by S. J. Harper
“It’s somewhere downtown in the Gaslamp District.” He leans toward me. “Do you think the vampire connection is important?”
“Truthfully, I’m not sure. But I’m glad you told me. It’s one more lead to pursue.” I read his next question in the shadow of anxiety in his expression. “Nothing we spoke of today will ever be part of the official record. It can’t be.”
Dexter closes his eyes for an instant, settling back in his chair. When he opens them again, the darkness is gone. “You have no idea how tied up in knots I’ve been about this. I love Isabella. But I just knew if I told the police what I told you, they’d ship me to Sharp Mesa Vista Hospital for a psychiatric evaluation.” As quickly as the optimism has appeared, it’s swallowed up by a grim frown. “Then again, if I had told them, maybe Isabella would be home instead of God knows where.”
“Don’t do that to yourself. You were right when you said how the police would have reacted.” That, of course, is true. But what I say next sounds like cold comfort, even to my own ears. “Don’t give up hope. We’re not.”
Dexter reaches into his pocket, pulls out a piece of paper, opens it, and slides it across the table toward me.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“A receipt from the Blood Emporium. Isabella always paid cash. I found this in her room. She went there on the day she disappeared, then came home afterward. Someone there might have been the last person to see Isabella before she disappeared. Maybe she said something. Maybe someone at the Emporium saw something.”
I glance at the date on the slip, refold it, and slip it into my handbag. “Thanks for this.”
“You’ll look into it?” he asks.
“I’ll look into it,” I assure him.
Yet Dexter still looks uncertain. “I feel horrible. Before now, I didn’t know who to go to. Do you think this is too little too late?”
“No. Every detail is important.” I push my chair away from the table and stand up. “Thank you for trusting me. I promise to be in touch.”
He takes my outstretched hand but doesn’t get up with me. I glance back once on the way to the exit. He’s staring down at the table, as still and inanimate as one of his statues.
CHAPTER 11
It’s not easy to put that last image of Dexter out of my mind as I drive to the office. It would be a miracle if we found Isabella after two months. Was it possible she didn’t want to be found? Dexter seemed convinced she was taken. But maybe she’d merely decided living a double life was too hard and left to find sanctuary with her own kind. If that’s the case, we’ll never find her.
What I do find when I approach my cubicle is a note on my desk from Zack. I’m in the conference room. I stop just long enough to text Liz before trekking off to find him. I ask her to see if Evan knows anything about the Blood Emporium in the Gaslamp District.
Zack has taken over the conference room we usually use for staff meetings and potlucks. The long table is now scattered with the folders stacked in neat little piles. The whiteboard is covered with notes, some handwritten directly on it in blue or red pen, others on Post-its of various colors. Zack is sitting at the far end, hand suspended in midair as if he’s forgotten the cup held halfway to his mouth. He’s staring at the notes. I take a moment to observe him.
“Waiting for an invitation? Come and join the party.”
Note to self: it’s hard to spy on a werewolf.
He puts his cup down. “The coffee’s fresh.”
I shake my head. “I think I met my caffeine quota before lunch today.” I look over at the board. “Anything?”
“No.” The one word is spit out in disappointment and irritation. “And my research into Barakov’s first wife went nowhere, either.”
“Well, the board looks lovely. Very . . . colorful.”
He gives me the fish-eye. “Where have you been all afternoon? Fending off attacks from the Nordstrom perfume girl?”
I ignore the gibe and close the door to the conference room.
Zack immediately perks up. “You’ve got something worth closing the door for? What?”
I sit down beside him. “I had a meeting with Michael Dexter.”
“How did that happen?”
“He called me right after you and I hung up this morning. He asked if I could meet him.” Now comes the tricky part, how to address the matter of Isabella’s nature. I need to convey to Zack my knowledge of the supernatural world, without intimating that I’m part of it. I’d like to be able to do it without him feeling threatened, exposed. But after thinking it through, I don’t think I can. This could be an important new lead, and whatever his reaction, I’ll come up with a way to deal with it.
