Bitten 2 (20 page)

“What?” I asked, feigning innocence though the mischievous glint in her eye said she wasn’t buying it for a second.

“Hank. He’s single. He’s a bit of a grumpy ass sometimes, but he’s a great pack master, and an even better man. He makes good money too, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I’m seeing someone,” I replied, though even I could hear the hesitation in my voice. To emphasize my point, and perhaps save myself from temptation, I turned my back on the window and the man beyond.

“If you say so,” Juliet said, hiding her smile behind her mug.

“It’s... complicated,” I heard myself mutter, cringing at the cliché of my words as they left my lips.

“Love always is,” she replied, a ghost of some dark emotion drifting across her face for a single heartbeat.

Frowning, I looked back out the window, watching the light gleam on his tousled hair and the trail of steam billowing from his mouth with every breath, making him look like a bronzed dragon.

A bronzed,
sexy
dragon... Oh, for fuck’s sake!

When Hank came back into the kitchen, cheeks flushed from the cold, I felt my heart thump and my stomach tighten. Arousal bloomed in the pit of my stomach and I prayed that neither of them would be able to smell the desire pooling between my thighs. It would be bad enough for Hank to smell the lust on me, and even more so for his sister to know just how badly I wanted to tear his clothes off and have him take me hard and fast pressed up against the counter.

My face felt so hot with a mixture of lust and embarrassment that I was sure it must be visible from space. I fought to tear my gaze away from Hank, but I didn’t seem to be able to stop my eyes from roving over him as he stripped off his jacket, the muscles in his arms and shoulders rippling beneath his shirt. Disappointment fluttered in my chest when his shirt didn’t follow his jacket, and, finally wrenching my gaze away from him, I turned and gulped down the rest of my coffee, wincing when it scorched my throat.

Placing my empty mug in the sink I turned to see the siblings looking at me with matching expressions of bewilderment, though Juliet’s held a hint of smugness.

“Thanks for dinner and the coffee, but I ah... should head out. It’s getting late.”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Juliet said with a smile that likely would have looked innocent and sweet as cream to anyone else, but I recognized it for the meddling it was. “I’m sure we could find room for you, couldn’t we Hank?”

Looking between us with a confused furrow in his brow, Hank nodded slowly. “Uh... sure. I guess we could figure something out.”

I desperately wanted to smack her, but had to settle instead for gritting my teeth and fantasizing about wiping the smug smile off her face with my fist.

“Thanks, but I should get home to Loki. That damn cat is probably convinced he’s starving to death by now.”

“You have a
cat
?” Juliet asked, her mouth hanging open.

“Yeah,” I drawled, not sure why she was looking at me with something between surprise and abject horror. “Does that go against some were rule I don’t know about?”

“No, it’s just a little... unusual.”

“What? The whole cat and dog thing? Gimme a break,” I said, laughing off her words.

“It’s not that,” she said, looking at her brother for backup. Hank shrugged as if to say it baffled him, too. “I’ve just never heard of a were having a pet before.”

I laughed at first, figuring that Juliet was pulling my leg or exaggerating, but the seriousness emanating from the siblings gradually sobered my amusement until I stood gaping at them. “Seriously? Like
never?
Not a dog, or even a bird or a hamster?”

“Never.”

“We’re predators, Riley. Animals can sense that. Haven’t you ever noticed how dogs will either go nuts barking or cower when you walk past?” Hank asked.

“I guess, but it’s pretty remote where I am, and I don’t get out much to be honest,” I admitted.

Though that explains why Whitlow’s pooch was having an apoplectic fit.

While my answer didn’t explain why I was apparently the only were on earth who had a pet, it at least appeared to mollify Hank and Juliet long enough for me to insist that I really did need to hit the road. With promises that I would think about joining them for the run, and a couple of containers brimming with chili and cornbread, I said my goodbyes to Hank and Juliet.

It was almost disturbing to see how much they looked like a Norman Rockwell painting standing backlit in the doorway, waving at me as I climbed into my loaner beast of an SUV. My own life felt far more like something belched forth from the twisted imagination of George Romero.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I WAS QUICKLY growing tired of driving back and forth between my cabin and downtown, and wondered again if I could bill Cordova for gas money.

More like for pain and suffering,
I thought, shifting in my seat while drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. It felt like it had only been a couple of hours since I’d made the drive home from Hank’s the night before, yet here I was, once again fighting against traffic on my way into Denver. Yakov’s words had plagued me for most of the night, and I had to agree with him: if I could figure out
why
someone was attacking vamps, I might be able to find out
who
it was.

After waking up much earlier than I would have liked, I’d called the Day Servant of one of the other victims to ask if she would meet with me. I’d expected the same level of hesitance I’d first received from Whitlow, and was surprised when she seemed almost eager to meet. In a rare stroke of luck, she’d revealed that she knew the Day Servant of the other vamp who’d been attacked and was sure she could convince him to join us. Which was why, two hours later, I was stuck in morning traffic heading down the mountain with all the other schmucks who were up far too early.

Pulling up outside the address Leanne Quick had given me over the phone that morning, I was surprised to see a sold sign in the front yard of the little Victorian. With only a modicum of cursing and cringing I wedged the behemoth into a spot at the curb. Given its location a couple blocks from Speer Boulevard, and the small, but immaculately manicured front yard, I had no doubt that Quick had had little trouble selling the place.

For a moment I wondered if I had the right house when the door was answered by a tall, slender man with fine black hair, and pale olive skin.

“Um... hi. I’m here to see Ms. Quick. Do I have the right place?”

