Living with the Dead

FINN



FINN SAT IN THE CAR and watched the building. A cookie-cutter motel—an ugly block of rooms with an office at one end, a cleaning cubby and vending machines in the middle. He imagined a motel salesman back in the fifties, drumming up customers. “You want one of our Model A roadside motels. Model B? Well, actually, we don’t have a Model B . . .”

The problem with Model A was parking. The layout presumed you were in the fifties, heading down Route 66 on a family road trip and, naturally, you only needed one parking spot, which was conveniently located right outside your room door. If you brought a friend or towed a trailer, you needed to park it in the dirt lot out back, which was quite possibly the worst location for a stakeout. So Finn was stuck in one of the empty spots along the front. Uncomfortably exposed and, worse, unable to see one half of the building, now that a billboard of a minivan had pulled in beside him.

He’d gotten out once to scout, but he wasn’t inconspicuous enough to loiter for long, so he was stuck with two hopes. One, that Adams was in the part of the motel he could see. Two, that Damon would get his phantom ass the hell back from wherever he’d gone and tell Finn where Adams was.

Making Damon hitchhike in the taxi had been an inspired plan. And like all his inspired plans these last few days, it had played out much better in his mind than in reality. Finn had managed to follow Adams’s cab for a few miles. Then he’d lost it as a transport cut him off. When the transport had passed, the cab was gone. A half-mile later in his rearview mirror he’d seen the cab pull from this motel.

All he had to do then was pull in and wait for Damon to come out and tell him which unit Adams was in. That had been ten minutes ago.

As Finn leaned back in his seat, a man jogged past his car. Anytime Finn saw someone running in L.A. without a jogging suit—hell, sometimes even with one—he paid attention. The guy was nearing forty, clean shaven, wearing a team jacket and a ball cap, heading toward the road, no sign that he was chasing or being chased.

Finn relaxed. Then another man, older and heavyset, ran past, this one along the sidewalk in front of the motel rooms.

“Hey!” the second man yelled. “Hey! Someone stop that guy!”

That got Finn out of the car. He strode to the sidewalk. Ahead of the running man stood a girl, no more than eleven, dressed in a halter top and denim skirt that wouldn’t be out of place on a street hooker.

“What’s happening here?” Finn said, flashing his badge to the big man, who’d stopped now, doubled over, panting.

“There was a girl . . .”

“That girl?” Finn jerked a thumb at the preteen.

“No, a—” He caught his breath. “Woman. Young woman. She said that guy attacked her. I told the manager to call the cops, but I don’t think he’s going to.”

“Where’s the young woman?”

“Took off,” the girl said.

“Is he chasing her?”

“Dunno.”

“Which way did she go?”

“Dunno.”

She scuffed worn sneakers against the pavement. Crossed her arms. Scowled as if she was being asked to do a chore. Finn started walking, taking out his phone to call for backup.

“My dad’s right,” the girl muttered behind him. “Too many foreigners in this city. Stupid lady smacked right into me. Never even said sorry.”

Finn stopped and looked back. “The young woman?”

“Yeah. Mexican or something.”

“East Indian, I think,” the man said. “Tiny thing, but the way she threw that guy down—”

Finn didn’t hear the rest. He was already running down the front sidewalk. A young couple blocked the way. They’d stopped to look at a partially open door.

As Finn passed, the young man plucked his sleeve. “You smell that?”

He caught an odor that made his guts knot, remembering a training seminar where they’d sprayed new LAPD recruits with CS gas.

Wisps of smoke spiraled from the cracked-open door. Inside, someone coughed. He pulled out his gun and eased the door open another inch. The distinct peppery smell of tear gas wafted out, mixed with another smell—whatever caused the smoke, he supposed.

The smoke had almost evaporated, and he could make out a figure on all fours, hacking. A woman. Young. Slender. Dark blond hair in a ponytail. His hand tightened on his gun, the image of Adele Morrissey popping to mind. Then the woman lifted her head and Finn saw the face that had been taunting him for three days.

Robyn Peltier.

A careful look around the empty room, then he holstered his weapon and hurried inside, grabbing her under the arms and lifting her. Once they were past the door, she staggered to the wall and leaned against it. Her head dropped forward as she sputtered and gasped, tears streaming.

Finn called for backup and an ambulance. When he gave his name, Robyn stiffened, head rising, watery reddened eyes meeting his. Then she dropped her head again, racked by a fresh wave of coughing and dry heaves.

