Compact with the Devil: A Novel (29 page)

“Hi-yah!” yelled Liz, and kicked the man in the chest. He went down with a thump that shook the cobblestones.

“Hey!” yelled the second man, reaching into his jacket.

“Kit!” yelled Nikki, tossing the jacket aside and jumping on the Buell. Brandon hadn’t lied. The orange bike started on the first try, sputtering to life with the familiar loud growl of a Harley-Davidson. Kit was barely on the back when Nikki twisted the throttle and roared into the night.

“They took Dean’s bike!” Kit yelled into her ear, twisting around to look behind them. Nikki glanced in the mirrors and saw the bug-eyed dual headlights of the Triumph behind them and farther back Liz, Sara, Brandon, and Dean, standing in the street yelling.

Nikki took a quick right and then a left, cutting between the blocks, swooping around the errantly parked cars. The Triumph kept pace with them, dogging their every move, never more than a block or two behind.

They were heading steadily uphill, and, between the houses, the sacred heart of Paris was revealed at each break in the skyline. The Church of the Sacré-Coeur stood at the top of the hill overlooking the Pigalle district and the denizens of its porn shops, prostitutes, and nightclubs with the saddened dignity of an old man looking over a disappointing family. Nikki set her course by the white church, trying to lose the Triumph in the twisting back streets. The winding roads led her to the carousel that lived at the foot of the stairs leading up to Sacré-Coeur. The higher-pitched hum of the Triumph’s motor echoed somewhere below them, cruising the small shops that had been shuttered for the night.

“Off,” she told Kit.

“What are we doing?” asked Kit, getting off as commanded. “They’re still down there!”

“I know,” answered Nikki, gunning the engine. “I’ll be right back.”

She rode toward the sound of the Triumph, homing in on the sound. The Triumph returned the favor, working its way up toward her. When they were too close for comfort Nikki flipped a U-turn and rode back toward the carousel, pulling the black bike with her.

When the carousel and Kit appeared in her headlights, she slid the bike to a stop, wearing a few millimeters off the sole of her boot as she yanked the bike ninety degrees to point its nose down the hill. This had to be timed just right. Kit stepped forward to ask her something, but she pulled away and began her descent. She kept the brakes on, not allowing too much speed, but at the halfway point, she hit the brakes hard. This was going to hurt. She swung her leg over, riding standing up, one leg dangling, one on the foot peg. Then she stepped off the bike. Her feet were under her for a second, and then the speed caught up with her and she went down, tucking her chin as she rolled. She sat up just in time to see the orange Buell T-bone the black Triumph. A few seconds later, Kit came running down the hill.

“Nikki!” he yelled, scanning the wreckage.

“Over here,” said Nikki, sitting up on her elbows.

“Jesus, Nikki. Are you insane?” Nikki tried to stand up as Kit reached out a helping hand. She thought about checking on the rider but changed her mind.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” she said, limping a little as she led them southwest away from the wreck, aiming for a main street.

“You could have been killed!” he exclaimed after a few blocks, as if it had struck him afresh.

“Actually, I think I’m getting better.”

“Better at what?” he asked with a disbelieving stare.

“Crashing, mostly.” They approached an intersection, and she scanned the corners of the buildings, looking for street signs. “We need to find someplace to hole up for a few hours.”

“I think I’ve been here before,” said Kit, looking around. “There’s a hotel here somewhere.”

Nikki surveyed the surroundings. The Pigalle district, far from
the fashionable tourist areas, sported a patina of grime and bitterness that would probably last longer than the winter. It didn’t seem like the kind of area that would have a hotel where a rock star would stay.

“Yeah, it was on Rue des Abbesses. I remember thinking it was a good joke I was getting laid on a street named after nuns.” Nikki raised an eyebrow, and Kit shrugged. “I was high at the time,” he said. It was Nikki’s turn to shrug. “It’s just down here. I think.” He frowned.

“Well, your guess sounds better than mine,” said Nikki. “Lead the way.”

It began to snow as they walked: huge fluffy flakes that melted at first but then accumulated on windowsills. Nikki brushed them from her hair, feeling the wet and cold start to seep in, knowing she’d be black and blue tomorrow.

“There it is!” exclaimed Kit. “I can’t believe I actually found it.”

