“Piece of cake.”
“Now who’s lying?”
Alec grinned and took in the view from the top of her head down to the combat boots on her feet. Eve was the type of exotic beauty people looked more than twice at. Creamy skin, inky dark tresses, red lips. His own paradise, his refuge from the rigors of his life.
It had been lust at first sight ten years ago and nothing had changed since then, despite being apart the entire time. She was his apple, his temptation. He was her downfall. Talk about a shitty foundation for a relationship. They had baggage, hurt feelings, regrets. Eve was the kind of woman a man married. White picket fence, kids, and a dog. Alec was aiming for advancement to archangel and heading his own firm.
The elevator doors opened and they stepped into the training center. The entire floor was dedicated to creating the best fighting force of Marks possible. There were classrooms with desks as well as dojos, indoor firing ranges, weight rooms, and fencing studios. Alec sometimes stayed to watch the instructions, impressed with the level of efficiency. As the original Mark, he’d been forced to survive by the skin of his teeth. Some said he was born to kill, built for it, and he agreed.
Eve led the way to a glass-enclosed conference room. As they entered, the conversation died and all eyes turned toward them. There were a handful of people in the room, ranging in age from late teens to middle age, male and female. Some sat around the long table that dominated the center of the room, others sat atop it with their legs dangling over the sides. Ken was pouring himself a glass of water from the silver pitcher on a nearby console. They all looked at Eve, then glanced furtively at Alec except for a nearby blonde who assessed him boldly from head to toe.
“How are you feeling, Hollis?” asked a dark-haired Hispanic man in jeans and button-down flannel shirt.
“Good. Thanks for asking.”
As Alec joined Eve in the far corner, he returned every stare. Eve hopped onto the widow ledge, her lithe legs dangling and her fingers curled around the lip. They were white knuckled, betraying her unease. The tension in the room was thick and it pissed him off.
He leaned back and crossed his arms, facing the room dead-on. Uncomfortable shuffling ensued, then a return to the previous discussion.
Ken cleared his throat. “I cannae wait to get started.”
“You’re two sammies short of a picnic,” a petite redhead said derisively, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
“Well,” Alec murmured for Eve’s ears only. “The girls are easily pegged with their nicknames, I think. ‘Goth Girl’ especially. I’m assuming the redhead is ‘Princess,’ since she’s covered in glitter.”
Eve smiled. “I am so high school, aren’t I?”
“It’s not your fault they’re easily identifiable. Besides, I liked you in high school,” he purred, alluding to the ill-fated tryst that led them to where they were today. He couldn’t regret it, and he took every opportunity to remind her of why she shouldn’t regret it either.
Eve bumped her shoulder into his. “Can you guess which one is ‘Mastermind’? That one’s a bit harder.”
Alec looked around. There were seven people in the room besides themselves. Since he had already identified four of the Marks, he quickly ruled them out—Ken, the red-haired princess with her glitter mascara and lip gloss, the Goth girl with her pale blond hair and pixie-perfect features, and the “Fashionista” whose height and rail-thin figure were the stuff of supermodel dreams. The remaining occupants were the guy who greeted Eve when they entered, a wan and slightly portly teenage boy in a nylon jogging suit, and a gray-haired gentleman in dress slacks and polo shirt.
“The old guy?” he guessed. “He kinda has that Magneto vibe.”
“You’re older than he is,” Eve reminded. “And no, he’s ‘Gopher.’ His name is Robert Edwards.”
“Okay. Then it’s the guy in the jeans.”
“Nope.”
Alec’s eyes widened. “The kid? You’re shitting me.”
Laughing, she said, “No, I’m not. He’s older than he looks. Early twenties. Name is Chad Richens. He and Edwards are both from England, so I’m guessing that’s one of the reasons why they gravitated toward each other. The other is that Richens can come up with schemes, but he doesn’t like to do the dirty work.”
“Like what?”
“Like the time he had Edwards swap out everyone’s bayonets with dull ones from the previous day. We all worked twice as hard as he did that session, because he and Edwards were the only ones to have freshly sharpened blades. It was Richens’s idea, but Edwards was the one who actually made the switch. Claire freaked when Ken figured it out. I thought she was going to give herself an aneurism.”
“The fashionista?”
“Yes, Claire Dubois, from France. Isn’t she gorgeous? She says she wasn’t before the mark. Apparently, she used to be a meth addict. She burned her apartment down and killed her boyfriend in the process, which is why she was marked. She’s still very high strung and fidgets a lot.”
