Micah ab-13

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  I clung to him, my cheek pressed into his shoulder. "It would have still been true."

  "Yes, but if I hadn't pointed it out, you probably wouldn't have thought about it." He held me close. "We'd have had our time away and it would never have occurred to you that it was the first time. I'm sorry."

  I wrapped my hands tighter around the solidness of him. "I'm sorry, Micah. Sorry I'm such a mess."

  He drew me away enough so he could gaze into my face. "You are not a mess."

  I gave him a look.

  He laughed and said, "Maybe a little messy, but not a mess." His voice had gone all gentle. I loved his voice like that, loved that I was the only one his voice went soft for. So why couldn't I just enjoy him, us? Hell if I knew.

  "The Feds are waiting for us," I said.

  It was his turn to give me a look. Even with the dark glasses, I knew the look.

  "I'll be okay," I said. I gave him a smile that almost worked. "I promise to try to enjoy the parts of this trip that are enjoyable. I promise to try to not get in my own way, or weird myself out about us being… just us." I shrugged when I said the last.

  He touched the side of my face. "When will you stop panicking about being in love?"

  I shrugged again. "Never, soon, I don't know."

  "I'm not going anywhere, Anita. I like it right here, beside you."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "Why what?"

  "Why do you love me?"

  He looked startled. "You mean that, don't you?"

  I realized I did. I had one of those aha moments. I didn't think I was very lovable, so why did he love me? Why did anyone love me?

  I touched his lips with my fingers. "Don't answer now. We don't have time for deep therapy. Business now. We'll work on my neuroses later."

  He started to say something but I shook my head.

  "Let's go meet Special Agent Fox." When I took my hand away from his lips, he just nodded. One of the reasons we worked as a couple was that Micah knew when to let it go, whatever the "it" of the moment happened to be.

  This was one of those times when I truly didn't know why he put up with me. Why anyone put up with me. I didn't want to ruin this. I didn't want to pick at Micah and me until we unraveled. I wanted to leave it alone and enjoy it. I just didn't know how to do that.

  We got our bags settled, and off we went. We had FBI to meet and a zombie to raise. Raising the dead was easy; love was hard.

  Chapter 4

  We met the Feds at the baggage return area, as arranged. How did we know who the FBI agents were in the crowd of people, most of the men dressed in suits?

  They looked like agents. I don't know what it is about FBI training but Feds always just seem to look like what they are. All flavors of cops tend to look like cops, but only FBI looks like FBI and not plain cops. Don't know what they do to them down in Quantico, but whatever it is, it sticks.

  Special Agent Chester Fox, agent in charge, was very Native American. The short hair, the suit, the perfect fitting-in couldn't hide the fact that he was so very not like the rest of them. I understood now some of his pissiness on the phone. He was the first Native American agent that I'd ever found involved in a case that had nothing to do with Native Americans. If you happened to be Native American, you could usually look forward to a career of dealing with cases that called for your ethnicity but not necessarily your talents. Cases involving Native American issues were also not usually career makers, though they could be career breakers. Another interesting thing about the FBI and its dealing with Native Americans was that if you looked Indian enough, they would assign you even if the case involved a totally different tribe, with a totally different language and customs. You're Indian, right? Aren't all Indians the same?

  No. But then the American government—whatever branch—has never really grasped the concept of tribal identity.

  The agent with him, I knew. Agent Franklin was tall, slender with skin dark enough to actually be black. His hair was cut shorter and closer to his head than the last time I'd seen him in New Mexico, but his hands were still graceful and nervous. He smoothed those poet's hands down his overcoat. He caught me looking and stopped that nervous dance. He offered me a hand just as if he hadn't called me a slut to his partner.

  I took his hand. No hard feelings here. I even smiled though I knew it didn't reach my eyes. Franklin didn't even try to look pleased to see me. He wasn't rude, but he didn't pretend he was happy either.

  "Agent Franklin, I'm surprised to see you here."

