by Jenna Black
“I’m not cut out to be a cop,” I muttered under my breath. There was a reason I’d chosen to be a private investigator instead of entering law enforcement. Numerous reasons, actually, but being exposed to violence on this level topped the list.
The next two reports were just as awful, the victims brutalized beyond recognition. By the time the third victim was found, the police were sure they were hunting a human suspect who used dogs as his deadly weapon, though they hadn’t shared this conclusion with the press.
I spent several hours going over the police reports, and while they gave me a clearer picture of what had happened, I couldn’t say they brought me any closer to finding the killer.
I closed down the files at around five o’clock, and as if he had a sixth sense, Anderson showed up on my doorstep at approximately 5:01.
“Ready to wrap up the case yet?” he asked me with a wry smile.
I was already jittery from my day’s work. Being alone in a room with Anderson was not high on my list of things I wanted to do at the moment. Someday I would have to find a way to get over being creeped out by the knowledge that he was a freaking god, but I wasn’t there yet.
I pushed back my chair and stood up, stretching out my stiff muscles and putting a little more distance between us as Anderson came to rest a hip on my desk.
“Not quite,” I responded, hoping I didn’t sound nervous. “You know, looking at crime-scene photos and police reports isn’t exactly the same as chatting up nosy neighbors to see if they’ve seen the deadbeat dad around lately.” I waved my hand vaguely at the computer. “This is not my area of expertise.”
“Not yet,” he agreed amiably. “But expertise or not, you’re more likely to find the killer than the police are. They’re going to be limited by their insistence on rational explanations.”
I acknowledged that with a shrug. Since the police were convinced the killer had a pack of attack dogs, they were sure he was traveling in some kind of van or truck—a perfectly rational conclusion but one that could potentially skew their investigation. I didn’t know exactly what the killer was doing, but I doubted it was what the police were thinking.
“What have you found?”
I moved to the other side of the room, Anderson following me. There’s no reason to be nervous around him, I told myself. He was still the same guy he’d been before I learned his secret. True, I had seen him kill a couple of people, and that was bound to make me uncomfortable. But I’d known all along he had a ruthless streak, and it had never made me this edgy before.
I sat stiffly on the sofa, hoping Anderson would take the love seat. Of course, he didn’t get my mental hint, instead taking a seat on the other end of the sofa and turning to face me.
He looked so unprepossessing it was hard to reconcile that image with what I knew was inside him. His medium brown hair was perpetually in need of a cut, his cheeks were perpetually peppered with five o’clock shadow—the kind that looks scruffy, not the kind that looks sexy—and he really needed to start buying no-iron shirts.
I cleared my throat, trying to focus on the here and now, not think about Anderson as a towering pillar of white light loping off in pursuit of his prey.
“The police are very confused,” I said. “These definitely look like dog attacks. The bites indicate at least five or six medium-sized dogs. There are some paw prints here and there, though not as many as there should be with that many dogs, and the crime-scene techs haven’t been able to find any dog hair, which is totally bizarre.”
“Maybe the dogs were wearing gloves,” Anderson suggested, completely deadpan.
The comment surprised a quick laugh out of me. “Or at least hairnets. Maybe the men were attacked by dogs in the food-service industry. That ought to narrow down the suspect pool.”
Anderson smiled. “There. Now, that’s more like the Nikki I know.”
The comment killed my amusement. I guess I hadn’t been acting as normal around him as I’d hoped. There was a long moment of awkward silence. I knew better than to race to fill that silence, but I couldn’t help myself.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked. “I can’t pretend I didn’t see what I saw.”
“But you don’t have to tiptoe around me like I’m a keg of dynamite just waiting to blow. I’m dangerous to the bad guys, not to you.”
I met his eyes in a challenging stare, too irritated by his statement to be cautious. “Are you forgetting that you threatened to kill me?”
He waved that off carelessly. “I had to give you incentive not to tell anyone about me. It’s certainly not a threat I have any expectation of carrying out.”
