Mercy Blade (Jane Yellowrock #3)

Mercy Blade (Jane Yellowrock #3) Page 32

“I saw many things last night but little that will help you.”

That stopped me. “Why are you here, Gee? What do you want?”

“Good-bye, little goddess.” He ended the call with a faint click, and when I called him back, it went directly to voice mail again.

I hung up, irritated and confused; stuck the cell into an ammo pouch in my gear. There were too many things going on to get a handle on it, to see any kind of big picture. “Goddess, my vamp-kicking butt. Give me a straight-out hunt with fanged prey and blood anytime,” I grumbled.

“Me too, sister,” a voice said. It came from a guy coming in the door of the indoor range, a mean looking little guy with a gun case big enough to hold a cannon. Penis envy? I was nearly mad enough to say it aloud but managed to hold it in. I grabbed the broom and swept up my brass, dumping it into the half-full brass barrel in the corner. Then I stirred my casings into the mix, losing them in the discards of others, very aware of the little guy’s eyes on me. Paranoid? Me? Starting to be.

Outside, I kicked Bitsa on and eased into traffic, the air like a hot wet blanket against me.

I made a stop by the main offices of NOPD, telling myself that it wasn’t to see Rick, but to look at some files in the woo-woo room. And I believed it, sorta. The guard at the desk was one I had seen before and he slid the sign-in pad to me, tossed me a temp ID badge, and waved me on through. It was shoddy security, but I wasn’t about to complain. I made my way up the stairs, Rick’s desk drawing me like a magnet. It was vacant. No papers on the surface, no old coffee cup, even the computer was off. There was a layer of dust on top of everything. The layer of dust told me clearer than words that he was, indeed, undercover. Again.

Relief warred with anger. He could have told me. I swerved away and made my way through the room, ignored by everyone and returning the favor, to Jodi’s office. I knew where it was, though I’d never been invited in. Which might be a good thing. Jodi and her right-hand man, Sloan Rosen, were bent over reports, Jodi sounding tired, angry, and slightly hoarse. And she was still wearing the same clothes she had worn the night before. I tapped on the door and she looked up, irritation creasing the skin beside her eyes. “What do you want?”

I started to be cute, but instead said, “I’d like to get at the files in the woo-woo room.” I felt weird saying the words, as if my own subconscious was surprised. But it faded instantly. “If it’s okay.”

“Sure.” She tossed me a set of three keys and I caught them. Nodded my head and backed away. “Jane,” she called. I stopped. “I hear George Dumas is staying in your house.” I wasn’t quite sure what to make of her tone so I just nodded. “He’s a person of interest,” she said, “in the death of the diplomatic assistant.”

I nodded again. “I just came from the shooting range, where I left a lot of spent brass on the floor. Every single casing had my fingerprints on them. If someone stole my gun and swept up my brass, they could frame me easily.” I tossed the keys lightly and caught them. “I’ll have these back in an hour.” I turned and left the office, feeling Jodi’s eyes boring a hole in my back. I wondered if I had a target painted on it. I had lost the chance to hear anything about the case, but I had also lost the chance to be questioned by my friend or asked to spy on another friend and houseguest. I figured I had won.

The woo-woo room had changed since I first saw it, from a utilitarian storage room containing paper copies of all the city’s paranormal case files to a storage room with a computer, a dry board, a copier-scanner combo, a table, and more comfortable chairs. I eyed the computer, thinking about trying to log on, but passwords were surely not something I could guess at, and getting caught spying was a surefire way to get kicked out of the room forever. I turned to the hard-copy files and started digging.

I stayed in the woo-woo room for nearly an hour and photocopied a dozen files, most without taking the time to read thoroughly, and carried them back out with me when I left. Jodi wasn’t in her office, and I didn’t look for her, leaving her keys on a blotter in plain sight. I had a feeling that this case might put a lot of stress on a relationship that wasn’t that strong to begin with.

CHAPTER 13

I Intend to Make You Regret That Decision

I wove through rush hour traffic on Bitsa, rush hour actually being more like rush afternoon, one huge snarl of traffic and exhaust fumes and boiling, wet heat. On the way home, I stopped for a few groceries that Evangelina had texted me that we needed, and managed to get a half gallon of milk and five pounds of flour into the saddlebags, fruit and veggies piled on top of the files I’d copied. Even with the traffic, I got back home just after seven. Evangelina’s rental car wasn’t parked in front, and the house was dark, no wonderful smells of cooking food greeted me when I parked Bitsa beside the back stairs and opened the door. After unloading the groceries, I slid two stakes into my hair and opened a Snickers bar to meet my caloric needs, eating standing in the dusk-dimmed room at the kitchen sink.

