Personal Demon
Page 2
“Werewolves? Dare I even ask where that rumor came from?”
“The kids who found the body got all freaked out, seeing dog tracks around it, and they started posting online about werewolves. I have no idea how the dog got involved.”
I was already mentally writing my story. “When asked about the werewolf rumors, an officer on the site admitted he couldn’t explain the combined signs of canine and human.” That’s the trick of writing for a tabloid. You take the facts and massage them, hinting, implying, suggesting…As long as no one is humiliated unfairly, and no sources are named, I don’t have a problem giving readers the entertainment they want.
Karl would have found it entertaining too. If I’d been assigned this story a couple of months ago, I’d have been waiting for his next call, so I could say, “Hey, I got a werewolf story. Can I get a statement?” He’d make some sardonic comment, and I’d curl up, settling in for a long talk, telling myself it was just friendship, that I’d never be fool enough to fall for Karl Marsten. Kidding myself, of course. The moment I let him cross that line past friendship, I got burned…and it was just as bad as I’d always feared.
I pushed memories of Karl aside and concentrated on the story. The officer had just let slip a lead on the kids who’d found the body—two girls who worked at the 7-Eleven on the corner—when clouds suddenly darkened the day to twilight. Thunder boomed, and I dropped my pen. As the officer bent to grab it, I snuck a glance around.
No one was looking at the sky or running for cover. They were all carrying on as they had been.
The officer kept talking, but I could barely hear him through the thunderclaps. I gritted my teeth and waited for the vision to end. A storm moving in? Possible, if it promised enough destruction to qualify as chaotic. But I suspected the source was a Tempestras—a “storm” half-demon. One offshoot of my “gift” was the ability to sense other supernaturals through their chaotic powers.
I cast another surreptitious glance around. My gaze settled instead on the one person I hadn’t noticed before. A dark-haired man, at least six foot three, with a linebacker’s body ill-concealed by a custom-tailored suit.
He seemed to be looking my way, but with his dark sunglasses it was impossible to tell. Then he lowered them, pale blue eyes meeting mine, chin dipping in greeting. He walked over.
“Ms. Adams? A word please?”
HOPE: GODFATHER
I checked for chaos vibes and felt nothing. Still, any time a hulking half-demon stranger sought me out hundreds of miles from my home, I had reason to be alarmed.
“Let’s head over there.”
He nodded to a quiet corner under an elm. When we stopped, he shivered and looked up into the dense branches.
“Not the warmest spot,” he said. “I guess that’s why it’s the one empty corner in the park. No sunshine.”
“But you could fix that.”
I braced myself for a denial. Instead I got a grin that thawed his ice-blue eyes.
“Now that’s a handy talent. I could use that in my line of work.”
“And that would be?”
“Troy Morgan,” he said, as if in answer. “My boss would like to talk to you.”
The name clicked—Benicio Cortez’s personal bodyguard.
I followed Troy’s gaze to a vehicle idling fifty feet away. A white SUV with Cadillac emblems on the wheels. Beside it stood a dark-haired man who could pass for Troy’s twin. If both of Benicio Cortez’s bodyguards were here, there was no doubt who sat behind those tinted windows.
My hastily eaten breakfast sank into the pit of my stomach.
“If it’s about this—” I waved at the crime scene, “—you can tell Mr. Cortez it wasn’t a werewolf, so…” I trailed off, seeing his expression. “It isn’t about the werewolf rumor, is it?”
Troy shook his head. Why else would Benicio Cortez fly from Miami to speak to a half-demon nobody?
Because I owed him. The bagel turned to lead.
“Okay,” I said, lifting my notebook. “I’m in the middle of a story right now, but I could meet him in an hour, say…” I scanned the street for a coffee shop.
“He needs to talk to you now.”
Troy’s voice was soft, gentle even, but a steel edge in his tone told me I didn’t have a choice. Benicio Cortez wanted to talk to me, and it was Troy’s job to make that happen.
I glanced at the crime scene. “Can I just get a few more minutes? If I can talk to one more witness, I’ll have enough for a story—”
“Mr. Cortez will look after that.”
He touched my elbow, gaze settling on mine, sympathetic but firm. When I still resisted, he leaned down, voice lowering. “He’d like to speak to you in the car, but if you’d be more comfortable in a public place, I can arrange it.”
I shook my head, shoved my notebook into my pocket and motioned for him to lead the way.
AS I MOVED toward the curb, a passing car hit a patch of melting snow, throwing up a sheet of slush. I scampered back, but it caught my legs, dappling my skirt and nylons, the icy pellets sliding down and coming to rest in my shoes. So much for looking presentable.
I rubbed my arms and told myself the goose bumps were from the ice, not trepidation over meeting Benicio Cortez. I’m a society girl—meeting a CEO shouldn’t be any cause for nerves. But Cortez Corporation was no ordinary Fortune 500 company.
A Cabal looked like a regular multinational corporation, but it was owned and staffed by supernaturals, and the unique abilities of its employees gave it a massive advantage over its competitors. It used that edge for everything from the legitimate (sorcerer spells to protect their vaults) to the unethical (astral-projecting shamans conducting corporate espionage) to the despicable (a teleporting half-demon assassin murdering a business rival).
I’d spent two years working for the Cortez Cabal. Unintentionally. Hired by Tristan Robard, who I thought was a representative of the interracial council, I’d been placed with True News to keep an eye on supernatural stories, suppressing or downplaying the real ones and alerting the council to potential trouble. My job soon expanded to helping them locate rogue supernaturals.
