Hot Demon in the City (Latter Day Demons Book 1)

by Suttle, Connie

  Gerta Britt, forty-ish and a bottle blonde, answered the door, dressed in her finest with makeup caked on. She wanted to be on television, no doubt. "I thought Vann was coming," she said after looking Mike over and finding him inadequate.

  "Vann will be here later," Mike said, attempting to placate her. He was offended that she didn't find him suitable, too, but I wasn't about to say anything. After all, Mike was younger and handsome enough, but Vann's name was the one everybody heard as it was touted often by News Seventy-Four of the Bay Area, a wholly owned subsidiary of Rome Enterprises.

  I listened as Gerta explained what she knew to Mike, who held a microphone pointed at her chin. She made it sound as if she knew more than she did, and knew the victims better than she did. She only strayed a short distance from the truth, though—likely worried that she'd be caught in her lies and shamed in public.

  After all, public shaming was a coup in the journalistic realm.

  "When did you see them last?" Mike asked.

  That question—and the answer—drew my attention.

  "I saw them six days ago—they were dressed up to go somewhere, so I just waved from my driveway," Gerta sighed. "They looked so nice together."

  "Do you know where they were going?" Mike asked.

  "No—sorry."

  Mike didn't think that question would lead to any real information—two rich people going out to dinner or whatever. It stood out to me, although I couldn't really say why. Mike wasn't interested, but I intended to follow up on that lead. Somebody, somewhere, knew where they'd gone.

  "What about the family—have you spoken to them?" Mike asked next.

  "I saw both of their daughters—the police met them at the house yesterday, but I didn't get a chance to talk to them."

  I was beginning to think that Gerta had only seen what she'd seen through her front windows—I doubted she went outside much to do her snooping.

  "Did you hear the gunshots?"

  "No. I heard dogs barking, but that's it—my house keeps most sounds out," Gerta claimed.

  "So you believe a neighbor's dogs heard the shooting?"

  "Yes. It was the right time—I was about to go to bed but didn't think much about it—those dogs are usually let out to do their business before they're brought back in for the night. They bark at anything—cats, squirrels, whatever," Gerta waved an arm.

  "Do you know which house?" Mike perked up. "Where the dogs are?"

  "Oh, down the block," she shrugged. Gerta wanted her fifteen minutes of fame and didn't want to be upstaged by the owners of barking dogs.

  "What about any servants?" Mike persisted.

  "All gone home for the evening; I don't think Donna liked having them in the house after hours."

  "Do you know why that was?"

  "I never asked her about it." She sounded defensive.

  Translation—Donna Raven didn't like talking to Gerta.

  "Did you ever see Reece Channing before?" Mike turned to the mistress.

  "No," Gerta shook her head. "Never. I had no idea Abe was having an affair. He and Donna seemed so close."

  That statement interested me immediately—in Gerta's mind, it was absolute truth. Information about Reece, the murderer and supposed mistress, was still coming in, but she was the unlikeliest candidate to commit murder or suicide, in my opinion. She'd just moved to the Bay area; she'd rented a house and started a new job—working as a nanny for a wealthy family in the city.

  Before that, word was that she'd lived in a suburb of Los Angeles—Whittier, actually. My questions—if I could ask them—were whether Abe Raven traveled often. He'd have to, in order to engage in a long-term affair with Reece.

  If not, then I suspected a setup. I just didn't know how to go about getting the information I wanted.

  After Mike was satisfied he'd gotten everything he could from Gerta, including a signed waiver to use her image on television, we went looking for the neighbors with the dogs. Both Rottweilers came to the door with the maid, who answered our knock.

  The lady of the house wasn't home; her husband was out of the country on business, she informed us.

  Mike attempted to ask her questions, but she cut him off, saying she wasn't there the night of the murders. The door was shut in Mike's face—it was a good thing, actually. Both dogs looked as if they'd like a chunk of him.

  We found two other neighbors home, but neither were very helpful. Vann and Mike were going in the wrong direction. I hoped the police were doing a better job—the more I thought about it, the more the case nagged at me.

