Pure Blood Part 2

"You're one scary chick. I love it." He took the bag from me. "I'm gonna go toast the remains of my surprise. Cream cheese or lox?"

"Cream cheese," I said, still crouched, not able to meet his eyes. Yeah, we hadn't been dating for that long, but how much more of a freak could I look like?

Trevor brushed the side of my breast with his knuckles as he stood. "Don't keep me waiting too long, s.e.xy." He disappeared into the kitchen. I stared down at the brown stain on my rug and felt like an idiot.

I got orange juice and plates while Trevor spread cream cheese on my bagel. Seeing him standing in my kitchen, easily finding knives and spoons and a plate for the lox, was weird. In a big way.

Trevor sensed me looking at him and c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "What's on your mind, babe?"

I swallowed. He had only been in my house once before, but he'd stayed long enough to make me breakfast the following morning, and in what was obviously a fit of insanity I had given him my spare key. Had I somehow telegraphed that it was okay for him to barge in whenever he liked?

"Nothing. Last night was my first shift back at work."

Trevor licked the knife and tossed it into the sink. "Cool. You bust any bad guys?"

Did crazed junkies trying to stab my face count? "Only one."

He shoved half a bagel slice in his mouth and chuckled, swallowing before speaking. I took a token bite of mine, even though I was too nervous with him sitting across from me to be hungry.

"You know," Trevor said, "I can't get over the fact that I'm shacked up with a cop. I mean, do you know how many times I've been busted?"

Twice. Both misdemeanor charges that were cleared with a fine. I also knew that Trevor was five-ten instead of six feet like he always claimed and that he wore blue contacts. What, I was supposed to sleep with someone who, for all I knew, could be a chain-saw s.e.x killer? How did normal women date like that?

I said, "Yeah, that's funny," in a tone that sounded dolorous even to me.

Trevor reached across the table with fishy-smelling fingers and brushed my hair behind my ear. "You okay, babe? You seem really s.p.a.cey." There was genuine concern sitting in his eyes and I breathed in before answering, to fill my nostrils with the scent of the here and now and dispel the clove-tinged past.

"Fine. Sweetheart." That came out easy enough. I tried again. "Thanks for coming over. It was ... nice."

Trevor snorted. "Nice? I'm not nice. But I like you." He winked, dropping his plate into the sink and going to my shiny new stainless refrigerator. The old Frigidaire had been sc.r.a.pped due to damage from large-caliber bullet holes. "You got any beer?"

"No." I had drunk enough of it in my teens to last for a while, possibly the rest of my life. And what the Hex did Trevor think he was doing, anyway? Was there a set of relationship semaph.o.r.es I wasn't privy to that said, Hey, invade my privacy and drink all of my beer, if I Hey, invade my privacy and drink all of my beer, if I have it? have it? The one nice thing about life with Dmitri had been the lack of bulls.h.i.t. He wanted me, and one time I had wanted him, and it happened, and afterward he made it okay with an easy smile and a touch against my cheek. Weres are creatures of instinct, and you know where you stand, even if the only slots to stand in are "prey" and "mate." The one nice thing about life with Dmitri had been the lack of bulls.h.i.t. He wanted me, and one time I had wanted him, and it happened, and afterward he made it okay with an easy smile and a touch against my cheek. Weres are creatures of instinct, and you know where you stand, even if the only slots to stand in are "prey" and "mate."

Trevor came behind me and ma.s.saged my shoulders. "You're tense, darlin'," he murmured in my ear, lips grazing the top. "Let's forget the beer and go upstairs. See what I can do about that."

My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in with a vengeance, the memory of Dmitri's hands where Trevor's sat now twisting my stomach. I twitched under Trevor's touch, and he noticed, stepping back with a sigh.

"It's him again?"

I turned with what I hoped was a convincingly perky smile. "Who? Babe." Hex me, I was awful at plat.i.tudes. Probably why I never made it as a c.o.c.ktail waitress.

Trevor leaned against a counter and pushed a hand through the green-streaked black hair that fell in front of his eyes. "Your mysterious ex that you won't talk about. Luna, you know I think you're the hottest woman I've ever been with, but this existential crisis s.h.i.t has gotta go."

I looked down at the braided rug, shamed. Just how much I didn't talk about, Trevor had no idea. And it was unfair. Dmitri was gone. I had met Trevor because because he was gone. Hadn't I gone out determined to rejoin the population at large, and forget him? Now I had Trevor, and cutting him off would be cruel and brand me a truly dysfunctional individual for life. he was gone. Hadn't I gone out determined to rejoin the population at large, and forget him? Now I had Trevor, and cutting him off would be cruel and brand me a truly dysfunctional individual for life.