  He took back his hand. "Didn't your friend Bradford tell you I'd been reassigned?" He said friend like he meant more, and the rest was bitter. Not obvious bitter, but it had that feel to it. Nothing he said was rude enough to start a fight, but it was close.

  Special Agent Bradley Bradford was head of the FBI's Special Research section, which dealt with preternatural serial killers, or crimes involving the preternatural.

  There'd been a lot of controversy about splitting those crimes out of the Investigative Support unit, the one that usually handled serial killers. At short acquaintance, Franklin had made his feelings clear on the situation. He'd been against it.

  Since Bradford was his boss at the time, that had been a problem. Apparently, Franklin had been reassigned, a nonvoluntary reassignment. Not good for a career in the FBI. I was taking fallout for a political squabble that I'd had nothing to do with. Great, just great.

  I started to introduce Micah, but Fox beat me to it. "Callahan, Micah Callahan." Fox was already offering his hand and smiling, way more broadly than he'd smiled for me. How did an FBI agent know Micah? "You look good."

  Micah smiled not quite as broadly, like he wasn't as happy to see Agent Fox. What the hell was going on?

  "Fox, I…" Micah tried again. "The last time you saw me, I was still in the hospital. I must have looked like shit, so I guess anything's an improvement." I could hear the uncertainty in his voice, though I doubted anyone else could. You had to know him really well to hear that note in his voice.

  "Someone who came that close to dying is allowed to look like shit," Fox said.

  I knew then that this probably had something to do with the attack that had made Micah a wereleopard. All I knew about it for certain was that it had been violent. Once someone uses the words violent and attack, you don't press for details. I'd figured he'd tell me more when he was ready.

  Micah turned to me. His face was having trouble deciding what to do, and I was betting he was glad that the glasses hid his eyes. "Special Agent Fox was one of the agents who questioned me after my attack."

  I hadn't known that his mauling had gotten federal attention. I couldn't think why it would have but I couldn't ask that here and now because it would be admitting too much ignorance. Also, I wasn't sure how much Micah wanted to share in the airport with people walking around us.

  I covered. I can do blank pleasant cop face with the best of them. I did it now. "What are the odds that he'd be the agent in charge of this case?" I said, smiling, as if I knew exactly what we were talking about. I'd give Micah a chance to explain later, when we didn't have an audience.

  "I didn't know that you were an animator," Fox said, still talking to Micah.

  "I'm not." And Micah left it at that.

  Fox waited for him to add more, but Micah smiled and didn't. Fox would have let it go, but Franklin didn't. Some people just can't leave well enough alone.

  "Are you a vampire executioner?" Franklin asked.

  Micah shook his head.

  "You're not a federal marshal." And Franklin said it like he was positive.

  "No, I'm not."

  "Let it go, Franklin," Fox said.

  "She's brought a civilian along on a federal case."

  "We'll talk about this in the car," Fox said, and the look he gave Franklin stopped the taller man in midsentence.

  Fox asked me, "Do we need to wait for more bags?"

  "No," I said. "We're going back home tomorrow, right?"

&
nbsp; "That's the plan," he said, but his face was not happy, as if the whole thing with Franklin was still bothering him.

  "Then we're ready to go."

  He actually smiled. "A woman who packs light—that's rare."

  "Sexist," I said.

  He gave me a nod. "Sorry, you're right. I apologize."

  I smiled and shook my head. "No sweat."

  He led the way out the doors, and there were two cars waiting. One had two other agents with it, and the other was empty and waiting for us.

  Fox spoke over his shoulder at us. "With the new regulations, even the FBI doesn't get to leave cars parked unattended."

  "Glad to hear the new rules apply to everyone," I said, more for something to say than because I cared. I wanted to look at Micah and was afraid to. Afraid if I gave him too much attention, he'd fall apart or feel like he had to explain in front of them. Of course, by not looking at him, he might think I was mad about him not sharing details. But… oh, hell.

