Second Skin

by Caitlin Kittredge

  I flashed my badge into the smoke in the direction of the voice. It shut up and I spilled out into a back hallway that a heavy bass beat was doing its level best to shake the house apart. Black lights painted everything in corpse colors.

  A couple pushed up against the wall, going at it in time with the music, blocked my way.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Excuse me!” a bit louder. Nothing broke their rhythm.

  “Gods,” I muttered, shoving the girl into the guy. She squealed and fell off her platform shoes.

  “The hell is your problem, bitch?” she screamed at me over the techno.

  “I had a fight with my boyfriend,” I said. “I was trapped in an earthquake. I had donuts for breakfast and now I’m just in a crappy mood.” I surveyed her red sequined mini dress and teased platinum hair. “Now, it’s safe to assume you work here?”

  She nodded, warily. I realized I hadn’t combed my hair or bothered to put on anything other than ratty jeans and a Smiths T-shirt when I left the house. She probably thought I wanted to lock her in my basement and put the lotion in the basket.

  “Okay. Pull your wig on straight and go tell Duvivier that I want to speak with him.”

  “Hex you, lady. I’m not a fucking answering machine and even if I was, Gerard wouldn’t talk to you.” She looked me up and down. “He talks to girls who are polite. And pretty.”

  Under the black light, I opened my mouth and let my fangs grow to their full length. My eyes pricked at the corners, and I felt them flicker to animal gold from human gray.

  The man finally spoke up: “Hey, leave her alone.” He stood away from the wall, craggy and uneven like a little mountain of bad-tempered were. I snarled at him and turned back on the girl.

  “Go find Duvivier. And while you’re at it, find a new man to swap spit with. That one has chlamydia.”

  He lunged for me. “Insoli whore!”

  I hit him in the throat as he came toward me, just under his blocky Adam’s apple. I didn’t hit hard enough to kill him, or even put him down for very long. Just enough to make my point.

  “Duvivier,” I told the girl. “I’ll be at the bar waiting.”

  She glared at me from under false lashes crouched on her lids like glittering spiders. “Who should I say you are?”

  I gave her a wide, fangy grin. “Tell him I’m with Dmitri Sandovsky.”

  After that, it didn’t take long. I was halfway through some sort of pinky-red drink with a cherry at the bottom and sugar on the rim when two Loup appeared at my shoulders.

  “You. Gerard wants to talk to you, Insoli.”

  I grinned up at the taller of the Loup, meeting a solid line of brow and a face that would give a troll pause. “I figured that would get your attention.”

  His lip curled unpleasantly. “Don’t think that being Sandovsky’s whore cuts any ice with us, princess.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’d know about that, being Duvivier’s bitches yourselves.”

  The shorter Loup snarled at me and reached out a meaty, rock-like hand, presumably to twist my head off. I ducked him, since he had all the grace of a two-ton truck.

  “The place is looking thin tonight,” I said, pointing to the dance floor. It was virtually empty despite the DJ bouncing behind his turntables. “That because of your packmate getting a bullet in his frontal lobe? I understand that doesn’t put people in the mood to dance the night away.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” said the coolheaded Loup.

  “Oh, how careless of me.” I held out my badge inside its gleaming new pleather case. It was silver, an officer’s badge instead of a detective’s gold shield. It didn’t have the same effect, but the Loup grunted. “I’m looking into Bertrand Lautrec’s death. Can I speak with Gerard now?”

  “We had a detective in here,” said the short one. “A dumbass in a cheap suit. We sent him out on his ass.” They shared a chuckle like a tank tread driving over gravel.

  Bryson hadn’t told me that part. I’d be sure to mock him mercilessly for it later.

  “Good thing for everyone that I’m not a detective then,” I said.

  The tall Loup put a hand on my shoulder. “This way. Don’t get cute with me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” I smiled sweetly at him. Yes, I can be sweet when the need strikes. Shocking, I know.

  Gerard Duvivier had turned the master bedroom of the mansion into a VIP suite. Lots of velvet on the walls, leather furniture that sat too low to the ground, and some kind of stereo system that could probably bring down satellites blaring house music from the corner cabinet.

