Standing in the Shadows (McClouds & Friends #2)(11)

"I have some good news, as well," Tamara said. "We won't need to bait the trap after all. The transponder on McCloud's car shows him parked outside Erin Riggs's apartment for thirty-five minutes this afternoon. He then followed her to her mother's house."

His eyes wandered over her body, appreciating how the sheath set off her long, perfect legs. "Wonderful. Stalking the poor girl already."

Tamara's smile widened. What a remarkable creature. Wanted all over the world for computer crimes and fraud, and her sexual skills were just as prodigious. She would do absolutely anything.

In fact, now that he thought about it, her lack of squeamishness was almost inhibiting. A touch of disgust or fear was like a pinch of salt that brought out the flavor of a dish. After so long without sex, he had been less discerning than usual, but his natural high standards were quickly reasserting themselves.

He was irritated. He wondered if she were doing it deliberately. Unacceptable, that one of his servants should presume to manipulate him. How dare she.

Georg stirred restlessly, his fists clenching. "So the police must have told McCloud that we are free," he said.

Tamara turned her brilliant smile upon him. "It would seem so."

"Then Erin knows that I am coming for her."

Tamara's smile faltered at the concentrated malevolence in Georg's voice. Then the smile quickly reappeared… and gave him an idea.

"No, Georg," he said. "Don't be obtuse. Erin knows nothing of the sort. I have spent a great deal of money to arrange for reports of our sighting in France."

"I am dying," Georg moaned, in dialect. "I suffer."

Novak sighed. Georg could be so tedious. The poor man was a volcano of festering anger from his traumatic prison experience.

Perhaps he should offer Tamara to Georg, and observe the results. He could gauge her loyalty and commitment, and at the same time, siphon off some of Georg's restless, dangerous energy.

"Stay and help us celebrate, my dear," he said. "Georg, would you care to indulge? Let Tamara ease your torment."

Georg's ruined mouth twisted in a feral smile.

Novak studied Tamara's reaction. Her expression did not waver, but he sensed the tightening in her jaw as the smile froze into place.

His loins stirred. Yes. This was what had been missing. Delicious.

He smiled at Nigel. "Nigel, you may stay. Tamara likes to be watched, no? Did you learn to love it during your time with Victor?"

Her smile was like a neon sign, bright and empty. "Of course, boss," she said, without missing a beat.

Nigel's face paled, but he knew better than to decline. Poor, sexless Nigel. This would be good for him. He was less manually skilled as an assassin man Georg, but the mask he presented to the world was impeccable. He was a dried-up, forgettable, middle-aged gray man, whereas Georg had lost his ability to blend. Georg was now no more than a deadly weapon to be kept hidden until violence was called for.

Georg wrenched Tamara's fragile dress down. The shoulder straps broke, and she stood naked on the terrace, the chilly evening breeze making her dark nipples tighten. She waited, unsure of what was expected of her. It was rare, to see her at a loss. Arousing.

Nigel grimaced, afraid to look away. Georg unbuttoned his pants.

He settled back on his chaise, lifted the skull goblet to his lips, and gestured for them to begin.

It occurred to him, as he watched the spectacle, that he could liberate Tamara after her usefulness was done. The danger to his new identity would be minimal. Tamara was estranged from what family she had. She barely existed on paper. The contacts through which he had found her would not ask questions. Her body would never be found.

Perhaps she had been offered to him just for this purpose.

Georg was being very rough. Novak sipped his wine and thought about reining him in. He did not want Tamara damaged, at least not yet. But then again, the show suited his mood, just as it was.

The ancient Celts believed that the skulls of their victims had potent magical powers. Perhaps he would make a new drinking goblet out of Tamara, decorated with hammered gold. What he had planned for Erin Riggs and Connor McCloud was a gift for his fanged gods.

But Tamara would be all for him. A special treat.

The earthy, rhythmic sounds of the act taking place on the terrace were drowned out by the voices of his angels in his head, like the wind in the leaves. Tamara would soon join their ranks.

Punishment exalted. His angels knew this. And the word they whispered, over and over, was always "Never… never… never…"

In every language on earth.



Mom's car was in the driveway, but the house was dark. Erin was surprised to discover that her heart could actually sink any lower.

She approached the handsome Victorian house where she'd grown up. The overgrown rhododendrons wreathed the porch in shadow. The Fillmores next door had mowed a surgically neat line where their lawn ended, to accentuate the ragged forlornness of the Riggs's lawn and make their silent protest plain.

She rummaged through her purse for the keys and let herself in, deliberately making a lot of noise. She switched on the porch light. Nothing happened. She peered up at it, and realized that the bulb was gone. Very strange. If Mom had removed it, she would have replaced it.

It was as dark as a tomb inside, with the blinds drawn. She flipped on the floor lamp in the living room. Nothing. She tried to tighten the bulb. There was no bulb.