Night Life

by Caitlin Kittredge

  "I know what a touchseer is," I snapped. "We grew up with the same grandmother."

  "Rhoda's a lovely woman," said Genevieve, endearing herself to me even more.

  "Tell you what." I dropped the Cedar Hill box on a table and got a hit of satisfaction when Genevieve recoiled. "Bring Sunny whatever it is she wants to eat or drink or call the corners with and you two can chat while I sit over here with my icky were energy and go through this file."

  Genevieve wrinkled her nose but swept away in a swirl of green-and-blue robe with matching slippers.

  "And while you're at it, shake hands with twenty-first-century fashion trends," I muttered.

  Sunny shot me her grow up look. "She's just being cautious."

  "I know damn well what she's being, Sunny. It's not news to me that most caster witches hate us."

  "I don't hate you." She sighed. "Neither does Rhoda or Genevieve or anyone else with the blood."

  "The witch who tried to kill me being the exception, of course."

  Genevieve returned with a tray and two steaming cups. The witches sat on a sofa overfilled with pillows and I turned to the Cedar Hill box, flicking the lid off with a snap of wards.

  The contents inside were singed but intact, mostly copious amounts of paper shoved willy-nilly into file folders. The case detective's notebooks were shoved into the bottom along with a leather-bound ledger.

  I went for the notebooks first and discovered that the case detective liked to make lists of women he was dating, eat at restaurants featuring gravy (and made notes while doing it); and that under the page related to Marcus Levinson he had written a single word, FREAK, underlined several times.

  That was the sum total of the case detective's personal opinion. The papers in the files were autopsy report copies and a bunch of transcripts from Marcus Levinson's bail hearing that had been misfiled. Useless.

  Finally I picked up the ledger and saw that it was a really a book with a sigil scratched into the front cover. The first page was crammed with tiny penmanship. Initials in the upper corner read M. L.

  I dropped the book. "Sunny?" It couldn't be. Surely the thing Marcus valued most in the world, that he had gotten expelled from the University and finally died over, couldn't be sitting in front of me.

  Sunny leaned over my shoulder. "What's going on?"

  I opened the book again. "Is this what I think it is?"

  She ruffled the pages, wide-eyed. "Unbelievable."

  I agreed. Marcus Levinson's stolen spellbook looked, on the surface, benign. The spidery, precise text was not only microscopic but also written in another language, seemingly a random arrangement of letters.

  "There's a lock working on the book," said Sunny. "A scrambling spell. There will be a chant to reverse it and make the text readable again."

  "Great. Why don't you ask your friend to cop a feel and divine what it is?"

  "Her gift doesn't work like that," said Sunny prissily. Her phone rang and she jabbed at it in irritation. "Hello?" She frowned and after a moment handed it to me. "They want to talk to Detective Wilder."

  "Who is it?"

  Sunny shrugged. I took the phone and a male voice asked, "Detective?"

  "Yeah, sure, whatever. Who's this?"

  "Officer Thorpe, ma'am. You know me from those two homicides." Thorpe. Calling me on Sunny's cell phone. Weird, but weird barely registered with me these days so I let it go on by.

  "What do you want, Officer?"

  "I have something you need to see, ma'am." His voice sounded creaky and tense, like he was straining to sound normal. "Something from the club killing. That girl… Katrina. You'll be very interested."

  "Katya," I murmured. "Her name was Katya." Sunny questioned me with raised palms. I didn't have the miming skills to convey this is the strangest phone call I have ever gotten, so I just shrugged back.

  "Katya. Whatever," Thorpe agreed. "Lieutenant McAllister told me to get you over here. He said you'd know how to deal with it." Thorpe's recitation was almost practiced, and I got that hinky sensation that had nothing to do with were instincts—just a cop's bad feeling. Still, if it could lead me to the witch, I was damn well going to show up.

  "Where is here, Officer Thorpe?"

  He rattled off the address, a condoplex in Mainline, and added "Hurry, Detective. Please."

  I started to ask what the big Hexed hurry was, but he hung up with a clatter. I dialed another number from memory and waited through about fifteen rings before Dmitri's groggy voice answered.

  "Yeah?"

  "It's me," I said.

