Two Lines (2 page)

Chapter 3

C
illian walked toward Dorothea Dix Hospital on his nightly mind-clearing stroll. He'd spent the past several hours going over his file, but still had no clue how to get closer to Brennan or how he got the unknown powder he cut his coke with. Whatever the silvery talcumlike material was, it wasn't matching anything on the periodic table or the existing databases at the Crypto Drug Administration.

The drug was appearing in other areas around the country, and Brennan was the closest thing to a source that the C.D.A. had found. The I-85 and I-40 intersection tended, like many such interstate crossings, to be a drug-heavy region. Durham had a definite heroin business. Volumes of marijuana and cocaine slid through, but those weren't issues for the C.D.A. Crypto Drugs dealt exclusively in the chemicals that utilized or targeted the Others that hid in mortal society. Brennan's powder was an anomaly even in an organization established around coping with the unusual. The C.D.A. didn't like anomalies.

Or lack of results.

No one in Brennan's immediate circle seemed approachable. None of the victims was around long enough to be of use. The only one who seemed like a potential
in
was one woman Brennan kept circling, but she seemed to be stalking the drug dealer when he wasn't stalking her.

So I stalk the stalkers.

Cillian thought about the dark-haired girl.
Eve.
He'd stared at her picture frequently enough that he'd begun to feel like a perv. He wanted her not to be a victim
or
a criminal, but he couldn't find any evidence to suggest which she was or any logical way she wasn't one of the two. Nice girls don't flirt with drug dealers. Nice girls don't spend inordinate amounts of time at strip clubs. He was pretty sure of that—except everything else he could find on Eavan made her seem like a nice girl. She worked at her jobs for short periods, but her employment records were all flattering. She was average: modest clothes, nondescript reading habits, no odd purchases, not a single unexplained trip; in sum, there wasn't anything at all that would flag her as criminal.

Still thinking about Eve, he let himself into the apartment he'd rented.

Just inside the door, he stopped. A cream-colored envelope sat propped up against a book on his kitchen table. No one knew he lived here other than his supervisors, and they weren't the sort of people to leave notes with calligraphic lettering on his table.

A quick search of the tiny apartment revealed that he was alone. After donning a pair of gloves, he carefully opened the letter.
Mr. Owens, If you'd like to resolve the D.B. problem you're having, contact me. Nyx.
Under it was an address in the historic district and a meeting time that was just late enough to be private.

Several hours later, Cillian parked up the block from the address on the note; he glanced again at the sheet of lilac paper sealed in the bag on his passenger seat as he cut off the engine. The paper, the calligraphic writing, the lavender scent on the paper—it wasn't covert. It didn't seem apropos of intrigue.

At least not any sort I'm used to.
Prior to this assignment, he'd worked in the research and clean-up divisions of the C.D.A.

He closed the car door quietly and made his way up the flagstone path. A woman sat on the front porch. She looked to be in her thirties at most. She was stern, eyes too flat, smile too calculating; everything about her was predatory in the true sense of the word. Whispers of caution rose from that instinctual part of the mind: walk carefully, mind the escape routes.

“Mr. Owens, so nice of you to visit.”

“Nyx?” His voice was steadier than his emotions. He'd walked into altercations that resulted in hospital visits, but this beautiful, polite Southern woman in a semi-public location was setting off the same sort of alarms usually reserved for the truly unsavory.

What is she?

“Come.” Nyx patted the swing beside her. Then she reached over to a crystal decanter sitting on a side table. “Whiskey?”

“No thanks.”

“It's not poisoned, dear.” She smiled a courtesan's smile. “Poison isn't a method I prefer. Too distant.”

Cillian paused midstep and looked around the porch and azaleas that lined the front of it. There were no other people he could see, nothing that looked dangerous.
Except Nyx.
He'd learned before his first year with the C.D.A. that criminals didn't all look dangerous. Usually, though, they weren't this odd combination of ballsy, blunt, and beautiful. “Is there another method I should be watching for?”

She laughed and poured herself a drink. “Sit down, Mr. Owens. The neighbors needn't see you looking at me so cautiously. They're used to my business, but discretion is always wise…especially in
your
business.”

He sat next to her, but not so close that he couldn't reach his gun. “I'm not sure what you think you know, Ms.—”

“Nyx.” She sipped her drink and smiled. “It's just Nyx.”

If not for the fear he felt as he sat beside her, he'd find her attractive. She was all curves and muscles, and none of it hidden. Thick dark hair fell around her like a cloak. She was near-naked from the waist up, clad in a sheer top over bare skin; dark aureoles and pert nipples more than visible. Not an inch of flesh was bared below the waist. A long skirt and boots hid her legs.