  A round bed with a blue satin coverlet and zebra-skin sheets dominated the space. Gerard sprawled in the center of it, black Armani crinkling around a too-lanky frame. Some girls that looked to be mutant clones of the one I’d cornered by the kitchen were on either side, feeding him champagne and smiles that would have blinded anyone meeting them head-on.

  “Nice place,” I said, waving to him when he rotated lazy, bloodshot eyes to me. “Very 1980s Miami coke dealer. Although, I must say, for the full effect you really need a few alligators doing laps in the hot tub.”

  “She was downstairs shooting off her mouth,” said the short Loup.

  “Was she, now?” Gerard looked me up and down. He was younger than I would have pegged a pack leader for, with a too-wide nose and mismatched cheekbones. A born were, with a stink to match.

  Lank, greasy hair shielded his forehead and slid down into his eyes. He was bare-chested under his jacket except for a gold crucifix. One of the girls knotted her fingers in the curls of his chest hair. “Baby, you said no business after hours.”

  “Shut up,” he said congenially, then turned his gaze back to me. It was a hot, intelligent gaze—at least twice the wattage of any of the other Loup. “What’d you say that’s got Louis and Marius so fired up, Insoli?”

  “I have a name,” I said. “I think we’ll use that from now on.”

  He spread his hands. “Okay. What is it, sweetheart?”

  “Luna Wilder,” I said. “I came here to ask about Bertrand Lautrec.”

  Louis and Marius moved in from behind me, and Duvivier sat up, shoving the girls off when they tried to follow him. “Did you, now? What do you want to know?”

  I shot a glance back at Marius, who stared at me with all the reactivity of a slag heap. “I’m doing a favor for Detective Bryson, the loudmouth you ejected from your club? I need to know about Bertrand . . . is there a reason a killer might have targeted him?”

  The press of male were stink was starting to make me a little dizzy, but I swallowed and kept smiling.

  “I don’t know,” Gerard purred. “Boys? You think of any reason that Bertrand might have got himself shot through the brains?”

  Louis grunted. “Nossir.”

  “He was on vacation,” said Marius. “Not bothering a soul.” Marius also lied about as well as a slag heap.

  “Three strikes, missy,” said Gerard. “We don’t have anything that can help you.”

  “I’m out like Bryson?” I guessed. Louis and Marius pressed so closed to me I could feel their bodies all up and down my back. My skin started to crawl under my clothes, and sweat worked down my ribs with damp, ticklish fingers.

  “Oh,” said Gerard. “No, I don’t think we’ll get rid of you just yet, Miss Wilder.” He reached over to an intercom box on the wall and hit the buzzer. A few seconds later the were from the back hall came in. Under good light he was even uglier, and he homed in on me like a pit bull on a man in steak underwear.

  I’ve been a cop for a while, and you learn to recognize bad situations fast, if you don’t want to end up dumped in a gutter somewhere. This was one of them. “About the whole throat thing,” I said. “Wasn’t personal. You’ll be right as rain in a few days.”

  “Miss Wilder,” said Gerard. “I’d like to introduce Pierre Maison. A time ago, he lost his mate to one Dmitri Sandovsky. Point of fact, Pierre lost all standing with the pack, just when he was poised to
become a major player in the city’s trade, because of his humiliation.” He looked between me and Pierre, and I swore he was grinning. “Tell her what you do now, Pierre.” A dominate shimmered the air between the two men, and Pierre grunted.

  “Wash dishes in the club kitchen.”

  Gerard laughed indulgently. “How the mighty have fallen, eh? Pierre also appears to have taken exception to your inexpert medical diagnosis downstairs.”

  Yeah. This was about as bad as it could get without the Rapture taking place. Dmitri’s stealing a girlfriend of Pierre’s was something I couldn’t even contemplate at the moment, if it had even happened. Pressed close to pack members on their own territory, all of them itching to turn me into pulp, I was more worried about keeping all of my limbs attached.

  “You can’t touch me,” I spat. “Dmitri is my mate. He’ll tear your fucking head off if you even smear my lip gloss.”

  Pierre and the other Loup began to chuckle, smiling like I was a particularly amusing pet. “Who said anything about touching?” said Pierre, stroking my cheek with the back of his hand. I turned and snapped my teeth at him.