The hotel was marked by a single, navy-blue, vertical banner that was lost between the neon-lit signs of two sex shops and a pharmacy.

Tromping into the lobby, Kit slammed his hand down on the bell, waking the desk clerk.

“
Bonsoir, monsieur,”
said Kit. “We would like a room.”

Nikki flipped the lock on the hotel room door and did a quick sweep of the room. Outside the window a neon green pharmacy cross dimly illuminated the flurries of snow.

“Why didn’t we go back to our hotel?” asked Kit, dropping tiredly into one of the narrow armchairs near the window.

“They’ll be watching the hotel,” said Nikki, closing the drapes behind him before turning on a light.

“They were shooting at me,” said Kit as if he’d only just now noticed.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “We’ll call Duncan in the morning and go straight from here to the airport.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’ve got a concert.”

“Kit, someone’s trying to kill you. Now is not the time to
worry about some concert. You didn’t even want to do the concert two days ago.”

“People paid money to see me,” he said miserably. “I’m going to be seen. I may not always like my job, but I get paid very well to do it. It’s time I stopped behaving like a spoiled brat and actually do the things I say I’m going to do. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Now you’re going to listen to me?”

“I have a job to do, and some thug in a ski mask isn’t going to scare me away from doing it. Why would someone attack me anyway?” he asked plaintively.

“I don’t suppose you left any outstanding debts or anything when you went into rehab?” asked Nikki. She didn’t really think it was true, but it might as well be crossed off the list.

“No, I bloody well didn’t!” he shouted. “Besides,” he said, visibly controlling his voice, “maybe they were after you. You seem a little overly capable in the bad-guy department—seems like you’ve had experience.”

“Yeeeeah,” said Nikki, hesitating. “Here’s the thing. Your mom and I work for the same company.”

“Carrie Mae, so what?”

“Well, have you ever noticed that your mom’s gone a lot? Ever noticed any unusual skills in unarmed combat? Excessive interest in firearms?”

Kit’s eyes narrowed. “Mom always had a gun when I was growing up. But what are you trying to say? Carrie Mae’s just the front for some international terrorist organization?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” exclaimed Nikki. “Carrie Mae is dedicated to helping women everywhere. It’s just that sometimes helping requires a little extra …” She hesitated, looking for the right words. Why hadn’t she ever had this conversation with Z’ev? “Firepower,” she said at last. “Camille and I are with the, uh …
security division of Carrie Mae. We deal with some of the more dangerous situations faced by our ladies.”

“Trista judo-flipped this fan who got too close one time,” said Kit. “What about her?”

“She’s retired,” said Nikki.

“My mom pushed me really hard to hire her,” said Kit. “It seemed weird at the time.”

“Well, she was worried about you. She wanted you to have someone you could rely on.”

“Or she could rely on,” said Kit bitterly. “Trista’s probably been spying on me for her this whole time.”

“Trista loves you,” said Nikki firmly. “And I may not know your mom that well, but when she heard about Cano … she flipped out and wanted to come see you immediately.”

“Who’s Cano?” demanded Kit, and Nikki bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to say that bit.

“Well, your mom has made a few enemies along the way. It happens in our line of work. And Cano is one of them; he escaped from prison.”

“You think he’s trying to kill me because of Mum?” asked Kit, and Nikki nodded.

“That’s why you’re here. I should have known,” he said, laughing bitterly. “I should have known you didn’t really care.”

“Hey,” said Nikki, grabbing him by the chin and forcing him to look at her. “I sang karaoke for you.”

He finally returned her gaze and Nikki felt her breath catch; his eyes were blue like sapphires. She swallowed hard and stood up, nearly turning over the chair, and went to the window. He began playing with his hair, twisting it into the devil’s points that Nikki had assumed were a stage affectation but was now realizing were a nervous habit.

“Are you bleeding?!” she demanded abruptly, noticing a suspicious stain spreading across the back of his shoulder.

“Oh shit,” said Kit, twisting around, like a dog chasing a tail, “I’ve been shot! I’ve been shot! Why didn’t you tell me I was shot?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” retorted Nikki. “Into the bathroom. Take off your shirt now.”

He stripped off his shirt and sweater and sat down on the toilet seat, looking white.

“It’s really starting to hurt now,” he said.

