The Guardian (6 page)

“I'm certain you know why.” There was that shrewd look again like he knew her inside and out.

She nervously gripped the handle of her coffee cup, but didn't drink it because she couldn't exactly swallow at the moment. She decided to deflect his last statement and asked, “So did you find something we missed at the murder scene?”

“Not really.”

He was making her work for every bit of information. The waiter arrived with their food and plopped it unceremoniously on the table.

Fala picked up her fork, dipped it into the mound of whipped cream on her waffle, and licked it. When she noticed his eyes sharpening on her lips, she regretted what she'd done. She pretended to concentrate on cutting her waffle.

Silence stretched for a while, then he said, “Now that
you've been to the murder scene, what are your feelings about the murder?” He wolfed down a strip of bacon in two bites.

She decided honesty would be the best tack on this point. “I think our visitor at the station murdered the woman. Now I just need to find out where he's hiding. You have any leads?”

“Not a clue. I've never seen a werewolf dissolve into thin air as that one did. He's not like any lycanthrope I've come across. How about you?”

She wondered how many werewolves he'd faced in his job. “Sorry.” She wasn't about to go into Tumseneha with him. “So are the qualifications for working at BOSP that you have some kind of supernatural power of your own?”

He nodded while he cut his egg. “Warlock.” He scoured her for a reaction.

She kept her face as blank as his and forked another piece of waffle into her mouth. The title warlock in some modern Wiccan societies usually meant one who'd been banished from a coven for some betrayal. If a witch called himself a warlock and sounded proud of it, as Winter just had, he probably lived up to his title. She'd had a few run-ins with lone-wolf warlocks. They were the worst kind. Mercenaries, the lot of them. So the million-dollar question: was he drawn to white magic or black?

“Your turn,” he said, looking expectantly at her.

“I'm betting you probably already know what I am.”

He blinked at her as if she'd scored a point in the respect area, then he said, “Then you'd win the bet.”

“How much
do
you know?”

“Not much besides the file I have on the Patomani.”

“There's a file on us?” She dropped the fork in her hand and it clattered against her plate.

The nod again.

“So you know I'm about to become the Guardian?”

“Your grandmother has been on our radar for some time, too. We know how pivotal your role is here on Earth, and I have a proposition for you.”

Here comes the real reason for this breakfast. If she cared to admit it, she had hoped that he might have wanted to get her alone so they could get to know each other better. Surprising, too, because she didn't even like this guy.

“And…” She waited, feeling the waffle expanding in her stomach like a balloon.

“My orders are to protect you until you come into your powers, and I'd like to have your cooperation in doing that.”

She smiled, teeth gritted. “You think you can protect
me?
”

His confidence didn't waver as he nodded.

“You're only a warlock.” When she became Guardian, she could wipe the floor with him.

“I know this is a stretch for you, but I'm not without powers, Rainwater. And I have the whole BOSP personnel at my disposal—if I need them, which I haven't.”

Fala saw the arrogant gleam in his eyes. Just what kind of supernatural army worked for BOSP? Looking at Winter's ruthless expression, the commanding force hiding just below his surface, she decided she might have underestimated his influence and magic. And she was
certain he was going to make finding Tumseneha a real problem.

She shifted the conversation back to him. “Were you driven from your coven?”

He nodded. “Old history.” The cryptic veil in his eyes turned stony and signaled any amount of probing couldn't break through the wall he'd built.

A banishment could mean that he'd been cut off from family still living in the coven, and for a moment she almost felt sorry for him. “Do you have family?” she asked.

He hesitated, his eyes reliving some painful memory as he rubbed the scar on his cheek. Then he said, “No. Nobody.”

“So how did you come to work for Uncle Sam?”

“Actually, my superiors approached me and asked me to head up the Washington BOSP office, so here I am.”

“How long have you worked for Uncle Sam?”

“Almost twelve years. My superiors gave me carte blanche to establish the Washington office, and I haven't grown bored with the job yet.”

“So do you ride a dark horse or a white one?”

“What do you think?” His tone deepened and grew as smooth as Egyptian cotton.

