Lure of the Wicked Part 11

It didn't f.u.c.king matter. In. Out.

Her skin p.r.i.c.kled, tingling pinp.r.i.c.ks that danced over her face and hands. She breathed, struggling for it, fighting for it.

Naomi slammed her head back against the wall. It shuddered. The gla.s.s rattled. "No," she gritted out. Pain radiated from the bruise there, swamped the synapses trying so hard to fry her into hysteria. She clenched her teeth, fisted her fingers.

She inhaled, held it, and launched herself to her feet. She didn't have time to be broken. The room swam around her, walls taut and hemming her in as she struggled to maintain her balance. Her fingertips tingled, the skin of her face p.r.i.c.kling as if a swarm of bees converged on her skin, but she dashed her forearm over her eyes and stalked to the elevator.

Focus.

The man who had vanished had been about five feet and six inches. Hundred and seventy pounds, she guessed, forcing her brain to engage. Her nails bit into her palms as she stared at the indifferent panel of the elevator door. Maybe one hundred and sixty.

Pain fragmented through her chest. She ignored it.

The sneak had been a porter, or at least someone familiar enough to go unnoticed by the rest of the staff. Carson? No, too short.

The witch? He seemed similar enough. Did he have the run of the place?

Could it be all of this f.u.c.king prison's people were in on this mess?

In on Carson's plot, or witches?

Were they the same problem? Had Naomi stumbled on a nest of covert witches? A new coven?

d.a.m.n it.

She swallowed back an aftershock of anxiety, locking her jaw around the rapid pulse of panic simmering under her skin.

A minute. She needed just a minute, and then she'd call the elevator. The last thing she needed was some other sympathetic guest asking after her well-being. Gossiping about her.

Worse, she didn't need rumors getting back to Phin.

His face appeared entirely too easily in her mind; eyes dark as chocolate, sweet as sin. The memory of Phin's smile dragged over her raw nerves like a physical caress, and Naomi jammed her fists against her eyes until they burned.

She'd been stupid to tease him like that. To cross that boundary and let the easy confidence he wore so well eat away at her control until she'd fallen to abstract pieces in sheer pleasure.

She'd been stupid, but she wasn't wrong. The family sure as h.e.l.l wouldn't risk their own affluent business harboring witches, or a.s.sa.s.sinating Alexandra Applegate under their own roof. The man liked his designer suits too d.a.m.n much.

The plain silver door slid open on a hiss of released compression. Blearily, working on automatic, she reached for the guest card tucked into the waistband of her rumpled pants.

Then remembered she hadn't punched the call b.u.t.ton.

A circle of blue light seared the skin of her abdomen.

"Jesus-" She whirled to the side, danced back from the stocky man who launched himself out of the elevator at her. His fingers closed on her skin, grasped wildly as she wrenched away.

He didn't need contact to make it hurt.

Naomi's smile was all teeth. "Fancy meeting you here."

He thrust out a callused hand, and she focused on the faint brown lines etched into his palm. Magic seared the air. Invisible, it skipped over her skin like a thousand tiny stingers, and the seal blazed in answer, beating away the intrusion. Blue light poured from the mesh fabric of her pants.

The tattoo burned like a b.i.t.c.h when it repelled witchcraft. Too much pain.

Teeth bared, he stalked toward her, forcing her to stagger back toward the bedroom. Less room. She wanted him cornered. "Who the h.e.l.l are you?" she demanded.

The witch didn't give her time to put distance between them. He closed on her. Ate up the carpeted floor beneath his workman boots and left her backpedaling too fast for balance. She tried to dodge, tried to think through whatever magic that f.u.c.king tattoo of his wove.

He lunged at her; she wrenched back. Too slow. One broad palm slammed into her stomach and she buckled.

Her head. The seal. Her back as she collided into the sharp edge of sliding door between sitting room and bedroom. Her vision went supernova through the pain infecting the inside of her brain.

She gritted her teeth as one large hand fisted in the front of her athletic tank. "Witch hunters," he growled, yanking her away from the supporting panel. His eyes filled her vision, snapping blue. He walked her backward, into the bedroom. "The only thing keeping you alive right now is the f.u.c.king tattoo you all wear."

She bared her teeth. "That's what you think."

"Won't matter for long."

He punched like a G.o.dd.a.m.n tank.

Naomi spun with the momentum of fist to face, pain exploding across her nose. The scab split, cracking like so much brittle meat, and blood splattered across the elegant dupioni comforter as she crashed into the mattress and rebounded.

The pressure of his magic eased, ebbed for a split second. She hit the floor, rolled away, and leaped to her feet before he could catch her again. Blue light flickered against the dim interior. Reflected in the witch's bottomless blue eyes.

"What do you want?" she demanded. Buy time. She needed to get him away from the absorbent carpet.

Blood was a pain in the a.s.s to hide.

He flung out a hand, and the angry buzz of oncoming magic filled her head again. "Doesn't matter what I want," he replied tersely. "The boss says you're toast."

"Boss?"

His fingers splayed, and for a split second, Naomi swore that the faint brown lines of his odd tattoo blistered red.

She squinted through the pressure squeezing her head. "Who sent you?"

"Who sent you?"

f.u.c.k. Her heels slid on the pile of scattered clothing. Naomi caught herself against the bathroom doorjamb and blinked the stinging slide of sweat from her eyes. Blood glided over her upper lip, hot and metallic.

