Lost Angeles (22 page)

Tamsyn huddles close to Jax, childish smile now stowed away in favor of a troubled frown. Forgotten in the fray, she shifts from foot to foot, staring off in the distance. The second someone takes hold of her handcuffs, her entire expression comes to life, her signature carefree facade dropped back into place so quickly that I doubt anyone noticed it was ever gone.

Another round of creative swear words tells me and everyone else in a ten mile radius that Trick St. John is about ten seconds from going supernova. He didn’t fare any better than anyone else tonight, and he’s not at all shy about expressing his displeasure. Can’t really blame him, I guess; his dapper suit is stained at the knees with blood, along with the back of his once-pristine jacket. The material is soaked with it, like he was kneeling on a red ink-pad, pressed into the crimson until it seeped into every fiber of elbows, knees, and spine. His entire body shakes with rage, but he seems entirely too aware of the fact that he’s shackled to the redheaded girl. Whatever railing he wants to do, he’s limiting it to the verbal realm, probably because his cuff-companion looks as if she’d like nothing more than to find a hole and hide in it, permanently.

“Now is the perfect time,” Xaine interrupts my assessment. “And I wasn’t gloating.”

“You were totally gloating,” I say, reining in my curiosity.

Asher inserts himself into the conversation with an abrupt, “Before you head back to your murder cabin, I need you to come down to Scion and reset the alarm codes.”

“Do it yourself,” Xaine mutters.

“No problem. Cut off your thumb and courier it over.”

Xaine’s scowl is nothing short of epic. “Damn it, I
knew
those scanners were going to come back and bite me in the ass.” He fumes a moment, eying the door—and freedom—before adding, “It can wait.”

“Sure,” Asher says, “if you don’t mind the idea of Benicio prowling your hallways in the meantime. Look, I know Phantom Firearms running your security was Reille’s idea—”

“Yeah, back when you guys were having some kind of cash flow issue,” Xaine mutters. “Why do you give a shit, Reece?”

“A better question is why you
don’t
.” Asher glares down at him. “Look, shithead, I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Ms. Chase. If she wants to let you poke holes in her neck, that’s her business, but I’ll do my damndest to keep everything else away from her, here at the club and at the house, if you’ll let me. Now, your car or mine?”

Escorting me from the precinct at a brisk clip, Xaine tosses words over his shoulder. “I called for a ride. You can tag along, if you forgot where you parked that dickmobile of yours.”

Outside, there isn’t a taxi, there’s a
cavalcade
: Xaine’s supercar bookended by two police cruisers and surrounded by officers on motorcycles. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen, and I’m not entirely sure how he even managed to pull it off.

By being himself
.

I give him a wry look. “You forgot the tickertape.”

He flashes me a fangy grin. “No, I didn’t.”

I don’t know what Lore and Asher discussed, but the moment the muted roar of the Zenvo’s engine envelops us, she ditches the here-and-now for parts unknown. At some point, she reaches for my hand, closing her fingers over the top of mine until I rotate my wrist and meet her palm to palm. Not sure what I did to earn her trust—or her faith, for that matter—but I’ve got it.

Like it or not, I’m now responsible for another human being.

The idea makes me want to start spitting curses, one after the other until I’ve burned through every one I know. Then, I might make shit up to satisfy the impotent anger fizzling in my gut. Suddenly, I
get
Trick St. John for the first time in the entirety of our two-century history.

Rule Number One.

He’s not the village idiot or the town fool. He’s a criminal who’s
been
a criminal for his whole life. He’s not haplessly unaware of the dangers of his chosen profession; he’s on guard every moment of the day because even the most superfluous link is a connected dot that leads right back to him. Dots mean leverage. Dots mean collateral damage. Dots mean…

Don’t get attached
.

I’ve already cocked that one up. Cocked it up royally. My own taunt echoes in my head, sounding an awful lot like St. John’s mocking laughter. I hoisted Trick up by his petard back at the station, but I guess it’s like they always say…

In every joke, there’s a little truth.

