by Aleah Barley
“White, black, gay, straight. I don’t care, but I figure a man’s got to draw a line somewhere between the living and the dead.” Brody crossed his arms in front of his chest. “There was a time when I thought you agreed with me.”
“He’s not so bad,” I said.
Brody snorted in disbelief. “I thought you’d be the last girl to fall for a pretty face.”
What can I say? I’m only human, even if D.S. isn’t.
The Biter’s head lifted slightly, like he could sense my sudden interest. He turned to meet my gaze across the busy room. The sides of his mouth twitched up into a soft smile. He was so damn good looking. Even now I could feel heat rushing through my body in response to his attention.
I couldn’t decide what I wanted to do more: kiss him or smack him around until he told me exactly what was going on.
D.S.’s soft smile dropped into a bright grin. Between his high cheekbones, square jaw, and emerald eyes, he was every girl’s idea of Prince Charming. Knowing what kind of guns he was hiding underneath his soft cotton shirt didn’t hurt matters either.
“Some Biters have gone missing,” I filled Brody in on the basics, leaving out my attempt to jump D.S.’s bones the night before. “We figure if they care enough to send a pack of Biters after us then maybe they’re hiding something even bigger.”
“Maybe it’s nothing.” Brody shrugged. “Biter on Biter violence is up all over the city. They might just have been going after your zombie friend.”
“It’s still a crime.”
“Maybe, but it’s not a big deal.”
It took everything I had not to reach up and skim my fingers over the wound on my shoulder. Would Brody be saying the same thing about me if I’d died the night before? Would he be standing over my body waiting for me to wake up? Or, would he be standing over my body with a loaded gun? It happened sometimes.
Family members couldn’t handle the thought their loved ones might come back… different. They put a bullet through the brain before the person could wake up then called it into the police as a suicide. No one ever bothered to do a follow up. No one cared. One less Biter was one less Biter.
I shrugged.
I wanted to keep talking to Brody, but the captain was calling everybody to order. A few minutes later the entire squad had been divided up into teams of two to six. Some of them were meeting up with DUA agents up from Toledo and others were going out on their own. They all wore hard expressions on their faces, charged stun guns, and orders to—if necessary—shoot to kill.
D.S. and I went downtown. We hit bars, office buildings, and the occasional tumble down home that turned out to be full of drug dealers and their customers. Most of them had Biters working as bar backs, and hard headed muscle who didn’t feel pain or remorse.
We checked their ID’s and had a few quick words on labor relations. No one seemed to notice or care. Maybe they’d think about it. Maybe in a couple of hours they’d ask their bosses for a raise—or the back pay they had coming for twelve years of overtime—maybe not.
Getting real change in the workplace requires motivated workers—Biters and human beings—coming together to make their voices heard. If what we did helped create that kind of movement then it was worth the effort.
Around five o’clock, we stopped at Riley’s. It was a small bar north of Michigan and south of Trumbull. D.S. parked in the street and slid a laminated piece of paper onto the dashboard to keep the truck from being ticketed or towed. It was boiling out. The summer sun was still high overhead and the humidity rolling off the nearby river didn’t help. I left my borrowed jacket on the truck’s bench seat and hustled after the government agent.
D.S. was first through the bar’s door. I was a step behind him.
The bar was dusky and quiet. The floors were chipped linoleum and the ceilings were covered in pressed tin. The gnarled guy behind the counter looked up in surprise. “Evening.” His gaze flicked back and forth between the two of us. “We’re running a couple’s special upstairs. Two for the price of one.”
I bit my lip to suppress a shudder. Whatever he was talking about, I wasn’t interested. “That’s not necessary—.”
“Let the man speak, sweetheart.” D.S. reached out and put a hand on my hip. Hugging me close like we were two sweet young things out for a night on the town. Not likely. I gave a sharp tug, trying to pull away. No such luck. The man had a grip like a vise. “Upstairs.” He nodded towards the doorway behind the bar. “That way?”
The bartender nodded in my direction. “You sure she’s interested? Girl looks like she’s about to head for the hills.”
“Don’t worry,” D.S. said. “She does what she’s told.”
