Blood Call by Lilith Saintcrow
“And you’re just calling me now?” Point two for her; he actually sounded shocked.
“I didn’t kill anyone.” The darkness behind her lids was soft and deep, and she was warm for the first time in a long time. “And I…I’ve just been running. I haven’t had a chance to think for days.”
“What about your brother? What the hell is the hotshot journalist doing? I thought digging up dirt and bailing you out of trouble was his specialty.”
He sounded so disdainful. Tears rose in her throat again, and this time Anna was too tired to push them down. The blackness behind her eyelids became less welcoming and more full of nightmare images. Salt water, hot instead of icy, slid down her cheeks. “Eric’s d-dead, Josiah. Whoever killed him is after me.”
Then she broke down and sobbed without restraint, burying her face in her hands. She heard him shifting in his seat. He laid an unopened box of Kleenex in her lap and didn’t say anything.
Anna cried until she was exhausted, until the fatigue swallowed her whole and the sound of the car wheels rocked her into a thin uneven sleep. Josiah didn’t pull over. He just kept driving.
Chapter Five
She was asleep; she wasn’t built for this type of excitement. Anna was part of the normal world Josiah had left behind so long ago, he barely remembered what it felt like. Nine-to-fivers with wives and jobs they hated, going from one day to the next in a sleepwalker’s daze. Not like his own world.
Funny, when he thought of it that way it almost seemed reasonable.
Her eyelashes flickered a little and every once in a while she made a small hurt noise, pulling the purse closer to her side, only relaxing once she heard paper shift and crackle.
I am an idiot.
Why couldn’t he have told her he was happy to see her, glad she was safe? No, instead he had to be a complete asshole. If Eric Caldwell had stumbled on something that killed him, it wasn’t like him to drag his sister into it. He was fanatically protective of little Anna, real big-brother material.
After all, he’d been the one who had, in his well-meaning protectiveness¸ dug up that goddamn file on Josiah. Which, sometimes in his blacker moments, Josiah could have easily killed him for.
Now someone else had done it.
And here was Anna in the passenger seat, sleeping and shaking and obviously terrified out of her mind. What had she seen? What had Eric stumbled onto?
He hoped it wasn’t anything to do with the Torrafaziones. The Mob wasn’t his cup of tea, for all that he had done plenty of tandas in that arena.
They were too sloppy, and too quick to believe in the “shoot-everything-that-moves” style of problem solving. Just like the fucking Russians, come to think of it. It was getting harder and harder for a respectable freelance businessman to make it, and even worse for a liquidation agent.
Good thing I’m retired, right? He turned onto his street, no tail behind him. He was clean, Anna was clean, and he had her sleeping in his car.
She still smelled a little like gunfire. What the hell was going on?
Eric stumbled over something, got himself liquidated. Then someone else—she said, three other people. Now she’s running scared, and she has something explosive on her. Paper. Something in that purse.
It should be relatively easy to get the incriminating paperwork off her and to whatever necessary legal quarter. He had methods; after that it just became a question of keeping her undercover long enough to get whoever was chasing her in a lot of trouble and looking somewhere else.
But here she was. In his car. She’d called him, she had nowhere else to go and nobody else to rely on.
In other words, here was a second chance for him to get his hooks in Anna Caldwell. This time he would have some leverage to keep her with him for a good long while.
An ordinary man might feel a qualm or two about thinking along those lines, wouldn’t he.
The gate rolled aside when he pressed the button, and he eased the BMW up the paved drive.
So she had money. What would she do if the price was steeper than plain cash?
He’d been an idiot to let her get away, but what could he have done? Stalked her? It had very nearly killed him to simply let her go, to keep the phone number and quietly endure day after day.
Now, cruel and calculating as it was, his patience had paid off.
She was vulnerable. Exhausted. Looking to him for safety, for guidance. It was a perfect fucking situation, one in which he could regain everything he’d lost three years ago. Easy as one-two-three.
