by J. K. Beck
"She's there," he said tightly.
"Tasha?"
"Caris," he said. "And with any luck, Tasha, too."
"Then we need the team. We need--"
He stopped, taking her arm. "I need your car, Sara. I do not need the team. And I can't have you accompanying me."
"I don't care what you need. I'm going with you."
"She is dangerous."
"So are you," Sara countered.
"I'll not argue about this."
"Good. But my car has an ignition lock, and since you don't know the code, you're going to be wasting a lot of time if you don't take me with you." He stopped, his focus utterly on her. "Why?"
It was a question she couldn't answer, because she hadn't been thinking, only reacting. She knew why he was going--what he would do to Caris if he found her. But she couldn't fight him on this. "It's Tasha," she said, simply. "And she's important to you."
As she watched, he closed his eyes, then swallowed. When he looked at her again, he was all steel. "You come," he said. "But you stay in the car." Even in the middle of the night, it took them twenty minutes to get from North Hollywood to Silver Lake, and Luke was cursing when he ran the car up over the curb and plowed to a stop in front of the house. He aimed a single finger at her. "Stay," he said, and she swore that she would, a promise she immediately found hard to keep. She knew almost nothing about Caris other than the brief dossier Martella had run for her after Luke had first mentioned the name. There'd been little information. She was a former lover of Tiberius, the vampiric liaison to the Alliance. They'd had a falling out a few years prior. Rumors were thick, but the most likely suggested that she'd hooked up with a werewolf, which screamed of the political intrigue that Luke had told her about. The bottom line, though, was that Caris was a vampire, and she'd apparently hooked up with scum like Stemmons. She was killing, and she was dangerous, and she wasn't constrained by hematite bands.
So, yeah, Sara was worried.
She waited, her eyes on the house. The quiet house. The way-too-quiet house. 152
Hell.
She opened the door, not at all sure what she was going to do. She knew she had to see what was going on in there. And as soon as she did, the front windows shattered, and she saw Luke silhouetted in the void.
"Luke!" She raced toward him, not thinking of the danger until she'd burst through the front door. But there was no danger. There was only Luke in a fury, a chair thrust high over his head as he hurled it through the darkened room at the far wall, where it shattered into pieces. "Luke, stop!"
He turned, eyes wild, his face contorted. She stopped, eyeing him warily, realizing quickly that the house was empty. Tasha wasn't here. Neither was Caris. He'd run out of hope, and the daemon was furious.
"We'll find her," she said, moving toward him, this man who had once held her so tenderly, who now burned with the loss of one he loved. She understood the depth of his rage; she felt it herself every time she thought of Crouch and of the father he'd stolen from her. Tasha, however, wasn't yet gone. "We'll find her," she repeated, and this time she moved in close, ignoring the prickling of fear to cup his face in her hands, letting him know that she was there, and, yes, that she understood.
Slowly, she felt the tension ease from him, and as he collapsed to his knees on the floor, she went down with him, cradling his head against her chest. "Sara," he whispered.
"I thought she would be here."
"We'll find her. I bet Division has a lead. We'll follow it up. Luke," she said, her heart breaking for him, "we'll do whatever it takes." She tipped his face up to hers and waited until he met her gaze. The beast was there, trembling beneath the surface, but Luke was in control now. Barely. Sara felt a shiver of fear but didn't release him. She stroked her fingers over his cheek.
"We will find her," she promised again. And had never meant anything more in her life.
153
Chapter 28
"Someone who works at the Slaughtered Goat might know where Caris is," Luke said to Bael Slater. "Any lead, I want you following it."
"No problem." The huge vampire leaned back, the small chair creaking under the strain. They were in a small bar near Division where Luke had gone after Sara had returned to the office with the team. "Division's got nothing, huh?"
"They don't have shit," Luke said, taking a sip of Glenfiddich. "I'm going back to the crime scenes. Try to pick up a scent."
"Didn't Division already tug on that line?"
"The vamps on the team are at least four centuries younger than me," Luke said.
