Obsidian Butterfly

54



IT WAS A DARK night. It didn't seem to be cloudy, just dark, as if something besides clouds was blocking the moon. Or maybe that was just my frame of mind. The one thing I'd wanted to avoid while I was doing my favor for Edward was dealing with Edward at his most illegal. We'd picked up Olaf and Bernardo at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere with those empty rolling hills stretching out and out into the darkness. There had been no cover except some scrub bushes, and when Edward stopped the car and cut the engine, I thought we'd have a wait ahead of us.



"Get out. We'll need to suit up." He'd gotten out without waiting to see if I was getting out or not.



I got out. The silence seemed as big as the sky overhead, an immense emptiness. A man stood up not five feet in front of me. I had the Browning pointed before the man held a flashlight under his face and I realized it was Bernardo.



Olaf had magically appeared on the other side of the road. There was no ditch on either side of the road. There was nothing on the side of the road. What was even more impressive was that they began lifting large black bags of equipment out of that same nowhere. If we'd had the time, I'd have asked how they did it, though I doubt I'd have understood the answer. Training probably. Training I didn't have, though it might be nice to get it.



Of course, most of the things I hid from could have heard Bernardo's and Olaf's heartbeat no matter how well hidden they were. It was almost a relief to be up against mere humans. It meant you could at least hide in the dark.



Twenty minutes later we were on the road again, and Edward hadn't been joking on the suiting up part. I'd had to strip to my bra and put on a Kevlar vest. It was my size.



Which meant it had to be a special purchase because Kevlar doesn't come in my size off the rack.



"It's your prize for spotting all the weapons," Edward said. He always knows just what to buy me.



I needed to adjust the shoulder holster after putting on the vest, but I was told to do it in the car. I didn't argue. We had less than ten minutes to get to Riker's place. My T-shirt didn't quite fit over the body armor. I mean it did fit, but not well. Bernardo handed me a black, long-sleeved, man's shirt. "Put it on over the T-shirt. Button it up part way after you've got your holsters adjusted."



The shoulder holster was just a matter of readjusting straps. The inner pants holster just didn't work once the vest was on. I put the Firestar down the front of my jeans and angled it until I was as happy as I was going to get with the way it fit. It still dug into my stomach, but I wanted it where I could get it fast. I could live with bruises tomorrow.



I practiced drawing the Browning through the half open shirt a few times, though it's hard to practice drawing from a sitting position, but we didn't have time for me to get out and practice standing.



"You guys are making me nervous, putting me in Kevlar."



"You didn't argue," Bernardo said.



"We don't have time to argue. Tell me what to do, I'll do it. But why the Kevlar?"



"Olaf," Edward said.



"Riker employs twenty men, ten are just hired muscle. We've met half of them already. But he's got ten that he keeps close to him. Three ex-seals, two ex-army rangers, one ex-police, and four guys who have black files. Which means whatever they do or did, it's top secret and maybe rogue."



I remembered what FBI Agent Bradford had said about Olaf. That he had a black file. "Isn't this a little too commando raidish for a pot hunter?"



Olaf continued like I hadn't said anything. Bernardo started showing me the contents of a large leather purse at the same time. I listened to Olaf and watched Bernardo.



"Riker has connections in South America that supply him with contraband. Suspicions are that he's running more than just artifacts. Maybe drugs. The locals have no idea how big a bad guy they've got here."



"When did you find all this out?"



"After they came to the house," Edward said.



"How did you find all this out?" I asked.



"If we told you, we'd have to kill you," Olaf said.



I started to smile, thinking it was a joke, but I caught a glimpse of his face as the only car we'd seen passed by, flashing lights over us as it passed. He didn't look like he was joking.



Bernardo said, "This looks like a can of hair spray. You can even squirt out a small amount of cresol." He demonstrated. "But lift here." He did and revealed a second layer of metal. "This is the pin. This is the depressor. It's an incendiary grenade. You pull the pin, let up on the depressor, and you have three seconds to get a minimum of fifty feet away from it. It's got white phosphorus in it. This shit burns under water. If you get a tiny piece on your sleeve, it will eat through the cloth, your skin, bone, all the way to the other side."



He clicked the secret compartment shut and handed it to me. "Damned heavy for hairspray," I said.



"Yeah, but how many ex-navy whatevers are going to notice?"



He had a point. Next was a small thing of breath freshener that was really heavy-duty mace. A key ring that when you hit the button on it, a four-inch blade popped out.