"Oh-kay," she said, mouth curling into a razored smile. "Fine." She wasn't going to play this game any longer than she had to.

On the scale of things, he wasn't the strongest witch she'd ever faced.

"You want me, you son of a b.i.t.c.h, come and get me."

He bull-rushed her. The stupid ones always did.

Chapter Nine.

"Excuse me, Mr. Clarke?"

Phin looked up from the computer monitor he stared at, gaze focusing slowly on Cally Simmons. She leaned in through his open office door. Quickly he rearranged bemused inquiry into a welcoming smile and surrept.i.tiously checked his tie to make sure he hadn't dropped any of his hastily inhaled tea on it.

He'd been up even before most of the kitchen staff. Breakfast had been every man for himself.

Cally's smile tipped crookedly as she stepped inside. "Is now a good time?"

"Of course," he replied. "Come on, have a seat. How are you?"

Besides tired, which he noted in the bruised color beneath her dark green eyes. Was she sleeping? Not well, by all the signs.

"Fine, thanks," she said, sinking into a chair. "I just wondered if I could . . . talk to you for a second."

That sounded ominous. He straightened, devoting the whole of his attention to the worried shape of her features. "What can I do for you?"

"I don't want to make any trouble," she began, and he smiled rea.s.suringly.

"Nothing you say will make it past this office, okay?"

She pushed back her bangs from her eyes. "It's just that I really appreciate what you're doing for me, and I'm not trying to be a ha.s.sle. Agatha said not to bother you with this."

"Did she, now?" Phin leaned back in his chair, rapidly a.s.sessing the woman. She met his gaze with a forthright sincerity that impressed him.

She was a hard worker. Bright, fairly confident, and easy to work with. He'd never caught her making excuses. He liked her. And he trusted her, as far as temporaries went.

Admittedly, given he had exactly four of them left on his roster, that trust didn't extend too far.

He rubbed at his jaw. "What is it, Cally?"

She hesitated. "You know Mark?"

"Offhand, I know three," Phin replied with a wry smile designed to put her at ease. "Which floor?"

"Maintenance."

"Mark Vaughn, yes."

Cally clasped her hands, tucking them between her knees. "He's gone, sir."

"What do you mean?"

"He never showed up for his shift," she explained. "I only know because I was upstairs in the dining floor when Agatha came to talk to a few of the others about it. I heard her say that he's never late."

Phin didn't know the older man well, but he knew enough to agree with the a.s.sessment. Mark Vaughn was a new hire, but he hadn't missed so much as a minute of work since signing on three weeks ago. He'd had a stellar application, no triggers on his background check. Not much for talking, but he was a good man for fixing just about anything.

Agatha had recommended him after he'd fixed her apartment water heater. And now he was missing? Phin resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Mr. Clarke, I know this isn't normal, but . . ." Cally's teeth flashed as she sank them into her bottom lip. Again, in a move he recognized as telling concern, she pushed at the fringe of red hair hanging over her eyes.

She was nervous.

Phin reached out to touch the desk in front of her, as carefully as if he were offering a hand to a spooked stray. "Cally," he said gently. "It's all right. Whatever is on your mind, you can tell me."

Her smile flipped crooked. "It's probably nothing, but I thought I should tell you that I've felt a little uneasy lately."

"Uneasy?"

"A kind of hunch," she explained slowly. "All I know is that when I heard Mark was gone, I wanted to come tell you right away."

A hunch. A concern. d.a.m.n. "I really appreciate it," he said, deliberately keeping his tone gentle. "I'll check with his home address. More importantly for now, are you all right?"

"I wish I knew." Her hands twisted at her chest. "I feel like something is waiting, you know? Watching."

He frowned. "Watching you?"

"No," she said, making a face. "No, I mean, not me specifically, but just . . . watching."

Phin tapped a finger on the desk. "There are cameras all around," he pointed out, but the look she levied him suggested that she didn't appreciate his appraisal of her intelligence. He smiled ruefully. "Not that, then?"

"No." Cally shrugged. "I know things look bad for you-for us," she amended, "but I wanted to let you know that I'm . . . pretty sure that sauna wasn't an accident. I think Mr. Barker was right about there being an intruder. And," she added quickly, "if I can help? In any way?"

"Can you see through walls?" he asked, not entirely joking as he ran both hands through his hair.

She blinked. Fast. "Would that be helpful?"

"No, probably not." He smiled in calculated rea.s.surance, making sure that none of his worry leaked through to bolster her own. Cally was tired; it was obvious that she'd spent more than her fair share worrying about it. "Let me handle this and you just keep your head down, okay? In a few days you'll be headed out."

Cally straightened, her eyes widening. "Out? I thought I was here for at least another three weeks."

"We're going to have to move faster than we thought," Phin replied. "Any extra scrutiny is going to be a problem for everyone."

"Do you think they'll send people?" Her hands clenched. "Church officials?" Her voice dropped. "Missionaries?"

"Not if I can help it," he said grimly.

"It's a dangerous thing you do, you know that."

As she watched him, her gaze steady and clear, he shook his head. "The alternative isn't anything I want to be part of."

Cally's smile crinkled her eyes. "You're a good sort."

Maybe. He rose to his feet, circled the desk to enfold her work-rough hand in his. "Thank you. You're doing great, Cally, just hold out a few days longer."