Lure of the Wicked Part 30

He wasn't dead.

Clearly he wasn't dead, and that meant he still worked for them. The other side.

He'd betrayed her.

"You're hurting me," she snapped.

His hand tightened over her head. "Like h.e.l.l. If I let you go, you're not- f.u.c.k me." It broke on a gasp, a thrash of mangled air as Naomi s.h.i.+fted, liquid quick, and rammed her elbow back into his sternum.

He staggered, opening the opportunity for her to hook a foot around one knee and jerk. Hard.

Silas. .h.i.t the ground wheezing.

Naomi spun, weight on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet, and backed away, fists clenched hard, ready. Waiting. There was no way in h.e.l.l she'd roll around on the ground with a man twice her size.

His death had been good to him.

Silas had lost none of his muscle, none of his lethal grace as he sprang back to his feet, one big hand rubbing at his chest. His skin was oddly tan, healthy.

He watched her warily from gray-green eyes.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h," she said tightly. "You backstabbing turncoat s.h.i.+tfu-"

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it, Nai." It rumbled from his chest, impatience. Tension.

And . . . fear?

Good. He deserved to be afraid. To wonder if she'd put a bullet right between his f.u.c.king eyes. She circled him, watched him. "How's the witch-b.i.t.c.h?" A flicker of fury, of menace in his eyes made her smile flatly. "Dead, then? Like you're supposed to be?"

"Jesus." Silas put his hands out to the side. "Shut up for one second and listen-"

"You made your choice." Naomi pulled the gun from her coat, raised it fluidly, and cupped one hand under the other as he s.h.i.+fted hard. "Don't move. I'm not going to stand here and listen to whatever lies that b.i.t.c.h put you up to."

"Naomi-"

"I said no!" The words wrenched from her chest. Too hard. Too telling.

Silas froze, closing his eyes. Sympathy. Jesus Christ, she didn't need his pity.

"Save it," she said, quieter with effort. "I don't have time to put you where the Mission can get you, so I'll just have to shoot you and call it a day."

"You think you can?"

"Honey," she drawled, finger tightening on the trigger. "You're the least of my problems."

Or he should have been. She had so much more to do, so much more to be worried about, but her arms ached, shoulders too rigid as the lethal barrel centered on his chest. It shook, just enough.

Grimly she widened her stance, firmed her grip.

He'd betrayed her, betrayed the Mission. He was as much a heretic as the witch he'd decided to help.

Silas watched her.

She swallowed hard. In his eyes, in the smoky green depths of his steady gaze, she saw the boy he'd been years ago, the stocky kid who'd pulled her nine-year-old a.s.s out of the tree when she'd tried to run away from the orphanage.

She saw the shape of his mouth, quick enough to smile before the severity of the Mission had beaten it out of him.

Out of them both.

He eased closer. "I'm not your enemy," he said quietly. "I never have been." A pause, and then a wry slash to his mouth. "Mostly."

She raised her chin. "Don't move."

"You're not going to shoot me, Nai." Slowly he reached out a broad palm, wrapped his fingers around the barrel. "You would have if you could. I'm not here to fight with you."

If he'd tried to take it, if he'd so much as pulled a fraction of an inch, Naomi wasn't sure that she would have taken her finger off the trigger. But he didn't. He just pushed, firmly, resolutely, until the muzzle pointed down. Safely tucked toward the ground at his feet.

Her arms jerked.

"I'm not dead, Naomi."

A wash of tears all but knocked her on her a.s.s. She buckled, righted herself, and threw her weight at him instead. He caught her, staggered.

"Oh, Christ." Pure panic. He grunted in pain as she rammed her fist into the heavy muscle at his shoulder. Into his stomach, braced for the impact. Into his chest. She dropped the gun and hammered at him, sobbed incoherent words of rage and relief and frustration. She pounded against the rock-solid wall of muscle and flesh and witch-loving heretic and it wasn't enough.

As he took the worst of it, as he turned his face away, taut with apology, with regret-with the innate inability of a man confronted by a hysterical woman-Naomi grabbed his collar and kissed him hard on the mouth.

His eyes widened.

Narrowed as she jerked her knee up into his groin. He wasn't fast enough. Soft flesh gave way to bruising bone.

Silas buckled.

She let him go. Gasping for breath, she braced herself on her knees and watched him hit the ground, hunched over the b.a.l.l.s she knew would be too f.u.c.king sore to play with for a while. Served him right.

"f.u.c.k," he swore, gasped it. "Why?"

"You're supposed to be dead!" She threw it at him, her accusation rough and furious, sharp as a knife. "Why couldn't you stay dead?"

He groaned. "I may as well be."

"You're f.u.c.king not, are you?"

"I thought," he gritted out between bloodless lips, "that's what the kiss was for."

