Blood Gamble (Disrupted Magic Book 2) Read online

  “No.”

  “Lucy and Arthur do care about other vampires, especially if the skinners came to town because of them. But they are focused on what they came here to do.”

  “Tell the world about vampires?”

  He gave me an exasperated look. “Put on a show. These two aren’t like any of the others, Scarlett. They’re performers. Their interests are pretty centralized.”

  “So they’re vapid,” I suggested.

  He shrugged, unperturbed. “But they pay well.”

  It shouldn’t have stung, but I couldn’t help picturing Wyatt’s broken expression. I stopped walking. Jameson realized I wasn’t keeping up and turned to look down at me. “And that’s all that matters, right?” I said. “Jesus, Jameson, what happened to you?”

  His face went so hard it might as well have been chiseled. “I survived,” he ground out, meeting my glare with his own. “Just like always.”

  Just like always? What the hell did that mean? “Why did you leave Malcolm?” I asked, hands on my hips.

  He glared down at me without answering. We stood there for nearly a full minute, but I held my ground. Finally, he said, “Look, when you were visiting, there was a lot I didn’t tell you about Malcolm and his business. Couldn’t tell you. And I shouldn’t now, either. Malcolm guards his secrets very closely.”

  I blinked. In New York, there had been times when Jameson had sent me sightseeing or told me to stay in the apartment, with a sense of urgency that had unnerved me even then. I began to suspect it was because Malcolm was making him do something really bad. Hurting people, or worse. And Jameson had always looked so tired. So resigned.

  He pointed ahead, and I saw a sign for a coffee shop that looked like it might double as an old-fashioned record store. We resumed walking again.

  “When did you really start working for him?” I asked quietly. “How old were you?”

  Jameson flinched, and I knew I’d poked a sore spot. Nulls are always valuable, but you can get the most out of us if you start training—or brainwashing—us when we’re young, as Olivia had tried to do with me. The last time I’d seen Jameson I had asked him how long he had been with Malcolm, and he’d just said, “a long time.” But he’d only been nineteen.

  “I was twelve,” he said in a low voice. “But don’t ask me about that time, Scarlett. Please.” The words started out rough, but his voice faltered at the end.

  And I finally thought I understood why Jameson was in Las Vegas. Very few people would have the balls to offer Malcolm’s personal null a job right under the cardinal vampire’s nose, but the Holmwoods sure as hell did, judging by what I’d seen at their show. And they could get away with it, too, because they were big-time celebrities.

  Jameson had probably taken the gig as his way out of Malcolm’s service. Maybe his only way out. And now I was yelling at him about it. I touched his arm. “I’m sorry.”

  He just looked at me, and I could see so much anger and frustration and sadness in his face. Jameson was three and a half years younger than me, but in that moment he looked ancient. And I felt like a fool.

  We were at the corner of Fremont and Sixth Street, near the doorway of the coffee shop. People—humans—walked right by us, in and out with their mugs, but Jameson ignored them, stepping closer to me until we were toe to toe. He bent his head to look at me, and it was like he was creating a private space just for us. He took one of my hands. “Listen, Letts,” he said huskily. “There are things that I can’t—”

  Then a gunshot rang out over the morning, and Jameson collapsed.

  Chapter 19

  The shot hit him in the back, and he stumbled into me, half-falling, half-pulling me down with him. I managed to land in a sort of crouch and looked around wildly. We were at an intersection, but judging from the angle, the shooter had to be up Sixth Street. I scooted around the coffee shop door and back onto Fremont, pulling Jameson along with me, his long legs scrabbling at the pavement, trying to help. I yelped once when I felt another shot hum past my face, close enough to shift my hair. He was moving okay, all things considered, and I realized that he’d been wearing his vest. Thank God.

  We made it into the alley just as another bullet hit the asphalt right next to Jameson’s leg, spitting up dust. He rolled the rest of the way behind the wall, trying to stay between me and the opening. He groaned, leaning his back carefully against the building.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Just give me a minute. Did you see where he was?”

