Dead Witch Walking

'Bastard,' I chittered, then flipped him off to make sure he understood.

Jonathan's few wrinkles deepened as he frowned. Long arm swinging, he smacked my cage with the folder in his hand.

Ignoring my pain, I lunged at him, clinging to the bars with my teeth bared.

He fell back in obvious shock. Flushing, the gaunt man pulled his arm back again.

'Jon,' Trent said softly. Though his voice was a whisper, Jonathan froze. I clung to the bars, heart pounding. 'You forget your place. Leave Ms. Morgan alone. If you misjudge her and she fights back, it's not her fault but yours. You've made this mistake before. Repeatedly.'

Seething, I dropped to the floor of the cage and growled. I hadn't known I could growl, but there it was. Slowly, Jonathan's clenched hand loosened. 'It's my place to protect you.'

Trent's eyebrows rose. 'Ms. Morgan isn't in the position to harm anyone. Stop it.'

Eyes going from one to the other, I watched the older man take Trent's rebuke with an acceptance I wouldn't have expected. The two had a very odd relationship. Trent was clearly in charge, but remembering the bother in Trent's face when Jonathan expressed his disapproval of Trent chewing his glasses, it seemed it hadn't always been so. I wondered if Jonathan had seen to Trent's upbringing, however briefly, when his mother, and then his father, had died.

'Accept my apologies, Sa'han,' Jonathan said, actually inclining his head.

Trent said nothing, returning to his papers. Though clearly dismissed, Jonathan waited until Trent looked up. 'Is there something else?' Trent asked.

'Your eight-thirty is early,' he said. 'Shall I accompany Mr. Percy back?'

'Percy!' I squeaked, and Trent glanced at me. Not Francis Percy!

'Yes,' Trent said slowly. 'Please do.'

Swell, I thought as Jonathan ducked into the hallway and eased the door shut behind him. Francis's interrupted interview. I paced the perimeter of my cage, nervous. My muscles were loosening, and the movement felt painfully good. I stopped as I realized Trent hadn't taken his gaze off me. Under his questioning look, I slunk into my hut, ashamed somehow.

I found Trent was still watching me as I curled my tail about myself, draping it across my nose to keep it warm. 'Don't be angry with Jon,' he said softly. 'He takes his station seriously—as he should. If you push him too far, he'll kill you. Let's hope you don't need to learn the same lesson he does.'

I lifted my lip to show my teeth, not liking him giving me wise-old-man crap.

A whiny voice pulled both our attentions to the hallway. Francis. I had told him I could turn into a mink. If he made the right connection, I was as good as dead. Well, more dead than I was. I didn't want him to see me. Neither, apparently, did Trent.

'Mmmm, yes,' he said, hastily getting up and shifting one of his floor plants to hide my cage. It was a peace lily, and I could see past its wide leaves and still stay hidden. There was a knock, and Trent called, 'Come in.'

'No, really,' Francis was saying as Jonathan all but pushed him in.

From behind the plant, I watched Francis meet Trent's eyes and swallow hard. 'Uh, hello, Mr. Kalamack,' he stammered, coming to an awkward standstill. He looked more unkempt than usual, one of his laces peeping out from under his pants almost undone, and his stubble having grown from potentially attractive to ugly. His black hair lay flat, and his squinty eyes had faint, tired lines at the corners. It was likely Francis hadn't been to bed yet, coming out for his interview at Trent's convenience rather than the I.S.'s.

Trent said nothing. He went to sit, easing behind his desk with the relaxed tension of a predator settling in beside the water hole.

Francis glanced at Jonathan, his shoulders hunched. There was the sound of sliding polyester as he pushed up his jacket sleeves, then pulled them back down. Tossing his hair from his eyes, Francis edged to the chair and sat on the very end. Stress drew the features on his triangular face tight, especially when Jonathan closed the door and stood behind him with his arms crossed and his feet spread wide. My attention flicked between them. What was going on?

'Would you explain yesterday to me?' Trent said with a smooth casualness.

Confusion made me blink, then my mouth dropped open in understanding. Frances worked for Trent? It would explain his fast advancement, not to mention how a short-order cook such as himself made witch. A chill ran through me. This arrangement wasn't with the I.S.'s blessing. The I.S. had no idea. Francis was a mole. The cookie was a freaking mole!

I looked at Trent through the wide leaves. His shoulders shifted slightly, as if agreeing with my thoughts. My nausea came rolling back. Francis wasn't good enough for anything this slimy. He was going to get himself killed.

'Uh—I—' Frances stammered.

'My head of security found you spelled in your own trunk,' Trent said calmly, the barest hint of a threat in his voice. 'Ms. Morgan and I had an interesting conversation.'

'She—She said she would turn me into an animal,' Frances interrupted.

Trent took a deep breath. 'Why,' he said with a tired patience, 'would she do that?'

'She doesn't like me.'

Trent said nothing. Francis cringed as he probably realized how childish that sounded.

'Tell me about Rachel Morgan,' Trent demanded.

'She's a pain in the—um—butt,' he said, flicking a nervous look at Jonathan.

Trent took a pen in hand and twirled it. 'I know that. Tell me something else.'

'That you don't already know?' Francis blurted. His pinched eyes were riveted to the revolving pen. 'You've probably had your finger on her longer than on me. Did you give her a loan for tuition?' he said, sounding almost jealous. 'Whisper in her I.S. interviewer's ear?'

I stiffened. How dare he suggest it. I had worked for my schooling. I'd gotten my job on my own. I looked to Trent, hating them all. I didn't owe anyone anything.

'No. I didn't.' Trent set his pen down. 'Ms. Morgan was a surprise. But I did offer her a job,' he said, and Francis seemed to sink in on himself. His mouth worked, but nothing came out. I could smell the fear on him, sour and sharp.

'Not your job,' Trent said, his disgust obvious. 'Tell me what she is afraid of. What makes her angry? What does she cherish most in the world?'

Francis's breath came in a relieved sound. He shifted, going to cross his legs but hesitating at the last, awkward moment. 'I don't know. The mall? I try to stay away from her.'

'Yes,' Trent said in his liquid voice. 'Let's talk about that for a moment. After reviewing your activities the past few days, one might question your loyalties—Mr. Percy.'

Francis crossed his arms. His breathing increased and he began to fidget. Jonathan took a menacing step closer, and Francis tossed his hair from his eyes again.

Trent went frighteningly intense. 'Do you know how much it cost me to quiet the rumors when you ran from the I.S. records vault?'

He licked his lips. 'Rachel said they'd think I was helping her. That I should run.'

'And so you ran.'

'She said—'

'And yesterday?' Trent interrupted. 'You drove her to me.'

The tight anger in his voice pulled me out of my hut. Trent leaned forward, and I swear I heard Francis's blood freeze. The businessman aura fell from Trent. What was left was domination. Natural, unequivocal domination.

I stared at the change. Trent's mien was nothing like a vamp's aura of power. It was like unsweetened chocolate: strong and bitter and oily, leaving an uncomfortable aftertaste. Vamps used fear to command respect. Trent simply demanded it. And from what I could see, the thought never crossed his mind that it would be denied.

'She used you to get to me,' he whispered, his eyes unblinking. 'That is inexcusable.'

Francis cowered in his chair, his thin face drawn and his eyes wide. 'I—I'm sorry,' he stammered. 'It won't happen again.'

Trent's breath slipped into him in a slow gathering of will, and I watched in horrified fascination. The yellow