Then I remembered the goblins and lowered my aim by six inches, peering into virtually impenetrable darkness. The only source of light in the room was the blinking green numbers of the digital clock on my microwave.
They were no help.
“I know you’re there,” I said into the dark void of my apartment. “Identify yourself now, or I start shooting.”
“Alexandra Walker.” Smooth, but obviously masculine, his voice instantly triggered my inner alarm. It was too calm. Too confident.
“Nope, that’s me.” I rotated my aim twenty degrees to the right, following the sound of his voice. “Who the hell areyou?”
He chuckled, and I my jaw clenched. I preferred my uninvited guests shaking in fear.
“You’re underestimating my height by quite a bit, Ms. Walker. Should I be insulted?” the intruder asked, his voice now carrying an edge of amusement.
“You should be bleeding.” I adjusted my aim, not because he’d said he was tall, but because the source of his voice had confirmed it.
Sucking in a shallow breath, I squeezed the trigger once. Then once again. A muffled thwack coughed from the pistol. The barrel of the gun flashed in the dark, followed immediately by a second thwack-flash.
Was it Robert Frost who wrote something about good fences making good neighbors? In my line of work, the same could be said for silencers. What my neighbors couldn’t hear, they couldn’t report.
Something shuffled across my worn carpet—the intruder staggering backward. I smiled grimly, waiting to hear him hit the floor. Instead, a soft, wet,squishingsound met my ears from the direction of the couch. It sounded like…flesh mending, a sound I’d heard only once, years ago, when I’d had the occasion to watch a troll heal himself from a stab wound to the gut. But he’d had to feed first, to gain enough energy. Whoever—or whatever—was in my living room wasn’t feeding. So how the hell had he healed himself so fast?
I kept my gun aimed at him, hoping that though two bullets hadn’t done the trick, six more might, if it came to that. And then, there was always my blade. “What the hell are you?”
“Come in and see for yourself.”
Not gonna happen. Fortunately, by then my eyes had begun to adjust to the light shining into my apartment from the lit walkway where I stood. I made out his outline, dimly illuminated from the collar down, his face veiled in shadows. He stood in front of my couch, in the center of the room. If I had to gut him, he’d bleed all over my area rug. Assuming he hadn’t already.
The man was indeed tall, his slim build accentuated by a dark suit, a conservative striped tie, and a white dress shirt punctured by two blood-stained holes, the flesh behind which was already clean and smooth. He stood with his hands buried in his pants pockets, the open front of his jacket tucked behind his wrists. He was completely at ease.
I was freaked thefuckout.
“You have two seconds to tell me who you are and what you’re doing in my living room before I empty the rest of this magazine into your face.”
“I don’t think you want to do that.”
“Think again.” My blood rushing in fury, I spread my feet and steadied my aim. “One second.
The man sighed, his face still obscured by shadows. “I’m a client. Hopefully. I have a job for you.”
“My office hours are three p.m. to midnight. Call and make an appointment. That’s how this whole business thing works.”
A shift in the shadows above his shoulders told me he was shaking his head. “This is a special job. Off the record.”
Of course it was. Why else would the damn man-of-steel have broken into my apartment in the middle of the night? “I don’t work like that. Now get the hell out of my living room before I have to take you apart and ruin a perfectly good couch.” In about seven minutes, my arms would get tired, and my aim would start to waiver. But my patience would go long before then.
“Come inside, so we can talk.” His voice was still irritatingly smug and self-assured. You’re going to want to take this job. Trust me.”
I don’t trust people I don’t know, especially those who break into my apartment in the middle of the night. Or bored imps.Nevertrust a bored imp. But that’s another issue entirely.
Yet…it was that last phrase that jarred my memory.Trust me.
I’d heardthosewords, spoken bythatvoice a hundred times, as had the rest of the planet. But I’d have to see his face to be sure, because this made no sense at all.
“Step into the light,” I ordered, suddenly wishing I was holding the flame-thrower mounted over my couch. Every creature I knew of that could withstand a bullet or a blade could also be roasted alive rather easily. Death’s system of checks and balances. “Very slowly.”
He started to take his hands from his pockets, but a low-pitched noise from the back of my throat stopped him. Or maybe it was my obvious willingness to pull the trigger. Regardless, he shoved his hands even deeper into his pockets and stepped forward, just as I’d instructed.
Shadows slid from his face as he moved, the line of light from the porch rising to illuminate a wide, strong jaw and a straight, perfectly proportioned nose. Several strands of deep brown hair brushed a smooth, ageless forehead. And he stared back at me through familiar—maybe even famous—smoky gray eyes. It was him. Troy Devich. Philanthropist, high-powered CEO, and self-made billionaire. And media darling.
