by Hannah Jayne
She leaned her ear toward her shoulder and cracked her neck. “You know every time you plan to get to the bottom of something, someone gets kidnapped. Or killed.”
I blinked; there was no reason to argue the truth.
“Why don’t you leave this one to Dixon?” she asked, falling into step with me as I walked toward my office.
“I mentioned the missed appointments to Dixon. He barely even batted an eye. He’s not going to care about Bettina.”
“So what are you going to do?” Nina wanted to know. “Become the Banshee Avenger?” Her lips parted slightly, forming an O of surprise. “If so, I have a great outfit for that.”
“I’m just going to look around. Maybe see if I can find any clues.”
Nina crossed her arms, jutted out one hip. “Knock yourself out, Nancy Drew.”
“You’re not going to help me?”
“I thought you had Alex on speed dial for that?”
My stomach quivered—something between sadness and nerves—at the mention of his name. “He’s not here.”
Nina’s eyes went wide and she sat down hard. “Heaven? Holy—”
“Buffalo.”
“Crap.” Nina shrugged. “Ordinarily, I would do anything for you, my breathy friend, but I have a date and you have an overactive imagination.” She blew me a kiss and turned on her heel, leaving in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and stale plasma.
“Don’t choke on a blood clot!” I yelled to the back of her head.
It was half past six when I processed my last intake form. For a community that still depends heavily on divination and medieval prophecies, our computer system was surprisingly up to date. Unfortunately, that date was 1992. I was ready for chocolate pinwheels and a snuggle with my trusty pup, ChaCha, and dreaming about sinking into a mountain of sweet-scented bubbles when I walked out into the parking lot, deserted except for a couple of squad cars, an abandoned Buick, and my modest Honda Accord. I sank my key into the lock when I heard a soft cry on the wind. It was mild, but loud enough to cut through the constant city din of police sirens and honking horns of tourists, and it seemed to be coming from the alleyway that separated the police station from the rest of the looming buildings on the block. My hackles went up, prickles that started at the base of my calves and stopped at the top of my head. I licked my suddenly dry lips and took my key into my hand, taking a tentative step toward the alley.
“Hello?” I asked. “Is someone there?”
I heard the distinctive crunch of feet on gravel and then another wince. As much as I wanted to avoid another naked Vlad-and-Kale situation, something inside me was drawn, desperate to help. Before I could think better of it, I ran into the alley. My footfalls echoed heavily between the buildings, and the limp wail, the crunching gravel, was gone.
“Hello?” I asked again.
My voice bounced off the wall and was cut off by my own scream.
Something hit me hard, cracking against the back of my head. I pitched forward, my palms and chest making contact with the damp cement. Beads of gravel dug into my skin. My knees throbbed and I tried to cry out a second time, but my breath was gone and my mouth was filled with the hot, metallic taste of blood. Someone yanked me, flipping me over so my tender skull smacked the cement. Bright white light burst in front of my eyes. I felt the urge to vomit, to cry, to wail, but my eyes began to focus. I saw my assailant above me, both hands hugging a sharpened dowel, both coming directly at my chest. There was an “oof!” and a scream, and the sharpened edge of the stake dug at my collarbone and slid over my breast.
“Run, Sophie!”
Will’s English accent was hot as it sliced through me and I tried to kick away, or assumed I was kicking away. I saw him dive at my attacker, heard the hollow sound of the wood dowel clunking to the ground; then I heard footfalls—hurried, echoing, as my attacker took off across the parking lot, with Will in tow. Bitter tears flooded my eyes, stinging the shallow fresh cuts on my cheeks. I looked down to where my blouse was torn. The red angry welt puckered like pressed lips underneath my collarbone.
“Are you okay?” Will asked in a breathless pant as he jogged back to me.
I pressed the pads of my fingers against the hot tear on my skin and nodded. “I think so. What was that? Why are you here?”
Will’s eyes were on my chest, on the wound. He brushed over it with his thumb and smiled up at me. “It doesn’t look so bad.”