She couldn't concentrate when he used his voice like a weapon, and it oozed over her like warm coconut oil. She had to look down at her coffee cup before she said, “You're definitely a dark-arts practitioner. Why else would Uncle Sam want you?”

“You don't trust me, do you?”

“No.”

“Okay, maybe I can earn your trust. I'll start by telling you the truth. I've dabbled on both sides. Do you think less of me?” He intently studied her.

“I have no idea what to think of you.” Why couldn't she sense his spirit or his magic aura or anything through that icy facade? Something wasn't right about him. The same instinct that had kept her alive this long warned her not to trust him. She said, “Tell your superiors I appreciate their concern, but I can take care of myself.”

“You need my help.”

“I have the elders and my grandmother. I certainly don't need you.”

“I have my orders.” His eyes turned the color of molten steel, though his voice remained provocatively deep and mellow. “You can make this easy, or complicated. It's up to you.”

She pushed her plate away and grabbed her jacket. She felt lousy enough already that innocents had lost their lives. Adding another warlock to that list wasn't an option, and she warned, “I'm telling you this
once,
and only
once,
stay out of my way.”

She slid out of the booth, shoved her arms into her coat and walked out. She hurried through the door.

Cold air hit her, and she sucked it in, her chest tight with emotion. He'd lied to her about the park case and protecting Senator Kent's interests. He'd manipulated her into taking the case only to protect her, or so he'd said. What else had he lied about? She had to find out where Tumseneha was hiding on earth. It was definitely somewhere close by so he could set another trap for her. She had to somehow find him before others died. And she had to avoid a determined warlock while doing it.

She glanced across the street as she hopped in her car and saw him standing outside Happy Jack's, his expression dangerous. She shivered at the deadly gleam in his eyes. He didn't look at all like a protector. More like a treacherously handsome destroyer. She sped off into morning traffic, her gut telling her the latter was correct.

 

That did not go well. You only have a narrow window
of time to make her fall in love with you and carry out
our plan.

Stephen squinted at the commanding voice that had suddenly boomed telepathically in his head. It bounced through his thoughts like the echoes inside a wide cavern, its essence testing the boundaries of his psyche. His own power was nothing compared to what had violated his gray matter, and he felt completely vulnerable, not to mention irritated at being caught off guard. Telepathy was okay as long as you projected it, but if you were on the receiving end, having it crash through your psyche like a tsunami, it wasn't so much fun.

He blocked his annoyance from the intruder and mentally replied,
I know. You need not worry. I can handle her.

Oh, I'm not a worrier, Stephen. But you should be. Do not forget what will happen if you fail.

How can I?
The images of his two younger brothers slashed across his mind's eye. He could see them frozen and imprisoned within a force field of magic, their faces blank as if they were brain-dead, their eyes floating in an endless void. Pain tore at him, and it was all Stephen
could do to open the door for two elderly women walking into the restaurant. They smiled a thank-you at him.

Ahh, how sentimental you've become.

No, practical.

Have it your way, but you'd better hope she suspects nothing.

She won't.

Make certain of it.

His tormentor left him.

Stephen felt his frustration and rage brewing. He hated being reminded of being blackmailed. Worse, he hated that he'd lose everything he cared about if he failed. If his superiors ever found out he was being blackmailed, it would be hell to pay. Worse, if they knew what he had in store for Fala Rainwater.

But he had experienced something close to hell before. He could live through anything after the betrayal of his coven and those he had trusted and loved. It had almost killed him. But he'd found a way to escape with his brothers. He had raised Brice and Leland alone. Not an easy feat. Brice had a rebellious streak. Leland was the quiet, bookish one and never gave Stephen any trouble. Leland would one day be a wizard—if he lived.

When Stephen thought of never seeing both his brothers again, he wanted to scream in frustration. He would brave anything to save his brothers. Anything. Even ridding the world of the next Guardian and probably living the rest of his days in hell.

He stared at the spot where he'd last seen Fala drive away, and he knew winning her trust was only the first battle. He was certain he'd discovered the source of the magic protecting her: the talisman around her neck. It
hadn't been there before. Now all he had to do was get it off of her. His brows cocked at the prospect. He knew he'd enjoy that part more than he should. He strode down the street until his physical form melted into the surroundings.