Why hide the rest of—

“I see the temptation in your expression,” Nyx said softly. “Trust me, Mr. Owens; you're much better off not following those thoughts to completion.”

He was here on business. Ogling someone he might have to kill was bad form. He forced himself to hold her gaze.

And Nyx smiled then. Her posture hadn't changed. Her spine was arrow-straight, making her very not-sagging breasts—

I'm not like this.
He felt positively amoral. His libido was healthy enough, but he didn't mix business and recreation.
I'm not going to start, either
. He caught and held her gaze.
Like being held in the gaze of the snakes in the reptile house…without the safety of the glass.

“What do you want?” he asked.

She handed him a picture. “This is Eavan.”

Eve.

Cillian kept his face blank. “And?”

“The girl, my cousin Eavan, is getting mixed up with a man I'd rather she didn't. You're stalking him, so I thought we might help each other.” Nyx folded her legs up on the swing, angling her body so she was facing him. “I'd rather Daniel Brennan die. I find him…unpleasant, but Evvie would be cross with me if I killed him.”

“Do you often murder people you find unpleasant?” The words were out before he could think better of them. Despite looking like an ingénue, Nyx spoke with a callousness that made Cillian certain that the woman beside him was, indeed, capable of murder.

Nyx laughed. “I think we'll both be happier if you don't ask too many questions like that, Cillian. I know who you are. I know about the C.D.A., and I know that Mr. Brennan is a person of interest to your organization.” She lifted a folder from the floor and extended it to him. “Here's a list of others you might want to investigate.”

She held it there while he reeled from how casually she listed top security clearance C.D.A. information.

Cillian reached out and took the folder. “Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you'd be in? We're talking about treason.”

She waved away his remark with a flick of her wrist. “Your government isn't a concern of mine. I know what I know, and you'll not let anyone find out about me. Do you think that there aren't people who would erase the entirety of your organization if they realized that your superiors know about…
people
that treasure privacy? History is filled with stories of strange groups of people, secret societies if you will, vanishing. Your sort exist only because we've yet to decide how much of a threat you might be. I believe you can be harnessed and made useful. I need my cousin looked after, and you are getting nowhere with Mr. Brennan. It's a simple business exchange.” She ran a finger absently through the beads of sweat sliding down her glass and licked a droplet from her fingertip before adding, “I'm trusting you, Mr. Owens.”

In seven years for the C.D.A., he'd never experienced anything quite as surreal as this meeting. Admitting that he understood that she was Other was a breach of several papers he'd signed under strictest security.
She's not human. She's just admitted as much.
That didn't mean he could admit it though. He tucked away the questions he wanted answered and focused on the issues he could address: “A single phone call and you'll be in jail or worse for the rest of your life. You can't summon a government agent to your house and just…” He shook his head.

“I trust you because if you expose me or reveal the other
unusual
things you learn by accepting my offer, I'll kill you, your sister in Miami, your nephew in Chicago…and your dear sweet father in”—she paused and tilted her head—“where was it? Phoenix, I believe?”

Cillian had his hand on his 9mm before she was halfway through the threat.

“Lower your hand, boy.”

He did, not by choice, but he lowered his hand as obediently as the women addicted to Brennan's drugs. He couldn't disobey. “Wha—?
Who
are you?”

Nyx sighed. “The answers to that don't matter to you today. What you need to know right now is that neither you—nor your loved ones—would stand a chance if I asked you to obey me…and no, you may not ask why just now. Put your hands out here where I can see them.”

When he did so, she nodded placidly as if he'd hadn't been seconds away from trying to shoot her—and he couldn't force the questions of
how
and
why
from his lips.

“I can be a great ally. You want to stop Brennan's drugs. I have reasons to want you to succeed at that,” Nyx said.

Cillian opened the folder and glanced at the sheets inside. Charts, account numbers, passwords, maps, key codes, names, aliases…it was far more information than he'd seen on Brennan after months of workups and considerably more detailed than anything he'd gathered in the six weeks he'd been in Raleigh.

Nyx pinched it closed. “You mustn't tell Evvie that you know me. I'm hiring you as her bodyguard as far as she knows…well,
will
know.” Nyx's mouth curved in a wry expression. “Evvie will object. She'll attempt to evade you. She'll…be difficult.”

“I'll need to talk to my supervisors—”

“Talk to them, so they can verify the value of that data…but I am an anonymous source.” She stood up and stretched her arms over her head, making her sheer top lift up and expose her bare stomach. This time, though, Cillian wasn't even slightly tempted.

“Or what?” he asked.

