Bitten 2 Page 18

  Hank looped an arm around his sister’s shoulder and pulled her in close for a hug. “Not everyone has your boundless energy, sis. We’ll stop for waffles on the way home.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SITTING AT MY table, bathed in the burgeoning mid-morning light slanting through the kitchen window, I raked my fingers through my hair.

  “Who am I kidding? I’m no detective,” I said aloud, desperate for some noise to break the quiet.

  I was accustomed to silence, had spent the last several years thriving on it, but now it was cold and unwelcoming. Had letting Holbrook and Alyssa into my life done this? Had they so transformed me that I craved the company of others? Or was it my time with Hank and Juliet? Did the wolf long to be a part of their world, their pack?

  The questions circling in my mind, clamoring for attention, lit a spark of pain behind my eyes that I knew if left unattended would quickly bloom into a raging headache. With a grumble, I rose from the table to fetch a couple aspirin from the bathroom, and returned to the kitchen to find Loki sprawled out on the table. It was the second time he’d hopped up there in the past few days. While I normally would have shooed him away and scolded him for being somewhere he knew he wasn’t allowed, I felt a stab of guilt at how much time I had been spending away from home. Between frequent nights spent at Holbrook’s house and my near constant running back and forth to Denver while working on Cordova’s assignment, I’d had little time to spare for my furry companion.

  Washing down the aspirin with a glass of water, I settled at the table, and rather than shoving Loki off, grabbed him by the thick ruff at the back of his neck to pull him close enough to press my forehead against his. I remained with my face pressed to his, cherishing the silken feel of his fur, for several moments, content to just listen to the low rumble of his purr.

  When a stray hair tickled my nose, I drew back, wiggling my nose in an attempt to fend off the need to sneeze. Slumping back in my chair, I absently jiggled my fingers under his chin to scratch his sweet spot.

  “How are you doing, buddy?” I asked, checking in with my old friend. “I know I haven’t been around much the past few days, and I’m sorry. I promise that when this mess with the vamps is over we’ll have a Firefly marathon, and I’ll let you have an entire can of tuna. Does that sound good?”

  Trilling in reply, Loki pawed at my hand where it had stilled on the table top, demanding that I resume petting him.

  At least he’s easy to figure out, I thought with a smile as he leaned into my touch, extending the reach of my fingers. If only everything was so simple.

  I allowed Loki several minutes of luxuriating in my ministrations before I ushered him down into my lap. I continued stroking the silken fur behind his ears while turning my attention back to the files and their jumbled contents spread across the table top.

  “What do you think, Loki?” I asked my purring friend, staring down at the photos of Kensington’s crime scene. I had no idea how Chrismer had gotten her mitts on them and was pretty sure that I didn’t want to know. Still, I was grateful that I had them since all physical evidence of the attack was long gone, sealed away in little plastic baggies in police custody.

  Unlike a mundane crime scene, the fact that the victim was a vamp would have meant there was a sense of urgency in getting Kensington’s body packed up and shipped off to the morgue before the sun rose. The first rays of sunlight would have incinerated him, and any evidence on his body, which left me with a short stack of pictures to look through. I’d avoided looking at them for the past few days, initially because I was tired of seeing the brutality one man can inflict upon another, and then, after meeting Whitlow, because it felt like an intrusion to witness the death of her husband.

  “Stop being a chicken shit,” I scolded myself, and then turned over the stack of images.

  The first few pictures were wide angle shots that encompassed the entire scene, showing Kensington sprawled on his back in a pool of dark blood. The smiling face I had glimpsed in the pictures atop Whitlow’s fireplace was drawn and hollow-cheeked, presumably from the blood loss that had also caused his lips to wither, revealing elongated, yellowed fangs. His pale skin was even lighter than usual, looking almost as white as a sheet of paper and just as thin. I had no love for vamps, but I found myself thinking that no one deserved to die in such a way.

