After considering both arguments, she told Karl what she thought they should do.
Two minutes later, Hope was making her demon very happy as she waltzed into the path of her pursuer.
She didn't have the heart to tell it there was no kick-ass confrontation coming. The demon probably knew that, but was keeping silent, hoping for an emergency change of plans, cheered by the gun hidden in Hope's pocket.
In the supernatural world, using a gun was considered a sign of cowardice. Hope didn't play by those rules. She couldn't afford to. Having the ability to sense danger only protected her so far. All the aikido lessons in the world weren't going to save her against a charging werewolf or armed human killer, both equally likely in her line of work. So she carried a gun. Always.
When they'd neared the end of the wall, she'd done the "Damn it, I forgot something" charade, throwing up her hands and gesturing at the apartment. Karl had nodded and said loudly that he'd bring the car around.
He headed across the road, then circled back on the other side of the wall, where he was now lying in wait.
Whoever was following them was hidden in the bushes along the wall. Hope couldn't see him, but his vibes blared loud as a siren. Fear. Anxiety. Misgivings. She caught the emotions and a jumble of thoughts, too muddled to distinguish whole words. As she drank in the chaos, the demon perked up.
See? He's afraid. No danger here. No need to wait for Karl. The daughter of Lucifer doesn't need a werewolf to protect her. Show him what you can -
Hope gagged the demon and kept walking.
Their pursuer moved with her, the bushes rustling loud enough for Hope to track his progress even without the chaos siren.
See? He's an amateur. Easy prey. Just -
She veered from the wall so she wouldn't make him any more nervous. The demon withdrew, sulking.
As Hope neared a place where a large tree overhung the wall, she caught a vision flash of Karl crouched at the top of the wall, hidden in the tree's shadow, waiting to pounce. The vision was oddly distorted, like looking through old glass, and she stopped short, confused.
The bushes erupted. As Hope wheeled, a figure leapt out, gun raised. She opened her mouth to warn Karl, but chaos blasted off the figure – absolute terror, so strong she reeled back, her shout a strangled squeak.
Karl's dark form was already in midjump. He twisted out of the way, but the figure didn't fire, just lifted the gun, then spun and ran.
Hope recovered in time to see a flash of a boy's face, freckled with red hair, not more than sixteen. The shock of that stunned her just long enough for the boy to streak past.
She tore after him. Karl's footsteps pounded behind them. Hope kept her lead but as quick as she was, the boy was faster. He made it through the propped-open rear exit and slammed it shut before she got there.
Hope yanked on the door handle. Locked. She was fumbling with Robyn's keys when Karl caught her hand.
He whispered, "Let him go," but his vibes screamed a very different message, the wolf gnashing its teeth as its prey escaped.
Karl's gaze moved to the parking lot, reminding her – and himself – of the police stakeout. They couldn't afford to be seen hanging around, much less be caught racing after the boy.
"We scared the crap out of him," she whispered. "He won't be coming back."
Karl nodded. Whether he believed that or not, it got them away from that door. One last lingering look, and they headed for the car.
Since puberty the elders had been preparing him for his eventual role, teaching him all the skills he'd need as a contributing member of the kumpania. Lock picking had come early. When you first got an assignment, you'd need to steal personal items to make a connection. After that, getting a valuable celebrity shot sometimes meant being someplace you weren't supposed to be. Being able to open locked doors and disarm alarms came in very handy.
As he approached the door, he slid the pick into his hand, then set to work.
There was something not quite right with the locking mechanism. As his frustration mounted, he forgot the second part of any break-in job: keeping a constant watch on his surroundings. He didn't hear the whoosh of the elevator doors until they were closing.
"Can I help you, son?"
A uniformed officer started toward him, shoulders squaring. Colm closed his fingers over the pick and pushed it up his sleeve.
"I was looking for Miss Peltier. She bought some chocolate almonds from me for band."
The officer stopped in front of him. "Band?"
"A band trip. I go to LACHSA." When the officer looked confused, he said, " Los Angeles County High School of the Arts." A school he could claim, no matter what part of the city he was in. "I was going to tell her the almonds will be late."
"You live in the building?"
Colm nodded. "With my mom. Number 304."
The lies came effortlessly. More lessons taught from birth. No matter how innocent the question, lie.
The officer seemed to consider taking him down to 304 and Colm was mentally preparing his excuse and escape plan, but after a moment, the officer asked, "When's the last time you saw Ms. Peltier?"
"Last Tues – no, Wednesday. I was waiting out front for my cab to school."
The officer reached into his pocket and handed Colm a card. "If you see her again, give me a call."
"Is something wrong?"
"We just need to talk to her."
Colm read the card slowly, hoping the officer would walk away. But he just stood there, waiting for Colm to leave. After a moment, he did.
Once again, Colm stood in the first-floor stairwell. He'd tried to remotely watch the officer, so he could sneak back up, but he was so nervous he couldn't concentrate. Even clutching the officer's card didn't help.
There was no way he was getting into that apartment now. He couldn't talk his way out of being caught up there a second time.
He wished he could call Adele, but she'd been summoned into a conference with the phuri. With Portia Kane dead, they'd waste no time assigning her a new subject. They always had several on backup. Everyone needed to pull his weight.
In the meantime, he'd come up with a version of events that put him in a better light. No mysterious couple. Certainly no walking into their trap. And there'd been two – no, maybe four – cops searching the apartment. He'd waited for hours, but they hadn't left. Adele couldn't blame him for that… he hoped.
HOPE
Hope called Robyn from the car. Robyn sounded as if she'd been sleeping, groggy, confused. Hope said they had her laptop and some clothes and were going to pick up food before coming back. They'd be there in an hour or so.
Then, with the danger past, Karl wanted to hear details of her plans for a cabin getaway. Hope was happy to oblige… in every way.
Afterward, still parked where they'd stopped, she took out the laptop. She didn't like snooping through Robyn's files, but if Portia's killer was the supernatural Hope had sensed in the club, she'd better get a look at this picture before Robyn did.
Proof of their existence was something supernaturals would kill for – not only to protect themselves from exposure, but to save their ass from the council, the Cabals and every pissed-off supernatural who'd come gunning for them. But when Hope found the picture it was exactly what Robyn said: a picture of Jasmine Wills in the most god-awful outfit imaginable.