Chapter Nine
The day after my run-in with Mort and the San Francisco Memorial emergency room was blissfully uneventful—as long as I kept my mind away from thinking about my romantic mumblings to Alex the night before. I wasn’t one-hundred-percent clear about the exact goings-on of our conversation, but every time I even considered it, my mercury rose and my complexion went from day-glow white to midlife crisis Corvette red. I had a grand plan to slink out of the Underworld Detection Agency and finish my Sampson investigation myself, while contributing to Alex’s homicide investigation via e-mail or possibly carrier pigeon.
However, I was unable to get one Payless Shoe Source faux-leather heel out the door before I came face to bloodless face with Dixon Andrade.
“Miss Lawson.” His eyes coasted over me. “That’s a lovely hat.”
My hand flew up to the enormous Titanic-style headpiece I wore. After spending twenty minutes this morning trying to perfect a half-bald-head-hiding comb-over, Nina gave up and slapped the giant saucer on my head.
“Thanks. I was just on my way out.”
“Certainly,” Dixon said without stepping aside. “But first I was hoping to talk to you about our previous discussion. If you have the time, of course.” His expression was kind enough, but his eyes were cold steel, letting me know that I’d damn well better have the time.
I took two tentative steps back into my office and slunk into one of my visitor’s chairs while Dixon settled himself across from me.
“Have you and Alex been able to come up with anything?”
I thought of my fingers ambling all over Alex’s bare chest the night before and shook my head, probably a little too emphatically. “No, nothing.”
“But you two have been working together?”
“Yes, sir.” I knew I should have been uber focused on Dixon and his werewolf hypothesis. It could be the one thing that could prove—or disprove—Sampson’s innocence, but my mind and body only wanted to head back to the relative safety of my bed and my previous drug-addled state. “Have you found anything new?”
Dixon looked away and then back at me. “Can you take off that hat? It’s a bit distracting.”
I clamped my hand over it. “No. It’s . . . crazy hat day. Here. At the office.” I laced my fingers together. “Promotes employee bonding. New thing from HR. You must not have gotten the memo.”
“Okay.”
“So has anyone else spotted this wolf? Or been attacked?”
Dixon shook his head. “Not as of late.”
I stood, my swinging shoulder bag a half inch from Dixon’s forehead. “I am going to take that information upstairs right now to Alex, and we will throw ourselves headlong into this investigation.” My eyes flashed. “Some more. I mean, still.” I shot him a bared-teeth smile. “I’ll have a report for you tomorrow. How’s that?”
Dixon rose slowly. “That would be nice.”
“Okay, well.” I waved frantically. “Gotta go.”
I was so amped by the time the elevator doors opened that I didn’t stop to consider how much I didn’t want to run into Alex, and hurried directly through the police station vestibule and right out the front door.
My poly-cotton twinset began sticking to my back the second I stepped onto the baked concrete of the parking lot. The fog inching in at a snail’s pace and the twilight pink-gray of the sky, coupled with the still-searing heat gave the entire town an eerie, zombie-apocalypse-type presence. I was pleasantly surprised that such an apocalypse hadn’t yet begun and that my car still looked as miserably pieced together now as it had when I left it this morning. I probably should have at least sprung for a paint job, but I was honestly growing accustomed to my little vamp-mobile. And besides, this way I would never mistake my Honda Accord for anyone else’s.
I slipped inside, blasted the air-conditioning, and backed out, screeching to a heart-wrenching stop when I saw Alex in my rearview mirror. He had his hands on his hips and he waited, nonplussed, while I threw my car into park and desperately swallowed my heart out of my throat.
“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed, wrestling my seat belt off and flying across the parking lot at him. “Did you not see my car? It’s a car. You should have.”
“It’s not a big car,” Alex said, cocking his head to the side.
“It’s multicolored and has the word VAMPIRE spray painted on the hood.”
“Yeah . . . are you planning to get that painted over anytime soon?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Yes. Right after they finish painting the house in Tuscany. Is there a reason for you standing behind my car or do you just hope to become a speed bump in your next next life?”
“Well, I guess someone’s feeling better.”
My heartbeat subsided long enough to remember that I had kind of professed my love to Alex the night before. I felt my mouth drop open. “Is that why you threw yourself behind my car? Because last night made you suicidal?”
“Suicidal?” Alex said, one eyebrow raised questioningly. “No. I’m not the one with the bad haircut.”
I blew out an annoyed sigh. “What exactly was it that you wanted, Grace?”
Alex’s grin was sly. “Thought you might like to grab a bite.”
I am a lot of things: strong. Mouthy. Semi-independent. But I wasn’t made of steel.