She laughed, a husky bedroom sound that made him swallow hard despite his utter distaste. “Or I'll slaughter everyone who sees this data.”

He stood and faced her, still holding the folder. It was foolish, but he had to say it: “You're not human.”

She put her hand on the folder, pressing it against his chest, leaned in, and kissed his cheek. “If you're interested in my help, take the folder and be here tomorrow at seven sharp to be introduced to my cousin as her new bodyguard. If not, leave the folder and walk away. I'll give you an out this once.” She kept her hand on the folder, holding it between them as she invaded his space. “If you accept my offer, please do understand that I'm quite serious about the terms of our contract.”

Then she turned and left.

Cillian sat silently in the dark for several minutes, debating the consequences of both actions. If he took the folder, he'd have resources the C.D.A. needed, resources that would enable him to do his job better. If he left it behind, he assured his family's safety; of course, they were only endangered if he couldn't keep silent. That wasn't an issue. The things Cillian had learned in his job weren't things he shared with his family. This was no different. If Nyx was honest, he and his loved ones were endangered only by violating her privacy. If she wasn't honest, they were already in danger. Either way, taking the folder didn't change anything critical. All it really meant was that he was becoming personally involved in the world of the Others.

Which has been inevitable since I took the damn job.

He'd expected his overt knowledge of the not-humans to come through official routes, but he'd still expected it from the beginning.

What difference does it make?

He took the folder and walked away. Now he just needed to figure out what to tell his supervisors—and protect a woman who was some sort of Other, and, if he was lucky, stop Daniel Brennan. All told, he was more excited about his job than he'd been in months.

Chapter 4

E
avan hated family meetings with a passion she reserved for…actually, a passion she reserved for family meetings. She stood in the street, staring at her home and trying not to fall under the sway of the neighborhood. Oakwood was a little bit of heaven—houses that weren't prefab monstrosities, people who sunk their roots into their city, a community whose collective energy made this part of the city something pure. Her family always lived in such areas. Unlike the subdivisions that cropped up everywhere, Oakwood and its neighboring Mordecai had personalities, histories, and dark whispers. More than a few of those whispers were tied to the women in Eavan's family. Sometimes an unfaithful husband vanished. Once in a while, a wayward family member returned home meek and eager to be forgiven. Drug traffic never took hold in the several blocks surrounding their home. No one in their immediate area was ever robbed. Of course, no one would speak directly about the belief that Nyx's influence was what kept them safe in home and family. Secrets were all the more poignant for the fact that they were openly known, but never spoken. It was enough to keep the neighbors from looking too closely at the family.

If they truly knew, would they still look away
?

The neighbors might murmur about them being “fancy women” and the scandal of women owning strip clubs, but they didn't pursue their talk beyond the occasional, and quickly silenced, remark. They didn't speculate aloud at the family's methods of keeping peace; there were no titillating rumors voiced about the beautiful murderesses who lived inside the modest house.

Eavan's family was a clan of true glaistigs: they devoured people. They were many men's—and a fair number of women's—darkest fantasy, but sometimes with a steep price. They didn't kill many, but they did kill. Glaistigs swallowed the last breath of mortals or strangled them, preferably during sex.

Monsters.

She walked around to the back of the house. It was part of the routine she'd clung to in order to keep herself from believing the façade. Routines were her anchor, innumerable little tricks to keep from believing in illusions, to create her own illusion of normalcy. Going through the front door, the door for guests, was walking into the illusion. The truth was what kept her from surrendering to the role her family wanted for her.

This is not what I am.

Steeling herself for the sensory shock, she pushed open the door.

She wasn't but a step inside the room, when Mother Chloe appeared in front of her. Uncharacteristically, her legs were hidden away.
There must be guests.
Even now, no one in her family seemed able to keep her chest, stomach, or arms covered. Given a choice, they'd roam in lingerie.

Eavan straightened the sleeves of her suit jacket.
I am not like them.
She'd worked hard to cultivate a modest streak and had gone a bit overboard lately with being so close to the edge. No one else at the office dressed as conservatively as she did; even the senior marketing consultants looked at her oddly.

She stood silently for her birthmother's inspection. They were always like this, greeting her at the threshold and assessing her like a stray dog returned to the pack. Chloe glanced at Eavan's stocking-covered calves approvingly. She smiled—until she looked up and saw Eavan's tightly wound bun. “Well, that certainly sets a mood, doesn't it?”

“You asked me to let it grow again,” Eavan reminded. She sat her briefcase at the front door and slipped off her pumps.

