All Things Wicked

by Karina Cooper

  “As I was saying,” the woman said through thin, colorless lips. Her voice was like gravel, grating even in quiet tones. “There is a certain amount of accuracy required in every foundation, and although the Mission’s record has been fairly reliable, there are some small matters that require a . . . more precise touch.”

  Political code for internal affairs.

  Parker studied her quietly.

  The woman was short, rail-thin, and pushing sixty. The kind of woman whose brown hair was probably chemically maintained, and whose neatly pressed brown skirt suit likely had never seen a department store rack. Her cheeks were thin and hollow, her brown eyes nondescript behind frameless glasses.

  Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, glossy and unforgiving, and Parker didn’t miss the speculative glances the other missionaries kept sending through the slatted window of the office.

  Parker’s own hair, though a detested copper red, was also pulled into a severe knot at the back of her head. It was the easiest way to keep it out of her face. She resisted the urge to pat it into place, disliking her own silent comparison between them.

  “I’m afraid,” she said with careful calm, “that I’m not sure what you’re trying to convey, Mrs. Parrish.”

  The woman’s fingers folded around a readout of her own, and she flipped it open. Its knitted cover boasted flowers, like something a grandmother would make. “Missionary Silas Smith,” the woman said.

  Parker’s face remained impassive.

  “Missionary Naomi West,” Mrs. Parrish continued, peering through the bifocals carved into the bottom lenses of her glasses. “Mission Director David Peterson.”

  Blast. “Silas Smith and David Peterson both turned rogue,” Parker replied evenly, “before my tenure. You have read the reports, yes?”

  No matter what angle it came from, Mrs. Parrish’s smile was disturbing. Thin, precise, and pinched. “Refresh me.”

  Politics. She could play them. “Of course,” she said. “Agent Silas Smith was trained here in the New Seattle Mission. After a particularly difficult operation, he was released from city service to work abroad. Fourteen years later, he was brought back during David Peterson’s occupancy as director. Agent Naomi West detailed in her report the events that led to Smith’s betrayal and subsequent death. In the interim, Peterson was ousted as a coven infiltrator.”

  Not even a flicker of an eyelash.

  The Church knew all this. Maybe more. What Director Adams wanted to know was how. How did a witch make it to Mission director without anyone knowing? How had he passed the tests?

  Parker braced her legs behind the cover of the desk and continued coolly, “Agent Naomi West went missing after completing a mission that was ordered, of course, by the Church itself.”

  “Missing.”

  “She had already been flagged for surveillance,” she explained with brusque efficiency. “Director Peterson had been less than apt at keeping an eye on the ongoing health of his teams. I’ve rectified that.”

  “Of course you have,” Mrs. Parrish said, reassurance served with a twist of condescension.

  “The bounty on Naomi West is currently at fifty thousand dollars dead, twice that if brought in alive. She’s an apt candidate for processing,” Parker told her. “If she’s still alive, we’ll find her.”

  “I’m sure you will,” the woman said, again in a smooth tone that didn’t match the words. “Unfortunately, these stains are not something that can be simply . . . talked away.”

  Parker’s unwavering gaze had been known to make the biggest men of her units resist the urge to sidle behind the nearest heavy object. “Is this a disciplinary action, Mrs. Parrish?”

  “Not yet.” Mrs. Parrish had a gaze of her own, and Parker forced herself to meet it head-on. “In that readout,” the woman continued, “you’ll note a new priority.”

  She hadn’t yet, but then, the woman hadn’t given her any time.

  Mrs. Parrish continued blithely, “I don’t care what you choose to name it, but this will be placed at the top of your to-do. Now, the Church has inferred that you’ll need extra hands, given your . . .” She paused tactfully. “Shall we call it, loss of experienced agents?” With the same disturbing little smile, she turned and picked her way across the clean but threadbare carpet. Her sensible, one-inch heels rasped across the floor, making Parker’s jaw ache as she set her teeth.

  This wasn’t going well.

