Chaotic (8 page)

I
live in a brownstone backing onto the river and
surrounding parkland. Not your typical twenty-something, tabloid journalist digs. The house technically belongs to my mother. I say “technically” because her ownership is really only a technicality . . . and a contentious one at that.

My mother had bought the place while I’d been in J-school, only a mile away. She’d called it an investment, but when I’d graduated, she’d wanted to give it to me. College had been a struggle—not academically, but personally, coming at the worst time in my life, when I’d been dealing with my demon powers. I think the brownstone was Mom’s graduation gift . . . and a hoped source of stability for a daughter sorely in need of it.

I love the townhouse, love the area, love my beautiful riverfront “backyard” with its winding forest trails—an escape route whenever I needed it, which seemed often. So I’d agreed to keep living there, as a property manager of sorts, maintaining the building and protecting Mom’s investment. But I refused to take the deed, and insisted on paying all expenses and upkeep—though the property taxes alone were nearly enough to bankrupt me. Thank God I had two jobs—

Two jobs? As the taxi disgorged us on the front lawn, I stared up at my beloved brownstone and realized I no longer had two jobs, and probably not even one.

Of course my mother could—and would—step in and pay the bills. I so desperately didn’t want that.

I’d given my mother enough sleepless nights to last a lifetime. I often wondered whether, at some level, she knew my problems were rooted in something she’d done, that brief post-separation encounter that no one could blame her for. Even if she didn’t know the true nature of my trouble, I think she blamed herself, and I didn’t want that. I wanted to be strong and independent and stable, and to be able to take her for lunches on my dime and say, “See Mom, I’m doing fine.” And I
had
reached that point, stuffed with the newfound confidence my council job had given me—

“We’d better get inside,” Marsten whispered as the cab pulled away.

He looked around, nostrils flaring, body tense, as if we’d just stepped into a trap . . . which we probably had. Definitely not the time to worry about my life’s recent crash and burn. When this was over, I should just be thankful I still had a life to repair.

“Good security,” Marsten whispered as I undid the dual deadbolt. “Are the other doors and windows—?”

“All armed. Motion detectors in every room, too. My mom worries.”

I hurried in to disarm the system. It was still active. If Tristan had beat us here, he’d backed off when he’d seen the security. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood that ignored screaming sirens. Better to wait for us to disarm the system.

“What now?” I said as Marsten relocked the front door.

“Turn on a couple of lights, and stay away from the windows. Is that open land out back?”

“A park,” I said. “Mostly forest.”

“Good. That’s where I’ll try to get him then. Away from the houses. We’ll stay here for a bit, give him time to arrive and stake out the house. Then I’ll change and lead him into the forest.”

“Change?” The words “but I don’t have anything for you to wear” were on my lips when I realized what he meant. “Into a wolf.”

He nodded. “By far the preferred way for dealing with these things. Easier to track, easier to fight and”—a quick smile—“a built-in disguise if anyone sees me.”

I flipped on the living room and hall lights.

“What about the television?” I said. “Should I turn that on, too?”

A brow arch. “We escape death, flee to the safety of your townhouse . . . and watch television?”

“So what would Tristan expect?—” I followed his gaze to the stairs leading to the second level. “Ah, of course. You’d want a good night’s rest.”

“And that’s probably all I’d get,” he muttered. “Unless I set the place on fire first. From Tristan’s point of view, though, we just had a harrowing evening, I saved your life—”

“You did?”

“Play along. You take me upstairs—”

“Oh, reward sex.” I paused. “But for proper reward sex I wouldn’t take you upstairs. We probably wouldn’t even make it past the front door. I just push you against the wall, get down on my knees—”

He cut me off with a growl. “I’d suggest you stop there unless you plan to follow through.”

“Oh, but I would follow through . . . if you’d saved my life.” I swung around the banister onto the stairs. “Not that you’d
let
me, though. No sex unless it’s
you
I want, remember? No chaos sex. No reward sex. That’s your rule.”