“I don't understand you.” Chloe walked away, her boots striking the tile floor in a regular rhythm, sounding out the familiar cadence, bringing to mind memories of a lifetime of late night music sessions. Chloe insisted on wearing boots that would resonate on the floor as her own cloven feet would. She liked music, even that made of her own movement.

Despite her irritation, Eavan smiled at the sound. For years when she'd lived in the house, she'd been happy. Things had made sense, but back then, she'd known little of what she'd one day become. It wasn't until she was a teenager that she understood the parties, the musicians, and the strange cries. Her mother-family, glaistigs all, fed on acts of sex and death. It was essential that they feed; it kept them alive. Eavan understood it—but understanding didn't equate to wanting to be like them.

Far better to live a mortal lifespan and die naturally than to transform into a monster.

Chloe paused and stamped her foot. “Evvie! Come now. Your grandmother isn't feeling patient tonight.”

“Is she ever?”

Chloe scowled. “She's far more patient with you than I would be.”

“Yes, Mother Chloe. I do realize that.” Eavan followed her mother into the sitting room where the rest of the family would be waiting. Of course, calling it a sitting room was a bit of a kindness. It was something between a bawdy house and the results of a Victorian decorator on acid. Aunt NeNe had her foot propped on an honest-to-goddess stuffed elephant foot that was fashioned into an ottoman. Gold tassels dangled from the cushion atop the atrocity. All around the room, floral patterns clashed with one another; gilt-framed art cluttered walls and shelves. Dressing tables that had no place in a front room were scattered about, like the desks in an untidy classroom. On each table, Eavan could see a jumble of silver hand mirrors, ivory combs, feathered hair barrettes, and crystal bottles of perfume with elaborate atomizers.

And her family sat—in dishabille—on overly plush divans. In the center, like a queen holding court, was Nyx, Eavan's grandmother and matriarch, her judge and torturer. Nyx held herself regally, watching with serpent-cold eyes. “Eavan.”

It wasn't a warm welcome, but no one there thought Eavan deserved Nyx's warmth.

Even me.

Ever since Eavan had told Nyx she wasn't moving home after college, things had been more strained. Glaistigs didn't live away from the clan. It simply wasn't done. Of course, no other glaistig clan would be foolish enough to challenge Nyx's decision to violate tradition by allowing Eavan a touch of freedom. The same cruelty that had left scars on Eavan's back allowed Nyx to defy tradition now: crossing Nyx was painful more often than not.

Beautiful monsters. My family.

The three of them looked like sisters, like
her
sisters. They appeared to be only a couple of years older than Eavan—wrinkle-free, lustrous hair, bodies as sculpted as professional dancers. In high school, her “guardians” had incited equal parts envy and curiosity when they attended school events. In college, people assumed they were her sorority sisters or asked if she was part of a modeling agency. Luckily, they hadn't visited her en masse at the office yet. Their unchanging nature would eventually elicit too many questions.
As will my own.
Eavan wasn't sure when it'd started bothering her, but it irritated her more and more—their immutable nature, her own now-unchanging body.

For now.
Choosing mortality meant Eavan would eventually age and die. She'd age more slowly than mortals, but it would still happen. Glaistigs didn't. They brought death, but didn't suffer from it.

“What
are
you wearing? It's so”—NeNe fluttered her hands around as she took in Eavan's skirt, which reached just below the knee—“opaque.”

“It's wool.” Eavan leaned down and kissed her aunt's cheek. They might be monsters, but they were still her family. “Just like I've worn to every other meeting.”

“I must've repressed it.” NeNe sniffed. Like the rest of the women, with her gauzy camisole and thick tumble of hair, NeNe looked as if she were awaiting clientele, not expecting a visit from the girl they'd collectively raised as their daughter.

“You know, what this place needs is a stripper pole.” The words were out before Eavan could stop herself, but no one flinched. Eavan could say whatever came to mind here. Home wasn't where Eavan wanted to be, but she couldn't deny how right it still felt to be there. Glaistigs were clan creatures, and although Eavan was clinging fiercely to her humanity, she was still part of the clan. “A pole would fit right in,” she added. “Just like at your clubs.”

Grandmother Nyx nodded. “I was just saying that, wasn't I?”

Chloe handed Eavan a brush before answering, “She's joking, Mama.”

Nyx shrugged, lifting one delicate shoulder in a graceful move that belied her centuries. “It matters little. She's right for a change.”

Eavan smothered a laugh; Nyx knew that Eavan had been only partially joking. It would fit in, and they'd enjoy having it here. Sometimes when all the rest was set aside, Eavan suspected that Nyx was the only one who truly understood her. The older glaistig didn't approve of Eavan's urge to live as a mortal, but she understood the impulse to forge new rules. Following a path simply because it had always been done that way wouldn't make sense to Nyx. Of course, neither would chastity.