  We were pretending he was just my assistant. Holding his hand or giving him a kiss might expose that lie. Or give Franklin even more reason to think I was sleeping around. I hadn't thought about what it might mean to introduce Micah as my assistant. I guess I hadn't really thought it through at all. In my own defense, I hadn't had time to come up with a good explanation for why I needed to bring my boyfriend along. Assistant had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  I did the only thing I could think of to reassure him and keep the assistant thing going: I patted him on the shoulder. It wasn't much, but he rewarded me with a smile, as if he'd known the mental gymnastics I was going through. Maybe he did.

  Fox drove. Franklin rode shotgun. Micah, the briefcase, and I rode in the backseat. The other car followed us as we pulled away.

  "We'll drop you at the motel," Fox began.

  Micah interrupted him. "Actually, I booked us into the Four Seasons."

  "Jesus," Franklin said.

  "The FBI won't pick up the tab for the Four Seasons," Fox said.

  "We wouldn't expect it," Micah said.

  I sat there wondering why Micah had changed hotels, then realized that Fox had said motel. Oh. Micah wanted a nicer place for our first night alone together. Logical—so why did it make my stomach tight? What was he expecting of our first night alone?

  "Are you really going to let her bring a civilian into our case?"

  Fox looked at Franklin. Even from the backseat it didn't look friendly. "I suggest, strongly, that you let this go, Agent Franklin."

  "Jesus, what is it about her?" Franklin said. "She blinks those big brown eyes and everyone just looks the other way while she breaks a dozen rules and bends the very law we're sworn to uphold." He turned around in the seat as far as the seat belt would let him. "How do you do it?"

  Fox said, "Franklin," and the word was a warning.

  "No, Fox, it's all right. If we don't get this settled, Agent Franklin and I won't be able to work together, will we, Agent Franklin?" My voice wasn't friendly when I said all that. "You want to know how I do it?"

  "Yeah," Franklin said, "I do."

  "I know how you think I do it. You think I fuck everyone. But I've never met Fox, so that can't be it. So now you're scrambling, trying to figure it out."

  He scowled at me.

  "When you thought it was just sex, just a woman sleeping her way through her career, you were sort of okay with it, but now, now you just don't get it."

  "No," he said, "I don't. Fox is the most by-the-book agent I've ever worked with, and he's letting you cart around a civilian. That's not like him."

  "I know the civilian," Fox said. "That makes a difference."

  "He was a victim of a violent crime. So what? You knew him how long ago?"

  "Nine years," Fox said in a soft voice, his dark eyes on the traffic, hands careful on the wheel.

  "You don't know what kind of person he is now. Nine years is a long time. He must have been a teenager then."

  "He was eighteen," Fox's careful voice said.

  "You don't know him now. He could be a bad guy for all you know."

  Fox glanced in the rearview mirror. "You a bad guy, Micah?"

  "No, sir," Micah said.

  "That's it?" Franklin said, and he looked like he was going to work himself into hysterics or a stroke. "You ask if he's a bad guy, and he says no, and that's good enough?"

  "I saw what he survived; you didn't. He answered my questions when his voice was only a hoarse rasp because the killer had clawed out his throat. I worked for Investigative Support for five years and what was done to him is still one of the worst things I've ever seen." He had to slam on the brakes to keep from hitting the sudden line of traffic in front of us. We all got very well acquainted with our seat belts, and then he continued. "He doesn't have to prove anything to you, Franklin, and he's already proven anything he ever needed to prove to me. You are going to lay off him and Marshal Blake."

  "But don't you even want to know why he's here? What she brought him for? It's an ongoing case. He could be a reporter for all you know."

  Fox let out a long, loud breath. "I'll let them answer this question once, just once, and then you let it go, Franklin. Let it go before I start having more sympathy with why Bradford had you reassigned."

  That stopped Franklin for a second or two. The traffic started creeping forward. We seemed to be caught in rush-hour traffic. I thought at first that the threat would make him give it up but Franklin was made of sterner stuff than that.