There was a heavy ink pen that actually wrote, that if you pressed the little switch, a six-inch blade came out the end. There was real perfume with a higher than normal alcohol content. "Go for the eyes," was the advice. A disposable lighter, because you never know when you might need some fire, and a package of cigarettes to explain the lighter. There was a transmitter in the collar of the black shirt that would allow them to find me inside the buildings or at least find the shirt. I was beginning to feel like I'd been shanghaied into a James Bond movie.



I lifted out a hairbrush with a heavier than normal handle. "What's this?'



"It's a hairbrush," Bernardo said.



Oh. I looked at Edward. The only thing he'd changed was putting a white Kevlar vest under his undershirt and white shirt. He was even still wearing his cowboy hat. Olaf and Bernardo were both dressed in commando black, and backpacks that looked full. They were bristling with weapons, blacked so they didn't show up at night, but not hidden.



"I take it that the guys here aren't going in the front door with us," I said



"No," Edward said. He hit the brakes, and Olaf and Bernardo slipped out of the car and into the darkness. Because I knew what I was looking for, I could see them in a running crouch going over the hill. But if you hadn't been looking, you'd have missed them.



"You're scaring me, Edward. I'm not like a commando raid, James Bond kind of girl. Where the hell did you get a hairspray grenade?"



"A lot of female secret service now. It's a prototype."



"Nice to know where my tax dollars are going."



We were going down a long gravel driveway. There was a big house sitting; up on a hill. Lights blazed out of the windows as if someone had gone through and hit every light, as if they were scared of the dark. If Riker really thought the monsters were coming, the analogy was accurate.



Edward outlined his plan as we drove the last few yards. I was to pretend to do a spell of protection for Riker. While I delayed, Olaf and Bernardo would try to find the kids. If they couldn't find them or couldn't get them out, Olaf was supposed to find a man and kill him as messily as possible in a short space of time, leave the body where it would be found, and hope to make Riker think the monsters had already gotten inside. They might take us to the point where the monster kill had been found to get my expert advice, which would put us and whoever was with us, hopefully Riker, near where Olaf and Bernardo could help us kill them. If that failed, Bernardo would start blowing things up. Which would create panic and hopefully allow us to find the kids. Unless Bernardo decided the structure wasn't sturdy enough to blow up and not cave in around us. Then we'd need another plan.



Edward stopped the car at a gravel turnaround near the crest of the hill. Men armed with automatic submachine guns walked towards the car. None of them were Harold or Russell. They moved like Olaf and Edward moved, like predators.



"You don't believe they're going to give back the kids, do you?"



"Do you?" he asked. He'd put his hands on the steering wheel at ten and two, in plain sight.



I raised my hands in the air where they could be seen. "No," I said.



"If the kids are okay, we'll do as little killing as possible, but if the kids aren't okay, it's zero survivors."



"The police are going to find out about this one, Edward. You will blow your Ted 'Good ol' boy' Forrester image all to hell."



"If the kids don't make it out, I don't give a damn."



"How will Olaf and Bernardo know whether to kill or not?"



"There's a wire worked into my vest. They've both got ear pieces, so they'll be able to hear."



"You're going to tell them to kill," I said.



"If I have to."



The machine-gun-toting men were at either side of the car. They made motions for us to get out. We did what they wanted, being sure to keep our hands in sight. We wouldn't want any misunderstandings.



55



THE MACHINE GUN GUY on my side wasn't that tall, five foot eight or maybe shorter, but his arms were corded with so much muscle that veins stood out against his skin like snakes. Some people vein up if they lift even a little, but most of the time you don't get that much popping up without some major effort. It was as if he was trying to make up for the lack of height by being obscenely strong. Most muscle-bound guys are slow and rarely know how to fight. They rely on sheer strength and just being a bully. But this one moved smoothly, almost gliding on his feet, sort of sideways, which hinted at some martial art training. He moved well, and his bicep was bigger than my neck. He was also pointing a very modern looking submachine gun at me. Muscle bound, trained fighter, and better armed than me ¨C weren't there rules against that?



"Lean on the hood, assume the position," he said.



I put my hands on the hood and leaned. The engine was still warm, not hot, but warm. Muscle man kicked my legs. "Further apart." I did what he asked. I looked across the hood and met Edward's eyes. He was getting the same treatment on his side from a taller, slender man who wore silver frame glasses. Edward's eyes were at their empty, pitiless best. But somehow I knew he wasn't pleased. When I realized that, I realized I still had the sunglasses on, and my vision was still good through dark lenses at night. Funny, how neither Olaf nor Bernardo had asked in the car. There hadn't been time for many questions.



