by Jess Haines
He moved aside so I could hunch over the keyboard and mouse. There were sub-forums broken down by territories. I clicked open the New York sub-forum, and was somehow unsurprised by the number of repeat postings that A.D. Royce Industries and The Circle were both hiring. I hardly noticed when Keith went back to his game, abruptly riveted by the sight of a recent topic—Sunstrikers.
My elation at finding a clue was short-lived. The topic was a few pages long, but the most recent posts were about the newspaper article Jim Pradiz had written—and a follow-up by another reporter that I opened in a new tab. Skimming the story chilled my blood. According to that article, I was the last surviving witness. The most recent posters were speculating whether or not I was dead since I’d gone missing after the last sighting by police a few days ago.
The last few posts were made by “NytStryke289,” “MadeofWIN42,” and “BooksBabesBeer”—and the signatures at the bottom of each post told me they were Hawk, Spike, and Doc. The number of “LOL,” “STFU,” and “newbsauce” comments removed any doubts as to whether it truly was the misfit pack of Weres who called themselves the Nightstrikers. Maybe this wasn’t such a bust after all.
“Can I make my own account here?”
Keith shook his head, not looking away from his screen. “No. You have to get a special invitation from an admin to make an account. That’s part of how they keep anyone who isn’t Other out. We had to steal the account info from someone else in order to get in, and I don’t have the time to find another dead Other to impersonate for you.”
Shit. My tracks wouldn’t be covered, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t use this as a resource. “I’m going to send someone a private message here. Let me know if he replies, okay?”
That caught his attention. He glanced over at me, frowning, and red splashed across his screen. Cursing, he nodded, then turned his attention back to his game.
I typed a message to NytStryke289—Hawk—with my lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure as I concentrated on wording it in such a way that he’d know who I was and what I wanted without naming names.
Hey Hawk, it’s the knuckle-dragger’s girlfriend. You met me upstate last month. I could use your help tracking down the asshole—he’s gone into hiding.Think you could lend me a hand? Watch your reply; don’t know who is looking for me.
I wasn’t expecting him to get back to me right away, but a reply popped up on the screen while I was scanning over some of the other topics. I was a little too afraid to click on the thread about me, but the ones discussing the White Hats and the “friendly agents”—people sympathetic to Others—might be useful to peruse later. The message from Hawk was short and sweet, but gave me hope.
ZOMG! Thought you were dead! Lots of people looking for you, including popo and the big fanged kahuna in NYC.You sure know how to piss people off. I’ll see what we can dig up. Might take a couple days if he’s hiding, but we’ve found him before. We can do it again.
That was more than I expected. I sent him a thank-you note in reply and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The Nightstrikers might not be competent hunters, but they had connections to Others that I was lacking as long as I avoided Royce.
‘You don’t need the vampire,’ the belt snapped.
I rolled my eyes and didn’t bother with a response.
With some regret—for as much as I wanted to, it would be dangerous to send e-mails to my mother or Arnold or anyone else who might be missing me—I pushed away from the desk, thanking Keith, who gave me a brief wave without looking away from his monitor. There was maybe an hour left before sunrise, and the belt was radiating an antsy need to work off some residual energy. Detective Smith was probably asleep, but it couldn’t hurt to leave him a voice mail directing him to leave a message for me with Sara if he’d come across any info. I needed to check on her anyway. I hadn’t had any contact with her since I had fled Royce’s apartment building.
Leaving Sara behind hadn’t been an easy decision, but I couldn’t afford to bring her any deeper into my mess. She didn’t have the benefit of the belt or magic or training as a fighter, so I couldn’t risk bringing her along with me when I left. Hiding her among Royce’s people seemed like a good idea at the time, but I had no idea how he was treating her or what he had done with her since then. It had been a worry in the back of my mind for days, but I hadn’t wanted to contact Royce in case he might trace my whereabouts or somehow figure out where I was hiding.
