The Bastard (11 page)

Closing her eyes, she pressed closer to his mouth.
Trust him
. For some unfathomable reason she did. At this point, she didn’t have much choice. Her lips quivered, but she tried to present her best smile as Erik walked her forward.

“This is my team. The asshole with the dental fetish is Dray. You know Rex. Think we can kill the skin?” The fake-vamp said nothing but Rex moved in slow motion, giving her a one finger wave. He hit Pause and the porn action froze mid-money shot.

“Nomad’s with the dog. Better stay away from Omen, he bites.”

The sullen bearded man petting the massive, ugly dog looked like he might bite as well. He wore grungy sweats and a tee shirt that read “Reality Called. I hung up.” Spread out on a cluttered coffee table laid piles of bright colors and bags of white. Lacy blinked. Those looked like drugs. Not the OTC for a cough and cold type but the variety sold on a street corner by some guy in a trench coat. Nomad flipped a jacket over the plastic bags. The resentment on his face made her whimper.

Erik thrust his chin to the left. “That’s Myth.”

The gorgeous black man tucked a handgun under the couch cushion and nodded. Curiosity more than irritation sparked in his deep brown eyes. Dressed in linen pants and a silk shirt, he reeked of sophistication. He leaned back, crossed his legs European style at the knee, and stretched his arm along the back of one couch. The tattooed snake trailing down his forearm marred the welcoming position. The snake’s diamond-shaped head rested on his right hand, the forked tongue running down his middle finger. His long finger stroked the leather and the snake appeared to lick out, tasting the air. Its elliptical eyes seemed trained on her. Her skin itched.

“Over there’s Zale, our team leader.”

Lacy turned toward the man leaning on the wall beside the second plasma screen, and her nails dug into Erik’s hand. Zale had the most perfectly symmetrical face she’d ever seen. Thick black brows arched over blue eyes pale as moonlight and his cheek bones were high slashes. A tight-held mouth firmed his chin to a rock hard wedge of bone. A frostbitten chill turned her insides liquid. He looked like the devil; pure evil wrapped in a darkly delicious package.

“This is Lacy Cooper.” Underlying Erik’s words was a warning, a hands-off that soothed her. “She’s staying here.”

“So we have a guest.” The musical feminine voice came from the shadows.

“Sela.” Erik startled, jerking straight and squeezing Lacy’s hand. “I didn’t know you were here.”

Head to toe in black, long ebony hair pulled back by a shiny black band, the woman nearly purred with sensuality. A clinging sweater, low-slung jeans and a killer pair of stiletto boots gave her a feline quality, more graceful panther than spoiled housecat. A perfect Cupid’s bow, her lips were nude but shimmered with gloss, and her eyes were every color imaginable. They sparkled as if she kept a secret from the world. She was beyond beautiful.

Lacy chewed her split lip and tugged her sweatshirt down, feeling dowdy.

Cool appraisal shifted her gaze from Erik to Lacy and back again. A grin played along her lips. “We have a staff meeting. Did you not get the email?”

“Guess not.” Erik cleared his throat and waved his hand in an introductory sweep. “Lacy Cooper, my boss, Sela Vangeli.”

“You run the security firm?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So you live here, too?”

“No.” Amusement laced Sela’s voice. “It’s never good to have the boss breathing down your neck twenty-four-seven. I’m always accessible, but my men live alone.”

That explained the mess. No woman in her right mind could stomach this filthy room and not cringe. “Thank you. I appreciate everything you’re doing, I mean, your team is doing.”

“You’re welcome. You may stay as long as you like.”

Lacy relaxed as Sela approached. She leaned close and wrapped her arms around Lacy’s shoulders. Although Sela had a slight build, the strength in her arms chased some of the jitters away and Lacy hugged her back. Sela turned, aiming a kiss at her cheek, but then veered. Those soft, shiny lips landed on hers.

A warm breath blew into Lacy’s mouth, as sweet as honey but with a peppery sting. Lacy inhaled in shock, sucking the breath deep in her lungs. Energy crackled, static electricity ramped up to a high-pitched whine. It zinged through her body, raising the hair on her arms and curling her toes. Every little ache and pain tightened into a knot. She jerked away as her muscles cramped.

“I need a bathroom.”

“Through there.” Erik pointed to a door off to the right.

