As Lie the Dead dc-2 Read online

  “Procedure is—”

  I cut her off with a sharp wave of my hand. “I know what the fucking procedure is; you don’t have to remind me.” The idea of reporting Alex Forrester as a missing person, and then making sure the file found its way to the very bottom of the Department’s priority list, made my blood boil. He deserved better than being remembered as another case number.

  “He’s not missing,” I said.

  “His remains are gone, Stone. We couldn’t set his death up to look accidental if we wanted to, and the brass isn’t going to give me permission to exhaust manpower trying. Not with two Handlers out, a third of our Hunters dead, and now this PR nightmare with the Clans.”

  “God forbid we give a shit about anyone else outside of the Triads.”

  She bristled, hands balling into fists. “Look, Stone, I don’t know how this whole reincarnation thing has affected your judgment, but rein it in. Everything going on at this moment involves you in some way, shape, or form, and I need you focused on it. Not on someone who wasn’t even part of your life until three days ago and is no longer a part of it now. He is irrelevant. The job you have waiting for you is not, and no one else can do it but you.”

  I wanted her words to bounce off and be forgotten, but they misbehaved by sinking in and making perfect sense. I hated that no one else could do my job, but she was right. I had promised Phineas, I had promised Rufus, and I couldn’t bear to let either of them down.

  I slid off the exam table without a hint of wobble, not caring that the clothes I’d just changed into were stained and soiled. I stood toe to toe with Kismet, topping the petite Handler by several inches.

  She didn’t back down, didn’t flinch, just stared right back at me and said, “You can hate me all you want for what I just said, if it helps. Sometimes our anger is the best fuel we have.”

  “You get that advice from a fortune cookie?” I asked.

  “No, from Wyatt, a long time ago when he was training me to be a Handler.”

  I blinked. I hadn’t given the training of Handlers much thought, and even though I knew Wyatt had been around since the official formation of the Triads, the idea of him training Kismet was … well, weird.

  “You’ve got to box it up,” she added.

  “Trust me, if it was just me in here, I’d have no problem compartmentalizing all this until the crisis has passed. Unfortunately, I’ve got a lot of Chalice floating around fucking up my head, so it isn’t as simple as just shutting the door on it. I would if I could, because I’d function a hell of a lot better if I didn’t spend half my time worrying about Wyatt and mourning Alex.”

  “It’s not easy when you love someone.”

  The statement pushed me backward a few steps, giving us a cushion of air filled with discomfort and understanding. “Chalice loved him. I barely knew Alex,” I said.

  “I meant Wyatt.”

  I forced myself to remain quiet. It couldn’t be that obvious. Handlers weren’t supposed to form attachments to their Hunters, as it was their job to constantly order us into deadly situations. Hunters within Triads often grew close, even though we were warned against it. Romantic love wasn’t forbidden (as far as I knew), but if it existed between Hunters, it just wasn’t talked about.

  And I wasn’t going to have that conversation with Gina Kismet. We’d exchanged more words in the last few hours than we ever had over the last four years, even on the few occasions our Triads had crossed paths. She’d always come across as rule-driven, deliberate, and—when not dealing directly with her own Hunters—cold. What the hell did she know about my relationship with Wyatt?

  “No,” I said, “it’s not easy when you’re sharing your brain space with a ghost. That’s what’s not easy.”

  She sighed, a heavy escape of air through her front teeth. She looked deflated. Less the woman in charge, almost a friendly face. “Whatever you say, Stone, but from one woman to another? It won’t work.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

  “Relationships between Handlers and Hunters. They don’t work. They never have.” The pain in her voice, absent from our conversation so far, struck me dumb. Her expression didn’t change; her posture remained at slight attention. Only the way she spoke, with authority on a guarded subject, exposed her anguish with alarming clarity. Authority born of personal experience with the topic. Had she had a relationship with one of her Hunters? Someone else’s Hunter?

  Not that I was inclined to ask. Gossip was a waste of time, and I had more pressing shit to deal with than Kismet’s personal life.