Oh, yeah, that made it so much better. “Look, I’ll try to act more normal, but you’re going to have to give me some time. I’ve had to absorb a hell of a lot of shocks in the last few weeks, and there’s only so much I can take.”
There was no mistaking the remorse that flashed through Anderson’s eyes then. “Of course. I’m being an ass. Sorry.”
All at once, he seemed more human to me than he had ever since I’d learned his true identity, and the knot in my gut loosened ever so slightly. I acknowledged his apology with a nod, then moved on.
“I guess my next logical course of action is to go examine the crime scenes myself,” I said, thinking on the fly. “I didn’t get anything out of looking at the photos, but maybe an idea will come to me when I’m on-site.”
Anderson looked doubtful. “You really think there’ll be any evidence left?”
“Probably not. But I’m not looking for evidence so much as clues. And if there’s anything I’ve learned about my power, it’s that I don’t much understand how it works.” My supernatural aim was something I could wrap my brain around, something I could pinpoint and control. My knack for finding people was much more elusive and hard to tap consciously. “Maybe looking at the crime scenes will give me nothing, but it can’t hurt to try.”
Anderson nodded. “Makes sense. But take Jamaal with you when you go. There’s always a chance this is some kind of weird Olympian setup we don’t understand. I don’t want you going anywhere alone for the time being.”
I was perfectly happy to take backup, but … “I’ll take someone with me but not Jamaal.”
Jamaal was a descendant of Kali, and he had some severe anger-management issues, especially where I was concerned. Not that I could blame him. I had killed his best friend, Emmitt, in a car accident. He probably didn’t think I was an Olympian spy anymore, and he seemed to have accepted that I hadn’t killed Emmitt on purpose, but I was still far from his favorite person.
“No, you’ll take Jamaal,” Anderson said firmly. “If you need the backup, you’ll want someone who’s good in a fight. Jamaal and Logan are the best for that, but Logan might draw unwanted attention in Anacostia.”
“And Jamaal won’t?” I asked incredulously. Sure, Jamaal was black, but he wouldn’t exactly fit in with the gang-banger crowd.
“Maybe. But he looks a lot more intimidating.”
Which I had to concede was true. Logan looked like an ordinary guy, despite being descended from a war god. Jamaal, on the other hand, looked like the kind of guy who could kill you with both hands tied behind his back. In fact, I was pretty sure he could. But I still didn’t like the idea of us spending so much time together, especially not without a referee.
Anderson met my mutinous gaze and smiled. “Think of it as a team-building exercise.”
I’d have argued more, except I was sure this was an order, not a request. I didn’t like taking orders, but Anderson was now officially my boss, so I didn’t suppose I had much choice in the matter.
“You should give me hazard pay for this,” I grumbled, and I meant for traveling with Jamaal, not hunting the killer.
“That can be arranged,” Anderson said, though I’d meant it as a joke. “Chasing serial killers is definitely not in the job description I gave you.”
I had a feeling that over time, I’d end up working on more and
more stuff that wasn’t in the job description if I let Anderson keep pushing me. But there was no way I was going to push back under the circumstances; I was just going to have to bite the bullet.
THREE
I found Jamaal out on the front porch, smoking one of those foul-smelling clove cigarettes he was so fond of. Anderson wouldn’t let him light up in the house. I’m not a big fan of smoking, even if you were immortal and didn’t have to worry about lung cancer, but I am a big fan of anything that helps keep Jamaal from going psycho, so as far as I was concerned, he could smoke five packs a day if it helped calm him. Still, my nose wrinkled whenever I caught the scent, and I tried to stay upwind.
