Helene stood at the door to the building, watching Sanchez walk away. He had offered to escort her home, a chivalrous gesture. She wanted no part of it. Or him.
She could take care of herself. And although she didn’t care to admit it, having him anywhere near her home and a bed might prove seriously dangerous.
Besides, she had taken a moment to look up “blood bank” in their databases and come up with a hit that had surprised her—it was the name of a nearby Goth bar that had seen its share of trouble with the law. Not the kind of place she had expected their über-responsible and seemingly by-the-book ADIC to frequent. The place was so much out of his league it made her wonder if he was working on another case there.
She wasn’t tired and could use something to drive her thoughts away from the encounter with her partner, so she headed off in the direction of the club. According to the map, the Blood Bank was only several blocks away.
She hurried, eager to wash off the stench of human emotions covering her. She shouldn’t have allowed Sanchez to goad her, or to make her feel her attraction for him. Or worse, to reveal things she had kept controlled for so long. Now they had oozed out and tainted her.
A quick pleasure-filled fuck would be just the thing to cleanse herself of the troubling emotions, and of the unexpected need she felt for her too-compassionate and too-honorable partner.
When she reached the Blood Bank, there was no line at the door and the bouncer barely lifted his head as she entered. Inside the club, darkness prevailed. Nearly every surface was painted black. The patrons were also dressed in black, and sported a variety of piercings and tattoos.
She searched for what she knew would be the one spot of color in the room—her ADIC.
She wasn’t disappointed. She easily spotted the khaki of his suit at the back of the club where he sat with a Goth-looking woman.
Interesting.
She headed in his direction, eager to learn his secrets.
Chapter Six
The woman with the Assistant Director was at least a decade younger than Hernandez, which put her in her mid-twenties. She was dressed in a black cotton T-shirt under a black leather jacket. Her black hair fell in choppy layers against a roundish face with intense eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea.
Pretty, but with a hardness about her that Helene recognized. It mirrored her own.
The woman had known suffering, and a lot of it, despite her young age.
As Helene approached, the young woman met Helene’s gaze dead-on, unafraid. And with good reason. Helene sensed the thrum of undead power pouring off the other woman’s body.
A vampire.
Or maybe not. The pulse of power was irregular. Either she wasn’t a full-blood vampire, or she had only been recently turned. Too much humanity remained for her to be one-hundred percent vamp.
Seeing the distraction in his date, the ADIC slowly turned to look behind him, but not before cautiously slipping his hand beneath his jacket to rest on the grip of his weapon.
When he realized who it was, a bright splotch of color erupted along his high, sculpted cheekbones and he withdrew his other hand from where it had been holding the young woman’s.
“Special Agent Alexander,” he greeted. So he wasn’t undercover. “Is there an emergency?” He lifted a brow, striving for that annoyed-boss look. It failed miserably.
Helene made a point of taking in his finger-rumpled hair and the partially unbuttoned shirt that spoke of a recent quick tryst. When he noticed her perusal, the stain of color deepened on his cheeks and he coughed. “Alexander? Is there something I can do for you?”
She shouldn’t have been enjoying his embarrassment, but she found it refreshing that her dour and demanding boss seemed to be involved with one of the undead. She stuck out her hand to the young woman, and said, “Special Agent Helene Alexander.”
Her ADIC’s date shot a puzzled look at him before finally grasping her hand. “Michaela Ramirez.”
As she shook Michaela’s hand, there was no denying the existence of immortal power. But it was tainted by mortal weakness. Michaela must have sensed the difference in Helene, too. She pulled her hand back and rubbed it briskly, as if to ward off any lingering transfer of power, and narrowed her eyes.
“So you’re with the FBI—” Michaela began.
Hernandez cut her off. “And she’s leaving right now, unless there’s something work-related that can’t wait until the morning.”
With a smile, she glanced between the two of them. “Didn’t mean to intrude, Sir. I just came in to get a drink.”
Before he could reply, she strode away and headed for the bar along the far wall. Like everything else in the place, except her boss, the wooden bar was black, and bore an assortment of ruts and grooves that spoke of a violent past. Figured. She shot a quick glance at the patrons. The club was filled with a rough lot of Goth-type humans. She also felt a number of vampires weaving through the crowd, probably in search of a midnight snack.
“What can I get you?” someone asked, and slapped a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of her.
The man behind the bar had an air of authority about him that said he was more than just a bartender. Tall, with dark, white-tipped hair, he had roped muscles and pale skin. Too pale. She met his steely gray gaze and he bent forward and sniffed the air around her, as if that might tell him more about her. If he was an immortal, he would sense her pulsating power, just as she sensed his.
“What are you?” he asked, leaning his hands on the edge of the scarred bar top.
“I’m Special Agent Helene Alexander,” she replied, reached into her jacket pocket and flashed him her credentials.
Unimpressed, the man chuckled and shook his head. “We’ve had your kind in here before, Special Agent. Ended up joining the crowd instead of fighting it.”
