Touch of Evil (18 page)

I saw Joe's back go up and I reached over to squeeze his leg to silence him. He wouldn't buy it. He has even less restraint than I do.

"I think a better question would be why is your husband begging to see Kate?" Green fire flashed in my brother's eyes and I sighed.

Amanda's head spun in my brother's direction,

"Dylan would never beg to see Kate!"

"Oh, no?" Joe shot back. "Five messages in two days. Yeah, I'd say he was begging." I gave Joe a hard look. Needling Amanda was not going to improve this situation.

Amanda took a menacing step forward. I stood. She shoved past me, dropping to her knees next to Dylan. A second later, she noticed the condition of the carpeting, sticky with spills and ground-in dirt, so she changed to a squatting pose with a look of disgust.

"Dylan! Wake up and tell me what the hell is going on!" I winced as she slapped him hard across the face. I knew it was the best way to pull him out of the trance but I didn't have to like that she seemed to enjoy it. She was about ready to deliver a second blow when I grabbed her arm.

"Dylan called me to help Matt find Dusty." I said quietly. I was hoping to avoid a big confrontation. I'd hate to get bounced out on my ear by Leo. Bernardo's is one of my favorite haunts.

Her brow furrowed and I had to admit it did my heart good to see the wrinkles she was trying to hide with her brunette bangs. "Who?"

"Your niece, Becky. She goes by Dusty now. But I think his contacting me has something to do with Dylan's masters, too."

I forced myself not to grit my teeth. It's none of my business, but seeing him so helpless . . . I can't imagine how Amanda can actually believe that it's not only okay for Dylan to be a Herd member, but actually believes it's beneficial. Like death from parasite-related anemia is a good thing.

She yanked her arm out of my grasp. "Queen Monica would never send Dylan to you." She used Monica's name the way a Brit would say "Queen Elizabeth."

"You're absolutely right." My agreement surprised her. "Who do you think made Dylan into a drooling zombie, Amanda? He contacted me

without her say-so."

The implication was clear. To hide an action from a group mind took a huge effort. That Dylan had been willing to risk Monica's fury meant that whatever he was up to was very important to him. Amanda's eyes narrowed into slits. She sprang up from her crouch directly at me fast enough to take me by surprise. I didn't even have time to back up before her hands were around my neck.

"You lying BITCH! " she screamed. Her nails dug into my flesh and I gasped. Joe leapt to his feet and immediately grabbed her around the waist and tried to pull her away. It was obvious she worked out, and hard. Ropes of rock-hard muscle appeared under the thin skin of her arms. She kicked backward and caught him in the stomach, pushing him onto the floor beside Dylan.

Amanda pressed me against the table. Her

fingers tightened, cutting off my air. I was offbalance enough that I would fall if I used my hands to fight her. Hmmm. I tensed all the muscles in my neck and shoulders so she would have to work to choke me. Then I raised my arms and let her momentum carry us backwards. The table tipped, hovered and then fell out from under us as I rolled sideways, carrying Amanda with me.

Her hands loosened but she didn't let go entirely. She'd been training. Fortunately, those few seconds were all I needed. In mid-air I raised one foot, braced it against her stomach, slid my hands up her arms and grasped her wrists. I tore them away from my neck at the same time that I pushed against her stomach with my foot. She catapulted over the top of me. A crash, followed closely by a scream, sounded behind me and a nine ball slammed into my shoulder. That's the problem with fighting in a pool hall. Someone's bound to end up on a table. I rolled to my stomach and coughed until I

retched. I really hate being choked. I used a nearby bar stick to raise me to my feet. I held it crossways to protect myself while I tried to find Amanda's position. Problem two with fighting in a pool hall—an overabundance of weapons.

I didn't have to worry. Amanda lay prone on the bar table across the aisle from our table. Balls lay scattered on the green felt around her and probably under her. Even if she didn't crack a rib, she'd be sore for a week. She was breathing raspily and moaned slightly, but I still didn't get close enough to check on her. Instead, I stood over her with the pool cue at the ready.

I felt a presence behind me and spun around, stick raised to strike. Leo had finally entered the fray. He grabbed the cue quicker than I could move and yanked it out of my grasp.

"Knock it off, Reilly." His voice was the stern growl of a professional bouncer.

