Penumbra (Spook Squad 3)

“Sir, I have reason to believe your life is under threat. Continue this conversation in the car if you must, but right now we need to move.”

His scowl deepened. “It would be inopportune for Mr. Braggart and I to be seen together right at this moment.”

“Minister, you asked the SIU for protection. If you do not wish to follow my advice, I can only presume you do not, after all, wish such protection.”

Wetherton sighed, though it was more a sound of exasperation than compliance. “If you insist—”

“And I do.”

He glanced at Braggart. “We’ll continue this tomorrow night, then. Make sure you bring the information I requested.”

Braggart nodded, but his gaze was on her and a chill ran down her spine. There was something in his eyes that suggested he saw more, knew more, about this situation and about her than she could ever guess. Yes, this man definitely knew her. How or why she couldn’t say, but she had a feeling she’d better find out, and quick.

Wetherton downed the remainder of his drink in one gulp and dug a hand into his pocket. “I’ll call my chauffeur to make sure the car is waiting out front.”

Sam scanned the immediate area, but she couldn’t see the flame-haired stranger. Yet she could feel him. His presence itched at her skin, stronger and closer than before. “Hurry,” was all she said.

Wetherton made his call and rose. “Let’s go.”

She waved him ahead of her. She didn’t have eyes in the back of her head, and with the crowded state of the nightclub, she wasn’t about to leave his back unguarded. At least if she followed, she’d have a chance of seeing a threat coming from the front or the sides.

Wetherton shoved his way out of the club, seemingly oblivious to the angry retorts thrown his way. She followed, her gaze constantly on the move, watching and waiting. The foul energy of the flame-haired stranger followed them. He was close—very close. And yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t pick him out in the crowded confines of the dance club.

The sooner they were in the car and away from here, the better.

They exited the main room and were striding up the long hallway to the front doors when Sam risked yet another look behind her. Though no one else had entered the hallway after them, the doors were still swinging, as if someone had. And she could certainly still feel him. A shiver ran down her spine. If the flame-haired stranger was a Hopeworth creation, who knew what other abilities he had? Invisibility might be a figment of fiction and comic books up until now, but if she had the capability to fade into shadow, then how much more of a step was it to create someone who could fade into shadow and light?

Not much, she thought, her gaze straying to the deeper shadows to the left of the swinging doors.

Was it her imagination, or did something stir in the half-lit corners?

Another shiver ran down her spine and she pressed a hand against Wetherton’s back, pushing him a little.

He swore at her, but nevertheless moved faster. Two security guards opened the door for them and the cold night air swirled in, thick with the promise of rain. Sam shivered again—this time with the cold—and glanced around for the minister’s car. It was up the street, parked in a bus zone, and was a little too close to the nearby alley and its encroaching shadows for her liking.

But the foul energy of the stranger was behind her, still in the nightclub, and the shadows ahead held no threat as yet.

It was just nerves, nothing more, that made her fear them.

She grabbed Wetherton’s arm and propelled him forward as she slipped her other hand inside her coat and wrapped her fingers around her gun. The cool feel of the metal pressed against her flesh was comforting, and some tiny part of her relaxed a little.

It shouldn’t have.

NINE

THEY’D BARELY REACHED THE CAR when the sensation of wrongness rolled across her skin. Not from the man who’d followed them from the club, but from the alley and the shadows. Sam whipped the car door open, thrusting Wetherton inside as the feeling of wrongness sharpened.

Something was about to attack.

She slammed the door shut, barely avoiding the minister’s feet, and swung around.

She’d expected it to be the red-haired stranger.

It wasn’t.

It was the vampire Stephan had unleashed to attack Wetherton. Sam drew her weapon and pressed the trigger, but the vamp moved so fast that the bright beam of the laser tore through his shoulder rather than searing his brains to dust.

The sharp smell of burned flesh filled the air and he snarled—a shrill sound of anger. Then he was upon her, spindly arms flying, face gaunt, his pupils mere pinpricks. A junkie in need of a fix, she thought, and wondered if it was just blood he needed or actual drugs.