“Hunter’s being released tomorrow night, right?”
It had been 5 months, 3 weeks, 2 days and—she glanced at her watch—4 hours since he’d been sentenced to one year in prison for turning her against her will.
Not that she was counting.
He had been eligible for early release for good behavior, but apparently his behavior hadn’t been, well, good since his incarceration. He was now being released early thanks to a deal she’d made on his behalf with the Vampire Council. It was the least she could do, really, after he’d sacrificed so much to save her.
Vi cleared her throat expectantly, and Mischa blinked back tears and locked her jaw. She’d be damned if she’d cry and spill her guts in a therapy session with the girl who used to eat chalk in kindergarten, even if Vi was the bringer of epiphanies.
Vi sighed and moved to sit next to Mischa on the chaise. Grabbing her hand, she forced Mischa to make eye contact with her. “That thing you’ve forgotten? That thing you’re missing?”
Mischa sniffled. “Yeah?”
“Did you ever consider that it’s you? That maybe you’ve—for lack of a better word—misplaced who you are?”
She frowned. “How the hell can someone forget who she is? What kind of thing would cause that to happen?”
Vi smiled a crooked little half smile. “Well, dying, for one thing.”
Well that sounded…entirely plausible. Positively steeped in what-the-fuckery, but entirely plausible. “How do I…find me?” she asked hesitantly, half expecting Vi to laugh at her or crack a joke.
But Vi didn’t laugh. “You’re going to start breaking all your old patterns. And the way to do that is to acknowledge that your instincts are all wrong.”
Mischa opened her mouth to object, but Vi held up a hand, silencing her. “Don’t make me prove it to you.”
She shut her mouth. Given that Vi had been able to do in ten minutes what Dr. Frank had failed to do in eight sessions, Mischa supposed she wasn’t really in any position to doubt her new doctor any time soon. “Fine, I acknowledge that my instincts are all wrong,” she said through clenched teeth. “Now what?”
Vi smiled sweetly, which should’ve been Mischa’s clue to be afraid. Very, very afraid.
“Whatever your instincts tell you to do from this point on, you’re going to do the opposite.”
Mischa blinked. “Did you just propose a therapy plan based on a Seinfeld episode?”
Vi nodded, dead serious. “Yep. By going against your instincts, ignoring the need to run, you’ll earn different reactions from those around you. I’m betting on those reactions being favorable. Eventually, that positive reinforcement will reshape your instincts into something more normal. Less…twisted.”
Again, that was all kinds of fucked up. And entirely plausible.
“You really are a good doctor, aren’t you?” Mischa asked, somewhat awed.
Vi smirked. “You’re not the only genius in the room, babe.”
Chapter Two
Hunter was no prison novice.
He’d done a brief stint in Andersonville Prison back in 1864-ish. He’d been captured, along with about twenty of his fellow soldiers, while fighting for the Union in the Civil War. It took him a week to get himself and his team out of there without exposing the existence of vampires to everyone involved.
In World War I, while fighting for the English, he was captured and held as a POW for a few days in Langensalza before he was able to mind-fuck a guard into letting him go.
And while it couldn’t exactly be considered a prison term, he’d spent some quality time (an hour or so) in a Birmingham jail in 1963 after being arrested during a civil rights sit-in.
Midvale Prison, his current residence, actually made him remember all of his other prisons fondly. Even Andersonville was better than this shithole, and it didn’t have plumbing.
And unlike the other prisons he’d been in, Midvale was unescapable. The downside of vampires being out of the coffin, Hunter supposed, was that prisons were now actually equipped to handle them. Silver bars that muted their powers, no windows, guards with wooden bullets and stakes…yep. Humans knew what they were up against now, and had adapted to detaining supernatural criminals surprisingly well.
Built in the 1800’s in the middle of a lightly wooded area in upstate New York, Midvale looked like it had been plucked right out of a horror movie. The limestone façade was architecturally interesting, but held moisture like a bitch and made the cells cold and dank. The cloudy gray paint on the walls was broken up only by the occasional brownish water leak stain and patches of black mold. The air reeked of mildew, delousing spray, and unwashed bodies.