He muttered something and followed me up the stairs.

A
t Marsten’s suggestion, the first thing I did was remove my dress . . . which sounds a whole lot more interesting than it was. As he pointed out, heels and a slinky yellow dress didn’t make good late-night commando gear. While he cleaned up, I put on jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Then we headed for my bedroom. Yes, I have a separate dressing room. It’s a three-bedroom townhouse—I’m just trying to make efficient use of space. Really.

I walked into my darkened bedroom, flicked on the light, then made a face.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s a mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Poor Doug.” Marsten walked to the unmade bed, plunked down on it, and gave it a test bounce. “Doesn’t get a lot of use, I’ll bet.”

“I’m picky. Sorry.”

A wolfish grin. “Don’t be. I like picky.” He pushed to his feet. “Well, no, usually I don’t like picky, but this time, I think I do.”

With a sidelong glance through the window, he put his arms around my waist, leaned down, and kissed me. It was a slow kiss, easy and relaxed, with none of the practiced attention to art of his first one.

“Setting the scene?” I murmured with a nod toward the window.

“A good excuse.” He kissed me again, then sighed. “You really
are
immune, aren’t you?”

“To what?” I caught his look and rolled my eyes. “Oh please. You really
are
vain, aren’t you?”

“I already admitted that. I can’t help it—I’m accustomed to having my attentions returned.”

“Ah.”

“Not even going to bite for that, are you?”

I stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed. “What? You admit that you find me attractive, so I’m honor-bound to return the compliment? Fine, yes, you have your charms.”

A twist of his lips. “Oh.” “That’s not good enough? Okay, let me try again. I think you’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen and I can barely keep my hands off you . . . well, not when there’s a decent source of chaos around.”

He growled and scooped me up off the bed, kissing me again.

“Enough already,” I said, squirming free. “I admitted you were—”

“Charming.”

“I said you had your charms.”

“Which means you find me charming.”

“No, well yes, you
are
charming, but I don’t find that charming.”

He laughed and shook his head. “All right, you find me physically attractive then.”

“Yes, you are, but, no, I don’t find that particularly attractive.”

He bared his teeth in a quick grin and stepped closer. “My wit?”

I moved back and shrugged. “Witty enough, though not as witty as you think you are.”

“Ouch.” He gave an almost self-mocking grin. “Then it must be my undeniable sense of style.”

“Because you can pick out a decent tux?” I snorted. “There’s what, one color option and two or three styles?”

A feigned look of shock. “You mean you don’t find me irresistibly suave, debonair—”

“Where I grew up, guys learn suave from the cradle.”

His grin only grew. “Then whatever you find attractive about me has nothing to do with any of this—” He waved his hands over himself. “This infinitely polished package?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Very good.”

He caught me up in a kiss. As he did, a distant vibe twanged through me.

“They’re here,” I whispered.

Marsten glanced out the window, his body blocking mine, gaze scanning the dark street.

“They’re across the road,” he murmured as he turned back to me. “They must have just arrived. On the count of three, I’m swinging you past the window and onto the bed.”

He did. As soon as I hit the mattress, I rolled to the far side and dropped onto the floor. Marsten followed. We crawled into the hall, down the stairs, and to the back door, arriving just in time to duck behind the kitchen cabinets when we heard footsteps on the rear deck. The guard tested the door, peered in, then moved on.

“Quickly,” Marsten murmured. “They’ll be back in a minute. This is the safest place to break in.”

As we slipped out the door, I started pushing in the handle, to relock it when it closed. But Marsten caught my hand.

“We want them to know we came out this way,” he whispered.

Hunched over, and darting from bush to tree to garden shed, I led him across my tiny yard, and down the small hill to the woodland beyond. Marsten found a place for me to hide. He made sure I had my gun, and warned me to stay where I was, whatever happened. Then he gave me a card from his wallet, and told me if he didn’t return in an hour, I was to run to a public place, call the handwritten number on the back, and explain everything.

