by Hannah Jayne
“Are you crying?” I asked, huddling down. “What did you see?”
Alex’s eyes narrowed into an exasperated glare. “Couldn’t you smell that?”
I looked at the closed door, my palm closing over the knob. Alex backed away and used the back of one hand to rub his damp cheeks, the other hand clasped over his nose and mouth. He nodded—a sort of “go ahead and take your life into your own hands” look in his eyes—and I wrenched the door open a half inch. I sniffed at the tiny gap, looked over my shoulder at Alex, and shrugged.
“I don’t smell anything.”
Hand still pressed firmly over his mouth and nose, he inclined his head and gestured for me to go in. I did, pressing the door open farther, stepping into the dim room.
“Oh God,” I whispered.
The silent calm hung in the air like its own entity, oppressive and ominous. Thin shards of sunlight cut through the tears in the curtains, casting inappropriate cheery washes of light over the naked mattress, over the nightstand that was half crushed, its innards oozing out through splintered wood. My eyes immediately went to the bedclothes heaped on the floor—expensive jacquard silk and matching pillows with delicate fringe looked tramped on. These were torn and sodden with a brackish, viscous-looking liquid. The walls were stained with the same dark water; it colored the pale paint a sooty black. This time I slammed the door as I felt the bile rise in my throat.
I doubled over in the hallway and gasped, breathing in lungfuls of stale air.
“So what is that?” Alex wanted to know. “Toxic mold or something?”
I looked at him, dumbfounded, trying to work up enough saliva to unstick my jaws, to swallow down the burn in my mouth. I felt my eyes start to water, felt my nose start to run. All I could do was wag my head from side to side, my gaze fixed on the plush carpet under my feet.
“It’s blood.”
Alex let out something that was halfway between a snort and a chuckle. “Lawson, I may not be all that ... local ... but don’t forget, I’m a cop. I do know what blood looks like.”
“You don’t know what dragon blood looks like.”
Alex visibly paled and rubbed a palm over his chin.
“We have to go back in there.” His cobalt eyes raked over me and then to the closed door. “Ready?” he asked.
I nodded, unable to form any words. He pushed open the door and the grim scene greeted me again: the dark spatters climbing like gnarled fingers up the walls, the cold destruction in the room. I felt my heart do a choking double thump as I scanned the scene.
“This is bad, Alex.”
Alex picked his way around the broken furniture, careful not to step into the black puddles soaked into the carpet. He circled the bed, peered into the half-open closet.
“There are no bodies. Do you think maybe the Hendersons got away? From the look of the—the blood, they would have been pretty severely injured.”
“No. No, they didn’t get away.” I gulped, toeing the discarded duvet, clamping my jaws shut against the wave of nausea that flashed when my fears were confirmed. There was more blood, the outline of broken bodies, singed into the carpet. “They were murdered.”
Alex put a gentle hand on my forearm and I let him lead me downstairs and out the front door. He closed the Hendersons’ door firmly behind us and turned me to face him when we were out on the front stoop.
“I’m sorry about your friends, Lawson.” He pushed a lock of hair behind my ear, his fingertips gently brushing my cheek as he did so. “Are you okay?”
I sucked in a shaky breath and pinched my eyes shut, hoping to burn the image of the Hendersons’ destroyed room out of my mind. “I’m worried, Alex. This proves it. There’s something going on in the Underworld.”
The muscle in Alex’s jaw twitched, but his eyes stayed soft, stayed focused on mine. “It doesn’t prove anything. It could have been a random attack, for all we know.”
“They were”—I scanned the sidewalks, dropping my voice—“demons. That would be a hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
Alex nodded, though he didn’t look convinced.
I shook my head, rubbing at the throb that had started near my temples. “And they were dragons. It’s not easy to take down a dragon. Who—what—ever did this knows what he’s doing. And he’s strong.”
“What are you going to do?”
I felt my mouth drop open. “What am I going to do? You’re the police. You’re a homicide detective!”
“And you work for the one entity in the entire world equipped to deal with demons.”