An FBI agent who chose to become one of the undead? Certainly not her Assistant Director. Hernandez was completely mortal, unlike his squeeze. Helene had sensed nothing unusual about him with her second sight. Or with her touch when they’d briefly shaken hands at their introduction.
She briefly wondered which other agent it might be. “I just came in for a drink, nothing else,” she assured him.
Once again the man just laughed, heartier this time, and leaned his forearms on the bar. The action brought him closer. The overwhelming power of vampire swept over her as he said, “That’s a shame, I could think of some interesting things we could do all night long.”
She eyed him coolly. “What makes you think I’d have any interest in a vamp like you?”
With a wistful smile, the bartender said, “I get the feeling we’re two of a kind.”
“You think you’re like me?” she retorted, but as he leaned toward her again, his powerful immortal aura came close enough for her to read him. His hand brushed hers, and visions of his past rushed through her. Scenes of violence and loneliness. Of abuse suffered at the hands of someone more powerful. She jerked away.
The revelations dissipated, and calm settled over his aura. It was the kind of calm few were born with, and others only obtained by enduring some extreme challenge. A challenge where justice had finally been served, soothing a troubled soul. It was a powerful and enticing kind of calm.
He must have sensed the connection that had sprung between. He said, “Sometimes it helps to just have a friend.”
In all her existence, Helene had never had true friends. Not even among the other gods and goddesses, who were always busy playing games to maintain their standing with Zeus.
“You think we could be friends?” she challenged.
He smiled, shrugged, and placed a shot glass on the counter before her. “Stranger things have been known to happen,” he replied, but in his eyes she caught a glitter of interest that said friendship wasn’t the only thing he had in mind.
Deciding his dare might not only be entertaining, but also help drive thoughts of her too-tempting partner from her mind, she said, “I guess we’ll just have to see, Mr.—?”
“Foley,” he said, and offered his hand. “Daniel Foley.”
Chapter Seven
The dream came to Miguel again that night. But this time, as the young woman began to scream, the wounded woman in her arms rose and faced him. Only it wasn’t the woman he had inadvertently killed.
It was Helene.
The right side of her face was covered in blood and her rich ebony curls were matted with it. In the center of her chest, a large gaping bullet wound bled profusely, staining the electric white of her shirt.
He lowered his weapon and stammered, “I—I’m sorry.”
Her lips thinned into a condemning line as she raised bloodstained hands. “You should have pulled the trigger.”
Miguel bolted upright in bed, soaked in sweat, his heart pounding. With a deep, shuddering breath, he reined in the fear that his nightmare had created. As he waited for his pulse to return to normal, he told himself it was just a dream. It was just the guilt he could not drive away. Not any kind of prophetic vision.
He got up, showered, and headed to the office early, stopping for his usual cup of coffee and bagel on the way. There was still a great deal to do on the Butcher case, and very little time if they were to prevent another killing.
It might already be too late. If their developing profile of the killer was accurate, the next victim was likely already dead.
As the elevator door opened and he stepped out, he could see Helene across the length of the room. His heart sped up again, but not with fear.
The wild curls of her hair flew as she jerked her head up and looked directly at him. Slowly her lips curved in a welcoming smile, dragging one to his own lips as he approached her desk.
There seemed to be something different about her this morning. Something more relaxed. If he didn’t know better, he would say that she had the look of a well-loved woman. But Helene didn’t strike him as the loving type. Maybe the wild monkey sex type.
He didn’t like that his gut tightened with jealousy at the idea that wild monkey sex was what had put that heavy-lidded, sensual shimmer in her eyes.
“Long night?” he blurted out, and immediately regretted it when her inviting smile became brittle.
“Jealous?” she zinged back.
Because shock was probably the only thing that would make a dent in his new partner’s overconfidence, he answered, “Possibly.”
It accomplished his goal. Her mouth flopped open and closed like a goldfish before she snapped it shut and said nothing else.
Nothing.
Score one for him.
The taut silence between them was shattered by the chirp of both their cell phones.
He looked at his. “Detective Daly.”
She looked at hers, and said, “It’s the ADIC.”
They both answered and listened, gazes locked on each other.
Helene said, “We’ll get right on it,” and hung up. Miguel told Daly, “We’ll be at the scene shortly,” punched the off button, and cursed.
“We’re too late,” she said. Sadness and frustration tinged her voice.
He laid a hand on her shoulder in consolation. “We got this assignment too late to make a difference for this one, but we will next time.”
“If he keeps to his schedule, we’ve only got two weeks.”
“A lot can happen in two weeks,” he assured her.
She met his gaze. The earlier satisfaction in her eyes was gone, replaced by grim determination. But mixed in was another realization, which also flooded through him.
A lot could happen in two weeks. And not just about the case. But with them, too.
In the short time they had been working together, things had already drastically changed between them. In two weeks… He swallowed at the possibilities.
“We can do this. Together, right?” She surprised him by reaching out and taking hold of his hand.
“Together,” he said, giving hers a reassuring squeeze before they broke apart and headed for the elevator.
