I called down again. “I don’t know what you hope to gain by killing me, Tristan.” I pulled out the business card Marsten had given me. “We’ve already called—”

  I squinted at the card. Earlier, I’d glanced at it just long enough to register the last name—Cortez—and I’d remembered Marsten saying he’d done work for Benicio Cortez’s son, the one who wasn’t part of the Cabal. So that’s the name I expected. When I saw what was really printed there, my heart thudded.

  I turned it over. A handwritten phone number. Oh God, was that real? What if it wasn’t?

  “Yes, Hope? You were saying?”

  I’d been about to say that I’d called the person on the card and told him everything. But that wouldn’t work now. Had I really called already, these guards wouldn’t be here.

  Think…think…

  “Who am I really working for, Tristan?” I said. “Who sanctioned this job?”

  His gaze shot to the guards. “The Cortez Cabal, Hope. You already said that.”

  “Yes, but I…I’m confused. You two down there. When you were called in, what did Mr. Cortez say Karl’s crime was?”

  The guards looked at one another.

  “Wait,” I said. “Mr. Cortez didn’t give the order, did he? That came straight from Tristan. So what did Tristan say Karl’s crime was?”

  “He’s a thief,” Tristan said, between his teeth, surveying the forest as if trying to pinpoint my voice.

  “Okay…but—well, he’s been a thief all his life, right? And his father before him. But now, out of the blue, Mr. Cortez decides he deserves to die for it? Right after Karl joins the Pack. Right after the Pack joins the interracial council. Isn’t that a diplomatic crisis in the making? I thought Mr. Cortez was pretty careful about stuff like that.”

  The guards turned to Tristan, their eyes narrowing, but still expecting a logical explanation.

  “I don’t question my orders,” Tristan said.

  “Maybe, but I do. I’m going to call Mr. Cortez. Got his card right here.” I read off the office numbers, so they’d know I was telling the truth. “And, while I’m sure those numbers would get me through to some flunky eventually, I can probably save some time by using the number on the back. Benicio Cortez’s personal number.”

  “How’d she get—” one of the guards began.

  “She didn’t, you—” Tristan clipped off the insult. “It’s a stalling tactic. You really are a naïve little girl, aren’t you, Hope? Where did you get Benicio Cortez’s number? The phone book?”

  The second guard snickered, but the first took out his cell phone.

  “Here,” he said. “Give me the number and I’ll call.”

  Tristan smiled in my direction. “Yes, Hope. Give him the number.”

  I resisted the urge to rattle it off, and stammered it out instead, as if I was making it up. Where had Marsten got this number? What if someone had given it to him as a joke? I looked down at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but his eyelids were flagging, as if he was struggling to stay conscious.

  My hesitant delivery made Tristan smile, and he made no attempt to stop the guard from dialing, just leaned back against a tree and awaited my downfall.

  Ten seconds after the guard finished dialing, his head jerked up.

  “Mr. Cortez?”

  Tristan chuckled and shook his head.

  “This is Bryan Trau,” the guard said. “SA Unit 17. I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but we have a situation here.”

  Tristan jumped so fast he nearly tripped. His hand flew out, and he motioned for the guard to hand over the phone, but the guard stepped away. Tristan started to lift his gun, then stopped as the second guard raised his halfway, the threat respectful but clear.

  The guard explained the situation, and I swore I could see Tristan sweating. When the guard finished, he listened, said, “Yes, sir,” then held out the phone.

  “Mr. Cortez would like to speak to you.”

  Tristan stepped back and looked ready to bolt. Then he caught sight of Marsten and must have, in that second, seen a possible way out, the elimination of the only person who could confirm the entire story. He lifted his gun.

  A shot sounded.

  I didn’t think. I jumped from the tree. The second I started falling, my brain screamed “Idiot!” and I saw the gun still in my hand. I managed to fling it aside before I landed on top of it and shot myself in the gut.