  “Wyatt and I aren’t sleeping together, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Truth that bordered on a bold-faced lie. We’d slept together once, just before I died the first time. Night before last, we’d nearly slept together again. Nearly.

  Kismet cocked her head to the side, seeming to consider my statement. “Keep it that way, so it doesn’t get one of you killed again.”

  Ready for the conversation to swing away from my sex life, I reached for sarcasm and said, “Your concern is overwhelmingly touching.”

  She shrugged. “We can’t handle any more losses right now. We’re spread pretty thin as it is after Olsmill. We’ve got some teams out hitting known Halfie hot spots and others putting the screws to the goblins. And now looking into those … things from the lab …”

  I perked up. “Looking into what now?”

  “The creatures we found in Tovin’s lab, remember those? Elves are smart, but according to Amalie and several other sources, they aren’t geneticists. Tovin didn’t have the brains to run that lab on his own, so Willemy’s looking into the possibility of an accomplice. If he turns up anything, he’ll let us know.”

  An accomplice hadn’t occurred to me. Nor should it have. I was a Hunter. Point me toward a target, and I kill it. That sort of investigative thinking was a Handler’s job, not a Hunter’s. “By himself?” I asked.

  Her slim eyebrows knotted. “He asked for an assignment, so we gave him one. Rhys Willemy lost two of his Hunters this morning at Olsmill. Or did you forget six people died?”

  I hadn’t forgotten. I just hadn’t bothered to ask who. Focusing on those who survived seemed more important than on those who’d died. I could commiserate with the survivors; I knew their pain. I thought of the familiar dark face from Burger Palace who’d laughed at my zombie joke just this morning. “And the Hunter who lived?”

  “Temporarily off duty.”

  “I meant his name.”

  “David.”

  Voices rose in pitch on the other side of the curtain. I looked over; Kismet turned around. Closer. My heart thudded harder. The same voices fell. Squeaking shoes moved away. I exhaled, unaware I’d held my breath.

  “It’s been less than an hour,” Kismet said, pivoting to face me again. “It might be a while before we hear anything from the surgeon.” Her point was clear.

  “Think anyone will mind that I’m discharging myself?” I checked my reflection in the shiny surface of an instrument tray. No marks left on my face, just a few soot smudges. I wiped them away with the back of my hand.

  “Not when your chart disappears.” She was smiling when I looked at her again. “Want Tybalt to go with you?”

  “I’ll go with her.” Phin’s voice came out of nowhere, close enough that I thought he was right behind me. I pivoted in a complete circle but didn’t see him until he stepped around the edge of the curtain, hands folded in front of him, vivid eyes fixed on me. A cocky, semi-apologetic smile played on his lips, one of which sported the evidence of my earlier loss of temper. “Sorry if I startled you,” he added.

  “What? No car-smashing entrance this time?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I make it a point to never smash more than one car a week.”

  “Good to know, but I don’t need you to tag along, Phin. Go sit on Aurora and Joseph while I do my job.”

  “They’re quite safe in your apartment, Evangeline.” He gave Kismet a sideways loo
k before his attention returned to me. “It’s easier to protect what’s by your side.”

  “Not if what’s by my side is putting my ass in danger in the first place.”

  He stilled, smile fading. Replaced by a pained frown, sadness that seemed to dim the shining light of his eyes. “It was never my intention to deceive you about any of this.”

  “Intention or not, you got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

  “And if you’re successful, you’ll get what you want, too. Time isn’t on your side, and I have contacts and resources within the Clans far beyond the reach of the Triads.”

  I scowled, annoyed that he had a good point. Regardless, after his stunt in the waiting room, I just didn’t trust him.

  “I have no personal hatred for Rufus St. James,” Phin said. “I don’t know him, but he represents what destroyed my people. Hand me another target, and I’ll direct the complete power of my rage upon them, and I’ll never look crosswise at Mr. St. James again.” He cocked his head to the left, a jerky movement so much like a curious parrot. “Let me help you.”

