Blood Call Page 4

  “When was the last time you ate?” He was well and truly irritated now, his eyebrows coming together and his mouth turning down at the corners just a little bit.

  Still, the warmth was so wonderful, and she felt safe. She had never understood what a precious feeling that was. As if everything were normal again, and she could fall asleep, and wake up with the phone ringing and Eric’s voice, irritable and deep in her ear. You’re about to be late for work, Annie. Jesus, why can’t you get an alarm clock?

  Because I can always depend on my brother to wake me up, she would reply, and listen to him swear good-naturedly. He’d always been a morning bird, even in college.

  She drifted away into deep darkness, her knee and ankle and lower back burning bars of strangely muffled pain, the tender place between her legs throbbing. She sighed. “Josiah?”

  “I’m here.” He took her hand. Warm, callused fingers held hers carefully. The feeling of safety was so intense she felt the last few vestiges of fear drain away. “Who hurt your brother, baby? You tell me.”

  “It’s big,” she heard herself murmur. “The black cars…”

  “What car? Who shot at you?” He said it very softly. Something soft touched her cheek. His fingers? Or his lips? She couldn’t tell. She had never wondered at how rough his fingers were. “Anna? Talk to me. Who shot at you?”

  “Josiah…” She wanted to explain, but she was so tired. Instead, she fell into a black hole, her arms tight around the purse with its paper inside, the files Eric had told her to get.

  I did what you wanted, Eric. Now let me rest.

  Anna slept.

  Chapter Seven

  That night, Josiah watched her sleeping.

  How many nights had he spent gazing intently at her face as she lay next to him, warm and trusting, both of them breathing in the wonderful lived-in smell of her small, cheap apartment? She temped all over the city, but her real work was creation, and it showed. Art books scattered everywhere, paintings crowding the walls, her work table always full of pens and pencils and paper, a secondary work table with a sleek computer and an electronic pad, her portfolio always at the ready, her kitchen table full of whatever she was interested in lately. He still remembered her painting ceramics. Each of her dishes was different, decorated with some whimsy or another.

  She’d even made a coffee mug for him, painted blue with a laughing sun in gold. It was in one of the downstairs cabinets.

  Sometimes, when insomnia struck or he simply woke early, he would get dressed and just sit next to her bed in the refinished rose velvet chair, watching her peace. Dawn would bloom through her windows, flushing the sheer curtains, and each moment showed something new in her face, things that kept surprising him. Like the curve of her cheek, or the exact shape of the little space under her lower lip, or the perfection of her eyelashes, or…

  Nothing had changed. She still slept just as deeply and trustingly as ever, breathing softly enough he had to get up and check to see she was still alive. He’d planned on sleeping on the couch in front of the fireplace—after all, it was where he spent most of his nights—but he ended up getting a pillow from the hall closet and settling himself on the floor next to the bed. Still, he woke every half hour or so, sitting up to make sure she was breathing, and when a gray damp dawn came he gave it up completely and watched as the light discovered her face by increments yet again.

  Met her at a coffee shop on Fourth and Ringold. The shop itself was closed now, but then it had been a trendy bistro on a rainy day. He came in, intending to get a latte, standing at the counter when he noticed—again, having marked her habitually upon entering—the woman at one of the tables with a sketchpad, chewing on her pencil and pushing back a single strand of glossy brunette hair. She looked half-lost in a large bulky green sweater, and her eyes matched the sweater almost exactly. Those eyes met his, and she stared for a moment, then gave him an impish grin and began scribbling on her sketchpad.

  By the time his latte was ready, she had finished scribbling and torn the page off. Then, pretty as you please, she rose to her feet and approached him.

  He froze like a deer in the headlights, but she merely presented him with the paper and a smile capable of rocking him back on his heels. “Here you are,” she said. “I’m practicing my motion-capture sketches, and you’ve got a good face. Thanks.”

  She’d captured his stance in swift strokes, even though she probably had no idea why he stood the way he did. She’d paid attention to his eyes, and to the dampness in his hair, not to mention the way his coat hung. She was good.