  I hit the ground hard, but scrambled up, grabbed the gun, and ran. As I made it to the clearing, I heard,

  “Yes, sir.” Pause. “No, sir. He’s gone.”

  I flew into the clearing to see the guard kneeling beside a body. Tristan’s body. In the guard’s other hand, he held his gun.

  “Yes, sir, I did. You said if he made a move—” A pause, then the guard nodded and glanced over at me. “She’s here now.”

  The guard held out the phone. I hesitated, then took it.

  “Is this the young woman who was with Karl?” a voice asked. A pleasant voice. Calm and alert, as if he hadn’t been woken in the middle of the night.

  He asked a few questions about me, whether I was hurt and what had happened, his tone mild but concerned, almost avuncular, not what I’d expect from the head of the most powerful Cabal. After a few questions, he said,

  “You’ve had a very long night, and I’m sorry you had to go through this, but I can assure you, Mr. Robard was acting outside his jurisdiction. Since he is an employee, though, I take full responsibility for his actions, and will do everything I can to put things right, starting with looking after Karl. Is he badly hurt?”

  Oh God, I’d been so shocked I hadn’t even checked. I blurted an apology, and raced to Marsten. The second guard was already there, tending to Marsten, who was unconscious. He’d been shot through the shoulder, and his entire side was wet and sticky. Blood must have been pumping out the whole time he’d been lying there.

  Mr. Cortez assured me a doctor, one from his local satellite office, would be on the way. Then he left me to help the guard bind Marsten’s wound as we waited.

  14

  The guards took Marsten back to my house, then left me there to wait for the doctor while they returned to the scene to clean it up. They weren’t even out of the backyard when the doctor arrived. He got the wound cleaned and covered, left antibiotics and painkillers, and told me to call if Marsten’s condition worsened.

  The two guards stopped back at the house to let me know everything was cleaned up. They brought something for me, too—my purse, left by Tristan in the van. My bracelet was still in there, as were my wallet and gun. Everything back in order, just as Mr. Cortez had promised.

  We’d left Marsten in the living room, on a blanket. I found a second blanket and laid it over him. He looked ridiculous, of course, this huge wolf on my living room floor with a pink and white knit afghan tucked in around his muzzle. At least I didn’t get him a pillow…though I did consider it.

  I lay down on the sofa above him, intending to keep watch until he woke, but, within minutes, I was asleep.

  I awoke to the sound of running water. Marsten was gone.

  “Up here,” he said when I called for him.

  I climbed the stairs. He was in the bathroom, with the door open a crack.

  I stopped a few paces from the door. “You need your clothing, don’t you. Let me get—”

  “Found and on…mostly. What’s left of them, anyway. Now, if I can just—” He growled. “This bandage fit me better as a wolf.”

  “Here, I can—”

  I started pushing the door open, then stopped, realizing he might not want the help. He kicked it open the rest of the way as he quickly shrugged on his shirt.

  I laughed. “Feeling shy?” I gestured at the shirt. “I can’t fix your shoulder like that.”

  He hesitated, then let the shirt fall off. His chest and upper arms were a loose patchwork of scars. He tensed, as if waiting for me to comment or react. I grabbed bandages and iodine from the closet, and set to work fixing him up.

  “The Cabal sent a doctor over,” I said. “I’m not sure he did a very good job. He didn’t seem to know much about werewolves.”

  “That’s fine. I know someone who does.” He glanced at me. “So I didn’t imagine that, then. You contacted Benicio Cortez.”

  I nodded. “And that’s all it took. Tristan’s dead, you’re alive, the mess is cleaned up, and Mr. Cortez has promised to look after any fallout. Which, of course, led me to wonder, if you had that number, why didn’t you use it right away. I think I know the answer, but I’m hoping I’m wrong.”

  “Probably not,” he murmured.

  I looked up at him. “As nice as Mr. Cortez was, I’m guessing he didn’t get where he is by playing Santa Claus. Cleaning this up for us wasn’t a free gift, was it?”

