Living With the Dead Read online

  "Good hunting?" Hope asked.

  "You forgot to lock the deadbolt and chain."

  He kissed the top of her head, cushioning the rebuke. She could feel the chaos waves of worry rolling off him. When Karl settled in a new city, he couldn't relax until he'd cleared out any other werewolves. Kill Karl Marsten, and a werewolf would instantly seal his reputation, guaranteeing for years to come that others would clear out of his way.

  Hope knew that having her there made it worse. She was an easy way to get to him. So if he wanted her triple-locking the doors and taking a taxi to work until he'd finished scouting, she understood. The same way he understood the quirks and issues of a chaos half-demon girlfriend.

  As he took off his shoes, she told him about Robyn's call and Portia Kane's "invitation."

  "And, apparently, Portia insists I bring my 'hot boyfriend.' "

  Karl snorted as he put his shoes aside. Not that he doubted Portia found him attractive. Hope knew his ego was too healthy for that. What he objected to was being called anything as common as "hot."

  "Give it some thought while I grab a shower," she said. "If you want to get more scouting done instead, that's fine."

  "If you're out, I'd rather stay close. I know you wanted to spend time alone with Robyn, though..."

  "Not much use if Portia's there." Hope started unbuttoning her blouse. "In fact, it'd probably be better if you did come, keep Portia occupied, so she doesn't spend the night ordering Rob around."

  "Using me as a distraction. I should be insulted."

  "You aren't."

  "True." He reclined on the bed, arms folded behind his head as he watched her undress. "She was wearing a lovely diamond bracelet the other day. At least ten carats. Platinum setting..."

  "Don't you dare."

  "If I'm expected to spend my evening charming a silly little girl, I think I'm entitled to compensation."

  "Oh, you'll get compensation."

  He plucked the hem of her skirt as she passed to the bathroom.

  "It's a big job. I think I need an advance."

  "And I need a shower."

  "The two don't have to be mutually exclusive."

  She paused, as if thinking it over, then lunged, skirt breaking from his grasp as she sprinted for the bathroom. She got the door closed just before he thumped against it, then she quickly fastened the lock. That would slow him down... for about ten seconds.

  She smiled and tugged off her skirt.

  * * *

  ROBYN

  As Robyn spotted Portia across the club, she was tempted to grab Hope and bail. Portia certainly didn't look as if she wanted company. She had the best see-and-be-seen spot in the club: a trio of sofas overlooking the dance floor. At least twenty people had squeezed onto those sofas, basking in the reflected glow of Portia's celebrity.

  But even from across the dance floor, Robyn could tell no one was speaking directly to Portia. When she saw Robyn, she leapt to her feet and frantically waved her over.

  "Oh my God. Finally! Rob, you look amazing."

  She didn't and she knew it. She wore an unremarkable black dress and basic makeup, with her shoulder-length hair brushed straight. For Portia, that was perfect - presentable enough not to embarrass her, but in no danger of upstaging her. As Portia's gaze traveled to Hope, though, her eyes narrowed.

  Robyn had neglected to pass along the "hot but not hotter than me" message. Why bother? With perfect features and long black curls, Hope looked great without trying - which was good, because she rarely did. Tonight, though, she'd put in the extra effort, wearing a pale green sheath dress and heels, her hair swept up, tendrils dangling.

  "I love that dress!" Portia squealed, air-kissing Hope. "Where did you find it?"

  Hope glanced over her shoulder at Karl.

  "Vagabond," he said. "In Philly."

  Portia swept past Hope and embraced Karl, giving him a kiss that definitely made contact. "I am so glad you could make it." She tugged him onto the sofa, scooting over so close she was almost on his lap.

  "Robyn tells me you're in the jewelry business, which is perfect, because I have a question."

  "We'll let these two talk shop," Hope said to Robyn. "I think there's a spot over there..."

  Karl's hand shot out, grabbing the hem of her dress and yanking her down beside him. She laughed and made room for Robyn.

  Karl chatted with Portia, leaning over every now and then to whisper in Hope's ear, smiling as they shared a joke or wry observation. Just like Robyn used to do with Damon.