  “This is…very nice.” Mentally kicking himself. Christ, can’t you think of something more intelligent to say?

  She beamed, and that smile was high voltage through every nerve he owned. “Thank you. Well, back to the salt mines.”

  She’d just left her purse behind her at the table in blithe disregard of common sense, and the soft, long wave of her hair had swung as she spun on the balls of her feet like a dancer.

  He couldn’t help himself. “Hey.”

  She paused, looking back over her shoulder. “What?”

  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  Much to his surprise, she’d accepted. Even given him her phone number.

  She was a civilian, for God’s sake. Her reaction to his line of work had been genuine; so had her brother’s. She had no contact with the shadow side unless it was through Josiah himself.

  That was an unpleasant thought. Was someone trying to draw him out?

  Ridiculous. But still, if someone wanted to use her to flush him out, half their work was done.

  Whatever had happened, he had her in his house and in his bed; her brother was dead and she had nobody else to depend on. She wasn’t going anywhere. Not this time.

  Josiah waited until the sun had fully risen before padding noiselessly out of the room and ghosting downstairs. He wanted a cup of coffee, and he had a few arrangements to make before she woke up.

  Chapter Eight

  “God’s breath.” The voice was male, shaded with dark amusement. It wasn’t familiar; the accent sounded British. Or Australian.

  “Yeah.” Josiah’s sounded hard, the words dipped in metal. “She was in bad shape. I brought her in, patched her up.”

  “What’s she holding?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  The first voice sounded a little scandalized now. “You didn’t look?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Is it her?”

  “Is it who?”

  “The girl. The one you keep the phone for.”

  Anna swam up out of deep water. Her head hurt. Her back hurt. Everything hurt. Her back most of all, but her ankle and her foot and her shoulders each had supporting roles, especially the right shoulder. Her face throbbed, hot and aching-cold at the same time. Her eyes were closed, and she didn’t especially want to open them. It was such a relief to be stationary and horizontal.

  And safe. Don’t forget safe.

  “I thought so.” The first voice sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Her brother, Eric Caldwell. Journalist, and she says he’s dead. Dig a little—but quietly. Don’t trip any wires. Set Willie to getting clothes in these sizes. A girl who likes to dress a little professional, grays and light colors for a brunette. Also, some weekend wear. She likes low heels.”

  “I’ll bet she does.” The first voice sounded amused. “Does she have a preferred weapon?”

  Josiah’s tone got sharp. “She’s a civilian.”

  Silence. The first voice was soft when it spoke again. “I’ll keep that in mind. Eric Caldwell, journalist. Television?”

  “Print and web. With the Post, last I heard. A dying breed. Be soft and easy; we don’t want anyone to know we’re interested.”

  “You wound me. I’ll have Willie send up some toast. And a cuppa. Since we’re nursing the poor little bird back to health.”

  “Did I ask for an editorial, Hassan?”

&n
bsp; “I’m no journalist, boss. Just an observation. Nice to see you happy.”

  “Who says I’m happy?” There was a light sound, scuffling feet. Male horseplay, maybe. Anna lay very still.

  The first voice laughed. “You think I’ve lived with you this long and I can’t tell? I’m going, I’m going. She’s awake, you know.”

  “I know. Get out.” Josiah did sound happier than she’d ever heard him, really. As if he was holding back laughter.

  Anna opened her eyes. It was dark through the window, an early winter dusk, and the lamp on the bedstand gave a soft glow. Golden light touched the ceiling, and Jo leaned over her, pulling up the covers as if she were an invalid.

  Anna’s hand shot out, feeling for the purse. Josiah’s fingers closed gently around her wrist; he guided her hand to familiar rough black canvas. “It’s there.” Softly, soothingly. “I haven’t even taken a small peek. Relax.”

  If I relax any more, I’m going to fall right through the mattress. She opened her mouth to say so, blinked, and shut her lips tightly, watching him. He was wearing a different shirt; his hair was damp and combed back as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. How long have I been asleep?