You bastard.
The garage door opened smoothly, and he backed into the spot left open for the BMW. Hassan’s motorcycle was still gone, and now Wilhelmina’s little red sedan was, too. Willie must have gone shopping.
He was all alone, for the moment.
With Anna.
The bruise on her cheek taunted him. As soon as he cut the engine her eyelids fluttered more, and she came awake with a jolt, sitting straight up in the seat and staring wildly around.
Before he could stop himself, he reached over and took her shoulder, firmly. “It’s okay. Everything’s all right.” I’m here, he wanted to say, stopped himself.
He could think it all he wanted to. Don’t worry, Anna. I’m here.
Anna swallowed dryly, peered through the windshield at the closing garage door. Thin winter sunlight died in stages, and the car began to tick and ping as metal cooled. She darted a quick glance at him, her mussed hair falling in her face, and Josiah told himself that he needed to be calm, be cool, and think about things before he did them.
Yeah. Like that had ever worked, with her.
“Get out of the car.” The words were harsh. “Let’s go upstairs.”
She licked her lips, green eyes wide and wary, and he wished he didn’t remember what it was like to taste her mouth, what it was like to slide the strap of her tank top down and kiss the soft upper slope of her breast under her collarbone. It disarranged the inside of his head when he remembered things like that.
“You’ve changed your mind?” She made another little movement, pulling the purse into her side.
I wonder what she’s got in there. “What?”
She had dark circles under her eyes, and that bruise looked fresh. She also looked like she’d lost a little weight. Even so thin, she had a curve to her hips. “About me hiring you. You’ll take the job?”
He took the plunge. “Maybe. When you find out what I’m going to charge you, you might change your mind.”
“I can pay you. I have the inheritance, in savings.”
Does she have any goddamn idea how naïve she sounds? “Who said I wanted money? Come on. Get out of the car.”
She didn’t demur. She just obediently reached for her door handle and tugged on it, then stared in confusion when it didn’t open. It took her a second to figure out how to unlock it; she moved like she was drunk. Or sleepwalking.
He opened his own door, took a deep breath of the smell of oil and metal that meant automobiles. It was a good smell, one he liked. Right next to her beautiful hair and the perfume she used to wear. What was it?
It bothered him. Normally, that was the type of detail he was able to recall with absolute clarity.
She stood at the car’s back end, hugging herself and looking absurdly small in his coat. He could also make out, now that he had leisure to study her, dried mud along the hem of her skirt and a dark patch on one knee; a ladderlike run stretching up and down from it. Her eyes were huge, and she swayed on her feet. Shock, and she’d been too cold. He needed to warm her up, feed her something, and get some information out of her.
First things first. Time to calm her down. Josiah put his arm over her shoulders, pulling her close into his side. “Better?”
She swayed a little. “What is it you want?”
Persistent, just like always. He pushed her toward the small stairs leading into the utility room. From there he could get her through the house and up to his bedroom. “Start moving
Her heels clicked on the concrete. She winced each time her left foot came down. He helped her as she hobbled, damn near carried her up the steps, and opened the door. Got her into the utility room, next to the washer and dryer. The good smell of fabric softener and clean laundry folded around them.
“Let’s get those shoes off.” Josiah took his arm away and bent down. “Left foot first. Lift up…there. Holy Christ.”
Her shoe was full of blood. The back of her heel was bleeding, trickling down from the Achilles tendon. She’d rubbed right through the nylons and her skin; the ragged edges told him it had blistered and then been worn away. How long had she walked in these ridiculous shoes?
I should have noticed that. The thought of her struggling to walk with a shoe full of blood made him unsteady. And explosive, like the job he’d taken right after losing her.
He didn’t want to think about that. He had not been professional on that run, even after Hassan saved his life. The only thing that finally snapped him out of it had been the thought of her calling the number and getting a disconnected signal.
As coping mechanisms went, it hadn’t been the best. Still, it had kept him alive.