Running briskly through the neighborhood was peaceful, surrounded by the scent of the ocean and the whispery rattle of autumn leaves. It had the added benefit of taking the edge off the belt’s need for an adrenaline rush. The trench coat hid my weapons, and the armor was sufficient for keeping me out of harm’s way, but it wasn’t a great substitute for a turtleneck and some sweatpants. I stopped when I reached the Pelham Cemetery on King Avenue, glancing around to make sure I wasn’t being watched.
No one was awake at this hour to see my intrusion into the domain of the dead, and it seemed a fitting place to make my call. Ignoring the PRIVATE PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING sign, I slid over the black wrought iron fence. The headstones loomed in the darkness, lit by little more than moonlight and a few distant lights from a nearby marina.
Passing a tall, blue-white spire dedicated to someone named Jennings, I crouched in the dead grass by a thick shrub to minimize my visibility to anyone who might happen to drive by or look out his or her window. No one to see me here but any lingering ghosts. The salt sea breeze laced with smells of gasoline and old fish stung my nose, and the biting cold seemed worse here, this close to the water. Shivering, I dialed the cell phone number I had committed to memory that had been scrawled on the back of the cop’s card, figuring I’d leave a message. The detective surprised me by picking up after a couple rings.
“Hello?”
“Detective Smith? It’s Shiarra Waynest.”
There was a very lengthy pause before he answered. “It’s good to know you’re alive. I’m surprised you called.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have if I could have avoided it. I don’t suppose you know why some of your fellow boys in blue tried to pull me in for questioning, do you?”
“Someone very high up wants to get their hands on you. First it was just for questioning as a witness in the disappearances and murders. Running made you a suspect.” That sent a thrill of fear down my spine. My grip tightened on the phone, and I had to lean against a nearby tree for balance while he continued talking. “Wherever you’re hiding, you’re doing a good job. Stay there, and keep your head down. We’ve managed arrests on a couple of the Weres who were involved, but most of them are still at large, and you and your friend are still in danger. Plus, you’re the only witness in our case against the Sunstrikers who’s still alive. I know you didn’t do it, and I need you to close this damned case, so stay out of downtown as much as you can.”
“Okay. Shit.”
“Yeah. By the way, your ex and his cronies are doing a better job of hiding than you are. I don’t suppose you might have given him some tips on where to hide? So far we haven’t been able to track down any of the men you indicated were involved. Have you and Ms. Halloway had any run-ins?”
I wasn’t about to tell him I’d been searching for Chaz and Dillon, too. Disappointing, since he’d already essentially answered the question I’d been intending to ask him. Then his last question registered. “Sorry, what? I haven’t, but—hasn’t Sara been keeping in touch with you?”
“Not since the phone call a couple weeks ago. I assumed she was with you since both of you fell off the radar after one of our officers jumped the gun and tried to take you in. Are you saying she isn’t with you?”
I cursed softly. “No. No, she’s not with me, but she’s safe.” I really, really hoped that wasn’t a lie. God damn Royce. Whatever the vampire had done to Sara, I’d make him repay a thousandfold.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time to pay him a visit before sunrise. Without the belt, d
uring the day I’d be at a bigger disadvantage than he would.
“Wherever it is, it better be safer than Fort Knox. The vampires in the city have been withdrawing their assistance from any programs that support Weres since that girl was killed—Trish Booker, the CEO of that genetics research corporation—and there have been a few skirmishes. Killing someone who was contracted to Alec Royce wasn’t smart. I just hope we get to the person responsible before the vampire does.”
And I hoped I would get to him before the police or the vampire did.
“Anyway, check in with me again in a couple days if you can. Stay low and keep out of trouble, and I’ll keep you posted on how the investigation is coming along.”
As soon as I hung up, I dialed Royce’s cell phone, also from memory. I was startled when it was answered by a woman. Using a very throaty, just-had-sex voice. A voice I had zero patience for dealing with at the moment.
