by Kayleigh Sky
No. Not yours.
Otto wasn’t as good looking as some of the heroes on Jessa’s book covers, but that was partly because of the deep crease across his forehead and his perpetual scowl. But he was big and gruff the way Jessa liked. His shorn hair was dark and his eyes a light blue. Lighter than the sky. Lighter than the water in the pool. Jessa licked his lips, sweat trickling down the side of his face.
Uriah stretched his arm across Jessa’s shoulder, palm out. “Close enough.”
A grimace that was probably supposed to be a smile lifted Otto’s lips. “You’re telling me the truth.” Jessa blinked. “But people always know something,” Otto added. “Always.”
“I don’t.”
“Do you know Mateo?”
“I met him.”
“Fed from him?”
“That’s personal,” Wen complained. “You’re making an unfounded leap from Mateo’s disappearance to Mateo knowing anything at all.”
Otto’s eyes on Jessa’s warmed for an instant, Jessa would swear it, then he turned to Wen.
Rune stood now too.
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Mr. Wrythin,” Otto said.
“Donors come and go. Some of them develop relationships. Some of them become sensitive to the bites. That can happen when the parties are not mated.”
“Mated?”
“Fated,” said Rune.
Otto chuckled. “You believe in that?”
“My father did. And Qudim was ruthlessly unromantic.”
A strange look crossed Otto’s face before Wen said “The point is, a donor can leave for any reason.”
“We’ll need Mateo’s address.”
“I don’t have it. Most of my donors come off the street. I provide living accommodations and wages in exchange for a service, that’s all. I don’t follow after them.”
“That’s cold,” murmured Mal.
“I run a good business.”
“Why do they leave?” asked Otto.
“I have no idea. Isaac might know. They were friends.”
“Isaac doesn’t know anything,” Jessa blurted, clamping down too late on his tongue to bite the words back.
But he had Otto’s attention again.
“How do you know that?”
“We talked about it.”
“About the murder?”
Jessa nodded. “When we thought the victim was a drainer.”
“You feed from Isaac?”
He nodded again.
“We’ll talk to him,” said Otto. “What were you doing at the murder site?”
Jessa stammered, the change in subject discombobulating him.
“His shop is in the co-op on C Street,” said Rune.
“The field isn’t on C Street,” said Otto.
Jessa’s face warmed. “I was looking for my flower.”
Rune sighed. “Oh, that.” Otto turned to him. “It’s one of the new species,” Rune explained. “At least Jessa thinks so.”
“I call it the Gold Star,” said Jessa.
A bewildered look filled Otto’s eyes, and he shook his head. “And this flower grows at the murder site?”
“Around here too,” said Mal. “Jessa painted it if you want a look.”
“It grows on a vine,” Jessa said, drawing Otto’s attention back to him. “It’s yellow with orange dots and has five pointed petals. You have to look for it because it only grows with other grasses and flowers and attaches to the ground like ivy or strawberries. Wild strawberries are hard to see too.”
Jessa bit his lip to shut himself up.
“I assume you can cross Jessa off your suspect list,” said Rune. “He’s not the least bit violent.”
Otto nodded. “We’re done for now.”
Jessa forced a smile and tried to swallow his disappointment. After giving him a pat on the shoulder, Uriah led Otto and his partner away. Fated love wasn’t real no matter what Qudim thought, and Otto wasn’t the guy in the parking lot. He was cold but redolent as sun-warmed stones.
Sleepy summertime.
But it didn’t match the heat in Jessa’s belly. His gaze stayed glued to every one of Otto’s steps until he lost sight of him.
13
Cracking Up
After another murder call dragged Otto out of bed, he tried to forget Jessamine Senera.
The victim in Otto’s new case was a human found in a car that had flipped upside down in a canal. What at first had appeared to be a simple accident clearly wasn’t when the victim was extricated from his car and found to have a bullet hole in his forehead.
A few days later, Otto and Prosper’s boss instructed Prosper to divide his time between the new investigation and Acalliona’s. Rumor had it the King had an interest in Acalliona’s murder. Apparently, he didn’t particularly care about the murder of a human.
