Requiem for the Dead (6 page)

"Evy, I will not be—"

"Another person who abuses me, yeah, I got that memo. News flash, Truman. This distance between us hurts me every single day, because you're not touching me."

He flinched.

I took three long strides forward and was halfway to him. He didn't pull away, just watched me with hooded, angry eyes. "You know I'm better with actions than with words, but here goes anyway. I love you so much, Wyatt, and I want to be able to make love to you. And you need to show your fear who's boss. Every time you let what the goblins or Thackery did to me stop you from loving me, they win. And I don't want them to win anymore. Not with this.

"So take off your fucking clothes."

Something in Wyatt's demeanor changed, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. His eyes stayed silver, yet they seemed to warm. His expression went from icy and angry to calm and collected. A muscle in his jaw twitched. It was the oddest switch. I rarely gave him any sort of direct command like that, so maybe he was just surprised—oh wait. Weeks ago, Phineas told me that the Lupa were a matriarchal society, their Packs led by Alpha females and her mate. Women were the boss.

And I'd just ordered Wyatt to take off his clothes.

Huh.

He reached up and tugged off his shirt, and the black cotton crumpled to the floor. I held still, even though I wanted to run my hands over his skin and feel every sharp line of the muscles on his arms and torso and back. He'd always been in amazing shape, but his Lupa change had increased his metabolism and melted him down to muscle and sinew and the results were jaw-dropping.

Even before he worked his belt and shoved both jeans and boxers down to his ankles, I knew he was hard. I kept my eyes directed right at his face, waited for him to step out of his shoes and the rest of his clothes, and caught his gaze. Bald desire smoldered in his eyes, as well as silent concern.

"I love you," he said. His voice was hoarse, tight.

"Hold still for me." It came out as a whispered request, rather than a command.

"I trust you, Evy."

"I know. But this is about you trusting yourself again."

He made a noise that was as much a plea as it was a warning. I moved to stand toe to toe with him. Our heights were nearly matched, so I could look him right in the nose (eyes would be too much of a direct challenge). His body radiated heat, and a fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead. I leaned in and pressed my left cheek to his, my nose near his ear, and inhaled deeply. Inviting him to do the same. Warm breath puffed against my neck as he accepted.

My hands came up to his shoulders. He tensed with that contact, and my stomach fluttered with nerves. I wasn't good at this seduction stuff; I was going with whatever felt right. Touching him definitely felt right, and the simple sensuousness of it was stoking my own arousal. I trailed my fingers down his arms, tracing muscles and bone and skin, down to his hands, which I lifted and put on my hips.

He did not move on his own.

I flattened my palms over his pecs, allowing my fingers to skate lightly over his nipples, and he growled. It was a human growl, though, and that shot a bolt of pleasure straight through my midsection. The hands on my bare hips squeezed a fraction harder. I took another step closer, obliterating the distance between us. My breasts pressed against his chest. His erection, hot and hard, was trapped against my belly.

"Fuck," he whispered.

I nuzzled his cheek with my nose. "Yes, please."

Fingers tangled in my hair and pulled my head back with a gentle tug, and then his mouth devoured me. Wyatt's kisses were always special, often intense, but this was different. This kiss was a declaration, a claiming, more so than any of the dozens of kisses we'd already shared. I opened for him willingly, wanting him in me in every way possible, and his tongue licked inside my mouth. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders to keep him there, hips moving on their own as the need for friction overwhelmed me.

My lips tingled faintly with a soft brush of otherness that had been there ever since Wyatt's infection. Unlike the full-blooded Lupa, his saliva wasn't dangerous to me or anyone else. His blood, on the other hand, could be, especially if it came into contact with an open wound. My handy healing powers would likely allow me to defeat any sort of infection, but Wyatt wasn't one to take unnecessary chances on things that might cause me pain.

So I wasn't surprised when he had the wits to break the kiss. His eyes were still black, with only a thin ring of silver, but more silver flashed deep within the iris. The wolf wanted out, to dominate, but Wyatt was fighting to stay in charge. "Evy, what about—?"

"I have condoms."

