The Taken. Vicki Pettersson

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СКАЧАТЬ killed.”

      “What kind of information?”

      “Powerful men in compromising positions,” she said cryptically. It reminded him of Frank.

      “You should go to the police.”

      “You said you were going to call the police.”

      Grif shrugged. “You fell asleep before telling me your cop friend’s name.”

      Her eyes narrowed, though the notebook still had her attention. “I gave him this list yesterday. But this narrows it down to one.”

      Grif thought of the plasma seeping into her home, curling about her flesh. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but your friend can’t help you. You have to run.”

      “What?” She looked up, face wide with shock.

      “Get out of town,” he said shortly. “Change your name. You got money?”

      “Yes.”

      “Use it. Buy yourself a new identity. Invent a new life.”

      “Wait a minute,” she said, leaning over the table that wired strength back. “I’m not the one who committed a crime. I didn’t kill anyone. I stumbled onto a story, followed a source, and have clearly found something that’s more than what it seems. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

      “Don’t matter, Katherine—”

      “Kit.”

      “What?”

      “My name is Kit. Only my family calls me Katherine.”

      Grif tapped out a smoke. “They could call you Howdy Doody for all I care. You’re still marked for death.”

      She fell back at that, and Grif sighed. Too harsh. And too knowing. But he needed her to wise up, and fast. “I’m talking about the squiggly your friend drew in that notebook. Whoever killed her, whoever attacked you, saw it. It made you a target.”

      “Then there’s something to it.” She lifted her chin.

      “Look, I’ve seen this before. You want to change your future? You gotta change it now. In this case, alter everything about yourself.” The memory of the dooming plasma circling her ankles revisited him. It was gone for now, but he imagined it roaming outside like a wolf, searching for a way back in.

      But Kit shook her head. “My life is here.”

      He shrugged. “Not much longer.”

      “That a threat, Mr. Shaw?”

      “It’s Grif,” he said, slumping. “Only my family called me Mr. Shaw.”

      “Cute.” She made a face, then crossed her arms. “But I’m not leaving. I’m going to get answers for Nic. I need to find out who killed her, why, and I’m going to make them pay for my busted door. Nobody enters my house without invitation,” she said, and looked pointedly at him.

      Grif didn’t want to look impressed, but it was hard with her staring him down, tough and determined-looking. Like a lion-tamer. Like she’d said … cute.

      “Guess I’ll stick around then, too,” he finally said, lifting his cup. He tried to sound spontaneous, but it was a decision he’d come to in the deep, lonely night. He couldn’t save her just to allow her to die later.

      “I don’t even know you,” she snapped, as if wielding a whip.

      “You didn’t know me last night, either. And you still don’t know who attacked you.”

      She frowned. “You think they’ll be back?”

      “You think they’ve left?” he said, and she winced again. Best to be straight, though. She needed facts. Facts were bricks. Maybe she could build herself a wall with them, too, one tall and wide and strong enough to keep her alive when he was gone. Knowing Sarge, that would be soon.

      Which brought him to the other thing he’d decided in the long hours where no one on either the Surface or in the skies had been talking to him. Sarge and company had stripped him of his celestial powers, leaving him only with the tools to sense impending death. They’d dumped him here as a freak—neither Centurion nor mortal—with holes in his memory and orders to watch a fated murder.

      But Grif had altered fate, and not with wings, but fists. With the part of him that had free will. The part that was human.

      So Grif had decided to block out his death senses, temporarily ignore his angelic side, and use whatever remaining time he had on this mudflat to take care of a little business. A murder that had been haunting him for decades.

      “Ah, here comes the catch,” Kit said, studying his face.

      “No catch. I just need help with an old case I’m trying to solve. A double murder.”

      “And?”

      “And you’re a reporter.” And the case was so cold it had frostbite. It would be hard enough for him to get records, reports, and access to eyewitness accounts with no resources or contacts. But with all the newfangled electronics, it was damned near impossible. Still, as long as he was camping out on the mud, why not take a look?

      “And you’re a hardened P.I.,” she replied coolly. “Why don’t you lone-wolf your way to the answer?”

      “Because it happened here. In Vegas. And I’ve been away a little while.” He showed teeth as he answered, causing fear to move behind her gaze. Good. She should be a little afraid. “Besides, I need some help getting around.”

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