“I don’t . . . That is, Vayl and I . . .” Okay, why am I trying to BS a psychic? “What’s she look like?”
Cassandra described Disa in minute detail. Shit. Of course, we can still take her out. Maybe when Cole gets finished . . .
“Stop, Jasmine. Think what you’re plotting.”
I realized I’d walked all the way to the door. I bowed my head against it. Son of a bitch. Fifty years? What the hell did she think—and then it hit me. I turned around.
“Cassandra, I have just tried to kill the one person who can lead us to Edward Samos. Because of Vayl. And because I’m so torn up about Dave. You should see him; he’s never been this close to the edge. Which is making me absolutely crazy. But that’s beside the point. No, that is the point. This fucking Trust is turning us all into something we’re not.”
“Jasmine, I am so worried about you,” Cassandra said. “I can hear the strain in your voice from all these thousands of miles away.”
I looked up at the ceiling, and suddenly the cracks seemed to converge into a form. One so gigantic my brain could only capture it for a millisecond. “It’s like this entire villa is at our throats, sucking out the logic, the sense. Holy Christ, it’s like the Trust itself is a vampire. And as long as we stay under its roof, we’re going to be locked in some sort of battle with it.”
I began to pace the room as realizations hit me, one after another. “Everything. Dave shooting the Weres. The binding. Me trying to kill Disa. They were all symptoms of the fact that we were under attack.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure. Vayl warned me about the power of this place. But at the moment, all I really know is that I’ve totally jeopardized the mission. And my job.” I locked eyes with the fountain statue, who stared back at me without pity as I whispered, “So what am I gonna do now?”
Chapter Eleven
I lay back on the bed, trying to ignore the freaky painting, pouring my poker chips from one hand to another. One of Dave’s men had given them to me when we’d worked together on our last mission. I could’ve used that guy’s help right now. Cam’s scars, a combination of killer acne and a close escape from a grenade, were visible proof of how good he was at surviving sticky situations.
“Obviously my perspective is trashed. Maybe . . . Should I quit?” I asked the round clay tiles clacking their soothing music against my fingers. I imagined writing out a letter of resignation. Watching that paper flutter onto Pete’s desk with the same death knell they used to toll the loss of sailors at sea.
Gut churning. But not as bad as letting Samos walk. I really have to consider this. But not lying down. I jumped up. Sitting around here is driving me crazy. Plus, I’m so not ready to talk to Vayl and Dave. What would I tell them? The big bad house made me do it? Yeah, that’ll go over like a lead balloon. Especially considering the Trust is in their heads too. And they’re pissed at me.
Maybe if I had some proof. Hamon’s room. That’s it! Try to find something from his stash to back up my theory.
I left a note for Dave to call Cassandra, her last request before we’d broken our connection, and headed out the door. Moving toward the apartments that had once housed the king of these vampires, I tried to imagine what Vayl and the rest of the group were discussing right now. Spaz Jaz, the renegade assassin, no doubt. Was Vayl trying to talk Disa out of flaying me alive? Had Dave told any embarrassing stories of my high school flip-outs? Forget that—was Vayl trying to extricate himself from her fifty-year trap? No. Niall had said it was permanent.
Just the thought made me feel so wild I actually punched the wall, bringing a rain of dust down on my shoulders before I even considered the consequences.
I pondered my bloody knuckles and said to myself, It’s the Trust screwing with you again. Plus, you did just donate your blood and, maybe, part of your soul to a young werewolf. That’ll mess you up any day of the week. Won’t it? Answer me!
I stopped next to a painting of a lady vamp with an upturned nose and ruby red eyes. “What do you do when even thinking hurts?” I asked her. “And by the way, how the hell do I get myself into these situations?” She had no answer beyond her eternally hungry stare. I drew my knuckles down the painting’s face. And when I pulled them away she was crying for me, bloody tears that ran down the canvas like slow, thick rain.
“Work,” I whispered. “Go to work, Jaz. Before you lose it altogether.”
I reached for my watch, a Bergman special, which, when its band was flipped, emitted a shield that allowed me to move even more quietly than usual. I figured that could be handy in a mansion full of creatures that could hear better than elephants. But as I moved away from our suite and deeper into the villa, I realized my watch was just the techie portion of a bigger, badder silence that had suddenly become available to me through my exchange with Trayton.
Sliding past full suits of armor, creeping beneath a twenty-foot section of ceiling-hung blue crystals, skulking down carpeted avenues that couldn’t capture even a hint of my footsteps, I felt like I could walk up right behind a vamp, flick him on the back of the ear, and disappear before he ever even turned around. I liked it.
And I hated it.
Because I couldn’t tell anymore what fit me and what had been slapped on like a pair of gigantic clown shoes. I felt like I needed my own Antiques Roadshow expert who could, with only a brief glance, say, “As you can see by the red curls marked by one white streak, this is a genuine Jaz Parks. The Sensitivity and its various accoutrements, while interesting in themselves, do nothing to detract from the value of the piece, which should be insured for ten billion dollars.” Hey, if you’re going to price yourself, I say go high.
I jerked my head around as my senses raised the alert. Two vamps at least, coming my way. Talking loud and angry. Probably freaking about my latest move. And I so didn’t want to be on the receiving end of the wrath I felt pounding down the hall.
I rushed to the nearest door, ducked behind it, and nearly split my skull on an iron pole before I realized I’d stepped into a coat closet. My semi-claustrophobia let out a yelp, which caused me to whisper, “Holy crap, that was close!”
“It’ll be even closer if you back up another step.”
“Shit!” I whipped around, nearly braining myself again as I confronted the creature curled up in the corner, his face hidden behind a line of leather and furs. “Don’t move,” I hissed. “Don’t even think about giving my position away.”
“Do I look like I want to be found?”
Good point. I held the syringe of holy water tight in my right hand, where I’d triggered it the moment I’d realized I was sharing space with a vamp, and left the mystery of why I hadn’t sensed him, and still barely did, until later. Bigger, scarier boys were coming. Genti and Rastus to be specific, and Genti at least seemed to have an awful lot to say. Unfortunately, it was all in Vampere.
I set my ear against the door, straining to hear the few words I understood. But I doubted their heated discussion would include the phrases “I come in peace,” or “No, thanks, I prefer water.” Then I heard a word I did recognize. “Werewolf.”
Ahh. Rastus has had to admit he’s lost a dead wolf and a living bear. And Genti sounds überpissed! I would so buy tickets to that ass-kicking.
The next word I recognized sent me diving to the other corner of the closet. Genti had said “outside,” as he’d paused by the door. Problem was, the unnamed vamp had decided my corner provided a lot more privacy too. Though we moved at the same time, he was faster and I ended up pressed against what I hoped was his shoulder.