I draw a sharp breath. “There’s something about Isabella that he wanted to tell me. Something that wasn’t in the official police report.”
I have his complete attention. “Oh?”
“She’s a vampire, Zack.” Before he can sputter that vampires don’t exist and I must have had too much wine with lunch, I cut him off. “Don’t waste time pretending to be shocked or telling me that I’m crazy. This isn’t going to end up in any report. It won’t leave the room. But we both know vampires are as real as . . . well, werewolves.”
Both eyebrows shoot up, but he recovers quickly. He reaches out and places a hand on my forehead. “Are you running a fever?”
I push it away, then lower my voice and lean in close. “I won’t expose you, promise. But I know what you are. I’ve known it from the beginning. From the instant we met.”
Zack’s shoulders stiffen.
“This isn’t about you. It’s about Amy and Isabella.” I stand up and walk over to where photos of them are taped to the board. “They’re depending on me, on us. I feel time may be running out. We have a new angle to explore. I want to, I need to follow it. And I need your head in the game. I need you with me. We have to find out if any of the other kidnap victims were vampires. Can I count on you?”
I’m not only asking him to do his job; I’m asking for an admission as well.
Zack stares at me, mouth set in a hard line, fingers drumming the table. I can tell he wants to give me a firm yes, but something is holding him back, nagging at him. I’ll bet it has nothing to do with the case and everything to do with me. Quid pro quo.
We’re alone. I could insert a simple thought, a suggestion. He’d accept it, move on. But I can’t risk using my magic with him. I know that. So I stare back at him, waiting. Hoping.
“What are you?” he asks finally. “You’re not purely human, either. What happened last night in the kitchen was not just emotions running wild. It was something else. Something I think you made happen. Or encouraged to happen. It’s time for you to come clean.”
“What I am is not important. What happened in the kitchen was a mistake. One we should make sure doesn’t happen again.”
“A mistake? Is that what you call it?” His voice has an angry edge, but there’s something else in the tone, too. “Wow, and here I was, thinking it had something to do with magic. Only it wasn’t like any magic I’ve ever felt before. So much for trust.”
I swallow, resisting the urge to smooth things over.
Zack’s not letting up. He takes a step closer, lowers his voice. “You get to know my secrets, but I can’t know yours. Is that it, partner?”
His anger radiates outward like the heat from a torch. It makes me want to move away, out of range, before I get burned.
I hold my ground. “We’re not here to trade secrets, Zack. We’re here to solve a case. You’re losing focus. You—”
“Need to keep my head in the game.”
“Exactly. This isn’t personal.”
“Bullshit! You made this personal. Do you have any idea how many people I’ve shared my past with? I thought . . .” The anger vanishes. It’s replaced by something else, something far more difficu
lt to bear. Sadness. “You aren’t human. Something happened between us. You made it happen. And it’s something I can’t stop thinking about.” He moves in closer, restraint crumbling. The air between us thick with desire and tension. My breath hitches as I look up into his eyes.
“Nothing happened between us,” I say. “You need to leave it alone.”
At first, I think he’s going to argue. He leans toward me, eyes flashing. His hands are balled into fists at his sides. Then his shoulders relax and he takes a step back. “That’s the way you want to play this? Fine. I imagined everything. It’s your call. Like everything else, partner.”
I feel the sting of the last remark. It hangs in the air, like a wedge between us. I don’t expect him to apologize. He’s right.
Zack’s eyes drift to the window, a spark of alarm registering as he catches the lengthening rays of the sun. There’s less than an hour until sunset. “I’ve got to get home. I should be there already.”
Before I can draw in a breath, he’s already left the conference room. From the doorway I watch as he continues past his desk. He grabs his jacket off the back of his chair without breaking stride and heads for the elevator. He doesn’t bother to look back.
