Living with the Dead

HOPE





Hope called Robyn from the car. Robyn sounded as if she’d been sleeping, groggy, confused. Hope said they had her laptop and some clothes and were going to pick up food before coming back. They’d be there in an hour or so.

Then, with the danger past, Karl wanted to hear details of her plans for a cabin getaway. Hope was happy to oblige . . . in every way.

Afterward, still parked where they’d stopped, she took out the laptop. She didn’t like snooping through Robyn’s files, but if Portia’s killer was the supernatural Hope had sensed in the club, she’d better get a look at this picture before Robyn did.

Proof of their existence was something supernaturals would kill for—not only to protect themselves from exposure, but to save their ass from the council, the Cabals and every pissed-off supernatural who’d come gunning for them. But when Hope found the picture it was exactly what Robyn said: a picture of Jasmine Wills in the most god-awful outfit imaginable.

Karl leaned over. “Is she going to a costume party?”

“Even I can tell this is one criminal fashion faux pas. Criminal enough to turn Jasmine into a murderer? Portia takes it and calls Jasmine to gloat. Jasmine knows where she’ll be that night. She goes to Bane with a gun, planning to threaten Portia. But if you take a gun to a fight, you’d better be damned sure you can control your temper because all it takes is one tug on the trigger.”

“True.”

“But if it was Jasmine, Portia would have recognized her. So maybe this isn’t why her killer wanted the cell phone. Maybe she only went after Rob because she was a witness. Or maybe she didn’t go after her at all. A woman definitely shot Portia, and Rob was sure a guy killed the undercover officer. A partner? Totally unrelated?” Hope rubbed her temples. “Okay, tell me to stop blathering.”

“Never. I like your blathering.”

She glanced over at him. “Are you okay with this? It seems I’m always dragging you into some mess or another.”

“You don’t drag. I follow for the entertainment value.” He angled the laptop more toward him. “So, we have this photo of a girl in an ugly dress. She’s on a sidewalk. In the background, there’s a store window. Behind her, we have a couple—”

“Shit. Isn’t that—?”

Hope turned the laptop back for a better look. She’d been so blinded by the hideousness of Jasmine’s outfit that she hadn’t even noticed the two people at the edge of the frame. A middle-aged man in an expensive suit and a girl barely out of her teens, deep in conversation.

“That’s a Nast.”

Karl frowned, leaning over the armrest for a better look. Hope turned the laptop toward him again and pointed to the man.

“You recognize him?” he asked.

“No, but I recognize the look.”

The Nasts ran the largest of the four North American Cabals. Their head office was in L.A. Hope had more contact with the Cortezes, out of Miami, but she’d seen enough photos of the Nasts to recognize one. Sixty-five years ago, they could have served as poster boys for Hitler’s Aryan army—tall, broad-shouldered, blond-haired, with bright blue eyes. Handsome in a severe, arrogant way, as if they’d sooner crush you under their Gucci loafers than speak to you—and with most Nasts, you were wise to take that as a warning.

Hope pointed at the photo. “If this guy is a Nast, you can bet this is why Portia Kane was killed for this photo. As for why . . .”

“I doubt that girl beside him is his daughter.”

“Given the fact that sorcerers don’t have daughters, I’d say it’s a sure bet. And she’s too young to be his personal assistant. If Portia Kane accidentally snapped a photo of a middle-aged guy with his post-pubescent mistress, that hardly seems worth killing her for. But we’re talking about a Cabal. If this photo could damage the reputation of a top exec, he’d want it back. Portia Kane and Robyn would be considered expendable.” She opened the mail program. “But all that hinges on this guy being a Nast. If you can drive until I pick up a wireless connection, I should have an answer for us by morning.”



HOPE DIDN’T NEED TO WAIT until morning. She sent an e-mail, then called to leave a message at Lucas’s office, not wanting to bother him at home so late. But someone answered the office phone.

“Cortez-Winterbourne Investigations. Ridding the world of evil, one demonic entity at a time.”

“I hope that’s not how you normally handle the office phones, Savannah.”

“Absolutely. Weeds out the cranks and telemarketers, let me tell ya.”

“What are you doing there so late?”

The line hissed, as if Savannah was getting comfortable. “Working my ass off as always. You know those Cortezes. Work supernaturals into the grave, then bring ’em back and work ’em some more. So I’m here and I just got your e-mail. Now, let me get this straight. You have this photo, everyone who touches it goes on some kind of death list, and now you’re sending it to me. I’ve seen this in a movie, you know.”

“That was a video.”

“Close enough.”

Karl glanced over, brows arching.

“Savannah,” Hope mouthed.

He rolled his eyes. He didn’t have much patience for the nineteen-year-old witch. Hope liked her well enough, but it seemed she had a soft spot for cocky, overconfident supernaturals.

“Okay, so I’m opening this photo and if I die, I am so going to haunt your ass. Let’s see. It’s—” Savannah let out a shriek. “Holy f*cking mother of God. What is that thing?”

“You like?”

“I think I’m blind now. That’s the curse, isn’t it? Look at the picture and—Wait, isn’t that Jasmine something-or-other? One of those Paris-lites?”

“You read the tabloids, Savannah? Say it isn’t so.”

