I started to be cute, but instead said, “I’d like to get at the files in the woo-woo room.” I felt weird saying the words, as if my own subconscious was surprised. But it faded instantly. “If it’s okay.”
“Sure.” She tossed me a set of three keys and I caught them. Nodded my head and backed away. “Jane,” she called. I stopped. “I hear George Dumas is staying in your house.” I wasn’t quite sure what to make of her tone so I just nodded. “He’s a person of interest,” she said, “in the death of the diplomatic assistant.”
I nodded again. “I just came from the shooting range, where I left a lot of spent brass on the floor. Every single casing had my fingerprints on them. If someone stole my gun and swept up my brass, they could frame me easily.” I tossed the keys lightly and caught them. “I’ll have these back in an hour.” I turned and left the office, feeling Jodi’s eyes boring a hole in my back. I wondered if I had a target painted on it. I had lost the chance to hear anything about the case, but I had also lost the chance to be questioned by my friend or asked to spy on another friend and houseguest. I figured I had won.
The woo-woo room had changed since I first saw it, from a utilitarian storage room containing paper copies of all the city’s paranormal case files to a storage room with a computer, a dry board, a copier-scanner combo, a table, and more comfortable chairs. I eyed the computer, thinking about trying to log on, but passwords were surely not something I could guess at, and getting caught spying was a surefire way to get kicked out of the room forever. I turned to the hard-copy files and started digging.
I stayed in the woo-woo room for nearly an hour and photocopied a dozen files, most without taking the time to read thoroughly, and carried them back out with me when I left. Jodi wasn’t in her office, and I didn’t look for her, leaving her keys on a blotter in plain sight. I had a feeling that this case might put a lot of stress on a relationship that wasn’t that strong to begin with.
CHAPTER 13
I Intend to Make You Regret That Decision
I wove through rush hour traffic on Bitsa, rush hour actually being more like rush afternoon, one huge snarl of traffic and exhaust fumes and boiling, wet heat. On the way home, I stopped for a few groceries that Evangelina had texted me that we needed, and managed to get a half gallon of milk and five pounds of flour into the saddlebags, fruit and veggies piled on top of the files I’d copied. Even with the traffic, I got back home just after seven. Evangelina’s rental car wasn’t parked in front, and the house was dark, no wonderful smells of cooking food greeted me when I parked Bitsa beside the back stairs and opened the door. After unloading the groceries, I slid two stakes into my hair and opened a Snickers bar to meet my caloric needs, eating standing in the dusk-dimmed room at the kitchen sink.
“I thought I heard someone.”
I identified Bruiser’s voice before I tried to draw a weapon, but my heart jumped painfully. He was standing in the opening between the kitchen and sitting room, the space dim, the houses close on each side keeping out the last rays of the sun. Now that I knew he was there, I could smell him, freshly showered; his aftershave, a citrusy scent that was all man, lay faintly on the air. I could tell he had been sitting alone in the silence, which seemed like a not-so-smart decision when one was under so much strain. It seemed like an act that might lead to depression or drinking or something even worse. “You said there would be dinner. A three-star chef.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, but he did sound oddly detached, almost despondent.
“She’s her own woman. Comes and goes as she wants.” I crushed the Snickers wrapper and dropped it in the trash. “There’s steak in the fridge.”
“You know how to cook steak?” he asked, his voice warming slightly.
“Light a match under it. If it doesn’t kick, it’s dead and done. Toss it on a plate, put a baked potato to the side with sour cream, toss a spinach salad for the vegetable lovers, and pour a beer.”
“I’d like my steak with at least a pretence of brown on the outside.”
“Wimp.”
Bruiser laughed, the sound startled. When it passed he said, “Thank you. I needed that.”
“You’re welcome. Question. Did you know that Leo was ... let’s call it playing pimp with Kemnebi and me?” A bit of Beast growled out with the words
playing pimp
.
Bruiser stilled at the sound. He breathed out a soft, “No. I didn’t.” He shifted in the dark, an uneasy sound, edgy and brooding. His pheromones smelled of annoyance, which was a peculiar blend of uncertainty and anger. “I knew he was curious how Kemnebi would react to your scent.” His words grew stilted as he added, “That is bloody well all.”
