Eater of Lives(SPECTR #4) (4 page)

Caleb’s tempo changed, his hand on his cock
stroking with greater urgency. “John!” he shouted, and his whole
body shuddered a moment before come spattered onto John’s chest and
stomach.

Their rough breaths were the only sound for a
few moments. Caleb slumped forward, hands braced on John’s
shoulders.

John brushed the hair out of the other man’s
face; given their positions, it fell right back. “Feel better now
you’ve staked your claim?” he asked teasingly.

Caleb made a face at him. “That’s not…” he
trailed off at John’s skeptical look. “Yeah, fine. Maybe a
little.”

“Uh huh.”

Caleb rolled off of him and groped around on
the floor for a moment before snagging his discarded shirt. He used
it to wipe off their skin, then threw it aside. “Sorry.”

John flipped back the bedcovers and crawled
under them, holding up the sheet and blanket until Caleb joined him
beneath their warmth. Caleb tucked his head on John’s shoulder;
stray hairs whispered across John’s cheek, catching in the stubble.
Goddess, his long, lean body felt wonderful, twined against John’s
side. Like he fit; like they fit, somehow.

“Are you really?” John murmured into his
hair. “Sorry, I mean?”

Caleb snorted. “Are you kidding? We just had
incredible sex. I’m not sorry at all.”

John wrapped his arms tighter around his
lover. “That’s my guy.”

* * *

Caleb dropped into one of the chairs in a
small conference room the next morning, leather coat creaking
around him. Apparently, Forsyth’s people took custody of Roger
Lynch’s computer and spent the night digging into it. Forsyth sent
a text to John during breakfast, asking him, Caleb, and Sean to
meet him here.

Breakfast had been…interesting. Will and John
seemed a little awkward around each other, more so than last night.
Maybe because of the sex; no way had Will not heard Caleb yelling
John’s name.

Shit, maybe he should have tried harder to
get John to yell
his
name instead.

Whatever; it didn’t matter, as long as Will
understood the situation. Namely, that Caleb was a powerhouse in
bed, and John would be nuts to leave him.

“
Whom are you trying to convince? This
other mortal or yourself?”

Not really a discussion he wanted to have.
Does it matter? He got the message. Loud and clear, so to
speak.

“
Good.”
Gray generally ignored
“mortals” unless they directly provoked him. Like shooting him full
of silver-jacketed lead, for instance. John had always been the
exception. And now Will.

“
I do not like him. I wish him to
leave.”

You and me both, buddy.

The coffee pot on the little table to the
side of the main conference table gurgled. As John reached for one
of the mugs, Caleb squinted, focusing all his concentration on it.
He meant to nudge it in John’s direction, just to show off his
newly amped-up TK…

The mug shot across the room and smashed into
the wall.

“Shit!” John yelled, ducking, even as Caleb
exclaimed, “Oh fuck!”

Caleb jumped up and hurried to inspect the
damage. “Sorry! Damn. I didn’t mean to—I just wanted to slide it
into your hand—”

“It’s okay.” John came around the table and
knelt on the floor to help him pick up the pieces. Fortunately, the
mug had cracked into several large chunks instead of smashing to
powder. “What happened?”

Caleb winced. “I pulled too hard. I need to
practice, I guess. I’m used to having to really concentrate to do
even something small, and now…yeah.”

“Next time, let’s experiment on something
that isn’t breakable,” John suggested.

“I said I was sorry.”

The door swung open and Sean walked in, doing
a quick jog to the side to avoid stepping on John’s hands. “Whoa,
everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” John said quickly.

Sean didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t
press, instead taking a seat on the opposite side of the conference
table. “We still waiting on Forsyth?”

“Looks like,” Caleb said.

Sean glanced at him uncertainly, then at
John. “Um yeah. So, hey, Will sent me a text last night. Said he’s
in town and staying with you…?”

“Yeah, the hotel screwed up his reservation.”
John frowned slightly. “He texted you?”

“Sure. Asked if I wanted to get together for
drinks tonight.” Sean frowned back. “Is that a problem?”

“No. He’s your friend, too.”

“I guess.” Sean still seemed nonplussed,
though. Or shit, maybe Caleb imagined it.

