Assassins Bite

by Mary Hughes

  The boy released his middle. How had the man known he was there?

  “Come out, boy.”

  Slowly, the boy did.

  The man smiled—flashing fangs.

  The boy ran, but it was too late.

  If Aiden Blackthorne thought he could plunk me down, order me to stay, and that would be the end of it, he didn’t know me very well. I had a job to do.

  I stomped into the station, fumbling with my belt to release my keys. I could so use me some anti-ninja cuffs. As I unlocked the restraints from my wrist, I found myself fingering them, naughty uses on certain sexy ninjas in mind.

  Abruptly I jammed the cuffs into the holder on my duty belt—not the small of the back because I’m not rupturing my L-5 disk—and mounted the stairs to the second floor. That trap in the park, with its electrified pool and the salt nearby, had been set deliberately. For Blackthorne? Most Wanted be damned, if Smith had tried to kill him, that put her at the top of my personal to-do list. As soon as I talked to Elena, I’d run the dark sedan’s plates.

  Three scarred desks held the combined clutter of busy detectives sharing space across multiple shifts. During the day all three desks would be full, but graveyard was only Elena and my brother.

  Yet all of them were empty, especially the desk I wanted. I headed for it to see if I could find where she was.

  Three sets of pictures took pride of place, including a family shot of my hero with a baby on her lap, her Viking of a husband, her blonde cheerleader sister, the sister’s husband and their family of three. I stole some peanuts from the ever-present box of Cracker Jacks Detective Gruen used as a paperweight and munched as I searched. Nearby Lieutenant Roet’s calming fountain burbled—I’d babysat his eight kids and honestly, he needed it just to stay sane.

  The phone on my brother’s desk rang. I hesitated answering. The phones were the same black Bakelite they’d been for fifty years, without caller ID. But it might be important. I trotted over and picked up the handset. “Detectives’ unit, Ruffles speaking.”

  “Dirk, your voice has changed,” Elena said dryly.

  “Detective Strongwell!” I snapped to attention. “I was just looking for you.”

  “You’re supposed to be keeping track of Blackthorne.”

  “I was…I mean I did…I mean I found him but he sort of deposited me here…well not deposited exactly—”

  “Detective Ma’am!” Dirk’s rasp came from the speaker, sounding distant. “Fancy meeting you here. Are you and your husband on vampire patrol?”

  I heard a hasty hand thrown over the phone. It didn’t quite cover the voices. “Dirk,” Elena said patiently. “What have we talked about?”

  “No using the v-word in public,” Dirk sang as if parroting an often-taught lesson. “But I didn’t, Detective Ma’am. I didn’t say ‘v-word’. I said ‘vampire’.”

  “So you did, Dirk.” There was a smile in Elena’s voice. “What’s that you’re carrying? Never mind, I don’t think I want to know. Why don’t you head back to the station? I’ll meet you there later.” She uncovered and said to me, “Look, Sun-Hee, we need to talk. I’m busy for the next several hours, but I’ll be back by end of shift to write my reports. Meet me at the police station, okay? No later than seven a.m.” She hung up.

  We need to talk. Because I’d lost Blackthorne again? You had one job…

  My arm fell from my ear, and I sank into Dirk’s chair.

  I shook myself. Find Smith. That would both impress Elena and keep Blackthorne safe.

  I pulled up Dirk’s computer keyboard—Meiers Corners is caught in a fifties’ time warp but we had some twentieth century goodies courtesy of Liese and Logan Steel—and hit the enter key to wake the system. The old-fashioned CRT screen brightened as the computer came out of hibernation, displaying a login.

  I typed my brother’s usual user name, “DIRK” and his usual password—“DIRK”.

  And I was in. I flexed my fingers and got busy. The old ’98 desktop—Liese was good but she could only newtech us so far—had three icons, a wastebasket, a file folder and an Internet browser. I clicked the browser, started the run on the sedan’s plates then set up a search for info on Smith.

  The plates came back first. Stolen. Then, to further brighten my night, Elle Louise Smith had no record beyond the Most Wanted. None, no birth, Social Security, not even an alias.

