Vigilante Mine

by Cera Daniels

  "He has a public face. We all do, to some extent."

  "I'd prefer the earthy Ryan. The side that's not so busy playing games." Amanda shredded a new block of chocolate, her forehead pinching with frustration. Ryan had seemed more genuine in Old Town than he did with his usual showy charm. Maybe he'd been emotionally charged from talking about his family. Maybe moments of crisis pulled out the best in him. But then there was the car ride home, the way those dark brown eyes said he cared . . . the man was a walking contradiction and she had an overwhelming urge to discover his every secret. "He's . . . "

  "Interesting."

  Yes, he was. Amanda almost dropped the bottle of caramel syrup on her bare toe. "What do you mean?"

  Her mother was silent.

  "Mom?" She peered into the living room.

  Blue eyes cut her way with such force Amanda could have sworn her mother could see every thought in her head. "You like him."

  "He makes out with rock stars on television. Does that seem like the kind of guy I'd go for?" She couldn't fool herself, or her mother. No way could she honestly claim she had no interest in his broad shoulders, the way his lips begged for a nibble, or his steadfast confidence.

  Mom returned to her screen with a knowing smile. "Are you looking for anything in particular with these lots? Patterns? People?"

  Amanda welcomed the retreat to a constructive topic, but it wasn't over. Her brain wouldn't rest until she'd unraveled the puzzle that was Ryan McLelas.

  To Ryan, Chai House smelled of earth and lemons, the warm citrus scent urging his lungs to take long, calming breaths. The dim, relaxing lights of the tea shop compounded the effect, reminding him of family. His mother had grown herb gardens to supply a whole city block. Fresh, dried, prepared for meals and drinks. His brothers may have forgotten, but for him, places like this evoked every sweet memory and chased away the bad.

  A jazz ensemble graced the small TV screen on the edge of the bar and elderly couples snuggled around little candle-lit tables for two. Cozy booths wrapped around the outside of the shop, providing the illusion of privacy and a place to sit, breathe, and think calm thoughts. He needed a hell of a lot of calm thoughts right about now.

  Brennan gave a soft snort. "This is why we snuck out the back door?"

  "No press." He tipped a strained smile her direction as he skirted the counter.

  "About that. Ryan, we should talk about the reporters," she said in a low voice. "I was playing celebrity there and I got the impression you . . . "

  "Let's drink first." He nodded to the row of bar stools that backed the brewing area and steered her past the line.

  Fender was working today, the tattooed body builder as much a contrast to the delicacy of a tea shop as Brennan was to, well, everything. The huge man smiled at the pair of them and slid Ryan a steaming mug across the counter. "Surprised you didn’t come by sooner."

  "Wish I had." Ryan inhaled deeply over the mug and then took a judicious sip. Lavender and green tea hit his tongue and rolled over his senses like a comforting friend. He cupped it between his hands, letting the winter chill ease from his fingers. "Perfect, Fender."

  Brennan hopped onto the stool next to him. "Hit me."

  The corners of Fender's eyes crinkled. "You're a peach tea with lemon gal."

  She shook her head. The spiky purple locks poking out of her brain didn’t so much as quiver. "Not in this weather. Unless you're adding vodka."

  Ryan cringed, but Fender let out a booming laugh. "No coffee, no energy drinks, no booze." He pointed to the bold sign on the counter that echoed his words. "Just tea, love."

  Ryan nodded at Brennan. "Fender, this is . . . "

  "Mina." Right on cue, she stuck out her arm for a handshake. It tinkled. More metal and spiked bands curved around her wrist than the city sidewalks had cracks.

  "Any friend of McLelas here is welcome at Chai." Fender cocked an odd grin and slid a steaming glass over the counter.

  She wrinkled her nose down at the beverage. "Can you add sugar?"

  Ryan groaned inwardly. "Mina, don't insult the man."

  He waited for a sarcastic reply, but she'd fixed a wide stare at the TV. Her inch-thick eyeliner made her eyes seem comically wide. "Oops."

  The entertainment channel replayed the feed of their lip-lock at La Province. He'd expected a picture in the newspaper. Instead, their evening was a hot topic of the night, the reporter speculating kinks and sexual positions.

