by Kim Harrison
“Go back downstairs,” the older cop told her. “Go back downstairs!”
Fourth floor. They saw the shattered door, the wedge of light slicing through the dim hall. The older cop radioed for backup.
They edged forward and cautiously pushed the splintered door open. Told her again to go downstairs. Selene told them she would and stood where she was, hot tears spilling down her cheeks.
Now that she wasn’t standing next to Nikolai, the wards vibrated with Selene’s nearness, lines of light bleeding out from the hole torn where the door used to be. Something had blasted right through the careful layers of defense she’d painstakingly applied to the walls. What could do that?
She took two steps, and the rookie backed up out of the apartment. He was paper-white and trembling, freckles standing out on his fair face, his blond mustache quivering.
After glancing past him once, Selene could see why.
She clamped her right hand over her mouth, staring past the rookie, who stumbled to the side and vomited onto the hall rug. Selene didn’t blame him. She could only see a short distance down the entry hall and into the studio room. The kitchen was to the left, bathroom to the right, and she had a clear view almost to the night-dark window, with the orange streetlamps glowing outside.
A moment later her eyes tracked a shimmer up over the streetlamp, a shimmer that resolved into a dark shape balancing atop the streetlamp’s arm. A tall shape, crouched down, hands wrapped around the bar, eyes reflecting the light with the green-gold sheen of a cat’s eyes at night.
I wish he wouldn’t do that, perch up there like some kind of vulture.
Selene looked down again, and her hand tightened over her mouth. Her throat burned with bile. The shapes she was seeing refused to snap into a coherent picture. Blood painted the white walls, soaked into the thin beige carpeting, and the…the pieces…
Footsteps echoed in the hall, shouts, radios squawking. Four more cops. Selene stepped back against the wall, her hand still clamped over her mouth, fingernails digging into her cheek. She struggled to swallow the hot acid bile instead of puking like the rookie.
Detective Jack Pepper, his graying buzz-cut and familiar rumpled gray wool coat steaming in the hall’s heat, came striding from the other end. She stumbled back, hitting her head against the wall. Jack gave her a look that could have peeled paint. “Aw, Christ. Get her downstairs,” he said as one of the cops took a look past Selene and into the apartment, swearing viciously.
Selene couldn’t help herself. She began to giggle into her hand, her eyes streaming. The shrill sound echoed under the crackle of radio talk and more sirens outside.
After wiping his mouth, the blond rookie was finally delegated to take her downstairs. Selene had to steady him, her fingers against the creaking leather of his jacket. The queasy flickers of fear coming off the young man were enough to make her flush, her stomach tightening. Her mental shields were as transparent and brittle as crystal, he was hyped enough to broadcast all over the mental spectrum.
Lawrence, his name is Lawrence. He’s an open door right now, and I don’t have enough control to shut him out. Knowledge burned through her, the fear turning into a wash of heat that made her nipples peak and her entire body tighten. Her jeans were definitely damp between her legs.
I wish I’d stopped to put my panties on. The sanity of that thought saved her, slapped her back into herself. Focus, Selene. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe.
She filled her lungs and tapped in, the rush of Power sparking along her nerves. I hope he puts me in a car, I can use this and yank the wards off the apartment. A killing like that leaves a mark on the air, the wards will be vibrating with it. I’ll be able to track whoever did this to him. Selene made a slight crooning noise, patted the rookie’s shoulder when they reached the foyer. He was looking a little green again, his cheeks pooching out and his lips wet. Selene smelled fear, the sharp tang of human vomit, and her own smell, rich floral musk. Tantraiiken musk, the smell of a sexwitch.
Put me in a police car. She patted the rookie’s back as he heaved near the stairs. A loose ring of cop cars sat in the wet street. More sirens cut the distant darkness. I don’t want to work magick right here on the street. God alone knows what sort of notice it will attract if I pass out, too.
