at him. "Keep that in mind next time you're pissed at me for doing something stupid and reckless."

  "You always act with good intentions, no matter the danger to yourself, and that makes me crazy."

  "I know."

  "Thank you for this. For being brave enough to get in my face and make me stop treating you like…" He pulled a face.

  "Like a victim? Like brittle glass? Like I thought for one minute you'd do anything to intentionally harm me, when all you've ever done is protect me?"

  "All of the above?" His smile was sad, but hopeful.

  I planted another hard kiss on his mouth, then levered up on my elbows. "You're welcome. And I don't know about you, Truman, but I have to pee really bad."

  He laughed long and loud—a truly beautiful sound. "I didn't want to be the first to say something…"

  #

  In the bathroom mirror, I studied a faint hickey on my collarbone. My T-shirt would hide it, but I kind of liked knowing it was there. Possession wasn't a concept I ever thought I'd be comfortable with, and on some levels I still wasn't, but I kind of liked having Wyatt's mark on me. In Therian circles, it was a sign of belonging to another, and it would serve to reinforce the fact that we were declared mates.

  Even if most humans would point at the hickey and snicker.

  At the next sink, Wyatt was washing his face with vigor and a smile that always seemed to be playing with his mouth. More than anything, seeing him smiling so much told me that Operation: Trust Me had been a good idea, as well as a rousing success.

  "I think I need a shower," I said to my own reflection. My bath stuff and robe were in a locker in the next room, closer to the dormitory style showers. It wasn't that I particularly wanted to rid myself of Wyatt's scent, but it could be distracting to the other Therians we worked with. And if the position of Elder was challenged—or had been while we were getting busy last night—we'd be working around a whole lot of them very soon.

  A computerized tone filled the room, signaling the start of an intercom announcement. "Quad Two, report to Ops immediately. Quad Two, report to Ops," said Rufus's disembodied voice.

  I groaned. So much for my shower.

  "Do you think this is about the Pride?" I asked.

  "We'll know soon enough," Wyatt said.

  We left the bathrooms, both of us dressed in yesterday's clothes (not incredibly unusual) and smelling of sex (less usual). It was still early, so we didn't see many people in the corridor. Marcus came down the hall from the opposite direction, dressed in workout sweats, a towel draped over one shoulder.

  Milo, dressed in sweat-shorts and a T-shirt, was already in Ops when we got there, learning against the desk where Rufus sat in his motorized chair. They weren't talking, but there was a strange air of tension around both men. Astrid strode over from another computer station, and the look she cast said this wasn't going to be a happy conversation.

  "What's going on?" Wyatt asked. "The
Bengals?"

  "I'd like to tell you we saw this coming, but I'd be lying," Astrid replied. "And it's an additional complication that we do not need right now."

  "Thank you for the dramatic preface," I said. "Care to get to the problem so we can go about dealing with it?"

  She pointed at the computer. We all shifted so we were standing in a semi-circle facing the monitor. A video player was frozen on an image of three people—a man and woman sitting on a sofa, and a second man on a chair opposite them. It looked like an interview setup, and the ticker at the bottom of the screen said "Parents Worst Nightmare."

  I studied the woman. Her heart-shaped face and thick, brown hair, and somehow I knew she had freckles on her nose. Just like I did. Holy fucking hell.

  Rufus hit Play on the video.

  "…been six months since the Frosts have had contact with their daughter, Chalice," the single man said.

  My heart nearly stopped. Beside me, Wyatt put an arm around my waist, and I clung to it as the full weight of the video hit me like a gargoyle's stone fist. On May 20 of this year, Chalice Frost committed suicide in her apartment bathtub. She was found by her best friend Alex, who called the police. Chalice was taken to the morgue at St. Eustachius Hospital. A few hours later, an elf performed a magic spell that brought me, the murdered Evangeline Stone, back to life—in Chalice's formerly dead body. While small threads of who Chalice had once been lingered in my mind, she was gone. Dead and mourned and technically nonexistent in this city thanks to some gremlins running computer interference.

  In all of the incredible drama of my afterlife, it never consciously occurred to me that her parents were still out there somewhere, wondering what happened to their daughter.

  The camera angle switched to a close-up of the parents, and their names appeared on screen: Stephen and Lori Frost. I had only the vaguest sense of familiarity. They might have been the parents of the body I was in, but they weren't my parents. I never knew my loser father, and my mother died when I was ten. But the pain these two people were in still felt important. Real.

  "Our daughter Chalice moved here three years ago," Stephen said, straight to the camera. "I remember the day she left home. But no one in this city can find a record of her ever being here. She took classes part time, but the university has no file on her. She had an apartment, but her name isn't on the lease and her roommate died on May twenty-second. Her old employer remembers her, but says the computer has no information on her employment. It's as if someone made our daughter disappear."

  Next to him, Lori was doing a poor job of holding herself together. She clung to her husband's arm as tears rolled down her cheeks. The resemblance to me was uncanny, from hair to eyes to cheekbones.

  Stephen squeezed his wife's arm, then continued. "Six months ago, we got our last phone call. It wasn't about anything in particular, but she sounded so sad. I know Chalice struggled with depression, and local police keep telling us to prepare for the idea that she took her own life, but I can't believe that."

  I let out a grunt. Showed what he knew about his own kid.

  "My wife and I aren't rich people, but we are willing to pay a monetary reward for any information that helps us find our daughter. We just want to know the truth, so that we can bring her home"—he wiped his eyes—"or put her to rest. Please."

