Miz Spelled Page 5

“Man just puked by the coffee server.” Having distracted those inside, she strode to where Thomas and the other man waited next to her Harley.

  He’s got a gun. Stay back. Thomas’s order came through just fine. Miz continued walking and ignored it.

  “Your partner’s sick,” she told the other suit.

  For a moment the second agent glanced at the building behind her. Big mistake. Thomas slapped the gun out of his hand and threw his arm around the man’s shoulders as if they were friends, escorting him away from the gas pump and toward the dark-colored sedan he’d arrived in.

  Miz bent, picked up the weapon he’d dropped and inspected the load. No surprise—silver bullets. She walked to the sedan and planted her thumb in the middle of the cretin’s forehead, resisting the urge to fry the guy’s brain.

  “Forget you saw us here,” she told the agent. “We’re not who you’re looking for. Thomas Hunter went to a vacation cabin and stayed there. You didn’t see him do anything out of the ordinary. “

  “Finish it, Miz,” Thomas growled.

  “Your partner has food poisoning. You need to take him home. After you drop Eric off, you’re going to sleep in your car until morning. You’ve been working too hard, and you’re really tired.”

  “Better get Eric home.” The agent smiled happily at her, nodding. “I’m really tired. I’ve been working too hard. I’m taking the week off.” He headed for the store as Miz and Thomas returned to the bike. She had a feeling her directives had worked a lot better on this guy. He didn’t even look back at them.

  “You sure keep interesting company, Sunny,” she drawled over her shoulder to Thomas as she put on her helmet, mounted and prepared to leave.

  “Yes.” He slid in behind her and pulled on his own head gear. Did you hear me tell you to stay away? His anger came through loud and clear.

  “Like I told you at home, I’m not too good at following orders.”

  Learn. His answer was a roar in her mind.

  Miz guided the bike from the parking lot and followed the back road to the interstate.

  Did you get all that information, Thomas?

  Yes.

  Eric’s with a sub-agency of the NSA. That’s who you work for, right?

  Yes.

  Thomas, it sounds like you’ve got trouble brewing in DC.

  Yes. When we get there, trust no one but me.

  West Virginians don’t trust strangers, Sunny. Miz chuckled. And these folks are all strangers to me.

  Thomas’s worry spilled into her mind. She didn’t know the full extent of what they faced, but it didn’t sound like a good time.

  They left I-64 where it merged with I-81 pointing toward Staunton. It was eerily quiet, the only sound in the night, fat drops of water slapping the road and the steady rumble of the Harley’s engine.

  Miz was glad she’d worn her leathers, even though the black material of her pants was saturated and clung to her legs. The heat from Thomas’s grip around her waist radiated through her body, keeping her from turning into a Popsicle.

  The rain didn’t stop until they reached DC three hours later.

  Chapter Eight

  Thomas gave Miz directions and tightened his grip on her, shielding her as they traveled the quiet street. It was the middle of the night and the capital traffic was at a minimum.

  The Harley thrummed up to the first check point and Miz took off her helmet. Thomas did likewise when he showed his ID.

  “Nice ride, Hunter,” the guard said, admiring Miz as well as the Harley.

  Thomas gave him a warning look and the man dropped his gaze, waving them through.

  Keep your shields in place from now on. Someone screwed with Shep’s mind. I don’t want it happening to us. Thomas hugged Miz closer, surrounding and protecting her body with his.

  “Better be a cup of coffee waiting at the end of this rainbow, Sunny,” she muttered when Thomas motioned her toward two men stationed at the rear of the building.

  “I promise. And a pound of coffee creamer too,” he assured her as they rode through the double doors and into the low-lit building, leaving darkness behind.

  Security cameras followed their journey as they parked the Harley. Miz left both helmets on the seat of the bike and set her ward in place.

  “Ready,” she told him and walked beside him to the elevator.

  “Mind what I said,” he reminded her grimly. Thomas punched in numbers as soon as the door shut and, though the electronic panel said they were at ground zero, the carrier began a silent descent, not stopping until they reached the fortified bunker beneath the city.