“Ouch.” She sucked in a breath. Her entire foot was wet with blood, her left ankle was swollen as if sprained, and she teetered in her right shoe.
Josiah dropped the bloody left shoe and stood up in a rush. In half a moment he had her in his arms, picking her up and kicking the door to the garage closed behind him. She wasn’t deadweight, but she was perilously close; she put her head on his shoulder and her purse hung limply off to one side, under his coat. “Josiah,” she murmured. “What is it you want?”
Jesus. “Shut up.” He didn’t have the breath for saying much else, so he carried her through the utility room and the kitchen, down the long hall past the dining room, and into the softly lit parquet foyer. Up the stairs, he wasn’t gasping but he was damn glad when he reached the top. He carried her down the hall, barely glancing at the Dürer print on the right-hand side. The door to his bedroom loomed; he pushed it open with his shoulder and stepped inside, kicked it shut.
Familiar shapes met his gaze like strangers. Hardwood floor, the Persian rug in front of the fireplace, the leather couch where he spent most of his nights, and the bed from the old apartment, with its mission-style headboard and plain white down comforters—it all looked a little out of kilter. He’d left the closet door open halfway, and the gun on the nightstand was the only thing that didn’t look weird. A small desk with the laptop on it stood in front of the window, and the antique armoire hunched in its corner, glowing mellow with furniture polish and reflected sunlight from the window.
He had Anna in his arms again. At last.
“Kick your right shoe off,” he said, and she did, hissing a little with pain as she used her slick, wet left toes to do it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were fucking bleeding, Anna?”
“I didn’t know.” Her eyes were open, but thoughtless. She was going deeper into shock. She shivered, a small animal caught in a trap.
“I’m going to set you down on your right foot. Lean against the wall. We’re going to get those damn nylons off.”
“S-sounds good.” The paper in her purse made a collection of odd noises as he carefully, gently, let her down to perch on one foot, leaning against the wall next to her door. “What are you going to charge me, Josiah? I need your help. Please. I’m begging you.”
Christ. She just didn’t know when to shut up. Did she think he would bring her home if he wasn’t intending to at least keep her hidden?
He slid his hand under her skirt, up over the outside of her thigh. Her skin was cool, too cold. Her nylons were ragged, but he managed to look over her shoulder, grit his teeth, and get his fingers worked into the waistband. She wore panties underneath; he worked his other hand under the goddamn skirt and got the other side, tugged. The nylons didn’t want to come free, but he managed. She shimmied her hips a little to help him and his breath caught in his throat. Goddammit.
He was only a man, after all.
“Josiah?” She sounded very young, and very frightened. “Please help me.”
Oh, I’m going to help you, all right. A man who could only take so much. He got the nylons and panties down to mid-thigh, shoved them a little farther—and then, deliberately, he ran his fingers up the inside of her thigh.
She was as soft as ever under his touch, and she tensed, a slight gasp suddenly very loud in the quiet room.
“Relax, Anna. I’m not going to hurt you.” He sounded strange even to himself as his fingers slid up even farther, finding a nest of delicious warmth after all.
He hadn’t lost his touch, knew just what she liked; some things didn’t change. His finger slipped between delicate tissues, and he found out she was damp. He concentrated on his work, and in another few moments, she was flat-out wet, and her hips made that slight betraying motion that told him he had her full attention.
It had been a long, long time, and she was just like alcohol, turning everything fuzzy. Impairing him. God help him if he didn’t want to just tear enough clothes off to make it work, and take her here against the wall.
He settled for working one finger up inside her, settling the heel of his palm against her mons. She was hot and slick, and all he wanted was to feel it again, feel her again.
Feel alive again. One way or another.
He still stared over her shoulder, fixing his attention at a point on the white-painted wall. “You want to know what I’m charging you?” he whispered, almost in her ear. His hand tensed, and she shuddered. Her breathing came quick and light. “I’ve gotten a little lonely since you dumped me, baby. I’ll take payment like this—” He stroked her, just the way she liked it. Her hips jerked forward, and her breath was hot against his cheek. “As many times as I want. And you’ll act like you like it, Anna. Got it?”