A moment later, he was gone.

I stayed where I was. As impotent as I felt cowering in those bushes, I knew if I tried to help, I’d more likely get us both killed. So I hid and I listened.

I listened as the soft lullaby of cricket and frog calls went silent under the heavy footfalls and guttural muttering of Tristan and his guards. I listened as those mutters gave way to orders and oaths. I listened as those trudging footsteps divided and turned into running feet. I listened as a scream shattered the night, a scream cut off by flashing fangs.

That wasn’t my imagination working overtime. I
saw
those fangs flash, smelled bowels give way, felt hot blood spatter my face, and the visions brought not a split second of chaos bliss. With every cry, every scream, every silenced pistol shot, I was certain Marsten had been hit. The death vision came twice, and still I heard multiple running feet and voices. My God, how many were there? How would he ever—

Another shot. Then the sound that broke my resolve: a piercing canine yelp of pain.

I
broke from my cover then, but I resisted the urge
to run pell-mell toward the noise, toward the laughs of triumph. Instead, I gripped my gun tight and slunk through the shadows until I was close enough to see a flashlight beam cutting a swath through the dark forest. The beam stopped, and my gaze followed its path.

A black mound of fur lay motionless at the end of that flashlight beam. A guard stood beside the mound, gun pointed down.

Oh God. God, no—

Something flashed near the top of the heap, a blue eye reflected in Tristan’s flashlight beam. The eye rolled, following Tristan. I took another three steps until that dark mound became a massive wolf lying on his belly, his head lowered but not down, his ears and lips drawn back as he watched Tristan’s approach. The fur on Marsten’s shoulder was matted with blood. The guard had his gun pointed at Marsten’s head, and I couldn’t tell whether he was staying down because of that gun or because he was too badly injured to rise.

“Hope!”

Tristan’s voice rang out so loud and sudden that I jumped. Only the barest rustle of dead leaves gave me away, but Marsten’s ears swiveled in my direction. His black nostrils flared. Then he let out a low growl, and I knew that growl was for me. As clear a “get the hell out of here” as if he’d shouted the words.

“Hope!” Tristan yelled again. “I know you’re out there.”

Marsten’s muzzle turned sharply as the bushes across the clearing crackled. The top of a head bobbed from the darkness. Tristan waved for the guard to stand near Marsten.

“Hope! Don’t you think you’ve caused enough trouble tonight? Two men dead and another to follow? All because you couldn’t do your job and catch one man—a thief, no less. Isn’t that what you’d signed on to do? Help us put away scum like Karl Marsten?”

As Tristan tried to guilt-trip me into giving myself up, I looked around for a better position. He had no intention of letting Marsten go—this was more about his vendetta against Marsten than about shutting me down—so I wasn’t stupid enough to even consider turning myself over. Marsten was alive, and would stay that way until Tristan got me, too.

If I could find a better position, with a better view, I might be able to help Marsten. I still had the gun.

Oh, right, the gun . . . a weapon you’ve never even fired.

Didn’t matter. It was still a plan . . . and the only one I had.

When Marsten had found hiding spots, he’d emphasized protecting my back. If your back was open, anyone could sneak up behind you. So where could I safely . . . ?

I looked up. The trees.

While Tristan shouted for me again, I scurried to the nearest candidate, grabbed the lowest branch, and channeled my inner tomboy. In minutes, I was lying on my stomach on a thick branch about seven feet off the ground. Perfect. In the darkness, someone could walk right under me.

“Hope! You have thirty seconds to show yourself or I put a bullet in this mutt’s head.”

Yeah, sure. Kill the only way you have to get to me. Right.

My sight line into the clearing was less than ideal. I could make out heads and torsos, but nothing below waist level, including Marsten. I wriggled farther along the branch. Ah, there he was, still on the ground at the guard’s feet, his head up, glowering at Tristan.