“Why not both of us?” asked Otto, scowling from where he sat at his desk with a third coffee that did nothing to stop the banging in his head.
Their boss grimaced and smoothed the front of his suit jacket. He only wore a suit on official business. Where was he going? The Chamber of Commerce? The mayor’s office? A local coven meeting?
“The drainer’s case is an ice cube. I want you to spend your time where it counts.”
Well, Prosper wouldn’t spend his time doing anything, Otto figured, and over the next weeks, Prosper did nothing to prove him wrong. When Otto asked about the interview with the donor, Isaac, Prosper shrugged. “I haven’t been able to pin him down. The kid’s a fave.”
He sneered over the last words.
A few days later, a sudden lead in the murder of the “swimmer” as he’d been dubbed, led to a confrontation with a busboy at a local bar and grill Otto often went to. It turned out the busboy had gotten together with a woman customer who’d offered him herself and fifteen hundred dollars to pop her husband. Why the guy thought dumping the car in the canal was good cover was beyond Otto. He worried more about the strange queasy guilt that had worked its way into his gut. Had he sat beside the wife, shit-faced or getting there, while she’d made her plans?
He wanted to puke.
What had he missed? What had he missed in the drainer’s murder? Had that gut instinct that had helped him for so long just shriveled up and died? None of the pieces of the Acalliona murder floating in his head connected in a way that made sense to him. Was his gift for solving murders, the only real talent he had, gone? The next day he set up an interview with Isaac.
“Waste a time,” said Prosper.
Otto slid his phone into his pocket, grabbed his keys out of his desk drawer and said, “Feel free to wait it out in your car.”
Prosper chuckled but strode into Comity House at Otto’s side, though he griped at Otto’s sour look.
“Come on, don’t be pissed at me for the way things are going. Not my fault the fucking killer is sitting on his ass making pretty bead necklaces.”
Otto stopped dead in the middle of the lobby. “You don’t know that.”
Prosper sneered. “True. Maybe he’s braiding his hair.”
“Like I said, wait in your damn car.”
He resumed his path to the counter, and Prosper kept pace. “You think it’s this Isaac kid?”
“I want to talk to the guy on the tape.”
“Okay, suppose it isn’t the prince. Could be both these kids. They’re whores. They could’ve combined forces. Lured twice as many guys. Robbed them and ran. This time got out of control.”
“Your imagination has gotten more colorful over the years.”
“What does that mean?”
“Isaac isn’t the one who’s missing.”
“Maybe he killed Mateo to make it look like him. No honor among thieves, right?”
“How ’bout we just talk to the kid.”
The memory of Jessa’s face framed by braids, the beads around his wrists, the freckles on his bare calves, hovered close to the surface of Otto’s awareness. Jessa came to him every night in his dreams. A
t every lull during the day.
Why?
Otto had no trouble hooking up with good-looking people. Why was this pinched-nose guy with the chipped nail polish invading his thoughts? It was nothing to do with fate. Jessa had been the guy in the parking lot surrounded by bullies, Otto was sure. They hadn’t touched or talked. Not really. Just one quick look into a startled pair of eyes. Startled and… hopeful?
Yes.
And tender. Otto thought back to the interview at the castle and the fear on Jessa’s face at the mention of Isaac. He was willing to bet Isaac was far more than a donor. A lover? Fire erupted in his belly and rose into his throat. He swallowed it down. And what about Prydwen? Did Prydwen know about Jessa’s lover and not care? Or did he care? Had Acalliona tied in somehow?
He told himself the burn in his gut was probably booze from the night before. It sure as hell wasn’t jealousy. Not over a crossling prince he didn’t even know.
He snorted at the thought, coughing into his hand when Anya, who’d emerged to escort them to Isaac, glanced at him curiously. “Okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” he said. “Allergies, I think.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t be the first,” said Anya. “Vampires seem to have better resistance, but among our clientele, allergies can be a problem.”
“Isn’t that the source of their problem?” said Prosper, his face stiff with disgust as though drainers cavorted with their donors right in front of him.