  He squeezed her wrist briefly, comfortingly, then nodded, letting go. His eyes looked almost blue in the electric light, the green in the hazel coming out. Change-color irises; how often had she studied them, watching the light refract?

  “How do you feel?” As if she’d been sick, and was just now recovering.

  Oh, God. What am I supposed to say? “Like hell.” She sounded flat, hopeless, and tired. “How long did I—”

  “You slept all night and all day. Are you hungry?” He settled down into a chair by the bedside. Anna pushed herself up on her elbows. The sweatshirt—his sweatshirt—had rucked up under her breasts, and she had to move carefully to get it pulled down. Her hair fell in her eyes, and her mouth tasted like the bottom of a gutter. She wanted a hot shower, some icy white wine, and—of all things—a Reuben on rye.

  Eric’s favorite sandwich.

  The loss hit her again, right in her stomach, in the place where she had a hole now. The abyss that kept opening to remind her he was gone, where the vision of the terrible bloody grin in his throat lived when it wasn’t climbing up to torment her.

  “Not hungry,” she managed around the lump in her throat. “A shower sounds good, though.”

  “The bathroom’s over there.” He indicated another door with his chin. “I’ll get you some ibuprofen, you’ve probably stiffened up.” Josiah leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees and his hands loosely clasped. He looked very alert, and sharply handsome with his hair slicked back, drawing attention to the lines of his face. “Even if you’re not hungry, you should eat. You’re probably still numb, in a kind of shock.”

  You’ve dealt with a lot more dead people than I have, Jo. Is that how you know? She pushed herself up all the way to sit, despite the screaming in her shoulders and lower back. Her hair kept falling in her face, and it felt greasy. She felt greasy. Did she still have mud from George’s pond between her toes?

  Nausea rose in a swift wave. Maybe she didn’t want a Reuben after all. Or anything else.

  Josiah kept talking. “Once you’ve cleaned up and had something to eat, I need you to tell me everything.” He didn’t lean farther forward, but she felt the shift in his attention. His eyes had turned darker now, blue turned to hazel shading into brown. “I’ve got to know every detail you can dredge up if you want me to help you.”

  I don’t want to remember any of this at all. “All right.” She pulled her knees up, slowly, wincing as her left ankle reminded her that it was not happy with the abuse it had endured lately. Anna found herself hugging her knees under the comforter, making herself as small as possible. It reminded her of when her parents died, and she’d been afraid Eric would lose custody because he was so young.

  Josiah looked down at the floor. She was glad; his gaze was piercing and cold. Instead of remembering Eric’s throat and the wet barking sound George had made when they shot him, now she was thinking of Josiah’s hand between her legs and the shameful acid bite of heat bolting through her. Revolted desire, frustrated jumbled pain and pleasure all wrapped together.

  As many times as I want. And you’ll act like you like it.

  She’d never heard him speak so coldly. She was lucky he was willing to help her at all.

  Considering the alternative.

  “Anna?”

  She actually flinched. She’d forgotten he was in the room with her; her brain was jagging around. Mental hopscotch. “I’m losing my mind,” she muttered. “Okay, I’ll tell you everything. I just want to…I really need a shower. Please” The lump in her throat had come back.

  “No problem. I’ll find you something to wear. Willie—the housekeeper—she’s taller than you, but you’re both pretty slim; she should have something that will fit you until we can get you some decent clothes. You can’t go back to your apartment, not now and maybe not ever. You know that, right?”

  Jesus, why do you think I’ve spent the last three days running around town like a chicken with my head cut off? She just nodded. He was the last person she could afford to get sarcastic with. “I know.” To her dismay, her throat had closed up again. God. I’m so sick of crying.

  “Anna?” His tone had gentled. “Look at me.”

  She came back to herself, staring at her knees under the white down comforter. Her left knee still throbbed dully, scraped raw. There was a bandage on her heel and she was full of a muzzy-headed thickness that came with sleeping more than twelve hours at a stretch. I don’t want to look at you. “I’m sorry I bothered you,” she whispered to her knees. “I didn’t have anyone else who could help me.”