Cockroaches deserved better living conditions. The place should have been condemned years ago, and if it housed humans, it would’ve been. But Midvale didn’t house humans.
It was a vampire facility.
As soon as he hit the door, he’d been issued a uniform: a dark blue pair of pants and a matching shirt with an orange number on the back. That number was his new identity. Names were irrelevant in prison.
Here, Hunter was 846324.
He laced his hand behind his head as he lay on his metal bunk and closed his eyes, listening to the cacophony of sounds around him.
The biggest complaint among new prisoners was always the noise. Layers and layers of hollow sounds reverberated down the corridors, creating a deafening roar. Guards yelling, prisoners screaming and crying and taunting each other, the constant rumble of the plumbing…it had been known to drive more than a few prisoners to madness.
But not Hunter. He actually enjoyed the noise. Welcomed it.
Most days, it kept him from being able to hear his own thoughts.
His thoughts were the enemy at this point. They taunted him. Taunted him with memories of her voice, warm and low and husky as she whispered his name. Taunted him with memories of her skin, flushed pink from the friction between their bodies.
Taunted him with memories of her telling him she loved him…then memories of her carelessly casting him aside as carelessly as she crushed his fool heart.
He repressed a disgusted sigh. That was a perfect example of why he hated his thoughts. They made him sound like a pathetic, depressed fuck.
Logically, he knew he had no right to blame her for changing her mind about being with him. After all, he vaguely remembered being human. The idea of changing into something, well, not human and living, forever, with someone—anyone—was overwhelming at best, terrifying at worst. It was understandable. His brain completely accepted her actions.
But his heart? Yeah, he wasn’t sure his heart would ever catch up with his brain.
I wouldn’t have chosen this, she’d said when she woke up in that hospital and realized he’d turned her into a vampire. Maybe I wanted to grow old. Maybe I wanted to have babies and grandbabies and a real family. Now I’ll never have that. You took my choice away.
If he lived to be a thousand—which, let’s face it, he probably would—he was sure he’d never forget those words. And she was right. He had taken her choice away. He’d been a damn fool to think she ever would’ve chosen him over a real family.
The smell of garlic and stale sweat announced the arrival of Hunter’s least favorite Midvale guard. He had no idea what the worthless bastard’s real name was, but Hunter had taken to thinking of him as Napoleon, on account of his diminutive stature, control issues, and irrationally high self-esteem.
“846324,” Napoleon said with a smirk, dragging his nightstick along the silver bars of Hunter’s cell. “It’s your lucky day.”
Hunter glanced at him. “Can’t see how that’s possible with you here.”
Napoleon’s eyes immediately went cold, but he managed to keep his cocky smirk in place. “How’s the thirst today, Kemosabe?”
Feels like I’ve been gargling fiery coals, thanks for asking.
He avoided the question, opting instead to say, “In that particular taunt, I would be Tonto. You would be Kemosabe.
See, it works as a racial insult because Tonto was Native American like me. Try to do better, OK? Be the best racist you can be. Low IQ isn’t really an excuse for being uninformed.”
The smirk fell and Hunter barely resisted a triumphant smirk of his own.
Napoleon was a blight on Hunter’s cell block, a human stain. A quick jaunt through the little rodent’s thoughts when they first met told him the only thing Napoleon craved more than wealth and power was immortality. And thanks to Hunter, no Midvale vampire would agree to ever change Napoleon.
One of the perks of being the oldest vampire in the prison? The other vampires respected him enough to do whatever he said.
Napoleon had retaliated by withholding Hunter’s blood rations for the past five months.
Fortunately, Hunter was no novice at starvation, either.
He could still remember Napoleon’s red-faced agitation when he learned that vampires as old as Hunter only needed to feed a little every couple of months.
When starvation hadn’t worked, Napoleon made false reports about Hunter’s behavior that extended his stay in Midvale.