She was impossibly tight, velvet closing around his finger, and he damn well wanted to peel the rest of her wrinkled clothes off and throw her into the bed. Because now, under the smell of fresh air, she smelled like herself again. Like sunlight and warm satin flesh, and a trace of her perfume.
Jasmine. An odd relief swamped him. And that soap of hers. Yeah. Whatever soap she uses. I can’t remember.
“Josiah.” Her whimper brought him back from the edge with a jerk. She was shaking, tears slicking her flushed cheeks, and whispering his name like a rosary, over and over again.
She no longer looked cold.
Good sense and sanity returned. What the fuck am I doing? His finger eased free. Jesus. Jesus Christ.
Noiseless sobs shook her. Her eyes were tightly shut, and self-disgust welled up hot and acid, bubbling in his throat. The destroyed nylons were around her knees, and he saw the hideous scrape on her leg again. She must have hit something hard; it was crusted with blood and she made a small hurt sound as he knelt and pulled the sticky little fibers away. Her left foot dripped a single drop of blood onto the floor, and he began to feel light-headed.
“Jesus. You’re in bad shape.” He sounded shocked even to himself. What did I just do to you? Good God.
Her eyes were shut. She sobbed, but the sounds began to mutate until she was laughing, forlorn little hitching gasps that tore at his heart. When he finally carried her into the bathroom to clean her up, the laughter trailed off and she simply stared, glassy-eyed, into the distance.
And Josiah was, for once, ashamed of himself.
Chapter Six
He washed off her left foot, bandaged the bloody mess on her heel and dabbed at the crusted scab on her knee, gave her ibuprofen and water to help with the swelling in her ankle—don’t think you want ice for that right now, he said—and handed her a warm washcloth so she could scrub at her aching face. He had a wide-toothed comb to drag through her hair, and he finally helped her struggle out of her dirty clothes and into one of his sweatshirts, navy blue and far too absurdly big for her.
Everything hurt. She could still feel his breath against her ear, and his fingers on the inside of her thigh, inside her. Maybe he wanted to get back at her, fuck her and leave her.
She supposed she should be grateful. He’d always been considerate before; she had, quite frankly, never had a lover so attentive. At least he wasn’t going to be violent about it.
Hopefully.
“I’m going to get you some lunch. When did you last eat?” His eyes had gone dark and thoughtful as he leaned over the bed. She knew that look; she used to wake and find him watching her as if she was a map of a foreign country. Or a complex, difficult math problem.
What man watched his girlfriend sleep, sometimes sitting up in bed with his chest bare and his eyes dark? Sometimes he would be fully dressed, sitting in the chair next to her bed because he didn’t take her to his soulless little apartment up in the penthouse, with its chrome and glass. She’d only been there twice, once to see it and once after she’d seen the file on what he did for a living.
Josiah had never seemed very comfortable anywhere, always watchful and serious. The only times he relaxed were usually in her bed with her head on his shoulder, both of them laughing quietly at some story she told about her daily work.
He’d never mentioned his own days much.
“Anna?” He reached over as if he wanted to touch her face, and she flinched despite herself. As many times as I want. And you’ll act like you like it.
He froze.
If that’s what you want, that’s what I’ll pay. “Okay.” The words felt strange, filling her throat oddly. “As many times as you want. It’s a deal.”
Serious again, his eyes narrowed. Three years since she’d watched his face to decipher the emotions crossing it; but she still recognized a flash of annoyance. I must have spoiled his day by calling. She was instantly rewarded with a jolt of nausea right under her breastbone. “It’s a deal,” she repeated, as the heavenly softness and warmth closed around her, dragging at her arms and legs. “I’ll do whatever you want. I have nowhere else to go.”