“It’s Detective Findlay, Robyn,” he said when he got off the phone. “You called me last night.”

She tried to nod between coughs, face still lowered.

“Paramedics are on their way,” he said. “That was tear gas. It’s not dangerous, just . . .” He was about to say something suitably neutral, as the department taught, but remembering what it felt like, what came out was: “. . . vile.”

Her cough softened into a laugh. “That would about sum it up.”

Finn shifted his weight, resisting the urge to take her arm.

He’d spent three days searching for this woman, and now here she was, hacking up her lungs, and all he could think was that she looked . . . small.

He glanced around for the ambulance. “Keep breathing. Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?”

She shook her head and went to swipe her sleeve over her eyes.

Finn caught her arm. “Don’t rub. You’ll only make it worse. We need to get your eyes washed out. Same with your skin. Does it burn?”

“Ice,” she croaked.

Good idea. There’d be water in the vending machine, too.

He plucked a bill from his wallet and looked around for someone to run the errand. The tiny crowd had dispersed, which may have had something to do with the stinking fog still seeping from the opened door. He closed it, scanned the lot and found the heavyset man, hanging back as he stared at Robyn.

When Finn waved the man over, he shook his head, still gaping at Robyn with the horror one usually reserves for Ebola victims.

“It’s tear gas,” Finn called. “It’s not—”

The man climbed into his car, shut and locked the door.

“The ice machine’s right over . . .” Robyn squinted to see, her eyes still streaming tears. “Over there,” she said resolutely, then took an equally resolute step before faltering against the wall.

Finn went to grab her only to realize he still had hold of her arm. He tightened his grip, helping her find her balance.

“Sorry,” she said. “Guess I’m a little off.”

Now it was his turn to laugh, a rusty rumble. “I’d say you’ve got a right to be. I’ll get the ice and water. Stay here and catch your breath.”

Finn jogged to the vending machine. He fed his bill into it while scouring the cubby for something to hold the ice. He bought a water and a Coke, then snatched up an empty chip bag, filled it with ice and put it into his pocket.

The sidewalk was empty.

Finn strode to the spot where he’d left Robyn. He looked around. Even opened the motel room door again. She was gone.

He dropped the bottles. Threw them, if he was being honest, as he started running.

How stupid had that been? He finally catches his fugitive suspect, only to leave her unattended while he trips over himself to get some water, some ice . . . Hell, she could probably use a Coke, to boost her blood sugar.

He reached the side corner to see her race around the back, remarkably agile for someone unable to take two steps a few minutes ago.

She’d played him.

He tore down that side stretch so fast he barely had his gun out before he wheeled around the back corner and—

There stood Robyn Peltier. Holding a gun on him.





HOPE





Hope raced down the fence line, Rhys’s feet pounding behind her. She rounded the corner. Still no sign of an opening. Why would there be? The motel wouldn’t encourage anyone to cut through its property.

She pressed herself against the boards and waited, her eyes half closed as she tracked the pound of Rhys’s shoes. Closer, closer . . .

He came around the corner and she pounced. She caught him in a hold, but this time he was ready and before she could flip him, he countered, throwing her onto her back.

“Hope, you have to listen to me.”

Hope hit him with a head strike, grabbing his outstretched arm and slamming her open palm under his chin. He should have flown back. But he recognized the move, countered with a wrist twist and threw her to the ground again, harder this time, wind whooshing from her lungs, head hitting a rock, fireworks of pain and light exploding. He stood over her, his lips moving, some new variation on “Let’s talk about this,” but the gong ringing in her ears drowned out his words.

The demon wended through her body like an electric eel, sparking and jolting with every twist, battering itself against Hope’s insides, fighting to escape. It had escaped before. Once Hope had even seen it in a mirror, a nightmare version of herself, wild with rage. Now it whipped through her, begging to be free.

So Hope set the terms . . . and opened the gate.

She flew at Rhys, martial-arts training forgotten, animal instinct— demon instinct—taking over, tackling him with everything she had, a dervish of nails and feet and fists. Expecting another scripted martialarts move, he staggered back. She launched herself at him. They went down.

If any low-flying plane had passed over at that moment, Hope suspected they’d have seen a scene straight out of a Tasmanian devil cartoon as she scrabbled in the dirt with Rhys, a dust cloud enveloping them.