“It’s okay, Lawrence.” She looked up in time to see another cop come flying out of the door—some thoughtful soul had braced it open with a chunk of pavement. This man—tall, stocky, brown hair combed over a bald head Selene could see because he’d lost his hat—made it to the bottom of the stairs before he puked, too, vomit spraying out onto the street.
Selene’s gorge rose. She swallowed against it. “Nice boy,” she said softly, stroking Lawrence’s back. “It’s okay. You okay?” Quit retching and put me somewhere quiet where I can Work, you waste. The coldness of the thought almost surprised her. He was just the type of ordinary civilian to come running to Selene for her help in dealing with something extraordinary—and then decide she was less than a used Kleenex when everything was said and done.
They were all alike, every one of them. Except Danny, and Danny was gone. Selene’s jaw clenched, her teeth grinding together.
Come on. Quit puking so I can work.
He did put her in a police car, mumbling something about her safety and a report, and she closed her eyes, settling back into the cracked vinyl seat. Finally. What did you eat for dinner, anyway, it certainly stank…oh, God, what am I going to do now? Danny.
Tears pricked behind Selene’s eyes. Quit it! Focus! She pictured the hallway leading into Danny’s living space, the foldout bed and salvaged wooden shelves of books and curios and the blood—
Her concentration guttered, came back; her ability to visualize under stress had plenty of practice. Don’t fail me now, she thought, and dropped through the floor of her own consciousness, into the place where she truly lived. Her breathing stilled, her heartbeat paused. An onlooker would have thought she was sleeping, or just sitting with her eyes closed, head tilted back, mouth slackly open. In shock.
She dove into a black blood-warm sea, her concentration narrowing to a single point. Pulled on the threads of the Power she’d spent warding Danny’s apartment. The defenses recognized her, left the place in the world where they had been bleeding free, and leapt for her.
Selene “caught” the energy, folded it deftly. The resultant mass shrank, a small bright star to her mental vision, taking on more mass as she compressed it. Selene’s body arched upward, gasping for air. The energy she’d taken from the hyped-up rookie drained away. Her skin was prickling and her lips wet, her hips rocking forward slightly, tensing, tighter, tighter, aching for release.
She couldn’t afford to let it spend. She had to find something physical to hold the Power until she could take a closer look. Her fingers dipped into her black canvas shoulder-bag and found smooth wood.
My athame. Christ. Here I am in the back of a police car with an illegal-to-carry eight-inch ritual knife. Why did I have to be born a tantraiiken?
Training brought her focus back and the star of Power drained into the knife, leaving her sick and shaking, her entire body aching for completion. The pain was low between her legs, and it would torture her all night unless she found some way to bleed off the pressure.
The whole event had taken less than five minutes. The rookie was gesturing to an ambulance crew. Lurid light from the cop cars and stuttering flashes from the ambulance painted the street in gaudy flickers. The entire street was now swarming with cops and emergency personnel. Selene slumped down against the cracked vinyl and peered out the window, her senses dilated, looking for a dark blot or a breath of anything that didn’t belong. Nothing. Not even a shimmer in the air.
Was Nikolai gone? She couldn’t be that lucky.
Danny. The numbness was still there. Whatever was locked inside her athame would give her a direction, somewhere to go…hopefully. At the very least, she would see how her brother died.
But she could give it a try, couldn’t she? Nikolai wouldn’t help, he would be too interested in getting leverage on her. One more dead human wouldn’t matter, even if it was the brother of his semi-pet sexwitch.
I hate you, Nikolai. The hate was a bright red slash across the middle of her mind. She closed her eyes, set her jaw. Her fingers itched to unzip her jeans, slide down, touch the slick heat between her legs. Hate you. Hate you. She felt her face contort into a screaming mask, tears spilling down her cheeks.
The door creaked open, letting in a burst of chill rainy air. “Hi, princess,” Jack said. “Get your ass out. We got a hot date with some paperwork.”
Selene blinked, her fists curled at her sides. She let out the breath she’d been holding. Her cheeks hurt, so did her lower belly; her eyes were hot and dry.