“I thought I heard someone.”I identified Bruiser’s voice before I tried to draw a weapon, but my heart jumped painfully. He was standing in the opening between the kitchen and sitting room, the space dim, the houses close on each side keeping out the last rays of the sun. Now that I knew he was there, I could smell him, freshly showered; his aftershave, a citrusy scent that was all man, lay faintly on the air. I could tell he had been sitting alone in the silence, which seemed like a not-so-smart decision when one was under so much strain. It seemed like an act that might lead to depression or drinking or something even worse. “You said there would be dinner. A three-star chef.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, but he did sound oddly detached, almost despondent.

“She’s her own woman. Comes and goes as she wants.” I crushed the Snickers wrapper and dropped it in the trash. “There’s steak in the fridge.”

“You know how to cook steak?” he asked, his voice warming slightly.

“Light a match under it. If it doesn’t kick, it’s dead and done. Toss it on a plate, put a baked potato to the side with sour cream, toss a spinach salad for the vegetable lovers, and pour a beer.”

“I’d like my steak with at least a pretence of brown on the outside.”

“Wimp.”

Bruiser laughed, the sound startled. When it passed he said, “Thank you. I needed that.”

“You’re welcome. Question. Did you know that Leo was ... let’s call it playing pimp with Kemnebi and me?” A bit of Beast growled out with the words playing pimp.

Bruiser stilled at the sound. He breathed out a soft, “No. I didn’t.” He shifted in the dark, an uneasy sound, edgy and brooding. His pheromones smelled of annoyance, which was a peculiar blend of uncertainty and anger. “I knew he was curious how Kemnebi would react to your scent.” His words grew stilted as he added, “That is bloody well all.”

I let that hang between us for a moment and said, “Grill’s on the side porch. Take it into the back yard to light it so we don’t burn down the upper porch. I’ll bring out the steaks and some beer.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to retire to your bedroom first, for some R and R? It would be”—he thought a moment—“healthy and healing for both of us.”

Healthy and healing? “First off, your timing sucks. And second, as pickup lines go that one is at the very bottom of awful. Rick bought me the grill. It was a one month anniversary gift.” Yet he hadn’t called.

Bruiser walked to me through the early evening shadows, a murky shape that undulated like a form seen through a rainrunneled window. My heart did a bebop move; I gripped the cabinet at the sink to steady myself, half ready to dart away, though I never ran—not ever. “I’m a one-man woman,” I said. “I don’t play around.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “Not with you.”

Beast reared up fast, seeing the man through my eyes. She purred once, the vibration in my mind so strong I thought it must have escaped, but Bruiser didn’t react. Beast breathed in through my mouth and nostrils, smelling, tasting, wanting him. Good mate, she thought, strong, powerful. She gathered herself, holding me down and distant. Bruiser stopped so close I could feel his body heat through our clothes. He paused, watching me, his eyes looking down at me, and it felt so odd to be small beside a man. I could feel his breath on my neck and chest, an unfamiliar sensation. I managed the word, “No.” It came out breathy and uncertain. I firmed my voice and said again, “No.”

Beast raised my head and breathed in his scent, holding me firm and steady. I couldn’t step away or run, and when I stood there, like an offering, Bruiser lifted a hand and slid it around my nape, holding me gently, his palm warm and calloused from weapon use. He raised his other hand, cradling my face, his fingers long and elegant and strong. His voice a burr of sound, he said, “I intend to make you regret that decision.” Slowly, he brought his face down to mine, the motion disorienting. I could hit him. Knock him out. Throw him out of the house.

Beast laughed. Good mate. Rick gone. Want this one.

And then his lips touched mine. Slowly. Gently. Sliding back and forth on my mouth. I could taste him, his breath warm on my skin. I closed my eyes and sighed. Parted my mouth. Rested my face in his hand. And he pulled away, just as slowly. “I’ll get the grill going.”

Beast released me, stepped back, and I propped myself on the counter. “I’ll bring the food.” My voice sounded normal, not breathy and aroused, which was a surprise. I intend to make you regret that decision. Crap. I was in trouble. Beast huffed with laughter and withdrew, but I could still feel her claws in my mind, pressing and withdrawing, and the breath-stealing sensation of Beast in control of my body. I watched Bruiser as he left the house, his image still wavering and shadowy through the window.

I could have run. Could have locked myself in my room. Instead I pulled my cell and looked for a call from Rick. Nothing. Nada. Not a voice mail, not a text, zero, zip, zilch. I hit his number on speed dial and listened to the ring. Again, I was shunted to voice mail and hesitated a moment after the beep. “It’s Jane. Call me. Please.” Short, polite, not whiny. And I broke the connection. Through the window, I saw a gout of flame as Bruiser started the charcoal.