Blood of the Wicked

Blood of the Wicked

A Dark Mission Novel

Karina Cooper

Dedication

For Aron,

who put my butt in that chair

and told me I could do anything I really wanted,

and the family who stood behind us both.

I love you all.

Contents

Chapter One

O
peration Echo Location reeked.

Silas Smith knew bullshit when he smelled it. Sure, it smelled a lot like sweat and cigarette smoke and desperation, but it was pure bullshit. Shoved into a manila envelope and jammed down his throat.

Fuck, his head hurt. The overloud electronic crap they called music at the Pussycat Perch began its skull-wrecking vendetta the instant he stepped through the door. The pain fed off the industrial bass rocking the foundations of the converted warehouse, played counter to the painful throb of his left knee. Between light, sound, pain, and the shitty mood he’d been nursing since he’d returned to the damned city, it was all he could do to figure out where the hell anything was around him.

Silas blinked in the scattered flash of multicolored beams of light. Every breath burned, smoke and humid energy sliding over his tongue. Dancers filled the floor to capacity, writhing in a sea of light and limbs and gleaming, sweaty skin. Gyrating, mostly naked women wrapped around bolted poles at three stages, and the cacophony skewered through his brain, pissing him off even more than when he’d walked in.

Finding anyone in this mess was going to be a complete pain in the ass. As with every joint like it, the Perch had built its success on too-loud music, too many people, too much skin.

Sex, drugs, and debts too deep to ever climb out of. He’d see it here in the too-bright eyes of the avid voyeurs and the dead, doll-like stares of the women who danced for them.

So he’d find Jessica Leigh and get the hell out again. Where the fuck was the bar?

It took him several minutes to find it, scarred wood countertops hidden behind a sea of demanding customers. It took longer to force his way through the oversexed crowd. Dancers thrashed around him, drunks staggered by, and he’d made it halfway through the mess before white-hot static shorted his brain on a crackled snap of pain.

Instinctively he caught the woman who’d slammed into him, elbow to gut and knee to knee, barely cognizant of her slurred apology. He pushed past her, cursing, forging through the masses as he fumbled in his pocket for the aspirin he kept close.

The chaos around the bar was an ocean of calm compared to the death trap of a dance floor. He grabbed the edge of the wooden bar to stake his claim to a foot-wide piece of real estate, even as he popped the painkillers into his mouth dry.

“What’ll it be?”

Silas turned at the husky half shout near his ear, caught an eyeful of red velvet and smooth, bare skin. He swallowed the bitter pills on pure reflex.

She was sex wrapped up in gold ribbon.

Tight, trim curves smoothed out a wine-dark corset strapped with gold. The overhead lights cast radiant colors over her bare arms and shoulders, gleamed over her wavy tousle of black hair. Her wide mouth curved up at one corner, painted bloody crimson and guaranteed to make a man like him take notice.

He did. So did his dick. Contrary to every vicious reminder of how much he hated strip joints, he was suddenly, viscerally aware of the rhythmic bass thudding inside his chest. And his jeans.

“I said,” she repeated, throaty amusement coloring the half-shouted words, “what’ll it be?”

Sweat and sex and your mouth on my—

Jesus Christ, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t come out here to troll for ass. Silas reached into his inner coat pocket. “Looking for someone.”

“Sorry, they’re not here.” Bright. Smooth.

Silas studied her light brown eyes. Whiskey eyes, he thought, and frowned. “How do you know who I’m looking for?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She braced slim arms on the bar top, giving him a tantalizing view of the cinched-up swell of her small breasts. Notched, grimy bills peeked out from beneath her bodice, startlingly dirty against the clean shine of her skin.

He jerked his gaze back up to her face. “I need—”

“They aren’t here,” she repeated, firmer this time. Velvet and steel. “So what do you drink?”

Lust warred with annoyance. Pure frustration. So the Perch was one of those places. Hell, and why not? Silas settled for a nod. “Beer.”

He peeled a few small bills from the clip in his inner jacket pocket. It gave him plenty of time to admire the taut curve of her ass under barely-there gold shorts as she bent over the back counter, retrieved an unlabeled brown bottle. Glass hit the bar with a thump, and her fingers closed over the money.

He held on just a second too long. Just long enough to make his own point.