  Marsten shook his head. “We owe him. He wouldn’t say that, because it would have been crass, under the circumstances, but it’s a chit owed.” He rubbed his shoulder, adjusting the bandage, and made a face, then looked at me. “When I turned down Tristan’s offer, Benicio came to me and made one personally. He was much more persuasive—”

  “He threatened you?”

  Marsten laughed. “Benicio Cortez does not threaten. He knows a lollipop can be a better motivator than a swat on the behind. He made me a lucrative offer, and when I respectfully refused, unlike Tristan, he let it go, but gave me that card, in case I ever ‘needed help.’”

  “And now I’ve accepted it on your behalf, putting you in his debt. God, I’m so sorry—”

  “If I hadn’t wanted you to use it, I wouldn’t have told you to. Given the choice between being dead and owing Benicio Cortez, we’re better off with the latter, as uncomfortable as it may be. He will eventually call in the chit, but, in the meantime, you can go back to your life, including your job at the paper, assuming that’s what you want.”

  “It is.” I sat on the edge of the counter. “I’d like to—well, maybe I’m kidding myself thinking I could do anything on my own—”

  “You could still monitor and report problems. To the real council this time. They have someone doing something similar, another journalist, and I know she’d love the help.”

  I shrugged, torn between not knowing if that would be enough and not knowing if I could offer more, if I still had more to offer.

  Marsten stepped in front of me and leaned forward, a hand on each side of me, balancing against the counter. “It’s a start,” he murmured. “Take it slow and start there. The only drawback, I’m afraid, would be the pay…or lack of it. The real council isn’t a group of white-haired philanthropists. Most of the delegates aren’t much older than you, meaning it’s pretty much a no-budget operation.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I never even wanted Tristan to pay me. I get paid well enough—” I stopped and shrugged. “Well, you know…”

  “In chaos dollars.”

  My cheeks heated. “I know that sounds awful, helping others because I get something out of it—”

  He put his hands on my hips and leaned closer to me. “You need an outlet. Do you think I don’t understand that?” He reached into his pocket and took out the jewels. “This is mine. A way to get my regular adrenaline shot without ripping apart strangers in alleyways. And, with you, it isn’t all about the chaos. You have balance. The good impulses with the bad. Me?” He grinned. “A little more inclined to the latter.” His eyes glinted. “Though not irredeemably so.”

  I laughed. “Something tells me that would be a fun, but futile challenge.”

  “Challenge is good.”

  I shook my head. “If you’re happy with what you are, then anyone who wants you would need to accept that.”

  He ran his fingertips along my jawline. “Wouldn’t be easy, I’m sure.”

  “No, but if you look hard enough, I’m sure you’d find someone willing to try. You know, my mom’s great at finding dates—”

  He growled and kissed me. When he pulled back, he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, as if sampling the kiss.

  “The immunity is breaking down,” he murmured. “But still has a ways to go.” He leaned toward me again. “I’d ask if I should stay for a while, but I suspect the answer would be no. A reluctant no, maybe, but a no nonetheless. So instead I’ll ask whether I can come back.”

  I smiled. “Yes, you can come back.”

  “Good. Better, actually.”

  “Better?”

  “Much.”

  I laughed and shook my head.

  Marsten stepped back. “I should go. I have a doctor to visit and goods to dispose of…not necessarily in that order. And I will make those calls for you—ensure the termination from your old job and the start of your new one go smoothly.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.” I caught his hand and met his gaze. “I really do, Karl.”

  He leaned over for a kiss, little more than a brushing of the lips, but very…nice. When he pulled away, he backed up to the door, started to turn, then stopped.

  “I’m too old for you.”

  “Too old for what? To come back for a visit?”

  A dramatic sigh. He shook his head, and walked out of the bathroom. From the hall I heard a murmured “I’m going to make a fool of myself.”

  “It’ll look good on you,” I called after him.