And this truth paints one hell of a target on Lore, a target that even Sebastian Winters is unlikely to miss. Problem is, I have yet to figure out his angle. All the links are there, but I have to connect the dots.

First dot is…

Lore, who thinks she knows Reille.

…
connected to…

Reille, who knows Cas. And I’m willing to bet that limo full of high-end thugs wasn’t a coincidence, either.

… another dot. Connected to…

Scion, and me, and Matty’s money smuggling operation.

…
connected to…

Jackson Trace, who keeps showing up to save everyone’s bacon.

…
connected to…

Roman’s warning, still rattling around my brainpan like an omen.

Those leading the charge will need prominent and powerful allies, and they will not stop until they achieve them.

And that circles straight back around to Winters and his proposition back in the VIP room. Sebastian isn’t in league with the mafia, and he isn’t just lending a helping hand to rich old Euro-vamps. Whatever he’s gotten himself into, it’s way larger than that.

Which leaves Benicio as the odd-man-out, because I’ll be damned if I can figure out how his dash fits into all these dots.

“Hey,” Lore says softly, completely derailing my train of thought with a single, concerned syllable. “You still with me?”

I glance over at her, fingers flexing when I get a good look at the dark circles under her eyes. She’s got to be running on fumes right now. No one issues us a manual like
The Care and Feeding of Humans,
but I’m pretty sure the Idiot’s Guide version would say that she needs food and sleep.

Preferably without those nightmares of hers.

“I’m really sorry. It’s been a long goddamn night, and the last thing I want to do is head back to Scion. But it’s this, or have Asher and his goon squad tail us to the Palisades to work on the house.”

Lore’s smile is faint but immediate. “If this buys us a solid twelve hours to crash, I’m more than down.”

Asher cruises into the Scion parking garage right behind me, and I wonder if the concrete beams are going to scrape the roof rack off that stupid-huge Humvee he drives, but it clears with maybe half an inch to spare. We pull into adjacent parking spaces, and he’s running his mouth before I even get the car door open.

“I’ll head up to the control booth if you can get one of the security cards out of Reille’s office.”

“Yeah, whatever gets us out of here the fastest.” Circling the car, I hook an arm around Lore’s waist and heave her to her feet. “Come on, sweetheart. You can’t stay in here alone.”

“You mean you’re uncomfortable leaving me in a parking garage while a serial killer is actively stalking me?” she smarts off at me. “Well, that makes two of us, buddy.”

That rankles, for some odd reason. “I’m not your buddy, I’m your boss.”

“Collaborator,” she corrects as we pass through the first security door and into the back hallway.

I tuck the Zenvo’s keys and my cell phone into the pocket of her leather skirt, cramming my fingers in there unnecessarily hard just to be a shit. “Hold onto those for me, would ya,
buddy
?”

Lore smacks my hand a good one before I can get it out of the way. “You know, if you didn’t wear girl pants, you’d have pockets of your own.”

“These aren’t girl pants,” I say with a perfunctory glance down at my stage leathers. “Not after I stuff my junk in them, anyway.”

“Jesus, you two,” Asher says, mashing down the button for the elevator harder than necessary. “You going to take that act on the road?”

“Yeah, but we need more practice with the ventriloquist bit,” I say, getting a better grip on Lore’s waist. “We still haven’t decided which one of us is the dummy.”

“Oh, I think we all know the answer to that question,” Asher mutters, getting off on the second floor and disappearing down the hall.

The doors slide shut and Lore goes quiet again, leaning against my shoulder because she’s still wearing the stilettos.

“You can kick those off,” I tell her. “They mop the floors here, pretty sure.”

“‘Pretty sure’?” Lore smiles wryly. “Now there’s a ringing endorsement. I think I’ll keep them on, thanks.”

