“Is there anything ye can do for me?” Rose asked, still holding her shirt rolled up just below her armpit. This girl clearly did not believe much in wearing sexy underthings, because what I noted of her bra strap was pure function, and it totally clashed with the top band of her undies. A girl after my own heart, not even bothering to try and bring sexy back.
“Well, we could get some bandages and dress the wound, if you want,” I said. “It’d kinda be a formality, just give it some space to heal, but it’s the best we can do here. I mean, if you’re an empath, I think you’ll probably heal mostly overnight anyway—if I had to guess. Not a lot to be done to speed it up unless you’ve got a friend who’s a Persephone.”
“A…whut?” Befuddlement flashed over her open face.
“Like Kat Forrest,” I said.
“Ohhh.” Yeah, everyone got that. Rose wavered, then leaned toward me, cringing from the effect the motion had on her side. “Is she as, ahh…daft…as she appears on TV?”
I held in a chuckle. “Kat?” I pondered how best to answer that without insulting my friend. “She’s actually fairly smart, like book smart. But she does—I don’t know, fail to think sometimes? Doesn’t take full advantage of her higher brain functions? Something. It makes her look…daft, I guess, for lack of a better word…but people who think she’s a total idiot tend to underestimate her at their peril. You can drop your shirt down. I’m going to look for a pharmacy and get you some bandages.”
“All right.” Rose nodded. “Then what?”
I took a moment to compose my reply. “Then you should get home and rest overnight, give that a chance to grow back.”
She stared at me, blinking, like she didn’t quite get it. “But I’m going with you.”
I stared back at her, and maybe it was me who didn’t get it. “Rose, you’ve been shot.”
“But you said it’d heal.”
“Yeah, by tomorrow—and probably. It could take a day, two days—I don’t really recall for someone with your power. Been a while since I dealt regularly with an empath.”
“But is me loafing around my flat really going to make it heal any faster?” She was wheedling now; I recognized the tone even without knowing her well. This was the same thing Augustus did when he wanted to sway me to a particular course of action or way of thinking, the same earnest manner. “I could be out helping you.”
“Rose—”
She landed a hand on my wrist, then seemed to think the better of it and pulled it away. “Sorry. But truly—I can help you. Please.”
I studied her face. As sincere as she was, she was also holding in the pain from a gunshot wound, which was no small amount, as I’d discovered—again—just minutes ago. Still, she was here, and she was actually holding herself together, not being a giant baby about it, which was a major mark in her favor. The guys I hung out with back when I had friends and a life? They would have probably been screaming their heads off in her situation. And here she was, holding her shirt up on a rooftop to show me her bullet wound, and not only had she not screamed once, she was trying to come with me on my investigation, even though she looked like she might keel over any minute now.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this…” I started to mutter.
“I’ll be nae trouble at all,” she said, pulling the shirt down gingerly, its dark colors effectively masking the fact she was bleeding on it. “And if I start to—well, pass out, I’ll go home then, I promise.”
“Duly noted,” I said, remembering my earlier admonishment that I work alone. But this girl had taken a bullet for me, and she didn’t seem—well, dangerously obsessed, even though she was a little overenthusiastic. I vaguely recalled having heroes at one point in my life, probably far in advance of her having heroes. By the time I was her age, I’d already had my dreams crushed nicely, and all those illusions of heroes beaten squarely out of my head by having my mentor force me to kill my own boyfriend to absorb his soul.
Sure, I could teach Rose the same lesson, albeit more gently, by being a huge ass right now, but…
Shit, if she wasn’t put off by the fact that I was a wanted felon in the US, most of the things that I would do in the course of a normal week weren’t going to crush her dreams and vision of me as some hero worthy of emulation or worship. The only thing I could do that would kill those now would be to be a ginormous ass to her, and since she’d just taken a bullet for me…
Yeah, I wasn’t going to do that.
“You can come with me,” I said, “since I’ve just rebuffed an attempt on my life—with your help,” I added. “But there will probably be another one.” My mind raced, wondering about the bald man with the vicious smile that I’d seen in the stolen memory. “And another. You know what, we can probably expect them to continue until this is done, actually. Maybe beyond, even.” And though I didn’t voice it aloud, the thought occurred to me that now that Rose had cast her lot with me, if I sent her away they might go after her in an attempt at revenge, or else to use her as a hostage against me. As tough as she seemed, throw five of those guys at her in a surprise attack and I doubted she’d walk out the other side alive. “So…you’ll need to be careful.” I understated it for her because there wasn’t much point in scaring her off, especially since I was going to need to keep her nearby in order to protect her from what was doubtless coming our way.
She put up one hand like she was about to take an oath and put the other one on her heart, movements which made her cringe momentarily. “I swear I will stay out of yuir way as much as possible and do only helpful things.”
I stared at her, processing what she’d just said. “You know…that might be the best thing anyone’s ever vowed to do to help me.”
Flushed with triumph, she grinned, and then the corners of her mouth were pulled down by pain. “Well, I’m just glad you took me on as your sidekick.” She paled, like she’d insulted me by saying that. “No, err, not sidekick. Umm, err…lackey?”