"Their senses aren't as well honed."
"Long shot," Slater said.
"At this point, even the long shots are worth following." His friend stood. "I'll be in touch." Luke started to stand, but was startled by the sharp ring of his phone. He snatched it quickly from the pocket of his duster, hoping to see Tasha's name on the caller ID. Instead, the phone identified the caller as TQ.
"What have you learned?" he asked without preamble. Luke had called the jinn after he'd parted from Sara, demanding satisfaction for Tariq's botched assignment that first night.
"Still Scotch, Luke?" Tariq asked, as Luke lifted his glass. "Still single malt?" Luke hid his small smile behind the glass as his eyes searched the room. He should have expected the wily creature to be nearby.
He didn't find the jinn, but his blood pounded hot when he saw a lithe woman with cropped dark hair and feline eyes. Caris. He stood, upsetting the table in his haste, but a second later she was gone.
She'd either transformed into mist and left, or his eyes were playing tricks on him. He forced down a wave of discontent and concentrated on finding Tariq, ultimately locating him by the back door.
"Tell me what you know," Luke demanded.
"That depends. Will this do us square?"
"What does your conscience say, Tariq? It was you who wronged me. Does this balance the scales?"
"It does."
Luke stayed silent, remembering that cold night in Munich many centuries before.
"Dammit, Lucius, it does."
It did not, Luke thought. But that point could be raised at a later date. "Tell me."
"Then we're square?"
"I did not say that."
"Fucking-A. Fine. Got me under your goddamn thumb for the rest of my natural life."
"The countermeasures, my friend. Tell me what you know of the detention device 154
and its countermeasures."
"They'll fry your ass if you get free of them," Tariq said.
"I don't recall saying that was my purpose. I'm a lover of knowledge, Tariq. Knowledge for knowledge's sake."
"Fuck," Tariq said. "It's your ass. Whatever. It's a fail-safe system."
"I expected as much."
"Security Section can release you from the device upon proper authorization from Bosch or Leviathin."
"And the judge?" Luke asked, thinking that perhaps Acquila had not yet outlived his usefulness.
"Nada. Once bail's granted, he's out of the loop."
"So Bosch and Leviathin are key?"
"That's the beauty," Tariq said. "The system's also tied in to the prosecutors and the lead investigator."
Luke tensed, the possibilities dancing in front of him. "Say that again."
"I know," Tariq said almost giddily, and then repeated himself. "Sweet, huh?"
"Together?" Luke asked, ignoring the jinn. "Doyle and the prosecutors must be together?"
"Any one can do it," he said. "Bosch, Doyle, Constantine. But they can't do it remotely. Gotta be in Division, in Security Section. Key in access to the primary system, then key in the abort code."
"Interesting," Luke said. He would take much pleasure in dragging Doyle's sorry ass back inside Division and making the para-daemon do that which would set Luke free. But despite the pleasure he would undoubtedly derive from such an adventure, he had to admit that the risks were legion, as were any attempts to use Bosch. He frowned, not pleased by the possibilities. "Are there alt
ernatives?" he asked Tariq. "Who installed the fail-safes?"
"Lucius," Tariq said. "Take the easy route."
"It's none of it easy," Luke answered. "We'll speak again." And then, before Tariq could protest, he terminated the call and thought of Sara.
At one time, he would have used her without hesitation, but that time was long gone.
He thought of Sara and her sense of rules, of justice. She would never agree to do this thing, and more than that, he knew that he could not ask her to. There had to be another way, he thought, as he stood to leave, and somehow he would find it.
Sara woke with a start, jerked awake by a sharp pounding at her door. Not that she minded too much--she'd been teetering on the verge of another nightmare--but at two in the morning, it was quite possible the visitor could be worse than the tormenting dreams.
"Coming," she shouted, sliding into a robe. She hurried to the door, checked the peephole, and found herself looking at Luke's sexy, scowling face. She keyed in the alarm code, opened the door, and soon discovered the reason for his scowl--her acrossthe-hall neighbor, Mrs. Fitzhugh, was standing in the doorway in curlers, her expression 155
both shocked and disapproving.