  His chuckle returned. I smiled and listened to his footsteps recede down the stairs, across the floor, and finally disappear out the back door. Then I took a deep breath. One life gone. Another on the way. Was I up for it?

  God, I hoped so.

  About the Author

  KELLEY ARMSTRONG is the author of the popular Women of the Otherworld series. The newest book, Broken, will be out in summer 2006. She lives in rural Ontario with her husband and three children.

  Want more info? Go to www.kelleyarmstrong.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  DEAD MAN DATING

  Lori Handeland

  1

  On the day he died, Eric Leaventhall had a date that couldn’t be broken, so he went. Dead and all.

  Too bad I was his date.

  Turned out dead dating was the only way he could get what he needed.

  Sustenance.

  Are you confused yet? I know I was.

  Maybe I should start at the beginning. But I’m not quite sure when that was. Probably when I decided to become a client of www.truelove.com.

  Pretentious? Maybe. But I’d hoped that any man who chose a service by that name might be a little more grown up than most—had at least moved beyond a desire to bang supermodels and begun to think about finding a life. Being a literary agent, I should have known that semantics were as dead as most people’s belief in a soul mate.

  The date itself started out well enough. We met at a martini bar near my office. A new place, kind of Sex and the City, which should have tipped me off right away. If not to the whole demon issue, then at least to his hopes for the evening. He wasn’t after true love.

  I hadn’t been completely honest, either. In my bio I’d said I was “in publishing.” I’d learned that the quickest way to a stack of manuscripts from the wannabe famous was to tell anyone but immediate family what I really did for a living.

  Of course some people figured it out as soon as they heard my name. My mother had been one of the top agents in the business before she’d gone and died on me. Was I following in her footsteps trying to regain some of the happiness I’d enjoyed while she was alive?

  You betcha.

  However, that wasn’t working out. I liked to read, but I didn’t like to sell. Sadly, my degree in ancient civilizations made me fit to do little but teach, and I doubted I’d be very good at that, either. Kids kind of scared me.

  At loose ends—in my job and my personal life—I’d decided to start searching for that soul mate I’d been dreaming of. Just my luck, the first candidate didn’t even have a soul.

  I should have caught a clue to Eric’s intentions the instant I’d seen his photo on the web. He was drop-dead gorgeous—dead being the operative word, although in truth, he hadn’t been dead at the time. Still, what on earth would a man like him want with a woman like me?

  One thing and one thing only. What’s that horrible saying about all women being the same in the dark?

  I’m not a hag, but I am short and just a little dumpy, with long, black hair that curls too much and the dark eyes and olive complexion of either my father’s Sicilian ancestors or my mother’s Hebrew ones. Take your pick. With a name like Mara Naomi Elizabeth Morelli, I’d never be mistaken for a Nordic bimbo, even if I’d had a prayer of looking like one.

  Anyway, call me Kit. Everyone does. I was never able to carry off the Mara Naomi Elizabeth thing.

  Now back to the date—if not from hell, at least from a place very near by.

  Manhattan.

  Rich, blond, and handsome, Eric was every plain girl’s dream. He was not very tall, which I liked, since big men always made me nervous; his teeth were white and straight; his eyes deep blue. He was also a surgeon. Of course he was too good to be true.

  “I’m so glad you came,” he said, and his smile warmed the chill of the early spring night.

  Eric led me to a secluded table, held my chair, let his fingertips drift over my hair. Sure he got a little too close, rubbed his knee against mine a little too soon, laid on the interest in my job, my future, and me a little too thick. But I was lonely, confused, unhappy, and here was this great guy hanging all over me.

  “What do you say we take this to your place?” Eric murmured, stroking the back of my hand.

  I hesitated, uncertain how to say no. I’d never been one for sex on a first date; I wasn’t one for sex at all. I might be smart-mouthed, just a little sarcastic—blame my mother—but I was also shy with men. The thought of baring my body to a stranger—well, it wasn’t a thought I entertained very often.