“How did you know to come to—to my rescue?” Will clasped imaginary lapels. “I’m a Guardian, love. That’s what I do.” He plucked a piece of gravel from my hair. “And I was having a pint across the way. Can you stand?”
He offered me a hand and I pushed myself onto shaky legs.
“Now what on earth would make you step into a dark alley at night?”
My bottom lip started to tremble and all I could manage was a pitiful shrug. “Did you see who it was?”
Will wagged his head. “Bloke was fast.” He crouched, rolled the dowel toward himself, eyebrows raised. “And he tried to club you.”
I took the dowel in my hand and touched the chiseled, whittled end; then I touched the purpling wound on my chest. “No, he was trying to stake me.”
Chapter Six
I pushed open the door and Nina was under my nose in a heartbeat, coal black eyes wide and glistening, hands splayed.
“I smell blood,” she said.
“Your hair. It’s black again.”
Nina pushed a glossy chunk of her back-to-black hair over her shoulder, showing off the skinny, beaded strap of her silver evening dress.
“What happened?” Her nostrils twitched. “Why are you bleeding? Will, why is Sophie bleeding?”
Will ushered me into the house. “Someone attacked her in the alley.”
“At work?”
I nodded, and Nina used her forefinger and thumb to pull the neckline of my blouse aside, exposing the purpling wound. “What is that?”
“He—he tried to stake me,” I said, rubbing the tender scratch.
Nina’s mouth dropped open. “Like with a wooden stake?”
I nodded. “Through the heart. Will showed up just in time.”
“I chased him off.”
“Him who?” Nina wanted to know.
I shook my head, looking at my hands as they lay in my lap. “I don’t know. I don’t know why someone would attack me ... would try to drive a stake through my heart.”
“Ah, am I interrupting something?” Harley’s voice was as rich and camera ready as ever as he stuck his head through our open door. His eyebrows were raised; his lips quirked into a smile that was half confused, half interested.
Heat surged across my cheeks, burning the tops of my ears. “So, yeah, steak is my heart. I love it that much.”
Nina and Will exchanged glances and I shot them each a withering look. Will finally nodded and Nina murmured, “Right, steak.” She pasted on a brilliant smile and glittered as brightly as the bugle beads on her Romona Keveza dress. “Harley! You’re right on time.”
“And you look lovely.”
Nina introduced Will, and Harley nodded at me, his smile smooth, flawless. “Good to see you again, Sophie.”
I clenched my molars. “Likewise.”
Nina and Harley sauntered out of the apartment and Will sat down next to me. “You okay, love?”
I shrugged. “I don’t like him.”
“Nina’s a grown-up. Like, really grown-up. And she has fangs. She can handle herself.”
“I just hope she can handle him.”
* * *
I woke up when I heard the lock tumble on the front door. I vaguely remembered sinking into a hot bath, and padding out to the living room in my bathrobe, where Will was watching the Discovery Channel. I remembered him handing me a hot cup of tea and a slice of toast. I must have fallen asleep, and he must have tucked the afghan around me, and muted whatever Lifetime movie I had made him watch. Despite the rash of demon abuse, despite the scratch that stung on my ches
t, despite my roommate waltzing in the living room, I felt oddly snuggly and cared for.
Nina leaned over the arm of the couch, teeth bared in an obnoxious grin. “See this?” She pointed to her face. “This is the face of a woman in love.”
I shifted under my blanket. “Really?”
She batted her eyelashes and did an impressive pirouette, the sparkles on her dress catching the glare from Tori Spelling’s Lifetime movie highlights. My little beaded black evening bag soared from Nina’s hand.
“Thank you for letting me borrow your bag, by the way,” Nina said, kicking off her three-inch heels.
I slid over on the couch and offered her half my blanket. “Tell me everything.”
“First of all,” Nina said, eyes narrowed, “how are you? The attack—”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. It was”—something broke inside me, turned my solid insides into quivering jelly—“not important. I’m going to talk to Dixon tomorrow.”
Nina nodded knowingly, then burst into a fang-baring smile. “Harley is the man of my dreams!”