Not that he really cared at this point. It wasn’t like he had anything waiting for him on the outside.
Napoleon hitched up his pants and spat a wad of phlegm into Hunter’s cell. “Your whore managed to get you an early release, maggot. Looks like you won’t be running the cell block anymore.”
Making sure no one turned Napoleon or participated in gang rapes in the showers hardly constituted “running the cell block,”—but that wasn’t really the part of the conversation that Hunter found confusing. “What whore? Who are you talking about?”
“I’m assuming it was the mouthy bitch who brought down a PR shit storm on the whole supernatural prison system and regs around vamps who turned loved ones in a crisis situation.”
That made Hunter smile. He only knew one woman who would take on the supernatural prison system and rain shit down on anyone who dared oppose her.
Harper Hall.
Harper had been his friend for years. He could easily see her going to bat for him and securing his early release. “When?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” Napoleon said, unadulterated evil glee lighting his eyes. “If you can survive the night, that is.”
Growls and snarls echoed through the corridor and Napoleon’s smile grew as he opened the cell door. Hunter immediately scented no fewer than eight vampires. From the sound of them, they were crazed. They’d probably been starved too. They’d be uncontrollable, even with his superior age and power. They would be no better than feral animals.
Looked like Napoleon decided that if he couldn’t convince the vampires in his cell block to take him on, maybe the ferals from the lower levels would give him a shot.
Hunter sighed and slowly stood up, rolling his head from one side to the other.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Three
Mischa walked into the lobby at Harper Hall Investigations clutching her iPhone in one hand, and a bag of greasy, reeking chicken wings in the other. She dropped the bag on the reception desk and wiped her fingers on her jeans.
Leon Steinfeld, Harper’s office manager, didn’t look up from his computer screen as he said, “Don’t leave that there. Last time someone left food for her on my desk, she accused me of stealing her fries.”
Mischa flopped down on the ratty orange leather loveseat Harper refused to get rid of. “You used to embezzle for a living, Leon. It’s not such a stretch to think you’d steal her fries.”
He glanced at her over the tops of his glasses. “I’d never embezzle from Harper, and I’d never steal her fries. Especially after she threatened my life.”
Misha scoffed. “You’re being dramatic.”
His brows—well, brow, she supposed. Leon really only had one that covered both eyes—flat-lined. “She pulled her sword on me,” he said dryly. “If Riddick hadn’t shown up with the fries, I might’ve ended up on the wrong side of a Highlander moment.”
Harper was eight months pregnant and had an appetite that would awe a lumberjack. The sheer amount of food she could put away defied science.
So these days, Mischa spent about as many working hours going on snack runs for Harper as she did skip-tracing bail-jumping vampires and shifters. And when Harper didn’t get exactly what she was craving? Yeah, things got a little dicey. She couldn’t be sure that her hyper-hormonal boss wouldn’t kill a guy in some kind of fry-induced haze.
She pulled the bag off Leon’s desk and dumped it next to her on the couch, just to be safe. Jerking her chin toward Harper’s closed door, she asked, “She’s not in there with Riddick again, is she?”
Another thing Harper’s hormones seemed to crave these days? Her husband and business partner, Noah Riddick. Mischa had read that pregnant women often had an increased sex drive, but the sheer number of times she’d caught Harper and Riddick mid-quickie on Harper’s desk was mind-boggling.
Leon pushed his glasses up his index finger. “No, thank God. I paid extra for the cleaning people to Clorox the hell out of that office every night, but I still wouldn’t advise ever letting anyone with a black light in there.”
True enough. There probably wasn’t enough Clorox in the state to rid that desk of all the bio stains it must contain. She shuddered. “So, who’s she in there with?”
“Prospective client. Some Pepto-Bismol-wearing, plastic-looking chick. Reminded me of the Malibu Barbie my sister had growing up.”
The outer office door banged open, and Benny Scarpelli strutted in and winked at Mischa. He shifted Harper’s food to the other side of the couch and flopped down next to her. “Hey, hotness. How you doin’?”