  An unexpected surge of emotion tightened my throat when I came to a close-up shot of Kensington’s hand splayed on the pavement, appearing to be reaching for the shattered bottle of maple syrup he had stopped to purchase for Whitlow.

  “Well, you can bet she’s never going to eat waffles again,” I mused aloud, ignoring the way my vision turned a little watery before I flipped to the next picture.

  Like both of the other victims, Kensington had been killed with one of the few surefire ways to permanently kill a vamp—a rowan stake through the heart. Just as silver was potentially lethal to weres and cold iron was rumored to have a similar effect on fae, rowan wood was said to be fatal to vamps when crafted into a stake and driven through the heart.

  Then again, I’d like to see anyone who could survive being stabbed in the heart with a wooden stake. Or not. Shuddering at the thought of how tough a creature would have to be to survive something like that.

  Flipping over the last picture, I sighed and slumped back in my chair. They hadn’t been able to tell me anything more than what I already knew—Kensington had been ambushed in the parking lot of Blossom Market just after 5am on his way home from a 24-hour shift at work. His car was found untouched where he’d parked it, so it hadn’t been a carjacking gone wrong, and, judging from the cash and credit cards in his wallet, it hadn’t been a robbery either.

  Deciding that I wasn’t likely to find anything in the pictures from the crime scene that the police hadn’t already discovered, I shuffled them into a neat stack and slid them face down across the table. I’m generally not squeamish, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed having the evidence of another’s suffering staring up at me.

  “Then again, what do the cops care about a few dead vamps?” I muttered under my breath.

  According to Chrismer’s notes, not a whole hell of a lot.

  They’d questioned the staff about Kensington and the goings on that night, but from what I could gather had done just enough that no one could accuse them of misconduct. It was obvious that it wasn’t receiving the same degree of attention a mundane murder would. After all, vamps were already dead, right?

  “I guess I’m gonna have to go talk to these folks myself,” I said, looking down at Loki where he lay half asleep in my lap. At my words, his eyes opened just wide enough to reveal a sliver of violet, and I could feel the resentment oozing out of him. The claws that flexed into my thighs drove the sentiment home.

  “I’ll bring you back a pizza, okay?” I asked, hoping to soften the blow of my absence with the promise of pepperoni and melted cheese.

  Swishing his tail in a sign of annoyance, Loki slid down from my lap and stalked into the living room to curl up on the large cushion in front of the fireplace, making sure to turn his back towards me. Raking my fingers through my hair, I grit my teeth against the sigh building in my chest and distracted myself from my guilt by straightening the papers on the table.

  * * *

  Located at a central point between Blood Alley, New Lórien, and Wolf Hill, Blossom Market was sort of a supernatural neutral territory. You could find anything from refrigerated blood to fae delicacies such as spice stuffed chimurri flowers, as well as more mundane items like artisan soaps and gluten-free brownies. Touting a business model based on locally-sourced and organic products, several of them had popped up throughout town in the last couple years and developed an almost cult-like following. With the closest one to my cabin over forty miles away in Breckenridge, I’d stuck to the local market in Leadville. Besides, I’d survived this long without organically grown kale and seaweed chips.

  I received several identical looks of scorn fro
m the soccer moms loading groceries into their eco-friendly, hybrid minivans as I maneuvered my gas-guzzling SUV into a parking spot near the front door. Approaching the first employee I saw, a gangly limbed young man wearing the trademark green apron, I waited for him to finish telling a customer about the humanely raised, free-range chickens they used to make their sausages.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked once the hipster had wandered off in search of tofu chips, or some other equally unappealing, cardboard-flavored snack.

  “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

  “Sure, no problem,” the clerk beamed. “What can I help you with? We’ve got a fresh supply of turkey burgers available in the deli, and I think Richelle just put out some samples of our garlic hummus.”

  “As... delicious... as that all sounds, I’m actually here about the ah... attack... that happened a few weeks ago.”