“What kind of bite?”
He shrugged. “Your call.”
I arched a brow. “Your wallet?”
“All right.”
Rather than try to wrestle my giant hat into the car I tossed it in the trunk and replaced it with a frayed ball cap that I pulled low over my eyes. When I got into the car Alex looked at me and crossed his arms in front of his chest.
“I’m a little insulted that you’re not wearing the hat I got you.”
“Somebunny found another hat.”
Alex’s cheeks bloomed a bashful pink. “Forgot about the lovely inscription.”
I snapped the door shut and Alex and I were off, windows rolled down, air pulsing through the cab of the car.
“Feel like Italian?” I asked as I flipped on the turn signal.
“Always.”
“North Beach it is.”
“Hey, did you know there’s supposed to be a maze of underground tunnels under North Beach?”
I grinned. “And here I thought I was the expert on the goings-on under the city.”
We pulled up to a stoplight just off Union Avenue and I listened to the car idle, to the faint sounds of someone playing a saxophone on a distant corner. And then there was something else.
A wail—or a moan.
“Did you hear that?” Alex asked, ear cocked toward the open window.
I turned the stereo off and leaned out my own window, holding my breath for a silent beat. A lazy wisp of oregano-scented air wafted into the car, and on it, a chorus of low moans. They were desperate, insistent rumbles that cut through the city noise.
I furrowed my brow. “What is that?”
Now the moans and rumbles were joined by thumps, then a shallow scraping as though something—or someone—was being dragged.
Alex’s eyebrows went up. “Lawson?” I saw his hand hover around his concealed gun.
I held up a silencing hand. “Wait, Alex. I think it might be—”
“Zombies?”
They engulfed the car before the word was out of his mouth, their fingers scraping against the paint, lifeless limbs thumping against the mangled exterior of my vamp-mobile. Alex’s eyes were wide, distressed, his face ashen as their fingers came through the open window, clawing at him, touching his skin, ruffling his hair. Zombie fingers brushed at my face, too; a clammy hand landed on my arm, grabbed a fistful of my shirt.
I couldn’t help myself. I started to giggle.
Alex, swatting at the grey, rotting arms that waved at him, looked at me incredulously. “You’re laughing? This is funny to you?”
One of the zombies had curled his fingers under my neck and was actively tickling me now, giggling back at me as my laughter grew, his grin wide and goofy. I clamped my knees together and tried not to wet myself. “They’re—they’re—they’re real!” I squeezed out, throwing the car into park and doubling over myself.
“Of course they’re real!” Alex said. “How the hell do we kill them?”
“Double tap!” A zombie on Alex’s side of the car yelled. “Cardio-oooo!”
“Beeeeeer,” another one groaned, a rivulet of black-red blood dribbling out the side of his mouth. “Beeer!”
Alex wrinkled his brow. “Is that zombie asking for beer? Can they do that?”
I was laughing so hard now that tears were pulsing from my eyes and I started to cough. Finally, I got hold of myself. “They’re real, Alex. They’re real people.”
Alex paused, his lip curling up into a snarl as another zombie wannabe poked her full torso through my window. “Graiiiiiins!” she moaned, stiff arms waving. “Graiiiins!”
“She’s a vegetarian,” I said by way of explanation.
“What the hell is going on here?” Alex wanted to know.
Veggie-Zombie bared a mouth full of grayish teeth, half smeared with a thick coat of shiny black greasepaint. “Zombie pub crawl,” she informed. “We’re only on our second pub.” She craned her neck to look out the windshield. “Light’s green.” She wriggled out of the car and I inched forward, Veggie-Zombie’s undead brood wailing and flailing in the street behind us.
“There’s hundreds of them,” Alex said, staring out the back window incredulously.
“Probably.”
“You’re not the slightest bit spooked by that?” Alex said.
“Why should I be? Those zombies are in way better spirits than the ones from the Underworld. And they can be satiated with beer. The ones at the office? Ugh. They’re supposed to have eaten before they come in, but if you even look the slightest bit intelligent, they’re salivating all over your desk. I had a guy suck the hair tie right off of my ponytail once.”
Alex shook his head in disbelief. “I’m hearing the words, but they don’t make sense.” He was silent for a beat and I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, his serious expression starting my giggles all over again. He gave me a dirty look. “Look, you’ve got to cut me some slack.”
I shot him a devious smirk. “And why’s that?”
“Come on. It’s ninety degrees in San Francisco, we processed a murder scene that was right out of a Wes Craven film, you were shish-kebabed by a hoarder, and suddenly, the streets are overrun with the thirsty dead.” He brushed the zombie-fist marks out of his shirt. “It’s perfectly normal that a guy would get a little unnerved.”