  "If he's not an animator or a vampire executioner, then what does he assist you with, Marshal Blake?" He almost managed to keep the sarcasm out of the "Marshal Blake."

  I was tired of Franklin, and I'm not that good at lying. I'd had less than two hours of sleep and had to fly on a plane. So I told the truth, the absolute truth.

  "When you need to have sex three, four times a day, it's just more convenient to bring your lover with you, don't you think, Agent Franklin?" I gave him wide, innocent eyes.

  He gave me a sour look. Fox laughed.

  "Very funny," Franklin said, but he settled back in his seat and he left us alone. The truth may not set you free, but used carefully, it can confuse the hell out of your enemies.

  Chapter 5

  The hotel was nice. Very nice. Too nice. There were people in uniforms all over the place. Not police—hotel employees. They sprang forward to get doors. To try to help with luggage. Micah actually let a bellman take our bags. I protested that we could carry them. He'd smiled and said to just enjoy it. I hadn't enjoyed it. I had leaned against the mirrored wall of the elevator and tried not to get angry.

  Why was I angry? The hotel had surprised me, badly. I'd come expecting a clean-but-nothing-special room. Now we were going up in a glass and gilt elevator with a guy in white gloves pressing the buttons, explaining how the security on our little key cards worked.

  My stomach was a tight knot. I had crossed my arms under my breasts, and even to me, I looked angry in the shiny mirrors.

  Micah leaned beside me but didn't try to touch me. "What's wrong?" he asked, voice mild.

  "I didn't expect this kind of… place."

  "You're mad because I booked us into a nice hotel with a nice room?"

  Put that way, it sounded stupid. "No, I mean…" I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the glass. "Yes," I finally said, voice soft.

  "Why?" he asked.

  The elevator doors opened and the bellman smiled and stood so he held the doors open but left us plenty of room to move past him. If he'd figured out we were fighting, it didn't show.

  Micah waved me in front of him. I pushed away from the elevator wall and went. The hallway was what I'd expected from the rest of the hotel; all dark, expensive wallpaper with curved candlelike lights at just the right intervals, so it was both well-lit and strangely intimate. There were real paintings on the wall, not copies. No big-name artists but real art. I'd never been in a hotel so expensive.

  I ended up in front
with Micah close behind and the bellman bringing up the rear. I realized halfway down the dark, thick carpeting that I didn't know what room I was looking for. I looked back at the bellman and said, "Since I don't know where I'm going, should I be in front?"

  He smiled, as if I'd said something clever. He walked faster without seeming to hurry. He took the lead and we followed him. Which made more sense to me.

  Micah walked beside me. He still had the briefcase over one shoulder. He didn't try to hold my hand; he just put his hand down where I could grab it if I wanted to. We walked like that for a few steps. His hand waiting for mine, my arms crossed.

  Why was I mad? Because he'd surprised me with a really nice hotel room. What a bastard. He hadn't done anything wrong, except make me even more nervous about what he expected from me on this trip. That wasn't his bad, it was mine. My issue, not his. He was behaving like a normal civilized human being. I was being churlish and ungrateful. Dammit.

  I unwound my arms. They were actually stiff with anger and holding so tight. Shit. I took his hand without looking at him. He wrapped his fingers around mine and just that little bit of touch made my stomach feel better. It would be all right. I was living with him, for God's sake. He was already my lover. This wouldn't change anything. The tight feeling in my chest didn't get better, but it was the best I could do.

  The hotel room had a living room. A real living room with a couch, a marble-topped coffee table, a comfy chair with its own reading lamp, and a table in front of the far picture window that was big enough to seat four. And there were enough chairs to do that. All the wood was real and polished to a high shine. The upholstery matched but not exactly, so that it looked like a room that had grown together piece by piece instead of being bought all at once. The bathroom was full of marble-and-gleaming everything. The tub was smaller than the one we had at home, let alone Jean-Claude's tub at his club, the Circus of the Damned, but other than that, it was a pretty good bathroom. Better than any I'd ever seen in a hotel before.