  "Well, Me, hearing your voice was almost worth rolling out of bed for." Flush crept up my cheeks and I quickly turned my back on Sunny and Genevieve.

  "I need a favor, Dmitri."

  "Your wish is my command and all that crap. What is it?"

  I lowered my voice. "A gun." I may be curious, but I'm not dumb. Whatever Mac thought Officer Thorpe should show me, he could show me when I was armed.

  Not that a gun would really help against most things that had tried to kill me lately, but it made me feel secure, so screw what anyone else thought.

  Dmitri, to his credit, didn't even change his tone when he said, "Any particular kind of gun?"

  "Something that puts holes in bad people. Beyond that, use your judgment"

  "Meet you in half an hour. Where?"

  I gave him the address of Faery Food and rang off. Sunny took her phone back and asked, "Was that who I think it was?"

  "None other than your favorite were biker tea enthusiast," I told her. I turned to Genevieve. "If you think I'm bad, wait until you meet my friend. His energy would sneak up and cut you for your wallet."

  Genevieve sniffed. "I'm glad you find my gift so amusing."

  "Sometimes," I quoted Dr. Kronen, "humor is all we have to keep the wolves of insanity at bay."

  "I think it's a little late for you," Genevieve told me, and retreated into the kitchen with the now empty tea tray. Bitch.

  I went to the curb to wait for Dmitri, sitting with my feet in the gutter and my chin in my hands. When he rumbled up on the bike, he grinned and said, "Need a ride, hot stuff?"

  "You've got a book of those somewhere, don't you?" I greeted him.

  He shrugged. "I used to tease Lilia with corny pet names. Drove her up the wall." My expression must have turned, because he stopped smiling and held out a plastic shopping bag. "Big holes, just as the lady requested."

  The gun Dmitri brought was a Colt 1911, the big army .45 developed to stop enemy soldiers injected with methamphetamines. Worked nicely, thank you.

  "When you go all-out…," I said, working the slide on the monstrosity and finding a full clip.

  "Nothing but the best for my favorite member of the pigs." Dmitri nudged me when I didn't laugh. "I'm kidding. If you're a pig I'm a dachshund."

  "You're absolutely right," I agreed, tucking the Colt into my waistband. "I am officially no longer a pig."

  Sunny came out the tearoom door, and I leaned in to Dmitri. "And if you get my cousin started on her rant again, I'll beat you senseless."

  Dmitri's nostrils quivered. "Maybe I'd enjoy that a little."

  Sunny held up the case file. "You forgot your box. Hello, Mr. Sandovsky."

  He flashed her a polite smile. "Sunny." Lewd to cute in thirty seconds flat. What a catch.

  I gestured her over. "You go with Dmitri." She opened her mouth to protest but I said, "Someone has to keep the spellbook safe until I find the blood witch. And keep Sandovsky here on good behavior."

  "I don't have 'good' behavior," he grumbled.

  Sunny patted his arm. "I'm sure we'll find it somewhere."

  Dmitri shot me a look as she got into her convertible with the box. "If she's this perky the entire time, I'm not responsible for the consequences."

  "You get used to it, trust me."

  He touched my hand. "Where are you going with that big gun on your hip, Luna?"

  I squeezed it in return. "Nowhere I can't hand
le." He got on the bike and followed Sunny into traffic, and I walked in the opposite direction and didn't think about how down-deep guilty lying to Dmitri made me feel.

  * * * *

  The condo that Officer Thorpe's address matched was one of the soulless new complexes that sprang up as the city backed away from Waterfront and Highland Park like you back away from a snarling chained-up dog, and declared Mainline fashionable. I buzzed the number on the address. The intercom clicked open, and static hissed at me for a few seconds.

  "Hello? This is Detective Wilder—Thorpe, is that you?"

  Nothing. After a long second, the door buzzed and I stepped into the vestibule.

  A row of mailboxes sat next to another door that led to a courtyard and the homes inside the pristine walls. I checked the number Thorpe had given me and started when I saw W. ROENBERG on the nameplate.

  Why the Hex had I been summoned to my ex-captain's condo?

  The door swished, and I snapped my head up to meet Regan Lockhart's eyes. He smiled and nodded, looking not surprised in the least to see me.

