“Scared,” Suze insisted, “and pissed off.”
“Either way,” Richard said, “you need to get out of here. The other Alphas challenged her about the Trackers, but we left as soon as we heard the word. I don’t know if the old lady has this address, but if she does and sends them out, they’ll come here first.”
“The Alphas challenged her?” Keeli could not imagine it.
“Hargittai, especially.”
The phone rang. Everyone looked at each other.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Keeli said. “Who calls you in the middle of the night?”
The phone continued to ring. They all stared at it. Michael frowned, and finally answered.
“Jenkins,” he said, a moment later. Keeli sighed.
Michael’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure? Yes? All right. Thanks for calling. Yes, she’s here. I’ll tell her.”
“What?” she asked, concerned by the look on his face.
“There’s been another murder,” he said, hanging up the phone. “A vampire. The body was found outside Maddox territory, but it’s the same kind of kill. Less careful, though. This time there were bite wounds. The techies found DNA traces. Vampire and werewolf.”
Keeli shook her head. “It’s him, Michael. The man we fought tonight is our killer.”
“And how do you explain the divergent vampire and werewolf DNA?”
“I can’t, but it has to be him.”
“What’s going on?” Richard asked, hugging Suze close to his side. Keeli noticed he held the briefcase. Quick hands—she hadn’t even observed him move.
“You remember that guy you told us about, the one who freaked you out so much you decided to join a clan? He came after us tonight.”
Suze sucked in her breath. Her eyes glittered large in her pale face. “How are you alive?”
“Luck,” said Michael. “How much do you know about this person?”
“Nothing.” Richard’s jaw tightened. His eyes looked far too old for his face. “Or everything. When you live on the street, the things you hear get exaggerated. But this guy … he popped up about a month ago. Likes to sing. Likes to kill.”
“What does he kill?” Keeli asked, remembering a low voice telling her that humans and wolves were off-limits to hunger. She saw Suze blink, noted the way Richard suddenly looked at her face, alarmed.
“Suze,” he said, as though to stop her, but she ignored him.
“Fangs,” she whispered, looking at Michael. Richard grabbed her arm. “We didn’t see the actual murder, but it was afterwards, when he was done and standing over the body.”
Michael closed his eyes. Keeli stared. “Why the hell didn’t you tell us this earlier? Didn’t you know about our investigation? The crimes we were trying to solve?”
Richard looked uncomfortable. “We knew. We just didn’t think it was related.”
“You are lying,” Michael said.
Suze swallowed hard, her gaze darting between Keeli and Michael. She looked afraid, and it bothered Keeli because Suze’s fear had a familiar taste, a recognizable face, and she said, “Who told you not to give us this information?”
“It wasn’t just you,” Suze whispered. “We weren’t supposed to tell anyone. We weren’t even supposed to mention that we’d seen him. But you got us on a roll and we forgot, and then it was too late. When you didn’t ask the right questions, we kept our mouths shut.”
“Who told you to do this?” Keeli asked, knowing the answer, and dreading it—fearing it.
“The Grand Dame,” Richard said. “She said that we had seen a demon, and that it was dangerous to speak about them. That we could voodoo ourselves in a bad way if we did.”
“And she knew you had seen this individual murder a vampire?”
“We told her,” Richard said, his eyes haunted. “We told her everything.”
Michael touched Keeli’s hand, and she said, “What was she thinking? What was she trying to do to us?”
“I do not know.” He looked troubled. “But we need to find this man before he kills again.”
Michael went to the bed and began dressing. His movements were quick, sharp and efficient. “Keeli and I need to go out for a while. You two can stay here if you like.”
“Michael,” Keeli said. The look he gave her was grave, but tinged with compassion.
“We have no time. We need answers, fast.”
She nodded, steeling her heart—shoving down the lonely ache that filled her chest when she thought of her grandmother. No more tears. Not until she had answers. Not until she knew exactly what was going on.