Victim number five was a white male in his mid-twenties, well-built in a men’s fitness magazine kind of way. It was hard to estimate his size in light of the way he was posed, body curled downward as if protecting the single red rose he held in his bound, lifeless hands.
Helene could tell the rose bothered Miguel. A lot.
“The unsub’s not getting the same satisfaction as before,” he said, frowning as he kneeled beside the body, reviewing the bindings on the victim’s ankles, thighs, and wrists. The position of the body was also likely hiding the worst of the injuries, but Helene suspected that they, too, would be more severe than before.
“For sure,” she said.
She knelt beside the body, and with her gloved hand touched the victim. A blur of sounds and images filled her mind, screaming for her to avenge him. The energies still lingering about the corpse were so intense a knot of pain formed in the center of her brain.
Pulling her hand away to end the connection, she gazed at Miguel intently. “You’re right. The killer’s not happy with his work and he’s trying to perfect it. That’s why he added the rose as a prop.”
Miguel stood and peered around the crime scene—an alley between two apartment buildings barely a mile and a half from the last dump site. A garbage crew had discovered the body when they went to empty the Dumpster behind the building.
“This area is much more exposed than the ones he’s used before,” he said. “He took a greater risk to place the body here.” He motioned to the nearby structures and the garbage truck, which sat just a few feet away. Every now and then a breeze blew into the alley and stirred up the stench from the truck’s hopper.
Helene glanced up at the buildings, then down the alley. The disjointed images she had gathered from the victim brought no connection with the location, which meant the victim had been dead before being brought here.
At the far end of the alley, two police cruisers pulled in. Detective Daly got out of one and headed their way.
“Detective,” Helene said with a nod as Daly came to stand beside them. Miguel echoed her greeting.
His face grim, Daly offered them a report. “First officer on the scene called it in and immediately had the area sealed off. The sanitation men are being taken to the local precinct. They’ve offered an initial statement, but we figured you’d want to conduct a more detailed interrogation.”
“You figured right, Daly,” Miguel replied.
“Anything from the occupants of either of the two buildings?” Helene asked.
“We just started a door-to-door, but this is New York. People aren’t going to pay much attention to what’s happening, especially at all hours of the night.” Daly gestured toward the victim. “No rigidity in the body yet. We’re estimating the TOD as around midnight. Once the ME gets him bagged and tagged, she can confirm that.”
Daly held up an evidence bag containing the victim’s driver’s license. “The Butcher left this beside the body.”
The implications hit Helene with certainty. “He thinks he’s smarter than we are. It’s a challenge for us to find him.”
Miguel nodded grimly. Unfortunately, he agreed.
As soon as the victim got to the morgue and the ME completed her examination, he and Helene would get more information for their profile. Meanwhile…
He looked at her and asked, “Are we done here?”
“I’m done.” She whirled and started back to their car. Abruptly, she stopped and turned back to him. “I’m sorry. Are you ready, partner?”
Miguel hid his pleasure at her clear attempt at thoughtfulness. She’d told him being friendly and a team player didn’t come easily to her. Bitchiness was more natural, she’d said. So he was happy that his time with her was creating a welcome change in her persona.
With a nod, he faced Daly. “Can you call us when the vic’s been transported to the ME?”
“Certainly, partner,” Daly replied with a wry grin.
“I assume we’re off to the nearest precinct?
” Helene asked Miguel.
“We are,” he replied, and with that, she strode off toward the mouth of the alley where they had parked.
Daly muttered, “Man. She’s high maintenance.”
Miguel couldn’t deny it, but her attempt at being partnerly coupled with the sexy swing of her hips and the view of her gorgeous ass as she walked away made it all worth putting up with.
“Definitely a handful,” he agreed, and strode after her.
When he turned the corner to where they had parked, she was already sitting in the passenger seat, looking regal as she waited for him. Funny, really. Considering all the other ways she wanted to be dominant, when it came to driving, she always deferred to him.
He opened the door, leaned in, and teased, “What’s the matter, princess? Don’t feel like driving?”
With a roll of her eyes, she shifted toward the dash and peered up through the windshield. “Kind of Goth, don’t you think? Almost like a castle?”
Miguel turned and scanned the buildings. She was right. The architecture of the structures bordering the alley was different from the others around the area. Definitely more Gothic, especially with the crenellated tops.
He slid into the car and said, “Leave it to a princess to notice castles.”
“Why are you calling me that?” Annoyance flared in the tones of her voice.
He started up the engine. “You’ve got attitude, Helene. Although I appreciate that you are working on that.”
Helene regarded Miguel. Anyone else might have been angry at his comments, but she simply accepted their accuracy. She did have attitude, and didn’t consider it a bad thing. It was tough not to since she was a goddess.
A goddess who could cause him great pain by laying her hands on him. Not that she wanted to do that. She would never hurt him.
However, laying her hands on him…
She buried the thought deep.
“Would you rather I was milder? More subservient?”
“Never, princess. You’re much more fun this way.”
What did he mean by that? He didn’t look at her as he spoke, focusing instead on making a U-turn so they could drive to the precinct.
For Love or Vengeance Page 5