The door opened again, and Forsyth came
through. “Good morning, Agent Starkweather, Agent McNamara, Mr.
Jansen,” he said. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Let me pour some
coffee, and we’ll get down to business.”

Forsyth put down a folder in front of the
chair beside Caleb. While he had his back turned, getting coffee,
Caleb tried to discreetly shuffle his own chair farther away. Why
did the guy have to sit next to him?

John would say he was just paranoid. And
maybe John had a point. But it didn’t make Caleb feel any less
creeped out by Forsyth.

“Now,” Forsyth said, taking his seat, “I
pulled rank and had the analysis of Lynch’s computer
prioritized.”

John whipped out a pad of paper and a pencil,
ready to take notes. Caleb barely managed not to roll his eyes.
Forsyth, on the other hand, gave John an approving nod.

“Shortly before he disappeared,” Forsyth
began, consulting the printout in his folder, “Lynch met up with a
woman going by the name of Veronica Smith on an online dating site.
They exchanged a series of emails over the next few days, before
agreeing to meet up. Smith didn’t give her address, despite some
pressure from Lynch, and instead suggested they meet at a bar on
Broad St. Three days later, law enforcement found Lynch’s truck
abandoned in a nearby parking lot.”

“What about the remains from yesterday?” Sean
asked. “Do we have an ID on them?”

“Not yet,” John replied. “Looks like
questioning the staff at the bar is our best lead. We should also
consider walking through the neighborhood. If the killer is local,
and is really an NHE instead of a purely human killer, Gray might
be able to catch her scent.”

“Good idea,” Forsyth said, closing the
folder. “Shall we, then?”

John parallel parked the SUV in front of the
bar where Lynch had agreed to meet his date—and possibly his death.
The building dated from the early 1800s, its bricks weathered from
countless storms. Heavy wooden beams framed the door and its
stained-glass transom, as well as the large windows looking out
onto the street. Although the “open” sign remained unlit, the staff
moved around inside, getting ready to greet the lunch crowd.

The four men climbed out of the car. Caleb
seemed inclined to loiter, until he spotted Forsyth doing the same;
then he hurriedly joined John on the step in front of the bar’s
entrance. John pretended not to notice and knocked on the door.

“We open at 11:30!” a man yelled back at him
through the door.

John pulled out his badge and held it against
the glass panes. “SPECTR agents! I need to ask some questions.”

The man paled slightly. “Just a minute,” he
said and disappeared into the back, probably to get the manager. A
few moments later, a woman unlocked the door and beckoned them
inside.

John barked his shin on one of the tables
jammed into the narrow space between wall and kitchen before his
eyes had the chance to adjust to the bar’s dim lighting. The heavy
wood of the walls soaked up what little illumination came from the
wall sconces. The aroma of heating grease wafted from the kitchen
area, and chair legs banged against the floor as staffers removed
them from tables.

“Special Agent John Starkweather, SPECTR,” he
introduced himself to the woman, holding out his badge for her
inspection.

“Melody Witherspoon. I’m the manager on
duty.” She didn’t offer to shake his hand.

“Ms. Witherspoon, we’re here investigating a
disappearance.” He pulled a printout of a recent picture of Lynch
from his coat pocket and passed it to her. “This is Roger Lynch. We
think he met someone here shortly before he disappeared. Do you
recognize him?”

“No, but I don’t see all the customers.” Her
brow creased briefly in thought, before she turned toward the bar.
A thin man stood there, cutting up lemons and limes into wedges.
“Joe! You recognize this guy?”

Joe took the printout. While he studied it,
several other staffers wandered over and peered over his shoulder.
“Shit, I don’t know,” Joe said. “We get a lot of tourists in here.
Is he a mal? That why you’re looking for him?”

Caleb stiffened and shot Joe a dark look.
Seeing Caleb react to the slur took some of the edge off the bile
churning in John’s stomach. Caleb wasn’t quite lobbying for the
right to hold a pride march yet, but he’d taken a step in the right
direction.

But John needed to maintain a professional
demeanor. “Mr. Lynch is dead,” he said, before Caleb could spit out
a slur of his own. “We want to talk to anyone who might have seen
him on the night of his disappearance.”

“I think I seen him,” volunteered an older
African-American man from behind Joe.