  Regardless of what Parker said aloud, the Church had every right to investigate her teams. Two rogues—one a witch, even, straight from the greatest coven threat known to the Mission—and a missing agent who had long since been flagged for processing were a black spot on everybody’s record.

  The woman opened the door. Parker’s fingers spasmed against the desk. She very carefully placed them on her hips, resisting the need to smooth down the tailored cream-colored suit she’d worn.

  Two men stepped into the frame behind Mrs. Parrish. They split, one flanking each side. “Director Adams, these men are missionaries. As of this conference, they are assigned to your offices.”

  Parker’s eyes narrowed. A fraction.

  “This is Agent Tobias Nelson,” Mrs. Parrish continued, gesturing to a tall, very broad man at her left. He nodded, a faint, more than slightly patronizing gesture. His eyes were a brown so dark that they were almost black. His hair shadowed his scalp, thick black fuzz buzzed short. He was large, wide, meaty, and probably good to have in a fight.

  Parker didn’t fight, but her street-level teams did.

  Their casual, loose clothing and well-developed builds suggested they did, too. Nelson’s T-shirt did nothing to conceal the thick bulge of his arms.

  The other man didn’t wait for an introduction. He slid into one of two chairs arrayed in front of Parker’s borrowed desk, kicking one ankle up over his knee in easy comfort. “I’m Simon Wells,” he offered, tipping an imaginary hat. His brown hair was longer, the same shade as the coffee-colored desk between them. His eyes twinkled at her, an odd mix of green and brown, and his lips curved into an engaging smile that she didn’t return.

  Flirt. She knew the type.

  Parker offered them both a nod. “Gentlemen,” she said coolly. Then, to the woman who waited expectantly between them, she arched one icy eyebrow. “Explain to me why the Church is placing their men in my Mission.”

  The woman’s expression hardened. “Your Mission, Director Adams, is the Church’s Mission. Effectively my Mission. Your job is to oversee and maintain the Church’s interests—my interests—in this field, at the whim of the Order that you serve. These interests include, but are not limited to, the investigation and execution of witches, the ongoing protection of the innocents of this city, and whatever else I say.” Her eyes glinted behind the cut glass edge of her spectacles. “Shall I presume that there is no confusion on the subject?”

  Parker’s lips compressed into a thin line. “None.”

  “Excellent. Then I trust you’ll see that my new missionaries are welcomed and made comfortable. They will, of course, be assigned to the docket spoken of earlier.”

  Parker didn’t look at either man, certain that if she did, she’d snap. Instead, she inclined her head in a frosty nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Parrish. And in turn, I trust that with their acclimation, the Church will see that the New Seattle Mission continues to thrive.”

  “Of course,” the thin woman said, poker-faced. “Missionaries. Director.” With that, she turned and left the office. Her padded shoes didn’t click once the carpet turned into scuffed, bare tile. Parker watched her round the corner, then pass the glass walls that separated this office from the open desks filling the main room.

  More eyes than hers watched the older woman go. Parker didn’t relax.

  The one called Tobias Nelson turned for the door.

  Parker snapped her gaze back to him. “Hold it.”

  He halted, but only just. His head turned enough that she could see the set of his jaw
, and Wells tipped back in his chair with an inquisitive smile.

  “Have you both been sealed?” she asked.

  Nelson grunted. “Yes.”

  “I want to see them.”

  In front of her, Wells’s smile edged into something wicked. He rubbed two fingers along the shadow of his stubbled jaw. “Why, Miss Adams, I hardly know y—”

  She cut him off with a look carved from ice. “That’s Director Adams, and I reserve the right to inspect my team anytime, anywhere I so choose.” Her voice hardened. “Your loyalties can fall to whomever you want outside this office, but while you’re in my unit, you follow my orders. If there is any doubt, there’s the door.”

  She didn’t have to say aloud what fell between her and the men arrayed in front of her. It was as crystal as if she’d carved it on the desk.

  Your choice.

  Damn, but she hoped they made the wrong one.

  That easy smile reached Wells’s eyes, and from a frame of dark lashes, something glinted. “Yes, ma’am,” he said solemnly.