I opened my mouth to explain . . . and broke into giggles. Leo's brow furrowed. I guess he wasn't used to fighters laughing after he'd broken up a brawl.

"Sorry," I gasped when I could breathe. "But the first words out of my mouth were going to be, 'well, she started it.'"

A wry smile turned up one corner of his mouth.

"Then I guess my line is, 'and I'm finishing it.' " He pushed me an arms-length back and helped

Amanda to her feet.

"Take your man and go, " he commanded after he was sure she could stand. "And if the slate on this table is cracked, you're getting a bill." Amanda's eyes went wide and her mouth

opened. Then storm raged again across her face. "If that table is broken you can send the bill to Kate, thank you very much! I'm the injured party here!" Leo crossed massive arms over his chest. "No. You were the aggressor. Kate took care of your man until you got here and then you attacked her. I'm not stupid. I've been watching the whole scene since you walked in." He turned and pointed toward the door. His voice raised until it was a bellow. Grown men have quaked in their boots at that voice. "Now, if you don't get your ass out of here and take that drooling zombie of yours with you, I'll call the cops so fast your head will spin!"

9

I helped Leo clean up the place after Amanda left. Joe wanted to be a big brother and follow me around all day but I had no intention of letting him. So I lied. I told him that I was going to go back to my loft, and I would . . . eventually.

Whether he actually believed me or not, he gave in. I think the way I dealt with Amanda had opened his eyes a bit to what I was capable of. Or he had his own agenda. I'd like to think the former, but the latter was far more likely. Still, you know what they say about gift horses. I'd get more done, quicker, without my brother dogging my heels and I needed information, fast.

With that in mind, I headed toward the center of downtown. The 16th Street mall runs from Civic Center Station by Colfax a couple of miles down to Wynkoop. It's the beating heart of the downtown area. They've closed it to all but pedestrian traffic and the shuttle buses that run north and south along a central boulevard with street vendors, seating, and the occasional fountain. The shuttle is free, with stops on every corner. It's always crowded with an eclectic mix of business and street people; going to work or going nowhere.

I seldom take the shuttle; it's too crowded and despite the bus company's best efforts—including video surveillance—I know of more than a few people who've had their pockets picked. Walking is good exercise, and it gives me a chance to see people.

I've made friends with most of the regular street vendors. Pete's my favorite, for a very particular reason. He's a small man, probably only 5'2", if that. Today he was wearing his standard uniform: jeans, a Rockies baseball cap, sunglasses, baggy Hawaiian print shirt over a sparkling white undershirt and faded jeans. He sells overpriced sunglasses from a wheeled wooden cart that sits in the center island between Stout and Curtis streets. I have a bad habit of losing sunglasses, so I visit him often. Today, I was hoping to pick up both a pair of shades and information.

"Hey, Pete."

"Uh, Kate. You're back." He didn't sound happy to see me, which was unusual enough that I

commented on it.

"It's just . . ." Pete looked around nervously, licking his lips. "Monica . . ."

I nodded. "Yeah, I know. Monica wants me dead. But the queens are taking care of it." Pete's lifted his sunglasses so that I could see the earnestness in his beady brown eyes. "You're joking, right? No, Kate, you're confused. Monica wants you alive. And I sure as fuck wish I could say that the queens were controlling her. It's getting a bit dicey for me to even be seen with you." He stared at me intently, willing me to understand. My mind went back to Monica's

words in the hospital: " I want you dead. But not quite yet. I have other plans for you first." Pete dropped his shades and turned away. He didn't look at me, but began wiping fingerprints from a pair of glasses as he spoke in a near whisper. "She had somebody else picked out, but the girl up and disappeared. The replacement the queens sent is dead; and they don't know how she did it."

I heard "girl" and "disappeared." My warped brain immediately tied it to the pretty blue-eyed blonde in the photo. I didn't have any proof but it made sense. Amanda might think the Thrall was a godsend. I was pretty sure Dylan didn't. As Herd he'd know if Monica had plans for Dusty. He'd also know their plans for me. Was he setting me up? I tried to think clearly, but terror had tied my stomach in knots. The queens couldn't contain Monica? What had she become? I felt my head moving from side to side and I felt cold in the warm July sun.

"Not only no, but hell no. Not only hell no. Fuck no. No way. I am not playing Host to one of those things. I'd rather be dead."