  She remembered how she used to want that for Hope, with her endless stream of casual boyfriends. Someone to whisper and laugh with. Someone to lift the shadows from her eyes.

  Karl wasn't what Robyn had in mind. Too smooth, too good looking, too old - almost a decade Hope's senior. She'd feared Karl was a gold digger, his eye on Hope's family money and social connections. But Karl had his own money and, she'd eventually conceded, his only interest in Hope was Hope herself.

  As Portia monopolized Karl, Hope talked about work, making Robyn laugh as always with her tales of sewer monsters and alien abductions. Robyn used to worry that Hope's breakdown after high school had shattered her self-confidence, making her think she couldn't do better than tabloid reporting. But Damon had scoffed at that, saying Hope had the most interesting job of anyone he knew. It was like taking this position with Portia Kane. Sometimes, you just had to say to hell with relevancy and immerse yourself in the trivial. Not that it was working out so well for Robyn...

  She gazed out over the club and saw a face that reminded her of Damon. She always did, finding him in the tilt of a stranger's chin, the curve of a face, the crinkle of an eye. She imagined him sitting beside her, getting a kick out of all the posturing around them. Peacocks, he'd call them, so busy preening and parading they never realized everyone else was too absorbed in themselves to notice.

  He'd cut up the music, too, say they were warping perfectly good songs into dance versions for white boys from Nebraska. Then he'd lean over and sing in her ear. She could feel the tingle of his breath on her neck, the warmth of his finger sliding down her arm, the deep bass of his voice vibrating through her. He'd sing "500 Miles," their song - the one he'd been singing on the phone that night, driving home late from a conference in Pittsburgh.

  When Robyn closed her eyes, she could hear him. Then he stopped and said, "Huh. Looks like someone lost a tire. Shit. Guess I should be a gentleman and offer to help."

  Don't, baby. Please, please, don't . . .

  She drained her champagne glass and refilled it. Hope didn't notice. She'd stopped talking and was staring across the club, eyes glazed over.

  Gave up on me, I guess, Robyn thought.

  She stared at the bubbles in her glass and allowed herself a two-second self-pity break.

  She could imagine what Damon would say. What did you expect, Bobby? She came all this way to help you, but she can't do it by herself. You need to give a little.

  Help her with what? Get over it? Get over him?

  Robyn downed the drink. Hope was still staring out at the club, eyes unfocused. When Karl tapped her shoulder, she jumped. He whispered something. She shook her head, mouthed "nothing." He frowned, unconvinced.

  Then Portia declared she was ready to move on. To another club, Robyn presumed, but Portia was chattering too fast for Robyn's booze-soaked brain to keep up.

  She did know, however, that she had no intention of going anywhere but home. Hope and Karl decided to call it a night, too, and Hope offered her a ride, but Robyn insisted that Portia's driver would drop her off. Otherwise Hope would see how drunk she was and want to walk Robyn to her apartment. It wasn't ready for visitors yet. Robyn had been there three months, but still needed a few things. Like pictures for the blank walls. Dishes for the empty cupboards. Food for the bare fridge.

  Portia barely waited until Hope and Karl were out of earshot before grabbing Robyn's arm and squealing, "Oh my God, he is so fine. I know he's kind
of old for me, but I could use an older guy, don't you think? Someone more mature? He's classy and smart and funny." Portia sighed and Robyn thought she was going to swoon. "Can you imagine what everyone would say if I showed up at the premiere next week with him on my arm? What Jasmine would say? And Brock? You have to give me his number."

  "I don't have it. But I do have Hope's. His girlfriend's."

  Portia dismissed the reminder with a toss of her hair. Two weeks after having her heart broken by a stolen lover, and she was ready to do the same to another woman. No one gave a shit. It didn't matter who got hurt, so long as you got what you wanted.

  "Portia, you can't - "

  "Do I pay your wages, Rob?" The snap in Portia's voice made a few people look their way. "I'll expect that number in the morning. Now call Tim. Tell him to bring the car around. I'm going to touch up my makeup."

