The question took her by surprise—and, denied his angry response, she eased back into a perplexed frown. “How did I…what?”
“You knew,” he said. “I didn’t introduce those agents in the lounge as wolf or bobcat or jackal. I gave you their names.”
She stepped back, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, a move that only served to highlight fit curves. “It was obvious.”
He shook his head. “Not everyone knows, Marlee. Not even the full-bloods. Maybe you’re more one of us than you think.”
She shook her head. “Don’t exaggerate. I’m observant, not Sentinel. Besides, you said you wanted my help.” The bitter edge came back. “To redeem myself, as if that’s ever going to happen. So what is it, exactly, you think I can do down here?”
“Be someone other than me,” he told her, and watched her eyes widen. He grinned, and made no attempt to keep it nice. “Be not Sentinel.”
Chapter Three
Marlee closed her hands into fists. Not from any great emotion, as much as it lingered—but because her fingers and palms still tingled with the sensation of the solid muscle with which they’d just made contact.
Maybe she was lonelier than she’d thought.
Lonely didn’t mean losing her head. Any more than frightened had once meant losing her perspective.
I was a little girl.
How could she have known to ignore the whispers of her nurse, her physical therapist…the subtle string of adults who came through her life until the time the Core finally contacted her directly?
She eyed Scott O’Brien with wary curiosity, taking in, again, those pale hazel eyes, that rusty blond hair tamed only by its cut and length—just enough left to offset the intensity of his features—and his strapping build. Leaner than a tiger might be, but all tiger nonetheless.
At least to her eyes.
He stared right back at her. Waiting. She had no idea what he saw in her—and she didn’t want to know. She said, “What then, am I supposed to do?”
He held out his hand. “Come with me.”
The gesture so surprised her that she almost didn’t move. Not until he turned his hand over, palm up in a repeated invitation, did she put her hand in his.
A big hand, warm and comfortable, his fingers curling around hers. “There are too many little things going wrong here,” he said, keeping his voice low as they passed the healers’ station and moved toward the stairs. “Here, on this floor. Everyone knows it, and everyone blames it on—”
“Me,” she suggested.
He glanced at her as if he wasn’t sure whether it was a joke or not, and she shrugged.
“I was going to say they blame it on being overworked,” he responded. “Never mind the number of agents that poured in here—the injuries just aren’t responding as they should. There are these lingering effects….” He trailed off, going somewhere inside himself. Remembering, maybe, what they had just seen—agents haunted by fluctuating energies, lingering sensations, ruined coordination… Scott shook his head. “So nothing’s normal around here, and no one seems to be surprised at all the other stupid things going on.”
She followed him into a quiet hallway of imposingly closed doors, most of them with red lights overhead: surgery rooms. Procedure rooms. She took the quiet as a good sign, and she asked Scott, “Like what?”
He waved a hand down the hallway. “CT scanners with wiped programming, digital radiology with artifacts all over the images, autoclaves breaking down, contaminated specimens…”
A whole lot of stupid. But she cast him a curious look, forgetting to be wary. “And you know all this because…?”
For some reason it made him retreat, to stiffen as though she’d slapped him. “Because,” he said, and looked away, his teeth gritting more noticeably with each word, “this is my floor. I’m one of them. The agents they don’t know how to fix.”
She tried to absorb that information, looking at the hale nature of him, the obvious physical confidence…the tiger brimming out. “Surely your shoulder isn’t enough to—”
“It’s not,” he said, hard words that cut her off. He took a breath, and added, “I went out in the field. It was the wrong choice. Now they’re starting over again.”
It explained little, but it was clearly as far as he was prepared to go. “So,” she said. “You hang around here and while they’re poking and prodding, you look for trouble.”
“Guy’s gotta have something to do,” he grumbled, as though she’d caught him out.
“I still don’t understand what you want me to do.”
At that, he looked downright uncomfortable. “This is the work of someone on the inside, no question. Someone doing their bit by making it harder for us to get over Core D’oìche. I need you—Abril—to volunteer down here, just like you did today. You might see something I won’t be privy to—because the mole won’t consider you a threat.”
No matter that Scott was messed up by the Core workings. He was a field Sentinel; he was a threat.
“Doesn’t answer my question,” she told him, looking down the hall to the stairs. “Why me?”
“Because,” he said, his words simple and his gaze anything but, locking on to hers, holding her there. “You’re the one person in this building I know isn’t the mole.”
Marlee looked at him, stunned, her emotions roiling. She whirled away—hiding herself, breathing deeply…walking away down the hall.
It didn’t matter that he just wanted to use her. The feeling of being trusted, utterly trusted—
She couldn’t even remember what that felt like. She could barely recognize it now. She only knew the relief of it swept through her with an intensity that left her reeling.
She stopped at the exit to the stairwell, trying to regain her composure. Scott gave her a few moments, and then came up behind her. Silent, of course, because what was a Sentinel if not full of natural prowl? But he made a noise in his throat from a few strides away, and she wasn’t surprised when he moved up behind her, close enough to share his warmth and definitely close enough to share his very physical presence.
