Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,24

shifted, ostensibly nudging her farther from the window, hands tightening around her hips, fingers splaying over her rear. She undid the top button of his shirt and tickled circles with the tip of her tongue.

“Hope . . .”

“You could move away.”

“And leave you exposed?”

“Hmm, there’s a thought.” She arched up to nibble his throat.

He wrapped the hem of her shirt around his fist, as if considering. Then he straightened, his werewolf hearing picking up the voices inside. His thoughts gave nothing away. He’d learned to block them from her. But whatever he was hearing, he didn’t like it, the chaos flowing off him coming in short bursts of worry.

Hope struggled to keep still, but the vibes were so exquisite that she couldn’t help squirming and shivering. A silent laugh vibrated through him and pulled his attention from the patio door. He made the chaos surge, the waves rocking her.

His chin lifted again, gaze returning to the patio door as he tried to listen.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, running her fingertips along his throat. “Someone has a birthday coming up, which, I believe coincides with our one-year anniversary. A special celebration is in order. Perhaps a fantasy fulfilled. A cabin in the woods . . .”

His eyes glinted. He shook it off and glanced at the door. “We really should—”

“You’re right. We should. In fact, I’m making the reservation as soon as we get home. One deep-woods cabin. One very willing girlfriend at your service all weekend, to fulfill your most uncivilized wolf urges—”

The sound of a voice inside stopped her like a bucket of ice water.

“Shit,” she whispered, giving her head a sharp shake as she stepped aside. “Okay, that was stupid. Forget I said anything.”

“Not a chance.” He rubbed her hip before moving back. “We’re going to revisit that one . . . just at a more appropriate time.”

She smiled. “Agreed.”

FINN

* * *

IT LOOKED LIKE FINN couldn’t even keep a ghostly partner around. And just when he’d been thinking Trent could be useful . . .

He had enough for a search warrant, so he got that, collected a couple of officers and went to Robyn Peltier’s apartment. And that’s where Trent seemed to decide police work wasn’t for him. On the way to the apartment, he’d been in high spirits, razzing Finn about his poor choice in radio station, making him change it to jazz, then singing along in a pitch-perfect tenor. When they arrived, Trent had driven him nuts, rocking on his heels, eager to get to work while Finn tried to talk to the landlord. He’d told Trent to go on ahead, scope out the apartment.

Ten minutes later, Finn had found him in there, pacing, anxious. He’d said he’d wait outside and disappeared, apparently having forgotten he was supposed to search the places Finn’s warrant wouldn’t cover.

The warrant allowed them plain-sight search only. Usually Finn could find something—an address book, a Rolodex, a laptop, a PDA, business cards on the fridge, numbers written on the wall. But this place was as sterile as a model suite.

He’d asked the landlord about Peltier’s friend from Bane, but the man didn’t recognize the description, and said he’d never seen Peltier bring anyone by.

Finn hoped to find Trent outside. Maybe there was something in the apartment—some smell or aura—that bothered ghosts. But Trent was nowhere to be seen. Finn found excuses to linger, talking to the officers staking out the building, but when he did eventually leave, he was, as usual, alone.

COLM

COLM WATCHED THE COUPLE walk out of Robyn Peltier’s apartment minutes after he’d seen the cops leave. The place was a regular Grand Central Station, his mom would say.

He backed farther into the cubby by the waste-disposal chute, but they headed the other way, toward the stairs. He continued to watch them through his mind’s eye. Their figures were faint against a shimmering background, as if seen at the bottom of a lake through a dirty, glass-bottomed boat.

It was a struggle to keep a fix on them. He’d been light-headed all evening—probably from not eating all day. After last night, his stomach was in a permanent knot, refusing to accept even the thought of food.

He’d killed a man. Shot him in the back. He’d had to, of course, for Adele. She’d been so grateful. And his reward . . . He shivered now, thinking of it.

Besides, the man had been an outsider. The kumpania taught that killing a human for survival was no different than slaughtering a cow for food.