Under Suspicion

by Hannah Jayne

  I traded in my slippers for boots, shrugged into my coat, snatched up my shoulder bag, and charged into the hallway, where I stopped dead, frowning.

  It was the middle of the night and that meant that Nina was at Poe’s.

  The vampire coffehouse.

  Though I spent forty hours a week surrounded by all manner of the undead, being the only breather in a vampire haven wasn’t exactly tops on my bucket list. I bit my lip and then dialed Alex, squeezing my eyes shut when his voice mail clicked on, sternly telling me to leave a message or dial 911 if this was an actual emergency.

  I considered it.

  Then I rushed across the hall and sucked in a deep breath before hammering on Will’s door. He was a breather, but still ... two breathers in a vampire bar were better than one, right?

  When he didn’t answer, I felt the sting of tears burning my eyes. My best friend could be in serious danger, and everyone I knew—and everyone I knew who owned weapons—was out.

  They’d better be planning a surprise party for me.

  It was a quick drive to Poe’s, which was tucked between an empty storefront and a Chinese herb shop at the beach end of Clement Street. I had never actually been there before. When I stood out front, I realized the dreary, hand-painted Poe’s sign—complete with a beady-eyed raven—did little to quell my angst.

  Ditto with the blacked-out windows.

  I paced for a few minutes and left pleading voice mails on everyone’s phones for a second time—something between “I really need your help” and “If I die at the fangs of a rogue vampire tonight, it’ll be on your shoulders.” (Rogue being UDA speak for a nonadherent client.)

  Then I called the only other person I could think of... .

  “Sophie was right to call Steve,” Steve said with an authoritative pat of my hand while I desperately tried to breathe through my mouth.

  Trolls in general—and Steve, in particular—have a very distinctive smell. It’s distinctly horrible. Like an unholy combination of sewer rot and ripe blue cheese. And although Steve was the last person on my call list—and generally the first on my “stay far, far away from” list, I did have a soft spot for the little moldy man ever since he had been instrumental in saving my life. Besides, being a troll, he would give me some badly needed Underworld cred and we should fit right in.

  But that didn’t mean I enjoyed hanging out with him. “Now,” Steve started, “Steve thinks Sophie should pretend to be Steve’s love monkey.”

  I gave Steve an unamused once-over, which he ignored, threading his graying arm through mine, his lichen-covered knuckles closing over my fingers. I caught our reflection in the blacked-out glass: me, stylishly disheveled in skinny jeans, UGG boots, and a herringbone hooded jacket; Steve, dressed in his trademark velour track suit, dripping with enough gold chains to give Mr. T a run for his money. His stubby troll arms wrapped around my right thigh; his flat, stone gray eyes looked up at me lovingly while his pointed tongue slid over his snaggled yellow teeth lasciviously.

  Oh boy, we wouldn’t stand out at all.

  Chapter Twenty

  The inside of Poe’s was uniformly dim and beatnik chic. The dark wood tables were crowded with fabulous-looking intellectuals reading newspapers and having conversations in low murmurs. Everywhere pale hands were wrapped around bowl-sized mugs that wafted little bits of steam. The only indication that Poe’s was anything more than your average Starbucks-refuting coffeehouse was that those mugs—the ones that were empty and stacked on the counter—were stained a deep, rich red.

  I pushed my fire engine red hair over my shoulder and pasted on my most confident-feeling smile, while covertly trying to shake Steve off my thigh. Though, even without three feet of gray skin and swamp lichen attached to my leg, I don’t think I would have been able to blend in. I barely had one foot through the front door when all heads turned and swung toward us, nostrils twitching.

  I gulped, willing my heart to continue along at its natural clip, praying that what I heard was not my blood roaring through my veins because if I heard it, everyone else did, too. A very tall woman, with blue-black hair pulled back into a slick ponytail, bangs cut high on her forehead, cocked her head toward me, clearly listening. My heart continued to do its siren-sounding thump, and the woman licked her lips. A glistening hint of saliva colored her lower lip. I stiffened and grabbed Steve’s hand, holding tight.

  “Steve knew Sophie would come around.”