Her gaze dropped to his hand, to the money and the wooden beads strung on a leather cord around his wrist. The black tattoo half concealed under the hem of his sleeve. “Nice ink.” She plucked the bills from his loosened grasp. “Holler if you want another.”

With a whirl of gold ribbon and practiced rhythm, she turned and strode back down the bar. Silas watched her go, unable to help himself as his gaze raked over her long bare legs.

Tempting. And because it was, she was interesting. He didn’t do strippers. And, he reminded himself, shifting on the stool, he had work to do. His fingers itched to pull out the photo from his inner pocket, to refocus. From the moment he’d laid eyes on the picture, Jessica Leigh’s laughing, youthful face had captured him. Branded itself on his brain. She was radiant, caught in a moment of complete candid delight. Wholesome. Fragile.

Nothing like the cunning, son of a bitch witch in the picture with her.

So here he was, because he’d gotten a call from a ghost he’d thought he’d long since left behind with this damned city and didn’t know how to say no.

Find her. Land her. Easy, right?

He waited with a raw impatience that ate at his already fraying control. By the time an hour crawled by, he’d finished his beer and the pain in his knee had mellowed to a dull ache. He was four aspirin down and seven come-ons up, and annoyed as hell when the latest in a string of stage-light strippers turned out to be bleached blond and
not
Jessica Leigh.

He set the empty bottle on the counter, turned to wave the bartender over, and found her tucked back by the employee hatch. One hand curved around the hinged slat of wood, holding it up while she withdrew a small wad of bills from her cleavage.

The short blond in front of her took it, nodded, and Silas’s pulse spiked hard as adrenaline surged through his system. The riot of noise in the club amplified through his skull as he half stood, ready to move. Get her, get the hell out. She turned, and Silas blew out a disappointed breath.

Damn it. Just another blond in a fake leather halter, and one hell of a rack to frame in it.

He was getting tired of this undercover shit. He sat back down, reached for his drink. Remembered it was empty and jammed his elbows on top of the counter instead. Fuck. This. Job. He wasn’t a subtle investigation kind of guy. More got done at the business end of the revolver tucked beneath his jacket, but he’d let himself get suckered into this one.

Damn Naomi West for finding him.

He glanced over when the hatch slammed closed. The long-legged bartender locked it in place and sauntered across the floor. Silas watched her because, hell, her hips swayed like she knew what five inches of gold spiked heel did to a man.

Sharply sweet floral perfume speared through his nose as the new blond with the impressive boob job snagged his empty bottle and tossed it into a bin behind her. Glass shattered. “Another one, sugar?”

“No, thanks.”

She followed his gaze, grinning a full-lipped, catlike grin. “Your favorite? She’s hot enough, I guess. I told her she’d make better tips if she stayed blond, men love it. Does she listen to me? Hell, no. I’ve only been in this business for three years, you know? I make damn good money.”

Only half listening, Silas grimaced, shifting his leg to ease the pain. Yeah, the brunette was hot, but she wasn’t what he needed. Jessica wasn’t here. He’d come back tomorrow, and the next night. See if she showed up, or if the intel had been wrong after all.

He paused. Frowned.
She’d make better tips if she stayed blond
.

Light brown eyes. Full mouth. Wide cheekbones—
Hell
. Jessica.

Silas shot to his feet in time to watch the employee door swing closed. Damn it.

He reached over and grabbed a fistful of synth-leather beside him. The tattooed man jerked out of his grasp, rounded on him. “Fifty bucks,” Silas said flatly, cutting him off mid-snarl. “Can you take a punch?”

A
s soon as the employee door closed behind her, Jessica Leigh hit the hall running.
Shit. Shit. Shit!

Her hands shook with fear and adrenaline as she pushed into the changing room. A missionary. A
witch hunter
, right in front of her. She’d known who he was,
what
he was the second she’d seen that damn tattoo. It had taken everything she had to bluff it out. Wait out her shift. No sudden moves.

No sudden screaming.

She’d never seen a hunter up close before, never smiled into flinty eyes like he wasn’t anything special. Tonight she’d done both. For a solid hour, she’d worked under the steel green edge of his blatant scrutiny.

Now she had to go.