I let that hang between us for a moment and said, “Grill’s on the side porch. Take it into the back yard to light it so we don’t burn down the upper porch. I’ll bring out the steaks and some beer.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to retire to your bedroom first, for some R and R? It would be”—he thought a moment—“healthy and healing for both of us.”
Healthy and healing?
“First off, your timing sucks. And second, as pickup lines go that one is at the very bottom of awful.
Rick
bought me the grill. It was a one month anniversary gift.”
Yet he hadn’t called
.
Bruiser walked to me through the early evening shadows, a murky shape that undulated like a form seen through a rainrunneled window. My heart did a bebop move; I gripped the cabinet at the sink to steady myself, half ready to dart away, though I never ran—not ever. “I’m a one-man woman,” I said. “I don’t play around.”
“Neither do I,” he said. “Not with you.”
Beast reared up fast, seeing the man through my eyes. She purred once, the vibration in my mind so strong I thought it must have escaped, but Bruiser didn’t react. Beast breathed in through my mouth and nostrils, smelling, tasting, wanting him.
Good mate
, she thought,
strong, powerful
. She gathered herself, holding me down and distant. Bruiser stopped so close I could feel his body heat through our clothes. He paused, watching me, his eyes looking down at me, and it felt so odd to be small beside a man. I could feel his breath on my neck and chest, an unfamiliar sensation. I managed the word, “No.” It came out breathy and uncertain. I firmed my voice and said again, “No.”
Beast raised my head and breathed in his scent, holding me firm and steady. I couldn’t step away or run, and when I stood there, like an offering, Bruiser lifted a hand and slid it around my nape, holding me gently, his palm warm and calloused from weapon use. He raised his other hand, cradling my face, his fingers long and elegant and strong. His voice a burr of sound, he said, “I intend to make you regret that decision.” Slowly, he brought his face down to mine, the motion disorienting. I could hit him. Knock him out. Throw him out of the house.
Beast laughed.
Good mate. Rick gone. Want this one.
And then his lips touched mine. Slowly. Gently. Sliding back and forth on my mouth. I could taste him, his breath warm on my skin. I closed my eyes and sighed. Parted my mouth. Rested my face in his hand. And he pulled away, just as slowly. “I’ll get the grill going.”
Beast released me, stepped back, and I propped myself on the counter. “I’ll bring the food.” My voice sounded normal, not breathy and aroused, which was a surprise.
I intend to make you regret that decision
.
Crap.
I was in trouble. Beast huffed with laughter and withdrew, but I could still feel her claws in my mind, pressing and withdrawing, and the breath-stealing sensation of Beast in control of my body. I watched Bruiser as he left the house, his image still wavering and shadowy through the window.
I could have run. Could have locked myself in my room. Instead I pulled my cell and looked for a call from Rick. Nothing. Nada. Not a voice mail, not a text, zero, zip, zilch. I hit his number on speed dial and listened to the ring. Again, I was shunted to voice mail and hesitated a moment after the beep. “It’s Jane. Call me. Please.” Short, polite, not whiny. And I broke the connection. Through the window, I saw a gout of flame as Bruiser started the charcoal.
I dug out a half dozen small Idaho potatoes from among Evangelina’s supplies, wrapped them in damp paper towels, and put them in the microwave. Spinach; tomato; pickles; sliced pickled onion; cold, crumbled bacon from a container in the fridge; some fresh sliced mushrooms I had picked up at the market; and goat cheese. I tossed it all together, with Evangelina’s vinaigrette dressing to the side. When the potatoes were hot, though still not fully cooked, I took them from the microwave and wrapped them in aluminum foil. I twisted the tops off two beers, put four more into a cool pack with ice, took two steaks out of the fridge and dropped them into a zip-lock baggie with some salt and a few pinches of Evangelina’s premixed meat spices, set them into a separate cool pack, and set everything on a large platter. After a moment’s thought, I added a third steak and an additional salad bowl in case Evangelina came home in time. Preparing dinner felt homey, settled, and far too comfortable after the kiss. I carried the raw steaks, potatoes, salads, and the beer outside. To Bruiser.
