Cold Hard Secret (Secret McQueen) (3 page)

“Hardy-har-har.” Mouse adjusted the front of his sweater with deliberate slowness, as if to say,
Look what you did to my lovely clothes.
“Fine. I’ll tell you guys where to find him. But I ain’t doing it for free.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I stepped closer and crammed the gun under his chin, letting the barrel tickle his barely there stubble. “You’ve mistaken this for a bartering agreement. We’re not exchanging anything. You’ll give me what I want and I’ll take it. End of story.”

He let out a muffled
meep
, but kept talking. “He’s dangerous. I give up a guy like that, and he’s going to come after me. It needs to be worth my while.”

“He might come after you. But I have you right now. Which is scarier?”

Mouse met my eyes with a dead stare. “Him.”

“You don’t know me very well.”

“I know anyone who wants the Angel of Death dead is probably a good guy. The good guys don’t run around killing people.”

I released him and stepped back, lowering my weapon but not putting it away. “Don’t be naïve. There are no good guys anymore. If you don’t tell me where to find him, I’ll find someone who can. But you better believe I’ll give Peyton your name instead.”

“Wh-why would you do that?”

“Because you’re wasting my fucking time.” I turned to Desmond. “This guy is useless. Let’s kill him.”

Mouse’s gaze darted between me and Desmond, his blue eyes going wide. “Okay, okay. No money. Just don’t tell anyone you got the info from me, okay? Jesus.”

Well, that had been easier than I anticipated. Of course I wouldn’t have killed Mouse or sold him up the river. I was an assassin, not a complete monster.

He went on. “Near the Alma-Marceau metro station you can get access to the sewers. He’s not in the touristy part.”

“There’s a
touristy
part of the sewers?”

“Yeah, there’s a museum. You don’t want to go there. There’s a section that’s really badly flooded most of the year. Even though they try to keep it drained, it’s not much good. You can get to it from one of the metro access tunnels. Once you get through the watery section, he’s in there.”

“In the sewers.”

“Yes.”

Why couldn’t rogue vampires hang out in moldering old castles or rent penthouse suites at the Ritz? Too obvious? Too clichéd? I didn’t relish the idea of wading through the muck of the Paris sewer system to find Peyton.

“Are you bullshitting me? Because if you are, I will seriously ruin your life.”

He shook his head so hard I thought his brain might be rattling. “That’s where he was as of Thursday. I know someone who’s running supplies in. He hasn’t seen the lair itself, but there’s a drop point about a half mile past the access tunnel. They leave cash, he leaves the goods.”

“I thought you said no one came out alive.”

“Yeah, well, vamps can’t exactly take out an ad in the paper asking for reliable delivery boys, know what I mean?”

“Good help is so hard to find,” Desmond added.

“And I helped you. You’re gonna let me go now, right?”

I engaged the safety clip and holstered my gun. “If I find out you lied to me… If I go wandering around in the wet sewers and find nothing? I’m going to come after you, Mouse, you understand me? And don’t think I won’t find you, because I will. You’re a hell of a lot easier to track than he is, and a hell of a lot easier to kill. So I’m going to ask you one last time: are you lying to me?”

“N-no, ma’am.”

“Then get the hell out of here.”

Chapter Four

Without more time to plan, going into the tunnels would be a fool’s errand, but it didn’t stop me from wanting to check them out.

Much to my chagrin, the fastest way to get to the Alma-Marceau metro station was to take the train. I wasn’t a fan of underground travel at the best of times, and being crammed into a car with dozens of other people while my tension was at an all-time high? It was a recipe for disaster.

Desmond and I emerged from the train onto the platform and were both immediately assaulted by the ammonia stench of urine. The station itself was in decent enough condition—well lit, minimal garbage on the ground—but the whole place reeked of piss.

I wrinkled my nose, trying to pretend the scene wasn’t making it hard for me to breathe. Humans would most certainly be able to pick up on the odor, but it was different for supernaturals. Both Desmond and I had a heightened sense of smell, and his was sharper than mine. I cut a glance sideways at him, and though his expression was stony, a sheen of tears dotted the corners of his eyes.

Yeah, he was definitely smelling it.

“Let’s make this quick,” he grumbled.

I smirked and jabbed him playfully with my elbow. “Hey, if Mouse’s tip pans out, you and I are going on an adventure in the sewers. Think of how nice those will smell.”

“I have to hope it’s better than this. It smells like forty-eight people pissed all over the floor.”

“Forty-eight is an oddly specific number.” I rubbed my nose, allowing my hand to linger so I could smell the soap from our hotel instead. Anything would be better than the piss. “You can’t actually discern forty-eight different kinds, can you?”

Desmond snorted. “No, thank God. Just one kind, and it’s awful. Can we figure out where this entrance is and get the hell out of here?”

“You don’t need to ask me twice.”

We wended our way through the sparse crowd. Due to the late hour, the train had been nearly empty. Even big cities like Paris and New York had quiet hours, stretches of time where a person could find themselves alone. For us, it was lucky we were moving around during the slowest part of the night. No one looked twice at the weapon strapped to my back, and I didn’t need to explain what Desmond or I were up to.

On the platform, most people moved towards the exit while a few lingering passengers boarded the outbound train. Soon we were by ourselves and able to do what we had to without fear of being questioned.

Walking the full length of the platform, we checked the tile-covered walls for a point of easy access to the area that lay beyond. There were no obvious entrances, just the stairs leading up to the street. We worked our way down to the platform’s end, to the point of no return, where pedestrians could not pass.

About fifteen feet past the station proper, where the train tunnel began to turn, was a small access door set into the wall. Through the dim light I was able to make out the sign:
Réservé aux employés
.