  Damn. I got up and paced. Maybe if I figured out why Smith set the trap for Blackthorne. Something personal?

  Blackthorne would know. I needed to talk to him. At best, he’d know background on Smith, at worst, I could warn him about her.

  It was only good police work. It had nothing to do with wanting to see him again.

  I grabbed notepaper and pencil and put in a call to Little Miss Orgasmvoice.

  “Hello, Officer. Aiden isn’t here right now but I’ll call you the moment he comes in.”

  Crunch. I’d stabbed the pencil into the desk so hard it cracked. “Um, thanks.” I grinned at the empty room and swept the pieces into the trash then grabbed another pencil. “Do you have his home address?”

  “Oh, he’s casual labor. He doesn’t have a home address.”

  “Then where’s he sleeping?”

  “Anywhere he wants.”

  How helpful. I thanked her and hung up. Elena knew he came from Minneapolis, she might know where he was staying while he was in town. I’d ask her when I met with her.

  In the meantime, if not his job or home, maybe I could use past patterns to figure out what he did with his time.

  Besides being shadowy and slicing off vampire heads and thrusting his tongue into my mouth and his hand down my…

  Focus. What did he do when he wasn’t trucking? Go to the library—when it was closed. Show up at a park—when a bunch of criminals were there.

  It hit me like a palm to the face. Smith was a murderer, armed robber and drug dealer. Everything— Blackthorne’s lame cover of returning a book he didn’t have, and his eagerness to get rid of me—could be explained if she was his dealer, and he was trying to meet with her and didn’t want witnesses while he bought his eight-ball of blow.

  Although, what was tonight, then? Had he stiffed her somehow…okay, maybe not the best word in connection with hard-bodied Blackthorne. But maybe she’d tried to send him to swim with the fishes, vampire-style.

  So, find where the local drug dealers hung. If nothing else, it was a possible lead on Smith.

  Big cities have a narcotics unit, but in Meiers Corners all the detectives worked all the cases. I pulled up Dirk’s keyboard, woke the system and clicked on the folder icon.

  A window popped up, bristling more folders. One was labeled “Dog”. Curious, I clicked. Inside was a text file containing one sentence. “Not a cat.”

  Another was labeled “Recipes”, including instructions for a bacon-wrapped chocolate bar. I filed that for later.

  I clicked and clicked but found nothing related to crime. Where was everything? These files looked like they were organized by a rampaging two-year-old.

  “Sunny!”

  I jumped. Speaking of wild toddlers. “Hi, Dirk.”

  “Mom asked me to bring you the lunch she packed but you forgot at home. A Gorgon’s Ola cheese sandwich and pistachio fluff for dessert!” He held up a paper bag, bottom leaking drips of glowing green slime, sizzling like acid eating rock. LLAMA, besides having sewing techniques taught to Navy SEALs, are notorious for their church supper specialties, many of which can double as munitions.

  “Dirk, I’d love to, but I have other plans.” To keep my stomach where it was.

  “Mom also packed you a yummy chicken salad sandwich with watercress and sliced baby cucumbers and Paul Newtman dressing.”

  I paused. That sounded almost edible. “Really?”

  Dirk nodded until his hat rattled. Hopefully his hat
. “Mom’s finding all sorts of links on InvertebratesOnTheMenu.com, including ‘Butter Beans and Beetles’ and ‘Wasabi Wigglers’ and—”

  “Yup, thanks. Other plans.” Newtman. “Hey Dirk, do you know anything about these computer files?”

  “Sure! Captain Titus needed some quiet time so he put me on filing detail.”

  “Right.” That explained the chaotic nature of the system. “Where’s the information on illegal drugs and dealers?”

  “Under birds, of course.”

  “Right again.” My brother’s leaps in logic might not make sense to most people, but I speak Dirk. I clicked on “Birds”, subcategory “Sick”, and under that, “Medicine”.

  Yup. Ill eagles and drugs. Illegal drugs.