Lacy ran. The door swung wide under her push. Nausea roiled through her, but the stench nearly brought her to her knees. The small room was walled in expensive painted tile, but it smelled exactly like a men’s room — stale urine and some growing fungus she didn’t want to examine. Her stomach lurched and she leaned into a sink that needed to meet some Spic-n-Span. Her stomach had nothing else to lose. Icy cold water tingled her fingers as she splashed handfuls over her face.

The breaths she gulped were musky, tasting of grime and soap. Her mind whirled and her body spasmed, leaving Lacy dizzily clinging to the porcelain bowl. Someone beat the hell out of her. The haven from her teen years had burned before her eyes. She had no home. She had no job. Dawson’s Diner had fallen victim to arson. Nine people died. It was her fault.

“Please, God, make it stop.”

Too much. It was too much. She couldn’t handle any more. Darkness narrowed in, her vision going dim. Blankness descended as she fell to the floor.

Chapter Seven

“Fucking horse tranq?” Nomad threw himself into his chair. “Shit, Rex, why not just run over her with a tank?”

“Didn’t have one.” Rex took his own seat. “I swiped what I could find in the veterinary tent, sue me. I only tapped her a little, enough to knock her out.”

Located on the lower floor beside the Hall of Infamy, the War Room was aptly named. It resembled a business conference room dipped in military décor. The high-glossed wood table shimmered with faint green thanks to the computer screens facing each chair. Maps of various countries lined the walls. A clear, computerized strategy board hung over the table, small red icons marking various places in the world with suspected locations of high Leech activity. A cursor resting in the far corner blinked neon green. The blinks kept rhythm with Vike’s pounding head.

“What’s with bringing the Cake here? I told you to find a place to stash her.”

Vike didn’t even bother glaring at Rex. “Name one place safer than H2Q.”

“We don’t bring dates into our quarters,” Rex growled.

“She’s not a date, she’s a Scion and our job. Just shut the fuck up and deal with it.”

He rubbed his temples. Since becoming a Forsaken, no mortal substances affected him. Medications, drugs or alcohol had no effect, not even in massive quantities. He and Gen had tested the theory several times, drinking gallons of liquor. They never even got a buzz. But he felt hung-over now. There had been countless times over the centuries he’d been in pain and had to deal with it without the luxury of relief. The sharp bite of a battle wound consumed him, but a headache just annoyed the fuck out of him. He couldn’t even sleep the damned thing away.

“Vike did the right thing.”

Sela took her seat at the head of the long table. Vike was never sure if their placement was by design or accident, but the oldest of the group sat closer to her while he, Dray and Rex sat at the opposite end of the table. His eyes darted to the empty spot across from him and a keen loss ricocheted through his sternum. Life, and afterlife, had taught him that the pain would fade, but for now, Gen’s absence stung like a fresh cut.

For one long moment, he sat with his eyes closed, his mind filled with a rough and rowdy Mongol who’d loved cheap fast food and expensive cigars. Gen would normally be slouched in his chair, boots propped on the wood, clipboard in his lap, his scrutinizing focus darting from person to person. Vike opened his eyes, half expecting to see that shit-eating grin, but the chair sat empty.

There should a hand-rolled Cuban cigar smoking in the crystal ashtray and a bottle of apple juice sweating on the table. A wry smile itched along Vike’s mouth. The asshole had loved the stuff, bought it buy the case and guzzled it like a camel. Strategy sessions could last for minutes or days, depending on the target. Talking dried their mouths and even if they didn’t need fluid, it helped.

Zale handed several frosty water bottles down the table from the small fridge behind him. He froze with a bottle of juice in his hand. His fingers tightened on the glass before he shoved it back inside the fridge. He poured a tall glass of goat’s milk for himself then took his chair.

Vike shook his head. Milk was for infants not yet weaned. Milk, goat’s milk, cow’s milk if there was nothing else, was all Zale ever drank. But then, he wasn’t normal, was even more unnatural than the rest. Every Forsaken had lived and died as a human. But Zale hadn’t been born as one.

Keys tapped as Myth uploaded a file and an image appeared in front of them all. Vike angled his monitor to reduce the glare. The picture of Lacy looked like it could jump off the screen.

“Lacy Nicole Cooper.” Sela broke into his thought train and he snapped backward, putting distance between the monitor and him. “Age twenty-eight, single Caucasian female, no offspring, no identifiable religious preference, initial attack by the Third three days ago. Blood tests confirm she’s Scion, and both Vike and Rex felt the blood-song.”