  "Ms. Wilder. How nice to see you again. We keep meeting under a confrontation. I'm relieved that won't be happening any longer."

  Enough bombshells in a short enough time, and eventually your brain throws up its hands and says, Okay! Because of this, I managed to just stand there staring at Lockhart while he said, "If you've come to see the captain, I'm afraid he's not available."

  My danger instinct began pinging off the charts. "He buzzed me in," I managed in what to me sounded like a remarkably neutral tone.

  "No, I did," said Lockhart. "Captain Roenberg has vacated, I'm afraid. But please do investigate for yourself. A police presence really is called for." He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.

  The only thing I could think to say was, "What did you do, Lockhart?"

  "What was necessary. Good-bye, Detective Wilder." He tipped his head and left the lobby in a swirl of black coat and self-satisfaction.

  I was really glad I had gotten the gun as I ran through the short expanse of garden and cleared Roenberg's steps in a jump.

  His doorknob turned at my touch and I kept my back against the frame, covering his foyer until I was sure by scent and sight that I was alone. When I was inside, I locked the door after me.

  The condo was sterile and humorless, sort of like Roenberg himself. Dishes were neatly stacked in the drainer; a tan sofa and chair matched the walls.

  I peered into a dining room with a thick layer of dust and saw three brown boxes on their sides, with the contents spilling out. Small plastic bags marked EVIDENCE and a few file folders marked PETROFF, K. An empty DVD case sat next to the files, open. The evidence Roenberg had commandeered from the club.

  And on the table, scribed in fingerprints, there was blood.

  I whipped around, gun arm swinging out. Behind me was a door into Roenberg's bedroom. I nudged it open with my toe and found my own reflection in a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Posed just to my left, in a chair, was Officer Thorpe.

  "Hex me," I muttered, lowering my arm and slumping against the wall. Thorpe's throat had been sliced neatly just under his chin, and a fan of blood covered the front of his blue uniform shirt. Roenberg's cordless phone dangled from one limp fist. Thorpe's eyes were open, and I shut them.

  "Sorry, Officer," I whispered. His blood was fresh and my stomach roiled. There had been no reason for his death, and the fact enraged me. I don't know how long I would have stood there, staring at the body, if someone hadn't pounded on the front door.

  "Nocturne City police! Open the door, Detective Wilder!"

  Crap didn't even begin to cover that.

  "Detective!" They pounded again.

  "This is Detective Wilder!" I shouted. "What's the problem?"

  "We need to take you into custody, Detective! Open this door or we'll come in and get your cop-killing ass!"

  Gods DAMN it. Lockhart had called the cavalry on me. Vindictive little bastard. Were hearing picked up the cops outside saying, "Break it down."

  "We're coming in, Detective!" another one shouted. I frantically searched the bedroom for anything useful.

  An open travel case and pile of Roenberg's socks and underwear were on the bed. He was long-fled. A television cabinet stood open across from Thorpe's body with a DVD in the player. It blinked at me. The disc was unlabeled and silvery—the kind of thing someone might use to record illicit porn videos. Roenberg must have been interrupted jerking off. I ripped the DVD out of the player and shoved it into a pocket, then ran back through the kitchen and out the rear door just as the cops kicked in the front.

  Twenty

  Later, I sat on the smelly plaid sofa in the Crown, with Sunny across from me, ankles crossed primly as she watched the Redbacks mill in the larger part of the theater.

  Olya Sandovsky climbed the steps from the seating pit and stopped dead, staring at me. "What the hell are you doing back here?"

  "Phase and bite me," I snapped, not looking at her.

  "Watch your mouth, Insoli," Olya said. "Come moonrise, you're going to have a house full of very territorial weres on your hands."

  "Olya, what leads you to believe that anything about you intimidates me?"

  She growled, and I knew if I met her eyes she would pull a dominate, and she would win. I was an intruder in her pack as much as I had ever been.

  "We appreciate your brother letting us stay here very much," Sunny interjected, standing and putting herself between Olya and me. Olya scented her and then curled her lip in disgust.

  "Great. First the Insoli and now one with the blood," she said, stepping back like Sunny might taint her.

  "Yeah. Watch it or she'll put a curse on you," I said. "You'll never fit into skinny jeans again."