“You let me watch…” The bartender’s yellow teeth flashed against his callused skin. His expression was enough to make my blood curdle in my veins. “We can open up a bottle of whiskey right now. On the house.”
“Maybe next time,” D.S. growled. He led the way over to the door, never letting go of my arm. The entire way through the bar, he kept his body solidly between the creepy bartender and me. His motion seemed instinctive. Protective.
A few moments later we headed up a narrow staircase. Peeling wallpaper rustled as we walked. “Do you know what this place is?” I asked.
D.S. shrugged. “I just know it was on the list at the station.”
Great. Just great. All day long we’d been running into illegal establishments. None of them had given me the creeps like this.
We hit the top of the stairs and turned—
The lounge area was exquisitely appointed. Thick sapphire rugs, couches upholstered in creamy velvet, and mirrors with golden frames. The best of the Rat Pack was being piped in through hidden speakers. There was another bar upstairs—smaller than the one below—with a female Biter standing behind the counter.
She looked like a princess out of a children’s story, absolutely spectacular. Her skin was smooth and chocolatey. Her dark curls spilled down her backs in rich waves. A small heart had been tattooed on her arm. A red and gold striped corset was buckled over her long torso. A pair of black hot pants clung to her legs, and velvety cherry lipstick was spread like frosting on her mouth.
“Welcome. To. Riley’s,” she said. “A. Drink. Before. You. Get. Started?”
D.S. smiled. “We’re more interested in the two for one special.”
“Of. Course.” She tottered out from behind the bar in a pair of sky-high heels. “Make. Yourself. At. Home.” She disappeared behind a white velvet curtain.
D.S. and I waited a beat before following her. The music disappeared as we entered a narrow hallway, only to be replaced by other sounds. Primal. Vicious. Men and women moaned and groaned as they lost themselves in each other. There were several doors leading off the hallway. Each door had a small window set in it. I pushed myself up onto my tiptoes to look into the first room as we passed.
There was a couple inside having sex.
The woman was gorgeous. Her hair was a luxurious chestnut color. Her cheeks were coated in blush. Her lips were painted a soft pink. There was a tattoo of a heart on her arm—like the Biter bartender outside—and a piercing in her lip. I blinked in surprise when I saw that both of her nipples were pierced too.
The man was in his mid-forties but fit for an older guy with a strong chest and muscular biceps. He kissed the woman hard. Tasting her. Drawing her lip into his mouth as he pounded away inside of her.
Watching the couple was so damn hypnotic. My skin prickled. My body felt tight in unexpected places.
“Faster,” the woman said. “Harder.”
The man reached up and wrapped his broad hands around the woman’s delicate neck. He squeezed tight, and he didn’t let go.
“D.S.!” I jerked away from the window. “Come here!”
“Easy.” D.S. crossed over to me in two quick steps. “It’s okay.”
Had D.S. seen what I’d seen? “Someone’s being strangled in there. We’ve got to help her!”
&n
bsp; “Easy.” His arms wrapped around my waist. He pulled me tight against his chest. “Easy,” he murmured in my ear as I fought against him. “Listen to her.”
“Harder,” the woman was still saying. “Faster. Harder. Tighter.”
She was a Biter? I blinked in surprise. “What the hell is going on?”
“I. Might. Ask. The. Same. Thing,” a woman interrupted.
18.
The Biter who’d interrupted us was tall and statuesque, a regal woman with long black hair and violet eyes. She was wearing a golden gown that stopped just short of her knees and displayed a long valley of cleavage. Her makeup was perfectly applied and tasteful, with only a hint of seductress. She smelled like lavender heaven. She stuck out a hand. “I’m. Riley. Follow. Me.”
D.S. released me from his grip as Riley turned and led us back down the hall. For a Biter, she moved with a considerable amount of grace. Her steps were slinky, sultry. Her high heels clicked against the wooden floor. In the lounge area, she settled herself onto a velvet-clad couch and dismissed the bartender with a glance. “You. Are. Police.”
“Not quite.” I glanced around nervously. “What is this place?”