Alec studied the teenager. “How is Richens doing in the physical portion of the class?”
“Not good. Even with the help of the mark, he has trouble with the combat training, which is why I think he tries to get through the sneaky way. He’s a video game junkie and strategy is his strength, not his fists. He also has a short fuse.” Her voice lowered. “Edwards told me Richens’s dad was abusive. I think he carries some of that around with him.”
It didn’t escape Alec’s notice how well Eve had researched her classmates in order to better understand them. It was a sign of a natural hunter. Killing wasn’t merely a physical act. It was also cerebral. “There must be some potential in him, or he would have been assigned to a nonfield position.”
“He killed someone. I don’t know the details. He won’t talk about it.”
“Murderers usually end up with field work automatically.”
“Stupid,” she muttered. “I think his being here is a major screwup on someone’s part.”
“Watch it.” Alec shot her a chastising glance. Eve’s beliefs were her own and he respected her right to have them, but sometimes she voiced her opinions in a way that was too irreverent to be safe. “So, that leaves us with the dark-haired guy. He’s ‘Romeo,’ I take it.”
Eve nodded. “Antonio Garza, from Rome. But that’s not why I call him Romeo. He’s got a thing going with Laurel . . . and being discreet isn’t his strong suit.”
“Which one is Laurel? The princess?”
“That’s the one. Laurel Hogan. Romeo wooed the Goth girl first, but she says he’s too much of a gigolo for her tastes. He’s better off with Laurel anyway. If you ask me, Izzie is missing a few tools in the shed.”
Alec studied the petite blonde with a calculating eye. She was slender, pale, her blue eyes rimmed with thick kohl and her mouth painted a dark purple. He would describe her as “delicate,” despite her spiked collar and cuffs. “Why do you say that?”
“Izzie’s pulled a Bowie knife on damn near everyone in this room at some point or another. She doesn’t like any of us.”
“That’s an odd name.”
“It’s short for Iselda. Iselda Seiler. ‘Izzie’ suits her more than ‘Goth,’ I think. Like the other girls, her nickname is more of a description than anything else.”
Alec noted the guarded way Eve watched the other woman. Not that he blamed her. The blonde had been mad dogging him since he entered. “You don’t like her.”
“I don’t mind her,” she corrected. “But she sure seems to have a problem with me. More so than the rest of the class, and that’s saying something.”
“Is there anyone here you get along with?”
“Well . . .” Eve shrugged. “I don’t not get along with anyone, but I haven’t made any friends either. I just keep a low profile and stay out of the way.”
Alec turned to face her. He asked her about her experiences in class every day, and every day she found a way to redirect him to another topic. Their present conversation was the most she had shared to date.
“How does Raguel feel about that?” he asked. “I bet he wants you front and center.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Sure, so he can pick on me and point out all the ways I’m doing things wrong.”
Alec’s jaw clenched. When he was done with Charles, he would deal with Raguel. Eve had innate talent. It was a travesty that she didn’t know it because the archangel withheld his praise.
As if Alec’s thoughts served as the archangel’s cue to appear, Raguel entered the room by floating through the glass door, displaying for one and all a small portion of his power. He was dressed casually in loose-fitting indigo linen pants and tunic, but the intensity that radiated from him belied the outward appearance of leisure.
A brief nod passed between Alec and the archangel, then Raguel looked around the conference room. His lyrical voice rolled though the room like smoke, “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, moreh,” the class greeted in unison, using the Hebrew word for “teacher.”
Raguel frowned. “Where is Molenaar?”
“He hasnae shown his face yet,” Ken answered.
Alec glanced at Eve, trying to remember which classmate was absent.
Her lips formed the words, the Stoner.
Nodding, Alec wondered at the composition of students in the class. Two former drug addicts, a teenager with poor motor skills, and an elderly gentleman most likely set in his ways. Marks came in all shapes, sizes, pasts, and temperaments. But only select Marks became hunters rather than behind-the-scenes personnel with occupations like personal assistant or travel coordinator.
It was Dubois and the absent stoner who most disturbed him. Addicts had the hardest time acclimating to the mark. In addition to the loss of their homes, family, and friends, they also lost their crutch. The mark was an instant cure, changing the body so that mind-altering substances were no longer effective. Some novice Marks went crazy facing reality. They hadn’t been capable of functioning without drugs in their ordinary mortal lives. It was impossible for some to cope with sobriety in an extraordinary world filled with demons who wanted them dead.
