"Sandovsky." She pointed to the far end of the bar, at a large figure in shadow. "That big biker dude down there is her brother."
The ambient music's low bass beat died out and my pounding heart became the only thing I heard. Dmitri Sandovsky leaned forward into the light and took a pull from a tumbler full of dark liquid. His eyes were glazed, and he slumped on his stool with no swagger.
I left my water and a puzzled Kyle and approached. My entire body shook, remembering the punishment it had received at his hands. The gleam of night lights off his yellow wolf eyes and his growl were still vivid in my memory.
"This," I said to him, "does not seem like your kind of place."
Sandovsky swiveled his head slowly to look at me. "Took your time," he grunted. "Way you chased me up on that roof, I thought for sure you'd be back for round two before now."
"Sorry to disappoint," I replied. This time, I had the upper hand. I had a gun, and a club full of people for Sandovsky to worry about.
"If you think a pack of humans is gonna stop me from phasing, you're wrong," he said.
Well, at least I still had a gun. "Why did you kill Lilia?" I asked. I wasn't convinced he'd killed Marina. Hell, I wasn't convinced he was good for the first murder. Sandovsky was a bundle of were impulses. My killer was a kind that cut off women's fingers and made ritual objects from their bones. But I went where fact dictated, and the fact was Sandovsky could have killed both women.
He took another drink, draining the glass and slamming it down hard, almost missing the edge of the bar. The smell rolled off him in waves. Sandovsky was very, very drunk. "Why would I kill Lilia? Ya dumb bitch."
"Gee, maybe because you were her pimp and she pissed you off?" I unsnapped my holster. "And it's Detective Dumb Bitch to you."
"I'm not Lilia's pimp no more, and I didn't kill her," he snarled, eyes flickering with gold in their depths.
Lies stink. They smell wet and coppery, like nervous sweat coming to a boil. Dmitri smelled like nothing but expensive bourbon, cheap cigarettes, and weariness.
"Your DNA and your fingerprints were all over her dead body," I reminded him. Kyle watched us from down the bar, her left hand on the phone. I blocked her view with my back and whispered in Sandovsky's ear, "Lilia fought hard for her life. She was drugged and brutalized, but she still fought."
The ice in Sandovsky's glass rattled. His hands were quivering.
"She had something to live for," I continued, making my decision: Sandovsky wasn't my killer. "The way things are looking, that was you. So you can either keep trying to outrun me, or you can help me find the freak that mutilated and killed her. But if you run, I'll change my mind, Sandovsky, and I'll believe that you were the one to torture her to death. And then we'll hunt."
Sandovsky bellowed and swept his arms out, sending a spray of broken glass to the floor. "Fuck you!" he screamed.
I drew my Glock and aimed. "Calm down, Sandovsky." Around us, Club Velvet's patrons took flight like linen-and-silk-wrapped birds, some overturning their chairs as they ran from the gun and Dmitri Sandovsky's angry, twisted face.
"Lilia fought him?" he demanded. "She didn't go easy?"
"No," I said, keeping my sights on the center of his forehead. "And for that she died slow and hard."
"Damn it. God damn it." Sandovsky's chest was heaving, and his hands shook. The sheen of a tear appeared on his cheek and worked its way down.
"Dmitri," I said, keeping my voice soothing and low. "Calm down and put your hands behind your head."
"Bastard!" he roared. "I'll fuckin' kill him! Slow and hard. Just like her." His eyes flashed to yellow then back to their human emerald green, and I tightened my grip on the Glock.
"No one is killing anyone tonight, except maybe me," I said. "Hands. Head. Now."
Sandovsky's body tensed and I saw the spring, the tackle, me going down under his weight, him wrestling my gun from me and taking aim.
Then he shuddered and let out a sob, collapsing. "Hex me," he choked. "Gods. It's my fault."
I slowly lowered my weapon. "What do you mean, Sandovsky?"
"She wanted out," he told me. "I took her to eat at this diner and go back to our pack house and we … she was going to come with me, out of Nocturne. Be my mate. I got out of the skin trade and she wanted out, too. Wasn't for her… in Ukraine she was going to be a teacher…" His shoulders shook, and he turned his face away from me. For someone like Sandovsky, crying in front of a woman cop was probably worse than torture with hot pokers.