Anya shrugged, expressionless. If she had an opinion about the drainers who came here she wasn’t giving it away. No doubt Prydwen paid her well. He appeared to rely on her. Was Prydwen faithful? Swain. How fucking poetic. Otto tried to picture Prydwen in tights like a suitor from the Middle Ages, but the image broke apart and in its place appeared the naked guy in the statue upstairs. Was that Jessa? Or just a likeness? The figure was lean and supple.
Bendy.
“Are there any other crosslings here?” Prosper asked.
Anya slowed, half turning to look back at him as they strolled through a lodge-like room stuffed with furniture. A handful of youngsters curled on the couches and chairs, studiously ignoring Otto and Prosper, noses in their books. None over thirty. Again, Otto’s thoughts went to Jessa and Isaac, and this time his stomach twisted itself into a bitter knot.
“You know… Inbred,” Prosper added when Anya didn’t answer.
“I don’t think that’s what inbred means, but in any case, I accept copies of their donor cards and file their applications. I don’t investigate them.”
“But Prydwen does.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “You’d do better to direct your question to him.”
She continued across the room and down the length of a long hall with a wall of windows that looked onto the garden. She entered what looked like a waiting room. In addition to a circle of squat club chairs, there was a round coffee table strewn with books and a kitchenette in the corner. Anya pointed to the kitchenette. “Make yourselves comfortable. We have coffee, tea, or hot chocolate if you’d like. Isaac is right outside. I’ll send him in.”
She disappeared through a door in the wall of glass. A moment later, the greenery moved, and a boy with dark tousled hair stepped from between a pair of tropical-looking bushes and entered the room. He shut the door behind him. “I’m Isaac.”
“Sit,” said Prosper, pointing at the chairs.
His resistance was obvious, but apparently, the kid thought better of pushing Prosper’s buttons and dropped onto one of the cushy chairs, sinking low. His position forced him to look up, and he wasn’t getting out of that chair without a struggle. Surprising Otto, and from the look on his face, Prosper too, Isaac took the initiative and launched into his alibi. “I was with a client the night Mr. Acalliona was killed. After my client left, I went to the kitchen to get something to eat. Then I watched a movie with two other kids and went to bed. That was about three thirty. I couldn’t sneak out of here, kill a guy—a vampire—and sneak back before morning.”
Prosper cast a shadow over the kid, a glower on his face. Still pissed at Otto, probably. Sweat beaded the sides of Isaac’s nose, his breath quiet. Nervous.
“It’s not that far away,” Otto murmured.
“I could run it in a half hour, I guess. I can’t kill a vamp though. I’m not that strong. No human is.”
Prosper laughed, appreciative, but his glower stayed. “You guys did your best.”
“I’m the one sellin’ my blood,” said Isaac. “I’m not feelin’ sorry for you.”
Prosper’s eyes narrowed. “You all stick together. Which means your alibi is for shit.”
Fear flashed in Isaac’s eyes, and Otto cast a warning stare at Prosper. “Let’s hear him out.”
“What for?”
“That’s why we’re here.”
“I’m not stupid,” said Isaac. “You think I know something. I already told you I don’t, so I don’t trust either of you.”
“We always know something,” Otto said, dragging a chair closer to Isaac’s. Of all the people Isaac should be scared of, Otto probably topped the list. Usually he didn’t give a shit what people thought, but he was curious about Isaac because, wary of him though he was, Otto didn’t scare him.
“Look, kid, I’m not interviewing for a job. You don’t have to trust me. The question is, do I trust you? You have a lot of reason to want me to.”
Isaac flushed and dug his fingers into the arm of the chair. “I didn’t do anything. If that matters.”
“It does,” said Otto, ignoring Prosper’s chuff.
Isaac pulled his gaze off Prosper as if he had to drag his eyes away. He focused on Otto and chewed his lip. “I met Mr. Acalliona. Right here.”
“In this room?”
Prosper sounded doubtful, and this time Otto agreed with him. Comity House was all about being upscale. Luxurious accommodations. The room was comfortable, but not much nicer than what you’d find in an office building.
“Mr. Wrythin hadn’t approved him yet. He wasn’t a client.”
