Читать книгу Nightwalker - Connie Hall - Страница 10

“You can’t take those.”

Striker shoved the sunglasses down onto the bridge of his nose and eyed the kid who’d just accused him of stealing. He looked about sixteen, with freckles and red hair, too young and naive to know he was annoying a vampire. Normally, Striker would have stopped to purchase the sunglasses and baseball cap, but he couldn’t let Culler and the woman out of his sight. He held the boy’s gaze while his will seeped into the young man’s conscience.

“I have paid for these,” Striker said, hypnotizing the kid with his eyes.

“Right, sorry, sir.” Like a puppet, the boy moved back behind the counter of the little gift shop.

Striker shoved the glasses back up on his nose, made sure the cap covered his hair, then he picked up a USA Today on his way out. He stepped into the flow of people moving toward the various airline ticket windows.

He spotted Culler and her friend about fifty yards ahead. It was hard to miss her companion, not because the scent of blood was all over her and his predatory sense of smell could find her in a twenty-story building in seconds, or that she was tall and head and shoulders above the crowd, but because she dressed like a rock star. Thick ginger-blond curls hung down past her shoulders. Her long legs were stuffed into tight black hip-hugger pants. Several spike belts of varying widths hung around her slender hips. She wore a tie-dyed T-shirt that left three inches of her flat belly showing. A pink scarf, dotted with blood, draped her neck. And over it a black leather bomber jacket. Silver studs spelled “Virgin” across the back of the coat. Black cowboy boots covered her feet and calves. Lethal silver points jutted from the tips of her boots. She held a small carry-on suitcase, and she kept scratching at the scarf around her neck. He didn’t much care for women who dressed ostentatiously or had an I-own-the-world air about them. The modest feminine medieval fashion for women was his favorite style, but that look was long gone, obsolete, just like that part of his life.

They went through the line, and Culler bought Rock Star a first-class ticket to Paris. On their way to Gate 5, they stopped at a row of shops.

Rock Star turned and looked nervously around. Striker was leaning on the wall near a water fountain, pretending to read the newspaper. She glanced past him as they paused at Arlene’s Tid Bits, a woman’s clothing boutique.

He zoned in his sensitive hearing and listened to their conversation.

“Let’s go in,” Culler said. “I need a toothbrush and makeup and clothes. It’s not fair. You carry an overnight bag in your car. I had to leave home with nothing.”

“Sorry.” Rock Star shrugged her shoulders. “Hazards of my job. When following people, you have to be ready at a moment’s notice to leave.”

What was her job? How deeply was she connected to Raithe? Rock Star could be higher up in his organization. What was the connection between Rock Star and Culler? Maybe Rock Star was the ticket he needed to find Raithe. By the enticing odor of her blood, he knew vampires would kill to have a taste of her. He’d like to see below the scarf. Was she just covering the scratches Tongue had left on her neck, or was Raithe’s mark on her neck? The thought brought a sadistic grin to Striker’s lips. He’d like nothing more than to find leverage with Raithe by using one of his own blood slaves. If she had been just a regular human, Raithe could easily replace her, and she would be useless to Striker. But this woman was a cut above, her blood like manna. Striker could only hope she was one of Raithe’s obsessions. An object Striker could definitely use.

“I suppose so,” Culler said.

“Look, I’m just gonna pop across the hall there, to the fudge shop. I can still keep an eye on you.”

“Don’t let that cretin make you fat. He’s not worth chunky thighs.”

Culler actually sounded like she cared. Striker thought she was the most talented liar he’d ever seen. She had to be to fool Raithe.

“This isn’t breakup eating. I’m just hungry.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Striker watched them part, Culler stepping into the clothing shop and her companion heading for the candy store. He kept an eye on Rock Star while she watched Culler. Kids and parents lingered in the store. The kids begged for everything. The parents picked and chose for them. Rock Star walked down the cases and found the fudge. She pointed to almost every type.

The clerk’s eyes widened in disbelief. He asked if he’d heard her correctly. She wanted three pounds of peanut-butter fudge, along with everything else.

“Yes, eating for two.” Rock Star patted her slender belly.

“Sure it’s not twins?”

“Sometimes I think so.” She smiled at the clerk, a dazzling white-toothed grin that mesmerized the man for close to half a minute, causing him to drop several pieces of fudge on the floor. Stunning didn’t come close to describing her face at that moment. It appeared she knew how to wrap men around her little finger with just a smile.

Even with all the airport noise, Striker could zone it out, tune his hearing into the blood pumping through her veins. He could detect the minutest abnormality, and he didn’t hear the heartbeat of an unborn fetus. She was pulling the clerk’s leg. Why that slightly amused him, he didn’t know.

His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out. Mimi’s smiling face met him. “Hey, boss. Got the info you wanted. This new player is one Takala Rainwater. She owns Rainwater Detective Agency in Richmond. She’s full-blooded Patomani. Her sister is Fala Rainwater, the Guardian.” Mimi paused for effect.