Joe hastily stepped out of the way, relief
radiating off him. “Your name, sir?” John asked.

“Bobby Rankin,” he offered, before glancing
slyly at Joe. “Give you my registration number, if you want
it.”

Joe made a choking sound. The manager shot a
scowl at Joe, so points for her. She must have known about Rankin’s
paranormal ability from his employee records, but apparently she
wasn’t inclined to spread it around.

“That won’t be necessary,” John said. “Can
you tell me anything about Mr. Lynch? Did he meet someone?”

Rankin frowned slightly in thought. “I don’t
know for sure—I’m just one of the line cooks. But anybody who sits
at the bar, we get a good look at, since the kitchen’s right there.
I got a good memory for faces. I’m pretty sure he sat at the bar,
for a while anyway. Then I saw him talking to a little white girl,
looked to be just old enough to buy a beer. I didn’t see him again.
Maybe they went to the courtyard, or maybe they left.”

John’s heart beat slightly faster. Were they
on the right track? “I see. Do you mind if we take a look at the
courtyard?”

The manager shrugged. “Go ahead.”

John led the way out the back. Honestly, he
wasn’t entirely sure what he thought they might find. After all
this time, no clues would be left. Still, if he could get some
sense of the killer’s hunting patterns, it might suggest other
places to look.

The courtyard behind the bar had originated
as part of another building, most of which had vanished long ago.
Only worn brick walls remained, forming crumbling carriage arches
to add a decorative air. Latticework walls, trailing vines gone
dormant with winter, encircled the courtyard. An emergency exit
opened onto the alley behind, a large “alarm will sound” sign on it
to discourage anyone from sneaking out without paying.

A trace of cigarette smoke hung around the
wooden tables. Most NHEs hated tobacco smoke of any kind; their
hypersensitive noses reacting to it just like incense. A popular
conspiracy theory held the ban on indoor smoking was part of a
SPECTR plot to unleash an army of NHEs on the general populace.

He glanced at Caleb to see a look of faint
disgust etched on his face. Maybe this really was an unusual human
killer, and not a case of possession after all, because John
couldn’t imagine an NHE putting up with the reek during business
hours, when people were actually puffing away at the next
table.

Caleb’s nostrils flared, and his head snapped
around, focusing on the back trellis of the courtyard. John felt
the shift of etheric energy in his bones, like the ache of an
oncoming storm. Caleb’s stance altered, shoulders back, spine
straighter, the tension of a hunting tiger in every muscle.

“The demon is nearby,” he said, his voice
mostly Caleb’s, but with something deeper underneath, a bass rumble
threatening to break free.

For an instant, John froze, torn in two
directions. He wanted to tell Caleb to stop, to hold on, not to
show Gray in front of Forsyth…

But Forsyth was one of the good guys. Just
because he worked for a different branch of SPECTR didn’t make him
the enemy. Goddess, had John really considered letting this killer
go just to…what? Protect Gray? From what?

“Capture it,” he barked.

Caleb—or maybe Gray, he wasn’t entirely sure
at this point—didn’t hesitate. Sprinting across the courtyard, he
jumped to the top of a table, then went over the back trellis like
an Olympic pole-vaulter, vanishing beyond.

“Come on,” John shouted, and ran for the
emergency exit with his gun drawn.

* * *

“
Damn it, slow down! We need to act normal
in front of Forsyth!”

Gray ignores Caleb’s fears for the nonsense
they are. Forsyth is not here, and besides, John has told them to
hunt the demon. To catch it…but perhaps they will be lucky, and it
will not wish to be caught, and they will have to eat it.

“
No! We’re on the street in the middle of
the day! God, if you cause a panic, we’re screwed.”

Gray huffs, but slows to a jog, because he
has made this mistake before. Mortals are foolish; they fear him
and try to stop him, even when he is hunting the demons which hunt
them in turn. But they fear the dark as well, and he learned long
ago it is far easier to hunt beneath the cover of night, when there
is less likely to be someone trying to cut off his head.

So, yes, Caleb has a point. Much easier to
slow down and follow the delicious scent trailing off down the
alleyway. Although, if this one escapes them by climbing into a
vehicle, he will not be pleased. These cars of modern day are a
curse.