The vampire vision had toned down, but it was still there or I'd have been night blind with the glasses on. Wondered what Muscle Man would think of the eyes.



He kicked my right leg again, hard enough that it hurt. "I said, lean!" He had that drill sergeant voice going.



"If I lean any further, I'll be lying down."



I felt him move behind me and had my head turned to the side when he slapped me in the back of the head, hard enough that my cheek hit the hood. It would have hurt if it had been the front, nose, mouth. He'd meant it to hurt.



"Do what you're told, and you won't get hurt."



I was beginning not to believe him, but I leaned, cheek pressed to the hood, arms out flat like I was being nailed down, feet spread so far that one good foot sweep would have dumped me to the ground. But it was nice and unsteady, the way he wanted it apparently. In a way it was flattering. He was treating me as a dangerous person. A lot of bad guys don't. Usually, they live to regret it, but not always. If muscle man died tonight, it wasn't going to be because of carelessness.



He searched me, top to bottom, even running his fingers through my hair, He'd have found Bernardo's stiletto hairpins that the others had missed at the house. He took the sunglasses off and looked at them as if looking for things that I would never have thought to find in a pair of sunglasses. He didn't really look at my face, didn't catch the eyes, or maybe they weren't glowing black anymore. Muscle Man found everything but the transmitter that was sewn somewhere in the shirt and the contents of the purse. He did dump it out on the ground and shine a flashlight on every item. He made sure the ink pen wrote, that the hairspray sprayed, and took the breath freshener mace as if he recognized it on sight. But that was all he took out of the purse, though once it was empty, he kneaded it with his left hand, the right still holding the submachine gun.



"This wouldn't be one of those with a compartment for a gun, would it?"



I'd raised my head enough to watch him empty the purse, so we could look at each other while he held the gun on me and glanced down at things. "No, it wouldn't be."



"I was betting it would be," he said.



"Nope," I said.



He finished by standing on the purse and stomping it flat. Glad it wasn't really my purse. "I guess there's no gun," he said.



"Told ya."



He took three big steps back, out of reach. He was treating me like I was dangerous. Darn. I sometimes counted on passing for harmless, but I guess I'd been packing too much hardware to pass for anything but dangerous.



"You can stand up."



I stood up.



He tossed the sunglasses to me. I caught them. My eyes were in the light from the house now, but he never flinched. Apparently, the glowy stuff had faded. He motioned with the gun for me to pick up the contents of the purse. I put everything back inside and almost put the sunglasses in, but decided to put them back on. Two reasons: one, when the night got too dark to wear them, I'd know the vampire stuff had left me completely; two, knowing Edward, they were probably expensive, and I didn't want to get them scratched up.



He motioned with the gun, and said, "Just walk slow, straight to the house, and it'll be all right."



"Why don't I believe you?" I asked.



He looked at me with eyes as dead and empty as a doll's. "I don't like smart mouths."



"You'll have to wait until I do the spell before you can shoot me," I said.



"So they tell me. Get moving."



The slender guy with glasses who had Edward at gunpoint was waiting for muscle man to get me moving. When I started walking, Glasses moved Edward forward. They kept us walking side by side, telling us to stay together. They kept us together so that if they had to start shooting they could kill us both with one spray of bullets, True professionals. I hoped Olaf and Bernardo were as good asthey were supposed to be. If they weren't, we were in deep trouble.



The house was one of those nouveau architect homes that people with more money than taste are always hiring people to build. It looked like a giant had dumped white concrete in a free form slide putting windows and doors here and there like raisins in an oatmeal cookie. A nice surprise, but never where you expect to find them. The mismatched windows made the house look deformed. The door was off center but round, like a wide open mouth. The windows were not only round and mismatched, but the number of windows didn't seem to match the floor plan as if some of the windows looked into blank walls where no room could possibly be.



White steps led up to the round door like one of those cartoon tongues that spill out of mouths and go tumbling downstairs. The steps weren't wide enough for us to walk side by side, so Edward moved a couple of steps ahead. Neither of the men behind us protested, so we kept moving.



It had been so long since I carried a purse instead of a fanny pack that it felt awkward on my shoulder. I had to keep a hand on it to keep it from swinging around. I'd put it on the left shoulder, leaving my right hand uncompromised out of habit. Not that I had anything left to draw or pull or whatever. But it was always good to have your strong hand empty, just in case. So Edward and Dolph had always told me.



