Kim Harrison - Dates From Hell

“The Pack doesn’t let—?”

He cut me off with a wave, his anger receding. “It’s not like that anymore. Not entirely. But in my father’s day, a nomadic life was a must, and thieving skills helped.”

“Tell you what, then. You don’t slam my mom for setting me up on blind dates, and I won’t slam your dad for teaching you to steal.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. No jabs against well-meaning—if occasionally misguided—parents. As for your purse…”

“It’s gone, isn’t it? Tristan or his guard found it when they were cleaning up, and they took it to erase any sign of me being here.”

“Most likely. As for the body, though—”

“Billy?”

The voice echoed down the hall. We both froze and turned toward the closed door.

“Billy? You down here?” Then softer. “Damn kid.”

It was a security guard, looking for his dead colleague. Marsten waved for me to get behind the desk, and we both jumped on it just as the door opened.

“You!” the guard said.

A flashlight beam pinged off our backs. Marsten slipped his arm around me in an awkward, interrupted embrace. We looked over our shoulders to see the same older security guard who’d “helped” me open the janitor’s closet. He speared Marsten with a glower.

“Get lost on your way to the bathroom again, sir ?” he said. “This is bigger than that storage closet, but I’m sure the young lady would be more comfortable in a hotel. There are two right down the road.”

“Uh, oh, yes, of course,” Marsten stammered. “We weren’t—that is to say, we wanted to look around the museum, see the sights—”

“Oh, I know what sights you wanted to see, sir. ” He waved us off the desk. “You’re a long way from the dinosaur exhibits.”

We complied, getting off the desk and pretending to straighten up. The guard continued to glare at Marsten, as if disgusted that a man wealthy enough to afford tickets to this gala couldn’t spring for a bed.

“There’s a Holiday Inn three doors down,” he said as we walked past. “But I’m sure the lady would prefer the Embassy, which is—”

A movement at the door stopped him. One of Tristan’s guards strode in. He’d swung around the right side of the door, meaning he hadn’t noticed the security guard against the right wall. His attention—and his gun—were on us.

“I thought I heard voices,” he said to us as the security guard stepped up behind him, surprisingly silent for a man of his size. “Good thing I came back. Tristan will—”

The security guard pressed the barrel of his gun between the younger man’s shoulder blades.

“Didn’t see me, huh?” the old guard chortled as the other man stiffened. “A word of advice, boy? Always check the room before you walk into it. Now, lower that gun—”

The younger man spun, gun going up, finger on the trigger. The security guard’s eyes widened and he froze. Whatever ex-cop reflexes he had were buried under years of chasing kids off dinosaur displays and foiling amateur thieves.

The old guard stumbled back, as if forgetting he still held a gun. Marsten threw himself at Tristan’s guard’s back. I wish I could say I did the same. God, how I wish I could. But the truth was that I just stood there, shocked into impotence, like the old guard. It all happened in a heartbeat, not even enough time for me to feel the chaos rising, and not enough time for Marsten to make that five-foot leap. The young guard spun on the old, and fired.

Marsten hit the shooter in the side, knocking him away even as the silencer’s pffttt still hung in the air, even as the old guard was still falling, bloody hole in his chest, even as I was reeling backward from the chaos explosion.

I hit the floor and, for a moment, could only lie there, system shocked by the high-voltage jolt. If there was any pleasure in that shock, I didn’t feel it. I lay there gasping, mind blank. Then another shot snapped me from my shock and I leaped up, limbs flailing as if I’d been jolted again. Marsten was crouched over Tristan’s guard, who lay in a heap, neck twisted, eyes open and staring.

“The shot,” I said. “Did he hit you—?”

Marsten waved to a bullet hole in the wall, but didn’t speak, just stayed crouched with his back to me, his breath coming in sharp, short pants.

I ran to the old security guard. Even as my fingers went to his neck, I knew he was dead. The bloody spot on his breast now covered half his shirt, and was still growing.

As I looked down at him, I saw him again sneaking up behind Tristan’s guard, eyes dancing as he imagined himself retelling the story of how he’d single-handedly apprehended an armed man. Again I heard his “see, I’ve still got it” chortle as he put his gun to the young man’s back. The hair on my arms rose, and I rubbed them, trying to chase away the chill, unable to pull my gaze from his body.

My first murder. My first witness to death. And, only an hour earlier, peering behind this desk, I’d seen my first dead body outside a funeral home.

Before tonight I’d never even seen a dead body, and yet I’d fancied myself some kind of secret agent. What had Marsten said when I’d asked if he thought me a fool? Naïve, probably, but not a fool. Probably naïve? Dear God, could I have been any more naïve? I’d pulled a gun on a werewolf thief. I was lucky Marsten hadn’t done what he just did to Tristan’s guard, and snapped my neck.

“I need to hide the bodies,” he said, his voice soft. “You can wait in the next room if you’d like.”

“No, I’ll clean—” I took a deep breath. “I’ll clean up.”

That’s what I did. Cleaned up the crime scene. When I realized, really realized what I was doing, my blood went cold.

Oh-ho, so now you’re worried. All this time, playing secret agent, and now that you’re actually doing something illegal, you get scared.

I chased the thought back. Yes, I was scared, and yes, I’d been the biggest damn fool—

Enough of that.

As I wiped away evidence of a crime, and watched Marsten hide the bodies in the ventilation shaft—another handy vent shaft—all I could think about was what would happen to my family if I was caught. The shame, the embarrassment, the humiliation, but most of all the “why didn’t we do more to help” bewilderment and grief. And what could I say? “No, no, you got it all wrong. See, I thought I was helping supernaturals with this interracial council, but really I was working for this sorcerer corporation, and then this werewolf…” I loved my family way too much to inflict that explanation on them.

“It’s clean,” Marsten murmured behind my head. When I tried to give the tile one last rub, he caught my hand. “It’s clean, Hope.”

“Out damned spot,” I said, trying to smile.

“There’s no blood on your hands.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” I said softly.

I thought of all the cases I’d solved, the “criminal” supernaturals I’d turned in. I could see that one witch, so terrified she couldn’t even cast a spell, begging me— begging me—not to hand her over, swearing it wasn’t that council who wanted her but a Cabal—

“Hope?” Marsten grasped my shoulder, his grip hard enough to push back the vision.

“Sorry,” I murmured. “Just…ghosts.”

“Whatever you did, you thought you were—”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? It’s actions that count, not intentions. Ignorance isn’t an excuse. That’s what my ethics prof always said. Ignorance isn’t—”

I champed down on my lip hard enough to draw blood, then pushed myself to my feet. “So no gun, no body, but one guard down.” I paused. “ Three guards, I should—” I shook it off. “ One of Tristan’s guards. One goal achieved out of three. Not doing so hot, are we? So what’s next? Resume the plan and find a place to hide?”