Throughout the fight, she kept control. And it was glorious, the purest adrenaline and chaos rush imaginable. Sweeter even than surrendering to the demon. Sweeter because, for those few minutes, her halves found their whole, demon and conscience in sync. Which was not to say the demon didn’t push the boundaries, tossing out suggestions that involved the permanent destruction of body parts—eyes, ears, teeth . . . and parts no guy really deserves to lose. But she controlled the demon and she used it.

It worked fine until Rhys pulled out a whip-thin strap of plastic that Hope didn’t even notice until it was fixed around her wrist. She jerked back, thrown off enough for him to take advantage, flipping her onto her stomach and snapping the cuff around her other hand.

She rocked and writhed, trying to kick, but he stayed out of reach. He grabbed her hair and ground her face into the ground. She coughed and spat dirt—and a few obscenities.

He leaned over her. “I want to talk to Hope.”

“Who the hell do you think you’re—?”

His fist tightened in her hair, jerking her head back. “I want to talk to Hope.”

She bucked and flipped fast, the demon power-boosting her strength. Her feet flew up, scissoring around his waist and throwing him to the side with a deftness that left her blinking.

He fell face-first. As he pushed up, Hope pounced, landing on his back, knees digging into his spine as her hands twisted wildly, trying to break the strap cuffs. She felt the tie slide over wet skin, and glanced over her shoulder to see her wrists bloodied.

The surprise of seeing blood was enough to make her pause. When Rhys bucked, she fell back. He shot up and lunged for her. She scrambled to her feet and kicked. When her foot didn’t make contact, she swung off balance, shoulder-checking the fence with a crack.

Rhys grabbed her shoulders and whammed her face-first into the fence. A splinter drove into her cheek and the demon screamed, as outraged as if she’d been stabbed. Fresh adrenaline pumped through her and she flailed, writhing and kicking.

Rhys slammed her against the fence hard enough to knock her wind out again, and this time her body said to hell with what the demon wanted, it had had enough, and she leaned against the wood, panting, sweat dripping into her open mouth, eyelids fluttering, legs trembling with exhaustion.

“Good,” Rhys said. “Now let me talk to Hope.”

“What the hell are you? An exorcist?”

A humor-free chuckle. “If I have to be.”

He flipped her around to face him, pinned her by the shoulders, then leaned down toward her face.

“I know you can hear me, Hope.”

“Of course I can. You’re spitting in my face.”

He inched back and lifted his chin before continuing. “I know it feels good, letting the demon take over. But I need you to take control. You’re getting hurt—”

“Because you keep throwing me around. Hello? I’m in control. No head spinning, see? I could manage projectile vomiting, though, if it’d make you feel better.”

“So you’re back?”

“I never went anywhere. I control her; she doesn’t control me.”

“Her?”

Hope flashed the image of Karl for the demon. Karl in trouble. It was like being seven again, telling her mom about the riding instructor who liked to caress her rear as he boosted her onto the horse. Like her mom, the demon went wild, protective instinct kicking in full steam. The snarling, teeth-gnashing dervish returned, thrashing until the bite of the handcuff strap knocked her sober.

“There.” She flicked her head to toss sweat-sodden hair out of her eyes. “If you’d like a better demonstration, just undo this strap.” She flashed her teeth then, a warning smile, pure Karl, another lesson assimilated and never used until now.

Rhys blinked and eased back. “So it can be controlled.” His lips moved. It took a moment for her to recognize the expression as a smile. “I was right.”

“Yes, apparently—” Hope nailed him in the shin with a satisfying crack. “—you were.”

He staggered back, wincing.

“Now cut this strap and walk away or—”

“I’m on your side, Hope.”

Another classic fight line. Her laugh came harsh. “Of course, you are. That Cabal SWAT team attack? Total misunderstanding.”

“Yes, it was the Cabal. Which means, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Because you couldn’t possibly be working for the Nasts.” She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. “You set us up. Friday night, when we went by to check out Irving Nast’s place, you were there. You followed us, then you set Grant Gilchrist on our trail. You were trying to find Adele for Irving and didn’t want us getting to her first.”

Hope expected him to say he’d been at Irving’s place for the same reason they’d been—scoping it out. An equally plausible excuse. But after a moment, he scooped up his ball cap, pulled it on and said, “Yes, that’s how I found you were involved and, yes, I was hired by Irving Nast to find Adele. But I’m not a Cabal employee. I’m an independent contractor.”