None of my business. None whatsoever. I silently repeated that to myself a few times while I asked, “Is Royce there?”
“He’s occupied at the moment. Who is this?”
I gritted my teeth when I recognized her. Miss Sunshine herself. “Jessica, please don’t play games with me. This is Shiarra. I need to talk to him. Now.”
“Oh! Oh, yes. Hold on one sec.”
It seemed “one sec” meant, as usual, an age and a half for Royce to deign to talk to me. Staring over the water, listening to the monotone lapping of the surf didn’t sooth my nerves at all. Once he finally got around to it, the vampire sounded about as thrilled to talk to me as I was to call him.
“Ms. Waynest. What a surprise.”
“What have you done with Sara?”
“That’s it? No hello? No ‘terribly sorry for throwing your hospitality back in your face and all the inconvenience I’ve caused you despite your generosity’? Not even a ‘I have a really good explanation for my actions, I swear’?” I could almost visualize him doing talky hands at the phone while he assumed a higher tone to mimic my voice. He did a rather scarily accurate imitation, actually. If I hadn’t been so red from embarrassment at his statements, I might have laughed at the sheer incongruity of the thought of him doing something so absurd. It didn’t help that I could hear Jessica giggling in the background. Damn it.
‘Don’t fall for his tricks,’ the belt hissed, startling me. ‘You know as well as I do that it’s a monster. It doesn’t deserve an apology. Not from you.’
Common sense warred with the belt’s warning. Royce had been devious and underhanded, yes, but he hadn’t done anything to do me direct harm. Still, he’d never been fully forthcoming with me, and offering him any kind of apology now might lead to my giving him more information he could use against me. I’d have to remember to be careful about that in all my dealings with him from now on.
“No,” I managed to say aloud, responding to Royce in a much more subdued tone. “Not now. Not yet.”
He made a sound that might have been a snort. It was hard to tell over the crappy cell connection. “Forgive me if I don’t have the patience to deal with your insufferable attitude this evening. Good day.”
And the bastard hung up on me.
I had to look at the screen to be certain. But it was true.
That fucker.
He probably would have said as much if Sara was hurt (or, God forbid, worse). Surely she was fine. But now I wouldn’t know until the next time I confronted the vampire in person.
And apologized.
That. Fucker.
I’d make the time to see him and check on Sara. Somehow. Meanwhile, with both the Nightstrikers and a couple of NYPD detectives on my side, I should be able to track Chaz down in no time. The sooner I put an end to this mess, the better.
Chapter 9
I returned to the house much subdued. There wasn’t a lot of time until sunrise, and despite my confidence that I could find Chaz, I was consumed with a sense of quiet desperation about what to do about Sara or what would happen if I turned. No matter if I turned or not, I was certain there would be consequences for killing Vic, too. The belt wasn’t helping with its alternately radiating senses of smug superiority and irritation. When the sun rose and the belt went inanimate, the soreness and aches of the night settled in to take their places as my companions for the day.
Muscles burning, I settled into a bath, tears from a combination of pain, frustration, and helplessness mixing with the steam.
I had to concentrate on the one thing I thought I could do something about. There had to be some clues to where Chaz was hiding. He wasn’t clever enough to conceal himself from me or the cops forever—but that was just it. I didn’t have forever. I had eighteen days left. If I didn’t step up my efforts, and I turned before I found him, Jack and the other White Hats would kill me before I could see this thing through to the end.
I would visit Chaz’s brownstone after I got some rest. Even with the heat soaking into my muscles, it didn’t help me relax. Without the belt there to shield me from myself, guilt was gnawing at the edges of my consciousness, teasing at my brain, my inner voice telling me what a fantastically shitty person I was.
That I would even briefly consider justifying murdering a man who had done me no wrong was sounding a lot less plausible now that I didn’t have the belt telling me why it was so right. The more I tried not to think about it, the more it ate away at me, consuming my thoughts.