  I stared him down, hoping to find some truth in the blue depths of his eyes. A glimmer of emotion or hint of his true intentions. All I did see was color, alive and beautiful. Color to get lost in.

  “For God’s sake, Stone,” Kismet said, “take him with you. If nothing else, I’ll feel better knowing you’re not off on your own, wreaking havoc on the city.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” I growled.

  “Then what about a partner?” Phin asked.

  “I had two partners. I got them both killed.”

  His eyebrows arched into identical slim slopes. “How about Annoying Tagalong Kid Brother?”

  As humans went, he looked my age or a bit older.

  But weres age differently than humans, so he could have been ten, for all I knew. Few weres ever live longer than twenty years, and I’d never heard of one older than twenty-five—which meant I could very well be older than Joseph. That was … disconcerting.

  “Fine, you can come with me,” I said, tired of arguing the point, when both he and Kismet seemed determined that he be my shadow.

  “Still have your phone?” Kismet asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Keep it on. I’ll call when I have news.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Car?”

  I snickered. “Check the rubble heap downstairs for the keys.”

  “I have a car,” Phin said.

  “Really?”

  “I don’t fly everywhere I go, you know. I used to maintain the appearance of living a normal life, with a day job and everything.”

  “As what? An underwear model?”

  Twin roses of color darkened his cheeks, and I realized what I’d said.

  I brushed past him, tossed off a terse “Keep in touch” to Kismet, and made my way toward the far side of the Emergency Room. Phin caught up halfway there, his presence felt rather than seen. He moved silently all the time—a trick I both admired and detested.

  No one shouted for me to stop. None of the rent-a-cops milling around the E.R. and its entrance paid us much attention. Instead of turning for the bank of elevators, I beelined straight for the exterior doors. Ready and eager to get the hell outside of the hospital.

  “Where are you parked anyway?” I asked, once my feet were on the sidewalk and the sun was beating down on my head. The odor of oil mixed with the nearby scent of the river created a nauseating contrast of sweetness and muck.

  “This way,” he replied.

  He led me past the hospital’s main entrance, toward an alley that ran between the side of the hospital and the rusted iron fence that protected walkers from the river’s sheer twenty-foot drop. The alley was lined with public parking spaces, most of them filled at the midday hour. Dog walkers, joggers, and couples out for a lunchtime stroll kept the riverside sidewalk full.

  We stuck to the narrower pathway that butted up to the brick wall of the hospital—less traveled and better for private conversation.

  “Do you have a destination in mind?” Phin asked.

  I walked on his left, half a step behind, keenly aware of every person within eyesight. “The gremlins have helped us in the past,” I said. Halfway down the block, a skinny man turned the corner toward us, led by a massive German shepherd on a chain leash. “What sort of bribe do you think is fair for asking them to hack into the Police Department’s intranet system?”

  “Four-tiered wedding cake?” he said.

  “Really?”

  He turned his head a few degrees, giving me more of his angular profile. “I was joking, Evangeline.”

  “Evy.”

  “Evy,” he corrected. “What did you take the last time?”

  “Cherry-topped cheesecake.”

  “The favor?”

  “Erasing Chalice Frost from the system and providing hard copies, which are now mixed together with the ash remains of Rufus’s apartment.” Good thing we’d read as much as we had last night, or I’d be shit out of luck in finding tidbits about Chalice’s past.

  Phin turned his head directly forward. His hands had clenched. I cataloged the reaction—tension. The fire. The osprey I’d seen flying above the building just after. I lagged behind him a full stride, too close to the body of a very talented manipulator. I didn’t have to ask if he was responsible for the apartment fire that had killed Nadia Stanislavski, a fellow Hunter, and seriously injured Rufus.

  I didn’t ask, because I knew. And I no longer trusted him.

