Necromancist (Seven Forbidden Arts 6)

“I want to go with you,” Kate said. “If there are questions about Ivan, I’m the best person to answer them.”

“How long do we wait?” Ivan asked, feeling claustrophobic in the vault.

“Until we’re sure it’s safe.” Alice swiped her card and opened the door, but she didn’t follow Johnny and Kate.

Johnny looked back over his shoulder. “Coming?”

“In a minute.” She lifted her gaze to Ivan. “Can we speak in private, please?”

Donald stepped up. “Sorry, Alice. I’m not leaving Ivan unprotected with anyone.”

“It’s okay.” Ivan motioned at the exit with a nod. “Wait outside.”

Once alone, he pushed her down into a chair before pouring her a cup of tea.

She regarded him from over the rim, a slight tremble in her hands. “A police investigation isn’t going to help, is it?”

He went down on his haunches in front of her, his stomach tightening. “What did you see?” She lowered her lashes, but he grabbed her chin and tilted her face up. “Why were you on that ledge?”

“I always watch the show from there.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Habit.”

“What did you see?” he repeated.

She chewed her lip for a while. “No one will believe me.”

“Try me.”

Her eyes played over his face, assessing him. Finally, she said, “You know, don’t you?”

“Know what?”

“How your attacker got through security.”

“How?”

“He wasn’t human.”

He reeled at the words, straightening abruptly. Could she see what he did? “What are you talking about?”

“He was a shifter.”

He stumbled away as if she’d shocked him with a thousand volts. “What do you know about shifters?”

“Enough,” she said in a small voice. “The person trying to kill you isn’t a crazy fan, is he?”

He looked away. If he told her about Boris or Nicolas or what he truly was, she’d believe he was as crazy as her mother had been. The last thing Alice wanted was to live another nightmare with a self-absorbed artist consumed by mad visions. Already, he had a hard time proving he was stable enough to offer a pair of strong arms and warm her bed every night. She needed to know she could depend on him, no matter what, and telling her he talked to dead people who threatened him—sometimes with her—wasn’t going to draw them closer.

He gave her the only truth he could. “I don’t know who took a shot at me, not tonight and not before.”

“I know you saw him. I had a good view from the bridge.”

“All I saw was a hunchback.”

“With a pointed vertebrae and scaly arms.”

He battled to digest his shock. “It could’ve been a trick of the light.”

“It wasn’t. We were filming the show. The proof will be on camera.”

He wiped a hand over his head. “I need to watch the recording.”

“We’ll never have that privilege.”

“Why not?” He started pacing the room.

“The police will confiscate the film as evidence, and when they discover the truth, your life will be in even bigger danger than now.”

He stopped to face her. “What are you saying?”

“Shifters aren’t supposed to exist. The government will destroy the evidence to keep it from leaking to the public. There must be a hell of a good reason why a shifter would try to kill you. Paranormals are hunted by the government. They’re going to lock you up and interrogate you, torture you if needed, and if they can’t get information out of you, they’re going to use you as bait to catch themselves a shifter.”

Fear, not for himself but for her, turned him cold. She wasn’t supposed to know all of this shit. What she’d just said was enough to get her run over by a car or some other unimaginable accident.

“Where did you get this information?”

She looked at her hands.

He touched her cheek. “Princess, the police will be here shortly.”

Her eyes were big and vulnerable behind her glasses, making him want to take her into his arms and never let go, but he waited patiently for her to speak.

After a short hesitation, she said so softly he had to strain his ears to hear. “My father.”

At the mention of her old man, he tensed. “He told you this?”

“He heads a secret paranormal crime task force for the government.”

He stared at her in horror. He knew her father was involved in government business, but this was the last thing he’d expected. Spy work, maybe, even a bit of mafia illegalities that could’ve made his fortune, but definitely not this. How could he put his daughter’s life in danger by telling her? A deep sense of protectiveness made him want to go into fight mode and hit something, preferably the son of a bitch shifter and then her father.

He cupped her neck, stroking his thumb over the vein that pulsed there. “He told you what he did for a living?”

“Not exactly. My mom and dad were always fighting about his job.” She dropped her gaze. “I snooped around when they talked. They were having…” she swallowed, “…trouble, and I wanted to know what was going on.”