Just to clarify, Nina had lots of dreams. About a year and a half ago, her “dream” was a newly formed vampire who had lived his breathing years as a puppy police officer with the SFPD. After that, Dixon Andrade, he of large fangs and current head of the UDA, was Nina’s dreamboat—until he doted more on his new power position than on Nina and her lacy Lascana lingerie. And now, apparently, there was Harley.
“He is brilliant,” Nina said breathlessly, her coal black eyes glittering. “Absolutely brilliant! And he’s so dedicated to his work! Did you know he is up at six-thirty every morning, writing?”
“You know what he’s writing about, right?”
Nina ignored me; her bubble of love was puncture proof.
“And he is, of course, gorgeous!” She waggled her hands, spirit-finger style. “He’s got these incredible eyes—they actually smolder—they smolder! Have you ever known someone who had smoldering eyes? And his hair is perfect—not receding at all—and he’s got these incredible, huge, artistic hands... .” Nina hugged herself and I felt the parental need to cover ChaCha’s floppy dog ears, should she start to describe whatever else about Harley might be “huge” and “artistic.”
“Nina, you know he’s a breather, right? Harley’s alive. For the first time—I’m assuming.”
Nina blinked at me, her love bubble un-burst. “Oh, Sophie, Harley is so much more than a breather.” She launched herself toward me so we were nose to nose. ChaCha yipped and hopped off the couch before being the creamy filling in this roommate sandwich. “I think he might be my soul mate.”
I inched back. I don’t have vampire issues; I have personal-space issues. “So you told him about your ...” I raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“About my what? My job? My roommate?”
I rolled my eyes. “Have you told your soul mate that although you’re great in the ‘mate’ department, you’re lacking a bit in the ‘soul’ one?”
Nina flopped back against the couch and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Her full bottom lip was pushed out in a pout. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly, like you told him you were a little older than he thought—or not exactly, like you nipped a little artery but nothing more?”
Nina gasped. “Sophie Lawson! I can’t believe you would say such a thing. You know I adhere to the strictest standards of UDA-V bylaws. I signed a contract. If I eat someone without their express written consent, I lose all my benefits.”
The Underworld Detection Agency not only keeps tabs on the general demon population, but we also offer such services as crossover support groups (going from dead to undead is third only to divorce and moving in terms of stress, I’m told), insurance on everything from graveyard dirt to heirloom family cauldrons, and protection benefits provided to all UDA clients that adhered to the bylaws of their particular sect. Nina, being a vampire, was classified under the UDA-V statute, and requirements for her coverage included things such as no human sacrifice, no demon sing-alongs, and absolutely no feeding on humans or “turning” anyone without their express written consent and/or prior to the mandatory 666-day waiting period. In exchange for her compliance, she could expect an eternity’s worth of legal protection (from demon harassment, car accidents, or separatist issues), everlife assistance, and full-fang dental coverage. It might seem that demons are a wildly unorganized and unruly bunch, but the times we’ve had to “handle” demons that broke their bylaws were extremely rare.
“And besides, ‘I like long walks, puppy dogs, and O-negative blood’ are not the kind of things you spit out on a first date. There are rules of dating properly, you know.”
I wouldn’t know. Between my constant back-and-forth with Alex (or with being nearly killed or almost killed), I hadn’t spent much time in the traditional dating world.
“It’s really the kind of thing you ease into.”
Nina hopped off the couch—her small feet making no indentation in the carpet—and I followed her to the kitchen.
“Yeah, so how did you pull off the ‘I’m just a common breather’ thing while on a date? What did you guys do?”
Nina raised a salacious eyebrow. Her lips curved up coyly. “Aren’t you nosy?”
“Ew, no! I mean seriously, ew. I don’t want to know what you did there. I meant, where did you go for your date?”
Nina rooted through the fridge and came out with a blood bag. She pierced the left-hand corner with one angled fang. “It was amazing. Ooh, this tastes so good. It’s from a young one!”
My liver quivered. “The date?”