"I didn't even know she was dead until you showed up at the Waterfront joint."
"And you decided to resist arrest and almost kill me because of your deep and unimaginable grief?" I asked.
Sandovsky sat hard on a bar stool. "She was one of us. From the pack. And she's dead. You wouldn't understand."
The alcohol and the shock had finally gotten to him, and he slumped glassy-eyed, staring at me without really seeing.
I bristled at the veiled insult but sat on the stool next to him. "Why did you run if you didn't kill her?"
"Pack law says I gotta do it," he muttered. "I gotta be the one to send the killer down. Think I was gonna let an outcast like you cut in line? No way."
I got out my handcuffs. "Let's go, Dmitri. We can go to my precinct and clear this mess up."
"He's not going anywhere." Olya walked out from the back room and put an arm around her brother. Except for the red hair I would have pegged them as distant cousins, at most.
"You're going to stop me?" I inquired.
"An Insoli with a gun against two Redbacks. The odds are not in your favor, Detective Wilder."
Kyle came from behind the bar holding a baseball bat.
"And here I was going to tip you, too," I told her.
"Dmitri didn't murder Lilia," said Olya with feeling. "But you should be finding out who did, and fast. Because when the pack finds out, the fucker is dead. And I don't mean as good as. I mean dead. Painfully."
"I'm not going to leave your brother alone and skip merrily home," I said. "He's a material witness, at the very least." Lawyer-speak was what I resorted to when I was absolutely out of options. It didn't seem to ruffle Olya in the least. No one else remained in Club Velvet to wonder why if a waitress and a scruffy biker suddenly turned into two large red wolves. Olya was right—definitely not in my favor.
"Leave me alone, Detective," said Sandovsky. "Just turn your back and walk away."
"Don't you know it's stupid to turn your back on a wild dog?" I asked. "You never know when he might bite."
Sandovsky took a deep breath through his nose with a soft growl. I felt a tingle and blushed. He was scenting me. Male weres use it to decide on potential mates—or rivals.
Silence reigned until Dmitri exhaled and blinked those deep greens at me. "For an Insoli, you're not bad," he said with a crooked half smile that was as forced as steam from a subway grate. Heat washed my face. My cheeks had to be crimson. Great, because nothing enhances a badass image like a schoolgirl blush.
"Leave and come tomorrow to the old Crown Theater in Ghosttown," Dmitri said, his face settled into a stone mask. I knew I'd never again see him show the side I'd seen when he realized that Lilia was gone.
Olya's eyes snapped to him. "Dmitri!"
"Shut your mouth," he growled. Olya dipped her head meekly, just like Manley had when I'd pulled a dominate. Dmitri was not only a pack member, then. He was a high-up, maybe even close to an alpha. I filed that tidbit away and asked, "What's at the Crown Theater?"
He smiled a little. "It's my pack house. We'll talk then."
My pack house? Seriously high up in the ranks.
"Forgive me if walking into the home territory of a rival pack does not sound like a fun night out," I told Dmitri. "Can't we meet somewhere public?"
"Get over yourself, Detective," said Olya, laughing without any humor. "You're not a threat to the Redbacks. You're not even a blip."
"Does that arrogance ever get in the way of your
big mouth?" I snapped. "Or do they have a custody arrangement?"
"Feisty," said Olya. "No wonder the one who gave you the bite didn't keep you."
"Olya, quiet," said Dmitri in the same tone. She shut up, but I still ached to slap the knowing smirk off her face.
"Tomorrow night," Sandovsky said. "Dark." He sniffed once and tossed his head. "Come on, sis. You're off early." They left through the curtained-off entrance to the back room.
Kyle hopped back over the bar and put her bat away. "Sorry about that. Amanda Carlisle, the owner—she lets the pack members use this place as a crash pad if they're in a bad way. Even gave Olya a job."
"And you have no problem with any of this?" I asked her.