Even after I got out of the bath and lay down on the bed, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, Vic’s surprised eyes stared up at me from below the hole blasted in his forehead, while a phantom gunshot echoed in my ears. Tossing and turning for what felt like hours, I eventually gave up and threw on a robe, padding downstairs to the kitchen.
Most of the people in the house had drifted into nocturnal schedules, save for Jack and Nikki. They ran the shop during the day, and would only pull all-nighters when a hunt was on. The house was quiet and dark with all the shades pulled down. No one stopped me when I rummaged through the cabinets in search of something to drink that had a little more bite to it than the milk, OJ, and soda in the fridge.
“Looking for something, pretty lady?”
I jerked, banging my head against the top of the counter cabinet as I pulled back, scowling at Bo as I rubbed the newly forming bruise. He smiled sheepishly, tugging absently at a loose thread on his Looney Tunes T-shirt before holding his hand out.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Can’t sleep?”
I accepted the offering, and he tugged me to my feet. “No. I just ... No.”
He nodded, then ambled over to the freezer, pulling out a bottle of vodka hidden under a bag of ice. Of course. The one place I hadn’t looked. That perpetual smile of his briefly waned when he looked at me again, maybe put off by my expression. Desperation is never flattering.
“We’ll find him. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but we will. Soon.”
I only nodded, pulling out a couple of glasses while he brought the vodka and orange juice to the table, pouring a liberal helping of each into the glasses. We settled into our seats, cradling our drinks, sipping in companionable silence. It took a little time for me to build up the courage to say what was on my mind.
“It’s his face, Bo. I can’t stop seeing it. Can’t stop feeling my finger tightening on the trigger. Over and over again.” Taking a big gulp of the drink, I prayed it would hit me hard enough that I’d manage to pass out and get some rest today. Even if it meant the hangover from hell later, all I wanted now was a little slice of oblivion. “How do you live with that? Knowing you took somebody’s life away?”
“You don’t,” he said, avoiding my eyes as he spun his glass between his palms. “You just keep going, and remind yourself every step of the way that you’ve got a bigger purpose in mind. If you’re looking for peace, you won’t find it with us. If you’re looking for forgiveness, the only one who can give you that is you. Justice, now, that we can help you find—but you’ll have to accept that there will be
some collateral damage in the process. No one can help you accept that but you. If you can’t carry the weight of that knowledge, you’re not in the right place.”
Well. Good to know. Though the serious words were a bit incongruous coming out of the mouth of a man wearing a Daffy Duck T-shirt, I wasn’t about to point out the inconsistencies.
Bo nudged the vodka and juice closer to me and then got up, taking his glass with him. He clapped me lightly on the shoulder before heading back to bed, saying nothing more as I pondered the mysteries of the contents of my glass.
Bo hadn’t used a bad analogy when he compared the burden of knowing what I’d done with a heavy weight. My shoulders were stooped with the burden of knowledge, and I felt as if I was carrying around about a thousand extra mental pounds. Nothing wanted to line up like it had in my formerly simple life. It might not have been perfect, but it all made sense before, and my worries, though they had seemed huge and occasionally insurmountable at the time, had become laughably minuscule in the face of the need to kill-or-be-killed.
Though I was a private investigator, I had been reluctant to use old-fashioned, reliable methods to gather what I needed and end this as rapidly as possible. I was thinking too much like a law-abiding citizen. Early on, using my key to get into and search Chaz’s home and sending one of the White Hats to question some of the people at the gym where he worked hadn’t led to any clues, but I had done a very haphazard job in my haste.
Now that I was thinking about it more rationally, I couldn’t imagine Chaz hadn’t called and said something about where he was going to the guys at work. At the very least, he must have contacted them to let them know he wouldn’t be in to teach his regular cardio and body-conditioning classes. I’d been expecting him to hide somewhere off the radar, and I was acting under the assumption that the only way to find him would be to use supernatural connections.
Though I was still counting on those supernatural connections being my best bet, there had to be some other, more mundane means of finding him, too.