The sun was still above the horizon, casting long shadows, the day still humid and heavy with summer. Bruiser had lit citronella candles to fight off mosquitoes, and had rearranged the furniture from the side porches, bringing down a table from the second floor, moving deck chairs around to suit him. I had lived in the house for months and had never used the furniture.
Standing beside the flaming grill, he was watching me. Like a predator. Focused and alert, his body a silhouette against the brick wall enclosing the garden and the leafy plants thriving there. He turned away from me and his movements were economical, smooth as a dancer’s. That was one of the gifts of vamp-blood sips—to live over a hundred years and still have the lithe body of a young man. He glanced over his shoulder once as I approached, holding my gaze.
I shouldn’t be here. I should run. But I never ran, not from anything. Running from Bruiser would be ... stupid. This was my house, my den, my territory. Bruiser wasn’t a wild animal wanting to kill me or steal my hunting territory.
I set the potatoes to the side, in the grill’s cooler coals, and handed him a beer, our fingers brushing, mine cold, his hot from the coals. Standing a foot apart, we sipped in silence, the sun now a bright ball on the tops of the ancient buildings of the Quarter. Bruiser leaned to the side and turned on a CD player, a fusion of swing, Latin, and soul, and the mixed percussion of island influences, a number that thrummed into my blood, making me want to move. But he sat in a deck chair, and though my feet said,
dance
, I sat in the chair beside him, both of us facing the setting sun as the music lazed its heated way into the dusk and coals grew hot. Fixing supper with a man wasn’t something new. I did it all the time with Ricky Bo. But this was different. This was Bruiser. And Rick, for whatever reason, had deserted me.
Discomfort wormed under my skin. I had no idea what to do or say. There were things I wanted to know about Bruiser and hadn’t found the opportunity to ask, but he beat me to an opening conversational gambit, with, “Why do you have boulders in the garden? Why were they so necessary that you included them in your contract?” When I didn’t answer, he added, “And why are they broken? I saw the landscaper’s bill and I know they were whole, river-rounded boulders when they were put in.”
Secrets. Things I couldn’t say. So much for conversation. Possible lies ran through my head, but I’m not good at keeping lies in order; I always make mistakes when I lie. So I had to find a version of the truth I could share. When the silence beneath the music built, Bruiser turned his head my way, waiting patiently.
I said, “There’s a spell on them called
hedge of thorns
.” Truth. “The spell works best with boulders.” Lie, but acceptable. “I meditate. The stones help me to slide into the proper state easily.” Truth. “If a client agrees to put in boulders, then it’s an indication that he’s serious about fulfilling his part of the contract and about paying me. I’ve been stiffed for the bill in the past.” Truth but stupid. Okay, I could live with it. So far. I sipped, and wished, for the hundredth time, that my skinwalker metabolism didn’t burn alcohol out of my system so fast. I could use some chemical relaxation right now.
“And the broken stones? You don’t beat them with a sledgehammer while meditating.”
“The spell breaks them.” Lie. Total lie. But better than
I break them when I shift mass into and out of the stone when I change into a larger or smaller creature.
Much better.
But I’d begun to wonder if calcite or aragonite might be better, easier to use than granite, being composed of calcium carbonate, which seemed structurally closer to human composition. Calcium carbonate was the most common mineral in caves with stalactites and stalagmites, and my earliest memories of shifting had begun in a cave with those formations—
“Jane?”
I jerked my gaze to him. “Sorry. Woolgathering.” His quizzical look suggested that I was lying, or at least not telling a complete truth. “
Hedge of thorns
is a powerful spell. That black ring”—I pointed to the grass—“all around the stones is from one use. The stones contribute to the efficacy of the spell. Molly tried to explain it to me once, but I didn’t follow.” A mixture of truth and lies. I hated this. Bruiser studied my face, a half smile on his, seeming content to let a silence build between us. Which made me nervous for reasons that had less to do with lying than with the amused heat in his gaze.
Mentally, I floundered through the list of things I wanted to know about him and blurted out, “How old were you when you first drank vamp blood?”
Bruiser raised his head and hooted with laughter. “Good Lord, you do know how to cut to the heart of the matter, don’t you, Jane Yellowrock? Why not ask me at what age I gave up my virginity?”