  Sophie knew that with the vampires’ supernatural sense of smell, Steve’s personal odor could work as a kind of shield.

  Despite being the only breather in a coffehouse filled to the gill with people who dined on people like me between meals, I wasn’t a complete idiot.

  I glanced around. “I don’t see her. Maybe she left?”

  I watched the woman with the ponytail stiffen in her chair; her body was erect and she leaned slightly forward, as though she were about to pounce. I didn’t recognize her from the UDA, which meant it was possible that she was newly created or new to town—two things that meant she didn’t know or possibly didn’t care to adhere to the UDA’s strict no-eating-me policy.

  With one eye on salivation girl, I limped over to the front counter, where an adorable-looking Leighton Meester knockoff was pushing a white towel in small circles on the sparkling granite.

  “Hi,” I said, brightening. “Hi, excuse me. I’m Sophie Lawson ...”

  The Gossip Girl doppelganger grinned at me, her small fangs glowing a bright white in the overhead light. “I know you. You work at the UDA with Nina LaShay, right?”

  I nodded spastically; relief washing over me. Maybe little Leighton would protect me from ponytail girl.

  “I’m Avey.”

  “Oh, hi, Avey.” I held out my hand and Avey took it in hers for a microsecond; then she let it go as though my skin had burned her.

  “Oh! I’m sorry,” she said, her bluish violet eyes going wide. “I didn’t realize you would be so warm.”

  “Ahem!” Steve cleared six inches of phlegm from his throat, and I wanted to gag.

  Avey leaned up on her tiptoes and peered over the counter to where Steve stood, little tree stump legs askew, fists on hips.

  “Steve is here to protect Sophie. May Sophie lift Steve up, please?”

  I watched the terror shoot across Avey’s face—mainly her nose—and wagged my head.

  “It’s okay, Steve. I’m fine.” I turned back to Avey. “Is Nina here?”

  “No. Actually, she was here a bit ago, but—”

  Steve yanked hard on my hand and kicked one snakeskin-booted foot against the wood base of the counter.

  “Steve is here to protect Sophie. Sophie cannot trust these bloodsuckers!”

  Suddenly the murmuring din of conversation stopped, and the whole room plunged into stunned silence.

  “Steve,” I started to whisper.

  Avey’s eyebrows shot up, alarmed. “You should go.”

  A cold chill slid over my bare neck and I shivered despite my coat. The girl with the ponytail was a hairsbreadth away from me now, the tip of her nose brushing against my hair. I watched her fingertip curl around my wrist, then draw a fine line toward my elbow.

  “Go!” Avey yelled, but in the same instance that delicate finger turned into a circulation-cutting grip on my arm. I winced, paralyzed, stunned, and appalled by her strength. I felt the blood throb in my veins; I felt the tip of ponytail girl’s hair as she angled her head and bared her fangs.

  A high-pitched, girlish scream pierced the drop-dead silence. I was stunned to find that the howl wasn’t coming from me. It was coming from Steve, and fading quickly as his fat little legs propelled him toward the door.

  I tried to wriggle, but I was held tight. The cold from ponytail girl’s marble-hard, lifeless chest seeped through my coat to my skin.

  “Let her go, Devora,” I heard Avey cry. “It’s illegal. And Sophie’s practically one of us!”

  “You mean she’s practically killing us,�
�� Devora hissed back.

  I whimpered and then squeezed my eyes shut, when I felt the warm prick of fangs against the thin skin on my neck. I felt the pierce—two thick, hot pinpricks as Devora began to sink her fangs into me as her fingers tightened around my arms, making my hands go numb. I squeezed my eyes shut as my stomach rolled over and my knees weakened. I thought I would crumple to the floor, but was instead pushed against the counter with such force that I lost my breath. Groaning, I felt my ribs protest against the pressure. My forehead smacked against the granite countertop—and Avey’s damp polishing cloth—and black spots flooded my eyes. I sank down to the cold tiled floor, stunned as Devora flew backward, the ridged soles of her black-stacked motorcycle boots in the air. The vamps who were sitting and sipping at the crowded tables around Poe’s barely gave a hint of recognition as Devora landed between two chairs with a thud, howling and clawing at the figure who was wriggling on top of her. I huddled against the counter and watched as Devora flailed uselessly against her attacker, who, with hands securely around Devora’s throat, turned to me and called over her shoulder, “Are you okay, Sophie?”