  “No, but if I were him, I’d be walking up to this alley right about now.” I tugged a knife from each of my boots, wishing like hell that Jesse were here. Or that I’d thought to wear my own bulletproof vest to this meeting. As soon as I got back to the hotel, I was putting it on for the duration.

  Assuming we lived that long.

  “What do we do now?” I asked Jameson. The shooter had gone silent, and I imagined him bursting around the corner to gun us down. I was fast with the knife, but not that fast.

  Carefully, Jameson ducked his head out, peeking around the corner. He pulled his head back quickly, cursing. “There are two of them, coming this way fast.”

  On either side of the mall, passersby were screaming and ducking, cowering against the buildings or running down side streets. “Three,” I breathed, and Jameson whipped his head around to look. Over his shoulder, I had spotted a big guy marching determinedly toward us. He wore a knee-length jacket and black pants, way too warm for the weather, and everything about his body language and detached expression screamed “paramilitary.” Especially the rifle he was pulling out from under the jacket.

  “Skinners,” Jameson hissed.

  Oh, God. Until that second, I realized, part of me hadn’t really believed there was such a thing as skinners. Now they were way, way too real. And they were closing in.

  Jameson struggled to his feet, eyes filled with panic. “Run!” he shouted, grabbing my hand.

  We raced across the Sixth Street opening and farther down Fremont, where there were plenty of pedestrians and mall paraphernalia to provide at least a little cover. I heard two more shots from behind us, but I didn’t dare slow down enough to look. A voice way in the back of my head was bursting with questions: Who were they? Were they after me or Jameson? Could the skinners have a bounty on nulls, too? Anything was possible, but I wasn’t about to go back there and ask them.

  We ran out of the outdoor mall and onto a couple of generic-looking city streets. I didn’t know the area, so I let Jameson pull me along. I was suddenly incredibly thankful for all the mind-numbingly dull hours of running I’d put in over the years, which gave me the stamina to keep up.

  Jameson didn’t slow down until we approached some kind of massive metal sculpture. “Turn in here,” he shouted over his shoulder. We ducked underneath an enormous sign that said Container Park.

  Jameson slowed to a walk, not letting go of my hand. He was obviously trying to look calm, but I felt too flustered to fake it. We were in some kind of shopping center, but it was built out of what looked like those giant metal shipping containers they have at the Port of Los Angeles. A whole bunch of them had been fused together and stacked up, forming a U-shaped retail area with a playground in the middle. We’d just run into the mouth of the U.

  And I didn’t see any other exits. “Jameson—” I began uncertainly, but he was already turning to face me.

  “Pick a store and wait inside,” he ordered. “I’ll go back out and lead them away from here.”

  “You can’t just—”

  “I’ve got the vest and the gun; I sure as hell can,” he said firmly. “Wait here as long as you can stand it, okay? Then go back to the Strip.”

  I started to argue, because even in life-or-death situations, I am me. “What if they—”

  Jameson bent his head down and kissed me.

  The kiss was forceful and intense, like he—we—were trying to fit something a lot bigger into fifteen seconds. My arms went
around his neck, and I felt him wrap one arm around my waist, pulling me tight for better access.

  Then he was stepping away, moving back toward the entrance. “I’ll find you, Letts,” he promised, and he turned on his heel and was gone.

  For a moment, I thought about following him. What if the three men we’d seen had wanted us to run in this direction? What if they were herding Jameson into a trap? I needed to think, so I ducked into the first business I saw, a gourmet hot dog joint. It was too early for lunch, and the place was empty except for a grouchy-looking clerk refilling the napkin container. There were windows on two connecting sides, and I could see the entrance to the container park.

  So I had a great view of the paramilitary guy I’d seen on Fremont Street, as he looked up at the sign and decided to step inside. The rifle was gone, probably hidden under his jacket, but his right hand was in his pocket, and I would bet money there was a handgun in there.