“Damn,” she hissed as she swung open her locker. The only three women in the back room weren’t paying any attention. Mickey was flying high again, and Ramona and the new girl she didn’t know yet were too wiped to do more than wave halfheartedly at her.

Jessie smiled brilliantly back, slinging her heavy black backpack over her shoulder. “Night, girls,” she called. She forced herself to head casually toward the bathroom. Shift over, time to go home, no big deal.

She wasn’t new at this. Just short-term stupid, apparently.

Slipping inside, she locked the stall behind her and kicked into overdrive. She stripped off the black wig and shoved it into her pack with shaking hands. Slow down, she told herself. Fear and adrenaline could lead to mistakes. She couldn’t afford to screw up now. Breathe.
Think
.

She had to get out of here.

Regret clutched at her throat as she peeled off her corset and shimmied out of the matching gold shorts. She should have left two weeks ago, and she knew it. She’d gotten lazy. Complacent.

She’d made friends.

Jessie blinked back a sudden sting of tears as she shook out a pair of faded jeans and stepped into them. “Don’t be stupid,” she said aloud, striving for steady. She’d known better. Decent pay and a few friendly people wouldn’t keep her alive.

Running would. It’d keep her one step ahead of the damned witch hunters and three steps ahead of the rest of the world. It was the only way to survive. Off the radar, out of the system.

Exhausted, run ragged. Downright paranoid. And for what? Certainly nothing even resembling peace and quiet.

She pulled on a gray tank top, wriggled into a matte black neoprene jacket and zipped it up to her throat. In the lower edges of New Seattle’s civilized levels, she’d fit right in. It was the work of moments to shake out a short, choppy red wig and pull it on.

She scrubbed off every trace of makeup, flushed the damp wipes down the yellowed toilet, and tucked her sky-high shoes into the backpack. Shoving her feet into plain, thick-soled black boots, she checked the plastic watch on her wrist and frowned.

The whole process had taken less than five minutes. She was too damn good at this.

Jessie creaked open the door, checked the hall. When she didn’t see anyone there, she stepped out and made short work of disabling the alarm on the emergency exit. Two seconds later, she was in the home stretch.

The alley flickered dimly under the purple and pink neon light flashing overhead. Girls, girls, girls. “Minus one,” Jessie murmured, and shut the door quietly behind her. It clicked with a finality that made her chest squeeze.

It really wasn’t fair.

But then, she understood that life hadn’t been fair since Mother Nature had flipped a gasket and unleashed rampant destruction on most of the planet. Jessie hadn’t even been born when the San Andreas Fault had split so far that Seattle had slid right into the crevasse, but that didn’t matter to a world full of terrified, struggling people.

Pre-quake, witches had lived on the fringes of a world that didn’t care. They didn’t have to hide. They weren’t always welcomed everywhere, but they weren’t stoned to death in the streets, either. Then the world had gone to hell and the Holy Order of St. Dominic had stepped in to lay down order. Spread some so-called morality.

Five decades should have been enough for the worst of the witch hunts to die down. It wasn’t; a fact that Jessie acknowledged every damn time she packed up what few belongings she owned. Instead the Church had slipped into bed with the federal government, and suddenly they were best friends over the barbecue of innocent people.

Worse, the radical Mission—once considered a brand of extremist terrorism—had turned into the Order’s right hand. Sanctioned killers at the end of a very deadly leash.

These days, life for a witch was injustice and persecution in a very real sense. It was survival in a society desperate to blame something—hell, anything—for the devastation of fifty years ago.

Hadn’t Jessie spent her whole life running? Seen her own mother murdered? Didn’t she learn anything from the streets that had tried so hard to chew her up and spit her out?

Hadn’t she taught her baby brother the very same thing?

Which was why, she reflected grimly as she raised her collar against the rain, she knew better than to stay in one place for as long as she’d wallowed in the Perch. Stupid.

Jessie could have been the next notch on the Mission’s docket tonight. When the hunter had looked her in the eye, she’d have sworn she saw her own death there. It had been damned hard to play at calm, not to panic then and there, take off running right over the bar.

She took a deep breath, barely noticing the familiar stink of rotting garbage and the faint tang of the cold rain. So she couldn’t work at this particular club anymore. So what? She’d find another. These lower city levels were chock-full of dives like the Perch.