Lorelei’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. She said something, but I couldn’t make it out. I leaned closer, keeping Murphy’s gun trained on her, just in case. Blood bubbled from her lips and dripped down her chin. Her mouth opened again, and she looked into my eyes.
“Bitch…” she whispered, even as her eyes glazed over in death, still staring up at me.
I stood, surprised to find myself directly under the hole in the plane, through which Murphy’s temper-tantrum still poured. Freezing-cold rain ran through my hair and down my face. I stepped back, unable to take my eyes off the ruined succubus with the face of a child.
“Right back at ‘cha. Sugar.”
EIGHTEEN
Normally, I feel obligated to dispose of any corpse I create in the line of duty—not that I deal out that much death, but honestly, in my line of work, shit happens. So long as it happens to the bad guy, I bury the body and count myself lucky to be the one digging, and not the one decomposing. But for Lorelei, I felt no such obligation. Devich had started this particular pissing match, and he could damn well clean the mess up himself. And since I’d shot her with Murphy’s gun instead of mine, even if the police found her, they’d have a real bitch of a time tracing the body back to me. But they wouldn’t find her. Devich would make sure of that. He stood to lose much more than I did if the native peace-keepers stumbled across a dead succubus in a crashed C130 he’d never reported.
So we left Lorelei exactly where she’d landed, slumped against the side of the plane like a broken doll. I didn’t even have to touch her to get my Ruger back, because she’d dropped it in the water before cursing me with her last breath. Fortunately, a little dampness wouldn’t hurt a good gun, so long as I remembered to dry it and clean it as soon as I had the chance.
Before we left the crash site, Murphy insisted on assessing my arm, despite my assertion that all I really needed were dry clothes and a hot meal. So, I peeled off my ruined leather coat, still complaining about the wardrobe loss. He wanted me to remove my sweater and blouse too, but I refused. The last thing I wanted after that humiliating, ill-timed kiss was for him to see a single extra inch of my bare skin. Plus, I was fuckingfreezingsince Lorelei was no longer there to raise my body temperature as she fed.
My clothes were staying in place.
In response to my stubborn refusal to cooperate, Murphy ripped the sleeve from my sweater without so much as a word of warning. I was still cussing over the loss of yet another article of clothing, and about the less-than-gentle jarring of my injured arm, when he gave a second vicious tug, and the sleeve of my black blouse gave way at the shoulder seams.
“Try that again and you’ll be limping out of here!” I shouted, cradling my injured arm against my side.
“What’s that?” he asked, ignoring my threat, and I followed his gaze to my right wrist, where the buttoned cuff of my blouse had gotten hung on the half-handcuff. The inside-out sleeve dangled down to my knees.
I closed my eyes and took deep, calming breaths, trying to exorcize humiliation from both my spirit and my expression. “It’s the latest in punk jewelry. Haven’t you heard?”
He frowned, and I stifled a groan. “It’s half of a set of handcuffs, what does it fuckinglooklike?”
His answering grin practically smoldered in the thirty-something degree chill. “It looks like someone got you all tied up.”
“Whathegot was the business end of the Oak Island pit, headfirst. And I got these nifty souvenirs, at no additional cost.” I gave my left arm a shake, and the other cuff tumbled into view around my wrist.
“At least your look’s coordinated.”
“Thank goodness. Mismatched accessories would lookridiculouswith this ensemble.” I lifted my good arm so he could take in my drenched hair, the one-armed sweater and blouse, damp shoulder holster, amputated hand cuffs, and water-logged boots. I must have looked absolutely absurd, but to his credit, Murphy didn’t laugh. He did smile, though, and that was kind of nice.
As the last drops of rain pattered softly overhead, he gave my wound a quick inspection, revealing exactly what I’d expected: a relatively clean hole, in one side and out the other. There was no bullet to dig out, and not enough blood for it to have nicked an artery, which had been my major concern. Using my detached sweater sleeve as a bandage, I applied moderate pressure to both sides, which soon stopped the slow trickle of blood. It still hurt like hell, but as long as I kept my arm relatively still long enough for the wound to heal, there shouldn’t be any permanent damage, though I’d probably wind up with a dandy new scar.
In the empty cockpit, I changed into a set of dry clothes from my travel bag, steadfastly refusing Murphy’s offer of help. I was more than two centuries old and could damn well dress myself—even if every movement of my injured armdidsend pain shooting throughout my poor, abused body.
While I was in the cockpit, I took a quick look around and spotted the pilot’s aeronautical map, still neatly folded in a pocket on the side of the captain’s chair. I slid it into one of my coat’s inner pockets. It was bound to come in handy later.
Finally dressed and re-bundled in my ruined coat, I took off through the forest behind Murphy, hoping for an easier time leaving the crash site than I’d had finding it.
Hiking out of the woods took much longer than it should have, due mostly to my loss of both blood and energy at Lorelei’s hands. Fortunately, this time I had an extra flashlight and a hiking companion who seemed to know exactly where he was going. And since Murphy had actually driven to the crash site, instead of walking several miles to the nearest town—my original exit strategy—we only had to make it a mile and a half, to the four-wheel-drive he’d parked on the shoulder of an unlit, two-lane woodland road.
We made both the hike and the subsequent drive in near silence, despite the barrage of questions floating around in my head. I needed answers, but I needed rest worse. I wouldn’t be able to think coherently or start healing my injury until I’d had a nap and a good meal—something other than processed sugar and alcohol, as badly as I hated to admit it.
We wound up in the hotel room Murphy had rented the night before, because registering for one in my name would have been suicide, considering that Devich wanted me dead. And while I didn’t have an alias with her own ID—until then, I’d never hesitated to use my real name and claim credit for my work—Murphy did.
Charles Murdock was a deep-sea diver and a nature enthusiast in town for a little R&R. As long as no one else on Devich’s payroll figured out who Murdock really was, his hotel room was the safest, most convenient hideout I could think of. At least long enough for me to recuperate and form a new plan.
It was just past ten p.m. when Murphy left me sitting in the armchair in one corner of his room, my bad arm propped on a pillow in my lap, the TV remote and a can of root beer on the table to my left. He said he’d be back in twenty minutes with food. By the time he left, I was exhausted and in serious pain, and if I’d been thinking clearly, I’d have asked him to bring back alcohol.Lotsof alcohol. And painkillers, because while my body would heal itself if given enough time and rest, it would hurt like hell throughout the process.
But Iwasn’tthinking clearly, so the only request I managed before he left was a whispered, “Chinese” when he asked whether I’d prefer Hunan Palace or Taco Bell, which were apparently the only choices available in small-town Maine after nine p.m. on a Tuesday.
By the time he returned, I’d downed the root beer and exhausted my options on the television. Late-night sitcom reruns didn’t hold my interest, and the news kept bouncing back and forth between the recent outbreak of viral illness that had been contained somewhere in Africa and the latest presidential scandal—something about the under-aged first daughter and a certain young, married senator from Massachusetts.
I had the remote in hand, ready to throw it at the twenty-inch screen, when the door opened and Murphy appeared in the threshold, backlit by the incandescent parking lot lights and loaded with paper bags. He kicked the door shut and set the bags on top of the dresser. “Hey.” His gaze met mine as he peeled off his gloves, hat, and coat. “I got you something.”
