Blood of the Wicked (10 page)

Chapter Eleven

T
he back roads were a bitch to navigate, but the satellite system guided him unerringly through the maze of the mid-level streets. The carousel would have been the easier route. Shorter, quicker.

Instead he called himself a fool as he drove through the darkening city streets and watched her sleep beside him.

Exhaustion had finally taken its toll. One minute she’d been watching the light dim toward night, and the next she’d tilted toward the dashboard and would have fallen to the grimy floor if he hadn’t been ready to catch her.

Now she slept curled on the seat. Her boots were tucked against his hip, her cheek nestled in the crook of her arm beneath the passenger side window.

Silas knew that kind of fatigue. She’d been on the go for nearly twenty-four hours, never mind the piss-poor sleep she might have managed tied to that heater. That she lasted this long made something in him warm.

Pride. Approval.

Annoyance.

He turned his eyes back to the road. Deliberately ignored the silken strands of gold clinging to her mouth.

By now, the local Mission chapter knew he wasn’t checking in. Peterson was probably popping a gasket and demanding his team perform a miracle to provide him with answers.

He needed them to leave him alone. Especially if there
was
a leak in the Mission offices.

A hunter working with witches? Some sort of electronic espionage? God only knew. If he shared his suspicions with just anyone, he could tip off the mole.

If there was one.
Fuck
. He hated politics, but she was right. Since that first magical attack at the Church hall, the seed of doubt had been germinating.

Silas held the wheel steady with one hand, reached below the seat with the other. It took some fumbling but he managed to haul the dark green duffel bag from its place with minimum noise. One eye on the road, he found the comm unit tucked into its customary side pocket and flipped it open.

A whole mess of calls. Each angrier than the last, he’d bet.

Ignoring the alerts, he punched in the number from memory and clipped the earpiece to the shell of his ear. The tiny microphone tucked against his temple vibrated, a near-silent signal that the call connected.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

Silas curled a lip. “Smith, checking in.”

“Hot damn, Smith! Where the hell have you been?”

Beside him, Jessie murmured something husky and low as she shifted on the narrow seat. “Around,” he said quietly. “Who is this?”

“Alan Eckhart,” replied the man that Silas could now place as the bald hunter with the three-note tune. “I’m on the tubes tonight.”

Silas nodded. Good. “Here’s what I’ve got, are you ready?”

“Fire away, chief.”

Quietly, careful to keep his voice at an even level, Silas told him about the body below the streets, the witches outside the grisly scene. The Mission house up in flames.

Silas left out the details no one else needed to know. Like Jessie’s surprising tattoo. The sound she made in her throat as she’d climaxed around him, and the way she’d turned her face into his hand as if she trusted him. God damn it, she shouldn’t trust him.

“That it?” Eckhart asked. At Silas’s affirmative sound, the older man whistled his odd tune again. “Hell on toast, Smith, you get around.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You said one of the witches pulled lightning out of thin air, right? Red hair? Smile like a jack-o’-lantern?”

“You know him?”

“Like recurring herpes,” Eckhart replied dryly. “We know his name is Nick Wallace, but that’s all we’ve got on him. He’s one of the more ballsy witches in this city. His blood’s linked to at least fourteen ritual killings in the past year alone.”

“Fuck me running,” Silas muttered. “Well, he’s dead now.”

“And the Leigh witch?”

Silas hesitated. He glanced at Jessie beside him, grimaced. “Nothing yet. Your lab ready to receive some blood?”

There was another, longer pause. “Whose blood?”

“The dead woman’s, and some random samples from the scene.”

“Oh, sure. Where?”

Silas found his gaze sliding back around to Jessie’s sleep-furrowed forehead, the downward curve to her mouth. “Got a street number. Take it down.” At the missionary’s confirmation, Silas rattled off the address pulsing on the navigation screen.

“We’ll hit the burning wreck you left us first. Peterson’s got us on double duty, so we’ll see you by oh-six,” Eckhart said, so cheerfully Silas almost believed he wasn’t talking about six in the morning. “You safe there tonight?”

“I think we lost anyone tailing us,” Silas said, slowing the truck as the satellite system flickered a notice. “The seal’s been quiet and she’s out cold.”