  "Worthless," Mike strode toward our van, the cameraman and sound girl trotting behind him. He shoved the microphone at the girl, who almost dropped the shoulder case she carried in an effort to balance everything. I stopped to help; she nodded her thanks as I took the case, she unzipped it, placed the mic in its cover and zipped it up again.

  "He's just as ruthless as Vann if he doesn't get what he wants," she mumbled as we started walking again.

  "Does the station have a society editor?" I asked.

  "No, but the online newspaper does," she replied. "I'm Jessie. I'd shake hands but," she did her best to shrug beneath the load she carried.

  "Do you know who it is?" I asked.

  "No, but if you call the main number at the office downtown, they'll give you the information. Why do you want it? Are you getting married?"

  "Nooo," I shook my head with more emphasis than I should have. "I was just wondering if the Ravens had gone to a fancy function the night Gerta was talking about—the last time she saw them."

  "I just assumed they'd gone to dinner," Jessie sighed. "If you find anything out, let me know. That sounds like a good lead."

  "Sure," I agreed. "It's probably nothing."

  The rest of the day was spent in the editing booth, watching the interviews we'd gotten with Gerta and two other neighbors, all of which (in my mind) was completely worthless.

  Vann showed up in the booth sometime after three to see what we had. The interview had been whittled down to two minutes—it was all the six o'clock producer was willing to give us.

  Vann did a voice-over on some of Mike's questions, while only Gerta's image was recorded answering questions. The finished product looked (and sounded) as if Vann had done the interview with Gerta instead of Mike.

  "I'll take a quick drive back to the neighborhood and do my part now," Vann announced after watching the images. He'd called it footage, which was another archaic term. Everything was digital now, in a world that had once been film and then video tape.

  "You," Vann pointed at me. "You'll come with me. I have a driver waiting outside."

  This was what I worried about—and it looked as if Vann would get my knee in his crotch sooner than I imagined.

  * * *

  When I was five, Daddy and Uncle Sal started teaching me self-defense. I was good at it now, although Sal would always be the ideal for me. He moved so swiftly at times it was difficult to keep my eyes on him.

  Whenever I said I wanted to be like him when I grew up, he'd grin and tell me I could be if I wanted.

  Those skills might be needed before the day was over, and I imagined myself hunting for another job the following morning.

  * * *

  Kordevik

  I waited in the limo for an hour before Vann Jacobs walked out the back door of the news station. That wasn't unusual.

  What was unusual was the person who followed right behind him, between the sound girl and the cameraman.

  My ex.

  I stiffened. What the hell was she doing here?

  "Don't just stand there, Kory, open the trunk," Vann snapped.

  I hated driving Vann. More than I hated driving Fiona, even. Little Miss Lexsi was the foul tasting frosting on top of that nasty cake for me.

  "I'll help," Lexsi offered, taking the heavy equipment bag off Jessie's shoulders. It was placed carefully in the trunk once I got it open. Then, Lexsi held the camera while Chet stuffed his equipm
ent in, too.

  All right—so she could play nice. I didn't trust that for even half a second.

  If Chet weren't gay, he'd be following her like a puppy. Vann was watching too closely; her looks were probably his reason for hiring her in the first place.

  Not my problem, I reminded myself. I had to remind myself of that at least six more times during the trip, and again when Vann asked her if she'd have a drink with him after the eleven o'clock news.

  She politely refused.

  That wouldn't stop Vann for a minute. He'd see her as a challenge; one he intended to conquer.

  I was so pissed by the time I got off work that I headed straight for a bar. I'd been practicing holding my temper—I could now hold back from breathing smoke whenever I was mad enough to crack heads, so that was definitely a step in the right direction.

  * * *

  I'd chosen my regular hangout for a reason—if there were a place I'd feel more at home on Earth, it was at a bar where the vamps and werewolves hung out. Sure, shifters came in, too, but everybody was civilized—for the most part.