T
wenty minutes later, Fala pulled into the parking deck for Katrina Sanecki's apartment. Lincoln Towers was a twenty-story building, built over thirty years ago. Respectable, yes, but not as in vogue as the overpriced, glass-fronted newer ones popping up all over town. She paused before the security gate.

A voice over a speaker crackled, “ID.”

“Detective Rainwater, investigating Katrina Sanecki's murder.” She shoved her badge up to the eye of the camera and waited.

She looked at her
Sesame Street
wristwatch, a gag twenty-first birthday gift from Nina, her youngest sister. She hadn't been able to part with it. 9:00 a.m. Kermit's tongue ticked off the seconds. Six more days and she would have to marry Akando. No, no, no. Time was going by too quickly. And if she didn't marry him,
one of them would lose their life. She couldn't let that happen.

There was only one good thing about the morning: that moon from last night was gone. And when she'd checked in with her captain, he had said she didn't have to report back to the station until this murder case was solved. At least Winter had told her one truth. He had actually arranged for her to work with the feds on the park case. The captain had ordered her to go home, to not talk to the press, and keep him informed on the Rock Creek case. Winter probably cast a spell over the captain, the chief and the mayor. Had he done the same thing with Senator Kent? That was probably how Winter maneuvered his way into handling the case. And what did he know about the murder? She was certain he knew more than he had divulged.

He had said he'd searched Sanecki's apartment. But he could have conveniently missed something. Those liquid silver eyes flashed in her mind and sent a chill down between her shoulders. No, she didn't trust him at all. And she didn't trust herself around him. His nearness turned her insides to jelly. No, she'd done the right thing by tracking Tumseneha alone.

She made a face at the gate as it finally rose. It had felt like eons sitting there, but in reality it had only been a minute. She rubbed her aching temples and felt dead tired from lack of sleep; the coffee she'd had at Happy Jack's wasn't cutting it.

She found a parking place, went directly to the front desk and got the key for 226. The old red carpet in the lobby and elevator smelled of wet shoes, perspiration and years of stale carpet cleaner.

When she reached the second floor, the scent of eggs, bacon and coffee wafted down the hall. Her stomach growled and she realized she wasn't only tired, but hungry, too. She hadn't eaten much at Happy Jack's. Who could eat with Winter's stone-cold eyes boring into them? And his arrogant assumptions about protecting her. Yeah, like she needed his help.

Fala followed the numbers on the doors. Then the charm on her neck warmed slightly, the metal detecting something before she had. Her senses began to tingle and a primitive fear crawled down her spine. Tumseneha's aura was here, but it wasn't as strong as it had been at the murder scene, or at the station. She hadn't been able to track him after he'd disappeared from the alley. He must have used some kind of cloaking magic to cover his tracks. She had no doubt he was luring her along, letting her find evidence that he had planted. She gritted her teeth at being manipulated. Somehow, someway, she'd find him.

She kept one hand on the hilt of her pistol while her gaze swept the hall. The exit door. Several tall potted ferns.

When she reached 226, she eyed the Christmas poinsettia wreath still hanging on the door, the silk flowers seeming to droop. She felt the senselessness of a young woman losing her life. Had Tumseneha killed Katrina Sanecki just to toy with Fala? Or was it a prelude to the station attack and a way to lure Fala to her death? Either way people had died because of her. It wasn't right.

She forced the guilt back and focused all her attention on the lock. Carefully, she turned it and opened the door.
Elbows tight to her ribs, gun butt fixed in her palms, she entered the apartment.

The living room opened onto a kitchen on the left and a hallway that led to what looked like a bathroom and bedroom. The first thing Fala noticed was the quality of the furniture, sleek, modern and mostly chrome. A thirty-inch flatscreen television sat between two black bookcases. Everything sparkled and smelled like Windex. Sanecki must have had a maid. She couldn't tell if Winter had even been here. Nothing looked out of place or searched. It was jarringly perfect.

Fala ran her hand along the carpeted floor, sensing Tumseneha's trail. A steady prickle vibrated against her palm and raised the hairs along her arm. She followed the trail to the couch, then into the galley-style kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom.