“Don’t be a sissy,” said Nikki severely, feeling her heartbeat speed up. She yanked the threadbare washcloth off the towel bar and placed it over the bleeding gouge on the back of Kit’s shoulder.

“Thanks for the sympathy,” he said, anger bringing a flush back to his face.

Gingerly, Nikki withdrew the washcloth to take a look at the damage. His shoulder was gouged, probably from a bullet or piece of shrapnel in the Metro, but it wasn’t deep. Nikki wet down the washcloth with warm water and began to clean the area.

“Ow!” he exclaimed as she pulled away a sweater thread that had been glued to his skin with blood. “What are you doing back there? How bad is it?”

“It’s not bad,” said Nikki. “Just a scrape.”

“Can I see?” He stood without waiting for permission and went to the mirror, twisting around to look at his shoulder. “Well, that’s going to leave a mark,” he said, eyes slightly big.

“Meh, chicks dig scars,” said Nikki, pushing him back onto the toilet.

“Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, you know,” complained Kit as she continued cleaning.

“Sorry,” said Nikki, “but it’s really not that bad. And just think, now you can tell everyone you’ve been shot.”

“That’s true,” said Kit, smiling again. Kit’s mercurial mood changes confused her, but they did make her laugh. Once she had washed off anything that looked like it shouldn’t be there, she rinsed the washcloth and put it back on the skin, applying pressure. She stood there, wondering if she should go pick the lock on the pharmacy across the street or whether she ought to just rip up the bath towel for bandages. Her eyes wandered as she contemplated and she found herself tracing the contours of Kit’s naked torso with her eyes. With his shirt off, she could see that his skin was almost as pale as hers and seemed oddly luminous in the bizarre tint of the bathroom light. A light that threw his chest and ab muscles into chiseled relief. She found that the hairs on her arm were standing up where they brushed up against him—as if his whole body were electrically charged.

Attempting to distract herself, she stared at his tattoos. It was the first time she’d been close enough to get a good look at them. Whirling out from his shoulders and trailing down onto his chest and back, the tribal designs and Celtic knots gave him a decidedly wild appearance. Bending over him, Nikki realized that her breasts were at his eye level. Embarrassed, she glanced down at him, but his eyes seemed firmly, if rather forcefully, fixed on the far wall. He was being good. Involuntarily, she smiled at him and saw her smile echoed back.

“‘Love forever,’” she said, reading the one incongruous tattoo buried in a complicated nest of trailing Celtic vines.

“Sure,” he answered, a puzzled frown crossing his face.

“Your tattoo,” she said, laughing and tracing her finger along the words.

“Oh!” He looked down at his shoulder. “Oh, right. That was my first. It looks silly now, but I believed it at the time.” As he
looked down she caught the heady scent of his body mixed with his shampoo.

“You don’t believe it now?” she asked, putting his hand on the washcloth to continue the pressure. She took the bath towel and began the process of ripping it into lengths.

“Things change,” he said, apparently unaware of his effect on Nikki. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Maybe I should I be going to hospital.”

“I’m a highly trained specialist, I’ll have you know!” she exclaimed.

“Yeah, for a makeup company,” he fired back.

“I’ve had additional training,” she sniffed.

“I hope so,” he said, looking doubtfully at the towel.

“Love’s not the worst thing to believe in,” she said, changing the subject.

“Look who’s talking. Your boy takes a walk with a total Salma Hayek and you don’t even lift a phone to get him back.”

“We broke up,” said Nikki. “I told him not to call me and he hasn’t. How am I supposed to call him up and say, ‘Yeah, I know I said don’t call me, but oh, by the way, stay away from other women or I’ll gouge your eyes out’?”

“Ouch, straight to the eye gouging? You’re not still into him or anything?”

Nikki sighed. “It doesn’t matter. We’re better off not being together. It’s complicated and hard and he thinks …” She trailed off. “It’s just better,” she said firmly.

“In rehab they say relationships are the hardest thing to do.”

“But should they be?” asked Nikki. “Shouldn’t they be more … fun? Like you and I—we had fun today. And it was …”

“Easy?” he said, smiling. “That’s me. Mr. Easy.” His expression added the double entendre.

She laughed and began to bandage his shoulder; his skin felt warm under her palm and she fought the urge to let her hand trail down his chest.