  Think calm thoughts.

  "Is that physically possible?" Fender eyed the screen and a new mug slid Ryan's way—something with a stronger zing. "If you need privacy, there's a booth in the corner." He grinned, then strolled off to serve other customers.

  Ryan took a gulp of the new drink and let the hot water scald his tongue and throat, then shoved away from the bar.

  Damn this arrangement.

  Damn her.

  No, that wasn't fair. Brennan couldn't have known about the fire, the bodies, the flood. About Amanda.

  Amanda. His shoulders slumped as he slid onto the pillowed cushion of the corner booth. So much for progress. She'd see the report and slip even further away than they'd left things this afternoon. "We have to end this, Brennan."

  "I tried to warn you." She set her cup down, sliding in across from him. "We're both adults. This isn't the first time I've implied we'd share dessert under silk sheets. It's not like I want an actual shot here. So who is she?"

  A sassy homicide detective who's going to kill me. Ryan was careful to keep his expression passive. At least between the McLelas-sex-bonanza television special and their benefit ball, Lieutenant Dale wouldn't have a care in the world over stifling coverage of his murder investigations.

  "You've never minded before." Neon pink icicles hooked into her ears drooped against her long neck as she leaned closer. "You're done acting. You met someone."

  He tapped on the table. "Lilah mentioned you had a breakthrough."

  "Sure." She pulled a laminated sheet from the blue satchel she had looped across her chest. The page slid his way, her index finger dimpling the plastic. "There's a cipher for the glyphs."

  "The images have a code?" He stared at the document, one from the collection his father had recovered from the Old Town fire.

  Ohanzee pictographs meant nothing to him. Dozens of times he'd tried to interpret them on his own, but though the meaning seemed to glimmer on the edge of his comprehension, it slipped away just as fast.

  Tonight was no different. "It's like they don't want me to understand."

  Brennan chuckled at the frustration in his voice. "The documents aren't sentient. Next you'll be telling me they've been bewitched to keep you from reading them."

  Ryan tensed, but held his gut reaction in check. Couldn't put anything past his family tree when a telepathic dog with an attitude ran by his side after dark.

  He brought his gaze up at a deliberate pace. "What does it say?"

  "Translated alone, those glyphs are a standard bedtime story." She leaned forward and tapped a deep purple fingernail on one of the pictures in front of him. "With the cipher, you get something completely different. This, for instance, says 'spiritwalker'."

  "Spiritwalker?" Ryan's toes flexed in his shoes. Romeo had used that word at the precinct. Wherever she'd found this cipher, it could be legitimate. Maybe she'd found something about their abilities. Maybe not. He couldn't jump to conclusions. "Okay, I'll bite. What's a spiritwalker?"

  "I have no idea." She frowned.

  "Helpful." A grin tugged at his lips.

  "Shut it, you." She swatted a hand at him. "I've found that term in connection with your name, with Jay, and Zachariah, a few others in the journals, but it's not like glyphs come with a lexicon or a straight translation guide, so you could cut me some slack. I'm doing what I can."

  He nodded. "You don't have to justify it, Brennan. I know I've asked the impossible."

  "It's not impossible," she snapped. "I'm good at what I do." She tipped her cup all the w
ay back. "Jerk."

  Ryan grinned wider. "What else do you have?"

  "This one," her finger slid back to the page, "says 'kiss of death'. Oh, right." She lifted her gaze. "I should have started with that. After re-translation, part of this reads like a curse."

  He rolled his eyes, but his chest tightened. "Where did you get this cipher?"

  "Aw, not good," Fender muttered loudly from the tea service. "More dead."

  Ryan amplified the newscast in an angry instant. If News 9 broke their deal, he'd have to do serious damage control.

  "Did they say 'curfew'?" Brennan jerked out of their booth before he could stop her. She snatched the remote off the counter, cranking up the volume on the little box.

  He back-pedaled on his power too late. The report slammed into him like one of Zach's fists and his eyes watered as he fought to make out the gist of the reporter's words.