Jack didn’t mean to be cruel, he was just used to treating her like one of the boys. If she had been waiting to join another investigation, he would have acted the same way. Selene would have had an equally brisk response for him. She searched for something sharp and hard as a shield to say.
Instead, her throat swelled with grief. “Danny?” she whispered. It was stupid, she knew it, Nikolai would not have lied and her own eyes had told her the truth. But still, she had hoped. Hope, that great human drug.
Jack’s face turned milk-pale. He was thin and stooped, except for his potbelly straining at his dingy white shirt. His lean hound-dog face under its gray buzzcut was almost always mournful, now it was actively sad. “Lena…Jesus, I’m sorry. Nikolai was supposed to keep you from seeing…any of that.”
I have a right to see what happened to my brother, Jack. Selene slid her legs out of the car. She had to catch her breath as the material of her jeans rasped against swollen tissues. She needed, and there was no way to fill that need tonight.
“Nikolai can go to hell,” she rasped around the obstruction in her throat. That helped—it sounded like the old Selene, the tough Selene. “I’m sure it’s where he’s bound sooner or later.”
She twisted her hands together. Her palms slid against each other, damp with sweat. The image of Danny’s apartment, framed by a shattered blood-painted doorway, rose up again. Numb disbelief rose with it.
Her jeans were uncomfortably wet, and she was starting to sweat under her arms. Her neck prickled, and she was suddenly aware of empty hunger. She was starving.
How can I think of food at a time like this? Jesus.
“I’ll do your report up for you. Come by, sign it in the morning. Look, Selene—” He offered her his hand and she took it, nervous sweat slicking her palm. He pulled her to her feet. The car’s windows were frosted with vapor. How long was I in there?
He also firmly took his hand away from her, tearing her fingers free.
Selene would have kept his hand, run her thumb along the crease on the inside of his wrist, wet her lips with her tongue. Her eyes met his. She needed, and he was male. Women were also good for what she needed, but there weren’t any around.
God. Look at me. Look at what I almost did. I’m a whore, and my brother is dead.
“I’m sorry,” Jack continued awkwardly. He was starting to sweat now, too, looking down until he realized he was looking at her chest, then staring up over her shoulder at the circus of lights and people in uniforms milling around. “Christ, I’m sorry. Lena…I’m so sorry.”
Selene crossed her arms, cupped her elbows in her hands. Jack took her upper arm, kicked the cruiser’s door shut, and steered her away from the hive of activity the street had become. People were starting to peek through their windows, lights were coming on. The cops were too busy to pay much attention to one lone woman being led away by Detective Pepper—especially when some of them recognized her as his tame spook, the woman that had broken the Bowan case last month. Just how she did it nobody knew—but then again, nobody wanted to know. The girl was just too weird. And Pepper was starting to look a little weird himself. The joke was that he’d apply for the new Spook Squad soon, just as soon as he could get his head out of a bottle and quit working hopeless freezer-cold homicide cases.
Selene shivered, hugging herself, their easy dismissal of her roaring through the open wound she was becoming. I’ve got to get home before I start to scream. I’m in bad shape.
“You’re pretty worn out,” Jack said, diffidently. “Look, go home. I’m sorry, Lena. I’m glad you called me. I wish you wouldn’t have gone up there.” He stopped near a pool of convenient shadow, and Selene looked up.
Of course.
Nikolai was there. Part of the darkness itself, his long black coat melding with the gloom that filled an alley’s entrance.
Jack faced her. Here, numb and shocked, with her shields thin and the aftermath of the Power she’d jacked and the magick she’d worked pounding in her pulse with insistent need, she drowned in what he was feeling.
Agonizing pain. Nausea. Sick aching in his chest, the heartburn that wouldn’t go away—she shouldn’t have to see this, shouldn’t have seen it.
Jack sighed, his shoulders slumping. “It’s bad, Selene. Something I ain’t never seen before. And Nikolai says it’s not human. Which means…” His brown eyes were almost black in the uncertain light. “Christ,” he finished, when she just stared at him, her mouth slightly open. Her breath rasped in the chill rainwashed air. “Just go home. Come by the station tomorrow to sign your statement. I’m sorry.”