At the top of the porch in a spill of bright yellow light, they told us to stop. We stopped. They moved up to flank us and move a little back to either side. I didn't understand what they were doing at first, until the door opened and another man pointed the same kind of submachine gun at us. Muscle Man and Glasses had moved out of his line of fire and moved so they wouldn't catch him in their fire line. It is not easy to use three submachine guns in that small a space without crossing your own men, but they made it look easy, very smooth. The other men had carried an extra clip for the sub guns in a thigh holster, but this one had two clips at his waist.



The man in the door was African American and tall, like Olaf's height, very six foot plus. He was also completely bald just like Olaf. If they ever met, they'd look like light and dark versions of each other.



"What took so long?" he asked; his voice matched the body, deep.



"They were carrying a lot of hardware," Muscle Man said.



The new guy was smirking at me. "From the way Russell talked I expected you to look like Amanda. You're just a little bitch."



"Amanda the Amazon that came to Ted's house?" I asked.



He nodded.



I shrugged. "I wouldn't believe much that Russell said."



"He said you broke his nose, kicked him in the balls, and beat his head in with a piece of wood."



"Everything but the last bit. If I'd beaten his head in, he'd be dead."



"What's the hold up, Simon?" Muscle Man asked.



"Deuce is having some trouble locating the wand."



"Deuce would have trouble keeping track of his head if it wasn't attached," Muscle Man said.



"True, but we still wait." He was looking at both of us, the gun held easily in his big hands. "What's with the sunglasses, bitch?"



I let the name calling go. They had all the guns. "They look cool," I said.



He laughed then, a warm growly sound. A nice laugh if he hadn't been armed.



"What about you, Ted? I hear you are a bad dude."



Edward transformed into Ted, like a magician deciding he was going to have to perform after all. "I'm a bounty hunter. I kill monsters."



Simon looked at him, and there was something about the way he did it that said the Ted act wasn't fooling him. "Van Cleef recognized your picture, Undertaker."



Undertaker?



Ted smiled and shook his head. "I don't know anybody named Van Cleef."



Simon just looked at Glasses. Edward had time to turn his head so he took the blow on his shoulder. He moved a step, but didn't fall. Simon gave another look. Glasses hit his knee, and Edward collapsed onto one knee.



"We only need the girl up and running," Simon said. "So I'll ask you this just once, do you know Van Cleef?"



I stood there, not sure what to do. We were so totally covered by the guns, and the priority had to be getting the children out. So no heroics until they were safe. If we died, I wasn't a hundred percent sure that Bernardo and Olaf would risk their lives to get them out. So I stood there and looked at Edward kneeling on the porch, waiting for him to give me some kind of sign what I was supposed to do.



Edward looked up at Simon. "Yes."



"Yes, what, asshole?"



"Yes, I know Van Cleef."



Simon smiled broadly, obviously happy with himself. "Boys, this is the Undertaker, the man that still has the highest body count of anyone Van Cleef ever trained."



I felt, rather than saw, the two men twitch. The information not only made sense to them, but it scared them. It made them afraid of Edward. Who the hell was Van Cleef, and when had he trained Edward, and for what? I wanted to know the answers, but not badly enough to ask. Later, if we survived, I'd ask Edward. Maybe he'd even tell me.



"I don't know you," Edward said.



"I came in just after you left," Simon said.



"Simon?" Edward made the name a question, and the big man seemed to understand what was being asked.



"As in whatever the fuck Simon says, you damn well better do."



How colorful, I thought, but didn't say out loud.



"Can I get up now?" Edward asked.



"If you can stand, then help yourself."



Edward got to his feet. If it hurt, it didn't show. His face was empty, eyes like bits of pale blue ice. I'd seen him kill with that face.



Simon's smile faltered around the edges. "You're supposed to be one mean son of a bitch."



"Van Cleef never said I was mean." He sounded very sure of that.



Simon's smile disappeared altogether. "No, he didn't. He said you were dangerous."



"What would Van Cleef say about you?" Edward asked.



"Same thing," Simon said.



"I doubt that," Edward said.



They looked at each other, and there was a weight and a testing like something nearly visible in the air between them. Muscle Man's nerve broke first. "Where the hell is Deuce with the wand?"



Simon blinked, and switched very cold brown eyes to the man behind me. "Shut up, Mickey."