  Once in a while, a human wandered in. The vamps always sent him (or her) out the door pretty quick. They didn't know exactly what I was; all they knew was that I wasn't human.

  That was enough to let me stay since I drank at the bar, didn't raise a fuss and tipped well.

  The L in Clawdia's was out in the neon sign as I opened the door to go inside. It wasn't a recent development—the letter had been dark for as long as I'd been coming here.

  "Jamison's. Double. On the rocks," I said, sliding onto a worn-leather barstool.

  "Well, well. Mr. Kory's back." Watson, the werewolf bartender, offered a wry grin and hauled the bottle of Jamison's off the shelf.

  "This is Mr. Kory's front," I tapped my chest.

  "You think that's funny, man?" he asked.

  "Is it just you without a sense of humor?" I shot back as he poured my drink.

  "Is it just you who can't tell a decent joke?"

  Country music played softly overhead—at least they kept the volume down. It likely had to do with the fact that werewolves and vampires have sensitive ears.

  "You're in a sour mood tonight," I pointed out.

  "You try living without your woman."

  "Hmmph," I snorted and tipped the glass of whiskey to my lips. I had a story I could tell him about missing women and what that had cost me.

  "Besides, I'm not in a sour mood. I'm morose."

  "Morose? Now there's a word," I muttered, thumping my glass on the bar and silently asking for a refill.

  "Dude, we got trouble," Watson whispered as the door opened behind me. I turned to see what Watson considered trouble.

  He hadn't exaggerated.

  * * *

  Lexsi

  "Anybody who's anybody will be on the guest list," the tall, slender woman pushed a paper list across her desk.

  As it turned out, all I had to do was ask Anita who the society editor was, and I'd been sent to the proper office on the fifteenth floor.

  "This is the only event happing in town that night?" I asked, lifting my eyes from the list and gazing at the woman.

  "As far as I know. Mr. and Mrs. James Rome, Junior, celebrating their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. Names on the list are in alpha order."

  Going back to the list, I searched for Abraham and Donna Raven.

  Not there. I felt it unlikely that the Ravens knew the Romes, but it had been worth a try. "Thanks for your help," I pushed the list back with a sigh.

  "Didn't find what you wanted?"

  "No. It was just a hunch, and a bad one at that."

  "Anytime," she offered a smile.

  Lifting my jacket off the chair, I waved and walked out of her office.

  * * *

  Kordevik

  "A gun's not much help against a vamp," I hissed as Watson slowly reached beneath the bar. "There are three here. They'll have you shredded before you can pull the trigger."

  Neither Watson nor I could take our eyes off the scene before us. Three older vamps held a younger one between them, and he'd already been cut and beaten.

  "Why the hell are they bringing that in here?" Watson hissed. This was something that should have been played out in a back alley somewhere.

  Actually, the younger vamp should have already died, if I read things correctly.

  The reason appeared thirty seconds later, when two more vamps hauled the human woman into the bar.

  You double-cross your rich vamp boyfriend with a younger, not-rich but better-looking vampire and you both get it.

  In paranormal public, I suppose.

  Chapter 2

  Kordevik

  Watson eased the rifle out of its hiding place. This was no shotgun; it was a semiautomatic that looked as if it belonged in a SWAT team's arsenal instead of a nook below the bar.

  "Are you suicidal?" I hissed at Watson. I was waiting for the vamps to hear either of us and come running. While Watson might be fast if he changed to wolf, he still couldn't outrun a determined vamp.

  "They're gonna kill him and the girl," Watson said. "We have to do something."

  "You need to get down behind the bar," I said. "And forget the Rin-Tin-Tin shit."

  I had half a second to close my eyes in disbelief when Watson pointed the rifle at the vamps.

  Bloody hell.

  * * *

  "You're fucking lucky I didn't burn down the bar," I slapped a bag of frozen peas onto the kitchen counter in front of Watson, whose left eye was turning purple.

  "What the hell are you, man?" Watson held the bag against his eye and winced at the contact.