Tristan walked over to Marsten and lowered the barrel of his gun. Marsten tensed. The guard put his foot on Marsten’s neck to hold him down, but the move was halfhearted. My gut twisted as I realized Marsten was badly hurt—he had to be if the guard was so unconcerned with restraining him.

“Hope? Last chance.”

Tristan’s finger moved on the trigger and even as I told myself it was a ruse, that he had no intention of pulling it, my mind washed back the reassurances with a tidal wave of doubt. Tristan wanted Marsten dead, wouldn’t leave this forest until he was dead, so why not just kill him now—

“Wait!” The word flew out before I could stop it.

Tristan smiled and lowered his gun. “That’s my girl.”

Oh Christ. Now what? Maintain position and think. Think fast. And stall.

“I want to negotiate,” I said. “I—I made a mistake.”

“Yes, Hope, you did.”

Tristan lowered the gun and hand-signaled for one guard to search in the direction of my voice.

“Uh-uh,” I said. “I’m not coming out. Not yet.”

Tristan jerked his chin, motioning for the guard to circle around from behind.

“And don’t tell him to sneak up on me, either,” I called, my voice ringing in the stillness. “I can sense him, remember? He comes anywhere near me, and I’ll do what you threatened to do to Karl. Put a bullet in his head.”

“Ah, a bullet,” Tristan said with a laugh. “From your gun, I presume.” He reached into his pocket. “This gun, maybe?”

I unscrewed the silencer and fired the guard’s gun into the ground below. “No,
this
gun.”

“So you have a gun. Wonderful. It would be even better if you knew how to use it. But they don’t teach marksmanship in debutante classes, do they?”

I laughed. “Do you really think I’d let you get me a gun, and not even learn how to use it? I’m a keener, Tristan, remember? I was at the gun club an hour after you handed it to me. And yes, the West Hills country club
does
have marksmanship facilities. Excellent facilities. You’d like it . . . if they ever let you in.”

Tristan stiffened. Found a weak spot there, didn’t I? Now if only I had some clue what to do with it . . .

“I made a mistake,” I said. “Karl tricked me.”

Tristan smiled. “Charmed you, more like.”

“No, he lied to me,” I said as I looked around, babbling while I searched for a way to help Marsten. “He told me I wasn’t working for the council. He said I’m working for a Cabal.”

One of the guards shot Tristan a confused look, mouthing “Council?”

They didn’t know . . . 

The other two guards had been in on Tristan’s scheme, but these ones had no idea what I was talking about. Marsten said Tristan was working on personal revenge, that the Cabal would never have sanctioned his death. The other two guards had known that, had been moonlighting outside the Cabal with Tristan. But these two weren’t. Interesting.

I called down again. “I don’t know what you hope to gain by killing me, Tristan.” I pulled out the business card Marsten had given me. “We’ve already called—”

I squinted at the card. Earlier, I’d glanced at it just long enough to register the last name—Cortez—and I’d remembered Marsten saying he’d done work for Benicio Cortez’s son, the one who wasn’t part of the Cabal. So that’s the name I expected. When I saw what was really printed there, my heart thudded.

I turned it over. A handwritten phone number. Oh God, was that real? What if it wasn’t?

“Yes, Hope? You were saying?”

I’d been about to say that I’d called the person on the card and told him everything. But that wouldn’t work now. Had I really called already, these guards wouldn’t be here.

Think . . . think . . .

“Who am I really working for, Tristan?” I said. “Who sanctioned this job?”

His gaze shot to the guards. “The Cortez Cabal, Hope. You already said that.”

“Yes, but I . . . I’m confused. You two down there. When you were called in, what did Mr. Cortez say Karl’s crime was?”

The guards looked at one another.

“Wait,” I said. “Mr. Cortez didn’t give the order, did he? That came straight from Tristan. So what did
Tristan
say Karl’s crime was?”

“He’s a thief,” Tristan said, between his teeth, surveying the forest as if trying to pinpoint my voice.