  Sunny crossed her arms and tried to glare menacingly, succeeding in looking like she had just sucked a lemon.

  "You two are a joke," said Olya. She flipped her hair in my face and flounced upstairs to the projection room.

  I sank down on the sofa again, and Sunny slumped beside me. "Luna, if I have to spend one more hour here with these weres, I am going to lose it."

  "We can't go home," I said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because Roenberg knows where I live, as does anyone else with access to my personnel file." Like Lockhart.

  Sunny worried the hem of her skirt. "Do you think Lockhart will try to hurt you?"

  "It's more like when will he," I said.

  "So he's the blood witch, then," Sunny sighed. "At least now we know."

  "You know," I murmured, giving voice to the sensation that had been bothering me ever since I'd fled Roenberg's condo, "I'm not so sure about that. If he was a blood witch, he could have killed me when I met him in the lobby. He goes to this elaborate length to set me up as a cop killer and yet doesn't remove crucial evidence of his crime from Roenberg's place."

  "He likes to play games," said Sunny, shrugging.

  "Or he's not the blood witch," I said. "Just another crony. Either way, if I ever see him again I'm going to kick his balls so hard he vomits them. He got me fired and he slit Officer Thorpe's throat."

  "Yes, and we still haven't had a discussion about the fired part of that sentence," Sunny muttered.

  I had never been more glad to see Dmitri. He came down the stairs, Olya yapping at his heels, and rolled his eyes. "Can't you women ever play nice?"

  "I want them gone," said Olya. "Why are they even here in the first place?"

  Dmitri turned on his sister. "They're here because I invited them to be here, because Luna is helping me with Lilia, and because you don't get to say a damn word about the way I run this house."

  Olya whimpered and looked at her shoes. Dmitri swiveled back to me, eyes smoky. "You okay?"

  "Fine," I whispered. The aura of the dominate still rolled off him, and I got weak in all the right places.

  He fingered my shirt. "You got some blood there."

  I looked down at the spot. "Some of Thorp
e's. Must be."

  Dmitri jerked a thumb toward the stairs. "I'm sure Olya has something you can borrow. Then you can come back downstairs and tell me who the hell Thorpe is and why you're so spooked." He whispered in my ear as I passed him, "I'll help you, but keep the pack out of it or so Hex me, you'll be sorry."

  Damn it, he smelled good.

  "I won't," I promised before I followed a glaring Olya up the stairs.

  "You know, you're nothing like Lilia," she told me. "I have no clue why he likes you so much."

  "You obviously don't know your brother very well," I said, pointing to my chest. Olya snorted.

  "Don't flatter yourself, Ex-Detective. Dmitri never went this fax for a piece of ass."

  "Lucky me," I muttered.

  "All Lilia wanted was to be by his side," said Olya. "To be his mate. And that's all Dmitri wanted her to be." She opened a door to what had obviously once been a storage closet but was now stuffed with clothes, a cot, and Olya's uniforms from Club Velvet. "I didn't like Lilia, but I wanted my brother to be happy. After everything he's endured, he deserves it."

  She shoved a plain black T-shirt and a cotton jacket at me and crossed her arms. "The last thing you will make Dmitri is happy. If you keep after him, Insoli, I'll make sure you regret it."

  I stripped off my bloody shirt and threw it back at her. "Olya, after the day I've had your misplaced protectiveness isn't even cute." I re-dressed and matched her glare. "And for your information, your brother isn't interested in me. At all." I thought of Dmitri pressing against me, his shockingly soft lips on my neck, his pulling back when he saw my bite scars. I boiled.

  "Just get out of my pack house," said Olya, opening her door and ushering me out. "You smell like gutter."

  "And you smell like a spoiled puppy who I've only refrained from smacking across the mouth because her brother is keeping my cousin and me safe."

  She just gave me an infuriating smirk. "Like I said, Detective—don't flatter yourself."

  * * * *

  Dmitri had the concession stand set up like a tiny cafe, and he tossed me a beer before sitting at the single table. "Okay. Spill. What the Hex happened to you?"

  I put the DVD on the table between us. "I got this from my former captain's condo. It's the recording from the night Katya was murdered. The blood witch who's controlling Stephen and Regan Lockhart is on it."