  "Hmmph," I snorted while a curl of smoke drifted from my nostrils.

  "How is he?" Watson asked, turning toward the vampire who lay unconscious on my leather sofa.

  "He's still breathing," I muttered, jerking a bottle of Crown off the top of the fridge and filling a glass. "That means he'll be all right. At least we got the girl to the hospital. If Klancy hadn't shown up to help with that," I shook my head.

  Klancy was a vamp—a regular who showed up at Clawdia's just for the company. He'd been a professional at martial arts in his human life. He was deadly, as it turned out, since becoming vampire.

  I was grateful he was on our side. He was the one to get the girl to the hospital, too, while I hauled Watson and the vamp out of there, each tucked beneath my smaller Thifilathi's arms.

  The werewolf bar manager had shown up to take over while I hauled Watson out of there before the police showed up to ask questions. He'd asked me to take the wounded vamp, too.

  Questions would be asked; I understood that—about the building on the opposite side of the street and why there were holes in the brick, now.

  After I'd tossed vamps through the façade, the place looked as if somebody drove a tank into it.

  Clawdia's had no security cameras—for obvious reasons.

  I couldn't express how happy I was about that.

  "This is a nice place," Watson looked around with his right eye; his left was still covered by the bag of peas.

  "Hmmph," I snorted again. Grabbing a second glass, I dumped it in front of the werewolf and poured a generous serving of Crown. At least he wasn't whining about his girlfriend or scratching at the door to be let out.

  * * *

  Lexsi

  "Wear nice jeans. Black is better, but as long as you have a dressier top and jacket," Farin Armstrong, the morning weathergirl, informed me. "For now, Vann and Mike will hog the camera. Count on it."

  I'd worn a skirt to work, only to discover that Mike and I were being sent to the Presidio, where several dead seals had washed up on a rocky shore. For now, we were pointed away from the murder/suicide investigation.

  Our driver—the same one who'd ferried Vann and me the evening before, waited for us, looking as if he'd had maybe an hour's sleep before coming to work. "You all right?" I asked as he opened the door for Jessie and me.

  "I'm
fine," he growled, his words clipped and evasive. The door was shut the moment I was inside the car; Kory got Chet's camera bag into the trunk and slid into the driver's seat a few seconds later.

  In the rearview mirror, I saw his eyes glance in my direction twice on the way to the location, but they were dark and unreadable from where I sat. Maybe he had a hangover. I sure didn't want to push him to find out.

  * * *

  An investigative team from Marine Animal Sanctuary met us at the shore where the seals had been found. Mike poked a microphone in the lead investigator's face and started asking questions.

  "We sometimes see them die from bullet wounds," the man shrugged. "That was the first thing we looked for."

  "Did you find anything?" Mike asked.

  "No bullet wounds. We found they'd been killed by some sort of predator. We suspected sharks, of course, but the teeth marks aren't those of a shark."

  "Do you know what kind of predator it was, then?"

  "We're still investigating," the man replied.

  "You have to know something," Mike responded.

  "Cut off the camera, this is off the record," the investigator said. Mike made a motion with his free hand, indicating to Chet to shut off the camera. Chet lowered it with a nod.

  With the mic held loosely in his right hand, which rested near his hip, Mike nodded for the investigator to continue.

  "The teeth marks are sharp and deep," the man shrugged. "But the size of the mouth is roughly the size of a human's. Now, I don't know about you, but I've never seen something that could place a bite like that. It didn't look as if a meal were what the predator was looking for, either."

  "Will you contact us if you get more information?" Mike asked.

  "If I can hand you proof," the man shrugged.

  "Do you have photographs of the dead animals—that are safe to show on the news?"

  "I'll send something this afternoon."

  * * *

  "Gerta Britt is on the phone for Vann," a production assistant informed Mike the moment we walked inside the station. "The e-mail from Marine Animal Sanctuary is here, too."

  "Silver, take the old biddy's call. I'll check the images in the e-mail," Mike barked. "Make sure she knows not to bother us with inconsequential shit."