I gather my things and go back to my desk. It’s been a long day. It’s going to be an even longer night.
I glance out the windows. Darkness will soon be descending, lights from the building across the way bite into the gloom. It’s the third night of the full moon.
The elevator door opens and a delivery boy with a huge flower arrangement steps off. “Do you know Emma Monroe?”
Zack turns to face me. “I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.” He steps onto the elevator, and the door closes.
I motion the delivery boy over.
“Emma Monroe? These are for you.”
I take the flowers and open the card. It’s a thank-you from a grateful Michael Dexter. There’s also an invitation to a fund-raiser/auction at the Hotel Del Coronado tomorrow night. The event starts at seven and there will be two tickets waiting for me at the door.
It’s the same benefit Liz mentioned.
The office is nearly empty. I tuck the note and invitation in my handbag. It’s time to go home. The conference room lights are still on. I wander over and scan the whiteboard. I think of Amy, of Isabella, of Zack and all the work he’s been putting in trying to find them. I sink into the chair he’d occupied. My skin itches with frustration and impatience. I’ll go stir-crazy if I go home to an empty house. I need to be doing something.
Amy Patterson’s file is open. I peruse our notes. A bit of conversation floats to the surface.
Amy’s empty cupboards.
Amy orders in a lot.
I sit up straight.
Maybe. But maybe there’s another reason her cupboards and refrigerator are bare. I snatch up Amy’s keys from my desk drawer and head out.
• • •
The first thing I do after letting myself into Amy’s apartment is slip on latex gloves and recheck the bathroom cabinets. Nothing. Next, I look behind towels and sheets in the linen closet. Then I move things around in her closets. I methodically peer into every nook and cranny. No Protectus. No hidden cooler with blood bags. Perhaps she drinks straight from the source. Perhaps she stays cloistered behind those special tinted windows until sundown.
Perhaps I’m totally off the mark.
Back to the kitchen. Another search of the cupboards reveals no new results. I lean against the center island, eyes scanning the countertops. My gaze drops to the dishwasher. I open it. There are only four glasses in the upper rack, two wineglasses, and two juice glasses. There are lipstick smudges on the rims of the wineglasses, so the dishwasher has not been recently run. But there is no residue in the bottom of any of them, either. Amy probably rinsed them.
I pull them out. One by one I hold them up to the light, looking for a trace of what they might have held. I close my eyes, sniff the inside. Nothing. I frown at the four glasses, lined up like good little soldiers on the counter. Zack could probably tell me what each of them contained—if he were here. And speaking to me.
I withdraw a spray bottle of luminol from my handbag. Dousing the lights, I spray the glasses and stand back. A blue glow appears in the bottom and sides of each glass. The glow lasts only half a minute, but it’s enough to prove my theory.
Each glass held blood.
Amy Patterson is a vampire.
CHAPTER 12
Some days it’s pure pleasure to walk in my front door and close the world out behind me. Some days the stupid world follows me inside. I toss my keys, bag, and work files onto the coffee table and head for the bedroom. Now that the thrill of my earlier discovery is gone, I’m feeling restless again. In a minute, I’ve stripped out of the confines of my work clothes and into my favorite robe. It’s silk. The living, breathing fabric is one of the oldest in the world. Being wrapped in it usually affords me a modicum of comfort. Not tonight.
I pour a glass of wine. An old-world red this time, the last remaining from a case I bought two years ago. It’s complex, full-bodied, and very hard to find. Before I can take a sip, my cell phone rings.
I check the caller ID.
Liz.
I’m not ready to fill her in on the Zack situation. I’m tempted to let the call roll into voice mail. But then I remember I asked her to check with Evan about the Gaslamp’s Blood Emporium.
“Have you talked to Evan?” I ask as a greeting.
A sigh. “No. He sent me a text an hour ago. He has an important hearing tomorrow that he has to prepare for. He said not to wait up.”
