No Love for the Wicked (2 page)

No one ever plowed the old county roads. The barren cornfields and skeletal woods glistened in the same perfect white as the long road ahead of me. It all looked so serene. Like some icy fairy tale. Of course, when I was growing up, my family’s estate had always looked like that in winter too. And God knew that place was no home to happy endings. At least not for me.

I shifted into four-wheel drive as I approached the old tractor path that cut through one of the unused cornfields and disappeared deep into the woods at the field’s edge. The small farmhouse at the end of the driveway was still too far away to see, but already my spirits soared. This was home. Not the sprawling estate of limestone luxury and immaculate gardens where I’d lived for the better part of my life. This was the small, neglected farm Thirteen had given me when he’d asked me to train his Network team. There was no fear here, no pain or sadistic relatives ready to
attack me at every turn. Here I had felt comfort and peace for the first time in my twenty-three years of life.

I’d found the transfer of ownership papers packed in my bags a few months back. I still needed to sign on the dotted line, but it was all mine now. And after six months away, I was back.

I slowly crept forward, my stomach growing tighter with every inch. Up ahead the motion-sensor porch lights peeked through the frosted trees. I was ready for this, I reminded myself. Not only to reconnect with the Network, but to return to this life. I’d gained so much while I was away, and not just in control over my powers. I’d socialized, lived on my own. Normal emotions and relationships weren’t confusing to me as they’d once been.

Finally, I drove past the last line of trees. There it was. The wide clearing sparkled. The lingering clouds parted so the moon could spotlight the small house. Faded black shutters, cracked cement wraparound porch, stained white siding—it was beautiful.

I pulled up along the side of the house and breathed in the feeling of homecoming. I never parked in the back parking area where everyone else did. The house wouldn’t be mine if I didn’t have my own parking space. God, it was just like I remembered—so small I could race around the entire exterior in the blink of an eye. If I stretched my neck, I’d see a living room through the front windows, jam-packed with mismatched sofas and ottomans. And if I went to the back door…

My smile vanished. Whispered voices carried over the low growl of my idling car. There were people inside my house. I’d been distracted pulling up the drive, but with my heightened senses, I heard the murmured voices now. I cut the engine. I hadn’t told anyone I was coming back—not Thirteen or Heather or…Theo. The house and the hundred-plus acres surrounding it were mine. It never occurred to me they’d continue using the place after I’d left.

I used my mental feelers to do a quick brush through the house and froze. Four people—three guys, one girl. This wasn’t my old Network team. I didn’t recognize a single one of them. Thirteen would have never let another task force use this place, not after he’d signed over ownership to me. So who the hell was in there?

Rage whipped through me hot and fast. Strangers in
my
house? Oh hell no. The porch lights shattered as my power stretched past the bounds of my car. I could tell from their thought patterns that the four inside were nervous but armed. Probably some local drug dealers or something—tough-minded plebes happy to have found an abandoned house to process their product.
Bastards.
In a blur, I exited the car and moved up the porch steps. They had turned off all the lights. As if I couldn’t find them in the dark. Of course, random squatters wouldn’t know it was someone like
me
showing up in the middle of the night. Most people had no clue that people with powers like mine even existed in the world. If they had, they probably would have hightailed it for their cars the moment I’d pulled in the drive.

My powers took care of the locks, and I pushed open the front door. The small foyer was dark, and when the door shut behind me, it became even darker. Someone hid in the shadows at my right. Two more in the kitchen ahead. I stepped forward toward the narrow kitchen. Anger simmered through me, but I kept a tight rein on my powers. I reached out to my intruders’ minds once more. The click of a gun cocking sounded at my left. The fourth guy had emerged from the living room. “Stay right where you are,” said a deep, accented voice behind me.

Yeah, right.

The overhead light came on with blinding brightness. I blinked the corridor into focus. A man with tight dreads and a woman with too-bright green eyes stood in the hallway before
me. Both were frowning, and both had guns aimed at my head. At my left, the guy from the living room moved his cocked gun a few inches from my temple. Bad move.

My vision turned red as I moved on instinct. The cocked-gun guy went first. I broke his hand with a quick twist and took him to the ground with a heel to the knee. The guy with dreadlocks came next—a gut-kick that had him barreled over and coughing blood. The chick got off a shot, but I moved way too fast for her to get a target. I gripped her ponytail and slammed her face into the wall, dropped her to the floor. With all three moaning on the ground at my feet, I turned on Accent Guy. Shock and anger twisted behind the blank expression he tried to keep in place. My power had him pinned to the foyer wall—his shoes a good three feet off the floor—so I didn’t blame him for letting a little anxiety slip past his careful guard. I sauntered toward him, stepping over one of his whimpering friends along the way.

“I’m going to give you one chance and one chance only,” I said quietly. My fingers strained—the urge to shift to claws just waiting to be let go. I clasped my hands behind my back. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?”

Accent Guy’s eyes widened into bright circles, but his lips pressed together into a tight line. He wasn’t going to tell me anything. Oh well. I’d warned him. Letting loose just a hint of my anger, I tore into his mind. Telepathy didn’t have to be painful, but fuck him. Break into
my
house? His body convulsed violently. He screamed in pain. I flipped through his thoughts with excruciating ease.