And why not? With his long, dark coat, his warrior's eyes, and the scar that cut across his cheek, Luke looked decidedly formidable. "It's okay, Mrs. Fitzhugh. He's a friend." Which wasn't the least bit accurate. Friends didn't make her melt from a single look. And it was only around Luke that she felt like her body was a fire that only he could extinquish.
And, she noticed as she ushered him inside, he'd brought her a flower. She stroked her finger over the soft petals of the bird-of-paradise. "It's beautiful. Thank you." She frowned, looking more closely at the flower, and then at his slightly sheepish expression. "Where did you get it?"
"The garden in front of your building," he admitted. "There aren't many options at 2 A.M."
She bit back a laugh. "No, I guess not." She headed toward the kitchen to find water for the flower. "So why are you here? No news about Tasha," she added. "You would have told me already."
"I wanted to see you," he said, his voice somehow both strong and vulnerable. "I followed Stemmons's trail tonight. Tracking away from each of his original crime scenes as best I could. I found nothing."
"I'm so sorry."
"Afterward, I came here. You're in my head, Sara. I hear your voice. I smell your scent. I feel your touch." His shoulders lifted. "And I had to come." Her heart tripped in her chest. "Oh." She swallowed, knowing she shouldn't say more, but unable to stay silent. "I'm glad you did."
"Are you?"
"We're probably breaking a lot of rules."
He moved toward her. "Oddly enough, I've never been good at following rules."
"Why do I believe that?"
"But the rules are important to you," he said. He caressed her cheek, making her want to break down and purr. "Do you want me to leave?" She hesitated, knowing that for the sake of her sanity--and possibly her job--she should lie. Instead, she spoke the truth. "No." She looked at his face, the perfect, classic lines marred by the warrior's scar. A face that had seen death and a man who had surely wrought it a thousand times over. Yet right then he was looking at her with such tenderness it made her breath catch in her throat. "No," she repeated, her voice little more than a whisper. "I want you to stay."
"Good," he said, the simple word conveying a wealth of emotion. "Let me hold you."
She hesitated only a moment, then moved in and pressed her cheek against him. Luke sighed, his chest rising and falling beneath her, steady and calm.
"Luke," she began, then stopped. She wouldn't tell him that she wished things were different. That they'd met under different circumstances. Instead, she told him the most basic of truths. "I--No matter how I feel about you, I will do my job."
"Do you think I don't know that?"
She tilted her head up to look at his face. "It doesn't seem to bother you overly much."
"You will do what you must," he said. "As will I." 156
She swallowed, knowing that as a prosecutor she should push, try to determine if he was intending to run, and if so, how. As a woman, though, she didn't want to know. Didn't even want to think about it. Because if he stayed, he would undoubtedly be executed for murder. And if he left, she would never see him again. Impossible.
"We met at the wrong time," she whispered.
"When would you have preferred?"
She laughed, considering the question. "I don't know. The thirties? Odds are good I wouldn't have been a lawyer back then."
"Except that you would not have been born," he said, his fingers lazily stroking her back. "And as inconvenient as it may be for us, I am fond of the woman you are."
"I am, too," she admitted. "Still, it would have been nice. To be with you, without all of this noise surrounding us." She thought back, enjoying the game, the fantasy. "Then again, maybe not the thirties. Maybe the 1800s, and I could have lived in the South and worn fabulous gowns."
"Ah, but then we would have to work so very hard to free you from the corset." Her breath hitched as she imagined him undressing her. "If it was your fingers doing the unfastening," she admitted, "I'm not sure I would mind."
"Nor I."
It struck her suddenly that he surely had actual experience with actual corsets, and the realization was both fascinating and overwhelming. "Were you here during the Civil War? The American Revolution?"
His laugh seemed to rumble through her. "If I tell you that I was, will you run?"