Mickey? It didn't have quite the ring to it that the other nicknames did. Of course, Simon hadn't sounded too tough until it was explained.



"Van Cleef didn't recognize her picture."



"No reason he should," Edward said.



"The newspapers call her the Executioner."



"That's what the vampires call her."



"Why do they call her that?"



"Why do you think?"



Simon looked at me. "How many vampire kills you got, bitch?"



If I had a chance tonight, I was going to teach Simon some manners, but not right now. "I don't know exactly."



"Guess."



I thought about it. "I stopped keeping track around thirty."



Simon laughed. "Hell, every man on this porch has more kills than that."



More kills than thirty? Who the hell were these guys? I shrugged. "I didn't know it was a competition."



"Did you count the human kills?" Edward asked.



I shook my head. "He asked about vampire kills, not human."



"Add those in," he said.



That was harder. "Eleven, twelve maybe."



"Forty-three," Simon said, "you got Mickey beat, but not Rooster." Apparently, Rooster was Glasses.



"Add in the shapeshifters," Edward said.



It had turned into a competition. I wasn't really sure that I wanted to seem as dangerous as I really was, but I trusted Edward's judgment. "Oh, hell, Edward, I don't know." I started counting in my head. Finally, I said, "Seven."



"So fifty," he said.



Just hearing it out loud made me want to cringe. It sounded so Psychos'R'Us.



"I've still got you beat, bitch," Simon said.



He was beginning to get on my nerves. "The fifty only counts the people I did personally with a weapon."



"You mean it doesn't count the ones you killed barehanded?" He smiled when he said it, like he didn't believe it.



"No, I counted those."



The smile got positively condescending. "Then what didn't you count, little bitch."



"Witches, necromancers, things like that."



"Why not count them?" This from Mickey.



I shrugged.



"Because using magic to kill is an automatic death sentence," Edward said.



I frowned at him. "I never said anything about magic."



"We aren't friends," Simon said, "but you can be honest tonight, bitch. We won't tell the cops. Will we, boys?" He laughed and they laughed with him, with that same sort of nervous mirth that Itzpapalotl's vampires had had, like they were afraid not to laugh.



I shrugged. "Most of the fifty are sanctioned kills. The cops already know about them."



"You ever been on trial?" This from the until now silent Rooster.



"No."



"Fifty legal kills," Simon said.



"Give or take," I said.



Simon looked at Edward. They had another one of those weighted staring contests.



"Would Van Cleef like her?"



"Yes, but she wouldn't like him."



"Why not?"



"She's not big on orders and listening to people just because they've got an extra stripe on their shoulder."



"Not disciplined," Simon said.



"She's disciplined. You just got to have more than rank to get her to listen to you."



"She listens to you," Simon said. "She didn't want to talk about her kills, but she took your lead."



His saying that meant Simon was very observant, too observant for comfort actually. I'd underestimated him. Stupid of me. No, not stupid, careless.



Another man came up with the identical gun in his hands. He was just shy of six foot, but seemed smaller, delicate somehow. The hair was a deep brown, cut short, curly. The face was pretty in a girlish kind of way. His skin was that dark tan that isn't really tan at all. He had a set of small headphones around his neck, with wires connecting them to a metal box and a small flat ... wand attached with a cord to the box. It had to be Deuce and the wand.



I didn't know what it was, but Edward went very still. He knew what it was, and he didn't like it. Not a good sign.



"Where the fuck have you been?" Mickey said.



"Mickey," Simon said, and he said 'Mickey' the way that Edward could say 'Olaf' and get perfect obedience. There was no more comment from the backup players. Simon looked at Deuce. "Do it."



Deuce slipped the headphones on, hit a switch and some knobs on the box, and a light went on on the box. He got a distracted inward look on his face as if he were listening to things we couldn't hear. He started at Edward's hat and worked down, hesitated over the chest area, then continued the sweep. He knelt on the ground beside Edward and waved the wand up the backside of Edward. He was careful to stay out of the line of fire of all three guns. His own gun was on a sling that he pushed far behind his back, keeping it out of the way with a well-placed elbow as he moved.



He stood, slipped the headphones off, and unplugged them from the box. "Listen to this." He waved the wand over Edward's chest. It beeped frantically.



"Take off the shirt," Simon said.



Edward didn't argue, He unbuttoned the shirt and handed it to Deuce, who waved the wand over it. The thing stayed silent.



Deuce waved the wand over Edward's chest again, and the wand beeped. He ran the wand over the shirt in his hand, no noise. Deuce shook his head.