“But they aren’t, are they? Before you agree.”
Isaac shook his head. “Mostly that’s true, but not always. Sometimes they’re already clients and just want somebody new. I guess we don’t all taste the same.”
The twist in Otto’s gut drove bile into his mouth. Isaac’s comment was bad enough, but the look of dejection on his face was worse. Jesus, what was the kid thinking? That selling his blood wasn’t just a cold, old-fashioned cash transaction? No emotions required? Vampires had the morals of alley cats. But was Isaac looking for something else? Was he in love with Jessa?
“Who is Mateo?”
Isaac’s head shot up, and he dug his fingers into the chair again. “You know who if you’re asking. A donor.”
“Your friend?”
“I work with him.”
“I bet,” said Prosper. “Together at the same time, right?”
Isaac threw him a glare. “Asshole.”
Prosper stepped closer. “What the fuck?”
“You can’t intimidate me. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
The kid wasn’t stupid, he didn’t sound like a gutter rat, and Otto saw his point, but Prosper was antagonizing him for a reason, so Otto went along with it, though he spoke through gritted teeth. “Answer him.”
Now it was Otto Isaac burned with his glare. “No. No sex. No kinky feed fests. I do my job, and I try to make it as easy as possible. You think people like having to rely on us?”
People. Otto resisted shaking his head. Not people. Vampires.
“You’re lucky we fuckin’ do,” Prosper snarled.
“You don’t like me,” Isaac said, struggling to the edge of his chair, neck strung out and tense, biting out his words. “I don’t care. Pin it on me. I don’t care.”
The sorrow in his voice struck a cord with Otto. It floated under the grating attitude like the wistfulness in Maisie’s cynical laugh. But she had regretted nothing, at least not anything she’d adm
it to. She sold her blood and her body. She bought things. Stole things. She adjusted to the way things were after the Upheaval. He doubted she hated vampires, because hating them wouldn’t change anything. “The world’s always been crap,” she’d said. “That’s on us.” She was beautiful like Isaac, and beauty came with a price.
“Nobody’s pinning anything on you,” Otto said.
“We don’t fucking have to,” said Prosper. “You’re it, plain as moonlight. Wha’ did you two cook up? You stick around here to misdirect us while Mateo holes up with the money? Or the jewels?”
Isaac gaped at him. “Jewels?”
“Acalliona was a jeweler.”
“Well, I didn’t know that.” Isaac looked at Otto. “Look. All I did was meet with him. In this room. I said no, and Mr. Wrythin said he’d run his card. That’s all.”
“How many friends do you have here?” Prosper asked.
“Nobody helped me.”
“That’s not what I fuckin’ asked.”
Prosper towered over him now. Otto stood and stepped closer. “Back off.”
Christ, this was the same shit Prosper had done with Maisie, wasting time and effort on the wrong people.
Prosper’s face twisted. “The whore’s lying.”
Otto had no time to jump in before Isaac grunted, “You asshole,” and thrashed in his chair. He lurched halfway to his feet before Prosper clamped a hand on top of his head and pushed him back down. “FUCKING SIT!”
Goddamn vampires.
The room vanished before Otto’s eyes and a haze reddened the scene in front of him like a bloody mist.
His growl rose. “Let him alone.”
Prosper pointed with his free hand. “Fuck off.”
But Otto was on him, twisting Prosper’s collar in a knot in his fist, dragging him from Isaac. Prosper kept his grip though, and a strangled cry spilled through Isaac’s gritted teeth. Prosper shook him. “Admit it. You bastards murdered one of us.”
His fist tangled in Isaac’s hair and the kid’s cry rose into a wail. Something broke in Otto’s head and let loose the long-hidden horror of Maisie’s death. She would never have gone down without a fight either, and the images that had played in his head for years before he’d smashed them back into the dark flashed through the red haze in his eyes. Maisie freeing herself. Maisie finding a broken bottle and stabbing the bastard in the heart. Maisie dashing into a crowd and running away. Maisie escaping. Torturous, traitorous, taunting images because Maisie didn’t get away. She did go. He’d lost her.