  “How many ways can we say, Top Secret?” Miz drawled, looking around with interest when Thomas urged her from the elevator and into a carpeted room. She dripped water on the floor as she shrugged out of her leather jacket.

  “Thank God you’re back.” The woman standing next to the elevator greeted Thomas with a look of relief. Then she frowned at Miz. “You can’t bring her in here.”

  “I already did, Sharon,” Thomas said. “She’s coming back to take a look at Shep. She’s a masseuse. She might be able to help.”

  “What in the world would—?”

  “Wet out there.” Miz bared her teeth and interrupted the question, giving Sharon her best crazy smile as she shook more water on the floor and followed Thomas.

  They reached a turnoff. She faced the right wing feeling the drag of misery clutch at her. Thomas shook his head and guided her in the other direction. He was taut with urgency and she hurried to keep up. She didn’t like this place. It reminded her of the werewolves’ den Hank Wyatt had built inside a mountain cave at home.

  They turned a corner, entering another section of the building and Miz flexed her fingers inside her leather gloves. By the time they reached the room, the pulsing demand in her hands had faded until it was no more than a low-level throb.

  Sharon followed Miz and Thomas, stepping past the security detail and into the room behind them.

  Miz scanned the room. Shep Buchanan sat alone, wearing hospital pajamas and a blank expression. He didn’t twitch a muscle as he stared dumbly at the wall. Her gaze skated from him to the tiny pulse of power surrounding a pinhole in the ceiling.

  Well, hello there. Someone was watching.

  Miz didn’t like witch-work; when it was necessary, she sure didn’t perform in front of an audience.

  “I need to wash my hands,” she murmured, heading for the sink at the side of the room. She lathered and rinsed, flinging drops of water from her hands into the sink. Turning, she casually sent the last few sprinkles at the corner spy-cam.

  The interference wouldn’t last long, but while it did, the water would expand into a cloudy fog over the lens and block the view.

  “All righty, then,” she muttered. “Let’s see what’s wrong with you, country boy.” Shep used his roots to disguise his intelligence. Obviously, he’d been hiding more than smarts. He was a shifter, like Thomas.

  When she stood next to Shep, her magic hands were deader than Job’s ass. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so damned sad.

  She tried more than once, really hoping her healing gift would blink on. But it was soon clear that Thomas had brought her all this way to help Shep, and the best she could provide was a good back rub.

  “Guess I’d better get started,” she muttered and stepped around Sharon.

  “The doctors haven’t found anything physically wrong with him. The neurologist can’t pinpoint the problem. Maybe…” Sharon’s animus had disappeared and she looked at Miz hopefully. “Where do you want him?”

  “Thomas can help me get him to the bed. I can reach all his parts that way.” She took one of Shep’s arms and Thomas took the other.

  Buchanan was docile and pliant. His skin was warm to the touch, his breathing even and unstrained, his expression focused, as though concentrating on something in the distance.

  Miz took her kit from her backpack and removed her gloves. When she uncapped the containe
r of salve, Sharon stepped forward and said suspiciously, “What’s that?”

  “Olive oil, beeswax, herbs,” Miz answered. “Helps relax the muscles.” She didn’t wait for the woman to approve or disapprove. Moving to stand next to Shep, she laid her hands on him though she didn’t expect results.

  She closed her eyes and let her hands see beneath the muscles and bones. Miz took her time, massaging his neck, shoulders and back, rubbing down his legs, kneading the arch of his feet, cracking his toes. Then she turned him over and worked her way upward.

  He wasn’t drooling or slack-jawed but nobody appeared to be home just the same. She stroked her fingers across his temples, probing Shep’s mind—and was greeted by a blast of animal rage so violent she sucked in her breath and stepped back.

  “Can’t fix what isn’t wrong,” she told Thomas, trying to appear casual as she pulled off her gloves.

  “In other words, you didn’t do a thing and your massage was a waste of time.” Sharon raked Miz with her gaze. Her lip curled in a sneer, which she covered fast but not fast enough.