He blinked, and his face melted into something between awe and joy. Then a wicked grin made my knees wobble. "How many?"

"Let's find out."

I pulled, and he helped me walk backward to the mattress on the floor. It wasn't fancy, and it wasn't wine-and-roses, but nothing about our relationship had ever been those things—mythical things written in books about perfection and forever. It had always been real—messy, loving, hurtful, painful, and in the end, worth every hug and tear and moment simply spent holding each other.

Wyatt turned and laid down first, then pulled me on top of him. I laughed as I settled with my knees braced on either side of his hips. I caught him in another tingly kiss. Our hands roamed, relearning familiar swells and valleys and plains, teasing and touching. He relaxed beneath me, his initial fear and hesitation disappearing behind confidence and control. Mouths found intimate places, and he brought me through one orgasm and close to a second before we made good use of those condoms.

All three of them.

Monday, September 1

5:45 am

I could have stayed on that thin mattress, tangled up with Wyatt's body, for the rest of my afterlife—if it wasn't for the sudden need to pee. The pressure in my bladder pulled me out of a very comforting slumber, and clued me into the fact that the world was waiting for us outside this bank vault.

Damned world. Go away.

"How long have you been planning this?" Wyatt asked in a sleep raspy voice.

I raised my head from its pillow on his chest and met his gaze—all pleased man, with no sign of the wolf. "Couple of days."

"With Gina's help?"

"Mostly. I think sometimes she still feels bad about trying to blow me up."

"I think she's just getting better at making and holding onto friends. She's really good at putting up walls."

I didn't know all of Kismet's losses, but I did know some of them. Her Hunters were her family, and losing Felix had hurt her terribly. Nearly losing Tybalt a few weeks before that to a Halfie bite (his life saved when Milo cut half his arm off to stop the infection). Losing Lucas two years ago, who'd been not just her Hunter but also her lover. The devastation of the Triads, which was an organization she'd helped build in its earliest days. And there was an entire back story I was missing that had to do with her changing her name—something I'd learned thanks to a nosy PI named James Reilly, who was now on our payroll.

"Most of us are good at putting up those walls," I said.

"Just means those of us who love them have to work harder to break them back down."

"Are you talking about me or Gina?"

"Among others." He crooked a finger beneath my chin, and I slid up higher so I could kiss him. A gentle, good-morning kiss that made my angry bladder feel a little less important. I pressed my face into his throat and kissed the faint scars left behind from the Lupa's attack.

"You're remarkable, Evy."

I looked up and quirked an eyebrow at him. "Keep that in mind next time you're pissed at me for doing something stupid and reckless."

"You always act with good intentions, no matter the danger to yourself, and that makes me crazy."

"I know."

"Thank you for this. For being brave enough to get in my face and make me stop treating you like…" He pulled a face.

"Like a victim? Like brittle glass? Like I thought for one minute you'd do anything to intentionally harm me, when all you've ever done is protect me?"

"All of the above?" His smile was sad, but hopeful.

I planted another hard kiss on his mouth, then levered up on my elbows. "You're welcome. And I don't know about you, Truman, but I have to pee really bad."

He laughed long and loud—a truly beautiful sound. "I didn't want to be the first to say something…"

#

In the bathroom mirror, I studied a faint hickey on my collarbone. My T-shirt would hide it, but I kind of liked knowing it was there. Possession wasn't a concept I ever thought I'd be comfortable with, and on some levels I still wasn't, but I kind of liked having Wyatt's mark on me. In Therian circles, it was a sign of belonging to another, and it would serve to reinforce the fact that we were declared mates.

Even if most humans would point at the hickey and snicker.

At the next sink, Wyatt was washing his face with vigor and a smile that always seemed to be playing with his mouth. More than anything, seeing him smiling so much told me that Operation: Trust Me had been a good idea, as well as a rousing success.

"I think I need a shower," I said to my own reflection. My bath stuff and robe were in a locker in the next room, closer to the dormitory style showers. It wasn't that I particularly wanted to rid myself of Wyatt's scent, but it could be distracting to the other Therians we worked with. And if the position of Elder was challenged—or had been while we were getting busy last night—we'd be working around a whole lot of them very soon.