Selene shrugged. “Great. Just go home, he says.” She heard the funny breathless tone in her own voice. She was close to the edge, so close—did Jack think she was numb and grieving? Or did he guess that she wouldn’t be able to grieve until the need pounding in her blood was blotted out?
Grieve, hell. There was something sharp as a broken bone in her chest. I’m going to get whoever did this.
Nikolai stepped forward. His eyes were depthless. “I will take her, Jack. Thank you.”
Jack nodded. “Go with—”
“Like a good little girl, right?” Her voice sounded shrill even to herself, it bounced off the alley’s walls and came back to her through a layer of cotton wool. “What I’m hearing is that you’re not going to work too hard, because it’s a P-fucking-C. Right?”
Jack’s shoulders hunched as if she’d hit him. “Paranormal cases are technically not the jurisdiction of the Saint City police force, until the new laws go into effect. They’re the jurisdiction of—”
“Of the reigning prime paranormal Power in the city.” She stepped away from Jack and his hand fell down to his side, releasing her. “Which means Nikolai. Which means I can kiss any hope of finding out who did this to my brother goodbye.”
“Not necessarily.” Nikolai’s eyes never left her. He moved closer, not precisely crowding her, but stepping past Jack without so much as glancing at the detective. “Cooperate with me, Selene, and I will see the killer brought to you, for your revenge. Will you take that bargain?”
Jack coughed, uncomfortably. “I’ve got to go. Sorry, Selene.”
You son of a bitch. Both of you. “Are you really,” she said, flatly, and turned on her heel. She put her head down, started to walk. At least she wasn’t staggering. Oh, God. Danny. What happened to you? Who did this to you?
Nikolai murmured something behind her—no doubt talking to Jack, something along the lines of women, irrational, what can you do, she’ll see reason in the morning.
It was too much. Rage and something like a sob made flesh draw tighter and tighter under her breastbone, and the tension snapped.
Selene ran.
CHAPTER 4
BY THE TIME SHE REACHED CLIFF STREET, SHE WAS stumbling. She’d fallen once, scraping her palms on pavement, and scrambled to her feet, looking up to see a shadow flitting over a rooftop above her. He didn’t
even have the decency to try and conceal himself.
Her hands jittered. Her keys jangled, her scraped palms singing in pain. Her heart threatened to burst out of her chest. Sweat rolled down her spine, soaked into the waistband of her jeans.
She checked the street behind her, deserted under the orange streetlamps. It took her three tries to unlock the door to her apartment building, her breath coming high and harsh and fast, expecting to feel a hand closing on her shoulder at any moment.
The run up her own stairs took on a nightmarish quality, moving too slowly while something chased her from behind. Those had been the worst dreams when she was little, running through syrup while the monster snarled behind, gaining on her.
Doors. Her own door. She fumbled out her keys, tried to unlock it, made a short sound of agonized frustration when her fingers slipped.
Finally the key slid into the lock.
She twisted it, opened her door, yanked the key out, kicked the door shut with a resounding slam. She threw the deadbolt, then turned around and hurled her keys down her dark hall.
Nikolai plucked the keyring out of the air, his signet ring glittering. One moment her pretty, spacious one-bedroom apartment was empty—the next moment, a slight breeze brushed Selene’s cheek and she let out a strangled scream. The protections placed in the walls of her apartment and the whole building shuddered with a sound like a crystal wineglass ringing, stroked just right. Don’t worry, nobody will hear it, I’m the only Talent in the building. A merry little party, just Nikolai and me.
And whatever he’s going to do to me.
Selene whirled and started trying to unbolt the door. Her sweat-slick fingers slipped against cold metal. Christ why can’t he leave me ALONE?
“Stop.” He was suddenly there, laying the keys down on the small table by the front door. His fingers bit into her shoulder and he yanked her back, locked the second deadbolt with his other hand. The sound of the lock going home was the clang of a prison cell closing.
