A Taste of Crimson
Page 12
“But it’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Very.” Keeli wanted so badly to touch his skin. It was an aching need, to feel his body sliding beneath her fingers, and she thought, No one can see me. No one will ever know.
Slowly, carefully, she rested her palm on Michael’s chest. Shivers wracked them both and Keeli gritted her teeth, desperate to hide her violent reaction. Michael’s hand dropped away from her chin, slipping around her shoulders to draw her firm against his body. He covered her hand with his own, and pressed gently down.
Keeli rested her forehead against his chest, their joined hands brushing her cheek. She drew in the scent of him, wild and sweet, sharp with the taint of blood. She smelled werewolf on his body: disparate members of her clan, as well as her grandmother. She smelled herself, soaking into his skin. She thought, maybe I don’t care if they know.
“Why is this happening?” she whispered. “It doesn’t make sense. Werewolves and vampires don’t mix. Ever.”
“Ever?” he echoed, and his voice was thick and deep. “Perhaps they have, and no one ever spoke of it. Or maybe we are the ‘ever’ that proves everyone wrong.”
“I don’t want to prove everyone wrong,” she mumbled, but still she clung to him, sinking closer into his body, as comfortable as she had ever felt in her life.
As comfortable as I’ve felt since I was a child, she realized.
“I need to go,” she said. She needed to run. She needed to hide and never come near this man again. “Do you want me to call Jenkins while I’m topside?”
“I’ll do it,” Michael said. “Your grandmother said I could return to use her phone.”
“I think she likes you.”
“I think she’s watching me, and prefers to keep her enemies closer than her friends.”
“And are you an enemy?” Keeli looked straight at him.
Some terrible emotion flickered through his eyes. “I have been. To some, I still am. But not now. Not with you or your people.”
Keeli pushed away from him, gentle. Michael let her go.
“Do you believe me?” he asked, and though his face was perfectly calm, she heard some subtle urgency in his voice. Or maybe that was wishful thinking on her part.
“I don’t know what to believe,” she lied, backing out of the bathroom. “I guess you’ll just have to try harder.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. He dropped the towel in the sink and moved toward her. Startled, Keeli backpedaled, knocking over a stack of books that avalanched around her legs and feet. She tripped on them, yelping as she pitched backward. Michael caught her flailing hands before she could fall and Keeli found herself pulled hard against his chest, his breath hot on her face. His mouth was even hotter on her lips.
“Umph,” Keeli said, but she pressed close, opening her mouth to deepen the kiss. She’d always imagined kissing a vampire would be horrible—full with the taste of human blood, disgusting with the promise of death—yet, she tasted nothing but sweetness in Michael’s mouth. His lips were firm, hard. Just like any other man’s lips.
That’s a lie. A lie that would be easier to believe—easier on her heart, her life—but her body would not accept it. Her body, humming with desire, refused to break contact with the man holding her tight, and she found herself clutching his tense shoulders, sliding against his cool skin, savoring the strength within his arms—a killing strength. But he is a vampire, the Vendix, and he has murdered for his supper. Keeli dug her nails into his shoulders, pulling herself hard against his body, grappling for more as he skimmed his tongue over her lips, drawing her tighter with a suck, a hot tug, and she wanted more. She wanted more.
Keeli felt his fangs brush her lips, felt the sharp tips of teeth, and then heat bloomed inside her mouth and she tasted blood.
Michael broke off their kiss, jerking away as though burned. He touched his mouth with a shaking hand. His bottom lip was wet, crimson.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Keeli ran her tongue against her lip. The tip of it stung. Michael watched her as though he expected retribution. He did not look frightened, only resigned.
But Keeli was not ready to pass judgment. She still wanted him.
You are a pervert, she told herself.
She stumbled backward. “I’ll return soon. Be careful.” The last was added as an afterthought.
“You too,” he said, but Keeli didn’t know what she had to be careful of, except him.
Chapter Ten
The Grand Dame Alpha was sitting at her desk in front of the fireplace when Michael knocked on the door and entered her room. She wore a silver dressing gown; the reflection of flames danced sleek against its fine silk. She was talking on the phone.
“I’ll be sending it to you very soon. Yes, you can expect the courier within the hour. Just tell him to follow the instructions I’ve written.”
She hung up, and looked at Michael, who stood back near the door.
“You may sit down,” she said. “Here is the phone you asked after.”
“Are you better now?” Michael settled on one of the plush green chairs placed near the fire. The warmth felt good on his body, which was covered up in a man’s dark blue dress shirt he had found hanging in Keeli’s closet. The discovery of such a shirt made his stomach tighten in an unpleasant manner. Or maybe that was hunger; he didn’t know. He didn’t want to contemplate the possibility of jealousy.
The Grand Dame Alpha eyed the shirt Michael wore. Her nostrils flared.
“I’m well enough,” she said, still staring at the shirt. She tore her gaze away and looked Michael straight in the face. “Thank you for your help.”
“It was nothing,” he said.
“No.” The Grand Dame shook her head. “It was more than nothing. How much more, I don’t yet quite know.”