“A. Biter. Brothel.” Riley’s tongue ghosted over her lip in a practiced gesture. “Men. Come. Here. To. Do. Things. Living. Women. Might… Object. To.”
Oh, my god. My stomach churned. I felt like I was going to throw up. “Like strangling someone?”
“Biters. Don’t. Need. Air.” The woman shrugged. “Strangling. Beating. We. Don’t. Feel. Pain.”
“I thought Biters didn’t… Biters don’t.” My arms crossed nervously in front of my chest. I struggled to keep my gaze locked in a straight line, ignoring D.S. at my side. “Biters can’t have sex.”
“Biters can do a lot of things,” D.S. said. “Want me to prove it?”
“No. Pain. Means. No. Pleasure,” Riley explained slowly. “But. Women. Don’t. Have. To. Enjoy. Sex. Not. If. They’ve. Got. Plenty. Of. Lubricant.” Her head cocked to the side. She sniffed. “You. Understand.”
I’d heard rumors to that effect, but the idea still gave me the creeps.
D.S. didn’t appear quite so put off. He pulled his badge from his pocket and held it out for Riley to get a good look. “I’m from the DUA. We’re looking for some missing Biters here in the city. Their paperwork didn’t go through.”
“All. My. Girls. Are. Licensed.” Riley stared at his badge for a long time. “A. Biter. Cop.” She sniffed. “Now. I’ve. Seen. Everything.”
“You’re a small business owner,” he countered. “I’m sure you agree Biters shouldn’t be limited by their undead status.”
“Some. Should.” Riley’s gaze flicked to me. “You’re. Not. Dead.”
“Gemma Sinclair.” I held out a hand, more out of habit than anything else. When she shook, her manicured fingers were cool to the touch. “I work over at Sinclair Death Services. I’m helping D.S. Conroy with his investigation. I’m an outside contractor—.”
“A. Hunter.” Riley’s gaze narrowed. Her grip tightened on my hand, and I was suddenly all too aware of the strength lying dormant beneath her silky exterior. “You. Got. A. Card?”
A card. Right. I took my hand back and began to pat through my pockets until I came up with a business card. I handed the slip of paper over, watching curiously as the dead woman examined the creamy stock and block printing. “You’ve got a need for a Hunter?”
“You’d. Be. Surprised.” She nodded at D.S. “Can. I. Get. Your. Number?”
Riley was staring at the male Biter with naked interest on her face.
I wanted to reach out and take his hand—to let her know I already had dibs—but I waited. Whatever two Biters wanted to do in the privacy of a fetish brothel was their own business. It had nothing to do with me.
“Sorry.” D.S. shook his head. “It’s unlisted.”
“Pity.” Riley considered us for a long moment. One long leg trailed out from under her gown, trailing across the satin couch. The pose was decadent, sexy, and completely contrived. I flushed and looked over at D.S. He was looking at me.
“My. Girls. Are. Legal,” Riley said. “It’s. A. Specialty. Business. And. They. Make. Good. Money.” There was a slight pause. “I. Don’t. Need. Illegal. Workers. No. Matter. Who’s? Offering.”
“Who was offering?” D.S. asked.
“He. Didn’t. Have. A. Card. Either.” Riley sat up straight, suddenly all business. “He. Came. Twice. For. My. Girls.” Her fingers drummed against the couch as she recalled the specifics. “Liked. It. Rough. Paid. Cash. No. Name.”
“Any distinguishing characteristics?”
“Good. Looking.” She gave D.S. a flirtatious smile. “Not. As. Good. Looking. As. You.”
That didn’t do a whole lot to narrow it down. I couldn’t imagine a whole lot of men better looking than D.S., who weren’t underwear models.
“Hair color?” I asked. “Eye color?” Riley’s expression was blank. “Was there anything memorable about him at all?”
“His. Smell,” the madam said after a moment’s long consideration. “He. Smelled. Like. Death.” There was another short pause and then she stood up. The business card I’d given her disappeared into her cleavage, and she reached up to finger fluff her hair. When her head turned, a heart shaped tattoo was visible on her collarbone.