Benny worked for Harper on a freelance basis, handling overflow investigative work when everyone else was busy. He was a halfer, a rather unfortunate vampire/wererat hybrid with a penchant for tasteless jokes and sexual harassment. He was also blessed with a personality only Harper could love.
Mischa would normally remove the arm he’d draped across her shoulders and remind him she didn’t like being called hotness. Usually reminders came in the form of boxed ears.
But after the talk she’d had with Vi, she decided to go with the opposite of her first instinct. She smiled warmly at him.
He cringed and shifted away from her slightly. “Are you in pain or something, doll? What’s wrong with your face?”
Note to self: work on your warm smile.
Mischa was saved from having to make an awkward reply when Harper’s door opened and the…pinkest woman she’d ever seen stepped out.
Vintage pink Chanel suit, pink pearls, pink Prada pumps, pink heart-shaped handbag, pink headband…yikes. It looked like Valentine’s Day had puked all over her.
Leon’s description had been pretty dead-on, too. The woman had the tiny-waisted, giant-boobed, long-legged, plastic-perfect look of a six-foot-tall living Barbie.
Her golden hair was coifed to within an inch of its life, and Mischa imagined that if she picked the woman up and shook her like a bulldog worrying a bone, that hair wouldn’t so much as budge.
Icy blue eyes fell on Mischa and scanned her from the roots of her hair to the tips of her battered Keds. And when they lifted back to her eyes? Mischa felt as if she’d just been judged and promptly found lacking.
Our Lady of Perpetual Pinkness turned back to Harper, who’d just stepped out of the office behind her, and asked in a squeaky Betty Boop voice, “Is this your operative?”
Benny and Leon snickered, either at her voice or use of the word operative, Mischa couldn’t be sure.
Harper silenced them with a sharp look and told her client, “This is one of my investigators. I haven’t determined yet who’ll be assigned to your case.” Harper patted Barbie’s shoulder reassuringly. “But that’s not for you to worry about, okay? I promise you, we’ll do our best to resolve your situation quickly, Ms. Eisler.”
“Oh, please, call me Barbie.”
“No fuckin
g way,” Benny blurted, then slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes darting from Harper to her new client, panicked.
Leon bit down on his lip so hard he drew blood (Mischa could smell it), and Mischa had to swallow three times to tamp down the laugh that threatened to bubble up out of her throat.
Barbie eyed each one of them with a disdainful glare before turning back to Harper and smiling warmly. “I have every confidence in you, Ms. Hall.”
Her tone clearly said she had a little less than zero confidence in the rest of them. Which Mischa could understand, since they were all snickering like a bunch of ten-year-olds who’d just heard a fart joke.
When Harper came back in after escorting Barbie to the elevator, she swatted Benny on the back of the head with an open palm. “Christ, Benny, could you have been any less mature?”
“Aw, come on, Harper,” he whined, rubbing the back of his head. “You know you were thinking the same thing.”
She rolled her eyes and motioned for him to move. He jumped off the couch like it was on fire and Harper dropped into the spot he’d vacated with a huge, world-weary sigh.
“Yeah, all right, I get it,” she grumbled. “I practically bit a fucking hole in the side of my mouth to keep from saying the same thing when she introduced herself. How can someone look like that and keep a straight face when she tells people her name is Barbie?”
Mischa handed her the bag of food, which she immediately tore into like a starving raccoon rooting through a garbage can. “I’m sure all the Botox helps her keep a straight face.”
“No Botox,” Harper said around an obscenely huge mouthful of chicken. “She’s a vampire.”
Wow, Mischa’s vampire senses really must suck. She’d had no idea. “What’s the job?”
“Ever hear of that vampire beauty pageant the Vampire Council sponsors every year?”
Mischa hadn’t, but Leon piped up with, “The Miss Eternity Pageant? Isn’t that coming up next week?”
Harper Hall Investigations Complete Series Page 45