Richard and Suze huddled together in the kitchen while Keeli dressed. They said, “We’ll stay for a bit,” and Michael nodded without comment and led Keeli out onto the fire escape. No one said good-bye. Richard shut the window and pulled the blind down behind them.
The sky was dark, though Keeli glimpsed the edge of dawn in the sky. She floated on the scent of roses. Michael wrapped her in a tight hug.
“Where are we going?” she asked him, clutching his shoulders.
“Jenkins,” he said. “But really, I just wanted to be alone with you.”
Her smile felt weak, and faded quickly as she said, “So we know who our murderer is.”
Michael hesitated. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“It seems too convenient. And Richard and Suze said themselves that they didn’t actually see the murder. We need more facts. Evidence.”
“I think you need a signed confession before you’ll be satisfied,” Keeli said.
He shook his head. “I am completely convinced that the werewolves had nothing to do with the murder. But that does not mean this … this man … is wholly responsible. He said that he was being watched. Perhaps even given orders.”
“You think he belongs to the humans?”
“Humans built the mechs. He could be another kind of creation.”
“He was starved,” Keeli said. “Emotional and irrational. I think he was even afraid for me. He didn’t trust himself. For good reason, I guess.” She hesitated, remembering the shame in his voice, his broken apology. “You told me he wanted to know if a vampire could ever love a werewolf.”
Michael kissed her hands. “When I saw the blood on his body, and realized it was you he spoke of, I wanted to kill him. Perhaps I should have. Another person is dead.”
“Compassion always strikes at strange moments. You were thinking of yourself. What could have been. What was.”
“I recognized myself. In his words and hunger. Though in some ways, he is worse than me. He has some control, but still he chooses to kill.”
“We need to find out why. But if there’s no helping him …”
“I will do it,” Michael promised.
“You won’t be alone,” she said, and when he looked at her, solemn and dark and so serious, she realized that she might be the first to ever say so, the first to ever offer Michael something like friendship, love. She touched his cheek, the golden tattoo. “I think it’s time you stopped wearing this.”
“No,” he said softly. He covered her hand. “I don’t run, either. Even when I want to.”
Keeli smiled, sad, and kissed his cheek. “I know. That’s what I love about you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Because dawn was so near, Michael suggested they walk or take a cab to Jenkins’s crime scene. He did not want to fly. He had been taking too many risks at night as it was. The gift of flight was not much help if it only got him shot down by a mech or some other human operative. He did not want to risk Keeli.
Although it seemed that simply being together was risk enough.
He watched her as they walked. She tried to pretend nothing was wrong, but he could taste her pain, see it in the line of her shoulders. He touched her, pulled her close to his side. They stumbled down the street, an odd four-legged creature.
“We need to be careful now,” she said. “If my grandmother sends out the Trackers, they’ll be
looking for my scent. They’re good, Michael. They can hunt almost anything.”
“Not us,” he said. “I won’t let them hurt you, Keeli.”
She shook her head, eyes lost in shadow, dim and gray. “She hates me, Michael. Or loves me. I don’t know which anymore. I’m not sure I care. It took her a long time to let me spread my wings, to go topside to find a job. Getting that waitress gig at Butchie’s was a big deal. My one big step. She was always so afraid of something going wrong—that I would turn out like my father, maybe. And now it’s happened. I didn’t mean it to, but it has, and she’s trying to protect me by ruining my life.”
“Maybe you should go home,” he suggested quietly. “Talk to her. She will understand in time, and then you and I—”
“I’m not giving you up,” Keeli said, fierce. Michael was shocked to see tears in her eyes. “I don’t understand what we’ve got, but it means something to me. It means more to me than anything has in a long, long time, and I’m not letting go. I won’t.”
“All right,” he breathed. “There is your answer, then. We will fulfill our obligations by finding this murderer, and then we will go. We will make another home, in another city, far from here.”