“Okay . . . but—well, he’s been a thief all his life, right? And his father before him. But now, out of the blue, Mr. Cortez decides he deserves to die for it? Right after Karl joins the Pack. Right after the Pack joins the interracial council. Isn’t that a diplomatic crisis in the making? I thought Mr. Cortez was pretty careful about stuff like that.”

The guards turned to Tristan, their eyes narrowing, but still expecting a logical explanation.

“I don’t question my orders,” Tristan said.

“Maybe, but I do. I’m going to call Mr. Cortez. Got his card right here.” I read off the office numbers, so they’d know I was telling the truth. “And, while I’m sure those numbers would get me through to some flunky eventually, I can probably save some time by using the number on the back. Benicio Cortez’s personal number.”

“How’d she get—” one of the guards began.

“She didn’t, you—” Tristan clipped off the insult. “It’s a stalling tactic. You really are a naïve little girl, aren’t you, Hope? Where did you get Benicio Cortez’s number? The phone book?”

The second guard snickered, but the first took out his cell phone.

“Here,” he said. “Give me the number and I’ll call.”

Tristan smiled in my direction. “Yes, Hope. Give him the number.”

I resisted the urge to rattle it off, and stammered it out instead, as if I was making it up. Where had Marsten got this number? What if someone had given it to him as a joke? I looked down at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but his eyelids were flagging, as if he was struggling to stay conscious.

My hesitant delivery made Tristan smile, and he made no attempt to stop the guard from dialing, just leaned back against a tree and awaited my downfall.

Ten seconds after the guard finished dialing, his head jerked up.

“Mr. Cortez?”

Tristan chuckled and shook his head.

“This is Bryan Trau,” the guard said. “SA Unit 17. I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but we have a situation here.”

Tristan jumped so fast he nearly tripped. His hand flew out, and he motioned for the guard to hand over the phone, but the guard stepped away. Tristan started to lift his gun, then stopped as the second guard raised his halfway, the threat respectful but clear.

The guard explained the situation, and I swore I could see Tristan sweating. When the guard finished, he listened, said, “Yes, sir,” then held out the phone.

“Mr. Cortez would like to speak to you.”

Tristan stepped back and looked ready to bolt. Then he caught sight of Marsten and must have, in that second, seen a possible way out, the elimination of the only person who could confirm the entire story. He lifted his gun.

A shot sounded.

I didn’t think. I jumped from the tree. The second I started falling, my brain screamed “Idiot!” and I saw the gun still in my hand. I managed to fling it aside before I landed on top of it and shot myself in the gut.

I hit the ground hard, but scrambled up, grabbed the gun, and ran. As I made it to the clearing, I heard,

“Yes, sir.” Pause. “No, sir. He’s gone.”

I flew into the clearing to see the guard kneeling beside a body. Tristan’s body. In the guard’s other hand, he held his gun.

“Yes, sir, I did. You said if he made a move—” A pause, then the guard nodded and glanced over at me. “She’s here now.”

The guard held out the phone. I hesitated, then took it.

“Is this the young woman who was with Karl?” a voice asked. A pleasant voice. Calm and alert, as if he hadn’t been woken in the middle of the night.

He asked a few questions about me, whether I was hurt and what had happened, his tone mild but concerned, almost avuncular, not what I’d expect from the head of the most powerful Cabal. After a few questions, he said,

“You’ve had a very long night, and I’m sorry you had to go through this, but I can assure you, Mr. Robard was acting outside his jurisdiction. Since he is an employee, though, I take full responsibility for his actions, and will do everything I can to put things right, starting with looking after Karl. Is he badly hurt?”

Oh God, I’d been so shocked I hadn’t even checked. I blurted an apology, and raced to Marsten. The second guard was already there, tending to Marsten, who was unconscious. He’d been shot through the shoulder, and his entire side was wet and sticky. Blood must have been pumping out the whole time he’d been lying there.

Mr. Cortez assured me a doctor, one from his local satellite office, would be on the way. Then he left me to help the guard bind Marsten’s wound as we waited.