"The undershirt," Simon said.



Edward had to take his hat off. He handed it to me, then lifted the undershirt over his head. The Kevlar looked very artificial and white. He handed the undershirt to Deuce, and we went through the same routine again.



"Take the vest off," Simon said.



"Tell me one thing first," Edward asked. "Are the kids all right?"



"Why the fuck do you care about some bitch's kids?"



Edward just looked at him, but there was something in that look that made Simon take a step back. He noticed what he'd done and took the step back, pointing the gun very solidly at Edward's chest. "Take off the damn vest."



"It's too hot for body armor anyway," Edward said. It seemed an odd thing to say for Edward man of few words, but you had to know Edward to know it was odd. I had the feeling that Edward had just put the word out for zero survivors. He undid the Velcro, slipped it over his head and handed it to Deuce.



Edward stood there naked from the waist up. He looked fragile beside the musclebound Mickey or the very tall Simon, but they saw in him what I saw in him because unarmed and half-naked they were still scared of him. It was there in the way Simon reacted to him. The way the others, except Deuce, kept their distance. Deuce didn't seem to be working on the same instincts as the rest, though he never once crossed the fire line. He made Edward stretch out his hand, or he knelt under the direct line of fire. None of them were careless. It wasn't a good sign.



He ran the wand over the vest. When the wand beeped, he handed it to Simon. Then he ran the wand over Edward's bare chest. Silence. Good, because I think Simon would have said, "Skin," in the same voice he'd said, shirt, undershirt, vest. Just because Edward made him nervous didn't mean he wasn't scary all of his own.



"In the body armor, that's good," Simon said. "Most people, even if they have you strip, don't check the armor."



Edward just looked at him.



"Her next."



Deuce duck-walked in front of us. Just in case someone started shooting, he was safe. No one shot anyone. Of course the night was young. He stood on the other side of me. He didn't bother to put the earphones back on, just ran the wand over me. It beeped. "Hand the hat back to him, please."



Please ¨C refreshing after hearing myself called bitch about a dozen times. "My pleasure," I said and handed Edward's hat back to him.



Deuce had looked up when I spoke, as if he wasn't used to politeness in others either. The wand ran over me, and it beeped at chest level.



"Take the shirt off, bitch," Simon said.



I untucked the shirt and started unbuttoning it. "My name's Anita, not bitch."



"Like I give a fuck," he said.



Fine, I'd tried being nice. I handed the shirt to Deuce and his magic wand.



It beeped, but when he ran it back over me, nothing. He laid the box gently on the ground, the wand on top of it, and started looking at the shirt. In less than a minute he'd found a small wire with a slightly thicker head sewn into the collar of the shirt. "Looks like a transmitter, maybe a homing beacon."



Simon tossed the vest to Deuce. "Cut it open, find out what's inside."



Deuce pulled a gravity knife from his back pocket, did one of those quick wrist movements that spilled the blade open. He went over the vest with his hands first, eyes closed, then he started cutting. It was a longer wire, with a little box attached. "It's a receiver. Someone out there is hearing everything we say."



"Destroy the homer."



Deuce crushed mine under his heel. When it was a little metallic and plastic slimy place on the porch, he smiled up at us as if he'd done a good thing. Deuce was a few bricks shy of a load. Funny how many people that Edward introduced me to were.



"Who's out there, Undertaker?" Simon asked.



Edward had put his hat back on. It looked funny with the shirt gone, but he seemed perfectly at ease. If he was nervous, you couldn't tell it.



"I am going to ask you this, one more time nice, then it won't be so nice." He seemed to square his shoulders as if he were the one about to take a beating. "Who was on the other end of this wire? Who's out there?"



Edward shook his head.



Simon nodded.



Rooster hit him in the back, and it must have been hard because it drove him to his knees. Something on the butt of the gun broke the skin in two small cuts. He stayed on all fours for a few seconds as if it had stunned him, then he got up, on his feet and faced Simon.



"Answer the question, Undertaker."



Edward shook his head, again. He was ready for the next blow. It staggered him, but he didn't go down. There was a third small cut. The cuts weren't anything, but they showed how much force was being used. He was going to be bruised all to hell come morning.



"Maybe she knows," Mickey said.



"I don't know who they are," I said, and the lie fell smoothly off my tongue. "Edward said we needed backup. He found some."



"You'd come into a situation like this with unknown people at your back? You don't seem that stupid," Simon said.



"Edward vouched for them," I said.