A computerized tone filled the room, signaling the start of an intercom announcement. "Quad Two, report to Ops immediately. Quad Two, report to Ops," said Rufus's disembodied voice.

I groaned. So much for my shower.

"Do you think this is about the Pride?" I asked.

"We'll know soon enough," Wyatt said.

We left the bathrooms, both of us dressed in yesterday's clothes (not incredibly unusual) and smelling of sex (less usual). It was still early, so we didn't see many people in the corridor. Marcus came down the hall from the opposite direction, dressed in workout sweats, a towel draped over one shoulder.

Milo, dressed in sweat-shorts and a T-shirt, was already in Ops when we got there, learning against the desk where Rufus sat in his motorized chair. They weren't talking, but there was a strange air of tension around both men. Astrid strode over from another computer station, and the look she cast said this wasn't going to be a happy conversation.

"What's going on?" Wyatt asked. "The Bengals?"

"I'd like to tell you we saw this coming, but I'd be lying," Astrid replied. "And it's an additional complication that we do not need right now."

"Thank you for the dramatic preface," I said. "Care to get to the problem so we can go about dealing with it?"

She pointed at the computer. We all shifted so we were standing in a semi-circle facing the monitor. A video player was frozen on an image of three people—a man and woman sitting on a sofa, and a second man on a chair opposite them. It looked like an interview setup, and the ticker at the bottom of the screen said "Parents Worst Nightmare."

I studied the woman. Her heart-shaped face and thick, brown hair, and somehow I knew she had freckles on her nose. Just like I did.
Holy fucking hell.

Rufus hit Play on the video.

"…been six months since the Frosts have had contact with their daughter, Chalice," the single man said.

My heart nearly stopped. Beside me, Wyatt put an arm around my waist, and I clung to it as the full weight of the video hit me like a gargoyle's stone fist. On May 20 of this year, Chalice Frost committed suicide in her apartment bathtub. She was found by her best friend Alex, who called the police. Chalice was taken to the morgue at St. Eustachius Hospital. A few hours later, an elf performed a magic spell that brought me, the murdered Evangeline Stone, back to life—in Chalice's formerly dead body. While small threads of who Chalice had once been lingered in my mind, she was gone. Dead and mourned and technically nonexistent in this city thanks to some gremlins running computer interference.

In all of the incredible drama of my afterlife, it never consciously occurred to me that her parents were still out there somewhere, wondering what happened to their daughter.

The camera angle switched to a close-up of the parents, and their names appeared on screen: Stephen and Lori Frost. I had only the vaguest sense of familiarity. They might have been the parents of the body I was in, but they weren't
my
parents. I never knew my loser father, and my mother died when I was ten. But the pain these two people were in still felt important. Real.

"Our daughter Chalice moved here three years ago," Stephen said, straight to the camera. "I remember the day she left home. But no one in this city can find a record of her ever being here. She took classes part time, but the university has no file on her. She had an apartment, but her name isn't on the lease and her roommate died on May twenty-second. Her old employer remembers her, but says the computer has no information on her employment. It's as if someone made our daughter disappear."

Next to him, Lori was doing a poor job of holding herself together. She clung to her husband's arm as tears rolled down her cheeks. The resemblance to me was uncanny, from hair to eyes to cheekbones.

Stephen squeezed his wife's arm, then continued. "Six months ago, we got our last phone call. It wasn't about anything in particular, but she sounded so sad. I know Chalice struggled with depression, and local police keep telling us to prepare for the idea that she took her own life, but I can't believe that."

I let out a grunt. Showed what he knew about his own kid.

"My wife and I aren't rich people, but we are willing to pay a monetary reward for any information that helps us find our daughter. We just want to know the truth, so that we can bring her home"—he wiped his eyes—"or put her to rest. Please."

Lori broke down and fell into Stephen's arms. The camera cut to a close-up of the interviewer. I didn't recognize him or his news show. "If anyone has information on the disappearance or whereabouts of Chalice Ann Frost, please contact the Metro Police Department Major Crimes at—"