Striker knew of Fala Rainwater. Who in the supernatural realm hadn’t heard of the Guardian? The Guardians were legendary in fighting evil; even his own kind had suffered at their hands. Striker had let Meikoda, the previous Guardian, operate as long as she had stayed out of his way. Fala could prove to be more of a problem. He’d read the dossier on her, an ex-police detective, generally considered a hothead. Striker hadn’t had a run-in with her yet, but she already had one strike against her in his book: she’d stolen Stephen Winter, one of his best agents. Made the idiot believe he was in love. At the thought of love, Striker lifted one corner of his lip in a snarl.

Mimi continued. “Her youngest sister, Nina Rainwater, has phenomenal psychic powers. She recently wedded Kane Van Cleave. These three chicks are loaded with white-magic power. Takala, the middle sister, has off-the-charts strength. The seer assures me she’s not involved with Raithe.”

“He could have had her charmed, and the seer’s eye blocked.”

“Got a point there. The seer said Takala’s searching for her mother, Skye Rainwater.”

The name hit him. Culler aka Lilly Smith aka Simone Poindexter’s real name was Skye Rainwater. She’d changed it when she entered B.O.S.P. So, were mother and daughter both killers? Both involved with Raithe. Or was Takala Rainwater really just searching for her long-lost mother? If so, she’d wish she had never found Culler.

“I want this on high priority. Dispatch two teams of our most competent agents to Paris, and have them standing by at Charles de Gaulle Airport. And send two more to me now—not Tongue or Vaughn.”

“Right.”

Striker glanced up just as Takala Rainwater was leaving the candy store. Her arms were laden with a grocery-size shopping bag and her carry-on. She must have bought ten pounds of fudge, but she carried it beneath her arm as if it weighed nothing.

Striker caught a whiff of the fudge, and it mingled with the sweet metallic scent of her blood. Blood was his candy, or poison, depending on how one looked at it. The potency skated through his senses. He took a deep, shuddering breath. His desire to taste Takala Rainwater was becoming more and more a forbidden temptation. But he would overcome it. He knew what happened if he didn’t. He could become like Raithe again, and that he would never let happen.

She paused at the door of Arlene’s Tid Bits, one eye on Culler, then rummaged through the shopping bag. She came out with a chunk of fudge. She licked it and moaned softly at the pleasure of the taste.

Striker imagined something very similar, only involving her neck or, better yet, the femoral artery that pulsed at the top of her thighs. The unbidden daydream dissolved when two of his agents appeared at his side. One was Katalinga, a lynx shifter. She had dark brown short hair, upturned feline eyes, and wore a brown spandex pantsuit that sheathed her body. She always looked as if she’d stepped out of the sixties. Brawn was a wizard. Tall and built like a wrestler. He had short-cropped auburn hair and deep, serious green eyes. He wore blue corduroys, a pin-striped oxford shirt, and a gray blazer.

“Hello, sir,” Katalinga purred. She had a Swedish accent, which only accentuated her r’s. “Reporting for duty.” She sniffed the air. “What’s that delicious aroma?”

“That would be one of our targets standing in front of that clothing shop behind me.”

“Her blood really smells delish.” Katalinga licked her lips. “We should get a copy of that for the lab so they can reproduce it.”

“Our techs are talented, but I doubt they can invent anything close,” Striker remarked.

He and the B.O.S.P. blood-dependent employees injected themselves with a serum that sustained them for twenty-four hours between feedings. It helped them when they were out on a mission. The serum left an aftertaste in the mouth, a “flavor” as the techies called it. Yet it could never come close to human blood. And he felt certain never equal the taste of Takala Rainwater’s.

The serum supplemented Striker’s usual diet of freeze-dried animal blood that he reconstituted. It was the worst-tasting substance imaginable, but he only drank it for survival, not pleasure. He couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed anything or found joy in anything but his work.

He’d had enough small talk and said, “Keep them safe and in view at all times.”

Brawn had been studying Takala Rainwater as she ate the fudge, and he appeared enthralled. “You mentioned two targets?” he said without taking his eyes from her.

“The other one is in the store at the register.” Striker felt a sudden pang. Was it possessiveness? No, more a feeling of familiarity. What seemed so familiar about Takala Rainwater? He couldn’t lay his finger on it. Other than her aromatic blood, she was nothing to him but a problem. Why should he care who looked at her? “We’ll switch off. You both are on now. I will check out the gate and make sure it’s clear.”

“Affirmative,” Brawn said.

Striker walked down to Gate 5, glad to have some distance between him and Takala Rainwater. He didn’t need distractions at present. What he needed was a moment alone with Culler, to discover what she knew about Raithe and if she was still in contact with him. And he would, tonight on the flight, when he had his full power. If she was charmed, he could break through it. He’d never underestimate Culler again. And Takala Rainwater … Well, he’d enjoy that encounter, probably overmuch. He looked forward to luring her into isolation, discovering her weaknesses and her needs, all the elements of hunting targets at which he excelled.

His fingers reached instinctively for the tiny vial of soil hanging around his neck. Still there. Over the years it had become a compulsion to check it. He was forced to carry it with him at all times during the day. It was the soil that enabled him to stay awake during the day, the earth of his vampire birth, the same ground in which his casket was buried. It was the one thing he shared with Raithe. Over the centuries it had turned to dust from age. He’d been forced many times to go back to Rome and dig up more soil. He had always hoped to corner Raithe there, but never had. One day and soon, he promised himself.