The bedroom was all modern, too, and just as spanking clean. The thick, cloying scent of Sanecki's perfume clung to the air. Fala shoved her Colt back in the holster and stood near the bed. The aura was strong here. She looked for signs of blood but saw none. Had Tumseneha slipped into a human form to use Sanecki sexually before luring her to her death in the park?

In the closet, she found mountains of business suits and pumps all lined up neatly on a shelf. Two new boxes of running shoes sat at one end. Asics Gel 500s. Winter had been telling the truth about Sanecki's size-eight feet and the fact she was a pronator.

Fala pulled down a storage box from the top of the closet and opened it. She gasped when she saw a spiked dog collar, a black whip, some chains, handcuffs, a garrote, the usual paraphernalia for sadists. What kind
of sex was Sanecki into? Her apartment had looked so virginally clean. Another aspect of the case Winter had failed to reveal.

Fala frowned and shoved the box back in place. What else wasn't Winter telling her? She didn't find anything else in the closet, nor did she detect Tumseneha's aura at all there, nothing as strong as it was on the bedspread. She quaked a little, remembering the box of sex toys as she passed the king-size bed and made her way back out to the living room.

She moved toward the bookcases, a picture of Sanecki with a man drew her. They were hugging and smiling, in the first blush of love. He looked about fifty-five, streaked blond hair, a square, honest face. Was this Tumseneha's assumed physical image or another one of Sanecki's bed warriors?

Fala ripped the picture out of the frame and stuffed it in her coat pocket. At least she knew Tumseneha had been in the apartment. Hand gripping the lock, she paused before pulling the door closed. An eerie feeling as if someone was watching her made her flesh crawl. She eyed the apartment for shimmers of supernatural energy but saw none.

It must be her nerves on edge from Tumseneha's trail. He'd left just enough of his evil footprint in the apartment to alarm her. She closed and locked the door and decided to do a bit of local detecting. She followed the smell of the bacon and eggs two doors down, then knocked loudly on the door.

A little woman appeared in curlers, wearing a flowery housecoat and a flushed beet complexion. A Chihuahua trembled in her arms. Its bug eyes centered on Fala, its
lip raised in a snarl. The woman looked over her glasses at Fala. “May I help you, dearie?”

“Hi, I'm investigating a murder—”

“Murder! Not in our building?”

“Oh, no, ma'am. In a park. But the woman lived here. Number 226.” Fala thumbed to Sanecki's apartment.

“Oh, such a shame.” The woman's thinning gray brows met in the middle of her glasses. “Katrina was such a nice girl. Always got my mail for me.”

“Have you seen anyone coming and going in her apartment?”

“No.”

“What about boyfriends?”

“Well, I never saw her bring a man up. But I know she had one.”

“How did you know?”

“Because I heard voices in her apartment—mind, I wasn't listening or anything. But I take my dog out at night before bed. And I'm pretty certain the guy entered and left through the exit door. I could hear it closing late at night. He never used the elevator.” She pursed her lips. “I thought it was a bit strange, but I never questioned Katrina about it.”

Fala thought of Winter and said, “Ever see any tall, dark and dangerous types hanging around?”

“Oh, dearie, I haven't, but I've been looking for a man like that all my life. All I ended up with is Brutus here.” She shook the little dog in her arm. “Isn't that right, Brutums?”

The little dog snarled a reply.

“Thank you very much. Sorry to disturb your breakfast.”

“Oh, hey, if you find that tall, dark and dangerous man, send him my way.” The lady let loose a cackle and closed her door.

“You better believe I will.” Fala's smile dissolved as she headed for the elevator and thought of Winter. She'd like nothing better than to put a stamp on him and send him directly to the little elderly lady's door. Fala had a feeling the woman or her dog could keep him busy for a while.

Her mind shifted back to Katrina Sanecki's apartment. What had Fala found? A picture and Tumseneha's essence. He had been at Katrina Sanecki's apartment, possibly in a human host, most likely the same one inhabited by the werewolf spirit. Maybe even the guy in the picture. Tumseneha could have gotten close to Sanecki that way and used her to have his sadistic sexual pleasures met. That would have been a wild threesome in the bedroom: a human host, the werewolf spirit, and Tumseneha all inhabiting the same vessel. The human would have had little say in the matter, nothing more than Tumseneha's puppet.