“Gary Danko. Have you been there?”
Gary Danko is one of the most exclusive and well-reviewed restaurants in San Francisco. While in most cities, that wouldn’t mean very much, in a town like this one, where amazing food is common in restaurants from the Mission to the Marina, being “the best” was truly a compliment.
And I had never been there. I felt the corners of my lips turn down. “Tell me about it.”
Nina pulled the blood bag away from her lips. “It. Was. Incredible! The ambiance is almost French—and kind of reminds me of this little tiny bistro my father used to take me to, not too far from the house. Anyway, the lighting was soft and beautiful.” Nina fluttered around the kitchen. “And the food—oh, the food! It was to die for.” She wiggled her eyebrows conspiratorially. “Get it?”
I crossed my arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. “You ate food?”
“Well, I had to eat a little.” Nina inched her thumb and forefinger apart. “Enough to throw Harley off, at least. We ordered carpaccio, so I was able to stomach a little of that. The rest I just found ways to hide.”
“You found ways to hide hunks of raw meat—”
“And truffles and caviar. That Harley knows how to order. We even had oysters! We ended off the evening with a nightcap at the Mark Hopkins. I love that place. Harley is staying there all week. They served us petit fours!”
My mouth started to water and I thought about the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had scarfed down while sitting on the kitchen counter watching Rachael Ray make coq au vin. I was probably cutting away the tuft of green mold on my Health Nut bread while Nina was hiding two-hundred-dollar-a-scoop caviar.
“Hey. Where did you hide the food?” I wanted to know.
Nina finished her blood bag and tossed the empty into the trash. “I stuffed most of it in my purse.” Another pirouette and she disappeared into her room.
I stood, openmouthed and sadly envious of my best friend. She made the most of her afterlife and I ... Well, I had spent the last four hours of my life in a chenille bathrobe while my dog licked crumbs from my chin.
“Hey!” I said, pounding on Nina’s door. “You borrowed my purse tonight!”
By eight-thirty the next morning, I had polished off my second cup of coffee and had had at least four imaginary conversations with Dixon, where he listened, rapt, to everything I had to say and
declared me the head of investigating all the Underworld mishaps with a crew of shirtless men at the ready. So when Dixon actually sauntered into the agency at quarter to nine, I was shaking from a caffeine and sugar rush, and my practiced, impassioned speech sounded like “blahhhhhhh.”
Dixon cocked his head and smiled serenely. “Why don’t you meet me in my office and we can talk further?”
I nodded mutely and followed him. After breathing deeply and allowing my heart to return to a decaffeinated pace, I detailed last night’s events to Dixon, adding extra emphasis to the near stake-to-the-heart encounter.
He furrowed his brow, and wrapped one hand around his chin. “Well, this is very disconcerting.”
I gaped. “Disconcerting? Someone tried to shish kebab me outside of the San Francisco Police Department, Dixon! That’s more than disconcerting, that’s—that’s terrifying!”
Dixon pressed his palms together, pushing his index fingers against his pursed lips. “While I don’t disagree about how frightening your experience last night was, Ms. Lawson—with all due respect—in the last twelve months someone did try to set you on fire, bleed you dry, and frame you for murder.”
“So what you’re saying is nearly being staked through the heart pales in comparison.”
Dixon gave me that thin-lipped, “if the shoe fits” look.
“Fine. My experience aside. Mrs. Henderson. The centaur. Bettina. You can’t honestly tell me that all of these occurrences are just coincidence.”
“Certainly not. But what I can tell you is that as we speak, there is a team of Underworld detectors working on it. So I suggest that you stick to what it is you do best, and let us handle all of this bump-in-the-night stuff.” Dixon’s bloodred lips cut into a sharp smile, which started out placating and ended up menacing. The prickly heat that stiffened my spine last night was back and I edged out of my chair, not blinking or breathing until I was back in the comfort of my own office. I sat in silence. My mind was buzzing like a hive of honeybees, until Kale knocked on my door and poked her head in.
“You have a visitor.”