He didn’t make the mistake of offering sympathy or understanding. He gave her a moment longer, and then cleared his throat. “I’ve laid wards around the hallway, the stairs…nothing anyone will notice. But if anyone puts any tiny workings into play—even stealth workings—I’ll know about it.”
Marlee murmured, “No working belongs in brevis, no matter how innocuous.”
He shifted, putting his back to the wall, stretching his bad shoulder with a tug from his good arm, as if it had become such a habit he didn’t even realize it. “You know, most people are surprised that I do wards.”
She looked at him askance. “And shields, and a little bit of healing, right? It’s a good skill set for a field agent. Why am I supposed to be surprised?”
He looked at her a long moment, and then shook his head. “I don’t know about you, Marlee Cerrosa. But for now, let’s just say that most people don’t see that. Most people assume a tiger shifter is all muscle.”
“You tempt me to get out my little violin again,” she told him—although in truth, he tempted her to put her hands back on his chest, feeling that which had left such an impression the first time.
His expression had gone distracted, his mouth turning wry. “Timing,” he said, after he shook himself back to attention, “is everything. That was one of my wards pinging off. Want to go hunting?”
Hunting. It was a far cry from hanging out with her eyes open, and she wasn’t even certain of doing that much. But Scott’s eyes sparkled with new life, and he held out his hand again—and that became enough. She found herself heading for the stairwell—not running, as she’d supposed they might, but stalking.
It didn’t matter that she was the petite one, the lightweight one…Scott was the one who defined stalking grace, moving with powerful stealth, each step a perfect balance in motion.
Marlee simply tried not to get in the way.
They slipped through the door and into the stairwell, and Scott knew just where he was going—down, to the next level. Down, where the critical care patients had a suite of rooms and their own staff, their own dedicated, instant response procedures.
A faint noise whispered up the utilitarian stairwell, concrete and steel carrying the sound. Scott hesitated in midstep—frozen, his head at an inquisitive angle, his posture full of the hunt…his expression patient. Marlee could all but see a tiger’s tail, the faint twitch of the white tip; the swivel of a white-spotted ear. She thought he’d forgotten her—but he gave her hand a squeeze as she froze into place beside him, so aware of her human awkwardness, her human failings.
She heard another noise, louder this time, followed by a faint tapping.
Scott lifted his head slightly; his quiet smile seemed predatory. He looked back at Marlee, meeting her gaze with meaningful purpose. It only took an instant for her to realize he’d tried to reach her, silently, as so many of the Sentinels could do. But even as the knowledge of it twisted inside her, reminding her anew that she was in fact not truly Sentinel, he merely pointed first at her and then at the midstory landing.
She got that message clearly enough. She was to remain at the landing when they reached it.
And then Scott took on a distant expression—one that instantly panicked her, the face of a full-blooded Sentinel reaching inward to take his tiger.
Before she could do so much as recoil, everything changed. Scott made a sound of surprise—a wordless thing that echoed in the stairwell. His eyes widened with it, even as he stumbled back against the painted cinder-block wall and sagging downward, arms wrapped around some immense, buried pain.
The person below made a sound of alarm; footsteps clattered down the stairs below them, heading deeper into the structure’s clandestine subfloors. A door push bar sounded loud, and the door closed again with a clang of metal.
Marlee only stood frozen, helpless, watching Scott O’Brien slowly crumpling to the cement floor. Finally, she crouched to put a hesitant hand on his shoulder—only then realizing, as he rolled bonelessly toward her in response to her touch, that he’d passed out altogether.
Chapter Four
Everything inside Scott ached.
His bad side and shoulder ached from hitting the concrete floor; his soul ached, bereft for his tiger.
He should have known better than to try to take the change, of course. It had been an instinctive thing. But if the instinct had persistently failed since his injuries of Core D’oìche, never had it backlashed on him that way.
Oh, yes. He ached.
“You can’t tell anyone.” He turned his gaze on Marlee, who stood in the greenhouse balcony of this small but beautifully appointed apartment. This entire top floor of brevis HQ, rising out of and blending into Old Town Tucson, was comprised of such apartments—a little oasis of guest rooms for visiting Sentinels, recuperating agents and agents between assignments.
And now, Marlee’s jail cell.
Her hand jerked slightly at his words and so did her watering can, splashing a stream of liquid onto the tile. She set the can aside. “Interesting, that you think you’re the boss of me.”
He closed his eyes. “What I mean to say,” he told her, through somewhat gritted teeth, “is please. Please don’t tell anyone.”
Her response was a stillness that made him open his eyes; he found her watching him, her expression troubled. Before he could say anything, she said, “You scared the hell out of me. What would I have done if you hadn’t gotten up on your own? You want to risk that it’ll happen again, whatever the hell it was?”
He knew what it was. And he was pretty sure it would happen again. But if he told the healers, they’d want to cage him in—keep track of him. Probably try to reproduce what happened—probably talk endlessly about it.
He didn’t want to think about it at all.