It had been the perfect way to guiltlessly indulge my hunger for chaos. The phrase “too good to be true”
“The kids who found the body got all freaked out, seeing dog tracks around it, and they started posting online about werewolves. I have no idea how the dog got involved.”
I was already mentally writing my story. “When asked about the werewolf rumors, an officer on the site admitted he couldn’t explain the combined signs of canine and human.” That’s the trick of writing for a tabloid. You take the facts and massage them, hinting, implying, suggesting…As long as no one is humiliated unfairly, and no sources are named, I don’t have a problem giving readers the entertainment they want.
Karl would have found it entertaining too. If I’d been assigned this story a couple of months ago, I’d have been waiting for his next call, so I could say, “Hey, I got a werewolf story. Can I get a statement?” He’d make some sardonic comment, and I’d curl up, settling in for a long talk, telling myself it was just friendship, that I’d never be fool enough to fall for Karl Marsten. Kidding myself, of course. The moment I let him cross that line past friendship, I got burned…and it was just as bad as I’d always feared.
I pushed memories of Karl aside and concentrated on the story. The officer had just let slip a lead on the kids who’d found the body—two girls who worked at the 7-Eleven on the corner—when clouds suddenly darkened the day to twilight. Thunder boomed, and I dropped my pen. As the officer bent to grab it, I snuck a glance around.
No one was looking at the sky or running for cover. They were all carrying on as they had been.
The officer kept talking, but I could barely hear him through the thunderclaps. I gritted my teeth and waited for the vision to end. A storm moving in? Possible, if it promised enough destruction to qualify as chaotic. But I suspected the source was a Tempestras—a “storm” half-demon. One offshoot of my “gift” was the ability to sense other supernaturals through their chaotic powers.
I cast another surreptitious glance around. My gaze settled instead on the one person I hadn’t noticed before. A dark-haired man, at least six foot three, with a linebacker’s body ill-concealed by a custom-tailored suit.
He seemed to be looking my way, but with his dark sunglasses it was impossible to tell. Then he lowered them, pale blue eyes meeting mine, chin dipping in greeting. He walked over.
“Ms. Adams? A word please?”
HOPE: GODFATHER
I checked for chaos vibes and felt nothing. Still, any time a hulking half-demon stranger sought me out hundreds of miles from my home, I had reason to be alarmed.
“Let’s head over there.”
He nodded to a quiet corner under an elm. When we stopped, he shivered and looked up into the dense branches.
“Not the warmest spot,” he said. “I guess that’s why it’s the one empty corner in the park. No sunshine.”
“But you could fix that.”
I braced myself for a denial. Instead I got a grin that thawed his ice-blue eyes.
“Now that’s a handy talent. I could use that in my line of work.”
“And that would be?”
“Troy Morgan,” he said, as if in answer. “My boss would like to talk to you.”
The name clicked—Benicio Cortez’s personal bodyguard.
I followed Troy’s gaze to a vehicle idling fifty feet away. A white SUV with Cadillac emblems on the wheels. Beside it stood a dark-haired man who could pass for Troy’s twin. If both of Benicio Cortez’s bodyguards were here, there was no doubt who sat behind those tinted windows.
My hastily eaten breakfast sank into the pit of my stomach.
“If it’s about this—” I waved at the crime scene, “—you can tell Mr. Cortez it wasn’t a werewolf, so…” I trailed off, seeing his expression. “It isn’t about the werewolf rumor, is it?”
Troy shook his head. Why else would Benicio Cortez fly from Miami to speak to a half-demon nobody?
Because I owed him. The bagel turned to lead.
“Okay,” I said, lifting my notebook. “I’m in the middle of a story right now, but I could meet him in an hour, say…” I scanned the street for a coffee shop.
“He needs to talk to you now.”
Troy’s voice was soft, gentle even, but a steel edge in his tone told me I didn’t have a choice. Benicio Cortez wanted to talk to me, and it was Troy’s job to make that happen.
I glanced at the crime scene. “Can I just get a few more minutes? If I can talk to one more witness, I’ll have enough for a story—”
“Mr. Cortez will look after that.”
He touched my elbow, gaze settling on mine, sympathetic but firm. When I still resisted, he leaned down, voice lowering. “He’d like to speak to you in the car, but if you’d be more comfortable in a public place, I can arrange it.”
I shook my head, shoved my notebook into my pocket and motioned for him to lead the way.
AS I MOVED toward the curb, a passing car hit a patch of melting snow, throwing up a sheet of slush. I scampered back, but it caught my legs, dappling my skirt and nylons, the icy pellets sliding down and coming to rest in my shoes. So much for looking presentable.
I rubbed my arms and told myself the goose bumps were from the ice, not trepidation over meeting Benicio Cortez. I’m a society girl—meeting a CEO shouldn’t be any cause for nerves. But Cortez Corporation was no ordinary Fortune 500 company.
A Cabal looked like a regular multinational corporation, but it was owned and staffed by supernaturals, and the unique abilities of its employees gave it a massive advantage over its competitors. It used that edge for everything from the legitimate (sorcerer spells to protect their vaults) to the unethical (astral-projecting shamans conducting corporate espionage) to the despicable (a teleporting half-demon assassin murdering a business rival).
I’d spent two years working for the Cortez Cabal. Unintentionally. Hired by Tristan Robard, who I thought was a representative of the interracial council, I’d been placed with True News to keep an eye on supernatural stories, suppressing or downplaying the real ones and alerting the council to potential trouble. My job soon expanded to helping them locate rogue supernaturals.
It had been the perfect way to guiltlessly indulge my hunger for chaos. The phrase “too good to be true”