  Robyn didn't argue. Her job was to get Portia out of public confrontations, not start them. Come morning, Portia would forget all about it anyway.

  It took Portia fifteen minutes to make the rounds, saying her goodbyes and handpicking a few to invite to the next club. The moment she was gone, the uninvited dispersed, as if fearing they'd look like they were hanging out with Portia Kane's dowdy PR rep.

  Robyn gazed around the club, at all the twenty-somethings, laughing and hugging, and she couldn't believe they were her species, let alone her generation.

  Widowed at twenty-eight.

  She thought of all the people who'd come up to her on the day of the funeral and said she was still young, as if she should be thanking God for taking her husband before she was too old and ugly to attract a new one.

  Did they know what she'd give to have spent those years with him? If God had said, "I'll give him to you for six more months, but you'll never marry again, never fall in love again, never touch a man again," she would have screamed, "Yes, please, yes!"

  Her own mother had hugged her, and in a whisper, asked whether she was pregnant yet. When Robyn said she wasn't, her mother had said that was for the best. A remark uttered in thoughtlessness not cruelty, but Robyn would never forget it. Just as she'd never forget that day three weeks later when she'd glanced at the calendar and realized her period was late and her knees had given way as she prayed. But even that scrap of mercy had been too much to ask for.

  "How long does it take her to pee?" a plaintive voice moaned at Robyn's ear.

  She looked over to see a red-haired waif. Some starlet whose name Robyn wouldn't waste energy remembering.

  "Well?" the young woman said. "Shouldn't you go check on her? Isn't that, like, your job?"

  Only if Portia was peeing in the hall and the paparazzi were snapping photos.

  Robyn had a good idea what her client was doing and it wasn't a bodily function, unless that included "inhaling." Last year, Portia had spent a month in rehab. She hadn't been addicted to anything except publicity, and realized rehab had been a sure way to get it. There, she'd made new friends who'd expected her to snort the coke they smuggled in. So Portia Kane became quite possibly the first person ever to become addicted while in rehab.

  Still, given the choice between checking on Portia or listening to this starlet whine... Robyn rose unsteadily and headed for the back rooms.

  * * *

  ROBYN

  Portia wasn't in the washroom. Robyn even peeked under the stalls for her Jimmy Choos, ignoring the outraged chirps of the chorus line reapplying lipstick at the mirrors. That row of young women, shoulder to shoulder, gave Robyn a good idea where Portia was.

  While her client didn't mind having her drug problems splashed across the tabloids, she wasn't nearly as open about letting people actually see her using. If the washroom was busy, she'd go in search of a more private place.

  Robyn could just head back to the club and wait, but walking - and thinking - was clearing her head.

  The first two doors she reached were labeled Private, which to Portia would scream privacy. But both were locked. Robyn continued on. As she neared the end, something clattered around the corner.

  She froze, listening.

  A low moan. She envisioned rounding the corner to see a couple. She cleared her throat - loudly - and listened for muttered oaths or exclamations. A moment of silence, then running footsteps. She rounded the corner to see the exit door fly open, a woman's figure disappearing through it.

  She started going after her, then replayed the pounding footsteps and knew they hadn't come from Portia's four-inch heels. She looked down the hall. There was only one door - half open, dark inside. She guessed that's where the woman - or couple - had fled from, but she should check it for Portia, just to be thorough.

  Stepping through the darkened doorway, her foot knocked something. She bent, fingers closing around metal.

  A gun.

  Her startled brain gave the command to drop it, but she stopped herself. With her luck, someone would find it and use it in a crime... with her prints all over it. Better to find a staff member and hand it in.

  As she turned to go, a moan sounded behind her. The hairs on her neck rose. She squinted into the dark room. A pale figure lay crumpled on the floor.

  "R-Rob?" Portia's voice was a papery whisper.

  Robyn raced forward and dropped beside her, letting the gun clatter to the floor. Her gaze snagged on the dark stain spreading over Portia's blouse.

  "Cell..." Portia whispered. "Cell phone..."

  "Right." Robyn fumbled for her purse, digging out a handful of crap and dumping it before finding her cell. "I'm calling 911."