“Vike felt more than the blood-song.” Dray snickered.

“Bite me,” Vike muttered.

“Not you, but the Cake, yeah, I’d bite her.”

He was across the table before he thought. Dray’s chair tipped back, then toppled under their combined weight. Vike never lost his hold, determined to break Dray’s neck.

“Here we go again.” Nomad shook his head. “What’s with you, Vike? You’re sucking the drama-tit lately.”

“Get off me!” Dray kneed Vike in the balls and swift pain exploded, popping white lights in his vision.

“Knock it off, both of you.” Sela snapped.

It took a concentrated effort to pull his hands from Dray’s neck. They glared at each other and flopped back in their seats.

“The destruction I get. They want her helpless. But why is the sister alive?” Myth leaned forward and steepled his hands. “She’s diabetic so they won’t take her, but why not kill her or use her as bait?”

“Because Lacy and her sister are worse than Scion.” Nomad sighed.

Vike’s head snapped up. “Worse? How?”

“There are certain markers in the blood, a slight variation in the gene.” Omen laid his big ugly head on his master’s thigh as if comforting him. “They’re not just Scion. They’re Scionim, descended from one of the Seven.”

“The Seven.” Horror blended with shock. The highest rank of Vangelus, the Seven. The Forsaken had protected numerous Scion during Vike’s time but never a Scionim. He hadn’t even known any still lived. Except there were two. One was protected by her own medical condition and the other one he’d tucked into his bed. Lacy wasn’t just Cake. She was fucking seven-layer Cake with raspberry filling.

“Scionim,” Sela murmured. “Of course. That’s why her soul melody seemed different when I touched her. And why Annie still lives. She’s diabetic, but that gene might not be passed to a child. Samael’s holding her as a reserve.”

Nomad nodded. “At first, I thought maybe her bloodline could belong to any of the Patricius but those assholes that were aligning with Samael were too busy planning their attack on Heaven and a little human pussy didn’t interest them.”

Vike’s headache skyrocketed into brain spasms. He couldn’t think of Lacy’s bloodline being spawned by some unholy angel that got kicked out of Heaven. It was bad enough realizing her ancestors still had their wings.

“Wonderful. One of the Seven got his celestial nuts off eons ago and Lacy’s going to pay the price or, twenty years from now, Annie’s kid will fill the spot.” Sourness filled Vike’s mouth. He chugged water trying to wash the taste away.

“Annie can wait. Time is on our side there. All humanity will pay the price if Samael claims Lacy,” Sela said. “To combat the Holy Seven, Samael needs Seven Chiefs. Only six Vachangelus, what humans call Archangels, were cast out and now bow to him as his Chiefs. He needs another. Scion can become Minions but only a Scionim can be turned into a Chief.”

“Why don’t we just kill her and box her dust?” Nomad asked. Vike tensed and Omen’s head snapped up, teeth bared in a warning growl. The mutt wasn’t above taking a chunk out of any Forsaken who came at his owner.

Killing a mortal seemed cold, but they all knew that death wasn’t an end, that life on Earth was a temporary state for most. Dying was simply passage into a sleep that would lead to a final eternal destination. But Nomad was still an asshole. “We’re not killing her.”

Nomad rolled his eyes. “Whatever. It’d be easier.”

“All we have to do is keep her here until the Immunity kicks in. Then Samael can’t make her one of his Chiefs. She’ll be safe and Holy War is prevented.”

“Or we could stop this whole thing right now by trotting our happy asses upstairs and dusting her.” The
duh
look on Nomad’s face spiraled red into Vike’s sight. Omen’s growl grew louder.

“She’s of Holy blood. She stays alive unless we have no choice.” There was a softness in Sela’s voice, a kindness that was couched in ominous caution. “Protect Lacy Cooper well, my warriors. She cannot be allowed to fall into the Third’s hands. We must find the stolen Scion soul-boxes before Samael Awakens them and prevent him from claiming any Scion still living. That, boys, is our new mission in this war.”

Rex jabbed a cigarette out in a crystal bowl. “We’re fucked.”

Sunlight shone behind a thick wall of drapes, casting the room into a shadowy haven. Lacy snuggled deeper into her pillow then remembered it wasn’t her pillow. Yesterday crashed into her and she sat up, pushing the blankets back. She still wore her tee shirt and panties, but her jeans and hoodie lay across a chair beside the dresser.