Riding the Storm (8 page)

The
door to the room banged open, and her heart lodged in her throat. She struck,
reacting on instinct and training that started nineteen years ago when the CIA
stole her from her mother at the age of two.

Shoot
first, leave nothing to question later.

A
massive bolt of electricity ripped down her arm to her fingertips, enough volts
to blow the soles off the guy's boots.

But
when she grasped his leather-clad biceps, the dude didn't so much as flinch or
smoke from his ears. He whirled, seized her wrist, and before she could fall
back on her combat training and slam the bastard to the ground, he stepped back
and dropped a duffel bag to hold up his other hand in defense.

"Why
are you trying to kill me, Annika? You know we're supposed to pretend to get
along, for Dev's sake."

Shit.

"Creed."
The ghost hunter towered over her, dressed in his usual head-to-toe black
leather, save for the black T-shirt, the tattoo that covered the right side of
his face and disappeared beneath his collar nearly glowing against his tanned
skin. The leather-clad Neanderthal peered down at her with amusement, which
made her want to knock the smirk off his angular face.

Either
that, or kiss him. He had the greatest mouth, full lips that were always
slightly tipped up like he knew a secret and wasn't telling, and a pierced
tongue that looked like it could create some of those secrets.

Apparently,
a lot of women had similar thoughts, because his reputation as a player famous
for one-night stands had been water-cooler talk for years. Not that she wasted
time gossiping, but some rumors took on lives of their own.

"Dev's
not around,
kukhuvud
, so I don't have to pretend shit."

"Kukhuvud?"

"Dickhead."
Yeah, she must have been pissed as hell to curse in Swedish, something only
Creed could do to her. The CIA had encouraged her to remain fluent in her birth
language, which was why she hated to speak it. She needed no reminders of her
life before ACRO.

He
cocked an eyebrow, making the piercing there, a silver barbell stud, crawl up.
It torqued her to admit it, but his tattoos and piercings fascinated her, made
her wonder if the parts she couldn't see were similarly decorated. She'd always
been a little envious of his capacity to express his individuality, since she
was unable to do the same. Not in that way. No undercover operative in their
right mind would adorn their body with identifiable marks. No, the ability to
blend in made a good agent. An agent who stood out was a dead agent.

But
that wasn't the only reason she disliked Creed. She also hated how his weird
psychic energy that chased everyone else away had the opposite effect on her,
drew her and buzzed through her like a vibrator with fresh batteries.

Not
that fresh batteries did any good in her vibrators, since she shorted them out
with the first orgasm.

Cursing
to herself because her life was pitifully short on orgasms and way too long on
fried circuits, she released the energy she held before she shorted herself
out. She could always shock people at will, but only rarely did she wield the
power like a shield so that anyone or anything coming into contact would suffer
a nasty surprise. Holding the shield too long drained her emotionally,
physically and mentally, leaving her little more than a quivering blob for
hours.

There
was just one small problem. Her energy hadn't worked on Creed. And the strange
pulsing sensation still raced through her body from the point where he held her
arm, letting her know that, for the first time in her life, maybe she should be
a little bit afraid.

Creed
McCabe had never let anyone make him feel like a freak. He had a high tolerance
for people and their suspicions and need to stereotype, had to really, because
the way he looked had always drawn more than a few outright stares. Most of
those gazes were appreciative, especially when he'd turned sixteen or so and
many of the women—and men—he came into contact with thought the tattoo that
swirled around his right eye and cheek and disappeared down his neck was cool.

Cool.
Fuck, yeah.

They
had no way of knowing he'd been born with those markings. He'd been
home-schooled because his parents hadn't wanted him to have to deal with the
teachers and school boards who would've accused him of being a punk. Especially
because he'd decided to rebel by getting multiple piercings—tongue, eyebrow,
ears and nipples—because he needed some way to rebel. But the girls he'd been
with always had a good time discovering that the tat didn't end at his neck—and
that it made the entire right side of his body extra-sensitive.

The
tattoo—and the accompanying ghost he liked to call Kat—had been so much a part
of him that being without either would've been like being without air. Or at
least he hadn't thought about parting with either until the past few years had
taken their toll on him.

He'd
been born into ACRO—his parents were some of the earliest recruits when
Stargate disbanded and Dev's parents began the agency with a few psychics and
not much else. Creed's parents had been ghost hunters—and best friends with Mr.
and Mrs. O'Malley. He'd been rescued from an abandoned cave in Tennessee
thought to be haunted by the famous Bell Witch, and adopted by the McCabes,
who'd been trying unsuccessfully to have children of their own for years. They
didn't care about his markings or the fact that he was followed by a spirit who
claimed to be a direct descendant of the Bell Witch, and they'd encouraged the
fact that he was able to speak to the dead through that spirit—a ghost
translator, of sorts.

He'd
grown up in the unreal world of Special Abilities, had watched Dev take over
the reins and bring in even stranger types than Creed himself.

Types
like Annika, who'd become something of Dev's special pet. If you believed the
rumors, which Creed tended not to do.

"Can
you let go of me now?" Annika asked, the blue of her eyes slightly less
icy than normal.

He
released her wrist and she rubbed her forearm where his fingers had splayed.
"Did I scare you?"

"Yes,
Creed. I'm shaking with terror," she muttered. "Dev didn't mention
you were coming."

"Last
minute decision, based on your latest report," he said. He'd turned away
from her, which was pretty hard to do because she was freaking gorgeous—blond
and curvy and hotter than hot—but he sensed the change in climate from the
second he'd walked into this place and couldn't ignore that. "When was the
last activity you recorded?"