I stared Alex down, until he blew out a sigh.
“What am I supposed to do? Call a squad in for a disappearing dragon death?”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “You could do worse.”
“Call Dixon. Let him handle this. After what you’ve been through this past year, don’t you think it’s time to take it easy?”
Alex tried to squeeze my shoulder in what I supposed was an attempt to be appeasing and compassionate, but I dodged him, narrowing my eyes.
“I almost got blown up by a psychotic fallen angel,” I reminded.
“You almost got blown up in general.”
“Which makes looking into a demon murder look like a cakewalk.” I forced a Cheshire grin. “So we’re on the case?”
“Let Dixon handle it,” Alex repeated.
I thought of the dismissive way Dixon promised to “look into” the incident and then looked at Alex as he beelined down the front walk, stuffing his gun back into his holster. He paused at the sidewalk and looked over his shoulder. “Coming?”
I followed Alex down to his car, where he fished out a first aid box from under the seat. He carefully, tenderly picked the last bits of glass out of my palms, then swabbed the whole thing with Mercurochrome.
I squirmed. “That stings!”
“Hold still.”
He fished out a roll of gauze from the kit.
“I shouldn’t be letting you do this,” I said finally.
“Because I’m not a doctor?”
“Because you’re an idiot. Something is going on. It could be a band of—of Mexican drug lords or a fallen angel coming to seek her ultimate revenge or, you know, crackheads. And you didn’t do a thing about it.” My eyes started to sting and I sniffled furiously, willing myself not to cry. “You’re going to feel so bad if they come back and gut me.”
The muscle in Alex’s jaw twitched and I saw he was fighting a smile. “You’re just waiting for someone to get gutted, aren’t you?”
I blew out a sigh. “Don’t you have a stakeout to go on?”
“I’m not leaving just yet. And I’m concerned, Lawson, I am. But like I said, this”—and here he jutted his chin toward the Hendersons’ very plain, very non-Underworld-looking house—“is really not police department jurisdiction.” His eyes were soft, what I imagined would be bedroomy and rather sexy—were I not half covered in gauze and dried blood and just about to pee.
“So what do I do?” I asked, my voice hoarse. “Just ignore a crime scene and file it under, I don’t know, weird, demonic coincidences?”
Alex wound the last bit of gauze around my left hand and then pulled it close to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss on my palm. He looked at me through lowered lashes; the blue of his eyes was intense, piercing. “I promise to look into it,” he murmured, “if you promise me you won’t.”
I swallowed and he held my eyes.
“Promise,” I said, trying to consider how to cross my fingers while Alex still held my hand.
Chapter Two
I was fishing my keys out of my shoulder bag—and cursing my apparent need to pack everything I’ve ever owned into eleven inches of knockoff Kate Spade—when I heard the thump from behind my locked apartment door. My hackles immediately went up. My suddenly sweaty palms worked the straps of my bag while my heart thudded into my throat and I pressed my ear to the door.
There was an audible groan. A breathy whimper.
I dumped my bag and gave the door a “hi-ya!” with my foot, splintering it open—at least, that’s what I imagined I would do. Instead, I shakily retrieved the hide-a-key from the dusty top of the door frame and sank it into the lock, very slowly pushing open the door. I peered into the darkened living room, gulping heavily when my little lunatic of puppy fur and kibble breath didn’t come barreling and barking to the door to greet me.
“ChaCha?” I whispered into the darkness.
The metallic stench of blood hung heavy in the air.
“Sophie?”
“Vlad?” I pressed on the light and felt my stomach churn as Vlad sprang up, shirtless, his chest alabaster pale in the now-glaring lights.
Kale sprang up from underneath him, her manicured black fingernails working furiously to button her shirt.
“Oh God. You guys! This is ... ew!”
I tried to look away as Vlad reworked the contraption that passed for his VERM-approved seventeenth-century button fly.
“Ew, ew, EW!”
“What are you doing home?” Vlad demanded. He looked down at Kale, whose cheeks were a heady red.
“You said she was seeing Mrs. Henderson.”
