Bitten 2 Page 15

  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.

  “Happy now?” she asked around a mouthful of bread and deli meat.

  “Oui,” he replied with a smile before depositing a kiss on the top of her head. “Please, have a seat Mademoiselle Cray,” he added, gesturing to one of the other empty seats at the table.

  Silence descended on the table when Jean took his own seat, and, despite his insistence that Quick and I partake of the food he had spread out on the table, seemed content to limit himself to slow sips of dark red wine. It was the first sign I’d seen that spoke of his own sadness at having lost his vampire companion. Picking at my own plate of pasta salad and apple slices, I found my appetite lacking, although it had been hours since my last meal. Still, I didn’t want to offend Jean, and politely nibbled at my food while trying to ignore the leaden feel of it in the pit of my stomach.

  I almost sighed aloud in relief when a phone began to ring in one of the other rooms, and I took the interruption as an excuse to push my plate aside. Quick appeared equally glad of the distraction as she pushed her chair back from the table.

  “I should get that. It might be the realtor,” she said before leaving the room.

  “She was so bright, like a speck of starlight in the dark,” Jean said after a while, his voice so soft I almost didn’t catch his words.

  “Sorry?”

  “Before all this ugliness,” he said, gazing at his half empty glass where it sat on the table. “Leanne. She was full of life and happiness. I fear that Suresh’s death has stolen that light away.”

  “I’m sure she will recover in time, become her normal self again.”

  “Oui. I am sure you are right,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet mine and gracing me with a sad smile. There was a deep wealth of sadness in his pale grey eyes, and for a moment, I was almost overwhelmed by the sudden desire to embrace him, wanting to ease his grief.

  Attributing my sudden tenderheartedness to my own experiences with loss, I groped for something, anything, to lessen the air of sadness that had suffused the kitchen. “Have you known each other long?”

  “Oui, Gabrielle and I met Suresh in Paris many years ago. When he heard that we had settled ‘ere he came to visit several years ago. He met Leanne during his stay and decided to remain a while. The rest, as they say, c’est l'histoire.”

  “And Gabrielle, she was your...”

  “Great, great, great, great grand-mère. She was turned when her own daughter was a young woman. A member of each generation has been her Day Servant ever since, but I never imagined I would be the last. I confess, I am at a loss as to what I shall do with my life now. I was raised with only one purpose in life, to care for and protect Gabrielle. Now that she is gone, I fear my life has no purpose.”

  Jean’s confession was like a stab to the heart and I felt tears gather in my eyes as I reached across the table to lay my hand over his. I didn’t know him, and doubted I would ever see him again after this meeting, but I couldn’t bear to see the pain etched so deeply in the lines of his face.

  Feeling the need to fill the silence with something, but unwilling to spout trite words of comfort, I said the only thing I could think of. “I know it’s nowhere near enough, but I’m sorry anyway.”

  Laying his over hand over mine, surrounding my fingers with his, he offered up a weak, but genuine, smile. “Thank you. It is kind of you to say.”

  A moment later, Quick’s approaching footsteps broke the spell of our connection, and slipping his hand from mine, Jean rose to meet his friend in the doorway where he curled both of her hands in his. “Is everything well, ma chère?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine. The realtor just wanted to let me know that she will be dropping off the last of the paperwork tomorrow.”

  “C’est bon. Now, come back and sit down. I believe Mademoiselle Cray has some more questions for us. ”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CLIMBING BEHIND THE wheel of the SUV, I fought against the urge to pound my fist into the steering wheel. Jean and Quick had given me about as much insight into who had killed their vamps as Whitlow had, which is to say none at all. If the killer’s previous timeline was anything to go by, it wouldn’t be long before he struck again, and I was no closer to figuring who it was or why they was doing it than I had been when I started.

  I was pondering just how little I had discovered about the murders when my cell phone rang, startling me out of my thoughts. Seeing Juliet’s name flashing on the screen when I pulled the annoyance from my pocket, I felt a rush of hopeful excitement. Maybe she had come across something that would point to who was behind the attacks.

  A girl can dream, right?

  My excitement was quickly crushed, however.

  “Are you joining us for the run tonight?” she asked, the excitement in her voice palpable.

  As much as I wanted to turn her down, my burgeoning fondness for her had me asking, “Who’s ‘us’?”

  “Just me, Hank, and a couple others,” she said, and when I continued to hem and haw added, “It’s all very casual. No cultish overtones, I swear.”

  Regardless of my reservations, I had to chuckle at that. Still, one major factor remained.

  “Will Metembe be there?” I asked. I was leery about going wolf around a bunch of strangers, but even that didn’t compare with my desire to avoid any run-ins with the big, surly were. He’d made it all too clear that he wasn’t my biggest fan, and the feeling was quite mutual.

  “No, he’s got something else going on tonight.”

  Thank God for small mercies.


  “Come on, Riley. It’ll be fun,” she needled, and I could all too easily envision her on the other end of the line bouncing up and down on her toes in hopeful excitement, à la overexcited cheerleader.

  The image of Juliet decked out in a cheerleader outfit, complete with pom-poms, flittered through my mind, bringing back a slew of unpleasant memories from my own days in high school. For reasons I can’t fathom, I had a momentary lapse of sanity and found myself giving in to her pleas.

  It has been a few days since I was able to go for a run, I reasoned with myself, even as I wondered if I’d just made a huge mistake.

  “Alright. Where should I meet you?”

  * * *

  Southwest of Denver, tucked between Highway 285 and C-470, Deer Creek Canyon Park was a local favorite in the summer months, with hikers and families alike descending on the area for an afternoon away from the noise of the city. But in the winter when the snow still glittered on the ground, it was silent and deserted. Only the wind and snow, and a few crazy werewolves, frequented the park at that time of year.

  Pulling into the gravel lot at the trailhead I sat in the car for a long while, listening to the cooling engine ping and sigh while I wondered what the hell I was doing here. I’d shifted around other weres when the therapist I was seeing after being turned had insisted I try to assimilate into a normal were life. Whatever the hell that was supposed to be. Her instructions had included attending a support group for newly shifted weres, who had in turn tried to guide me through my first few shifts from human to wolf. They’d also tried to sell me on the joys of joining a pack, which had been one of the determining factors in my quitting the group.

  Pack life, as it was explained to me, came with a laundry list of rules that my were teachers assured me weren’t as bad as they sounded. When the support group started to feel like a cult indoctrination, I’d run for the hills faster than you could say “I don’t like Kool-Aid.”