Laurie London - Embraced by Blood

A shitty Tracker and a shitty mother. What a combination.

“Hey … you mind if I log into my account?”

“Knock yourself out. I’m hitting the showers.”

She waited until he’d left before she clicked into the Tracker section. That’s funny . She double-checked that she was on the correct page, but she was. All of Kip’s other reports were there. Neat, organized, just the way she’d taught him. The only one missing was last night’s. Surely he wasn’t slacking off already, was he? Was she the only one around here concerned about the rules?

Irritated now, she logged off and exited the computer lab. Kip had obviously been hanging around Jackson too long. His poor habits had rubbed off onto her very conscientious trainee. She ground her teeth together. All the screwups in the office seemed to revolve around Jackson. Well, things were about to change.

A fresh, vaguely familiar scent caught her attention when she stepped into the hallway. She inhaled, couldn’t quite separate it from the muddiness, and that too-familiar swell of panic gripped her stomach again. In an enclosed environment like this—undisturbed by the elements—a scent should be easy to identify.

Knowing that smell was closely associated with memory, she closed her eyes and pressed both hands on the top of the foyer table, careful not to lean in too close and get speared by one of the pointy orange flowers that looked like a crane’s head.

She took a deep breath and held it for a moment, focusing inward on the mental images and emotions stirring in her mind as she tried to pry loose the scent memory.

Apprehension. Disrespect. Inadequacy.

Then it dawned on her. Of course. Gibson’s here. I should’ve known . He’d assumed she’d gotten the job as a Tracker because of her father, not because she was qualified, so he’d never respected her.

Angry with herself for letting an ass like Gibby get under her skin, she squared her shoulders. Catching sight of herself in the reflective doors of the elevator, she made a quick appraisal. Not bad, but not perfect either. Much as she loathed being judged for her looks alone, around men like Gibby, her image was her armor.

“Good, you’re here,” said Jackson, startling her, his heavy footsteps beating a loud rhythm behind her. Subtlety was not one of his character traits. “I need to talk to you.”

Three boxes of sugary cereal balanced precariously in his bulging arms, along with spoons, a half gallon of milk and two bowls large enough for popcorn. Without waiting, he brushed past her and headed toward the game room.

“Listen,” she said, following him. “I’d appreciate it if you’d try to be a good example for the new guys. I know it must be hard, but for godsake, you’re the acting field team leader. They look up to you. The least you could do is encourage them to follow procedure. They’re in place for a reason.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Kip, that’s who I’m talking about. He used to be so responsible, but hanging out with you, he’s—”

“Hold on. All this … it’s slipping.” The snake tattoo on his biceps, with its open mouth, fangs and forked tongue, looked eager to be eating Tony the Tiger as Jackson juggled everything.

She grabbed the bowls from him. “And why didn’t you give me a heads-up that Gibby was here? You know I can’t stand him.”

“What? I figured you knew. Sensed him or smelled him or something. Sorry.” With a snap of his head, Jackson flicked his hair out of his face, blond and gold highlights mingling with the brown, the splayed-out ends settling back along the top of his shoulders. Ever since he’d dated that chick who worked at one of Seattle’s top hair salons, the guy had been addicted to funky highlights. Two weeks ago they’d been various shades of blue.

“I did, but … not soon enough. I’ve got a head cold. I would’ve changed into something else before I came over.”

He gave her a quick head-to-toe. “What are you talking about?”

How could she explain it to someone so obtuse? No use beating around the bush with him—he’d never get it. “Because you’re all used to seeing me like this, eh? We hang out together and have a good time. But the guy’s a total Richard. Sorry, he is. It makes me uncomfortable when I know I could look better.”

“That’s dumb. You look hot.”

Oh man, why had she even bothered?

She followed him into the game room, half expecting to see Kip inside. Without looking up, Val Gibson leaned over the pool table and took a shot. He didn’t bother to acknowledge her, so she returned the favor and stayed silent.

After setting the bowls on the wet bar, she leaned against the doorjamb and absently flicked the tiny chain hanging from her navel while her annoyance grew. This better be fast. I’m sick of him already .

Jackson held up two boxes and looked at the cartoon characters on the front as if trying to decide which was more worthy. Evidently he couldn’t make up his mind because he dumped some of each into his bowl.

She cleared her throat. “Jacks, you had something you needed to—”

“You gonna take a shot or not?” Gibby asked Jackson, interrupting her as if she’d never spoken.

Her skin prickled. She plucked a stray blond hair from her sleeve as she counted backward from ten to one.

“In a sec,” Jackson said to him. “Lil, did you hear DBs might be looking for Trackers to help them locate sweetbloods? Wanted to make sure you watch your back when you’re out.”

“Yeah, they want to bring you over to the dark side,” Gibson said in a faux announcer’s accent, like the whole thing was a joke. He dumped at least a half box of cereal into his bowl, then held up the carton of milk and poured it in a slow, steady stream.

Oh please, did he need to make sure each piece was coated? She gladly tore her eyes away as Jackson continued.

“They’re looking to convert Trackers. Use them like, well, bloodhounds—tracking and finding sweetbloods. They’re branching out to places not previously popular with Darkbloods. Building up their blood inventory levels, I guess.”

Gibby had discovered that? It sounded way too covert for a musclehead like him to be in on. “Converting Trackers? How’d you get that intel, Gibby?”

“Ah, he didn’t.” Jackson kept his head down and stuffed a large spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “Alfonso called.”

“Alfonso?” The blood drained from her face and she felt light-headed for a moment.

Why should it be surprising that her former lover didn’t want to deal with her and went straight to Jackson with this news? Acutely aware of a sudden ache deep inside, she folded her arms tightly across her chest and kicked at the carpet nap with the toe of her flip-flop. She most definitely didn’t have feelings for him any longer—just anger at herself that she’d been gullible enough to ever believe he felt the same way about her. She may have thought she loved him once, but not any longer. Not after what he’d done. “How did he hear that?”

Jackson stirred his cereal. “He ran into a couple of DBs who told him right before he wasted them. But Gibby says a Tracker disappeared just last week down in the San Diego office, so it could be happening all over. Maybe it’s a new tactic they’re trying.”

Gibson took a bite and wiped a trickle of milk from his chin with the back of his hand. “I thought you guys were friends with benefits since you were his handler in the Agency for … how many years? You guys broke up, huh?”

She was not about to discuss her failed love life with Gibby. Especially not after those nightmarish few months with Steven in San Francisco—what the hell had she been thinking trying to start something back up with Zoe’s father? Clearly, she had poor taste in men. She was ready to call it quits in the relationship department altogether.