“Or that a guy could scream like a little girl.”
“I didn’t—”
“Geez, there’s no parking around here,” I said, letting Alex know in no uncertain terms that the case against his manly screaming was closed. “Did everyone in the city get a car?”
“Apparently, zombies don’t like to carpool.” He grinned.
“See? You’re warming up to the faux undead already. Ooh, spot!” I cut hard on the wheel and screeched my little tin can of a car into a shaded spot at the edge of a residential street. It was dark and quiet, a half block full of row houses with lights off or curtains pulled tight, silver flashes from televisions creeping out the cracks. We walked back down to North Beach and found a restaurant with tables set up along the sidewalk. It was flanked by moaning zombies carrying pint glasses and iPhones, but with the heat still heavy on the night breeze, it was perfect. I broke a greasy, cheesy breadstick in half and took a gooey bite.
“Mmm . . .”
“So, I take it you’re off the painkillers?”
I nodded, working to unstick the cheese that was sizzling on the roof of my mouth. “Yeah,” I said, my hand going up to my hat. “The cut doesn’t hurt much anymore. It’s mostly the sting of the bad hair.”
Alex smiled, the grin going all the way up to his eyes, making them seem to sparkle in the low light. I thought of the night before, of the gentle way he’d stroked my hair. and my stomach fluttered while my heart did a quick little double beat.
I may have had only half my hair and a scissor wound in my leg, but at that second, I felt like a very normal girl on a very normal date, with a good-looking man. No, an amazing-looking—and amazing in general—man. The way he smiled at me—the way his eyes burned right into me—made me feel like the only woman in the world, like a supermodel with a full head of hair. Suddenly, I didn’t regret last night’s drug-addled fog and romantic ramblings. Will was nice, but this was Alex.
And I loved him.
The realization shot through me from tip to tail, making me slightly dizzy and giddy at the same time. I loved him.
I, Sophie Lawson, loved him, Alex Grace.
My eyes started to water and my cheeks began to hurt from my love-struck grin.
“Someone looks like the cat who swallowed the canary,” he said to me.
I let out a slow breath, my heart beginning to thunder wildly. For once in my life, my mind was littered with images of rose petals and cartoon hearts, rather than blood bags and bodies. When Alex rested his hand on the table, I pulled my own out of my lap and tentatively placed it over his.
It was a test.
He smiled, and pressed his thumb on the outside of my hand, then opened his fingers so mine could slip inside.
My whole body sung.
“This is nice.”
Alex cocked his head. “What is?”
I shrugged. “This. Me, you, breadsticks. The city out there.”
“Don’t tell me Sophie Lawson is getting the suburban itch.”
“No, I love living in the city.” I frowned. “Sometimes I just wish it weren’t so . . . volatile.”
Alex seemed to consider, then cocked his head at me, giving one of those Father Knows Best expressions. “Lawson, you know that wherever you go—”
“Stop,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it. Please indulge me in my non-demonic, non-everyone-wanting-to-kill-me fantasy of a suburban life, complete with white picket fences, kids’ soccer games, and a big shaggy dog.”
“No minivan?”
“Volvo. Two-point-five kids. Laughable mortgage. One of those plastic ducks out front that you dress with the seasons.”
Alex grinned at me. “Seasonal duck dressing? Sheesh, Lawson, I figured you might want a break, but I never pegged you for the Donna Reed type.”
I narrowed my eyes, feeling indignant. “I can be the Donna Reed type. Why? Don’t you think I could be the Donna Reed type?”
Alex crunched on a particularly cheesy breadstick and spoke with his mouth full. “That’s right. Never question the homemaking prowess of a woman who can shoot a pot roast seventy-five feet.” He grinned and I felt my cheeks redden.
“That was one time. And, if I recall correctly, I was—”
“Three sheets to the wind?”
“I was going to say imbibing excessively, but we’ll go with yours, sure.”
“Okay.” Alex leaned back in his chair, wiping his greasy hands on a napkin. “So you’re living in suburbia with your shaggy dog and your two and a half—”
“Two-point-five,” I corrected.
“Two-point-five kids.” He blinked out at the starlit city. “Is there a guy in all of this Norman Rockwell goodness?”