“How about partner?” I asked, figuring I’d offer her the sort of olive branch that could maybe make the pain fade away for a few brief seconds.
Based on the glow that radiated off her cheeks when she extended her hand to me, that did it. She reached out and pumped my hand once, pulling away after only a second or so of contact. Very smart. “You won’t be sorry.” She cringed again as the motion agitated her wound.
“But you might,” I said with grim amusement as I stood to go fetch some bandages. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a few. We’ll patch you up and get going.”
“Uh…not to be intrusive but…now that we’re partners…” I looked back at her, and she was having a hard time containing the excitement, the pain, and a few other emotions. I just hoped the control issues didn’t extend to her bladder. “Where are we going next?”
“To investigate,” I said simply, and walked to the edge of the roof, ready to step off.
“But investigate what?” She had that air of befuddlement. “I mean, it’s Edinburgh. Nothing really happens here.”
“Murder, Rose,” I said, and her eyebrows sailed north. “There’s a serial killer in town.” I pictured the face of the smiling, cold, bald-headed man. “An incubus, I think—the male version of me. We’re going to find him—and we’re going to take him out.”
21.
Once we’d gotten Rose all patched up, with a minimum of fuss, it was a short trek to the souvenir shop where Adam Perry had worked. It was on the High Street, had a predictably Scottish name, and had more tartan kilts on display than all the battle scenes in Braveheart combined. When I expressed this opinion to Rose, she made a face like I’d stuck a dirty diaper under her nose, and it was not related to the pain.
“Braveheart,” she said with unbelievable scorn. “D’ye have any idea what a fiction that film was? Start to finish, I tell ye.”
“That’s nice,” I said, not really giving a damn.
“I mean, I dinnae ken how you can get the story of William Wallace so bluidy wrong.” Her Sc
ottish brogue was coming out hard now, and she was ranting in spite of her wound, something I had a feeling would pull her up short here in a second. “Oof,” she said. There it was. I looked back and she was cradling her side. She talked with her hands, I’d noticed, something she’d probably unlearn in the next day or so while healing.
“Take it easy, okay?” I said as we walked into the shop, which was wide open to the air. The better to take in the tourists, my dear. “That’s not a pinprick you’ve got there.”
I’d bought her a cheap coat from the store next to the pharmacy before I’d come back to her, and she wore it now. Luckily it was raining faintly, enough to cool everything off. I didn’t know if Scotland got miserably hot in the summer, but there was none of that in evidence right now, at least, which was nice because it made the two of us in coats not look ridiculously out of place, even though I was sweating under the wig.
There were about five clerks on the floor of the shop, all girls, all late teens or early twenties, all pretty. I would have thought that strange until I saw the shopkeeper, who was an old guy with a bald head and a slight paunch to go with his ungainly long limbs. It was like he was skinny at the extremities but put on all his weight in the middle, where he could better pack it. He had his head down over the till, counting his money, and I sauntered up and flipped some of my blond wig-hair over my shoulder to get his attention.
It worked like I thought it would. He stopped paying attention to his money long enough to flash me what he probably thought was a dazzling, charming smile, but which to me reminded me of every lech I’d ever known. “What can I do for you, my dear?” I worked hard to control the eye twitch that threatened to manifest itself when he called me ‘dear.’
Die, was the answer I didn’t say out loud. Instead I put on my best phony smile and said, “My name is Sarah Nelson and I’m with Scotland Yard.” That wiped the smirk off his face almost as effectively as if I’d told him to die, maybe more so.
He swallowed visibly and said, “Angus Macdonald. On advice of counsel, I’d—”
“Relax. I’m not here about you,” I said. “I’m here regarding Adam Perry.”
Macdonald turned as red as the tartan kilt behind him, without the benefit of the black crosshatching for contrast. “That lazy arsehole? Well, if you see him, tell him he’s sacked. This is the third time he’s failed to show up for work. Can’t hire good help around here anymore, I swear—” He moderated his tone as he caught the wounded looks from a few of the pretty shopgirls. “You know what I mean, girls. You’re all fine. It’s those others I was talking about.” The sad thing was, a couple of them actually bought his BS.
“I could tell him,” I said, “but I don’t think the message would get through. He’s dead.”
Macdonald’s eyes widened slightly, but he whispered, “Dead?”
“Right,” I said, “so I guess he’s going to continue his pattern of showing up late for work. Very late, in fact, because he is now, by definition, late. The late Adam Perry.”
There was a high-pitched titter from behind me and I looked back to see Rose holding her side, the laughter she’d snorted out having aggravated her wound. “Sorry,” she whispered, clearly trying to keep a lid on the pain. “That was…just funny is all.”
“Who’s this now?” Macdonald asked with all the restraint of a starving man who’d just had a plate of tattie scones slid in front of him with a sign that said “DO NOT EAT” on them.
“That’s my sidekick—I mean lackey—I mean partner,” I said, trying to remember what we’d settled on and feeling pretty chagrined about screwing it up. Now it was my turn to apologize, so I turned to Rose and said, “Sorry,” but she was flashing me a thumbs-up like it didn’t matter, grinning again.