Kale looked up at me, dark eyes a combination of horror and embarrassment. “You were supposed to be seeing Mrs. Henderson.”
I crossed my arms, and my eyes scanned the living room, littered with blood bags, a tipped glass of something sticky-looking dripping onto the carpet and—I cocked my head to listen—Barry White crooning softly on the stereo.
“Are you kidding me right now?”
Kale stood up, dressed now, eyes wide. “Please, Sophie, don’t tell Lorraine about this.”
I felt my left eye start to twitch.
“Just go, Kale.”
Kale gathered her purse and turned to Vlad, pink lips in midpucker.
“Now,” I groaned.
Kale hurried out the front door and I kicked it shut behind her and then got to work blowing out what remained of my last Pottery Barn mulberry candle.
“You were supposed to be at work,” Vlad grumbled from his spot on the couch. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you?”
I spun to face Vlad. “First of all, it doesn’t matter if I was in Timbuktu. You were schtupping Kale on the couch. My couch! I watch Maury on that couch. Now I’m going to have to burn it.”
“If it helps, we hadn’t actually gotten to the schtupping part.”
I glared. “It doesn’t.”
“So ... you’re not going to say anything to anyone?” I thought of Vlad’s flock of Bela Lugosi–dressed VERM members and their anti-mixing stance while I looked at Vlad, right now more teenaged boy than broody immortal. I couldn’t be entirely certain, but I’m pretty sure that trading whatever vampire’s passed off as spit with the finance intern/receptionist (a witch) was probably frowned upon by the Count Chocula set.
“No, I won’t say anything.”
Vlad grinned, relieved, his fangs showing the slightest tinge of blood-stained pink. “Thanks.”
There was an uncomfortable beat of silence. “By the way,” I stated, “congratulations on your promotion. How did it go over at the staff meeting?”
Vlad beamed. “Really well. People seemed really excited—I mean, most people.”
Vlad’s eyes held mine and I could feel myself shrink.
“I’m really excited for you, Vlad, I am.” I forced a smile almost bigger than I could stand.
“But?”
“Nothing.”
Vlad’s eyebrows remained high.
“You’re sixteen,” I finally relented.
“I died when I was sixteen.” Though his voice had a determined, dark edge, there was still something in it that was soft and vulnerable—something that I wanted to nurture and protect.
“I am really proud of you, Vlad. It’s just going to take a while to put two and,” I said, pausing, “one hundred and twelve together, okay?”
Vlad rolled his eyes, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I know, it’s the best you can do. You’re only mortal.”
“The expression is ‘you’re only human.’”
“Whatevs.”
And he was back to being sixteen again.
There was a quick rap on the door and Vlad yanked it open, grinning at Will.
“Hey, mate,” Will said.
Vlad sucked a leftover splatter of blood from his fingertip and pointed at me. “Sophie’s over there. I need to get ready for my meeting.”
Vlad disappeared into Nina’s room, shutting the door softly behind him. Will looked from the door to the torn blood bags still dripping on the coffee table. The alarm was evident on his face. He held me by the shoulders and looked me up and down, finally tilting my neck. “You okay, love? Did he, uh”—Will bit his lips, trying to choose his words—“hurt you?”
Oh! My guardian angel!
I crossed my arms. “Some Guardian you are. I could have been fang food and you’d come sauntering in here asking if I was okay, love.” I feigned Will’s English accent.
Will narrowed his eyes. “I’m a very good Guardian, which is why I didn’t embarrass us both by rushing in here all ‘good angel’ on you. I knew you weren’t in any real danger.”
The “good angel” jab stung. While most women would adore the fact that two incredibly attractive men moved Heaven and Planet Earth (sometimes quite literally) for their personal protection, the “angel” versus “Guardian” barbs got quite old.
“Besides, I’m here for Nina.”