  There was a curfew all right. Appellate judges had been found dead all over the city. At least twenty victims had been identified and police were notifying families before releasing the names to the media. Speculation that the syndicate war had just launched into overdrive riddled the news report. Unease slid straight from his eardrums to his stomach. Relek City's syndicates didn't kill judges. They bought them.

  Elected leaders must vacate their offices . . .

  The threatening call to Lieutenant Dale's phone rampaged through Ryan's mind, pounding against his temples. Had the zealot decided not to wait until the end of the week?

  "Are you seeing this?" Brennan gawked at the TV.

  Rapping his knuckles on the bar, Ryan caught her attention. "I'll be right back." She threw him a distracted nod, and as he headed for the rear of the tea shop for some privacy, he added to Zach, "Death count's been rising by the hour and you didn't think to clue me in?"

  "You were on a date." Zach paused. "They're like the body you found. Killed early this morning or late last night. Every murder arranged in the middle of a street, every one of them wearing a mask."

  "It's the same guy. We have a serial killer loose in our city."

  "Jay wants to corner him before he can hit anyone else." Something in his tone pinched.

  Ryan stilled. He couldn't see Zach's face, but he knew his brother's vocal nuances. His nebulous ability had fired off. "We're not superheroes, Zach. We've got enough to fix with the syndicates. The fact you're barely able to talk—"

  "I'm fine."

  "No. Tell Jay to stand down. Let the police handle this guy."

  Zach cleared his throat. "The last two bodies were cops."

  Romeo, where is she? He sent the desperate thought into the night even as he pulled on his coat. Stay near her. I'm on my way.

  "You need me to find her, bro?"

  "I know where she is. Thanks, Zach." Ryan returned to the bar and threw down cash for the bill, a healthy tip, and Brennan's gas money. "Hate to cut our evening short, but I have to go."

  She followed him out to the sidewalk. "I'll leave what I found with your assistant. She owes me gossip anyway."

  "Lilah doesn't gossip." He folded her into his arms, a final salvo for any cameras that had followed them to the little shop.

  She curled into his faux embrace. "When will we discuss new terms?"

  "Later." He cupped her cheek, wishing she were another woman entirely. "I have to go keep an eye on a friend."

  "Does this have to do with the news?" She gave him a simpering smile and tugged the front of his jacket closed, but this time she didn't attempt a kiss. The game was over. "Your girlfriend? Is she in some kind of trouble?"

  He smiled too, though his heart had returned to the concerning tempo he was beginning to associate with Amanda. "She could be, if I don't get there first."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ryan cursed winter freezes and stubborn women. The crisp shell over snow forced him and Romeo to a greater tracking distance and left her ten kinds of vulnerable. Amanda made a tempting target for the night's predators. Lone woman, head down against the cold, strolling along a barely lit sidewalk . . . and no witnesses. Ryan cursed again. Hadn't she heard about the curfew?

  Her hair had tugged free of her scarf. Strands played around her head at each gust of icy wind, more gold than blond under the occasional street lamp. Ryan pulled the hood of Klepto's disguise tighter and resisted the urge to close the gap. Once she caught the express rail, he'd drive to the station closest to her house and resume his protection detail from there.

  His power snagged on crunching snow from the wrong direction.

  Multiple sets of feet. Stomping, dragging.

  Amanda had drawn a group of bored syndicate lackeys. Drifts of snow crunching under her low-heeled boots and echoes made the opponent count uncertain. Ryan crept onto the pavement behind her, expanding his ability's radius. The steps grew louder, circled like vultures.

  The slow, inexorable crackle of lit cigarettes.

  His heart bounced inside his chest. He'd have been able to protect her from the zealot. Against syndicate players, he couldn't make a move—Klepto wouldn't come to an innocent's defense. His mouth set in a grim line. He'd have to get to her first.

  He lunged, his mind planning a quick, effective take-down. Arm around her neck. Pin her wrists.

  She wheeled and planted her foot in the center of his chest.

  Gasping, his lungs cursed his stupidity. If she ran, she'd be fair game for the others. Ryan went for her a second time. Fortunately, she seemed to have no interest in catching the next available public transit car.