  Her fingers twitched. She forced herself to keep them from curling into fists. Her glance flicked to Nelson, who had only half turned. He watched her.

  Her stare drilled into his.

  The seconds ticked by.

  “Just do it,” Wells said quietly, and the big man’s scowl bit hard. Wordlessly, he yanked up the right sleeve of his plain cotton T-shirt.

  To her left, Wells slid two of his shirt buttons free, baring more of a chest defined by muscles that were thick, but hardly as meaty as his partner’s.

  Parker circled the desk, her four-inch spike heels snagging on the carpet with every step. She ignored it. She didn’t touch Nelson’s skin, only bent enough to study the black circle seal engraved into the curve of his shoulder. The symbols etched through the sigil seemed legitimate, though only magic could serve as a real test.

  What she didn’t understand was the inked rectangle comprised of thin black lines beneath it.

  Maybe the man liked tattoos. That wasn’t her problem, or her concern. God knew she had her share of walking ink canvases in her teams.

  “Thank you,” she said. It took effort to keep from jumping as he jerked his sleeve back down and all but pushed past her for the door.

  Setting her jaw, Parker turned to the other missionary.

  Then choked on her own tongue as she found him standing shirtless behind her, the worn button-down hanging from his back pocket. He had a chest designed to make women drool. His abs were rock-hard, chiseled beyond anything she’d ever seen, tapering in to the waistband of his jeans, and Parker swallowed hard as her gaze took in the expanse of swarthy muscle.

  “Director Adams?”

  She jerked her attention back to his face, and fought back a flush as she realized he was smiling. That half-crooked twist of lips sat so close to a smirk, it only made her angry.

  She wasn’t a kid. She was the lead director in a citywide organization whose function was to protect; a woman who had seen more than her fair share of hard-bodied men. The Mission was full of them. Women, too, for that matter.

  He raised a broad finger and tapped the dark circle of ink imprinted on the front of his left shoulder, just under his collarbone. “As you requested.”

  Parker crossed the room with short, sharp strides. She studied his tattoo, nodded even as she eyed the same black bar code embedded beneath the traditional seal.

  Two men with the same set of tattoos?

  A brotherhood? A unit tattoo?

  She glanced up to his face, frowning as he smiled into her eyes. The question died on her tongue. Instinctively, she knew he wouldn’t answer.

  Probably just to jerk her chain.

  “Thank you,” she said dispassionately. “You can dress yourself.”

  “So I’m good to go?”

  “Agent Eckhart will show you and Mr. Nelson through the training,” she said, turning her back on him. Deliberate dismissal.

  He drew his shirt over his shoulders. Parker watched his reflection in the wide bank of glass windows. “Training?” he asked.

  “I have no knowledge of you. Consequently, I don’t know what kind of training Mrs. Parrish thought would qualify you for this team,” she said as he redid the buttons over his washboard abdominal muscles. “You’ll be put through the paces just like all of my other agents.”

  His jaw tightened in the glass. Then, as if it was only a flicker in her imagination, he grinned. “Ah, well. She did say make us welcome. Hey, Director.”

  Imperceptibly stiffening, she turned.

  Then studied the hand he held out to her as if it were some strange bug to be scrutinized. It was a large hand, callused like so many of the street-level missionaries’ hands were, with nails torn down to the quick.

  And it was a challenge. His eyebrow quirked. The same side as the apparently permanent smirk tugging at the right side of his mouth.

  Silently, she clasped her palm to his. Her skin was inordinately white against his darker color, as if he’d spent a lot of time in the sun. How could that be? Was he a topsider?

  Was he from somewhere beyond the city?

  “Thanks for having us,” he said.

  “This isn’t a guest stay. I fully expect you both to carry your weight.”

  His eyes lit with amusement. “And then some, right?” He squeezed her hand, calluses scraping her softer palm, then let go. “See you around . . . Director Adams.”

  Parker watched him saunter out of her office, making no effort to hide the lazy way he finished buttoning up his shirt. Something about the way he’d said it had made his farewell seem like a . . . promise. An invitation.

