For me Zezi’s case file had hummed against my psychic radar so loudly that it had drowned out nearly everything else in the stack of cold cases that my boss Agent Storm had assigned to me to review. The humming had been like a haunting music singing to my subconscious. Not actual music, but that didn't stop me from almost hearing it. Find Zezi, it said. Find her. Find her. Find her. Don’t you dare let her go. Despite the fact that I was also interested in one of the other cases in the pile, this one grabbed hold of me like a limpet.
It was typical that even my new and improved psychic senses still gave me nothing more useful than an insistent feeling that I must find Zezi. But one thing was for sure - if my senses wanted me to find Zezi, even without bothering to tell me if see was dead or alive, then it must mean that what had happened to her was important. I had chosen to believe for now that she was alive.
Marielle had picked up the little photograph of Zezi and was staring at it curiously. The lighting in the photo was crap and did not show Zezi with her gleaming glossy espresso complexion to her best advantage. Even so, it was hard to miss Zezi’s bright curious eyes and her mischievous smile and those mirrored dimples in each cheek.
“Pretty girl,” said Marielle. Then she grimaced. “Which isn’t a good thing in this case, I suppose. It’s a dangerous world out there. You said it’s been two years. Are you sure it’s worth your while to be looking for her?”
“I hope so. Does she ring any bells?”
Marielle shook her head. “I can’t say I remember seeing her. But I can ask around if you like?”
“That would be great. Her name was… is Zezi Shahidi.”
Marielle nodded. She took my number so that she could call me. I left the bar shortly afterwards, knowing that I wouldn’t be making any more progress tonight. I was feeling pretty good though. I felt bad for Zezi, but wasn’t she lucky she had me? Because unlike the others, I intended to find her. Sunshiny optimism be damned. It might be false, but I was real and I was darn good at my job.
It was a fine clear night, and I decided to walk a couple of blocks and enjoy it. I clicked along in my silly heels and hummed along to the psychic background almost-music in my head, which was currently melodious and befitting of London in summer. Both the music and the night were marvelous and warm and delightful. This was how I had thought being here would feel back when I had first come to England, having escaped my trapped and awful existence in America. I had thought that I would finally feel free, and that life would be full of possibility. But I had still felt trapped and so often angry and full of doubt. That was until Theo’s magic had set me free.
And set the killer in me free too. Oh yeah.
Humming to my music, I danced a couple of steps as I walked, not caring who was watching until one passerby whistled lewdly. I stopped to glower at him and bared my teeth to show him that I was a beastling, not some sweetie pie for him to pick on. There must have been something scary in the look in my eyes because he got the message and hurried off quickly. Or maybe he just thought I was too crazy to be worth his time. I could never be sure of what people saw when they looked at me.
I resumed my strutting and humming until suddenly the music of the world turned into a crashing walloping crescendo. It rose up out from nowhere, bringing me to an astonished standstill. What the heck was that? It seemed to be coming from some way up the main street in the direction I had already been heading towards. Feeling excited, I quickened my pace, following it. Maybe this was the clue I had been hoping for. I trotted down a narrow side street and the music led me to the entrance of a much less classy bar than the one I had been in earlier.
I went inside and down a darkened stairwell, arriving in a fume-infested pit of a room where people clearly didn’t care that smoking indoors was against the law. There my eyes took in a scene that was the last thing I expected to see.
One guy, clearly out of his mind, was squaring up to fight a bunch of eleven beefy dangerous-looking folk. That one guy was Special Agent Constantine Storm. My very dishy boss.
Chapter 2
DIANA
Although this smoky bar was the last place I would have expected to see him, I recognized Storm immediately. That sable-black head of hair was wonderfully tousled right now, and I was intimately familiar with the way he his tall and muscular body moved, having spied often enough on him prowling around the office with the leonine grace of a predator. He still had it now even though he was currently stumbling around in a way I had never seen before.
I scowled, wondering if someone had hit him with a stunning spell, but no one in the crowd was looking smugly mage-like. I realized the simplest explanation was the right one. He was drunk. And about to get walloped by eleven angry guys. Half angelus or not, in his current inebriated state that was going to do some damage.
“Darling!” I screeched loudly, so that everyone within earshot winced. “Darling! Honey-boo!” I continued, as I raced across the bar and flung myself bodily at storm.
I came crashing into his wonderfully firm chest and he caught me by instinct. He looked down at me in bafflement. Clearly his brain hadn’t caught up with the fact of my sudden appearance. Or perhaps it was my cherry-print attire which had confused him.
“Sweetie-pie, babykins,” I cooed. “There you are!” I proceeded to smother his face in kisses, taking advantage of the temporary loss of his wits, which was the only reason he was not defending me off. One of my kisses inadvertently landed on his mouth, and I tried not to enjoy that little slip-up rather a lot.