  Lori broke down and fell into Stephen's arms. The camera cut to a close-up of the interviewer. I didn't recognize him or his news show. "If anyone has information on the disappearance or whereabouts of Chalice Ann Frost, please contact the Metro Police Department Major Crimes at—"

  He rattled off a phone number as the screen changed. To my face. Or rather, what looked like a school ID photo of Chalice, taken maybe a year or two ago. She wasn't smiling, her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and her eyes were haunted. It was a face I'd seen in the mirror every day for almost four months, but it was also the face of a stranger. And it was being broadcast all over the city and the fucking internet.

  Rufus hit the Pause button on the video.

  One by one, everybody turned their head to look at me, but I couldn't stop staring at my photo on the computer. This was going to make my life way more complicated than it needed to be right now—just like Astrid had said.

  "Well, shit," I said.

  "Your parents are still alive?" Milo asked.

  "They're not my parents. They're her parents." I pointed at the screen.

  "And that's your face, Stone," Astrid said. "The last thing this operation needs is a lot of tips going to the police, and them coming looking for you. You don't have police protection anymore."

  Too true. Back when the Triads were active and effective, we had three moles in the police department who made files disappear, reassigned cases, and kept the cops off our asses while we did our jobs. Up until the Triads were wrecked and those supposed moles all killed themselves in a group suicide. We found out too late that they were all sprite avatars—fully controlled by three sprites who reported back to Amalie, the queen bitch who'd betrayed us all.

  The closest thing we had to an "in" with the police was James Reilly. A former West Coast cop, he became a private investigator after his own partner was killed by a vampire, and his investigations led him here. We managed to snare his loyalty by providing him with answers to a lot of burning questions, and he in turn was able to work his police contacts in our favor. To an extent. Even he couldn't do anything about this shit-tastic problem.

  "There's no way to halt the broadcast?" Milo asked.

  "It's been showing since last night," Rufus replied. "Even if we could get it off the internet, it's been seen. And it doesn't sound like the Frosts are going away."

  "They want to know the truth about what happened to their daughter," Wyatt said.

  Rufus turned his head away, but I saw the flinch. He was keeping a very large secret of his own from Wyatt, and sooner or later he'd have to spill.

  "This is going to be a major problem for us," Astrid said.

  "No kidding," I replied. "What would you like me to do? Resurrect myself into somebody else?"

  "Hardly."

  "And don't even say you want to bench me, because there's too much going on right now—"

  "May I speak?" A slight feline growl came out at the end of that, so I shut up and let Astrid talk. "I was going to say exercise extreme caution when you're in the field. I can't afford to bench anyone right now, but you've been racing around the city for months wearing this girl's face. People are bound to remember they saw you, and others will be flat out looking for you."

  She was right. And what if the Frosts managed to track down Leo Forrester, father of Chalice's dead roommate Alex? He was a kind man, but he was a recovering alcoholic and not a very good liar. He couldn't tell them that he didn't know who I was. I'd given him a condensed version of the truth about myself and his son's death before running him back out of town for his own safety.

  "You could always dye your hair," Milo said. "And cut it. Make it harder for people to recognize you."

  I nodded, even though the idea didn't appeal to me. Before I died, my hair had been short, thin and blond. Now it was long, thick and wavy brown, and it had taken some getting used to. But I was used to it. Not that it wasn't a pain to take care of on occasion, especially when I got blood in it. Maybe it was time to try a new look.

  "Is hiding her truly the best option?" Marcus asked.

  Milo frowned. "As opposed to what?"

  "Having Stone contact the parents and put their minds at ease about their daughter's well-being."

  Marcus's suggestion didn't surprise me; it also wasn't something I was comfortable with for a whole slew of reasons.

  "Their daughter's dead," Milo retorted. There was a level of anger in his tone that caught my attention. He seemed genuinely annoyed, but I suspected it had more to do with Marcus himself, than with his words. The unusual tension between the pair was suddenly unmistakable.

  "And yet her body is wandering the city still.
"

  "So she should pretend to be their dead daughter? For how long? A day? A month? Ten years?"

  "It was an alternative to hiding, Milo, that's all."

  "Okay, so I've got options," I said. "Great, I'll consider them all while I keep my head down and try to not be noticed. Meanwhile, are there any developments with Riley and the challenge?"

  "Not so far," Marcus replied.

  Good news so far. "Are there any new goblin sightings we should know about?"

  "None that have been reported," Astrid replied. Her cell phone rang. She glanced at the display, then put it to her ear. "Dane." Her eyes slid in my direction. "Yeah, hold on."

  She held the phone out to me. "It's James Reilly. Said he's been trying to get you on your cell."

  I tried to remember where I'd left—back pocket. I'd turned it off so it didn't interrupt my night with Wyatt. I took Astrid's phone. "This is Stone."

  "You're a hard woman to reach sometimes," Reilly said. His normally even, conversational tone was tinged with annoyance. Had everyone woken up cranky today?

  "Sorry about that. Extenuating circumstances."

  Wyatt squeezed my hip.

  "Indeed. Some information has fallen into my lap, Ms. Stone, and I thought it would be of some use to you and your colleagues."

  "Depends on the info."

  "It isn't about the Frost girl's parents, if that's what you're thinking. Although I imagine that's a complication you didn't expect."

  I rolled my eyes. "Something tells me you expected it?"

  "It had crossed my mind a few times when I was first looking for her and Alex Forrester. But no, I'm not calling about that. This has to do with some very sick, former allies of yours."

  The vampires. I knew without him saying it. We'd been trying for weeks to get information on the condition of the vampires infected by an unknown virus that was slowly killing them. Isleen, Eleri, Quince, and others had been carted off by their Families and not seen since. I needed whatever he had.

  Downside of working with Reilly: he hated giving information over the phone. "When and where?" I asked.

  "Usual place. Be there in an hour."