  His face paled at my words, and his voice quavered when he said, “The store manager has said we’re not allowed to talk to the press.”

  “Oh! I’m not a reporter,” I rushed to reassure him. “I’m a...”

  What the hell am I? The hired help? Cordova’s idea of a practical joke? I’m not the next Nancy Drew, that’s for sure.

  “...private consultant for the Shepherd of the City,” I said, figuring that it was as close as I could get to the truth without divulging the whole sad tale of how I’d sold my soul to Cordova. Bolstered by the fact that his expression didn’t sour at my mention of the vamp leader, I forged on. “I’ve been asked to look into the attack that happened here, and was hoping you might help shed some light on what happened.”

  Calmed by my assurances that I wasn’t with the press, he shook off some of his discomfort, but remained a little green around the gills. I’d have bet twenty bucks that he was there the night Kensington died. “The cops already interviewed everyone.”

  “I know, but it’s been a few weeks since the attack. Maybe you’ve remembered something that slipped your mind in the all excitement.”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, our manager told us not to talk to anyone...” he hedged, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck.

  I was losing him; he’d brush me off entirely if I didn’t bring him around quickly. Glancing at the name badge shaped like a large daisy pinned to his apron, I said, “Can I buy you a coffee, Matt?”

  “I... what?” he asked, forgetting his discomfort as confusion swept through him.

  “A coffee? Can I get you one?” I asked, tilting my chin towards the bored barista slouching over the counter of the small, in-store café. “We can just be two folks talking over coffee. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?” It was a risky ploy, depending on my non-existent charm, but it was the best shot I had.

  I almost sighed aloud in relief when he managed a weak smile and replied, “Umm, I guess so. It’s almost time for my break anyway.”

  “Great!”

  * * *

  I’d have preferred to stay inside the store where it was warm, but it was clear that Matt would be a hell of a lot more open with me if we were away from the prying eyes of his coworkers. Settling on one side of the picnic tables reserved for employees to use during their breaks, I pulled my jacket tight around me and curled my hands around my paper cup, waiting for the warmth to seep through to warm my chilled fingers. In true Colorado fashion, the sun was shining as bright as a mid-summer day, but it was colder than a witch’s tit, especially in the shade.

  Bundled up in a big, puffy jacket and a fleece beanie, Matt slid into the seat opposite me, struggling to handle his coffee cup through his thick gloves.

  “I don’t really remember much about the night it happened. I... tried to forget as much I could,” Matt said in opening, almost dropping his cup.

  Based on his confession and the awkward motion of his hands that I was sure weren’t entirely due to his cumbersome gloves, I asked, “You’re the one who found Kensington, aren’t you?”

  The rosiness that had risen in his cheeks from the cold drained away as he nodded in reply.

  “Did you know Kensington?” I asked, hoping that steering his thoughts towards the undead version of the vamp, rather than the dead-dead version, would keep him from spilling his breakfast on the picnic table.

  Bobbing his head in a brief nod, he took a sip from his cup before answering, “Patrick came in all the time. We were an easy stop on his way home from work. He said we’re the only store around that carried his wife’s favorite syrup. In fact, he’d stopped to get some the night he—” he broke off, tears filling his eyes behind his glasses. “He was a really nice guy. He always took the time to stop and talk with whoever was working when he came in. Who would do something like this? Why? Patrick was so nice, and poor Jean. He was devoted to his grandmother. I don’t understand why someone would want to hurt her.”

  “You knew Gabrielle as well?” I asked, my heart racing at the thought that there might be something here after all.

  “Not as well as Patrick; it was Jean that usually came in for his grandmother. Well, not really his grandmother. She was his great, great, great, great grandmother, or something like that,” he said, blabbering.

  “What about Mr. Singh? Did he shop here?”

  “Once or twice. I think Leanne did most of the shopping. She came in with Jean most times,” he said, and for a moment I wondered if there was something more going on between the two Day Servants. Could that be the source of the murders? A simple case of a lover’s triangle? I hadn’t gotten the feeling that they could be capable of something like that, but then, I hadn’t been looking for it either.