Eckhart grunted, something that sounded more curious than sympathetic. “Hurt?”

“Her or me?”

“Yes,” he replied without missing a beat.

Silas turned the engine off, and withdrew the keys, annoyed with himself to realize he did it all while trying to make as little noise as possible. He sighed. “Minor,” he replied shortly. “Peterson talk to you?”

The line was quiet. Eckhart’s voice was a carefully modulated verbal shrug as he said, “About what, exactly?”

“Fuck, Eckhart.”

The man whistled. “No, not really. But he didn’t need to. Your reputation precedes you, man. Just remember you don’t have to work alone.”

Right. Just like he didn’t have to wrap himself in Jessica Leigh or kill her homicidal brother. Pain spiked through his hands, sudden and sharp, and he blinked to find his fingers curled so tightly around the steering wheel that they’d gone bloodless with strain.

He peeled them off, one by one. “Sure. I’ll see you guys in the morning. Smith, out.” He disconnected the line before Eckhart could say anything else.

Annoyed with himself for the knot in his chest, angry at the pictures that slid jumbled and colorful through his mind, Silas took a deep breath and held it.

His eyes scanned the street.

Were they safe? Here? Compared to a dark alley in the middle of a witch-infested city block, sure. By any other standards, he’d seen better.

A lot better.

The lights flickered weakly in the dark, a faint crackle of energy overwhelmed by the rush of traffic barreling past. They hadn’t spared the space for this run-down complex. The carousel shoved right up against the shabby buildings.

If the middle levels of the city counted as extreme working class, then this was the wrong side of the shithole tracks.

Lights glowed in a few of the windows. Silhouettes passed, punctuated by the occasional raised voice and the constant hum of passing cars. He didn’t see anyone loitering outside, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

Still, it seemed harmless enough. He’d take an ordinary idiot over a witch with a grudge any day.

Silas glanced at Jessie’s sleeping figure. Weighed his options. Mentally kicked himself. He was an adult, and more than capable of reining in his sexual drive. Despite what his dick telegraphed to his brain.

Briskly, deliberately, he splayed one hand over her hip—Christ, she was warm—and shook her gently. “Wake up, Jess.”

She shifted. Her lashes fluttered once as she inhaled deeply, stretching her long, long legs over his lap. Everything in his body stood to attention, from his pulse to his crotch to the part of his brain that demanded her body beneath him. Writhing against him. Preferably naked.

He’d take mostly naked. There was room in the cab.

Damn
. He had to get a grip. Ignoring her fluid stretch, he reached over the dash and turned off the nav system. It gave him something else to handle, something that wasn’t the smooth curve of her calves, or the warm inside of her thigh.

“Hey,” she murmured sleepily.

“You awake?”

Jessie pushed at the tangled fall of her hair, blinking. “Maybe.” She elbowed herself upright on the seat, withdrew her legs to set both feet on the dirty floor. “Define awake.”

“Get your brain working.” Silas cracked open the door. “I’m going to check it out, so stay put.”

“We here?”

“Yeah.”

“Key’s in the knocker.” She rubbed at her eyes, the gesture too fucking delicate for his peace of mind. Silas got the hell out of the truck before he gave in to the temptation to haul her across the seat and onto his lap.

Before he tasted her sleep-softened mouth, her skin. Her goddamned sweet skin.

The chilly air did little to cool him down as Silas strode through the arch that was all that passed for a welcome. It was long past dark, but three children watched him stride by with wide, curious eyes. They rolled a ball listlessly between them.

Sporadic bursts of Spanish filtered out from the door behind them, melded with rapid gunfire from a television blaring too loud. To his right, a wall of mailboxes had been mostly torn apart. Only the occasional white envelope peeked from a crooked panel bolted in place.

Secure, it was not.

He looked up, briefly studied the wall hemming the courtyard, and let his gaze climb the towering silhouette of the city proper.

What was it that she’d called it? A layer cake. Fitting enough. A myriad of electrical stars twinkled far above, muted by distance and the sheer volume of lights between these poverty-stricken streets and the glassy gleam of the upper city.