  "No, my..."

  Portia's voice trailed off in a rattle. Then she went still. Robyn shook Portia's shoulder. She didn't blink, just stared. Sightless. Lifeless.

  Robyn lifted her phone, fingers trembling as she dialed 911. Then she remembered the figure running out the back door. Portia's killer had just left. Robyn might still be able to catch her, or at least get a better look at her.

  The 911 dispatcher answered. As Robyn ran from the room, she quickly explained what had happened - that Portia Kane was shot, wasn't breathing and needed an ambulance. She gave the location as she raced out the exit door. It was shutting behind her when she heard a scream.

  Outside the room where Portia lay, a server was looking straight at Robyn. Their eyes met. The girl screamed again, backpedaling, her hands flying up.

  "No!" Robyn called. "I - "

  She lunged to catch the door. It shut with a clang. She grabbed for the handle. There wasn't one - it was solid metal. She banged a couple of times, but she knew it was useless - that girl wasn't about to open the door to a presumed killer.

  Robyn remembered her call. The dispatcher was gone. She started redialing, then stopped. She'd given everything they needed. The best thing she could do right now was keep going and try to catch a glimpse of Portia's killer. She could explain the misunderstanding later.

  She took off down the alley.

  Well, that hadn't worked out quite as she envisioned...

  Robyn stood at the end of an alley, looking up and down a road packed bumper to bumper with taxis and limos, all jockeying for curb space to disgorge their celebrity passengers. The sidewalks were just as full with people jockeying for a look at those passengers. A hundred feet away, a flashing sign announced the opening of Silhouette, the newest "see-and-be-seen scene" in L.A.

  She scanned the crowd. Not a single bloodstained psycho killer in sight.

  She shook her head, stifling a laugh. Ridiculous to think she actually could have caught Portia's murderer. The woman had a good five-minute head start. Robyn wasn't even sure it had been a woman. Maybe a slender young man?

  Still, she kept looking down the street. The killer had to have come out here. Robyn had followed the first alley to a second, which led to a service lane blocked by a truck. The only other route had been a third alley... the one that ended here, at this road.

  She started stepping out, then stopped herself. Speaking of bloodstained potential killers
... Robyn's knees were red from kneeling beside Portia's body.

  Portia's body.

  Robyn took a deep breath. She hadn't always liked Portia, but there'd been something there, some spark of potential. If only she'd nurtured it, pushed for Portia to go to that charity event tonight instead.

  If only she'd told Damon to stay the night in Pittsburgh instead of coming back so late...

  Robyn took another deep breath. This wasn't about Damon. It was about Portia, and the best way she could help her was to get back to Bane and tell the police what she'd seen.

  Robyn took her time going back. She wasn't looking forward to explaining why she'd left the scene. She imagined the officers rolling their eyes at the dumb blonde who'd raced off, trying to catch a killer. She'd had no intention of catching her - just catching a better look. But it still sounded a little foolish. Okay, a lot foolish. File under "seemed like a good idea at the time."

  As she rounded the corner, she caught a flash of motion. A black-clad figure darted behind a Dumpster. Robyn froze and replayed her memory of the fleeing killer. A slender, light-haired figure in black pants and a dark shirt.

  Robyn took a slow step backward. Then she stopped.

  Just a look, that was all she needed. Better yet, a picture. She pulled out her cell phone and stepped forward. Gravel crunched under her shoes. She reached down and tugged them off. Then she crept along the Dumpster until she heard the quick shallow breaths of someone trying to control panic.

  Robyn turned her cell phone around, camera lens pointing out. Then, finger on the button, she reached around the corner of the bin...

  Snap!

  A choked gasp. As Robyn wheeled to run, she saw a shadow lunge at her.

  Thwack.

  Something hit the back of Robyn's head. She spun as a shadowy figure raised a chunk of concrete. It caught Robyn on the cheek. She stumbled back, tripped and went down. As she fell, the cell phone started to slip. She grasped it tighter, pulling her arm under her and landing facedown on it.

  "Did you hear that?" said a distant voice. "Call for backup."