“So you weren’t able to ask him about the Blood Emporiums?”
“Sorry. I do have someone else I could check with, though. I’ll call him in the morning if I don’t get a chance to ask Evan tonight.”
“I’m specifically interested in the place in the Gaslamp,” I remind her. Then I take a sip of my wine, taste the earthiness in the back of my throat, swallow. “Oh. I got an invitation to that benefit on Friday, too. Compliments of one of the participating artists.”
Liz squeals into the phone. “Hey. I’ll hook you up. We can double-date.”
I almost spew out a second mouthful of wine. “No, no. I’m not bringing a date. I’m not even sure I’m going. I have nothing to wear and—”
“Don’t be stupid. You can borrow something. You have to go. Keep me company. Evan will be networking all night.”
There’s an ominous pause. I can hear the wheels turning in Liz’s brain through the phone line. Or rather, the pages of her mental Rolodex flipping from one prospect to another.
“Yes,” she says triumphantly. “Walter.”
“The werewolf?” The irony is almost laughable. “No, Liz.”
“He’s a bit of a bore, and not very bright. But he looks great in a tuxedo and he’s absolutely amazing in the sack. He has this thing he does with his tongue . . .”
Once again, I have to swallow quickly to keep from choking on a mouthful of wine. “TMI, Liz. Really.” I put the glass down on the dining room table. Never know what Liz is going to say next, and I really don’t want to waste this wine.
“Although I’d really like to meet Zack,” she says.
Shit. Did she really just say that?
“Zack?”
“Yes, Zack. Your partner. Call and ask him.”
“Can’t. Full moon tonight.”
She’s not deterred in the least. “So ask him tomorrow. Let me know what he says.”
Liz hangs up.
I’m left staring dumbstruck at the phone.
• • •
Even after three glasses of wine, I can’t sleep. Images from last night have been flitting through my mind off and on all day. Instead of fading, the itch seems to be growing stronger and more urgent. Try as I might to focu
s on something else, anything else, my thoughts are of Zack, the way he looks, the way he feels, the way he makes me feel. That moment in his kitchen last night was my doing. And yet there is more than my power sparking between us. Zack proved that this afternoon in the conference room. We agreed to keep it professional. We need to keep it professional. But there’s something between us, not just the simple lust we felt in Charlotte. Not even the aftereffects of my powers, which I’ve seen drive men to distraction. Something more. And it scares me.
Why don’t I just admit it?
Because I can’t.
Bitterness burns the back of my throat. I lied to him. It was for a good reason. It was for the best reason. But when I think about the way I lied—so dismissive, so condescending—my gut twists. Zack deserves better. I’d like to make things right, but how can I? What would I tell him? That I’m something very old, very rare, and very dangerous? That I have been cursed by a goddess determined to bring ruin to anyone with whom I find love? That it’s dangerous for both of us to even think of having a relationship? That he needs to forget what he knows, or what he thinks he knows?
Maybe I’ll call him, apologize for being so abrupt. Keep it short. Professional. Even Demeter could find no fault with that. I dial before I lose my nerve.
His phone rings in my ear. Six. Seven. Eight rings. Then it goes to voice mail. I panic and hang up. Of course, I’d get voice mail.
I hear the howl of a coyote drifting up from the canyon at the edge of the property. Not an unusual sound. Tonight, though, it makes me feel terribly lonely. I wander out to the courtyard and look up. The moon in a cloudless sky casts shadows on the ground. Shadows that touch my feet and draw me forward into the darkness. The air is quiet and still. I am alone. Normally I would take comfort in that. Tonight, being alone simply feels . . . lonely.
I’d say my thoughts drift back to Zack. But since we had words earlier, they haven’t been far from him. I wonder where he spends these changeling nights and with whom. Last night I felt confident that if Sarah came to him for shelter, he’d turn her away. Would he do so tonight? Did he make it home on time himself?