The gang of Storm’s would-be attackers reacted just like I hoped they would. They may have been willing to get into fisticuffs with a belligerent drunk guy intent on baiting them, which was what Storm had been doing, but they weren’t so willing to get between a man and his amorous lady love.
After settling up his shocking bar tab, I dragged a protesting Storm out of the bar and took him safely home. I was very much looking forward to the explanation I was going to demand of him in the morning. Not long after that, I went to bed. And wouldn’t you know it, I started dreaming.
But not a cozy delightful dream. No. Because my dreams didn’t bother to indulge me in such ways.
In my dream was a dark-haired man with glittering eyes. He was sitting in a darkened room, and not by his own choice. His chair was a freaking prison. It was a metal monstrosity that was bolted onto the ground. He was held secured onto it by a thick metal belt attaching him to the back of the chair. His wrists and forearms were shackled to the chair’s arms. I sensed that he was a monster pinned into place like a bug, although nothing about him suggested that he was a monster. He looked like an ordinary man; a handsome one, if you found the edge of dark cruelty on his features to be attractive. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t quite remember who.
His prisoners had left him shirtless and pantsless, with only a pair of black boxers protecting his privacy. My eyes had adjusted swiftly to the dark, and I could see the curve of strong broad shoulders and muscular thigh muscles under his olive skin. I couldn’t imagine why they had left him almost nude until he moved, and the sigils on the chair and on his shackles gleamed a soft silver light. The gleaming stopped whenever he went still, but came back every time he moved an inch. It must have been uncomfortable in that chair because he was finding it difficult to stay still. At each gleam he gritted his teeth. Clearly it pained him. His prisoners wanted him to feel maximum pain. His head was hanging downwards. I sensed that if he had known I was there he would have been facing me. But he did not know I was watching him. This was just a dream.
Even so I sensed that he was waiting. I knew it with absolute certainty, just like I knew that he was waiting for me.
When I woke up I still knew that he was waiting for me. The question was who was he and why was he waiting? And did he even know yet that he was waiting?
The intensity of the dream faded quickly and all I was left with was a mild sense of curiosity. I wondered if he had anything to do with my missing girl
Zezi.
As I stretched my body out in my bed, yawning noisily, I relegated the dream to the back of my mind. It was not the worst psychic dream I had ever had. There hadn’t been any death in it and not much misery in the large scale of things. And I had something far more interesting to distract me this morning. His deliciously warm body was behind me; spooning me, in fact. It made my face light up in a wicked grin.
There were not many people who I would let make me into a little spoon. In fact, there was only one. And no matter how much I liked Constantine Storm being my big spoon, I was not about to miss my chance to see his face when he woke up in my bed. I rolled around quietly until I was facing him. I was so close to his delicious sable hair with that hint of curl that it was incredibly difficult for me not to reach out and run my fingers through it. His face was devastatingly handsome in sleep and his lips perfectly kissable. I could have eaten him right up.
Instead, I took a moment to contemplate him without him being aware of me. I had been drawn strongly to Storm from the moment we met, and now I could hear the reason why. I couldn’t describe the psychic-music that emanated from him except to say that it was deep and powerful and ever-present. It felt as vast as an ocean and it never went away. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, and whether it was something to do with him, or to do with the way that I felt about him. It was coming from him now even though he was fast asleep.
Chuckling quietly to myself, I tapped the tip of his nose with my index finger and whispered, “Agent Storm, wakey wakey!”
He sighed, his chest expanding as he took in a deep breath and then released it. But he did not wake up.
Gosh, could the man be any cuter? His dark eyelashes were flush against his warm skin. I had studied every inch of his face last night when he had dropped into sleep, knowing that I might not see him like that again in a long time.
Pretending that I was only doing it as a game to wake him up, I ran my finger along his jaw — appreciating the rough hint of dark stubble that had sprung up overnight — and then down his chest. I traced my finger in a sinuous wavy motion against the firmness of his muscles, pressing hard enough for him to feel it. I thought he might spring up like a warrior, but the man was out of it.
A worry crossed my mind. Would his first instinctive thought on waking think it was me with him or someone else? It had darn well better not be someone else. Not that I had any right to think that. It was not like I was his girlfriend. And boy did I hope he didn’t have a girlfriend. That would totally suck.
Feeling irked by the thought, I poked him. Still he did not wake up. My mattress bounced a tiny amount as my cat AngelBeastie jumped up onto it. She casually trampled over storm, climbing up his legs and perching on his torso. I swear she gave me a little grin as she sunk her claws into him.
That woke him up. He sat up fast, sending a yowling AngelBeastie tumbling off him in disgust. She swiped him angrily before lightly jumping onto the floor, clearly annoyed at having an unwanted visitor in her bed. Storm was now sitting up against the headrest, staring all about him in wild confusion. First at my room with its old furniture and faded wallpaper and the plexiglass-enclosed shower cubicle right next to the kitchenette — a sight which clearly baffled him. Then reluctantly his gaze moved to the bed, taking in the rumpled sheets. Lastly it moved to me.