"You're thinking too small, girl. No mere Host for you. Uh-uh."

His words made it crystal clear. She wanted me to be queen. It was finally her time and now it was my turn. Mine or Dusty's. Monica would know that adamant refusal would be my reaction, which is why it would be the perfect revenge, but also why she had a back-up. She'd been smart enough to try to drug me first—suicide was not supposed to be an option.

"You should leave town."

I took a slow, deep breath. I wouldn't panic. I would not panic. "Leaving town would be running, Pete. Prey run. I am Not Prey." I heard my voice as if from a distance. It sounded strangled and almost a full octave higher than usual.

"Prey, Not prey, who gives a fuck?" I took another deep breath. When I spoke again I managed to sound calm. Nothing could make me feel it. I was terrified. My pulse thundered, pumping adrenaline and blood through my veins.

"If I run I am Prey. They can hunt me down and kill me like an animal. If I am Not Prey they have to treat me as an equal." I said it as much to reassure myself as to educate him. Because right now I needed reassurance.

"Better you than me." He shook his head.

"Shame you couldn't have been out of town a couple more days. Then the whole thing would've gone down without you winding up in the middle of it."

"I should be so lucky." I grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the cart at random, and pulled out my wallet. I let him keep the change from the twenty. The warning he'd just given me was worth at least ten times that much. But oddly, an offer to pay more would probably have insulted him.

"Thanks Pete."

He gave me a look that held pity and worry in equal doses. "Watch your back, Katie—watch it like a son-of-a-bitch."

"I will. Believe me!"

I pulled on the glasses and turned back the way I came. Despite the sunshine and the heavy black leather, I was cold. I felt . . . exposed and, damn it all, terrified. What I most wanted was to get home and get my neck guard on. The zippered leather jacket would protect my arms long enough for me to fight. The inner thigh . . . they'd have to have me pinned or unconscious to get me there. But my neck was vulnerable right now and that was

terrifying. Because one little nip is all it takes for them to be able to use their mind control on you. Strength of will was all that had saved me when Monica chomped onto my leg last time—and she'd just been a baby.

A sudden hand on my arm made me reach to

where my knives should be, but of course they weren't there. What in the hell had I been thinking?

The answer to that, of course, was that I hadn't. Been thinking, that is. I'd been too distracted by Tom and pissed at my brother. I mentally kicked myself for being an idiot and prayed that I'd actually live to regret the mistake since dead or infested I wouldn't regret anything.

I spun on my heel to face . . . Morris Goldstein. He jumped back a half-step, as if startled by my hostile reaction. He coughed slightly, covering his mouth with a pudgy hand. "Ah! Ms. Reilly! I'm so pleased you're back from Paris. You were on your way to see me?"

Morris is one of the least threatening men I've ever met. Short and balding beneath his skullcap, with hazel eyes made wider by thick square glasses. His suits are perpetually rumpled, and his English, while good, is very heavily accented.

"Actually," I started to argue, but Morris had already tucked my arm into his and was pulling me down the mall in the direction of his office. I'm almost a full foot taller than him, but the pace he set was fast enough that I was actually struggling to keep up.

He was talking a mile a minute, the words a blur of Hebrew-accented English.

"Marta has been trying to reach you all morning!

We need you to go to Tel Aviv at once. Such luck I have to run into you! I've acquired the most amazing stone! It's a 2.37 carat D-flawless, just arrived from a small town in Arkansas. Found by an elderly tourist—never in my life—purchased it for a song. I'm certain it will be very soft on the wheel to become a stunning pear cut. Yes, yes, God is on my side! One package to deliver and another to bring back."

He was still babbling about his latest find as we reached the Diamond Exchange Building where he has his office blocks down the street. Whew! I was breathless, and I wasn't even the one doing the talking.

Always the gentleman, he had me precede him into the elevator. He chattered all the way up to the eighth floor, mostly scolding me about my absence of jewelry. He punched the series of numbers that unlocked the outer office door, then held it open for me. Marta was not at her desk. He called out, but there was no answer. He frowned, stepping behind the desk to look at her computer. He furrowed his brow and then looked at the printer. His eyes widened and he smiled. "Ah! The ink has finished. She must have gone to the supply room in the back."