"And you trust him?"



I nodded.



"You trust him with your life?"



"Yes," I said.



Simon looked at me, then back to Edward. "She your squeeze?"



Edward blinked, and I knew that was him trying to buy time to think what answer would be the least painful. "No."



"I'm not sure I believe you, either of you, but if we start beating up the bitch, and she gets too hurt to do the spell, Riker'd be pissed."



"Why don't you have Undertaker ask the backup to come in?" Deuce said.



Everyone Sort of froze, then looked at him, Simon said, "What did you say?"



"If they can hear us, why not have him ask them to come up, hands up, that sort of thing."



Simon nodded, then turned hack to Edward. "Tell them to come up to the house. Hands where we can see them."



"They won't come," Edward said.



"They'll come or we'll blow your fucking head off." Simon put the short-butted gun to his shoulder, and put the barrel against Edward's forehead. "Ask them to come into the house. Hands up. Throw their guns down."



It was funny how Simon had never once thought it might be the police out there, as if he didn't believe the Undertaker would bring the police to the party.



Edward stared down the barrel of that gun, looked past it, into Simon's eyes, and the look was his usual look. His eyes were cold and empty as winter skies. There was no fear. There was no anything. It was like he wasn't there at all.



Edward may have been calm, but I wasn't. I'd seen enough bad men to know that Simon meant it. More than that, he wanted to do it. He'd feel safer if Edward were dead. I was out of ideas, but I couldn't just stand here and watch it happen.



"Tell them, Undertaker, or I will blow your head all over this porch."



"Even if I asked, they wouldn't come."



Simon pressed the barrel in, so that Edward had to brace his feet against it to keep from being pushed backwards. "You better hope they come. We don't need you alive, just her."



"I need him alive," I said.



Simon's eyes flicked to me, then settled back on Edward. "Lying bitch."



"Are you a witch, Simon?" I asked, though I knew the answer. I'd have spotted it if he had been a practitioner.



"What the fuck does that matter?"



"Then you don't know what I need to do this spell, do you? Your boss would be pissed if you blew away someone I needed to keep him safe from the monsters."



"Why do you need him?" Deuce asked.



I swallowed and tried to think, nothing good was coming. I tried for truth. When I'm out of other options, it still works. "Riker said he wouldn't hurt the kids. He said he wouldn't hurt us. He said he just wanted me to save him from the monster. If you blow ... Ted's brains into the next county, then I'm not going to believe any of Riker's other promises. The second I think that Riker is going to kill the kids and us once I do the job, then I don't have any incentive to help him."



Simon's eyes flicked to me again. "We can give you incentive." I didn't see him nod, but I felt Mickey moving behind me. I've never been good at taking a blow. I moved without thinking and he missed my shoulder, but I'd been right. He knew how to fight. I was turning towards him to do what, I'm not sure, when the butt of the gun caught me on the chin. I think I'd made him mad by ducking because he hit me hard.



The next thing I knew I was on the ground, looking up. Deuce was kneeling by me, stroking my face. I had the impression he'd been petting me for awhile, as if I'd passed out. I didn't remember passing out. The sunglasses were gone. I didn't know if Deuce took them off, or if they flew off when my head went back.



"She's awake," Deuce said, voice sort of dreamy. He gave me a gentle smile and kept stroking my face.



Simon knelt by me, blocking out the light. "What's your name?"



"Anita, Anita Blake."



"How many fingers?"



I watched his hand move back and forth, following it with my eyes. "Two."



"Can you sit up?"



It was a good question. "With help, maybe."



Deuce put his arm behind my back and lifted me. I let him take a lot of the weight, not because it was necessary, but because them thinking I was more hurt than I was might make them think I was less of a threat. We needed some sort of edge.



I rested against Deuce's shoulder. He was humming something tuneless under his breath, his hand cupping my face, stroking the skin, over and over. I was finally able to see everything. Edward was on his knees with his hands clasped on top of his cowboy hat. Rooster had a gun touching his head. Edward didn't look hurt. More like they'd done it to keep him from doing anything heroic.



Mickey had a bloody lip. He was carefully not making eye contact with anyone.



"Can you stand?" Simon asked.



"With help, yeah."



"Deuce."



Deuce helped me to my feet, and the world wavered. I clung to Deuce, hands digging in as the world tried to slide out my ear. Maybe I wasn't pretending to be hurt.



"Shit," Simon said. "Can you walk if Deuce helps you?"