He looked at me again when I came and slid my arms around his waist, pressing our bodies together. I made sure he could feel I wasn't wearing a bra, and his eyes darkened a bit, a smile creeping to the corners of his mouth. I kissed him and paid special attention to sliding my tongue between his lips. Pressure against my groin through his jeans told me that we were well on the way to making up.

"Upstairs, you said?" I purred, pulling back. Trevor nodded, his breath coming out in little puppy pants. I could smell his plain human pheromones, cloyingly sweet like a narcissus flower.

"Upstairs," he agreed, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me after him.

The sun had set again by the time I woke up, showered, and made my way downstairs to my office to check e-mail. Trevor was still snoring and tangled in my sheets, and I was inclined to leave him there. I made sure to put some antiseptic and a box of bandages on the nightstand, embarra.s.sed at the deep welts my nails had left on his shoulder blades.

At least I could explain it away as his driving me to heights of heretofore unimagined, romance-novelesque pa.s.sion. A little white lie was far better than blurting out I was a were.

I should have told him the first night we met, at the club where his band was playing. Definitely after the first time I slept with him. I checked the lunar calendar on the wall of the office and saw that the full moon was sixteen days away-too early for any signs of the phase to be showing, thank the G.o.ds. How I would explain this one away, I didn't know.

My e-mail in-box lit up with a few pieces of spam. Not surprising. Who would want to talk to me in the mopey state I was in?

The last remaining e-mail in the box caught my eye, and I vowed I would be strong, I would not click on it. Would not, would not...

I moved the mouse and clicked with the same compulsion as when I bid on vintage pumps and purses at auction, and the resulting emotional gut punch was the same.

From: [email protected] To:

Subject: Don't worry about me ...

Dear Luna, Don't worry about me, darlin'. I can't talk long but I'm in the Ukraine and I'm okay. Don't talk to anyone about me, or you, or us. Please. Can't say exactly what will happen if you do, but things could get serious.

I'll try to protect you. Don't know if I can ...

-Dmitri

Dated almost a month ago, the last I'd heard from Sandovsky. That night, I had gone out and met Trevor. The last line of the message haunted me, in the times when I was halfway between waking and dreaming. I'll try to protect you. I'll try to protect you.

"Well, Dmitri, you've done a great G.o.ds-d.a.m.ned job so far," I muttered. Footsteps thudded above me and Trevor called down the stairs.

"Babe, you down there? Got any breakfast for me?"

I stabbed at the monitor's power b.u.t.ton and hustled out of the office. "There should be cereal in the kitchen. I'm late for work-I have to go." How old the cereal was, I wouldn't testify to. I wasn't late, either, but looking at Trevor in the aftermath sent a flush of guilt through me. I should enjoy him more-or less. Or what the Hex was wrong with me? Since when had I become a whiny urbanite whose biggest concern was boinking?

Trevor hurried down to stop me, grabbing me by the elbow in his way. I fought the instinct to growl at what the were perceived as an attempt to dominate.

"Do you really have to run off?"

I kissed him on the cheek. "I'm afraid so."

He still held my arm. "We're doing a show tonight at Belladonna. It's a big deal. I'd really like you to be there."

I mentally calculated how many busts Narcotics and Vice had made at the Belladonna club and decided that for Trevor, it was was a big deal. The people at Belladonna didn't posture-they were real badmen. Poor Trevor. a big deal. The people at Belladonna didn't posture-they were real badmen. Poor Trevor.

"I'll try," I promised, still grinding away at the whole "Be a decent girlfriend" thing. "Now I really gotta go."

I got my gun, badge, and jacket and escaped to the Fairlane, happier to be away from my house and my boyfriend than any sane woman should be.

CHAPTER 4.

I floored the Fairlane along the Appleby Expressway, taking a downtown exit rather than my usual so I could avoid work for a few minutes longer. My cell phone rang while I was sitting at the light on Devere and Branch. The caller ID said the medical examiner's office wanted to speak with me, so I answered even though driving and talking were worth a $200 fine within the Nocturne City limits.

"Luna, it's Dr. Kronen."

I managed to shift and make a left turn with one hand, and jockeyed the phone to my other ear. "What's up, Bart?"

"I have the results of the tox screen on your overdose case, if you'd like to stop by."

Visiting the Nocturne City morgue was right up there with taking a relaxing vacation to the Middle East, but I cut across two lanes and turned back into the maze of downtown. "I can be there in ten."

The morgue, one floor of the subbas.e.m.e.nts beneath the main laboratories for the department, stank of old formaldehyde and the barely contained waves of decay that emanated from the autopsy bays and the set of wall freezers I had to pa.s.s to make it to Kronen's office.

He looked up as I came in, gla.s.ses dropping down his nose. "Ah, Detective." He fished around in a pile that, to my eyes, appeared to be a chaos of folders, lab reports, and receipts for meals at the sushi restaurant around the corner. "Here are your results. As you can see"-he flipped open the report and gestured me over-"nothing untoward in the blood and fluids, for a drug user."

