Personal Demon (Otherworld 8)

His fingertips massaged the leather arm. "This is about last year, isn't it? About what happened with Jaime?"

For a moment, I was back in that room, lying on the cold concrete. The killing room. I felt the unbelievable chaos of those horrible deaths swirling around me. I heard the fear in Jaime's voice. Heard the clomp of footsteps outside the room. Knew they were coming for her, death was coming for her and, for just the briefest moment, felt an undeniable thrill of anticipation. It had only lasted a second, but I hadn't trusted it to stay gone, hadn't trusted myself not to do something to make the situation worse so I could feed off the chaos. So I'd told her to knock me out.

I shook my head. "This has nothing to do with--"

"--with testing yourself? Seeing how far you can push it? How far you can control it?"

"We've been through this and--"

"And you're not going to discuss it. Fine. But tomorrow morning, Hope, I'm going to talk to Benicio. You don't need to be there, but if you want to have your say, you're welcome to join me."

"I will."

"Good." He checked his watch. "It's too late to check into a hotel--"

"Just sleep on the damned couch, like you planned to."

I pushed to my feet, strode into the bedroom and tried not to slam the door.

I WENT TO bed, but didn't sleep. The tequila and the chaos highs had worn off and now, alone with nothing to occupy my brain, my thoughts slid back to the heist. Unlike my adventures on behalf of the council, there was no second wave of chaos bliss to be found in the replay. I thought of how many people we'd scared--blameless people, terrified by us, just for kicks.

I reminded myself it was a job, like my council work. No matter what I thought of the Cabals and their methods, a crisis with the gangs would ripple throughout the supernatural community. Brokering a peaceful deal--or, at the very least, one with minimal bloodshed--was a just cause.

But the guilt came not from participating in the heist, but from enjoying it. No, reveling in it. I thought of that sixteen-year-old girl, what we'd done to the biggest night of her life, and I recalled what I'd thought--that we were, in fact, doing her a favor. I remembered that, and I was disgusted.

In the morning, the guilt wouldn't be as sharp, the edge dulled by acknowledging that, yes, I'd made a mistake; yes, I wasn't proud of myself; and yes, I wouldn't let it happen again. But now, in the dark of night, lying alone in bed, there was nothing to do but think about it.

If I had the apartment to myself, I'd have gotten up--read a book, watched TV, done whatever would distract me until morning. But with Karl in the next room, I wouldn't even turn on my bedside light to read, desperately wanting him to think I was sleeping soundly, my conscience as free as his would be after a heist. So I lay there, staring at the wall, watching the clock tick through the hours.

I waited until six-thirty, the earliest I reasoned I could pretend to wake up. I showered and dressed, dragging it out past seven before I finally emerged.

Karl was already at the table, reading the Wall Street Journal and drinking coffee from one of the china mugs supplied with the apartment. On the opposite side of the table was a take-out cup of coffee, a bakery box, a newspaper and a pharmacy bag.

He didn't say a word as I walked in, just slid over a mug and plate from the center of the table, and resumed his reading.

I opened the bag. Inside was a tiny bottle of eyedrops. I looked from it to the extra-large coffee and knew, as silent as I'd been, that I hadn't tricked him and I'd been a fool to think I could.

It didn't matter that Karl had probably never passed a sleepless night after a heist. He knew me. As much as I hated to admit it, the proof lay here before me, not just in the eyedrops and caffeine, but in everything. The coffee, double cream, no sugar. Inside the bakery box, a blueberry bran muffin. The paper: USA Today. Even the eyedrops were my brand, and the "sensitive eye" formulation I used. There were married couples who didn't know each other as well as we did.

It was a quiet meal. Not like us at all. Usually, even while reading our different papers, we'd exchange a steady volley of comments and quips about the articles. Newspaper reading as a joint activity, like so many other things we did together--each doing our own thing, maintaining our independence and yet finding a way to share it.

That morning there was no anger in the silence, though. It felt almost...cautious, as if fearing that opening our mouths would lead to a fight, and this joint meal--albeit a silent one--was as close to comfortable as we could manage.

After breakfast, I called Benicio for my daily check-in. I said nothing about the heist or about Karl, but did mention that I might learn something later and, if I did, could I call him? He said he'd be at the office all morning.

We left at eight thirty.

THE FIRST HALF of the trip was as silent as breakfast. Then Karl mentioned he'd checked in at Stonehaven after coming back from Europe, and I asked after Elena and Clayton and their eighteen-month-old twins. And there we found the perfect neutral topic: babies.

I asked how the little ones were doing and how they were growing and what milestones they'd reached since I last saw them. As adorable as children were, neither of us had the slightest interest in them, but it was a subject we could discuss without fear of it devolving into a fight. So we stuck with it for the rest of the trip.

WE WALKED IN the front doors of the building that Jaz had pointed out the other night: Cortez Cabal headquarters. I'd wanted to keep our entrance low key, but should have realized things were never low key when Karl was around.

Every female eye turned his way as we entered the lobby. Karl is rarely the best-looking man in a room, but when he walks in, you can be forgiven for thinking he is. He has that proprietary confide

nce usually only seen in men like Benicio Cortez. In Karl, though, it tipped over into an "I know you're watching me" arrogance that made it even harder to look away.

Karl ignored the women, but if any man looked my way, Karl met each furtive glance with a level stare. Establishing territory. It didn't mean anything. He'd do the same with any woman at his side--friend, lover or acquaintance. The wolf peeking out.