She looked so pale, but her mouth set in a stubborn line and her gaze was steady, unafraid. “Is it ever that easy, Michael?”
“No,” he said. “But we’ll be together. I would rather have that than an easy life.”
Keeli smiled. “I think I love you more now than I did ten minutes ago.”
“That’s a good sign. I would not want you to grow tired of me.” He grabbed her hand and kissed her palm.
They walked several blocks through his neighborhood before Keeli saw a cab. She jumped up and down, waving her hands. Michael did not think the yellow car would stop for them: a pink-haired waif in rough black clothes, or the tall man beside her who no doubt looked strange wearing a hat and sunglasses in the dark.
But the cab did stop. Keeli threw herself inside.
Their driver’s name was Emanuel. He had a gentle voice, a gentle demeanor, and he told Keeli and Michael in no uncertain terms that it was unsafe for “two nice young people” like them to be out and about on such dangerous streets.
Because Michael was not feeling particularly nice—and because both their appearances were probably the antithesis of what most normal people considered wholesome—Emanuel’s comment made him shake his head. It was obvious the driver had no idea what he was carrying in his cab. Keeli laughed outright—and that was good, wonderful, that she still could laugh, that she could set aside her troubles long enough to see the absurdity of their situation.
“We were visiting a friend,” she said, as Michael looked out the window. In the distance, he saw the multicolored signal lights of the Crimson Light district emblazoning the cloudy sky.
Michael thought of Walter Crestin, and of his own promise to Emily. Despite their new theories about the murderer, it wouldn’t hurt to still go to The Bloody Pulp to ask questions, as well as to look for any vampire who carried a silver cross-shaped knife, and had a reputation for attacking werewolves and their women.
Emanuel noticed where Michael’s gaze strayed. “We will be passing through that place. It is a faster route to where you want to go. If you don’t like, we will try another.”
Michael shrugged. “Faster is good.”
“We’re going to pass through the Crimson Light district?” Keeli looked out the window. “I’ve never been there.”
Michael was unsurprised. Wolves generally stayed away from places where vampires frequented, and the entire four-block quarter of the city was all about the fangs. Michael knew they were getting close when he saw crowds of tired teenyboppers, rich kids doing their rebel thing, walking en masse down the dirty sidewalks, heading home before the dawn after a night of hard partying and attempts to skank the attention of immortals. A deep booming bass pulsed through Michael’s chest. The nightclubs closed at dawn, but then, only for humans. Vampires were always welcome, no matter the time of day.
“You like the vampires?” Emanuel guided the cab around several limos parked illegally in their lane. Michael watched a chauffeur hold open a door; an impossibly long leg emerged from the darkness.
Keeli glanced at Michael, an amused smile on her lips. “Not especially. But I’m trying not to be so judgmental. You?”
“I do not like any of them,” Emanuel said fiercely. “Vampires, werewolves. They are dangerous. You see these children, walking so free amongst the monsters? They do not know how close they are to losing their souls.”
“And you think all werewolves and vampires are the same?”
Emanuel shrugged. “Back in Venezuela the lines are more clear. We know what we are to them, and that is food. We do business with the vampires and the werewolves because it is necessary, but we do not trust ourselves to them. Not like this.” He waved a hand at the bright lights, the advertisements streaming a glitter of alluring images, all of them promising sex and youth.
“I can see your point,” Michael said, unable to feel offended. It was the truth: humans were food. For vampires, by necessity. For werewolves, by accident. And yet, to be human, to regain and aspire to the essence of idealized humanity, was the secret goal of most vampires. Perhaps the werewolves, too.
They told Emanuel to let them out when they were still several blocks away from the address Jenkins had given Michael. Dawn threaded the sky. Michael tugged down the brim of his hat.
Keeli watched the cab’s taillights disappear around the block. “I feel as though I should be angry at him. I guess if I had heard him yesterday, I would be mad. But we’re all the same, Michael—humans, werewolves, vampires. It’s just that our hang-ups are all aimed at different people. Even me … I still can’t bring myself to like most vampires.”