  “Yep,” Miz agreed, resisting the urge to bitch slap the other woman. “Wouldn’t want to waste any more valuable time. I’ll be leaving now.”

  Chapter Nine

  She didn’t wait for Thomas as she found her way back down the corridor and to the main hall. Her hands did the rest, coming awake and acting as a dowsing rod. It hadn’t been Shep’s misery that had pulled at Miz earlier. She followed where they led her down the other turn.

  Two guards stood in front of the door and it was debatable whether she could get past them. Her calculations were unnecessary.

  “Captain’s inside,” one man volunteered, speaking to Thomas as he came to a stop behind her.

  “I’m going in,” Miz informed all three of them. “It would be easier if you’d move out of my way.”

  She brushed past the guards who, thanks to Thomas, stepped aside. Inside she was confronted by a man hovering over the bed.

  “Hunter, what do you want?” Rumpled and unshaven though he was, his attitude said he was an officer and expected answers.

  “Captain Braddock, this is Missouri Hess. She might be able to help.”

  Leaving Thomas to take care of matters, Miz closed the curtain and focused on a problem she could fix. Her patient was an amalgamation of parts that would have made no sense had Miz not seen an actual shifter’s change take place. Whimpers of fear and anguish escaped from the young wolf’s throat but the animal begged her from human eyes.

  Miz took off her gloves and washed her hands again. A couple drops of water clouded the camera and she went to work. Heat radiated from her hands as she stroked over the furry ribs looking for surface injuries.

  “Poor baby,” Miz crooned, soothing the girl’s fear. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  “Lynette,” Captain Braddock said. “Her name’s Lynette Braddock. She’s my daughter. She’s sixteen. What in hell is going on? She’s stuck in mid-form.” His agitation spilled from him, blanketing the room.

  “You’re scaring her and making it worse. I need you to step away.”

  A murmur of words and Miz got her wish. The sound of the two men talking receded. Miz smiled and unleashed her magic.

  Running her finger across baby fine skin, she touched a spot on Lynette’s temple, stopping to pulse reassurance, waiting until the girl calmed before she continued.

  A picture of Lynette in a football jersey, racing across green grass and tackling Braddock, flashed in Miz’s head.

  “Pretty fancy name for a tom-boy. I bet you’re a hellion, aren’t ya, sweetie.” She smiled when Lynette flashed another image, this girl looking sweet and beautiful in a fancy dress. “Well, all right then. Guess you’re head’s still working okay. Let’s see what’s causing the problem.” Easing out of the girl’s mind, Miz focused on her body.

  And in, and in, and deeper. Let’s see what’s keeping you—well shit! Silver.

  “You can work the bucket brigade.” Miz called to Thomas. “I’ll be puking out my guts soon.”

  “What the hell?” Braddock’s voice cut off abruptly. Whatever Thomas had done, the captain was no longer an issue.

  Miz concentrated on vacuuming up the noxious element so deadly to a shape-shifter. Who did it? Not my problem. Thomas was a special agent of some kind. He could figure it out.

  Even after Lynette had completely shed her wolf form and become girl again, Miz continued her search. Tiny gray spots of poison still remained as needlelike shards of silver floated through her veins.

  Miz gathered them, coated them with her own brand of ooze and upchucked over the bucket, emptying the poisonous waste into the container.

  After the final round of purging, Miz leaned tiredly against the bed. Lynette was wide awake and in better shape than her healer.

  “Thank you,” the kid whispered.

  “Whoever sent you the chocolate bonbons ain’t your friend, Lynnie,” Miz warned, her voice husky, her throat raw. She could barely stand and wobbled when she straightened.

  “I missed the Harvest Ball,” Lynette said, her lower lip trembling.

  “They’ll be others,” Miz assured her.

  “What’s your name?” Lynnette asked.

  Miz patted her arm and moved to touch her head. It was best that the kid forgot the particulars. But as if she knew what came next, Lynette offered something uncommon after a healing.

  “I know you’re special. I could feel it. I won’t tell. Friends?”

  Miz hesitated, then took her hand. The connection between them pulsed with magic showing her truth.