The second the elevator doors open, I catch the lilt of an unfamiliar voice coming from Reille’s office. Lore goes to take a step, but I hold her back, sticking one hand out and ducking my head far enough around the corner to be able to hear. Whoever it is, she’s trying to be quiet, but even so, I make out “Yes, Mr. Declan, I do understand” clear as anything.

Well, that’s interesting.

It’s been a while since Cas played the corporate sabotage card. Every quarter-century or so, he gets a wild hair up his ass and messes with my business holdings, mostly to show me that he can. And it isn’t like when the tabloids send in a mole to root out some bullshit news story. No, Cas tunnels deep, sets the dynamite, exits the building, and waits one month, two, three before detonating the explosion. Metaphorical dynamite, of course, except for that one time in Miami, but I blame all that on the fucking humidity.

I make it unnecessarily easy on him by not tracking my money or my properties as closely as I should. That’s how Matty managed to pull the shit that he did without my knowing about it. It’s a reminder that I need to hire a new business manager, one I trust implicitly. Shouldn’t be too hard. There’s always some up-and-coming corporate climber with their sights set on a goal they’ll never reach.

And that’s exactly who Cas sent in. A loyal minion, but not
my
loyal minion. Someone important enough to ring up, even if he and Reille are up to their eyeballs in old-world vampire fuckery. Yet another black mark on Cas’s record, as far as I’m concerned. If his hosts are doling out favors, he’s either joined up or he’s playing them for idiots, and neither idea particularly thrills me. With Lore at my back, I cross the hallway and practically kick the door to the office in. Miss Latina Spitfire is behind the desk, blinged-out iPhone to her ear. Middle of the night, but she’s sporting a short skirt, glitzy gold top, and six-inch stilettos at the ready to stake me.

But before I can say anything, Lore pops off with, “Jess?”

“You
know
her?” I mutter, eyes narrowing as I try to figure out all the things out at once.

“She’s my roommate.” Lore’s gaze bounces between me and the
chica
across the room, who is staring at us with equal parts surprise and horror.

Yet another dot in the Big Picture.

“Hey,” this Jess person says, recovering enough to shoot Lore a smile. “I said I’d come looking. I was worried.” Her gaze shifts to my face, pinning me with all the accusations ever when she adds, “You know… when she didn’t come home.
Again
.”

It’s all the right words, but the way the woman’s eyes keep shifting tells me there’s more at stake here than a missing friend and a healthy dose of concern.

“Who’s on the line,
cabrona
?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Even with Jess holding the iPhone to her chest, hand cupped over the receiver to mute the sound, I know who’s on the line, and I know he has to be dancing with impatience at the interruption.

The intruder’s eyes shift to Lore as she says, “My boss.”

“Your boss,” I repeat and take a menacing step forward.

For some reason that I can’t begin to fathom, Cas Declan is keeping an eye on Lore, and Roommate Jess is the nanny-cam spying on her from a vantage point that’s far closer to her than is acceptable to me. Much like Jess’s presence in this office is far closer to my shit than will ever be acceptable to me.

I should toss her out the window and save myself a lot of time translating Spanish swear words.

Except we already have more bodies around this building than I’m strictly comfortable with. I swallow hard and tell myself I’m really not in the mood for fast food anyway.

Jess recovers her balance, turning the phone to her ear to mutter, “I’ll have to call you back.”

“Oh, don’t hang up on my account.” Reaching out, I snag the door to the office and slowly close it. Finger the heavy bolt-lock, but don’t flick it shut. Run my tongue over my fangs for a second, because the fuckers won’t stop tingling. “Put
your boss
on speakerphone, Chiquita Banana.”

“Do it.” Cas issues the order even as Jess winds up to give me the great middle-finger sendoff. Scowling, she sets the phone on the desk and flicks a thumb over the screen to put him on blast.

I cross the room at a stroll, keeping an eye on Cas’s minion in case she’s packing a UV gun, but all Jess says is, “He’s on, Mr. Declan.”