  Searing blue eyes lit with recognition and vengeance. She whirled away, threw a punch that missed, and he jammed his foot into the arch of her boot. Amanda fell. For an instant, Ryan worried that he'd hurt her and he turned too late, catching the flick of her heel in the back of his knee. He forced the joint to lock.

  She righted herself and faced off in a tight boxer's stance. Bare fists. Her hands had to be cold.

  Thoughts of taking her home, warming her up, filled his mind. Sexy, to try matching him hand to hand. Or foot. His detective had dangerous legs. Ryan swallowed a surge of lust and narrowed his hearing range, dedicating his focus to the fight.

  She leaned slightly, her voice as harsh as the wind. "You're a tough man to find."

  "I don't do autographs." What was she up to?

  "What's your angle? Are you making room for your own people?"

  He almost smiled. She'd been working on a motive. He should have known she'd want more than revenge. If she thought she could call him out on the murders and somehow get her proof that Klepto was the serial killer, she'd want to get close. He couldn't let her—Of course he could. What better way to keep her safe?

  He snagged the end of her scarf and pushed her shoulder, tumbling them into a snowbank. She rolled, fingers extended in a claw and reaching for his hood. He trapped her between his body and the concrete.

  This time, she'd yield to Klepto.

  A hot gasp for breath filled the space between them. Ryan's other brain cheered. Horizontal and full-contact. Right on. Her bravado faltered as she stared up into the shadowed hood of his coat. The backs of her hands hit a slick spot of wintered ground. She winced and Ryan cushioned her exposed skin with his gloves, wrapping them solidly around her wrists.

  "Don't tell me I'm the reason you're out after curfew," he growled low in her ear.

  Amanda's eyes took on calculating gleam. "I want in."

  Bold. Ryan ticked through his options and knew caving too fast would bring suspicion. Klepto had to make her work for it.

  "You owe me." Her tongue swiped over her lips and his gaze locked onto glossy pink.

  The first time, he'd been lost, driven, unable to stop himself from a kiss. Memories warred with reason.

  She flexed her wrists. "They've had me on the bench ever since I met you. I need a gun, some action, and word on the street is you're the guy I need to see."

  Reason won. "Pity I'm not an arms dealer."

  Her heart rate accelerate
d. Ryan started. His gloves were too thick for him to feel a pulse.

  He'd . . . heard it.

  Without instructing his power to do so. A side effect of Zach's retuned filters? Fascinated, Ryan gave his ears a moment to savor the new sensory input.

  Thumpthumpthump.

  "But you are in on the action."

  Ryan released her right wrist and brushed his fingers over her shoulder. "I believe we proved that once already."

  Amanda's heart skipped a beat and his own gave a jolt to catch up. He shook his head. If he sacrificed his concentration, he wouldn't be able to protect her. All at once, Ryan remembered the syndicate threat. His power flared out, sought its target. It didn't take long to find them. Instead of backing off, they'd tightened the circle. He swore under his breath. Rising to his knees, he snapped his arms around Amanda and pulled her up beside him.

  She stiffened, then settled into his hold. Her hands gripped his trench coat in a tentative embrace. Capitulation . . . no. She was up to something. But damn if she didn't feel right. If he could just kiss her again . . .

  "Spiritwalker! Elias and company." Romeo spoke the drug dealer's name like a warning and Ryan's jaw tightened.

  Not the serial killer, not syndicate goons, but still trouble enough to put a damper on the party.

  What had started out a desperate tactic to get him to talk had well and truly backfired.

  The warm rasp of his voice should have been menacing. A threat. Instead, it wound around her shoulders and tugged like a beckoning lover.

  He just had to have a bedroom voice to go with those muscles.

  Temptation personified, wrapped in supple leather.

  She swallowed hard.

  The criminal had no name, no face. Yet the man smelled of pine and mint, his breath eased the winter chill from her cheek and revved her confused hormones. Maybe she could blame this one on lacing her second mug of hot cocoa with Kahlua instead of caramel. It had nothing to do with a kiss that tingled in her memory like an aphrodisiac.