  I blinked at Nina, shocked as my fashion-forward best friend sat astride Devora, holding her taut without so much as upsetting a hair on her head.

  I opened my mouth to speak, to thank Nina, but nothing came out—save for a strangled, whimpering gurgle. Nina pinned her knees firmly on Devora’s chest and asked, “What the hell were you doing to my best friend?”

  I coughed and found my voice. “It’s okay, Nina. I’m fine. When did you—when did you get here?”

  Nina ignored me, leaned forward so she was nose to nose with the terrified girl, and told her, “If I ever see you around Sophie again, I will personally break your neck, set you on fire, grind your bones with a sledgehammer, and sprinkle them over a scone. Do you understand me?”

  Devora made no attempt to move. Her eyes remained big and fixed on Nina. “Yes,” she said finally, “I get it.”

  Nina straightened up. “Now I’m going to stand up, and Sophie and I are going to walk out of here, and all three of us are going to pretend none of this ever happened. Except, of course, for my non-idle threat against your afterlife.”

  Nina hopped up and sauntered over to me, hunching down and examining my neck. “Doesn’t look too bad,” she said, offering me a stack of napkins. “But no reason to go sending up food smells in here.”

  I pressed the wad of napkins to my neck and followed Nina out of Poe’s. Even in the cold night air, my fingers started to warm up and regain their circulation, but my arms still throbbed from being gripped and pinned to my side.

  Once on the sidewalk Nina stopped and turned to me. “Do you have a death wish, Sophie? What the hell were you doing alone in Poe’s?”

  “I wasn’t alone,” I said, feeling the bite of anger. “Steve was with me.”

  Nina wrinkled her ski jump nose. “Steve Steve?”

  “I called everyone. And besides, I thought his smell would distract them.”

  Nina rolled her eyes and fished in her suitcase-sized Marc Jacobs bag. “Well, you didn’t call”—she checked the readout on her phone—“oh, look at that. You did.”

  I pulled the napkins from my neck and glanced at the bright red spots dotting them. “Does it look okay?”

  Nina glanced at my neck. “It’s barely a scratch, but two seconds later and you would have been dinner. What were you thinking?”

  Nina and I fell into step. “I was worried about you.”

  Nina cocked an eyebrow. “You—Sophie Lawson, breather—were worried about me hanging out in a vampire coffehouse?”

  I tossed the soiled napkins in a trash can. “I wasn’t worried about you there.” I stopped and cornered Nina. “Neens, I need to talk to you. It’s about Harley.”

  Nina eyed me with a wry smile. “If you’re going to give me the sex talk, you’re about one hundred years too late.”

  I clapped my palms over my ears. “Ew, Nina, boundaries.”

  “Fine. Talk to me about Harley.”

  “Not here. We should go home.”

  Nina cracked her neck and brushed her waist-length hair over one shoulder. “I guess there’s nothing exciting going on tonight, anyway. Let’s go.”

  I watched the stoplight change in front of us, and watched the largest, gaudiest Cadillac I have ever seen coast to a stop a few feet from me.

  “One sec.”

  I beelined for the car and rapped on the driver’s-side window. Steve stared out the windshield, trying his hardest to ignore me.

  “Steve!” I yelled, pounding.

  He finally relented and rolled down the car window. I saw that he had a stack of phone books wedged securely on the leather bucket seat where he sat. I crossed my arms. “Some protector you are.”

  A blush washed over Steve’s face, tinting his cheeks a sort of pocked mauve. “There you are, sugar bun! Steve ran out to grab some coffee.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You ran out on me and I almost got fanged, you asshat! You left me alone in a vampire den!”

  “Steve ran out for comforting hot beverages.”

  “I didn’t need a hot beverage! I needed a wooden stake!”

  Steve clicked his tongue and wagged his head solemnly. “Steve can’t please everyone.”

