Blood of Innocence

by Tami Dane

  “Because of the baby, she’s chosen to stop taking her medication.”

  I knew what that meant. I should’ve realized what was going on when I’d found her downstairs watching that movie.

  “How long has it been?” I asked.

  “A week.”

  “Really?” I would have expected a full-blown psychotic episode by now. Or at the very least, some tremors, nausea, pain and anxiety. It was actually shocking she was doing as well as she seemed to be. “Has she been hallucinating?”

  “She says she’s hearing some strange birdsong. She says it’s talking to her.”

  “Hmm. Bird?” Ironically, I hoped it was a hallucination. With Mom being pregnant, though in the earliest weeks, she could be a target for our unsub.

  “I’ve looked,” Dad said. “There’s no bird. It has to be a hallucination. But she insists on staying off the medications. She says it’s too dangerous for the baby.”

  “It would be a good idea to talk to her doctor, see if there’s something else she can take to avoid a full-blown episode. Then again, she’s tried a lot of medications. Most of them haven’t worked.”

  “What do I do, then?”

  “Call her doctor. Tell him your concerns. And don’t let her out of your sight.”

  “But I have to travel. It’s my job.”

  “She’s your wife, or rather, about to be your wife. She’s the mother of one child. And she’s pregnant with a second. She needs you now. Can’t you let someone else take over those duties for a while?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you’d better find out.”

  Allegra Love (the name had to be an alias) was a bizarre-looking woman, bedecked in head-to-toe beaded robes; a crown of daisies sat on top of a mane of frizzy red hair. She took one look at my father and me and something flicked in her eye.

  My father extended a hand. “Jim Irvine. Good to meet you.” He motioned to me. “My daughter, Sloan.”

  That something in her eye vanished. I realized then what it was and swallowed a chuckle. It seemed an apparent twenty-year or more age discrepancy between bride and groom made her a little uncomfortable. And she called herself “A Minister of the New Millennium”?

  Reverend Love gave my father’s hand a shake; then she took mine. “I was expecting your future bride.”

  “She’s feeling a little under the weather,” I explained.

  “This could be a problem,” she said, the slightest hint of concern pulling at her features.

  “I’d be happy to answer any questions you may have for my mother. I will also relay any information—”

  “That’s not the issue.” Reverend Love was walking as she spoke, leading us down a hallway to a closed door. “You see, my current success rate is one hundred percent. And I have no intention of losing it.”

  “One hundred percent of what?” I asked.

  “One hundred percent still married.” Allegra Love opened the door, revealing a room that was utterly, completely dark, with the exception of a single candle, sitting on top of what must have been a table covered with black material. It almost appeared to be floating. She moved into the room. “I must do a reading before I marry any couple.”

  “How interesting,” my father muttered.

  “I’m sorry, but I won’t risk my reputation. Before I will agree to marry you, sir, I must do a reading.”

  My father and I exchanged glances. “Okay,” he said. “I guess we’ll reschedule for another time.”

  Reverend Love nodded. “How does next week look for you?”

  “Well ...” He slid a glance at me.

  “He’ll take whatever opening you have,” I blurted out before he told her he would be out of town for work. I heard him sigh.

  “If you have an unexpected opening this week, I’d appreciate a call,” he said.

  Birds sang, twittering and tweeting and chirping.

  Reverend Love held up an index finger, pulled a cell phone out of her dress somewhere, and answered it. She said an “uh-huh” and an “okay,” then hung up.

  “It seems that you’re in luck. I have an opening for tomorrow. At noon.”

  “Sold.”

  My father grumbled all the way out to the car. I didn’t catch much, bits and pieces. But I got the gist.

  JT was waiting for me in the parking lot as I rolled up to my apartment an hour later. He was out of his car before I had mine shifted into park. And by the time I had my car door open, he was standing next to it, offering to take Gabe’s laptop case.