Let’s get one thing straight: I like Will Sherman. He’s attractive in that sandy surfer with a head full of completely mussable blond-brown hair kind of way; in that sun-kissed skin, English accent, “mind the gap” sort of way. And I’ll admit, in a few instances of utter weakness, I have felt a certain below-the-belly-button twinge when he smiled and his eyes did that mischievous little crinkle thing, or when he said something adorable and Englishy, like “Let’s have a lag-ah and watch telly at the pub.” So I like him, yes. He’s my Guardian—and not in that “until you’re eighteen” sort of way, but in an “until the balance of power has been restored between the good and the fallen, I will protect you” kind of way. Which, when you really get down to it, is hard not to like. But I don’t love him. Which is why getting a tiny twinge of jealousy pricking at my spine was a completely unnecessary surprise.
I felt my eyebrows disappear into my bangs. “Nina? Why are you looking for Nina?”
Will held up a collection of DVDs. “I’m returning her Entourage set.”
Again, I repeat: I don’t love Will. So I am chalking up the cold wash of relief that flooded over me at the presentation of the Entourage episodes as relief that Nina’s DVD collection could once again be complete, rather than the idea that my roommate was making moves on my Guardian.
“I’ll be sure she gets them.” I held out my hands, silently praying that Will couldn’t feel the heat that wafted from me.
Will clapped his hands over the DVD spines and pushed past me. “That’s okay. I’ll wait.” He pulled out a dining-room chair and plopped down. He kicked his feet up on the dining table and crossed his legs at the ankles, displaying his bright red-and-yellow Arsenal Football Club socks.
“Nice socks.”
Will beamed. “Gift from Mum.”
“Get your feet off my table.”
“Ooh, you’re snarky. So who are we after this week?”
“What?”
I followed Will’s honey-colored eyes to Vlad, who had changed into a crisp white shirt, dark brocade vest, and silly-looking ascot. His black hair was slicked back in a precise hair helmet that showed off the deep widow’s peak that he and Nina—and most members of the LaShay clan, I expected—shared. He had a stack of flyers under one arm and was trying to wrangle a handful of VERM protest signs in the other.
“We are not ‘after’ anyone,” Vlad said, setting his signs against the table and rearranging the poof of his ascot. “We�
��re simply planning a silent protest of Edie Havenhurst’s new book, Fendi and Fangs.”
In one fell swoop Nina pushed through the front door, ditched her size-of-Guatemala shoulder bag and her sky-high booties and landed elegantly on the couch, her lifeless body not making a sound. She pulled up onto her knees, her grin somewhere between excited and maniacal, her coal black eyes wide.
“Ohmigod! I love Fendi and Fangs! I think it’s even better than Dooney, Bourke, and Buried.” Nina leaned over and pulled a worn paperback from underneath the couch cushions, holding it up like a prize. “I love, love, love Eliza Draconie. She’s the reason I went blond.”
Nina had taken her waist-length glossy Prell hair from her supernatural inky black to a sun-kissed California blond. Today she was wearing it in two long, skillfully mussed braids, topped off with a knitted gray beanie and a pair of heavy black-rimmed eyeglasses. Paired with the aforementioned boat-necked Balenciaga, Nina looked like a sexy Calvin Klein ad. Should I attempt the same look, I’m quite sure I would have looked like I had just walked off the set of a “Be Kind to Your Local Librarian” ad.
Nina jabbed a finger at me. “And, by the way, walking into a conversation about a book I love has totally saved your ass.”
I blinked.
“Shopping!” Nina informed me.
I slapped my palm against my forehead. “Neens, I’m so sorry.”
“Who’s this Eliza bird?” Will wanted to know.
“Who is Eliza Draconie?” Nina’s coal black eyes were as wide as saucers, and her little heart-shaped mouth was held in an astonished O. “She is only the most fashion-forward and fabulous vampire ever to live!”
I cupped my mouth with my hand and leaned toward Will. “To not live. She’s—”
“I know,” Will said, waving his hand at me, “undead. A vampire.”
“And completely fictional,” I finished.
“Maybe,” Nina said, “but Edie knows what she’s talking about.” Nina tapped her index finger against her ruby red lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Edie was one of us, or is seriously entrenched.”