“I’ll try not to be too wounded.”
She gave him a strange look. “Doesn’t it ever bother you, not liking your own kind? Isn’t that the same as not liking yourself?”
“I don’t always like myself,” Michael said, the words rising, honest, from his throat. “I have done terrible things, Keeli. I am … not a good man.”
“Liar. You want to be. You said so.”
Michael turned away and walked down the street. Keeli followed him, but he did not look at her.
“Michael.” She grabbed his arm. “Stop.”
“You said it yourself. You don’t like vampires. And why should you? We are monsters, Keeli. When we kill, it is for pleasure. It is a choice we make.”
“That choice was taken away from you. Have you killed since then? Have you?”
“No,” he whispered. “But in that time, I murdered more people than most vampires could ever dream to brag on.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I don’t want your pity.”
“Fuck you. I’m sorry for those people who died.”
“And you think I’m not?”
“I think you feel more sorry for yourself.” She stood with her hands on her hips, stubborn and bright and hot. “Snap the hell out of it, Michael. And don’t try and tell me all this verbal self-immolation is because you deserve it. That’s crap. If you really hated yourself that much, you would be dead by now. You’d be a fucking mess on the side of the road.”
He almost argued with her, but he knew she was right. He did not have the energy to stand up for a losing case.
“Are you ever diplomatic?” he asked, weary.
“You should know the answer to that question.”
“I do not want to fight with you about this,” he said.
“I don’t want to fight, either.” Keeli leaned against his chest, small and warm. “But I won’t take hypocrisy, especially from you. Because why the hell did you start investigating these murders in the first place? Why is this alliance so important? You told me once. Was that a lie?”
“No,” he said, frustrated. “I would never lie to you, Keeli. It’s just …” He balled up his hands, figh
ting for words that should not have been difficult to say, but were, that hurt. “You are not my first friend,” he finally told her. “But you are my best, Keeli. The closest. And when I talk to you, I tell you everything. Do you understand? I let you see everything. All my weaknesses, my fears. If I am a hypocrite, then fine. That is me. I love myself and hate myself and that is the way it will be until I die. And if I cannot … if I cannot go on about these things to you, then who can I?”
“No one,” she said immediately, softly. “I’m your girl, Michael. I always will be.”
The effortless quality of her words made his breath catch. “You accept me? Even what you dislike?”
“I’m here,” she said, her eyes flashing bright with promise, challenge. “If you can accept my crap, I sure as hell can love yours.”
Shocking. He did not know what to say, how to express his relief, and so he kissed her, crushing her body close—closer—and her arms snaked around his neck, tugging his mouth hard against her mouth. He shuddered at the taste of her, wild and sweet, and he briefly wondered if it was still dark enough, the streets still empty enough, to take her—right there—on the sidewalk, against the building they stood beside. And he thought, yes, and lifted them off their feet, drifting up, up, until he pressed her against brick, between two large apartment windows, his hand sliding up under skirt, peeling away underwear. Keeli made a soft sound and wrapped her legs around his hips.
He took her in the dawn light, above the street, and every slick hot thrust brought him closer to some unspoken trust, the culmination of riotous need that had nothing to do with lust, and everything to do with the desire to be in her skin, as close to her soul and heart as flesh would allow. Wild, running wild—in his blood was the steppes, those cold dawns of empty grassland, and she was that freedom to him, that humanity he had given up, lost, and if he ever lost Keeli—and oh, how had this happened—he really would lie down and die. …
“Michael,” she gasped, digging her nails into his shoulders. She threw back her head, and Michael barely managed to cushion her skull with his palm before it slammed into the brick wall. She groaned, her face contorting, and Michael increased his rhythm, her body rising, tightening, and he emptied himself into her as she cried out, writhing violently against him. She pulsed around his body, a slow long throb of satiation.
A Taste of Crimson Page 24