  When Nina and I got back to the apartment, I sat her down at the dining-room table and paced, wringing my hands, wondering how I was going to tell my very best friend that her new beau was hunting demons.

  “My God, Sophie, sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

  “Okay.” I sat, taking a seat and sighing heavily. “Here it goes—Harley is dangerous.”

  Nina rolled her eyes, stood up, and rummaged through the refrigerator. “Do we have an AB pos?”

  “Didn’t you just hear me? Harley is dangerous, Nina. He is behind all the demon issues. He got rid of Mrs. Henderson and attacked Bettina. Have you even read his book?”

  Nina popped a straw in her blood bag and her cheeks went hollow as she sucked. “Of course I’ve read his book. Most of it.”

  “Most of it? Most of it! Nina, it’s practically a blueprint to kill demons!”

  “Sophie, Harley doesn’t believe in demons. His books specifically tells people that they don’t exist.”

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “No, his book specifically tells people that demons can’t exist.”

  “So?”

  “So don’t you find it a little suspicious that suddenly demons start disappearing right when Harley and his demons-can’t-exist book comes around?”

  Nina sucked out the remainder of blood and then crushed the bag, pitching it into the trash. “Yep, it’s a coincidence.”

  “Or it’s Harley making sure that the world agrees with the findings of his book.”

  Nina’s newly red lips cracked into a bemused half smile. “You actually think that Harley is going around playing Whac-A-Mole in the Underworld so no one proves him wrong? Sophie, that’s completely ridiculous. He’s an author, not a killer. I’ve talked with him. He’s spent his entire career debunking things. He doesn’t believe in the Underworld. He can’t see through the veil. He had dinner with me, for God’s sake, and trust me—as far as Harley is concerned”—Nina’s fingers slid over her hips and thighs—“I’m all woman.”

  “That’s fabulous—and disturbing. But all the evidence points to Harley.”

  “Is that so, Columbo?”

  I stomped into the living room and snatched Harley’s book from the floor, where I left it, opening to the page with the weaponry photos. “Notice anything?”

  Nina glanced nonchalantly at the pages. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Think about it, Nina. Harley makes millions based on this debunking thing. What would happen if his loyal public found out that we—you—really do exist and that their beloved guru was the actual sham?”

  Nina’s eyes went up as if the answer were written on the ceiling. “Um, I’d say that if Har
ley actually did uncover the Underworld, and its fabulous inhabitants”—Nina stretched out her slim, long legs and kicked them onto the table—“he would be an instant celeb.”

  “Like that Scottish guy who proved that Nessie really does exist?”

  Nina frowned. “Who was he?”

  “Exactly! No one knows who he was, because he’s in a loony bin!”

  Nina tugged on her lower lip. “I’m still not seeing the connection here, Sophs.”

  I blew out a tortured sigh and held up my index finger. “One—Harley Cavanaugh inks a one-point-seven-million-dollar deal—”

  “One-point-seven million dollars? Where did you hear that? Did he tell you that?” Nina’s eyes went big. She turned to me and grabbed both my hands. “Did he tell you that because he’s planning on buying me a ring?”

  “I read it on his website,” I huffed. “Now listen. Harley Cavanaugh inks a huge deal.”

  “One-point-seven million,” Nina sang.

  “To write a book proving that vampires and whatnot don’t exist.”

  “Whatnot?”

  “Stay with me here. Two—the book isn’t even in print and Harley makes millions in presales.” I pointed at Nina before she could start. “Also from the website, no jewelry involved.”

  Nina shrugged and I kept going, ticking my fingers.

  “Three—Harley discovers that demons really exist, making his entire book a work of fiction.”

  “Four—Harley finds out that I exist and writes another book, which sells millions,” Nina challenged.

  “A book that he writes on spit-soaked napkins while holding a pen in his mouth and wearing a straightjacket because everyone—his publisher, his fans—believe that ole Harley, the debunker, has gone off the deep end. See my point?”

  Nina cocked her head, raking her fingers through her long hair and examining it for split ends. “Kind of. But I still don’t buy it. Harley really has no need to pick off demons.”