Her lips twisted into the same hard grimace she’d used to signal the bartender a few minutes earlier.
Clearly the conversation was over.
I turned and walked down the stairs. I didn’t stop walking until I was outside on the pavement under the sun’s antiseptic glare. I sucked in one deep breath after another. Underground clubs and drug dealers who hired Biter muscle were one thing, but the brothel made my skin crawl.
What kind of person would frequent such a place?
The door to the bar scraped open behind me, and D.S. stepped out. His handsome face was perfectly calm and passive. Like he hadn’t just been inside a zombie whorehouse.
Men are disgusting,” I said.
“Not all men.”
“Any man who could think like that.” I shuddered in the fading light. I felt unclean. “Why would anyone come to a place like this?”
“At least this way no one gets hurt.” He shrugged. “It’s not such a bad deal.”
It was gross. I forced myself to take a deep breath.
A horrible thought struck me. “That’s not what you’re interested in—.”
“Trust me. I like a woman to enjoy herself.” He reached out to thread his fingers through mine. After the oppressive sexuality of the brothel the motion was comforting and familiar, just enough skin to skin contact to heighten my awareness of him without making me want to puke all over his shoes. His thumb skimmed against my palm. “With you I’d take things slow.”
“Vanilla.” Just because I want to have sex before I die doesn’t mean I’m into pain. Fuck the pain. I wanted to enjoy myself.
“Vanilla.” D.S. was looking straight down at me. His white teeth flashed against his golden skin as his kissable lips tipped up into a wild grin. His eyes were so damn green, like Belle Isle grass on a summer day. “To start.” His head dipped slightly, and he kissed me. His mouth was soft against my lips, setting an easy pace.
He tasted like spicy food and cheap coffee.
I let out a quiet moan.
The sensation was cleansing and pleasurable. For a brief moment, I lost myself in his presence. Kissing a Biter was a bad idea. It was dangerous. What if he nicked my tongue with his teeth? What if he liked the taste and didn’t let go?
He was the one who finally pulled away. “We should go back to the police station. I need to check in with the other teams.”
“Right.” With the taste of him still thick on my lips, it took me a moment to catch up with him. “Figure out if they found anything more useful than ‘he smelled like death.’” I stepped up to the truck and yanked open the passenger side door. “Do you think she meant a Biter?
”
“No,” D.S. said. “I don’t. That worries me.”
19.
After four days knocking on every door in Detroit, I was almost ready to go back to Riley’s to ask her exactly what she’d meant by ‘smelled like death.’ My feet hurt, my truck had a few hundred extra miles on it, and my mother made me buy my own pair of black slacks. Sure, it meant a reason to run out to the super schmancy mall in Troy—the one with the concierge service and purses that cost more than my car—but it was still a pain in the ass.
We’d busted drug dealers, climbed through sewers, and talked with factory owners. It was exhausting. To finish the job we’d called in all the backup we could find, the county sheriff, the FBI, and another field team of DUA agents.
None of it helped.
Not that the police seemed particularly motivated to look. Detroit’s a big city. Missing Biters might be important to the Department of Undead Americans and the federal government, but it’s not exactly a high priority in a city with a limited law enforcement budget. After a few days, most of them had gone back to solving the ordinary, mundane crimes that filled the streets: murder, theft, and arson. Brody had been called away to help search for a scrapper stealing copper pipes and metal fire hydrants from Boston-Edison.
At least the police thought to call me when a body showed up at the morgue. A man in his mid-forties with thinning gray hair, cataracts in his eyes, and a toe tag that said his name was Harold Mathers. He was dead—really dead—with a bullet straight through his skull.
“You never called me back,” Hick said, tugging a clean white sheet away from the body to give us a better look. “I’ve been trying to schedule a second date.”
“Right, I’ve been busy. Haven’t even checked my voice messages.” A second date was never going to happen. Hick was a great guy—cute, employed, and alive—but he didn’t exactly light a fire in my belly.
Not like D.S.
I gave the Biter a quick glance, trying to judge his expression. He was back in his ‘Trusty Biter Sidekick’ disguise, complete with wrap-around sunglasses and a frozen expression on his face.