Michael reached for the phone. The Grand Dame made as if to leave, but he waved his hand at her chair. “This isn’t private. Anything Jenkins tells me you should probably hear.”
“Probably,” she agreed, still watching him with those sharp eyes.
Jenkins answered on the third ring. Michael heard pots banging, children crying.
“What is it?” Jenkins snapped, and Michael was not entirely sure he was speaking to him.
“It’s me,” Michael said.
“Oh.” A moment later, the sounds of children and kitchen utensils faded. “Sorry about that. My wife is going out of town this morning and everyone is miserable.”
Michael waited.
“So, um, yeah. The case. How’s that little punk wolf treating you? Bet that was a surprise.”
“She’s a good partner,” Michael said, aware the Grand Dame could hear everything Jenkins said.
“Is she now? I sort of thought—”
“Do you have any news?” Michael interrupted, quite certain he didn’t want Jenkins to finish that sentence.
“Small talk is a dying art,” he said. “And yes, there is news. Great news. The lab found DNA, Michael. Real fucking DNA. And it’s not the victim’s.”
The Grand Dame stirred; a fingernail tapped her teacup.
“Was it wolf?” Michael asked, watching her.
Jenkins hesitated. “Kind of.”
“Kind of? As in, kind of pregnant? Or how about kind of dead?”
“Smart-ass. The lab is pretty sure it belongs to a wolf. The problem is that there are some vampire traces, too. We got the evidence from under the victim’s fingernails. Skin was whole, no signs of decay into ash.”
“All dead skin cells from vampires turn to ash,” Michael said. “If it were solid, then it couldn’t have come from a vampire.”
“I agree. The techies don’t know what to make of it. Right now, their best guess is that another vampire was present at, or just before, the murder. Maybe it contaminated the evidence in some way.”
Michael sighed. He felt the Grand Dame watching him as he said, “But you’ve confirmed some kind of werewolf involvement. Any chance it’s a mistake?”
“You have an idea of just who that ‘someone’ is?”
Michael could hear Jenkins smile. “We finally got an ID on the body. The fang’s name was Walter Crestin. A veteran of the civil war. The first civil war. Favorite hang-out? The Bloody Pulp.”
Michael sat back in his chair. The Bloody Pulp was a popular—but not much talked about—establishment in the Crimson Light district. Vampires only, where humans were served to the clientele from behind the bar. Michael had been there three times in the last six months, always on business.
“Michael?”
“I know the place,” he said quietly. “Have you sent anyone down there yet?” But Michael already knew the answer. He wondered if his sword would be enough this time.
“You know we haven’t. None of the other liaisons are willing, and even if they were, you’re the only vampire we trust.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise.”
“It’s nothing to do with wisdom. It’s all about gut instinct, man. Besides, they’re scared of you down there.”
The regulars at The Bloody Pulp would talk easier if they weren’t scared, but Michael did not say that. He also did not say that he might end up dead if he walked through those doors for a fourth time. It didn’t really matter in the long run. He had a job to do, and it was going to kill him eventually, whether or not he died working for the vampires or the humans—or in this case, the werewolves, too.
“I’ll go, Jenkins.”
“The sooner, the better. Remember, we’re not even supposed to be on this case. Heat’s gonna come down from above eventually, and right now, no one’s responding to my questions. Vampires aren’t saying a word, and the werewolves are even more tight-lipped. I want to know why this crime is so different, why I can’t get answers from anyone. Because, trust me—this keeps up, and every wolf will be coming in for DNA tests. We’ve got evidence to compare suspects against now. No more excuses or stalling. So give me something, Michael. Anything. I need to be able to say that the wolves are cooperating, that there’s progress on this case.”
“I’m with the wolves,” Michael said, looking at the Grand Dame. “I will get you what you need.”
Her expression darkened.
“Keeli, too. Remember what we talked about, those connections of hers.”
Michael felt the Grand Dame staring at him. “I would rather not talk about it. I’ll call you tonight, Jenkins.”
Michael hung up the phone and settled back in his chair. The Grand Dame did the same, her palms pressed together, fingertips touching her chin.
“So,” she said.
“So.” Michael met the Grand Dame’s cool gaze. “Which of your wolves would have the strength, speed, and motivation to kill and eat a vampire?”
“You waste no time.” A bitter smile flitted across her mouth. “But you have had a demonstration of all three characteristics. Would you like the names of your assailants?”
“I am not a vengeful person.” Michael hardened his voice. “You know your wolves better than I do, and as I’m sure you can appreciate, time is of the essence. If you can narrow down the possibilities—”
“I understand the situation perfectly,” she snapped. “But you’re asking me to implicate my own people. I have a responsibility to them.”
“And what’s your responsibility to a murderer? There have already been six deaths. I do not know how many more can be tolerated before there is a backlash. That cannot be allowed.”
Throwing the Grand Dame’s words back into her face was not what Michael had planned, but he had to make her compromise on this. He did not have time to question everyone—nor did it make sense to do so. The Grand Dame Alpha knew her wolves. She knew what they were capable of. Earlier, he had planned on asking Keeli for this information, but she was not here—don’t think of her; don’t think of her lips pressed tight and hot on your lips, the taste of her blood like fire, like spice, like freedom—and he had passed all caring about politeness.