  The man and his shepherd crossed the alley a few yards before we would have passed, the strong animal yanking his weaker owner toward a woman walking some mixed-breed mess with patchy white fur and no tail. I watched them go and walked right into Phin’s back. Felt that queer mix of strength and softness.

  “Sorry,” I said, backing off quickly.

  He cast a curious glance my way while waving his hand at a parked car. It was a late-model Honda, two-door hatchback. “This is it.”

  I eyed the faded blue exterior. “So your secret identity is what? Struggling high school dropout?”

  Chuckling, he shook his head. “Would you believe mild-mannered reporter?”

  “No.” I stepped off the sidewalk, headed for the passenger door.

  “You’ll have to climb in on this side. The passenger door doesn’t open.”

  Hackles raised, I turned around. Faced him slowly. He looked back with a mild expression. No embarrassment over his crap car, no hint that it was a way to trap me in his vehicle for whatever unholy purposes he had in mind. Just knowledge that he’d stated a fact. The door didn’t open.

  The words “To hell with it, then” perched on the tip of my tongue, ready and waiting for permission to zing him. I didn’t like backing into a corner without an exit, and that’s precisely what a stuck door represented. A trap. My options on transportation, however, were severely limited. Knocking him down and stealing his car wasn’t a viable solution; I had no doubt he could track me down, with or without those crazy angel wings.

  Besides, my growing distrust meant one thing: he stayed close enough for me to keep both eyes on his movements. No more double-crossing.

  “Does the window open?” I asked.

  He blinked, then nodded. “All the way.”

  “Good.”

  He produced keys, unlocked the door, and stepped back. I climbed across the bucket seat and nearly fell into the passenger side. It was low to the ground, with a crackling blue leather interior, and smelled faintly of cedar. The dashboard was clean, the floor mats spotless, and the back devoid of clutter. Seemed his neat-freak tendencies extended to his car as well as other people’s apartments.

  Phin slid into the driver’s seat. The engine blazed to life without a single sputter. As he negotiated the way out of his parallel space, I tested the window crank. Down a few inches, then back up. If my test bothered him, it didn’t show. He pulled into the alley, then back around toward the main road away from
the hospital.

  The healing gunshot wound in my arm started to itch like mad. I rubbed at the bandage, hoping it wouldn’t last long. The shape of the cell phone in my back pocket pressed against my ass, a constant reminder. I urged it to ring and bring me news about Wyatt.

  It didn’t.

  “Why didn’t you just say the old Graham’s Potato Chip Factory?” Phin asked.

  I grunted at him.

  I’d done my best to remember just where in Mercy’s Lot we’d find the gremlins’ lair, but I hadn’t paid enough attention the first time. After ten minutes of driving up and down the same three streets, past rows of working and dormant industrial sites, I’d spotted the familiar factory.

  Phin drove around back, away from the street and its light traffic. Once he was out, I passed him the three cheesecake boxes (better safe than sorry) and then followed. I took point this time, leading him and his pastries into the rusted, faded factory. Out of the city and into an enclosed, protected society.

  As before, the intense smell of fermented sugar hit me on the sixth floor, watering my eyes and stinging my nose. Phin sneezed, the force of it held back, but the sound still echoed on the metal stairwell.

  “What is that?” he whispered.

  “Great big vats of gremlin piss.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I wish.” I wasn’t. I’d seen them with my own eyes, surrounded by thousands of gremlins scurrying to and fro, leading their short and meaningless lives crowded together in the dark. Occasionally leaving to perform favors for others, to gather food for their broods, or to generally cause havoc around the city.

  At the eighth floor, we stopped at a reinforced fire door. Dozens of tiny feet scampered on the other side of the door, moving away. I pressed my ear to the metal and listened. Silence. Stepped back and slammed my open palm against the door several times.

  “Ballengee be blessed!” I shouted, just as Wyatt had done. Hoping it worked again.

  Instead of footsteps, I heard more silence. I repeated my greeting, louder this time.

  Phin winced, rebalanced the bakery boxes in his hands. “Maybe they’re on strike,” he said.