  “She’s got fight,” Gerard said. “Good luck. Don’t mess up the carpet.” He strolled away into the dancers, lighting up a thin cigarillo.

  “Hold her,” said Pierre, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I’ve got about ten grand worth of payback to take out of her skin.”

  “Oh, Hex you,” I said. “You think you scare me?”

  Pierre smiled, and there was no life behind it. “I think, a little.”

  He was right, a little. Nobody likes to be on the wrong side of a three-man team.

  Fortunately, fear also makes me mean. I didn’t give Pierre the chance to hurt me. I swung my foot up and square into his groin. It did all the good of kicking a brick wall, because Gerard’s two goons were still holding on to me with hands like clamps.

  “Hex!” Pierre screamed, on his side, both hands clapped over his privates. “Take this crazy bitch out back!”

  “Move,” Louis grunted at me. We plowed through the dancers and out a plain fire door to a set of metal stairs leading into the alley. I could see the Fairlane, patiently waiting under a street lamp below us.

  “Sweet ride,” said Marius.

  “Would you focus for two seconds, you mongrel idiot?” said Louis. “Get her down the stairs.”

  “I’m doing my job,” I snarled. “I don’t play in pack politics.”

  “We’re doing our job, too, lady,” said Marius. “You and Sandovsky hadn’t showed up on our doorstep, Pierre wouldn’t be a dishwasher, and this pack wouldn’t be on the way down.”

  “Fine,” I muttered. “I tried being nice.” I stomped down hard on Marius’s foot. He lost his balance on the slick steps and took me with him. Louis fell on top and shoved me hard against the railing as he tumbled after Marius ass-over-tail.

  My legs got kicked out from under me, and I tipped over the railing.

  Falling two stories isn’t a big bag of fun under the best of circumstances. It’s even worse when your fall is broken by the hood of a 1969 Ford Fairlane.

  The Fairlane’s car alarm began a warped shrieking, echoing off the alley walls. I started to move and felt windshield glass crunching under my motocross jacket. My right wrist was tucked under my hip, bent at an angle that sent thin hot blades up and down my arm.

  “Stop her!” Louis yelled. “Get back here!”

  “I think I threw out my back!” Marius moaned. “Hex it, I’m gonna need the chiropractor again.”

  When I rolled off the Fairlane and tried to stand, I was unsteady. The alley was blurring, the vibrations from my fall echoing in my bones. I managed to shove the key into the Fairlane’s door and start the car one-handed. I laid on the horn and then revved the engine, steering with my forearm and using my good hand to pop the emergency brake and put the Fairlane in gear.

  Louis and Marius got the message. I gunned it out of the alley, past their outraged faces, clipped a garbage can with my fender, and managed to drive myself to the hospital in Highland Park one-handed.

  Even for me, this was shaping up to be one hell of a bad night.

  CHAPTER 4

  The doctor at Sharpshin Memorial took one look at my bruises and scrapes, and asked, “What happened here, Miss Wilder? Do you need to file a police report?”

  “Would you believe I actually fell down some stairs? Well, off. Sort of off the landing and down, and then I hit a car.”

  He stopped writing on my chart and looked at me over the black rims of his glasses. “Any particular kind of car?”

  “A sixty-nine Ford.”

  “It’d be very easy for me to get the cops in here, Miss Wilder . . .”

  I sighed, fidgeting with my elastic wrist bandage and sling. “Check my jacket.”

  He went in and found my badge and ID. “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “Could I get some painkillers? Or all the painkillers? Either way.”

  “I’ll write you a prescription to fill. Your wrist is just sprained, not broken, so you should be right as rain in a few weeks.”

  Or a few days, with the way weres healed, but I didn’t clue him in. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Don’t mention it. Do you have someone who can drive you home?’

  From outside the curtains, I heard shouting with a Ukrainian accent, smelled cloves and leather. “Yeah,” I said, sighing. “That’s him.”

  “Sir, you can’t go in there . . .” The nurse didn’t sound particularly stern. Angry weres are pretty damn intimidating even when they’re human.