The Grand Dame stared into the fire for a long time. Finally, she said, “Very few Maddox wolves would be able to murder a vampire. Fight them, yes. Inflict deep wounds. But to consume, to plot and prey …” She shook her head. “It could have been in self-defense.”
“We will find that out,” Michael promised, though he seriously doubted her theory.
Her lips tightened into a hard line. She reached for pen and paper, and began writing. “There are over eighty wolves in the Maddox pack, but a large number of those are children and young people. It has been a good season for us.” Michael heard the tight pride in her voice. “As for the adults, I can think of only three who would be capable of murdering this Walter Crestin.”
She slid the paper across the table. Michael read the names.
Estella Kinsay
Jonathon Dewey
Jas Mack
“Why?” he asked, still eyeing that last name.
“Because each of them has been hurt in profound ways by vampires. Terrible things have been done to them and the ones they love, and there has been no justice. None.”
“Tell me,” he said, but the Grand Dame shook her head.
“They are their stories to tell. Stories, I think, you will be very interested to hear.”
There was knowledge in her voice, her eyes. Michael’s cheek hurt. He said, “You know what I do.”
“I asked,” she admitted, and pushed back her chair. She stood, and Michael rose with her. “Where is Keeli?”
“There are things I need, things only I can get. But I can’t leave here during the day without certain … protection. She went to buy me some.”
The Grand Dame did not look pleased. “You have her running errands?”
“I would do the same for her,” he said, embarrassed.
Silence followed—deep, profound. The Grand Dame’s gaze never once faltered as she said, “Your breath smells like my granddaughter.”
Oh.
“You’ve touched her with your mouth.”
Oh.
“And you’re wearing her father’s shirt.”
Michael resisted the urge to close his eyes. “I didn’t know this shirt belonged to her father,” he said, unable to address his other business with Keeli. “My own clothing—”
“Yes,” she said in a tight voice. “I remember.” The Grand Dame walked past Michael and disappeared into her bedroom. A moment later she returned with a bottle of green liquid. Mouthwash. She handed it to him.
“Use this before you leave my rooms. I do not want my wolves smelling Keeli on your breath.”
Her tone made him angry. “We did nothing wrong.”
“Wrong?” she snapped. “There’s nothing more wrong! Do you know what would happen to Keeli if the others found out? Her reputation would never survive. She might not survive. Such alliances are not tolerated.”
“I would protect her,” he said, forgetting himself, his place.
“How? By taking her away from us? From her people? And what of the vampires? What would they do if they knew?”
“Nothing,” Michael said through gritted teeth. “They would assume that the humiliation of such a union would be punishment enough.”
“Ah.” The Grand Dame’s smile was cold, mocking. “I suppose that the consequences are tolerable to you, then. Since you have already been shunned and humiliated by your own people.”
Michael forced himself to take a deep breath. “I would never want that for Keeli.”
“Then we have an understanding.” The Grand Dame glided close, blue eyes bright and sharp. “You act like an honorable man. Make it more than an act.”
He remem
bered Keeli’s lips, the press of her body tight against his own, the comfort of holding her, like coming home. The only home, the first home.
But she is a werewolf. It will never last. You cannot allow it to last.
Michael took the mouthwash to the Grand Dame’s bathroom and rinsed Keeli’s taste away.
But not the memory. Nothing could take that from him.
“The things I do,” Keeli muttered, stepping around some wannabe human punks who were sitting on the sidewalk in front of the drugstore. Their tattoos were cheaper than their piercings, which meant they looked like little kids who’d drawn on their arms with fat black markers and stuck aluminum foil into their eyebrows and noses. Keeli tried not to breathe as she passed through the cloud of smoke they were generating.
Those brats are smoking enough weed to give this whole neighborhood a high.
“Cool hair,” drawled one girl, as Keeli put her hand on the door.
“Thanks,” she said, and then: “You’re gonna fry your brain, sweet cheeks.”
Laughter, all around. “It’s medicinal,” said the girl, grinning like an idiot. She lay down on the sidewalk, propped up on one elbow, and stuck the joint back in her mouth.
The drugstore was just like any other franchise operation in the inner city—dirty, small, and dark—with only a passing resemblance to a drugstore she might see in the tamer suburbs. Both the pharmacist and the front-counter clerk were protected by bulletproof glass, which basically meant that if Keeli wanted to shoplift or rob the place, there wasn’t anyone who was going to stop her. Not that she had crime on her mind. But from the looks of the bare shelves, it seemed that others did—and had.
“Sunscreen?” she asked the bored young clerk, whose long black hair was in desperate need of a wash. “Vampire variety.”
He suddenly looked more interested. Keeli didn’t miss the way he checked out her neck. “Far right. Back shelf, along the wall. You can’t miss it.”
Which, as Keeli soon found, was because it was the only area that hadn’t been picked over or looted. She found a bottle of their strongest stuff, whistling at the price. Twenty bucks would cover it, but just barely. It was a good thing vampires had money.