These days I much preferred to have nothing between me and my sheets — but last night, for his benefit, I had put on leggings and a T-shirt. I might have worn something scanty to tease him if it wasn’t for my darned navelstone, the glittering blackness of it fused to my flesh too icky a sight for me to want Storm to see. Even I had never quite got used to my navelstone, and I doubted that Storm had seen anything like it. I doubted that he wanted to. Wasn’t I a considerate bed mate?
Seeing that I was dressed had brought a look of vast relief across Storm’s face. How very insulting.
“Good morning, lover,” I purred at him.
The sound of my voice made him wince and rub his temples. He was still dressed in the jeans and shirt that he had been wearing last night. I had considered removing the jeans — to make him more comfortable and not just because I fancied getting a look at his legs — but I had decided against it. Now I wished I had taken the time. It would have been worth it to see the look on his face.
Chuckling, I got up and straddled his lap. “I had a good time last night, sweetie,” I crooned. “Did you?”
“What?” he said huskily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He did not look like a happy bunny.
“Last night,” I repeated in a breathy feminine voice, all the while fluttering my eyelashes at him. “Remember? You and me…? I’m trying to decide what I should call you now. I quite like loverboy. Or sweet-cheeks. I can’t decide.”
The word sweet-cheeks seemed to horrify him.
I ran the palms of my hands up his shirt and I let my fingers settle on his top button, as if considering unfastening it. I raised my eyebrow at him questioningly.
He bit his lip nervously, and stopped soon as he realized what he was doing it. “What… happened?” He asked, as if trying to figure out how to handle this quandary that he found himself in. I was his employee after all. Sort of. He seemed to be reassessing whether finding us both wearing clothes meant what he had originally thought it had meant.
“Don’t say that, sweet-cheeks. You’ll make me think I wasn’t memorable.” Pretending to sulk, I got off him and the bed and went to the sink to get him a glass of water. While I was at it I yanked open my blackout curtains. He flinched at the sudden rush of daylight.
“It’s a good job I already know I wasn’t disappointing,” I said brightly. “Because someone was a very naughty boy last night.” I pranced over to him with an over-exaggerated swing in my hips and handed him the glass. “I must admit you took me quite by surprise, Agent Storm.”
He had the grace to blush ever so slightly. He took a sip of water, and then swallowed hard. “What happened?”
I opened my eyes wide. “You still don’t remember?”
“Not quite,” he confirmed. He grimaced and then gulped down the entire glass of water.
“Headache?” I asked, unsurprised.
“What happened?” he repeated in a firm voice, attempting to reclaim the authority that he thought he had lost last night.
I leaned back against my sofa and crossed my arms over my chest. “You tell me. I found you completely trashed in a bar. Boy, was the barman pleased when I turned up to drag your carcass home with me. He said he’d been worried you are about to turn belligerent, but he and I both knew you were well past that.”
“I’m never belligerent,” Storm murmured darkly, the confused look on his face testament to the fact that he was not remembering any of this. “And I never drink.”
“Last night you did. So much that you decided to pick a fight with a pack of law-abiding werewolves who were noisily and yet harmlessly celebrating their stag do, as the barman told it.”
“So we didn’t…?” He looked meaningfully at the bed.
I took pity on him and confirmed, “No, we didn’t. I don’t take advantage of drunk men, no matter how cute they are.”
He looked surprised at my words, and more than a little annoyed. “I wasn’t drunk,” he muttered.
“I beg to differ. So, do you want to tell me what is up with you?”
“Nothing,” he said rather darkly.
“Come on, Storm. Something is up with you. I dreamed of you getting into a bar fight a couple of times this past week so clearly it’s been coming for a while. Aren’t you lucky I turned up?”
“I don’t get into bar fights.”
“That’s what I said to myself when I had the dreams. Special Agent Constantine Storm does not get into bar fights. This dream must not know what it’s talking about. Then there I was on Oxford Street at 3:00 am last night, happily prancing home, when I heard your caterwauling cry for help.”
“I didn’t cry for help!”
“Not with
your voice you didn’t. But with your spirit you did. Very very loudly.”
“I doubt it,” he muttered.
“And had I not already been out on the town of my own accord, I would be telling you off right now, because some of us have a Sunday job to get to. So now I really must ask you why you were ready to get into fisticuffs with eleven werewolves…?”
Storm did not respond. He had tipped his head back against my bed’s headboard and his eyes were screwed shut as if the world was too excruciating to face. This was not like him at all, and I was rather enjoying telling Mr Efficient Organized Ultra-Capable Super Agent off for once.
“Eleven,” I said loudly, making him wince. “And you without your gear. Not even a cagenet. Where is the sense in that, I ask you?”
Killer's Gambit Page 2