  The list was extremely thin, stuff like Pieter Fenster, pusher—because he’d been deputized to dispense aspirin at the school nurse’s station. The only real drug charge was Bart Bleistift, who’d been caught with a gram of cocaine, but that was several years ago and he’d moved since.

  I clicked the file shut. The drug lead seemed good but wasn’t yielding a lot. I huffed a disappointed breath.

  A folder labeled “Bed” caught my eye. Just for grins and giggles, I clicked.

  Sure enough, a subfolder underneath was “Monsters”. Clicking, I caught sight of a folder labeled “Fangs”. Curious, I opened it.

  This folder was filled with subfolders labeled Strongwell, Emerson, Steel, Holiday—and Blackthorne.

  “There’s green bean casserole.” Dirk dug a square storage container out of the disintegrating bag, popped the lid and stuck it in my face. “Beans, cream of mushroom soup, rehydrated with milk and tequila, and fried worms, yum.”

  I thought he meant dried onions until he added, “Mom read they’re full of protein.”

  Yikes. A new culinary delight. While I wanted to dig into that Blackthorne file—in a totally professional search for information—self-preservation came first. “Save it for me for an after-work snack?”

  “Sure.”

  While he was storing it in his desk, I beat a strategic retreat. Outside, I went back on patrol.

  Yeah, Blackthorne told me to stay inside. And foot patrol in other cities can be frightening and frustrating. But in Meiers Corners, where the worst criminals are sixteen-year-olds stealing smokes, I didn’t have much to do but think.

  Some hours later I found myself marching past Dawn Truck Lines. Huh. Maybe I should go in, see if Blackthorne was in and warn him. Even if he wasn’t there, I could interrogate the other unnaturally gorgeous guys loading freight. Guys talk, right? They might know his haunts.

  I checked the time. Six thirty. Half an hour to Elena’s drop-dead time, but as long as I was here, I might as well try. I pushed inside.

  I took a breath and immediately wished I hadn’t. Grit and oil peppered air that was already seventy-five percent diesel and coffee fumes, both strong and burnt.

  The woman at the desk nearest the door was an impossibly gorgeous redhead with skin as translucent as bone china. If ever there was a candidate for being a vampire, she was it. Her nameplate read “Kitty”. She was packing up but as I came in, her gaze rose to me. “May I help you?”

  She was the phone sex voice purring bucking and come and Aiden. I had to work not to get my back up. “Officer Ruffles. I’m here to see Aiden Blackthorne.”

  “Good choice, Officer.” Her eyes actually twinkled. Good thing I didn’t have any pencils. “But no one’s here.”

  “It’s almost first shift and the place is empty? Where is everyone?”

  The receptionist pulled her purse from a desk drawer and tucked it under her arm. “We’re an overnight freight service, Officer. We work at night.” She didn’t quite roll her eyes, but her face said clearly I was being as dense as LLAMA pudding.

  “Nobody’s here at all? Not even the truckers?”

  “They’re bedded down for the day.” Her eyes went far away as if she was sensing life-forces or maybe hearing heartbeats. “Actually, one is up. I don’t know who, but he’s in back.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “Stay as long as you want. I’m locking up.” She bolted the front door. “You can leave the back way.” She crossed to the back hallway, hips swaying like a hula dancer.

  I waited before following so my own hips didn’t get an inferiority complex, then headed for the back. No one in the docks so I explored, finding an inner door. I opened it to tile and warm steam.

  And Aiden Blackthorne, just emerging from the shower.

  Chapter Ten

  Blackthorne was toweling his hair, the black locks tousled like he was coming from bed. He was freshly shaved, his jaw dewy. It was actually more stark without the stubble of a beard.

  The hair towel was the only one he had.

  Naked and clean. Yum.

  Water droplets glittered like lickable diamonds on the rounded muscles of his chest. My gaze followed their trickling paths over the hard terrain, through hillock abs to the deep dark forest of hair below.

  “Sunny.” His cock was filling and standing up to meet me, smooth, long and wonderfully thick. I tried to swallow but my throat wouldn’t work.

  “Sunny,” he said again.