“Are you kidding? I’m the ward of two well-educated, cultured individuals. I read the New Yorker, Harper’s and sometimes National Geographic, but only for the half-naked guys. I do, however, indulge in True News on occasion, to enjoy the journalistic stylings of their in trepid paranormal reporter. Call me crazy, but I think that girl knows of what she speaks.”

“You think?”

“I do. So why would you be sending Paige and Lucas a photo of what’s-her-name, other than to scar our retinas—Holy shit. Portia Kane. Paige said your friend went to L.A. to do PR work for some celebutante. It’s Portia Kane, isn’t it? And now she’s dead and . . . Hey, is this a case? ’Cause if it is, I’ve got the weekend off, and I could—”

“It’s not a council case. About the photo, it’s actually the people in the background I’m interested in. There’s a young woman and—”

“Uncle Josef! No, wait, that’s Cousin Irving. I always get them confused. God, I haven’t seen ol’ Irving since . . . well, since the last Nast family reunion they didn’t invite me to.”

While it was true that sorcerers don’t father girls, that didn’t apply when they had a child with a witch, who only had daughters. So Thomas Nast’s granddaughter was being raised by the son of his bitter rival, the Cortez Cabal CEO, the same son who’d devoted his life to fighting Cabal injustice, until recently when he began dividing his time between that and reluctantly helping prop up his father’s sagging empire. And yes, that was all just as complicated as it sounded.

But for Thomas Nast and most of his clan, one thing wasn’t complicated. Savannah was not his dead son’s daughter. No Cabal sorcerer would ever sleep with a witch. Well, except Lucas and . . . yes, it was complicated. Anyone who saw Savannah, though, with her distinctive big blue eyes, knew exactly who her daddy had been.

“So it’s a Nast?”

“Yep, and I’m ninety percent sure it’s Irving. That would be my dad’s cousin, so my second-cousin or first cousin once removed or whatever. We should have a dossier on him. If you need more, I can put you in touch with Sean to answer any questions. Discreetly, of course. I wouldn’t want to get him in trouble.”

“We’ll try to leave your brother out of it. Now, as for that dossier . . .”

“It’s on the way . . .” Keys clicked in the background. “. . . now.”



THE MAN IN THE PICTURE was definitely Irving Nast—it matched the one in his dossier down to a small mole by the corner of his eye. As for the rest of the dossier, it was . . . interesting.

Cabals are run by a central sorcerer family. If you are a member of that family, you’re guaranteed an office on the executive level. In the case of Irving, that family connection seemed to be the only reason he got that office. He was VP of some division Hope had never heard of, in charge of a very small department.

According to the dossier, Irving didn’t even warrant a bodyguard. Being the CEO’s nephew and not getting a guard told the supernatural world you were so low on the totem pole you weren’t worth kidnapping—you weren’t privy to any secret intelligence and they wouldn’t bother ransoming you back.

One reason a family member might rank so low was simple lack of ambition—you were content to coast along on your name, like Lucas’s brother Carlos. But it looked as if Irving dreamed of more. The dossier included a string of “independent ventures,” where Irving had tried to get innovative and prove his worth . . . and instead had a run-in with Lucas or the council.

“He’s a screw-up,” Hope said as she finished reading aloud to Karl. “If this photo is Irving and his very young mistress, it might explain what happened. He’s already on thin ice with the Cabal, so he came up with a plan to get the photo back.”

“And f*cked up royally.”

“Yep. On the plus side, though, not rating a bodyguard means it would be easy to interrogate him, if it came to that.”

Karl checked his watch. “He should be sleeping. We could—”

“I said ‘if it came to that.’ Kidnapping and questioning a Nast VP would get me into the kind of trouble even I don’t enjoy. So don’t tempt me.” When he opened his mouth, she went on, “And don’t say that you aren’t bound by council rules. You’re bound by Pack rules, as much as you like to pretend otherwise. Relations are strained enough between the Pack and the Cabals already. Jeremy doesn’t need that kind of grief.”

Hope navigated to MapQuest. “If we don’t find leads by tomorrow night, we’ll reconsider. In the meantime, I have a home address. It might be wise to swing by, get the lay of the land.”

“And if he happens to be out for a late jog or walking his dog, he might be inclined to chat.”

She smiled. “Exactly.”



IRVING NAST WAS NOT OUT WALKING his dog or running. He was, as far as they could tell, inside with his family—a wife and two preteen sons according to his dossier. Even Karl wouldn’t suggest a home invasion when children were involved.

They circled the block, then parked a street over and walked back, playing strolling couple again as they got a closer look at the property and made a note of the vehicles and license plates, anything that might later help them nab Irving if a “chat” was required.



ON THE WAY BACK, they finally picked up dinner for Robyn. As Hope returned to the car, she nearly bumped into Karl, walking around from the building rear.

“They have a bathroom inside, you know,” she said as he took the take-out bags.

He only gave her a look, the thought that he would ever piss behind a building clearly not warranting comment.

“What did you see?” she said.

He waved it off, but she could feel the fading chaos vibes still flowing from him.

“Karl?”

“I thought I was being watched. He ducked behind the building. I followed.”

“And?” Hope prompted.

“Apparently, he didn’t find the restaurant facilities to his liking.”

“Ah. See, I was partly right. My psychic skills are improving. Some one was taking a leak back there.”

He opened her door and waved her in, shaking his head.