“I think that’s our best bet.” I angled my chin towards the tunnel, not wanting to draw too much attention since people had started filling up the waiting area again.

“Seems like the most obvious choice.”

“So we come back tomorrow night, then. Pay a visit to an old friend.”

His mouth formed a thin line. “Don’t you want to take some time, formulate a more thorough plan?”

I shook my head, feeling totally focused on the task before us. “Time isn’t going to help this. We go in. We find Peyton. We kill Peyton.”

“I guess I should be grateful you’re saying
we
.” He tugged my ponytail until I looked at him, and we both shared a smile.

He had good reason to make that jab. For a long time I’d been the kind of woman—girl, really—to rush headlong into the fray with next to no concern for my own personal safety. I would go at it alone, because the idea of risking anyone else was unforgivable. Over time I started to realize I couldn’t keep doing things the same way. Relying on others wasn’t a weakness, it was a necessity, and I had people in my life who were strong enough to fight alongside me.

Except sometimes they weren’t.

A vision of Holden’s gaunt face tried to creep into my mind, but I struggled against it, imagining him as he was the night I’d left for France. He was healthy, robust, and though he was pale, that was hardly anything new for him. I imagined his dark hair, the color of coffee, and his brown eyes, full of life in spite of his lack of pulse.

Holden was fine. He’d survived our ordeal with The Doctor the same as I had. Maybe better. He hadn’t been brutalized like I was. And maybe it had something to do with the fact he’d already died once, while I still cherished my mortality, but the incident didn’t seem to be bothering him the way it did me.

He wanted me to move on like he had, but I was struggling to put things behind me. Maybe I wasn’t as strong as he was.

And admitting I was low on strength made it easier for me to acknowledge I needed help. I would kill Peyton on my own, but I’d need Desmond’s help to get me there.

“Yeah.
We
,” I repeated.

“Okay. I won’t argue, but we do need to consider what we might be up against. I’m sure he’ll have minions or something.”

I couldn’t contain my laugh. “Jesus, Des. It’s not
Despicable Me
. He’ll have some low-level vamps around him at best. Knowing Peyton’s style, he will probably have a few baby vamps.” My throat constricted, cutting off my laughter. Alexandre Peyton had a thing for turning new vampires. He’d done it before, setting one on my scent to kill me. That vampire—Brigit Stewart—had ended up becoming one of my dearest friends.

Until she’d been killed.

Talking about baby vamps was apparently one of many touchy subjects I needed to avoid.

Desmond sensed the change in my behavior and gently placed a hand on my shoulder. He kept his distance, allowing space between our bodies, and for once my immediate response was not to pull away. I stepped closer and ducked my head under his chin. For a moment he must have been surprised by my willingness to be held because he did nothing. Then both his big arms wrapped around my back, and he drew me in tight, letting his bulk shield me from the outside world.

“We’ll get him,” he whispered, stroking my hair. He felt warm, almost hot. Werewolves tended to have elevated body temperatures, whereas my own skin was usually cool or lukewarm. Against my own tepid skin, his felt downright steamy, reminding me how much I missed touching him and falling asleep with him beside me. Desmond always felt so alive to me, like the little miniature sun at the center of my private universe.

“I know.”

And I almost believed myself.

Chapter Five

I didn’t want to take the train again, so we left the metro and headed into the night-darkened Paris streets. Desmond took my hand, and riding the wave of confidence from the platform, I let him. It felt nice, having him touch me. I wasn’t sure I was ready for anything more intimate, but this…this was good.

Aside from my sword, we could have been any other couple exploring the city at night. I half-expected Paris to have an aroma like fresh bread or Chanel Number Five, but the whole city had a wet, dirty smell to it. Occasionally we’d pass a bakery receiving their morning flour delivery, and the scent of dough would waft out, but otherwise it was just the old familiar reek of damp concrete and garbage.

Still, it was better than the piss stink of Alma-Marceau station.

The walk back to our hotel was long, and for several minutes neither of us spoke. Desmond had the twitchy mannerisms of someone fighting desperately to hold back words but losing.

“What is it?” I asked finally, hoping to put him out of his misery.

“I’m worried about you.”

“Is this about Peyton? Because you’re not talking me out of it. I’m going in there tomorrow, and I’m finishing this thing.”

“No, it’s not. Well…a bit, but not entirely. I’m not worried about him, I’m worried about
you
.”

Sweat dampened my palm, and all my former ease vanished. I tried to free my hand from his, but he held firm.

“Can you please let me say what I want to say, without trying to run away?” he asked.

I went still. “I don’t run away.”

He gave my hand a squeeze, and in that moment the pain in his eyes was so raw my heart hurt just looking at it. “You
do
run away. You’ve always run away, bouncing from one problem to the next, hoping to avoid dealing with it. The only problems you know how to deal with are the ones you can kill. That’s why you’re so gung ho about finding Peyton.”

He sure got right to the heart of things, didn’t he?

I couldn’t speak. There were no easy, clever retorts for what he’d said, and if I did use sarcasm to fight my way out of the corner, I’d only be proving his theory. Words were a way to run the same as feet were.

I frowned. I thought I’d been hiding things well enough to keep his worry at bay. I
thought
I’d been doing a lot better. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“I want you to talk about it.”

My whole body went from merely still, to ice cold and rigid. “
Why?
” Even with such a small, simple word, my voice quaked.

Desmond started walking again, and I had no choice but to move with him unless I felt like being dragged. “Because you haven’t been yourself since we got you back. And I know you’re hurting, I know you went through hell—”

“You
don’t
know. You can’t know, and I’m fucking grateful you have no idea. None. I don’t
want
to talk about it. Talking about it means remembering it, and I can’t. I won’t.”