To his surprise, she took a step closer, crossing into the small main room of the apartment. To his complete amazement, she narrowed her eyes in perceptive accusation. “You know, don’t you? You know exactly what happened. You just haven’t told me.”
Right. Because if he didn’t want to think about it, he sure as hell didn’t want to talk about it.
“It’s okay,” she said, surprising him yet again as she turned away, heading for the tiny kitchenette to pull out ice cubes and plastic tumblers and a pitcher of chilling water. “It’s not like you owe me anything. Besides, I already know it has something to do with your tiger.”
With a few quick steps, he reached the kitchenette, pushing right into her space. “How—”
“Stop it,” she said, and absently pushed him back. The feel of her hands against his chest put his entire body on alert—even if she’d only meant to put him in his place. “You were about to take the change,” she said, answering his question as she held out a full tumbler. “You were taking the change. That’s when it happened.”
He narrowed his eyes, his hand closing tightly around the cool plastic, feeling it flex before he backed off. “You’re guessing.”
She lifted her gaze as she closed the refrigerator door. “Why would I?”
Marlee Abril Cerrosa. The light-blooded Sentinel who considered herself less than, but who could discern the forms their agents took, who saw beneath his tiger to his other field skills—who could tell when he reached for the change. And who didn’t seem to realize that not everyone could do the same.
How would that feel, growing up bullied and frightened, and always seeing, exactly, the predators around her?
“I won’t tell,” she added, as if she could sense the unease of his thoughts and misattributed them. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Not yet,” he murmured. Well, that was fine. By the time it came to yet, he wanted to have this thing figured out.
It left silence between them; Scott found he’d moved closer again. Her glance said she’d noticed, but instead of reclaiming her space, she looked troubled. “What now?”
Scott swallowed a quick sting of regret. “Nothing’s changed—except now I know it for sure. Someone’s using Core workings in medical.”
“Tell someone, then.”
The sensible thing to do. Scott left the tumbler sitting on the little counter extension and prowled the length of the room. “If I do, they’ll lock me up.”
Marlee sent him a justifiable look of scorn. “Scott,” she said, holding up her locator bracelet, “this is locked up. What they’ll do to you is put someone else on the situation while they try to fix you.”
Frustration bubbled up; he spun away to prowl the short distance to the main room wall. “They don’t have anyone to spare for the situation.” Dammit, he wanted to hit something. He wanted to take the tiger and bound through open spaces, sprinting to the end of the hunt and the takedown. He wanted to feel the stretch and coil of limber muscle; he wanted to give voice in a roar, not a rough baritone. “I can do this,” he said. “I can spare them this.”
“And prove yourself?”
He turned on her, but by the time he found her gaze, he’d registered the understanding in her tone. Understanding, and a startling empathy and—
“I can only imagine what it must be like to be used to being you and then to find yourself like me.”
He released a harsh breath and moved closer. This time, she didn’t push him back—she didn’t flinch or stiffen. She only looked at him, a hint of sadness in her expression and her gaze steady on his.
His hand twitched on an impulse to reach for her. “Marlee—”
The tiger in him should have heard footsteps approaching her door—should have been prepared. But the man in him was all tangled up in Marlee, and so they both jumped at the sharp rap of knuckle against wood.
“Security, Miss Cerrosa.” Short and hard, words that meant open this door quickly or we’re coming in.
Marlee cast him a frown and would have reached for the door, but Scott beat her to it, sending a glance that was partl
y proprietary and partly apologetic for usurping her authority, here in the one place that she might have any. “Hey, fellas,” he said, facing the two men on the other side with a relaxed congeniality. They weren’t as tall as he was, not as substantial, but their blood shone true enough—if they weren’t shifters, they were close to it. Something canid in nature, and partnered for their similarities in style.
One of them pushed the door farther open; the other walked in past Scott. “Miss Cerrosa, you’ll have to come with us.”
“What?” She cast Scott a startled glance. “No. No, I don’t. I haven’t done anything.”
“You entered a restricted area.” The man reached for her arm.
Marlee neatly sidestepped him, her expression one of utter confusion—albeit confusion that quite abruptly cleared. “The medical floor? Do you mean the medical floor? I just took down some entertainment disks. Ask at the healers’ station—they okayed it.”
“You’ll have to come with us,” the man repeated, and Scott knew that tone. Authority figure, not listening. Not caring, either.
Marlee’s mouth set; she grew a scant half-inch taller. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless I hear from Nick Carter. My arrangement is with him, not with you.”
“The consul has all of brevis to run. He doesn’t have time for you.” The second man hadn’t come past Scott—not quite. Now he gave Scott an assessing glance as he considered it.
Scott found himself shifting to block the way. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you’re scaring her. That’s not the way we do things here.”
Or was it? Had it always been? Marlee’s startled glance told him she hadn’t expected him to stand up for her. That she hadn’t truly known what that was even like.
“Things change,” said the man who stood too close to Marlee. “She ought to know. She helped change them.”
“The stairwell,” Marlee said suddenly. “It was the stairwell.”
Night of the Tiger Page 2