  “Oh, and Jean’s boyfriend, Michael, too,” Matt added before I had a chance to question the extent of Jean and Quick’s relationship.

  Well, that answers that question.

  After meeting Whitlow, Quick, and Jean, I’d come to understand that many Day Servants shared an emotional bond with their vampire masters rather than just one of blood, but I was still caught off guard by the outpouring of emotion from Matt, who had merely been a casual acquaintance to the victims and their Day Servants. Was it possible that the tofu-eating hippy was more open-minded than I was? I liked to think of myself as a free thinker and a liberal, but if the murders of Cordova’s vamps were teaching me anything, it was that I was still clinging to my mundane prejudices long after I was no longer one of them.

  “Are a lot of your customers regulars like Kensington and the others?”

  Pausing to wipe the dampness from his eyes, Matt sniffled. “Yeah, we get a bunch of regulars from the surrounding neighborhoods. We carry a lot of stuff they can’t get anywhere else.”

  I knew that by “they” he was referring to the supernaturals living close by. Blossom Market advertised themselves as an all-inclusive grocer catering to folks from all walks of life, but I had no doubt that they were making a killing in the supe market.

  No pun intended. I hope.

  “Were there a lot of customers in the store around the same time as Kensington?”

  “No, it’s pretty quiet after 4am until we start getting the morning crowd around six.”

  I guess that makes sense—the vamps are heading home and the rest of the city hasn’t risen for the day yet.

  “It was just Patrick, old Mrs. Fitz, and a couple kids on the tail end of an all-nighter.”

  “And there was no one else? No one who came in before or after Kensington who looked out of place?” I asked when none of the others he described sounded remotely threatening.

  Matt started to shake his head and then stopped. “There was one guy... he came in a half hour or so before Patrick. I’d completely forgotten about him because he didn’t buy anything.”

  “Do you remember what he looked like?” I asked, a flicker of hope daring to take root in the center of my chest.

  Before it even had a chance to bloom, my hope withered to dust and faded away as Matt’s expression fell. “He was wearing a dark hoodie, I didn’t get a l
ook at his face. I’m sorry.”

  Well, shit.

  “It’s okay. You’ve been really helpful.”

  Silence fell over the picnic table, broken by the occasional slurp from Matt as he sipped his hot cocoa and I mulled over his words. I had little doubt that the hoodie-wearing non-shopper was my guy, but with no surveillance footage or a description, I didn’t see how it helped the situation at all.

  Looks like I’ve hit a dead end. Again.

  Trying to keep my disappointment from showing, I looked up at Matt to thank him for his help just in time to see his face grow pale and then flush crimson as he watched something over my shoulder. The sour scent of fear flowed off of him in waves, carrying with it a faint, spicy trace of resentment. Turning in my seat, I squinted against the sunshine glaring off the windshield of a nearby car, and struggled to make out the features of the figure approaching in a waddling walk. A gust of wind brought me the astringent odor of dollar store cologne and the sound of worn dress shoes slapping against the pavement.

  My initial impression was one of cheap, but serviceable, clothes and a rounded, doughy face that made me think middle management, but as he came closer I downgraded my assessment to used car salesman.

  “There’s a pallet of tomatoes that need to be put out, Matthew. What are you doing sitting around out here?” the newcomer asked in a wheezing voice.

  “I’m on my break,” Matt replied, his words hard-edged though his gaze fell to his gloved hands.

  “Hi, I’m Riley,” I said as cheerfully as I could, plastering a smile on my face and turning it up to full volume. “I was just enjoying a cup of coffee with my friend, Matt. I hope I’m not getting him into any kind of trouble.”

  “He has work to do,” was all I received in reply as he shot the younger man a withering look.

  “Surely you can spare him for another minute or two.”

  The sour look I received said quite the opposite.