I started to nod, and that made me nauseated. I had to breathe through it before I could answer him. "I think so."



"Good. Let's go." He backed into the house, eyes watching the darkness beyond, though with all the lights his night vision was probably shit. Deuce and I went next. He had Edward's wire hung around his neck like a doctor's stethoscope. Edward was next, hands still firmly on top of his head. Rooster, then Mickey bringing up the rear. They staggered us so that if someone started shooting, there was room to maneuver.



Simon started up a flight of stairs. I looked up the long flight and the world swam. Deuce called, "Simon, I'm not sure she's up to stairs."



"Mickey." The man in question moved up to the foot of the stairs. "Carry her."



"I don't want him touching me," I said.



"I didn't ask you, either of you," Simon said.



Mickey gave his gun to Simon, then took my arm. He pulled me too fast and I was suddenly airborne on his shoulder, my head hanging down. I couldn't breathe. The world was spinning, and I was going to be sick.



"I'm going to throw up."



He dumped me unceremoniously back to my feet, and I fell. It was Simon who caught me, "Are you too hurt to do the spell?"



I knew the answer to that one ¨C no. Because if Riker thought I couldn't help him, he would kill us all. "I can do it if Mickey here doesn't dangle me over his shoulder with my head hanging down. I need to stay upright, or it's not going to get any better."



"Carry her in your arms, not over your shoulders," Simon said. "All those muscles got to be good for something."



Mickey picked me up in his arms like you'd carry a small child. He stood there like I weighed nothing. He was strong but carrying like this is harder than it looks. We'd see how he did if there was more than one floor to climb. Here's hoping he didn't drop me.



I put my arm around his shoulders. I'd have clasped hands around his neck to be more secure, but I couldn't reach around his deltoids without straining. "How much do you bench press?"



"Three-ninety."



"I'm impressed," I said.



He preened a little. Mickey was dangerous, but if I could keep him from hitting me, he was the weak one. Rooster followed orders too well. Simon was Simon. Deuce seemed harmless, but there was something in those dreamy eyes that was a little scary. Maybe I was wrong, but I'd try Mickey before I tried Deuce, for trickery anyway. Arm wrestling, I'd take Deuce.



Mickey walked up the stairs with me in his arms, effortlessly. I could feel the muscles in his legs pushing, working. Again, I had the sense of immense physical potential and quickness.



"What's Mickey mean?" I asked.



"Nothing."



"Simon explained his nickname, I'm just wanting to know what yours means."



Deuce answered. "It's for Mickey Mouse."



"Shut up, Deuce."



"He's got a tattoo of Mickey on his butt," Deuce said as if Mickey hadn't spoken.



Mickey's face darkened, and he turned to glare at the other man. I just fought to keep my face blank. What kind of moron would have Mickey Mouse tattooed on his butt? But not out loud, not with those tree trunk arms wrapped around my tender body. If I hadn't had the marks on me, he'd have probably killed me with that one blow. No, I didn't want Mickey angry with me.



There was a landing, and a second flight of stairs. Mickey didn't even hesitate on the landing. He just went for the next set of stairs. His legs moved as easily up the second set as the first. He never paused to catch his breath. In fact, his breathing barely sped up. Whatever you could complain about Mickey, being out of shape wasn't part of it.



I told him so. "How far you jog a day?"



"Five miles, every other day. How'd you know?"



"A lot of body builders would be having trouble by now. They neglect the aerobic stuff, but you move like some kind of well-oiled machine. You're not even breathing hard." There was something very intimate about being carried in someone's arms like this, a reminder of childhood and your parents' arms maybe.



Mickey's hands tightened on me; the one on my thigh began to massage my leg. I didn't tell him not to. It's been my experience that if a man is interested in having sex with you, they hesitate to kill you before they've had the sex. This rule is not always true, but more often than not. The trick is to get the man thinking more about sex than violence, so he's a little confused. We needed a little confusion among our enemies right now.



We were in a wide white hallway that ran the length of the top of the house. There were white doors with silver knobs. Nothing differentiated one door from the other. Simon went to the furthest door, and Mickey followed with me in tow. I could see Deuce following, and Edward just topping the last stairs with Rooster behind him, walking well back out of arm's or leg's length, These guys were good. I'd gotten to where I counted on the bad guys not being this good. Even if they were vampires and werewolves they'd be unprofessional. But I'd never been around professional bad guys that were this professional. It cut our options from bad to worse.



Simon opened the door. We were here. We were still alive. The night still had possibilities.