“A mercenary.”

“Not the word I’d choose.”

“You don’t like it? Well, I don’t like being tied up. So how about you let me go and I’ll promise never to call you that again.”

“Yes, Irving Nast hired me. He thought that was clever—getting one clairvoyant to find another. I was making sure he didn’t get her. A Cabal rips the soul from a clairvoyant.”

“Considering who we’re talking about—killer of cops and celebutantes and innocent bystanders—I’m not convinced a little soul ripping isn’t in order. And, no, that isn’t the demon talking.”

“Adele is . . . broken.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

His gaze flicked away, her flippancy unappreciated.

“You’ve got me, okay?” she said, toning it down a notch. “I surrender. Now take me to the Nasts.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I want to go—”

“Marsten’s fine, Hope. The Cabal wouldn’t touch a Pack werewolf, and unless Grant was wrong, that’s what Marsten is, and the Cabal knows it. If they wanted him dead, they’d have shot him. They just tranquilized him, neutralizing the biggest threat first.”

“Fine, so take me—”

“I can’t do that when I’d be in as much trouble as you. And they don’t want me going back. Don’t you get it? This is a set-up. Do you think letting us escape the front door was an oversight?”

“No, it’s proof that you’re working for them. They let you go so you could get me out and pretend to have rescued me.”

He rocked back on his heels. “What are my vibes telling you? Anything negative there, besides frustration? Anything to suggest I’m lying?”

“As a mercenary—hired gun, hired spy, hired con artist, whatever—you’re a professional liar.” She met his gaze. “Right?”

He tugged his cap brim, as if adjusting it, a subconscious attempt to pull back under its shadows. A man who preferred the security of anonymity.

“A professional liar can outwit an Expisco,” Hope said.

“Not if you were properly trained.”

How much did he know about Expiscos? This was the second time his words suggested she wasn’t the first one he’d met. The demon jumped to attention, straining forward with questions. Hope hauled it in and muzzled it.

“What possible reason would I have to fake-rescue you?” Rhys said. “To lead me to Adele? You have no idea where she is.”

“Okay, then. I’m useless. So let me go.”

“You aren’t useless to me. I brought one operative on this mission, and your boyfriend killed him. I need help, and I have a feeling you’re going to be a lot more useful on this mission than Grant.”

“What mission?”

“You haven’t asked why the Cabal let me escape that hotel room. What does Irving want?”

This wasn’t the time for a pop quiz. But as Hope squirmed, she could tell she wasn’t getting out of these strap cuffs until he let her. “You know where Adele is. Irving has figured out you’re not handing her over. He thinks if he swoops down on us and you escape, you’ll run off to warn her. Lead him to her. That’s why he had one of his men suggest they know where she is.”

“Suggest?” Rhys laughed. “That was one of the most obvious tricks I’ve seen. There’s a reason Irving hasn’t shot through the Cabal ranks.”

He took a penknife from his pocket and flicked it open.

“Your hands,” he said.

“I’d like to keep them.”

“And you aren’t going to if you keep yanking at that strap, digging it in deeper.” He flipped Hope around and sliced off the cuffs. “Now we need to get that cleaned up. I have a first-aid kit in my car. Then we’re going to the kumpania.” Seeing her expression, he shook his head. “You don’t even know what that is, do you? Remember what I said about being in over your head? The kumpania is where we’ll find Adele.”

“But that’s exactly—”

“—what Irving wants me to do? Yes.”

“I’m not helping the girl who—”

“I’m not warning Adele. I’m warning Neala.” Again, he saw her confusion. “Colm’s mother.”

“Your wife.”

He shook his head, gazed down as he returned the knife to his pocket. “Not for a very long time. But she saved my life once. I owe her.”

“So you’re going to warn her about the Cabal.”

“And, more immediately, about Adele. Which she already suspected. I just didn’t listen. She tried—”

He broke off, shaking his head and prodding her along the fence line.

Hope dug in. “Whatever problem you have, it’s your problem. Mine is Karl and Robyn. I don’t even know where Robyn is—”

“Picked up by the Cabal, I’m sure. You want them back from the Cabal SWAT team, and I want to get to the kumpania without that SWAT team on my tail. The two goals, I think you’ll agree, are not mutually exclusive.” He took her elbow. “Come on.”