She shrugged. "I'm human, but I got nothing against people with the blood. Anyhow, I've seen what Dmitri can do. Before the letters and the vandalism, there were these college guys from Nocturne University who would come around and hassle us. They pulled Ms. Carlisle out of her Mercedes one night and were tearing her clothes off in the employee parking lot. Sandovsky showed up. One look at those teeth and the fratholes were pissing themselves. They didn't know what they saw, but it scared the crap out of them."
"How noble," I muttered.
"He isn't a knight in shining armor," said Kyle. "But he's all right. And believe me, he's not a killer."
"I know," I told her. "But something is going on with Dmitri, so do me a favor and don't tell me what to believe."
* * * *
I got home as the pink edge of daylight peeked over the ocean, and the pale waxing moon was a ghost against the graying sky. I fell into bed and woke up at some ungodly early-evening hour with Sunny shaking my shoulder.
"Luna!" she cried. "I may have found something!" Her eyes were painted with dark rings, and she was pale.
"How long have you been up at a stretch, Sunny?"
She shrugged. "All night. Small price to pay. Look at this!" She handed me a blue leather-bound volume I recognized as my one of my grandmother's old spellbooks. Caster witches worked largely from memory, these little books memorized and burned.
"Sunny, how did you get this?" I demanded.
She bit her lip. "You don't want to hear how."
"Damn right I don't, but you're going to tell me anyway."
Sunny sighed and worried the little tassel hanging from the book's spine. "I may have… well… borrowed it The last time I saw Grandma."
I put the book back in Sunny's hands with more force than was strictly necessary.
"So how often have you two little circle-scribblers been visiting behind my back?"
Sunny didn't rise to the bait. "You're the one who declared war on your mother's entire side of the family, not me. Grandma's a great caster witch and I can see her if I please."
"Sunny, the woman is evil. She'd as soon stab me with the good silver as look at me."
"You know that's not—" Sunny started.
"Oh, you bet it is. I disgust her. What other reason would she have for leaving her fifteen-year-old granddaughter on the streets?"
She threw up her hands. "You don't want my help, fine. I'll be outside."
I gave her about fifteen seconds after she flounced away, and then followed her. She was in our backyard, where the roses grew thick up a trellis below my window and a bare patch of earth with a pit at the center served as the focus for most of Sunny's workings.
She had her wood caster and scriber and was drawing a practiced circle into the dirt. She etched a symbol at each of the corners and moved to the center.
"What's that for?" I asked, pointing at the circle. Caster witches channeled their power and usually didn't need visual markers for workings.
"I'm binding," said Sunny. "Now go away. You're breaking my concentration."
"Binding what?"
She let her arms fall and glared at me. "All that wonderful negativity you've been spewing lately, if you must know. The auras around here are so black, I can't even work up a simple finding spell, and I've lost my spare set of house keys. Again."
"I thought you needed a double circle for a binding," I said. I picked up Rhoda's spellbook and leafed through it. Page after page was filled with spidery handwriting and artful drawings of sigils, plants, and caster runes.
"Double circle? No." Sunny shook her head. "That's only for binding the really nasty ones. Entities and daemons."
"Ew," I said. "Thought daemon summoning went out with the iron maiden."
"No one ever accused blood witches of being smart," Sunny said.
I found the folded-down page corner that marked the working Sunny wanted to try on me. The title was "Tincture of Wolfsbane." Underneath in my grandmother's precise handwriting it said, for the reversal of shapeshifting curses, to prevent transmutation.
"It was meant for a human," said Sunny, raising her caster again. "Someone who's been afflicted with a transmutation curse like boils or something. If I tweak the recipe, I bet it could suppress your phase until the moon wanes."
"Tweak it how, exactly? It's not a brownie mix." I read down the list of ingredients, herb names I didn't recognize plus such appetizing items as charcoal and silver nitrate.
"Well," said Sunny, "if I were to give you the tincture the exact way it is now, when I did the working it would, um…"
"It would what?" I demanded suspiciously.
Sunny bit her lip. "As a were and not a human, that combination could kill you."
"Oh, that's great, Sunny! The cure to the moonphase is death?"
Her caster gave off that distinctive crackling smell that meant her working was starting to draw energy. I backed up to the stoop. Magicks make my skin crawl when I get close.