  I handed it to him, not because it was too heavy or anything, but because such an old-fashioned, polite gesture couldn’t be ignored. We strolled up to the building; our steps were perfectly synchronized.

  “How did it go with your mother?” he asked as I let us into my apartment.

  I did a quick sniff test after cracking the door, to make sure it was safe to enter without a gas mask. “As well as could be expected, I guess. She’s pregnant. And she’s stopped taking her medications. So she’s a hormonal, chemically imbalanced, ticking time bomb. My father has no idea what he’s in for, I think.” I motioned for JT to set Gabe’s laptop on the coffee table and headed for the kitchen. “Something to drink?”

  “Water’s fine.” JT made himself at home on the couch. I must say, he made our dumpy old couch look pretty darn good. As I approached with the water bottle in hand, his gaze swept up and down my body, and he gave me some hungry-man eyes. “Thanks.” He accepted the bottle. Our fingertips brushed. The memory of that kiss in the hotel blasted through my mind. My brain short-circuited. “Hungry?” he asked.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “I’m starving,” he said.

  I wasn’t 100 percent sure he was talking about food.

  My face burned. A few bits of my anatomy sizzled. “I ... I think I’ll go see what I can dig up.” I stepped away from him before I did something crazy, like fling myself at him.

  This was insane.

  This was dangerous.

  Get yourself together, girl. You’re playing with fire.

  I wandered into the kitchen, stopped, then, forgetting what I was in there for, stared at the sink.

  “Would you like some help?” he asked as he came to stand next to the refrigerator. He was leaning a shoulder against it, arms crossed. Thick arms.

  “Um, no thanks. I can manage.” I stared at the sink.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nope. Not a thing.”

  “Why are you staring at the sink?”

  I remembered just then why I’d gone into the kitchen. It irritated me how brain-dead I became sometimes when I was alone with JT. Particularly when he looked at me like that.

  “I’m thinking. That’s all. Thinking.” I opened the refrigerator. A tub of margarine. A few slices of American cheese. A container of soy milk. And a mostly empty jar of green olives. I grabbed the jar. “Olive?” I asked, thrusting it toward him.

  “No thanks.”

  I returned the jar to its place and shut the door. I opened the freezer. Ice. Lots of it. And not much else. There was one slightly crumpled frozen dinner. I checked it. “Tuna casserole?” I asked.

  JT wrinkled his nose.

  “Look, I never claimed to be Betty Crocker.”

  “It’s okay. I didn’t expect you to be.” He stepped closer. Too close. No, not close enough. He slid his arms around my waist and pulled me toward him. “I’m thinking ... Italian?”

  “Italian what?” I asked, staring at his lips. Did he have the world’s most perfect mouth, or what? Yes, he did. And a perfect face. And his eyes. And his hair. It was shaggy and a little messy, and I loved how that one wave swooped down over his forehead.

  “Italian food.” He lowered his head. “Or maybe we should go for French.”

  He went for French. But it wasn’t food.

  His French made me weak in the knees. It also made my head spin; so I had to fling my arms around his neck to hold o
n.

  He took my desperate attempt at staying upright as a sign that I needed to be saved. While still kissing me, he scooped me into his arms, like a romance novel hero, and carted me to the couch. When he set me down, he climbed on top of me and kissed me until there wasn’t a single neuron firing in my brain; plus, all the blood in my body had rushed to other places, where it didn’t normally collect.

  When the kiss finally ended, I stared up into his eyes and murmured, “Wow.”

  “Wow back.” His lips curled into a seductive smile.

  My hands took a little tour of his torso, starting at the sides of his waist and working up, over the top of his knit shirt. Even through the cotton, I could feel the deep lines cutting across his abdomen. It was the kind of stomach that made a girl drool a little.

  He just stayed there, arms extended, holding himself up so he didn’t crush me as I explored. “I’m getting warm.”

  “Me too.”