“Ah, you must be the investigator,
Mademoiselle
Cray,” he said, his soft spoken French accent utterly enchanting.

“That’s me,” I said, too distracted by his wonderful accent to correct him.

“Leanne is in the living room. Please, come in.”

Following the tall Frenchman into the house, I noted that I wasn’t overcome by the smell of vamp as I had been at Whitlow’s.

Either Quick did a better job of freshening up the place, or I’m getting used to the damn stink.

“Leanne,
ma chère
? The investigator is ‘ere.”

“I’m in here,” a feminine voice called out that I recognized as the woman I had spoken to on the phone.

“Here” turned out to be a high-ceilinged living room decorated in shades of pale blue and green with heavy chocolate brown drapes drawn back to fill the room with the weak winter sunlight. There were half a dozen darker patches on the walls where it looked like someone had recently taken down a painting or photograph, and rolls of packing paper and tape lay on the sofa. Standing amidst several towers of boxes was a middle aged woman dressed in sweat pants and a man’s sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She was a little soft around the middle and had a fair amount of grey threaded through the blonde hair she’d pulled up into a loose ponytail, but she was fresh-faced and bright-eyed when she turned to greet me.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said, gesturing to the stacks of boxes spread throughout the room. “Without Suresh, I can’t afford the mortgage on this place anymore.” Although she offered up a smile, there was no missing her puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, somewhat surprised to find the sentiment genuine.

Maybe I’m developing a soft spot for vamps and their lackeys.

“It is what it is,” Quick replied with a shrug and a sigh.

“I can come back some other time if you’re busy,” I offered, feeling as though I was intruding upon her pain. Somehow witnessing her life being packed away into boxes was more heartbreaking than baring witness to Whitlow’s tears had been.

“No, it’s fine; I could do with a break anyway,” she said, brushing wisps of hair back from her flushed face. “Coffee?”

“I’d love some.”

“Great, I don’t think I packed up all the mugs yet. Jean, would you mind?”

“Not at all,
ma chère
,” my tall, dark and handsome escort replied, pausing on his way to the kitchen to place a gentle kiss on Quick’s forehead. The gesture was one of old friends, and I wondered if they had known each other before, or after, meeting their vampire partners.

It didn’t take long for the rich scent of brewing coffee to come wafting out of the kitchen, and my stomach to growl in response. I’d filled up my gallon-sized travel mug with coffee before setting out that morning, but heavy traffic and a restless night had made short work of it.

“I guess you want to know about Suresh,” Quick said.

“Yes,” I replied, drawing my notebook out of my pocket to flip through the few notes I had copied over from the file Chrismer gave me. “He was the first one to be attacked?”

Wrapping her arms around herself, she nodded. “That’s right. It was six... no... eight... weeks ago. Blessed Eve, it still feels like he was here just yesterday.”

“Had either of you noticed anything strange in the days before it happened? Anyone hanging around the house or work?”

“I’m a photographer, so if I’m not out on a shoot I’m down in the basement developing prints. I tend to get a bit single-minded when I’m working. A tornado could come rolling down the street and I wouldn’t even notice. Suresh was the same way. I guess that’s why we got along so well.”

“And he was... a writer?” I asked, referring to my notes.

“Yes, history books mostly. I suppose it’s easy to write about the British occupation of India when you actually lived through it.”

“He worked out of the house, too?”

“Yes, he’d converted the attic into an office years ago. He loved being up there, surrounded by the trees. He said it reminded him of the jungles where he spent his childhood.”

Quick grew quiet, her gaze growing faraway as she delved into memories that brought a wistful smile to her lips. I sensed the same depth of emotion in her that I’d witnessed in Whitlow, and I had to wonder if all Day Servants and vamps developed such a deep connection during their long years together. I was beginning to see that I’d been wrong in thinking that Day Servants stuck it out just for the benefits of being tied to an immortal creature. As with any two people living in close quarters, their affections grew, often blooming into love—or as close to that emotion as a vamp was capable of experiencing. The jury was still out on whether or not a vamp had a soul and was even able to feel love, but if the reactions of Whitlow and Quick were anything to go by, my vote would be for the affirmative.

As if sensing his friend’s pain, Jean appeared at the end of the hallway.

“Come along,
ma chère
. You need to eat something,” he said, curling an arm around Quick’s shoulders to guide her into the kitchen.

The kitchen was large, airy and recently renovated, overlooking a covered brick patio surrounded by trees. I was sure that in the summer it would be a lush retreat, perfect for enjoying a glass of wine... or a sip of blood in the case of the house’s recently departed occupant.

Jean had laid out quite the spread in the short time that Quick and I had been talking in the hallway, and my empty stomach gurgled in delight. The small café table in front of the door leading out to the patio was weighed down with sandwiches, sliced apples, pasta salad, and a plate loaded with a selection of glazed, frosted, and gooey pastries. With a tender, but firm grip, Jean guided Quick down into one of the chairs at table and set a sandwich and a heaping portion of pasta on the plate in front of her.

“I’m not hungry,” she mumbled, pushing the plate aside and reaching for the steaming mug of dark coffee instead.

Jean clucked his tongue as he moved the plate back in front of her. “You cannot survive on black coffee alone,
ma chère
. Now, eat before I am forced to restrain you and force feed you.” His words were full of tenderness, but a hard edge to his gaze left me with little doubt that he would follow through on his threat if push came to shove.

Under her friend’s watchful eye, Quick picked up half of the sandwich and took a small bite. When his glare didn’t relent, she sighed and bit off a larger piece.