“I’m going to go check out the crime scenes,” I told him as the wind shifted and the cloud of smoke followed me like a homing pigeon. I waved my hand in front of my face and stepped to the side. “Anderson wants you to go with me in case the Olympians are lying in wait or something.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. Honestly, I didn’t think this was an Olympian setup. If they’d wanted me that bad, they could have jumped me anytime in the last several weeks. I’d been cautious ever since I’d been dragged into the world of the Liberi, but it wasn’t like I had a bodyguard with me twenty-four/seven. Besides, one of the main reasons they’d wanted to “recruit” me had been to keep me from helping Anderson rescue Emma, and that horse had left the barn long ago.
Jamaal made a face and shook his head, the beads in his hair rattling and clicking. “You mean he wants us to make nice with each other,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray he carried around with him.
The wind shifted again, and the cloud of smoke from Jamaal’s last puff blew straight into my face, making my eyes burn. I stepped away, holding my breath until I was in the clear.
“That’s how I interpreted it,” I agreed. I didn’t much enjoy the prospect of being shut up in a car with Jamaal. He’d dialed back on the hostility a lot, but I knew it was still there, lurking. He was learning to live with me, but I didn’t think he’d ever forgive me for being the instrument of Emmitt’s death.
Jamaal didn’t look much happier with the situation than I was, but he’d learned his lesson about defying Anderson’s orders, and he wasn’t about to do it again anytime soon. He finished stubbing out his cigarette with a little more force than necessary, then laid the ashtray down on a low, glass-topped table.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
He headed down the stairs toward the garage, which was a separate outbuilding just past the circular drive. With his long legs and huge stride, he was practically halfway there before I even got moving. I hurried to catch up.
“Hold on a sec,” I said. “I don’t have my purse.”
He didn’t slow down. “What do you need a purse for? We’re just going to look around, right?”
“Car keys, driver’s license, wallet. You know. Stuff.”
He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “I’m driving, so you don’t need any of that shit.”
Ah, the joys of living with supernatural alpha males.
“No, I’m driving,” I said, still trailing along behind him. “I’m the one who knows where we’re going, remember?”
He came to a stop so abruptly I almost crashed into him. “So give me directions,” he said, glowering down at me. He had a very effective glower, and I had to fight my instinctive urge to take a step back. “I’m not cramming myself into that clown car you drive.”
After I’d wrecked my last car, I’d decided to splurge and buy myself the Mini I’d been lusting over for a couple of years. I’d always driven sedate, nondescript sedans before—much more practical for my job than the zippy little Mini—but after the fistful of traumas I’d suffered, I’d decided to reward myself.
“Bullshit,” I said. “You’re just one of those guys who has a problem letting a woman drive.”
I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch, like he might have been considering a smile, but Jamaal’s smiles are as rare as four-leaf clovers. He hit the button on his key fob to open the garage door, then selected a key and held it out to me.
“Can you drive a stick?” he asked.
I had a feeling he already knew the answer. After all, I’d committed the ultimate sacrilege of getting my Mini with an automatic transmission. I was tempted to lie just to call his bluff—I wondered if he’d have a change of heart as soon as he learned I’d actually take him up on his offer—but decided to let it go.
“Fine,” I grumbled, reaching for the passenger door of Jamaal’s sleek black Saab. “You drive.”
He nodded in satisfaction as he slid in behind the wheel.
About thirty minutes later, we arrived at the first crime scene in Anacostia. Naturally, it was dark by the time we got there. Anacostia is a neighborhood I’d avoid if possible during the daytime and categorically refuse to set foot in once the sun was down. I might not be eager to spend a whole lot of time in Jamaal’s company, but I was reluctantly grateful to have him along as we walked from the dilapidated parking lot at Anacostia Park to the underpass where victim number one had met his demise.
There weren’t a whole lot of people around, but those who were around stared at me like I was a zoo animal. Like, say, a dik-dik wandering through the lion enclosure.
The murder had occurred three weeks ago, so I wasn’t expecting to find anything. I stood where our John Doe had been killed, hoping to spot an important clue, and tried not to remember the crime-scene photos.