"In your dreams." Naomi sniffed hard, wiping at her eyes impatiently. "What the h.e.l.l are you thinking, Smith? You can't talk to me. You can't show me you're alive and then just expect to walk away. I'm still a f.u.c.king missionary, even if you aren't!"

Grunting with the effort, Silas pushed himself back to his feet. Stiffly, gingerly, he hunched over the crippling pain of his bruised groin, braced against his knees until Naomi could see his eyes begin to uncross.

He cleared his throat roughly. "That's, uh . . . Christ, Naomi."

Despite the pressure behind her eyes, too d.a.m.n much emotion clawing at her, a smile caught at her mouth. "You're welcome."

"I'm here because- d.a.m.n. Exactly because you're a missionary." He straightened by increments. Groaned. "f.u.c.k me."

"Good luck with that," she bit out, but a wash of guilt slipped under the anger. The hurt. She turned away, retrieved the gun she'd dropped to the wet ground. "What do you want?"

"I want you to go back to Timeless. And you need to do it now."

She jerked straight, spun to stare at him. At the intensity of his eyes, glittering in his still-pale face. "How the f.u.c.k-"

"They're in trouble."

"Homicidal maniac stalking the joint? Yeah, I'd say." She rolled her eyes. "What's new there?"

"There's more than just the one," he replied grimly.

"What?"

"Remnants of this city's Coven of the Unbinding cell are in there, too," Silas said, his voice hoa.r.s.e with the effort.

"I knew it!"

"No, Nai," he replied roughly. "They're not there because Timeless let them. They're rogue, too."

"Aren't they all?"

"I know you killed one," he said, cupping himself as if it could take the pressure off. His mouth still pinched. "Jesus. But there's more, and your rogue agent just locked down the building."

Naomi stilled. Every nerve s.h.i.+mmered to sudden, complete attention. "Locked down," she repeated. If it came out hoa.r.s.e, breathless with fear, Silas didn't ask.

He checked his comm. "Twenty minutes ago. He's got the family, some staff, a couple of guests. One's wounded."

She paled. "Details?"

"Not many." Gingerly Silas took a few steps. "I have someone on the inside, but contact's sporadic. Do you trust me?"

Stiff with anger, with sudden biting terror, Naomi smiled flatly. "Not ever again."

"How about for the next hour?"

"You have a plan?"

He nodded, face grim. "But you're going to have to let me drive."

Naomi glanced at the sleek, beautiful car. Back at his face, so steady. So hard. Missionary mode.

Except he wasn't a missionary anymore.

"Not on your G.o.dd.a.m.n life," Naomi said sweetly.

Silas chuckled. It strained. "Worth a shot. Get in. Time's short." He rounded the car, walking carefully. Wincing, he slid into the pa.s.senger seat.

The rain pounded the street, hammered at the car roof as Naomi pulled the door shut. She tucked the Colt back into its holster and slammed the car into drive.

"What's the deal in there?"

"A woman down"-suddenly dizzy with relief, Naomi swallowed back a roll of nausea-"and there's a handful of people all trying to save who they can. The killer's been using secret corridors."

Naomi glanced at him. "Are you f.u.c.king serious?"

"As a bullet."

"Where are they?"

Silas reached across her lap and unhooked her comm, the gesture so wordlessly familiar that she gritted her teeth around a wave of bittersweet memory. He slotted a small chip into the jack. After a moment, he held it up. "Partial blueprints. It's all she could map."

"How the f.u.c.k do you know all this?"

"I told you," Silas replied, "I have someone on the inside."

"Who, what?" She eased the car into traffic, movements stiff. Too f.u.c.king much tension. "Who just happens to know everything going on in there?"

"Something like that."

Naomi's grip ached on the wheel. "Silas."

"Yeah."

"When this is over?"

"Yeah?"

She didn't look at him, her eyes skimming the tops of the spires looming above the carousel. Smoke boiled like a blight into the sky, black on gray. "Run like h.e.l.l. Don't ever let me see you again."

His laugh choked, half a snort. "Yeah."

They rode in silence until sirens overwhelmed the quiet. Emergency vehicles blitzed by them on the road. Naomi swore, slammed the pedal to the floor, and overtook them again.

"Racing them might not-"

"f.u.c.k off, I'm trying to beat them there," Naomi growled, deftly spinning the car between two ambulances and a fire truck. Horns blared, sirens wailed, and Silas clung to the door handle like a little girl.

She slanted him a contemptuous smile as they blitzed through the security checks. Yellow and black roadblocks rebounded off the hood, clattered over the winds.h.i.+eld, and sent a security agent diving for cover.

In her rearview mirror, a sec-comp skittered higher into the air, its programming likely set to follow any vehicle breaking protocol. "Company," she said tightly.

"Let it." Silas hunkered down in his seat. "It'll bring more help to the hotel."