  “Hex you!” Dmitri snarled. The curtain thrashed and he appeared a moment later, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Luna! What the hell are you playing at?”

  “Ow,” I said through gritted teeth. “Sweetie, d’you think you could not squeeze the parts I used to break my fall with?”

  He loosened his grip and stepped back. “Will you please tell me what is going on?”

  “Excuse me, who are you?” my doctor asked. “I’m still treating Miss Wilder.”

  “I’m the guy who’s going to twist your head backward if you don’t give us a minute, buddy,” Dmitri said without looking away from me. He spoke pleasantly, his eyes bleeding to black. My hand twitched reflexively to where my sidearm usually rested on my hip, except now it was all the way across the room with my coat.

  The doctor reached for the phone on the wall, but I held up a hand. “Just give us a minute, please?”

  “I’ll be right outside,” he said, giving Dmitri a look that clearly telegraphed he thought Dmitri was a psychotic wife-beater.

  “Luna,” Dmitri said when he stepped away. “What happened?”

  “If I tell you, will you calm down?”

  Dmitri rotated and looked at himself in the mirror. “You know, I think I can be forgiven for getting a little upset when I have to get my mate out of the hospital.” Still, he took a deep breath and the black retreated, only the faintest corona around his pupils.

  “I fell and sprained my wrist,” I said, flashing the sling. “No biggie.”

  He turned away from me, tugging on his messy copper hair. “I told you this would happen. I told you.”

  “You did,” I agreed, getting up and collecting my things with my good hand. “And yet, strangely, I still decided to go out and do my job.”

  “It’s not your job!” Dmitri growled. “You didn’t have to do any of this. You’re just being contrary.”

  “Darling, if you didn’t know I was contrary until we started cohabiting, you’re a lot less observant than I gave you credit for.”

  His face twisted up, but he didn’t say anything. I didn’t, either. I knew this wasn’t my job. I knew I was being selfish. But I was also on to something, damn it. Four weres dead, Bryson was in a panic, and I was trying to unravel it all and keep Dmitri and me together at the same time.

  I wondered how long the painkillers took to kick in.

  Dmitri interpreted my silence as st
ubborn refusal to admit I was wrong, which was accurate. “Let’s just go home,” he said finally. “I could spend a lifetime without going to pick you up from some sawbones every time you get in over your head.”

  “The next time I do, I’ll make sure you’re off my emergency contact list.”

  His shoulders twitched like I’d stabbed him.

  “Dmitri . . .”

  “I just want to get out of here,” he said hoarsely.

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay. Me too.”

  Outside in the car park, Dmitri held out his hand for my keys. “What about your bike?” I asked, passing them over. The little pentacle charm dangling from the chain jingled.

  “I’ll get it tomorrow, take it up the ass for parking,” he said. “Get in.”

  I stayed where I was. “Why does this always happen to us, Dmitri?”

  “Because you don’t listen to me.”

  I shook my head. “You’re just as stubborn as I am and I don’t chew your head off about it.” I sighed. “I’m just used to being on my own. I’m sorry, but this . . . our whole thing . . . is taking a long time to get used to.”

  Bracing myself to hear Dmitri say, Too long for me, wish me a good life, and walk away, I felt the roil in my stomach, the nervous twitch that came when the were realized its mate was about to leave it. It had happened with the man who turned me, and when Dmitri had left the time before. And the time before that.

  “This wouldn’t be a problem if I could induct you as a Redback,” Dmitri said simply. “My stubbornness or lack of it has nothing to do with what’s happening here. This is all you, Luna.”

  Quickly as I’d yearned for him to stay, the anger snapped back into place. “Me becoming a member of your pack is not a magic bullet, so leave off that before I get really pissy.”

  Dmitri cursed in Ukrainian, then jerked open the passenger’s door of the Fairlane and motioned me inside. “We’ll continue this later.”

  “No!” I shouted, my voice echoing through the empty cavern of the garage. “You’ve got a bug up your ass about this and I want to know why! Does it bother you that I’m Insoli? Are you ashamed of me?”

  Dmitri pushed his hair out of his eyes, which were green and angry, but not bleeding into that cold outer-space black that signaled the daemon was riding shotgun. It could be worse.