  “Hey. Hey.” The chair squeaked as he rose, then the bed made a different sound when he dropped one knee onto it. The mattress gave under his weight and she leaned away, panicked by the sudden movement. Her purse slid on the comforter; she grabbed at it and looked up just in time to see his hand come up. He cupped her chin in his palm; his skin was warm and hard. “Look at me. Look.”

  His eyes were dark again, shadowed in the dim golden light. He examined her face, from forehead to chin, met her gaze again, and his mouth turned into a thin, harsh line. “I thought you’d call sooner or later. It’s why I stayed here.” His thumb feathered over her lips, just the way he used to touch her, a light, intimate caress. Her heart gave a huge half-strangled leap in her chest, and the lump in her throat turned into her pulse. “I didn’t think you’d be in trouble, but I thought you’d…I don’t know. Just want to talk to me. I was always good to talk to, right?”

  Until I figured out I was the one doing all the talking. She didn’t want to irritate him, so she agreed. “Yes.” Just let me go take a shower. Please. Just let me go.

  Another thought swam through her mind, dragging panic in its wake. Maybe he wanted her to start paying now?

  Oh, Christ. I don’t know if I can do it right now. Maybe I could just lie still and let him do what he wants?

  Shame followed the panic. What was she doing?

  Josiah seemed not to notice how fast she was breathing, or her discomfort. He was staring almost through her, an odd and uncomfortable scrutiny. “I was hoping you’d call, no matter the circumstances. Let’s just be clear about one thing: I’ll take care of whatever trouble this is, but I don’t want to hear one single peep from you about how I do it. Okay? No petty moralizing, no name-calling, and no goddamn temper tantrums. From now until I finish this out for you, you do what I say when I say it and keep your editorials to yourself. You got it, baby?”

  Well, I’ve agreed to hire a murderer and pay him with sex. I don’t think I’m going to cavil at much else. “I got it.” Her lips were cracked; she was suddenly very thirsty and acutely aware of how good he smelled. He didn’t wear cologne, so the scent was Ivory soap and his shampoo, with the simple base of healthy male underneath. Clean, uncomplicated, and ve
ry familiar. She’d slept with one of his shirts left at her apartment for a year and a half until it had faded. “I won’t cause any problems. You’re the boss.”

  So what would he tell her to do now? Anna closed her eyes and waited, swallowing hard.

  He didn’t move. “About yesterday.”

  Her heart sped up again, slamming against her ribs as if she was running away again, hearing the pockpockpock sounds behind her and wondering when a bullet was going to slam into her flesh. She bit her lower lip, keeping her eyes closed.

  You have to get back in the game, Tasha was always saying, whenever she brought a fresh round of drinks to their table. Come on, Annie!

  She’d never see Tasha’s cheerful, snub-nosed, and freckled face again.

  He sighed. “Go get cleaned up, and I’ll find some clothes for you. Just try to relax. You’re safe here, and there’s nothing we can do right at this moment. Can I look through those papers while you’re in the shower?”

  I certainly can’t stop you. She didn’t open her eyes until he’d moved, letting go of her chin and sliding off the bed. “If you want.”

  He settled back into the chair. “Did Eric ask you to hold them for him?”

  Tears rose again. She denied them, with all her strength, and found out she could sound relatively steady, even to herself. “About h-half of them. The other half were in a safety-deposit box; I got the key in a letter from Eric that m-morning, I don’t know why he posted it instead of…I…I went to ask him what he wanted me to do with it and I f-found Eric in his apartment. They had c-cut his throat.” Her voice broke on a sob.

  Had he gone pale? The only other time she had seen him this white was during the fight, when she’d thrown the pictures at him, the typed sheets fluttering like wounded bird wings.

  “He’d told me not to call the cops. I…I don’t know. I left his apartment. I was c-crying so hard I couldn’t see, but I was in the lobby and looked out the door and noticed a black car. It made me think, I’d seen the c-car outside h-his office the d-day he gave me the first batch of papers. I went out the b-back and I spent the n-night in a flophouse off Seventieth; I was stupid and paid with my Visa. The d-day after, I went to his editor George—”