Free Chaotic by Kelley Armstrong Page B

shaft—all I could think about was what would happen to my family if I was caught. The shame, the embarrassment, the humiliation, but most of all the “why didn’t we do more to help” bewilderment and grief. And what could I say? “No, no, you got it all wrong. See, I thought I was helping supernaturals with this interracial council, but really I was working for this sorcerer corporation, and then this werewolf . . .” I loved my family way too much to inflict that explanation on them.
    “It’s clean,” Marsten murmured behind my head. When I tried to give the tile one last rub, he caught my hand. “It’s clean, Hope.”
    “Out damned spot,” I said, trying to smile.
    “There’s no blood on your hands.”
    “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” I said softly.
    I thought of all the cases I’d solved, the “criminal” supernaturals I’d turned in. I could see that one witch, so terrified she couldn’t even cast a spell, begging me— begging me—not to hand her over, swearing it wasn’t that council who wanted her but a Cabal—
    “Hope?” Marsten grasped my shoulder, his grip hard enough to push back the vision.
    “Sorry,” I murmured. “Just . . . ghosts.”
    “Whatever you did, you thought you were—”
    “Doesn’t matter, does it? It’s actions that count, not intentions. Ignorance isn’t an excuse. That’s what my ethics prof always said. Ignorance isn’t—”
    I champed down on my lip hard enough to draw blood, then pushed myself to my feet. “So no gun, no body, but one guard down.” I paused. “ Three guards, I should—” I shook it off. “ One of Tristan’s guards. One goal achieved out of three. Not doing so hot, are we? So what’s next? Resume the plan and find a place to hide?”
    He nodded. “We’ll try that.”
    That didn’t sound terribly optimistic but, considering our luck so far, I can’t say I blamed him.

Chapter 10
    W e discussed options and settled on hiding in one of the less “sexy” exhibits—those displaying artifacts unlikely to interest a bored party-goer conducting his own off-limits tour. The ceramics or textiles galleries seemed like the safest bets.
    Both required passing the party, but we would take the back hall around it, rather than walk through. Seeing two people die had convinced me this wasn’t the time to worry about my abandoned date.
    We hurried into the hall skirting the gala, then veered left. We jogged through the looming skeletons of the dinosaur exhibit, and were crossing to the Greco-Roman wing when I picked up the twang of a supernatural vibe.
    I grabbed Marsten’s arm and told him. He listened for footsteps, then inhaled the scents.
    “Tristan and the other guard,” he said. “Coming right where we’ll be going. Is there another—”
    He stopped and answered his question by looking at the open doors down the hall. A quartet of men lounged in the doorway, ties and jackets off. Beyond them were more gaggles of partygoers.
    “We could go back,” I said.
    “Too late,” he said, and steered me toward the party.
    “We’ll cut straight across to the main exit,” I said as we moved. “From there, the first left will take us to ceramics.”
    We squeezed past the drunken quartet who were illinclined—or too unsteady—to move out of our way. Once inside, I motioned to our goal across the room. We were passing the buffet table when I caught sight of Douglas, less than ten feet away, still talking to the Bairds.
    Seeing me, Douglas blinked, and looked beside him. Figures. Here I was, worrying that he’d been searching for me, and he probably hadn’t even noticed I’d been gone.
    Marsten reached for my arm, to steer me away from Douglas, but I waved him back and veered onto a new course myself. Douglas only lifted his brows in polite question. When I gestured to the buffet table, he smiled, nodded, and turned back to the Bairds.
    “Don’t mind me,” I muttered. “I’m just passing through, killers in hot