The skyscrapers were almost indistinguishable from the rest of it, nothing more than a muted haze. Maybe topside would be safer, but not at the Holy Order’s facility. He was fourteen years out of this city’s game; who else could he trust?

No one.

The key was in the knocker?

Silas found the apartment number in the corner of the littered courtyard. The door had once been painted some sort of brown-red color to match the brick half missing underfoot. Now it was a peeling mess of gouged paint, mud, and footprints.

It was solid, at least. That was something.

He studied the plain brass knocker. Nothing seemed out of place. Two wide bolts drilled into the door on either side, nailing the metal knocker to the door so securely that it didn’t so much as wiggle when he tested it.

Footsteps crunched behind him. He didn’t have to look to know she’d defied him. Again.

“It’s not hard.” Jessie stepped up to the cement block that pretended to be a front stoop. “You just have to— Oh, what?”

“Didn’t I say wait in the car?” Silas took her arm, tugged her between his body and the door. It placed her between him and the rest of the world.

She rolled her eyes. “Sorry. I thought you might need help.” Sleep-tousled, dewy-eyed, she looked about as dangerous as a newborn kitten.

He grimaced. “So where’s the key?”

“Plain sight magic.” Jessie slid her finger along the wide, flat back of the knocker. She pressed, twisted, and something clicked inside the metal support.

Silas stared. “I’ll be damned.”

“Genius, isn’t it?” The segment of the brass unhinged, slid out in a long length of filed metal. With a twist, a jimmy, the whole damn thing came off in her hand. She inserted it into the doorknob and grinned over her shoulder at him when the tumblers clicked open.

He was still shaking his head as he followed her inside.

The apartment boasted more clutter than the mission house, but it had a lived-in feel that Silas noted. It smelled neater, somehow, more homey, with lingering traces of something smoky. Cigarettes? No, not sharp enough.

Jessie paused as his fingers encircled her arm. “Hang on,” he whispered. She shut the door with a nudge, but to his relief, she nodded.

Silas quickly checked each room.

The bathroom was small, plain, with a cracked tile tub and a mirror framed in old metal hanging from the wall. The bedroom surprised him as he shoved open the door. Woven blankets hung from every available hook and corner, a riot of color and patterns. He pulled a few down as he passed, ensuring nobody hid beneath the heavy folds, but only shrugged when the same smell of spice and—

And what? Cigars? Incense?

He rubbed his face. Did it matter? No, it damn well didn’t. Proof positive he needed sleep. At least a few hours would do it. He’d lived on less.

Silas dropped the blankets on the single bed and turned away.

This time, much to his surprise, she’d waited in the living room. Three out of four deadbolts had been slid into place, and she sent him an inquisitive look as she locked the last one in. “Shower?” she asked.

The blood fled his brain to pulse thickly in his jeans. He swallowed. “Flip you for it.”

“Literally?”

Silas opened his mouth, saw visions of himself hauling her to that colorful bed, tearing off her clothes, sliding deeply into her warm, wet body until her eyes went blind and that teasing, sexy mouth called his name.

Damn it.

Her smile faded. “Silas?”

“Take it,” he said gruffly, even as she said, “You can have it.” They stared at each other for a long moment. Awkward. Uncertain.

Stupid.

When she laughed, it crept out from between the fingers she raised to her lips, skimmed over his skin like something hot and spicy on a winter day. Her eyes gleamed. “No, you go ahead,” she offered firmly. Lightly. “I’ll see if there’s anything to eat.”

Silas shook his head, hard enough to pop the bones in his neck, and muttered, “Fine.” He escaped into the small bathroom before he turned himself into a fucking idiot.

Wasting no time in stripping down, he paused to lean over the stained sink and study the scratches that marred his right cheek. Scabbed, somewhat ragged, they curved over his cheekbone and had already crusted over.

His smile lacked anything resembling humor. Between the new scratches, the bruises darkening over his ribs from the fight, his busted knee, and one seriously intractable dick trying to steal the blood from his brain, he was in great shape.

For an old-timer.

He turned away from the mottled mirror, pushed aside the faded curtain. It took some work to wrestle the faucet on. It sputtered like a car engine before spitting out an orange torrent at high velocity. He turned it on full cold, waited for it to run clear of the rust buildup.