"Heroin?" I guessed.

"Actually, no," said Kronen, tracing a wiggly line with his finger. "This represents trace elements of a drug that I have not identified. It does share several bases with heroin, so I a.s.sume it is a street mix that has not made it into wide use."

"Yeah, maybe because everyone who shoots it dies a horrible death," I said.

"Could be," Kronen agreed. "I'll do further a.n.a.lysis and fit the autopsy in when I have a spare moment to make an official ruling of accidental death, but I feel safe to say you can shove this one to the bottom of your pile."

"What pile?" I muttered, taking the report. Thanks to Matilda Freaking Morgan I had no cases.

"Detective," said Kronen as I turned to leave. "I hope that... at the scene..." He sighed and brushed a grain of rice from the front of his shirt. "No offense was meant. Although you being were does explain why you can't stand the smell in the autopsy bay and how you ... you are a fine investigator. I'm glad to work with you anytime." He gave a small smile and picked up a thick medical journal with dog-eared pages.

Unprepared for such a statement from Kronen, I managed to murmur, "Thanks, Doc," and make my exit before I blushed redder than arterial spray. Now if only the department at large felt the way Kronen did, my life might not be quite so h.e.l.lish.

I sighed as I drove back up Highlands toward the precinct house. Who was I kidding? I was a disaster magnet and had been my entire life. Peace-love-and-hugs from my fellow men and women in blue wouldn't change that. Nothing would, except me magickally not being were, and I doubted that was happening anytime soon.

A typical Friday night at the Twenty-fourth consisted of a pa.s.sel of drunks, a few tweakers certain we were the bug-daemons come to suck out their souls, and a tough guy who decided that no, he didn't want a DUI arrest for going fifty-five in a twenty-five in his Porsche and was currently screaming at Rick.

"Sir," Rick said as the arresting officer wrestled with the suit. "If I knew who you were, do you think I'd be any less inclined to book you?"

"f.u.c.k you, pencil neck!" the suit bellowed. "I want a lawyer! Where's my phone? I'll call him myself, since I doubt a lower life form like you can operate one!"

I came up behind him and felt in the pockets of his tweed greatcoat until I found his sleek little flip-phone. I snapped the earpiece off the base and dropped it on Rick's desk. The suit turned, mouth open, and I clamped a hand on his shoulder and growled, "Settle down." My eyes stung as I let them flicker to gold for a second and then fade back to gray. It's a nice trick to use on drunks, one I'd had to conceal very carefully before the Duncan debacle to avoid one of my coworkers grabbing a clip of silver bullets and shooting to kill.

He gaped like a wide-mouthed ba.s.s for a second. "I'll sue?" It came out very small. I winked at Rick and went through the metal detector while he asked the drunk, "One more time, sir... address? And if you give me any more lip I'll get the lady detective back out here to break something else."

I felt almost happy as I came into the squad room. Maybe this whole not-hiding thing would work out after all. I had always used my were instincts and the heightened senses that came with the bite, but keeping the strength and the uncontrollable temper under wraps was a struggle. If I didn't have to be so d.a.m.n careful all the time, who knew what could happen? Maybe if I cleared enough small-time c.r.a.p fast enough, Morgan would let me off the leash.

A woman was sitting on the edge of my desk, examining the family photo of me, Sunny, and our grandmother I kept there. I froze a few feet away and cleared my throat loudly. "What the Hex do you think you're doing?"

She turned to face me and a perky smile blossomed. "Detective Wilder?"

Somehow I knew I'd regret this later, but I said, "That's me."

She slinked up from her perch and extended a hand wearing expensive lotion and perfect French tips. "Shelby O'Halloran. I just transferred in, from Vice at the Nineteenth."

"Okay ..." I said, doing what every cop does when they meet someone new-composing a mental arrest sheet. "Mind telling me why your b.u.t.t is on my desk, Shelby?" Five-six or -seven, hundred and fifteen pounds, blond hair, ice-blue eyes. No marks or scars. Tattoos-that would have to be left to speculation, although her low-cut white knit top didn't show me any- "I've been a.s.signed as your new partner."

Wait, what?

"You're my what?" I repeated out loud, blinking stupidly. She smiled, wide glossy lips stretching over a row of little white Chiclets that some dentist must be having wet dreams about right this second.

"Your partner. I understand you've been without one ever since you were promoted to detective."

"Yeah, and I like it that way," I growled. Shelby picked up a black tote and slung it over her shoulder. "Lieutenant McAllister said they'll have a desk for me by tomorrow, but for tonight would it be okay if I stored my things here? You don't have anything in your bottom drawer."

Heat leaped in my chest, and my jaw ground in what laymen refer to as homicidal rage. "You looked through my drawers?"

"You were late," said Shelby with a shrug. "I was bored."