  “You can call me Miz. And I’d be pleased to call you, Friend, Lynnie.” Miz figured she’d gotten something better than money out of her visit to DC.

  “Right now, you need to rest and get strong. You’ve got an ass-kicking to deliver to whoever sent you those bonbons.”

  Lynette smiled, squeezed Miz’s hand, and went under.

  Miz watched her patient sleep and rested a moment herself before she finished cleaning up the mess. The haze covering the spy-cam in the corner was probably fading fast. She sighed and stood up.

  “This place needs fresh air,” she muttered to Thomas. She opened the hospital curtain and crossed to Braddock. He was out cold.

  She touched Braddock’s forehead. “Lynette’s resting. Find out who sent her chocolate bonbons. They were poisoned. I gave her a massage and she vomited up a mess of nastiness.”

  In moments his eyes opened. He stood, walked to the bed and looked down at Lynette, brushed her soft curls from her face and smiled at her.

  “Captain Braddock, I need coffee, lots of cream. You think you could fetch a cup for me?”

  “Sure, I’ll get it right now.” Braddock’s expression was a mix of amazement and relief when he went through the door. Miz heard him say to the guards outside, “Who would have thought a massage therapist could—” before the closing door ended his surprised testimonial.

  “Here’s my bill.” Miz scribbled a note and handed it to Thomas.

  Need to burn the evidence. It wasn’t subtle but she didn’t know how else to let him know what needed to be done. He’d said no mind links while they were here.

  He was right. So far she’d been nothing more than Thomas’s girlfriend, a masseuse earning some extra dollars while she made the hospital rounds. She wanted it to stay that way.

  Thomas nodded and reached for the bucket.

  “I’ll do it.” Miz waved him away and carried the noxious slop into the bathroom.

  Yuck. She bent over the sink and splashed water on her face, rinsed out her mouth, popped in a stick of gum, and contemplated the bucket.

  Hope I don’t set the damned building on fire. She was about to attempt using one of those recessive talents she didn’t explore often. Sometimes, maybe, she could light a candle. She had a feeling today wasn’t the same.

  For want of any better incantation to use, she stole from Shakespeare, focusing all the sizz
ling heat inside of her as she chanted.

  “Double, double toil and trouble …” Lynette’s poison came to a boil, evaporating in layers, showing Miz the stomach contents. Soda, fries, cheeseburger, chocolate, coconut streaked with silver. Ugh.

  Except for the last one, it was pretty standard food for a teenager’s diet. Organic content filtered away in a puff of smoke. In seconds there was nothing left but dots of gray she scooped up with her handkerchief.

  She just had time to stuff the scarf and silver contents inside her kit before the first wave of afterglow hit her.

  “Aww, dammit,” she groaned, pulsing with another kind of fire. She’d practically fried her brain on this healing and if she didn’t get rid of some of her energy soon every man in the building would have a hard-on and be looking for why.

  Miz wanted to cry. She was in a frigging hospital room with guards stationed outside who were already probably feeling her heat. And a sixteen-year-old teenager lying sick in the bed.

  “I’m all yours,” Thomas said opening the bathroom door. “Use me.” No purr, no cat’s meow, no taunt. His voice was gravelly rough, both man and beast talking at once. “I locked the outer door.” He stepped into the room with her.

  Miz heard the lock snick shut. Then Thomas was beside her, lifting her as though she weighed nothing, which in fact was a far cry from the truth. The bathroom was a three by four, maybe smaller. It didn’t matter. Space wasn’t an issue.

  Chapter Ten

  Under different circumstances, Thomas would have savored peeling the black leather pants off Miz. But she needed him and her need made beast and man hurry to serve.

  She kicked off a boot at the same time she grappled with his belt and fly. He freed her ankle from her pants as she pulled out his cock. He lifted her and she wrapped her arms around his neck, her thighs around his waist and arched her back, rubbing her flesh up and down his shaft as he braced her against the wall. And then he was inside her.

  His beast growled as Miz slid her hands down Thomas’s back and grabbed his ass, pulling him deeper.