"A
minute before you walked in the door," she said. He turned to stare at her
and she rolled her eyes as he grabbed the multimeter from her. "The last
recording was an hour ago, centered in the upstairs hallway, right at the
landing."

He
took the stairs two at a time to see if he could catch the tail end of the
energy, but it was long gone.

"How's
your shadow doing?" Annika asked from behind him. "Maybe she could make
herself useful and figure out all this."

He
put his palm flat against the north wall and closed his eyes. "She's a
ghost, not a shadow. Why don't you ask her yourself—she hates to be talked
about like she isn't here." He felt the familiar itch at the back of his
neck and knew the spirit was around him, and that she wasn't happy. Just like
Annika.

His
spirit was the jealous type—she didn't mind him sleeping with women, as long as
they didn't mean anything. Anytime he'd tried to date, Kat would cause too much
damned trouble for it to be worth it. At twenty-nine, he'd begun to want more
than a one-night stand, and every time he saw Annika, he was reminded of just
how much that want had grown.

He
concentrated on trying to draw the energy from the house instead of worrying
about the two warring women he was going to have to deal with for the duration
of this assignment. "This is a portal."

"So
we should set up the equipment here, then?"

He
shook his head. "Not unless you want to be drawn in," he said, and
noted she was hugging her arms to her chest. "Have you been cold all
day?"

"Yes,
since I walked in here. Can't you feel it?"

"I'm
not affected that way. Are you sure you're not sick?"

"I'm
not sick," she said.

"You're
all flushed." He attempted to put a palm against her forehead but she
threw out an arm to block him. "Look, this is important. I need to know
how this house is affecting you. If it's too dangerous for you to be
here."

"I'm
not leaving."

"Just
sit down, Annika. I've got to put my hands on you."

"You're
not touching me."

"I've
got to make sure the presence that was here hasn't gotten into you," he
said. "The only way for me to do that is to put my hands on your bare
skin."

"You
already touched me," she protested, and he wondered why the hell she was
making such a big deal out of this. "Couldn't you get a read off of me
then?"

"I
didn't get any kind of read, which isn't normal. Just sit down with your back
to me and pull your shirt up."

She
stared up at him and muttered under her breath about Dev owing her. And then
she sat down sideways on the staircase and slowly lifted her shirt to expose a
smooth expanse of skin.

He
admired her finely muscled back as he rubbed his palms together to warm them.
He knelt close to her, closed his eyes and placed his palms on either side of
her spine.

He
felt a jolt that went straight through his body to his groin and forced himself
to hold his hands steady as Annika drew in deep, erratic breaths. Shit. Not a
good sign.

He
shifted his hands farther apart so they skimmed her sides close to her breasts.
He shoved his fingers impatiently under the fabric of her bra so he could feel
skin on skin. She'd cocked her head to one side, and he moved his face close to
hers so his cheek was nearly touching hers, his entire body attempting to draw
out whatever had entered her.

His
palms were nearly vibrating under the energy she threw off, and it took him a
few minutes to realize he wasn't reaching the energy field of a rogue spirit.
No, the feeling was purely Annika.

It
pulsed through him like a sharp buzz, made his toes curl the way a good shot of
Jagermeister would. Or an orgasm.

She
turned her face toward his, her body angled back against him, like she wanted
to be closer to him, and for a moment she just watched him, her lips slightly
parted. He could've sworn she was getting ready to kiss him. He would've
reciprocated too, if the window above them hadn't blown out.

"Shit."
He scrambled up to stand in front of her, to cover her. But she was standing
too, looking all around for the source.

"What's
going on?" she asked.

"We
pissed it off. We make a good team," he said, and Annika didn't look too
happy about that possibility.

"Come
here," he said, and didn't give her a chance to say no before he was
holding her close, facing him. She tried to pull away from him, but he didn't
let her, partially for her own safety and partially because he just wanted to
touch her, to run his palms over every single square inch of skin, which would
set his body to vibrating better than his old Harley ever did.

Without
warning he shoved his hands under her shirt again.

"This
is such bullshit, Creed," she said, even as the house began to hum again.

"It's
called ghost hunting, honey. Trust me." But she didn't trust him, didn't
truly trust anyone but Dev.

Creed
liked pissing off Annika, mainly because it was easy to do, and he liked the
flush it brought to her cheeks. Rumors held that she was frigid as hell and hot
for Dev. Neither of which made complete sense, especially the way her body was
reacting to his.

But
none of that was his concern now. He was on the job. Paging the ghostbuster.
Sort of.

His
spirit was more like the bounty hunter who brought the goods to him. Through
Kat, the ghosts would tell their story. Not like Oz, who could see through to
the ghosts themselves. Of course, Oz was always contacted by the worst of the
worst.

Oz
would never answer Creed as to whether he could actually see the spirit who'd
been with Creed since birth.

Oz
had been gone from ACRO for a while now—three years by Creed's count.
Supposedly, no one, including Dev, had heard from him again.

He
wondered if Dev opened up about that to her, or to anyone. Oz would've been the
natural choice to come here and feel for any leftover energy.

"I
don't think there'll be much," Dev had told him last night. "But I'm
looking to see if any spirit talks to you specifically about adoption. Or
kidnapping."

Creed
hadn't questioned further, had a feeling that Annika was sent ahead to scout
out energy but wasn't sure what else she'd actually been let into.

For
him, so far, there was nothing but a feeling of intensity in this house. In
itself, that was normal for a haunting. Usually, the energy translated into a
feeling of intense loss or sorrow, mixed with other emotions. But here, there
was no confusion and pain. All those normal feelings were suppressed. Gone.
Replaced with nothing more than a void.