Fire and Ice - Anne Stuart [53]
She opened her eyes. He was all she could see; he was blocking her view of the trashed apartment.
“You need to come with me.” He was still being oddly gentle with her, and she wondered why. “Give me your hand.”
She put her hand in his, the hand that had pulled the trigger, that still tingled from the feel of the gun, and let him draw her to her feet. “Don’t look,” he said.
But she did. The man she shot lay facedown on the floor in a pool of blood. Half of his head was blown away.
She started to gag, but Reno caught her, holding her. “Take deep breaths,” he whispered. “Don’t think about it, don’t look. Just look straight ahead and come with me.”
She had no choice. She stumbled forward, and then realized she was still wearing only fishnet stockings on her feet. She started to turn back to look for the platform shoes, but he wouldn’t let her, pulling her away from the horrifying scene. He put her into the hallway, and she leaned back against the wall, trying to breathe, while he disappeared into the apartment for a moment. Then he was back, with her sneakers and his boots. And the gun, the gun that she’d used, was tucked in the waist of his dark pants, almost hidden by his black jacket.
She stood patiently while he put the sneakers on her feet, and then she followed him, down the three flights of stairs, out into the bright winter daylight of a Tokyo morning.
Reno wasn’t used to feeling powerless. He didn’t believe in coddling himself or others; he did what he needed to do without hesitation, and expected others to do the same.
But he hadn’t expected Jilly Lovitz to blow someone’s head off to save his life. And he wasn’t sure how to make it better.
She was in shock, which he supposed was a good thing. She hadn’t said a word since she’d fired the gun, and she’d done everything he’d told her to do, an obedient robot, silent and lost. Things would have been easier if she’d been this way from the start—he wouldn’t have had to explain, to fight her, to fight himself. If she’d been like this he would have taken care of her, put her someplace safe and forgotten all about her. This ghost woman made him think of the grave, not a bed.
He needed her to wake up, but he wasn’t sure how to do it. And maybe it was better this way, letting her retreat into a safe place of shock and denial. He didn’t make the mistake of thinking killing was easy. It never was, no matter how well trained you were, no matter how many times you had to do it. For Jilly it would be devastating.
The people of Tokyo were too polite to stare as he led her through the subway system, still holding her hand. When they emerged at Harajuku she didn’t even look up at the brightly dressed cosplayers parading around in the chilly air. She was lost.
And he was taking her to the only place he could think of that would be quiet and soothing. The Meiji Shrine was a huge park in the middle of the Harajuku district, but a world and a century removed from the shopping and dress-up. He drew her through the huge cypress torii entrance, down the winding path. There was no one else in the gardens that early in the day—the place was deserted, away from prying eyes, away from men with guns. Even the notorious Yamaguchi-gumi, the worst gurentai gang in history, wouldn’t defile a sacred place with gunfire. They would be safe in the gardens, at least until they chose to leave.
She looked cold in the tight-fitting corset and the short, frilly skirt, but he couldn’t give her his coat. There was blood on his shirt, and he needed to keep it hidden from her until she managed to pull herself out of this wounded daze.
He pulled her arm through his, still holding her hand, and he knew they looked like two cosplaying lovers who’d wandered in from the street. But no one would mind—the Meiji Shrine was a calming, welcoming place for whoever