  He shifted his weight back, kneeling upright, knees trapping my legs between them. He took off his shirt and tossed it somewhere. “Your turn.”

  I got my shirt up to my bra when the doorknob jiggled. I yanked it back down just as Katie wandered into the apartment.

  JT didn’t budge, so I shoved him. He still didn’t move.

  Katie looked at me, at him, then back at me again. Without saying a word, she headed to her bedroom.

  JT took that to mean it was time to get back to what we’d been doing. I took that to mean it was time to get something to eat and get to work. The gray matter had received a little oxygen, and I was thinking more clearly. However, a second look at that shirtless JT was threatening to whisk away all thoughts of work again.

  He gave me a man-on-the-hunt look.

  I reluctantly shook my head. “JT, we need to work.”

  He sighed. “Damn it, I knew you were going to say that.” He flung his leg off me, allowing me to get up. I went for his shirt, tossing it at him. He didn’t look happy as he tugged it over his head. When it popped out, his hair was all messy and sexy and I had to fight the impulse to grab a handful of curls and kiss him hard.

  I pointed at his chest. “You order the food and I’ll go get my dad’s research papers.”

  “Okay.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “What’ll it be? Italian or French?”

  “Italian. I think I’ve had enough French for a long, long time.”

  He mumbled something that sounded like “ntmrblsht” as he poked the buttons on his phone. I headed to my room to drag out the big box of papers that had once been down in storage. After they’d proven so useful in our last case, I decided it was a good idea to keep them accessible.

  I dragged the box down the hall to the living room. Once JT saw me struggling, he dashed over, hauled it into his muscular arms, and set it down next to the coffee table.

  “The food’ll be here in about a half hour,” he said as he pulled the top file out of the box.

  My stomach responded. “Good.” I wrapped one arm around my midsection to muffle the sound and grabbed a file out of the box. JT sat on the couch. I opted for the floor. I concentrated better with at least five feet of space between us.

  Forty minutes later, when the food arrived, I’d done a ton of reading but hadn’t found anything useful. I was ready for a break. I set the bag on the kitchen counter. JT pulled foam containers out while I gathered plates, forks, knives, and napkins. We dished out some salad and pasta, then carried our plates back to where we’d been sitting and dug in.

  JT put on the television while we ate. We amused ourselves by talking about how unrealistic the show Criminal Minds was. I managed, somehow, to avoid doing anything foolish, like flirting with JT, or kissing him.

  Before I knew it, my plate was empty. I dumped it into the sink, shoved the leftovers into the refrigerator, and turned to find JT blocking me in the tiny kitchen. There was no way out, but one. I’d have to squish past him.

  From the glitter in his eye, I was guessing he was happy about that fact. He set his plate on the counter. “That was delicious.”

  “It sure was. I’m ready to get back to work now.” I clapped my hands together.

  He caught my wrists. “But what about dessert? I provided dinner. So you ...”

  I could see where he was going with that.

  But it wasn’t going to work. Oh, no, it wasn’t.

  Staring at the counter to avoid meeting his lusty gaze, I reached blindly for the cupboard, knowing Katie had a box of chocolate graham crackers in it. I grabbed the box and smacked it against his chest.

  “There you go.” I shoved past him, trying hard not to melt at the sound of his low, deep chuckle. I went back to reading; JT’s crunching and munching resounded in the background.

  After a couple of hours spent reading, I started to get slightly frustrated. My father had researched thousands of paranormal creatures. And when I say “researched,” I mean he wrote long, detailed descriptions of each. From what I could tell, there was no order to it at all, no classification system. So I’d read about a Rakshasa from India, then a Leahaun-shee from Ireland next.

  I sighed. “We need to organize this stuff, create some kind of system to classify the creatures. We’re wasting time.”

  “I’m with you there.”

  I powered up Gabe’s laptop, opened a new spreadsheet, and stared at the screen. “Now, where to begin? What categories should we have?”