  “Shit!” I said out loud. I shrank back, lining up my body with the supporting beam in the corner, between the two windows. Of course one of the skinners would stop and search the container park. There were enough of them that they didn’t need to all follow Jameson.

  “Hey. Lady.”

  Startled, I turned and saw the bored-looking middle-aged clerk eyeing me. Without realizing it, I had drawn a knife from my boot, though it was still hidden behind my body. “What can I get you?” she said pointedly, motioning toward the menu. “Or you meetin’ someone?”

  “Um, you could say that. My ex is out there, and he looks pissed.”

  “Oh.” Her face softened a little. “You need me to call the cops?”

  “That’s probably not a bad idea,” I said in a voice that came out more like a squeak. I had literally brought a knife to a gunfight, and Jesse wasn’t here to back me up.

  The clerk picked up a phone, but then her eyes widened. “The brother in the long coat? That your ex?”

  “Yeah. And I think he’s got a gun. You see him?”

  “He’s looking around the park.” She sounded scared. Smart woman.

  “Don’t talk to me,” I warned her. “Don’t look at him. Just act like there’s no one in here and everything’s normal.”

  She chewed on her lip but started fussing with the condiments, lining them up by color. I looked around the store, which really was just a frickin’ shipping container: a long rectangle with tables on one end and a little partition behind the clerk. That had to be the kitchen, although it couldn’t be much of one; the whole place was tiny. “You got a back exit?” I asked her. “If you do, move the ketchup.”

  She leaned over and shifted the ketchup closer to the mustard. Her hands trembled.

  The exit had to be behind the partition that was at her back, which meant I couldn’t get to it without crossing one of the giant windows. “Calm as you can, turn around and walk out the exit,” I instructed her, “like you are going for a smoke break or something. When you’re safe, call nine-one-one.”

  “What about you?” she murmured, trying not to move her lips.

  “I’ll be fine. Please, go.”

  The woman turned around and darted toward the partition separating the counter from the kitchen. As she went, though, she accidentally knocked the metal napkin dispenser off the counter. It fell to the floor with an enormous clang. If the skinner was still standing in the mouth of the container park, there was no way he hadn’t heard that.

  I cursed and squatted down so I was more or less hidden from the door by a small table. I pulled a second knife from my other boot, listening intently. There was a little bit of muted conversation, probably from the container next to this one, and a few screams of children in the playground area. The air smelled of sausage and charcoal. I waited, afraid to pop my head up to look out the window. Afraid to do anything, really.

  Then the tiny bell over the door jingled.

  Fuck. Why hadn’t I told the woman to lock the door before she left? But it was too late now.

  A heavy, booted foot stepped onto the hardwood floor. “Hello?” a deep male voice called. “Anybody here?” A little bell rang on the counter.

  Which meant he was facing away from me. I snapped my body up, knife in position, but it had been a trap: the guy was standing with his gun pointed right at me.

  His pockmarked cheeks split in a grin. “I can’t believe you fell for that.”

  “Yeah, well, me neither,” I muttered.

  “Drop the knives,” he said, advancing on me. “Do it now.” I let them clatter to the floor. He smiled. “Look, we don’t want you, princess. We’re lookin’ for that fella you were with. Tell me where I can find him, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Had to doubt that. This guy had proved he was willing to kill, and there was no reason to leave me, a witness, alive.

  “The fella I was with?” I said, feigning confusion. “You mean last night? Or two Thursdays ago, that guy? Because he was—”

  “Cut the shit,” he said in a growl, and I had to fight off panic. He was nearly within arm’s reach.

  “I don’t know where he was going, really,” I said. “He just wanted to lead you guys away from me.”

  “Why?”

  That was actually kind of a good question.

  “I don’t know!” I wailed, dredging up some tears. “I just met him last night, and we . . . you know . . . and now he like doesn’t want me to get hurt, but I don’t know who you are or what’s happening!”

