Kelly Meding - Another Kind of Dead

“Anonymous tip,” she replied.

“So it’s down to who and what. Who did it and what do we have that they want back?”

“That’s why the perimeter. I figure if our killer is going to make a move, it’ll be while we’re here.”

I scrubbed both hands over my face. “And you think it’s connected to me somehow, because of where we are?”

Kismet nodded. “It can’t possibly be a coincidence.”

“Agreed,” Wyatt said.

“Trouble with that theory,” Felix said, “is everyone thought Stone was dead this past week. Longer than that, if they didn’t know she’d been brought back in the first place.” He didn’t seem happy about either piece of information, and the attitude was starting to grate.

“Then maybe it isn’t me specifically,” I said. “Maybe it’s just me tangentially, and it only has something minor to do with me. Maybe it isn’t—Wait. ‘Give me back what’s mine.’ ” It struck so fast my mental brakes left skid marks. “No way.”

“What no way?” Wyatt asked, alarmed.

“Token’s master, the one we took those hybrids and science projects from. It has to be him, Wyatt. He already sent his … whatevers out there to attack Boot Camp.”

Wyatt’s eyebrows arched, mouth forming a surprised O. He was finally on track with my train of thought. Then Kismet jumped on board and said, “You mean the name you gave me back at the apartment?”

“Walter Fucking Thackery,” I said.

As if on cue, a phone rang somewhere inside the little closet of death.

Everyone in the hall who still possessed a phone checked, but I was already making tracks toward the sound. Willemy had been stripped to his boxers, leaving few other places to hide a cell phone. The muffled ringtone grew no louder when I stepped inside. Breathing carefully through my mouth, I approached the body—it seemed to be the source of the sound.

No, not the body.

“Tell me it’s not in there,” Kismet said.

Another ring confirmed it. The phone was submerged inside the bucket of blood.

“That’s fucking sick,” Felix said.

The person who’d killed Willemy was on the other end of that line, and I had every intention of answering. I crouched in front of the bucket. The thick, metallic tang of blood invaded my mouth. I could taste it, smell it even without using my nose.

“We need to get it,” I said. I reached toward the shiny crimson surface, pulled back, then tried again.

“I’ll do it,” David said. Rolling up his sleeve, he squatted across from me and reached right in. His lips pulled back from his teeth. Blood swished over the edge of the bucket and splattered on the floor. I couldn’t begin to pretend I knew how he felt, feeling around in a bucket of his Handler’s blood for a ringing phone.

He withdrew his arm. Clasped in his hand was a dripping, sealed plastic bag. He stood, careful to keep his arm over the bucket, and held the bag out toward me. I swallowed, grasped one edge of the seal with the tips of my fingers and pulled. David pulled opposite me. The seal hissed open. I plucked out the still-ringing phone, and the bag splashed back into the bucket.

A generic phone, nothing special. The I.D. said “Willemy, R.” I grunted. Bastard.

“You gonna answer?” David asked.

I found the Speaker button, turned toward the waiting crowd that had spilled halfway into the tiny room, and accepted the call. “This isn’t Rhys Willemy, so who the fuck are you?”

Wyatt flinched. My greeting could have been more polite. I wasn’t in the mood for false pleasantries.

A deep chuckle answered me first, and then a male voice spoke. “I was hoping they would scare you up, Ms. Stone. I’ve heard so much about you, and yet we’ve never managed to meet.” His cadence was a little too precise, like a man trying hard to affect a nondescript accent and not quite succeeding.

“How about you turn yourself in so we can get better acquainted, Thackery?”

“I see you’ve done your homework.”

“It’s easy when you know how to get answers from people. You fond of turning humans into goblins?”

David blanched—the only one listening who hadn’t met Token.

“I have a fondness for a great many things,” Thackery said. “Not the least of which being the things you confiscated from Olsmill.”

I glanced at the painted message. “If you wanted your toys back, you could have just asked. Murdering people to make a point is a sure as shit way to end up on my bad side.”

“Mr. Willemy’s death is unfortunate. Yet you are taking me more seriously now than had I merely called you up for a chat over tea. Don’t you agree?”

Bastard. If Thackery had been in the room, I would have wrapped my hands around his throat and squeezed until his eyes popped out. “Violence gets your attention, huh? I’ll keep that in mind for when we meet.”

“You’re so certain we will.”

“Well, given the location in which we found the phone and your own admission that you’re glad they scared me up, I’d say it’s a damned good bet.” The conversation was grating on my nerves and composure. I didn’t like talking; I liked pummeling. “So what is it you think we have that’s yours?”

“Two things, specifically, that I would like returned to me. One of them is a sealed jar of amber liquid, marked with the designation ‘X-235.’ ”

Kismet had produced a small notepad and miniature retractable pen, and she was scribbling notes. Prepared.

“The second thing,” he continued, “is in a vial the size of an average cigar, red in color. It has no markings but was the only red vial in the lab that night.”

I glanced at Kismet; she nodded, to confirm the vial or simply that she’d written it all down. Thackery wasn’t getting anything back from me. “Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s in those vials?” I asked.

“I have no intention of doing so, no. Rest assured they are nontoxic as long as the seals remain unbroken.”

Terrific . “And what makes you think I’m going to give them back? Because you killed a man, then asked so nicely?”

“I’m not so naïve, Ms. Stone. And I’m not a greedy man, which is why I asked for those two items and not my entire laboratory’s contents.”

“Still not giving them back.”

“Then I’ll propose a trade.”

I tensed, alarmed now. “What could you possibly have that I want?”

“Ask the sprite if she lost anything today.” His tenor had darkened, coated in menace and promising something terrible.

Something nasty in the form of a stolen containment crystal. My hand shook and I nearly dropped the phone. Amalie had gone pale, her human eyes glowing an eerie, incandescent blue, radiating fury and power. She glared at the phone as though its mere presence disgusted her. Energy crackled around us, whip-snapping and tingling. It danced through me like an electrical current.

I’d seen Amalie angry, but never this pissed off.

“Do you know what that crystal is?” I asked. I didn’t have to ask for proof he had it. Few enough people knew it existed in the first place, never mind where it had been hidden.

“Of course I know,” Thackery replied, as if I were the biggest dolt ever to utter a question. “I feel its power calling to me. It wants to be freed, Ms. Stone. It’s not as stable as you might think.”

Old habits had me looking to Wyatt for a plan of action. A Hunter seeking the advice of her Handler in a situation she wasn’t certain how to manage. His expression was mostly blank, with only the barest hint of anger; I could see the rage boiling beneath the surface and how hard he was fighting to maintain decorum in mixed company.

“When and where?” I asked the phone.