  While moving the files into stacks, JT suggested, “How about vampires, shape-shifters, noncorporeal—”

  “Sure, but some vampires—many, actually—shape-shift too. And some creatures are noncorporeal at some times and corporeal at others, like Elmer, for instance.”

  A file in each hand, he glanced back and forth. “We could cross-categorize each creature.”

  “That’ll take years. We don’t have time for that.”

  JT set the folders down. “Here’s a thought. It’s your father’s research, right? Why not ask your father to do it?”

  “If I thought it might get done in a timely manner, I would insist he do it. He is, after all, the most familiar with the subject.”

  We both mulled over the situation for a few moments. JT started flipping through another file. “Why not just go to him with what we have and see if he can figure it out?”

  “That’s against bureau rules, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a gray line, that one.”

  “Fine. I’ll ask him.” I started putting the dozens of files we’d stacked back into the box.

  “Just don’t tell him too much.”

  “Right. Not too much.”

  JT gave me a hopeful look. “Now that we’re done working for the night—”

  “Don’t even think it.” I gently pulled JT to his feet. Then I ushered him toward the door. “Good night, JT. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  JT hesitated to give me a lingering, smoldering look.

  I shook my head. “It won’t work.”

  “It worked before.”

  “I was weak. Low blood sugar.”

  His adorable chuckle and glint in his eyes made my knees go a little soft, but I still managed to get him out of the apartment without throwing myself at him.

  Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.

  —Henry David Thoreau

  15

  On my way to work the next morning, I called my dad. No answer. As I was leaving the message, my call-waiting kicked in, but I missed the call. I left a message for Dad, telling him I needed to consult him on a case, and headed into work. When I got to the unit, the place was deserted, with the exception of Hough, who was hiding out in her techie-geek lair.

  I poked my head into her cave. “Where is everyone?” I asked her.

  “At the scene,” she said. “JT just called, said he was trying to get ahold of you, but you weren’t answering.”

  I checked my phone. “He called once and left no message.”

&nbs
p; “That’s JT for you. Anyway, here’s the address.” Hough handed me a piece of paper with an address and a second one, with a map that had several virtual pushpins plotted on it. “JT asked me to map out all the victims’ homes. Would you mind giving this to him when you see him?”

  “Not a problem. I guess I’ll head out then.”

  “Th-thanks.” Suddenly Hough was looking a little green.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yep.” She burbled, grabbed the trash can beside her desk, and heaved.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She gave me a wilted smile and a nod then stuck her head in the trash can again. I decided now was as good a time as any to head out.

  I tried my father’s cell phone several more times during the drive over to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Klinger. Still, no answer. When I arrived, it appeared I was the last to show. The meat wagon was already gone, and only a few police cars were angled at the curb. Inside, I found JT. No Gabe. No Fischer. No chief.

  JT was talking to a man who looked like he’d been to hell and back, no doubt because he had.

  “I didn’t hear a thing,” Gil Klinger said. “I just woke up, and there she was dead.” His hands shook as he tapped a cigarette out of a pack.

  “And you say your wife went to bed last night at what time?” JT asked, scratching notes in his notebook.

  Klinger lit the cigarette, inhaled and exhaled a ribbon of smoke. “Right around eleven.”

  “And you didn’t notice anything unusual?” JT asked.

  “Nothing.” The man inhaled another lungful of carcinogens. Exhaled. “We watched the ten o’clock news, then went to bed, like we always do.”

  “Thank you.” JT gave me a nod. “Sloan?” He started toward the rear of the house.

  I followed. “What’s the story?”

  At the staircase, JT motioned for me to go first. “This isn’t like the others.”

  I clomped up the stairs. “Really?” At the top, I hesitated, waiting for JT to show me which room it was.

  “Yes, really.” Looking grave, he stepped into the first room.

  I followed him. Immediately I noticed the huge stain on the mattress. The blood spatter on the wall, on the floor.