If the killer had been looking for the perfect place to kill someone in complete privacy in the heart of D.C., he’d done a good job of it. The road curved as it went through the underpass, limiting the line of sight, and the concrete walls would block sound effectively. Not that there seemed to be any houses or businesses within hearing distance right here by the park.
“See anything significant?” Jamaal asked me, and I had to shake my head. “Then can we get out of here? It reeks.”
There was a certain eau-de-men’s-room scent in the air. I looked around a little more, taking note of a couple of drains at the edge of the road, but nothing leapt out and yelled “Clue!” at me. I wished I had some idea of what I was doing. I was used to feeling like a more-than-competent professional, and this being-clueless crap sucked.
We made our way back to the parking lot, which was just around the bend in the road, and I silently cursed my mercurial power. I had no idea if I’d actually seen anything significant in that underpass, and I had to trust my subconscious to have absorbed whatever information might be there and disgorge it later, when and if it was relevant. Personally, I was a big fan of sure things, and anything subconscious was not a sure thing.
The parking lot had been practically deserted when we parked there, but, like chum in the water, Jamaal’s Saab had drawn some local predators. A handful of teenage punks, the oldest of whom was maybe sixteen, were circling the car, checking it out with greedy eyes. We’d probably been gone no more than ten minutes, but I got the feeling we were lucky the car was still there and in one piece.
When Jamaal and I stepped into view, the kids lost interest in the car and fixated on me. I’m short and fine-boned, and my delicate features make me look like an easy victim. The oldest of the kids straightened up from his slouch, his eyes locked on me in a way that made my skin crawl. I was afraid things were going to get ugly, and I wished I’d insisted on going back into the mansion for my purse, because I could have stuck a gun in it.
Beside me, Jamaal came to a stop, turning to glare at my admirers. There were five of them, and I pegged them as gang-bangers, probably armed despite their tender age. I worried that Jamaal’s challenging stare would pique their leader’s alpha-male instincts, but apparently, the kid was smarter than he looked. He only held Jamaal’s gaze for about five seconds before something he saw there warned him off. I might have been imagining things, but I could have sworn the kid shuddered as he looked away. If he did, he recovered his composure
quickly.
With a careless shrug, he beckoned to his pals and strutted down the sidewalk away from us. I turned to compliment Jamaal on his intimidation techniques, but the words died in my throat when I saw his face.
Jamaal is a naturally intimidating guy, and I’d been on the receiving end of more than one of his death glares. He’d seemed to have backed off from the edge a bit lately—ever since Anderson had threatened to kick him out of the house if he didn’t reel it in—but I saw now that the rage was still very much there. His chocolate-brown eyes were practically giving off sparks, and his lips had pulled back from his teeth in a feral snarl. He was leaning forward ever so slightly, his fists clenched at his sides, his breath coming in shallow pants. Now I knew why the kids had backed down so quickly: he looked like a maddened killer about to go on a rampage.
Anderson had told me once that Jamaal possessed some kind of death magic. Magic that would allow him to kill someone without even touching them. Magic that wanted to be used, that ate at Jamaal’s self-control. I knew without a doubt that Jamaal was struggling for control right now, that the magic inside him wanted to be released, and that those gang-bangers could very well end up dead—even though they’d chosen to walk away—if I couldn’t get Jamaal to cool it.
Unfortunately, I’d never had much luck in the past with cooling his ire, and I was afraid anything I said right now would draw his attention—and his death magic—to me. Of course, I was immortal, and the gang-bangers were not, so I had to risk it.
“Hey. We’ve got two more crime scenes to investigate,” I said gently. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this neighborhood. What say we move on?”
For a moment, I thought he hadn’t even heard me. Then he blinked and shook his head sharply, like he was waking up from a dream. His fists unclenched, and he drew in a deep breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. His hands shook a little as he lit the cigarette and took a hasty drag. Wordlessly, he glanced down at me, and I read the question in his eyes.