Colin St. Pierre. Thirty-four years old. Single, but nominally interested in some woman named Danielle. He was English, Oxford educated, trained with British Special Forces for five years. I saw more military training, but no longer with Special Forces. He was in the desert, one of more than a dozen men and
woman fighting with swords, guns, hand to hand. Then he was in a classroom, the same dozen people sitting in desks around him. On a drop screen at the front of the room, mug shots and criminal profiles flashed one after another.

Al-Hassan Ilmudeen: illegal arms supplier to known terrorist organization Haldan Boi. Murder, assault, rape, kidnapping, illegal weaponry. Known abilities: telekinesis, pyrokinesis.

A man entered the classroom. Bodybuilder huge, his muscles stretched the crisp pin-striped shirt that squeezed tight at the collar around his thick neck. His hair was pulled back in a long silver ponytail, and the sharpness in his eyes couldn’t hide the kindness in his crinkled smile. Thirteen. My vision instantly returned to normal as I pulled back and let Colin drop to the floor with a thud.

Well, screw me.
These weren’t squatting drug dealers I could kill for breaking into my house. They were another Network team.

I leaned back in one of the hard kitchen-table chairs, spinning my glass of whiskey between my fingers and demonstrating remarkable patience. Colin was in the great room, whispering to his chief on his cell phone. Like that would keep me from hearing both ends of the conversation. The other three agents glared at me from their different positions around the kitchen. Their minds buzzed with questions, but no one had spoken a word.

“So, Luce,” I said conversationally to the woman seated across from me. At twenty-eight, she was even younger than she appeared. Her light hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail that emphasized her almond-shaped green eyes and sharp cheekbones. Add to that the military-style tank and cargo pants, and she exuded a rough persona. Just like she wanted to. “How long have you been an agent for the Network?”

She flinched. She hadn’t expected me to be a mind reader as well as a kick-ass fighter. Slowly she drew the ice pack away
from her broken nose. The double black eyes were painful, but she wasn’t too upset. The injury was a war wound, proof of her toughness against a true supernatural threat. Maybe now she’d gain a little more respect with her male teammates. Not that I was holding my breath for a thank-you or anything. She leaned forward, curled her lip in a sneer. But before she could berate me with a series of well-thought-out quips about my deficiencies as a human, the guy leaning against the wall behind her cleared his throat. Luce’s hands curled into fists. She sat back and replaced the ice pack on her face.

I cocked a brow at the guy. “You know, Darrel, I have some lozenges in my car. I could run out and grab them for you. Could really help with that throat thing you have going on.” I uncrossed my legs as if getting ready to stand.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he snarled. I smiled. He was a lean guy, about six feet, with the creamy complexion of a mixed race. His hair was knotted in tight dreads, and his jaw was set. He was a tough one, controlled. But I’d got him to break their little code of silence. It was a petty victory, I know, but a victory nonetheless. And Darrel cursed himself for falling for it. I leaned back again, took another drink.

“How’s the wrist doing, Tony?” I asked over my shoulder to the third guy sitting on the counter. He was younger than the others—just under twenty-four. And while his mind was sharp, he had the blond curls and golden tan of a West Coast surfer. I’d run into a lot of guys like him over the past months whenever I’d ventured out to a mall or passed through a college campus. I couldn’t take him seriously if I wanted to. “Sorry to shatter the bones like that. It’s just this thing I do whenever someone aims a gun at my head. I hope it doesn’t hinder your role in your current assignment.”

He didn’t respond, of course, but his mind wasn’t quite as disciplined as his teammates’—I saw some of the details of their
current Network assignment. Like the name of their supernatural target. Weird, it wasn’t anyone from my family.

Colin walked carefully back into the kitchen, tapping his cell phone against his forehead. Luce sat straighter in her seat. Tony continued to nurse his broken wrist but hopped off the counter at Colin’s nod. His now bullet-free Glock clanged against the counter when he moved. Colin blew out a breath and studied my face. He reminded me so much of Jon. Clean-cut, thirtysomething, oozing natural leadership. Hell, even his hair was gelled in a similar catalog-model style.

Thinking of Jon immediately reminded me of Theo. I looked away and focused on my drink.

Colin dropped his cell phone on the table. When I glanced up, he’d put on his serious interrogator face.

“Magnolia. Like the flower. That’s what you said your name was, right? What, is that supposed to be some cool single name like Beyoncé or Ke$ha? Tell me again, cool flower girl, why are you here?”

I ignored his lame attempt at intimidation and looked around the kitchen. The faded gold-and-brown wallpaper still peeled in the corners. Ugly wood paneling still covered the wall behind Darrel. There were still breaks in the wood from a little disagreement Jon and I had had last summer. I ran my hands over the oversize table. This was where Thirteen had asked me to teach his team how to kill someone with my powers. My chest ached remembering the hurt that request had caused me. The furnace kicked on and blew burned air through the vents in the ceiling. Over the sink, the yellow curtains I’d once bought to pretty up the place wavered.

“This is my home,” I said softly. Damn it, even I could hear the longing in my voice.

“No,” Colin replied. “This house is owned by a private organization, one you seem to know quite a bit about.”

“The house is owned by me. And of course I know about the Network. I work for them.”