“So how did the dumb-arse die?” Macdonald asked, embracing the sort of manners that had probably made him very popular among the orcish hordes he’d probably descended from. “You know, out of curiosity.”
“Well, it damned sure didn’t seem like it was coming out of the milk of human compassion,” I said, “but he was murdered, in fact.” I let that one sink in for a moment before delivering the coup de grace, which wiped the smugly satisfied look off his face. “I’m searching for likely suspects right now.” I pulled out a little notepad and pretended to study it. “So…it seems like you and Adam didn’t get along terribly well…”
The brief flicker of panic in his eyes was worth it. “Look, I had nothing against the lad—save for that he was a terrible employee and a moron.” He held up his hands. “That’s hardly worth killing him over, though. Firing would be much easier.”
“Mmhmmm,” I said, staring at the blank page of my notepad. “Tell me…if you fired him, would you incur any negative financial benefit?”
“I had nothing to do with this!” Macdonald said, long arms extending out from his head in a wide shrug. “I didn’t even know he was dead until you told me!”
I made a show of writing that down, careful not to look at him. I swear, half the time when I’m working I’m really just tormenting irritating people I encounter.
Only half? Zack offered warily.
Hush up, you.
“Did Adam work yesterday?” I tossed out a real question, figuring I’d take a break from raising the shopkeeper’s blood pressure.
“Aye,” Macdonald said with a curt nod. “Until closing, and then he scarpered off to do whatever it is he does in his off hours.”
“Any idea what that might be?”
Macdonald’s scowl deepened. “Elspeth.” He beckoned to one of the girls, a blond with pale skin, like most of the rest of the Scots I’d met since arriving. She padded over from where she’d been rearranging a stack of sweatshirts with Edinburgh logos on them. “Do ye know where Adam spent his evenings?”
Elspeth looked at him curiously. “Aye. He went to Ailbeart’s.”
I looked back at Rose and without even having to ask, she said, “It’s a dance bar, club…it’s where all of us younger folk go if we’re of a mind to go out.”
“Do you know if he went last night?” I asked Elspeth, writing down the name of the place on my little pad.
“Aye, he did,” she said. “I saw him there myself.” She craned her neck toward me. “What’s this about?”
“Adam died last night, lass,” Macdonald said gruffly. He clearly still was not feeling it, but he said it loudly enough that the other shopgirls stopped what they were doing. I took a quick temp on the emotional reactions. Three stood stunned. One didn’t seem to understand what she’d heard. One burst into immediate tears.
For her part, Elspeth was the one who burst into tears. “But I saw him just last night.” She was whispering, as though speaking it louder would make it real.
“How did he strike you?” I asked.
“He didnae strike me at all, ever!” she said in protest.
“Not—I mean what was your impression of him last night,” I corrected, as the tears streamed down her face. “I wasn’t trying to suggest he beat you or anything.”
“Oh.” That didn’t help the tears, but the question, rephrased properly, did prompt her to answer. “He was…quiet, I guess? Not quite himself, but he’d been like that all day.” She blinked, thinking it over. “All week, actually.” She looked up at Macdonald. “Wouldn’t ye say?”
Macdonald didn’t let that grudging look go so easily. “He was as much a dumb-arse yesterday as he ever was.” After catching a withering glare from me and a couple suppressed sobs from Elspeth, he allowed, “Though I suppose he was less exuberant these last few days.”
That was curious, I thought, jotting down a note that the vic had been subdued at work and at play. I couldn’t see how exactly that would tie into murder by an incubus though, unless he’d been stalked or something by the bald guy beforehand. “Did he seem worried about anything?”
“No,” she said, wiping her eyes and smearing her mascara across her pale cheek. “Just quiet. Distracted, even. Oh, God, Adam…” She sta
rted to lose it.
“There, there,” Rose said, putting a hand on her shoulder. The crying juddered to a stop, for which I thanked my lucky stars. It took me a second to make the connection, at which point Rose smiled at me. She was using her empathic powers to quell the excess feelz in the shop. Whew. Between Macdonald the prickish and the five girls who were clearly keeping from going to pieces under Rose’s influence, this place was turning into a Sienna Nealon nightmare, way worse than the cafe where I’d almost just died, really.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” I asked, hoping against hope that Rose could keep back the surging tide of emotion running through this place. The fact that no one else had burst out crying would have been a minor miracle worthy of comment if I hadn’t tumbled to her game. Good game, 10/10, would play again.
“I can’t think of a thing,” she said.
“Did he have a roommate?” I asked. “Flatmate?” I amended, realizing I should have asked this question of his mother as well but failed, probably because of the feeeeeeelz and the desire to hightail it out of there before it got any worse. Usually I came in after the vic’s family had been told. Way after, if I had it my way.
“Yes,” Elspeth said. “Graham. Graham Selkirk.”
I perked up at that. “Do you know him?” She nodded. “Where does Graham work?”
“He worked at one of the other shops down the row,” she said, sniffling lightly. When she caught my questioning look, I didn’t have to ask; she just supplied the answer. “Graham died two weeks ago.”
Hunters (Out of the Box Book 15) Page 10