  Damn.

  A new operation. New missionaries she knew nothing about.

  She sat and scrolled through the readout, skimming the material swiftly. Halfway through the cover letter, surprise flickered.

  Who was Juliet Carpenter? And why did some woman off the street suddenly jump known ritual murderers on the priority list?

  Not that it mattered. Her orders were clear. She gathered the digital readout and what few operational dockets had collected in her in-box and left the office.

  A flurry of activity preceded her.

  Like she knew it would, a fully fledged headache blossomed behind her forehead. She didn’t dare wince. “Agent Eckhart.”

  A bald man industriously bent over a computer turned, annoyance twisting his round face. It only slightly eased as he recognized her. “Ma’am.”

  She handed him one of the dockets. “Give this to Mr. Stone. I want all the information he can find in two hours. Then deepen the search and feed me whatever he finds in relative intervals.”

  Alan Eckhart took the docket and scrolled through it quickly. His free hand rubbed at the shiny bare scalp Parker had assumed early on came from shaving every day. “Will you be needing the whole team? I can call Neely in.”

  “Not yet.” Possibly not at all, depending on Jonas Stone’s findings. The man was the best information gatherer this side of the divide. Possibly even the best the Mission had ever had, anywhere, ever. Parker knew she was lucky to have him.

  Luckier still that Stone didn’t mind her. Possibly even liked her. Then again, the guy seemed to like everyone.

  “All right,” Eckhart replied, “I’ll put it in his queue.”

  She studied him levelly. “Jump his queue, Mr. Eckhart.”

  He whistled, a faint three-note tune as he glanced at her. “This takes priority over Operation Ghostwatch?”

  She didn’t hesitate, well aware of how many ears were straining to hear her response. Juggling priorities. That was part of her job. “Yes,” she said, bracing one hand on her hip. “Only for the first two hours. Then keep him on the dragnet. He’s a bright boy, I believe he can multitask. I rather assume most of my agents can.”

  Somewhere in the background, someone snickered.

  Eckhart snapped the folder closed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Be ready to call Agent Si
lo in from R&R, I’ll need the library manned immediately.”

  “It’s already—”

  She cut him off neatly. “Agent Silo is the only one who knows that library inside and out. I’ll let you know when to send out the call.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he repeated, but couldn’t quite hide the doubt in the slow acquiescence.

  Fine. As long as he did what she ordered, she’d take it.

  “Oh,” she added before she turned away. “There are two new agents in the roster. Get them on training.” She paused, tucking the stack of readouts more firmly under her arm. “Advance to level four immediately.”

  His eyes widened. “Right out of the gate?”

  “Yes, Agent Eckhart,” she said, every word crisp. “Level four, right out of the gate. Is there a problem?”

  His cheeks flushed. “No, ma’am,” he said, but Parker didn’t give him the opportunity to say anything else. She strode through the suddenly bustling office, her chin up.

  As the elevator doors closed behind her, someone’s voice carried through the narrowing gap.

  “Total ice bitch.”

  The elevator rocked into motion. She touched a button on the panel. “Bring the car around,” she said calmly.

  The speaker crackled. “Right away, Director.”

  Parker smiled.

  Chapter Nine

  Thunder grumbled in the distance. Outside the windows of the small green house, the sunshine faded to muted gray. Clouds edged in black rolled in, and someone had lit candles for light.

  Caleb didn’t know who.

  He sat on the only available surface—a heavy wooden trunk surrounded by stacks upon stacks of junk. Old junk, prequake junk, he didn’t know.

  He didn’t care.

  Elbows braced on his thighs, he hunched over, rotating a small gold ring over and over between his fingers. He stared at it, watched it catch the light in tiny glints. He’d been staring at Delia’s ring for what felt like hours. It didn’t have any answers for him.

  She didn’t have any answers for him.

  And still Jessie didn’t wake up.

  She seemed so frail in the bed. The quilt tucked in around her looked obscenely bright against her sallow skin, and her eyelids flickered repeatedly as if she dreamed. Or was seeing something.