  Without warning, he drew back his arm and cracked me across the face with the gun. I felt the blow reverberate through my cheekbone and into my skull as I fell to the ground.

  He’d actually fucking pistol-whipped me.

  “Don’t lie to me, bitch,” he said conversationally.

  God, that hurt. Apparently my acting skills were not as impressive as I’d hoped.

  My knives were on the floor somewhere, but I couldn’t organize my thoughts enough to look for them.

  From outside the container, I heard the sudden crack of gunfire. Had the skinners caught Jameson? I flinched, but when I looked up the thug was swearing and holding his shoulder, his attention fixed on the window as he ducked in between the panes. I automatically followed his gaze and saw a bullet hole in the window.

  “Who the fuck is that?” he snapped, not turning to look at me.

  That confused me—it wasn’t Jameson? The skinner raised his gun and squeezed off two shots, infinitely loud in the small metal space. The window splintered with the first shot and shattered with the next.

  This might be my only chance, so I ignored my throbbing head and scooped up one knife by its handle. The guy realized his mistake and swung the barrel of the gun back around at me, but he was too late. I flung up an arm and threw the knife straight into his neck.

  He dropped the gun, gurgling, and brought both hands up to his neck, trying to hold in the blood that was spurting from the artery. “I can’t believe you fell for that,” I said sarcastically, but he didn’t hear me. He was already dropping to the ground.

  I looked out the empty window frame for Jameson, but he wasn’t there. Instead, I saw Cliff lying on the ground, surrounded by a rapidly expanding pool of blood. And I heard the sirens.

  Oh, shit.

  Chapter 20

  Please don’t let him be dead.

  I pulled my knife out of the dead guy and raced outside, dropping to my knees beside Cliff. When I rolled him onto his back, he gasped in pain, and something in my chest loosened.

  The whole front of Cliff’s dark shirt was wet and sticky with blood, but I didn’t exactly want to start poking at it to find the wound. “Where did he get you?!” I yelled. Too loud, but my ears were still ringing from the gunshot.

  “My side,” Cliff muttered. “I think it went through.”

  It must have, judging by the amount of blood on his back. “Can you walk?”

  I helped him up, and we stumbled out of the container park. Cliff had parked his SUV right around the corner, and I took a seco
nd to thank the gods of Las Vegas parking, who were really quite generous once you got off the Strip.

  “You were supposed to stay with Juliet,” I cried as I helped him into the passenger seat. “How did you even find me?”

  “Tracked your phone,” he said in a strained voice. “Dashiell’s orders. Last night.”

  Goddammit, Dashiell! He’d told Cliff to stay with me instead of the other women, who were out there unprotected right now. Then again, I couldn’t deny that Cliff had probably saved my life back there.

  But now I had to keep him from losing his. It felt weird to abandon the skinner’s dead body—my whole job was avoiding things like that—but I didn’t have a choice, and besides, he had two friends with him. If they were the hunters I thought they were, they would get his body out of there.

  Cliff’s SUV still had my Bluetooth programmed in, so while I sped away from Container Park, he tapped in Laurel’s phone number for me.

  “Hello, this is Laurel,” she said in a businesslike singsong.

  “It’s Scarlett!” I yelled. Too loud, too fast. I forced myself to take a deep breath. “I need help.”

  There was a moment’s pause, and then, “Hang on a second, Jules, this is work calling.” A little rustling, and then Laurel’s voice said urgently, “What happened?”

  “Cliff, who was supposed to stay with you guys this morning”—I glared across the seat—“got shot. In the side. He needs a doctor, but we can’t go to a hospital. Can anyone in your clan help?”

  Cliff grunted in surprise, and I realized he hadn’t known about Laurel being a witch. Oops.

  There was a silence, lasting long enough for me to say, “Laurel? Can you still hear me?”

  “Yeah. I just . . . no, none of my clan witches are doctors or nurses or anything . . .”

  “But?” I prompted, hearing it in her voice.