"No," she whispered, trying to imagine all that he'd seen, that he'd experienced. It made her expected eighty or so years seem inadequate and puny. "My father would have loved you," she said, then immediately backtracked. "I mean, the history. He loved history, and you're like a walking archive. It's ... it's overwhelming."
"Then we are even," he said, "because you overwhelm me as well." His words seemed to trip over her skin, a skimming rock on a pool of water, sending little ripples of pleasure outward over her body. She wanted him--there was no point in denying it--and yet she knew damn well that taking this any further would be a bad, bad idea.
"Luke--"
"Hush." He brushed his lips over her hair, then tucked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. She drew in a breath, knowing she should protest, even going so far as to form the words in her head. But they didn't come, and when his mouth brushed hers, she moaned with the pleasure of it.
The kiss was slow and gentle, a promise of future delights, and her body fired in anticipation, her breasts aching and her thighs gathering warmth between them. She clenched her hands, gathering his shirt in her fingers, and opened her mouth to his.
"Sara," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear in a wonderfully arousing manner.
"I would have you in bed."
He didn't give her time to answer, simply slanted his mouth over hers even as he drew her close until their bodies pressed together, and she could feel every inch of him, including his growing arousal. She moaned, her lips parting with the sound, and he took full advantage, his mouth sliding greedily over hers. His mouth was both soft and firm, and he slid his tongue over her lips, between them, deepening the kiss as her body 157
warmed under his ministrations.
Every inch of skin tingled, and her panties were damp with need. She shifted, wanting, and pressed harder against him. "Luke."
He stole his name from her lips with a kiss, hot and demanding. His hands were on her shoulders, and he pushed her back, hard, onto the couch, and the slow burn of passion transformed into something desperate and demanding.
She moved beneath him, wanting to feel him, to have more of him, and she heard herself moan, her body overwhelmed by the simple, exquisite touch of his lips upon hers. When he added his hands to the mix--when he shifted to straddle her and his hands slipped inside her robe and beneath her T-shirt--her mind seemed to snap. There was no way--no possible way--that she could survive the onslaught
, this bliss.
"I want to see you." Roughly, he shoved her shirt up. His mouth closed on her, teasing the erect nipple through the thin cotton. Sending delicious shocks through her body, loosening her. Readying her.
"Naked," she whispered. "Why aren't you naked?"
"I think I can remedy that oversight," he said, then eased back to work the buttons of his shirt.
"No," she said, her own nimble fingers taking over, enjoying the rush of touching him. Of being totally lost within him.
She pulled the shirt open and splayed her hands across his chest, the cool metal of the band he wore pressing against her palm. She closed her eyes, wishing it could simply disappear.
"It is not there," he said. "Tonight, there is nothing standing between us." He spoke with force, his hands reaching up to cup her breasts, teasing her and tormenting her as she arched against him until any thought of arguing melted from her brain.
"So beautiful."
Eyes closed, she smiled. She thought the same of him, and she fell greedily upon him, her mouth on his chest, his neck, his cheek and the scar upon it. "How--"
"An altercation with a sword before I was turned," he said with a wry grin. "The sword won."
As she laughed, he took her shoulders, rolled her over so that she was trapped beneath him, his busy hands and mouth sending all sorts of sensations rocketing through her. His mouth closed again over her nipple, the pleasure of the sensation so acute it was almost painful, certainly almost unbearable. She writhed against him, against her own roiling emotions, her back arching up toward him as she fought down a scream of pleasure. As she fought not to beg him for more, harder, faster. He seemed to know what she wanted anyway, and his clever fingers dipped down, then ripped her panties off with a low growl. Then his hands were on her, cupping her, his fingers finding her wet and needy, and his moan of satisfaction almost enough to send her over the edge.
When he closed his mouth so intimately upon her, the edge did rise up, engulfing her, sending shocks reverberating through her body, so intense she had no choice but to cling to his shoulders for fear that if she did not, her body would explode with the intensity of it.
Wave after wave, his sensual assault continued, until she couldn't take it anymore and screamed for satisfaction, for his kiss.