  My eyes rose to his. His black gaze was fastened to mine, as if his soul had questions only I could answer.

  The only question I could think of was floor or countertop?

  As if he’d read my thoughts, he glided closer, looped the towel around the back of my neck and walked me backward into the wall.

  He kissed me. His body was hard, pressing against me, but his mouth was soft, sweet. Enticing. Little licks fizzed along my lips and had me laughing in delight.

  Why did I think of shadows with him? He was sunshine and laughter. Or at least he was now, kissing me with his clothes off and his shields down, naked in both soul and body. I grabbed him and kissed him back with my whole heart.

  He broke the kiss first. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you. What are you doing?”

  “Showering off the stink of Lestats. I spent most of the night carting pieces back to Chicago.” He paused. “I spent the rest trying to talk myself out of looking for you.” He shook his head. “You’re a cop.”

  “You’re a criminal.”

  “I still have eight days.”

  We stared into each other’s eyes. And then we were kissing again like we were starving.

  “Wait.” I pushed him away; it was like pushing a cliff. “This is wrong.”

  He stepped back, confusion—disappointment?—on his face. “Why?”

  “Because I owe you.” Thanking my martial arts training for strong quads, I dropped into a half-crouch, my head level with his hips, and sucked his cock into my mouth.

  He hissed. The double slap over my head was his palms hitting the wall. Above me his abs clenched, tight with the need to keep still.

  Satisfactory. I began bobbing along the length of him. He grew fatter yet, and longer, until he practically burst from my mouth. If I hadn’t been so intent on giving him his returned favor, I’d have marched him back to the office and the first available desk, shoved him down and climbed on top. Or maybe we wouldn’t have gotten as far as the desk.

  He got so big I was in danger of choking. I doubled my fists over his shaft, backed off until just the head was in the heat of my mouth and began to pump my hands over him.

  He gasped. “My sweet Sunny. The feel of you on my cock is amazing.”

  That rumbling purr started above me. I pistoned my hands up and down the silky skin of his shaft and swirled my tongue around his glans, teasing out a drop of liquid desire. That triggered my own purr.

  I pumped harder. His purr rumbled louder. His hips began to jerk as if he wanted to thrust along, and thrust deep. I tried to accommodate him, to bob my mouth in con
cert with my hands, and nearly asphyxiated myself. He was really too large to deep throat.

  At my choking, he tugged me up. “Sunny, stop. That’s enough.”

  “Not nearly. I climaxed. You haven’t yet.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” He petted my hair. “That was the best fellatio I’ve ever had. You’ve more than paid me back.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “No, I—” His words cut off when I dropped to my haunches, grabbed his glans with my mouth and tightened my lips around him.

  Slowly, I pushed forward until I’d gone as far as I could.

  “Sunny, don’t. You don’t have to prove anything to me.” He gasped it.

  Except I did. The mouse that roared. I opened my throat and, by concentrating on dropping my jaw and tongue as far as possible, stuffed the last few inches in.

  “Fuck me.” He groaned and began purring like mad.

  I released one fist to tickle his balls. They were tight to his body, ready to explode.

  Heh. Payback was such a lovely bitch.

  One more thing. I ringed a hand around the base of his erection, clenching tight to keep him from climaxing. Then I pistoned over him at a hot, hard pace. I deliberately drove him to the edge—and beyond, because with my ringing hand he couldn’t orgasm.

  His purr cut. A snarl erupted, hard and bestial, as I drove him higher and higher still. His hands threaded in my hair, clutching, and I could tell how much self-control it was taking not to yank out strands.

  Yes. I slowed, letting him get a good long look at what was coming.

  He hissed my name. Now. I opened my throat, jammed him in as far as he would go, released my ringing hand and swallowed against his ripe, swollen glans.

  He roared and began to orgasm great geysers. The contractions of his balls, tight to my chin, were so strong they echoed through to my bones. I could handle one of those before I had to pull off him. Even in the throes of orgasm, he pressed the towel to my face, cleaning me and catching the rest of his climax. It seemed to go on forever. By the end, we were both panting hard.

  “Sunny,” he managed.