Eavan sat on the back of the sofa, perched behind her grandmother, and began unplaiting the woman's thick rope of hair. The tendrils were like living things in Eavan's hands, as if night had taken solid form. “You look lovely, Grandmama.”

“Of course.” Nyx stretched; muscles that shouldn't exist rippled under her wrinkleless skin. The strength in those muscles would make it a simple thing to crush Eavan's throat—and no one would stop her. Eavan learned that lesson years ago when she stood up to Nyx the first time.

And a dozen times since.

Nyx wasn't callous, no more so than anyone else in the house, but she was in charge. Forgetting that was unwise.

“Bring him in,” Nyx said.

The tension in Eavan's body rose. She paused a heartbeat longer. “Him? Grandmama, what have you—”

“You've stopped brushing, Eavan. I don't like that.”

Dutifully, Eavan resumed the measured strokes, gripping the olivewood handle, pulling the tufts of boar bristles through the thick tresses, keeping her eyes on her task—and not looking at the man who'd entered the room.

Like a lamb to slaughter
.

“I've checked all the windows,” he said by way of greeting.

“Lovely.” Nyx rolled her shoulders. “Keeping brushing, Eavan.”

“Yes, Nyx.” Eavan stayed in her increasingly uncomfortable position on the back of the sofa where Nyx was seated. She didn't look up at him. If Nyx had brought him here, had insisted Eavan meet him, he was dangerous. His voice alone, a deep growling bass, was proof of that.

Temptation.
Eavan knew her family wasn't above underhanded tricks; treachery was their first instinct.
Perhaps it's not that.
She knew better though. Nyx didn't rule one of the strongest clans of glaistigs by accepting defeat.
Ever.

“The windows aren't secure at all,” the man added. “A screwdriver and—”

“Right, so we'll replace those. NeNe?” Nyx made an imperious motion.

“Here.” NeNe held out a blank check. “Fix whatever needs fixing.”

“Our home's security is very important, Mr. Owens,” Chloe said.

“It's Cillian, ma'am,” he corrected.

Eavan paused at the change in timber of his voice; he also sounded almost as assertive as Nyx. When Eavan looked up, her fears were confirmed: he was perfect, a visual feast, lean, confident, and seemingly unintimidated by the nest of vipers he was in. His instincts should be telling him to flee or to bow before Nyx. He did neither. He stood there as if oblivious to her charm, to all of their allure.

Eavan couldn't help but stare, just as Nyx undoubtedly expected. He was fit without being bulky, muscular and toned. If not for his almost pouty lips, his face would be too stern. As it was, he looked just this side of fierce—not easily daunted or foolishly aggressive. It made her want to see what it took to provoke him.

I am above this. I am stronger than instinct.

The older glaistig looked back and caught Eavan's gaze. A guilty blush burned on Eavan's face.

Nyx's posture hadn't changed, but she had her confirmation: Eavan was intrigued.

Too much so.

The man made a note as he said, “I'll have one of my associates drop by to go over the literature on the different options for replacing the windows.”

“Whatever. Really, my cousin's safety is really the difficult thing, Mr. Owens. As I said, that's why I needed you here today.” Nyx caught Eavan's hand and tugged so that their clasped hands were resting just over her collarbone. “Eavan doesn't seem to understand how dangerous refusing to stay with the rest of the family is. A young girl in the difficult world all alone…”

“Is she in some sort of danger, ma'am?”

“Inevitably. She's foolish, you know.” Nyx squeezed Eavan's hand until tears threatened. “I worry so over her. Beautiful. Wealthy…and with the things I see in the news…Did you know there were shootings just up the street from her flat?”

Eavan blinked the tears away. Her voice was clear, though, as she said, “I'm not moving home. No matter what…happens.”

“I'll accept that,” Nyx said mildly. “In fact, I've hired Mr. Owens's firm for that very reason. I've taken a lease on the vacant flat across from yours.”

“I don't think—”

“Or you can move home.” Nyx looked back at Eavan. “You have choices. Prove to me that you can do as you're told or return to the fold where I can look after you. I'll not have you die to prove a point.”

“Nyx,” Eavan pleaded, “please?”

Nyx turned away.

“I want to apologize for making you stay in Eavan's dismal building, Mr. Owens. How anyone could want a tiny little nest in some ugly modern thing…It's appalling.” Nyx's reply couldn't have held more vitriol. She sighed melodramatically before adding, “NeNe and Chloe will go over the other details with you. Eavan and I have things to discuss in private before you two leave.”