Fala walked to the elevator, yawning, feeling a need for a caffeine injection just to stay awake. And she had to keep a clear head, because she had to find Winter.

As the elevator doors closed, she felt that eerie sensation of eyes on her. She shook it off. It was the exhaustion doing strange things to her. Or maybe thoughts of seeing Winter again. She didn't for one minute believe that he'd called her into this case just to get close to her and protect her. There was something else going on. And she wondered now if he'd been telling the truth about working for the government. Oh, yes, she'd find him
again, this time on her terms. He had some explaining to do, and she wanted answers.

 

Stephen materialized in the hallway just as the doors of the elevators closed. She wasn't giving up, and he had no control over her while she wore the talisman. He knew in order to get close to her that he had to go slowly, plan every move, lure her into a sense of trust.

If that included seducing her, then so be it. And he'd felt her attraction to him. It was as strong as his own desire for her, even without his mental suggestions having been blocked by the charm. At least the physical attraction wouldn't be a problem.

Her essence still lingered in the air, sifting through his sensitive fingers, filling his mind with visions of her naked body. Desire tugged at him. He hated this out-of-control reaction she summoned in him, a feeling that he had no defenses against her captivating shaman energy. It must be the binding portal he shared with her. It amplified everything, centered all his thoughts on her. His loss of control could also be from the fact she was about to become Guardian, a formidable Whitemag. He'd sensed her power. It had crackled along his skin, and he'd known that she would have been more powerful than he was, save for the blood spell he was under. It gave him advantages and protection. But not enough to thwart her if she gained her full powers. Oh, yes, he knew he was playing with fire. If something went wrong, if she discovered his plan, she could destroy him. And his brothers would die with him.

He also knew he didn't have much time to gain her
trust, relieve her of the necklace and trap her. Less than a week before she came into her powers.

He'd be waiting for her and tell her what she needed to hear. He couldn't wait until she finally melted in his arms and he could take her body until he was sated. Then maybe he could keep a clear head.

 

Fala sat in a Starbucks, draining coffee, while she searched the internet with her iPhone. Fifteen minutes ago she had entered the Interpol database, giving Winter a benefit of the doubt, which he didn't deserve. If BOSP was a legit branch of the State Department, surely something would turn up on Interpol. But it hadn't. Was she hoping to find evidence that BOSP existed? Enough time wasted.

She reached to sign off, when a site popped up. A State Department monthly expense report mentioning BOSP agents. Fala surfed more, getting deeper and deeper into the yearly expenditure reports. She kept digging until she felt cross-eyed and couldn't read another figure. Finally, she hit pay dirt. Follow the money. It usually unveiled the seedier hidden side of any corporation—including Uncle Sam's.

She made a face at the BOSP listings.

Sure enough, hidden in the accounting facts and figures was a listing of expenditure reports for over two hundred bureaus within the State Department. They were scattered all over the U.S. and the world. Addresses were listed. Well, well, he was at least telling the truth about working for the feds. She copied down the Washington, D.C., address on a scrap of paper.

Next, she Googled Senator Kent. Harvard Republican.
Figured. Graduated top of his law class. A judge before he reached age thirty-five. Ran for office just last year. He seemed legit. But was he Winter's pawn? Maybe even connected to Katrina Sanecki's murder and Tumseneha somehow? After all, she was the senator's aide. Fala clicked on the icon to bring up Kent's press photo. She grabbed the picture from Sanecki's apartment and held it up to the cell phone screen.

A match. The man with Sanecki in the photo was Kent. So Kent had been dating his aide. Fala recalled feeling Tumseneha's essence all over the bedroom. Was it Kent's body Tumseneha inhabited? Kent had dated Sanecki. Fala held the evidence of it in her hand. Tumseneha could easily have entered Kent's body, forced the werewolf spirit to join him, then enjoyed the pleasure of luring Katrina to her death. Hadn't Winter said he was there protecting Kent's interests? The pieces of the puzzle seemed to fit. But it was only a theory that hinged on Kent still dating Katrina. And she'd find that out from Winter, because she was certain he could confirm it or not.