"Don't get all hysterical," she told me. "You have to have an open mind about this if you ever want to control your phase."
"Sunny, I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but I'd rather turn into a slavering hell beast every full moon than swallow a bunch of poisonous herbs and hope for the best. Really."
"Then I guess you're on your own, because I don't see you running out to get help from anyone else." The caster gave off an ever-so-soft hum, and Sunny's eyes flickered as the power coursed through her.
"I'll just be going, then," I said, and beat it into the cottage. After spending most of my childhood with either Rhoda or Aunt Delia, I had seen enough workings to know I didn't like watching. I rinsed quickly in the shower and got dressed again, going to the kitchen to scavenge for fatty leftovers.
Sunny came in a few moments later and washed up in the sink. "That feels better!" she exclaimed. "Not so dark in here now. You really need to lighten up, Luna."
"Yeah, because perky is so me." I had changed into a tight white T-shirt and my lowest-riding jeans to meet Sandovsky, and Sunny looked me over with a critical eye.
"Date? You? Really?"
I rolled my eyes. "Much as I would love to shock you, cousin, no. I'm meeting someone. A were."
Her eyes went wide. "Who?"
"Dmitri Sandovsky."
She gave me the cocked eyebrow that said I had clearly already gone insane, and now it was just a question of whether or not to call the mental ward. "The man who beat you up so badly? And killed that poor girl?"
"He's not the murderer… at least I don't think he is," I said. "Although he does pack a mean tackle." And a set of drop-dead-deep green eyes. Nice red hair, too. Good shoulders.
"Come on back to Planet Earth when you have a minute," said Sunny, snapping her fingers in my face. "You can't seriously being going to meet this psychotic, Luna."
"I have to," I said. I wouldn't admit I wasn't entirely against seeing Sandovsky again. Nothing wrong with looking, even if he did kick my ass.
More importantly, Sandovsky was so twitchy that he had to know more than he told about Lilia's murder. Lilia and Marina had been killed by the same man—or whatever—I was sure. And the more I thought about him, the more Sandovsky didn't fit the profile of an organized, ritualistic killer. Why go in for drugging and tort
ure when he could phase and probably literally bite someone's head off?
He wouldn't, because I was looking for another type of predator, smaller and quieter but no less venomous. I needed to put a face to the theory, see the savage in the flesh. Not knowing made me jumpy, and my skin itch, as if the two murders were a physical affliction.
"I'm still going to prepare the tincture," Sunny told me with that unflappable Swann stubbornness. "In case you change your mind. Full moon coming up fast, you know."
"Why not?" I said. "All it can do is kill me." I stood and grabbed the keys to the Fairlane. "I have to interview Sandovsky at sundown." In the soft predusk sunlight it sounded ridiculously melodramatic. But then again, I was riding into an outlaw city to interview the leader of a were pack. If my night didn't contain a little drama, I'd feel almost let down.
Ten
After the bloody scene in the Hotel Raven and my encounter with enough creepy shit to last me a lifetime, the last thing I wanted was to go back to Ghosttown.
But I went, leaving the Fairlane on the same rotted boulevard, and walked until the row houses became high, narrow storefronts and the Crown Theater dominated the corner.
The Crown was built modern in the 1950s, with a lighted marquee and a sleek white brick front accented with steel chevrons that had rusted and cut across the face of the place like gangrenous veins. One of the last buildings to go up in Ghosttown before the packs and the bloods moved in, I would guess, and one of the few to escape the Hex fires unscathed.
A row of road bikes sat proudly at the curb, all of them shined to a blinding intensity, most of them classics worth more than the Fairlane and Sunny's convertible combined. A few burly Redback weres, obviously chosen for their ability to hulk and glower, were working the theater doors.
One of them scented me openly, smirking, and I couldn't have felt more insulted if he'd copped a feel. "Sniff this," I told him, extending a middle finger.
He turned to the other member of the Easy Rider Fan Society and proclaimed, "Yeah, it's her."
"Sandovsky said you'd be comin'," the other one grunted.
"Although if you don't wanna come with him, cutie, you can come with me," the first one added.
Night Life Page 9