My heart did a little neurotic patter. Was he saying he wanted to be a part of my future? I turned to look at Alex, who continued to study the skyline. His profile was perfect—a thick head of run-your-fingers-through chocolate brown curls, dark brows that, when cocked, could make a girl lose her inhibitions—and possibly her panties. A strong, straight nose. Pronounced chin with just the right amount of stubble. I felt the flutter in my stomach but mustered my courage anyway. First I batted my eyelashes in that sexy way that Nina did so effortlessly. Then I prayed to God that the majority of the cheese and marinara sauce in my appetizer had made it into my mouth. Then I lowered my voice into what I hoped with a sexy octave.
“Why do you ask?”
Alex’s head lolled toward me and he laughed. “Nice, Lawson.”
I rolled my eyes but eyed him. “Do you ever dream of running away?”
“To the suburbs?” He shook his head. “No.”
“Where would you go? You know, if you could?”
It was fleeting, and if I hadn’t been looking at Alex so hard I would have missed it—the hint of sadness that darkened his eyes and flitted across his face. He pursed his lips and the muscle in his jaw jumped and I had to look away, feeling a lump growing in my own throat.
“Sorry.”
The longer an earthbound angel walked the earth, the more he started to remember about his previous life. To us it would seem welcome, but to someone who will never again be able to touch a loved one or share a memory with a friend, it grew nothing short of hellish after hundreds of years. Alex had been earthbound for a while now, and I knew from the darkness that marred his handsome features now and again that the memories were pouring back, and they were strong, powerful—and hurtful.
I took a deep breath and squeezed Alex’s hand. “So, about the other night . . .”
“Now, what can I get you two?” The perky blond waitress bounded between us and the spell was broken. Alex broke his hand away from mine to pick up his menu, and I took an enormous glug of water, my stomach knotting. I blinked at Alex as he spoke to the waitress and lost all my nerve. After she took our orders and left, Alex leaned toward me again. “What were you saying?”
I smiled and chewed on my bottom lip, scanning the restaurant. “Um . . . check out that guy, three p.m.”
Alex looked to his right, his gaze blanketing the slow-moving traffic. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Your other three p.m.,” I hissed, jutting my chin.
“Okay, my right is your left. And your three p.m. is roughly nine-twenty.”
“Way to be precise. Do you see him?”
“Who? Nineteen-ninety-six?”
The man in question was clean cut, his bouffant at least three inches from his scalp and so stiff it moved in one giant mass in the light breeze. He was sitting by himself at one of the tiny patio tables, his rayon color-block shirt buttoned up to his neck. I felt my mouth drop open when he scooched back from the table and crossed his long legs.
“Shut up,” I whispered.
“What now?”
“Z. Cavariccis.”
Alex’s expression was blank. “I’m sorry?”
“Z. Cavariccis. The pants? Don’t tell me you don’t know what Z. Cavariccis are.”
Alex just shrugged and I gaped. “They’re pants. Really ugly pants, but like, the quintessential ugly pants of the nineties.”
“Oh,” Alex said, his mouth full of cheesy garlic bread. “Forgive me for misplacing that little nugget of Americana.”
I pointed at him with my own piece of bread. “You should know this shit if you don’t want to be found out as, you know . . . angelic.”
“Z. Cavariccis. Right.” He tapped a finger to his head. “Locked away. Have you seen our waiter?”
“He has a girlfriend!”
The woman who took the seat across from Nineteen-ninety-six was petite and elegant, wearing a silky one-shouldered sundress straight out of Paris fashion week.
“How did Fashion Forward end up with Ninety-six?”
“Who had the penne?” our waitress asked.
Alex raised his hand and shot me a triumphant grin. “I guess we’ll never know.”
I buried my fork into five inches of pasta-cheese, cheese-pasta perfection, but I couldn’t keep my eyes from wandering back to the fashion time machine going on behind Alex. There was something off about the couple.
I dipped my hand in my purse. “Can you excuse me for a minute?”
“Must be serious if you’re leaving lasagna.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I passed Fashion Forward and Ninety-Six with my cell phone pressed to my ear. Nina picked up on the second ring and I slipped behind a potted plant, where two pub-crawl zombies were groping each other lovingly. They scattered when they saw me.
“What’s up, buttercup?” Nina asked.
“Fashion question.”
“Ooh, my favorite kind. If I have to be cooped up in this hell hole, at least I can give fashion advice to make your world more beautiful.”
“Color-blocked rayon shirt and Z. Cavariccis.”
I could practically hear the horror etching into Nina’s face across the phone line. “What did you say to me?” Nina whispered.
“You heard me. A color-blocked rayon shirt and Z. Cavariccis. And he’s got one of those Jordan Knight bubbly bouffants.”
“Does he have an earring?”
I chanced a glance around the palm and narrowed my eyes. “Yeah.”
“Ah, just as I suspected. He’s new.”
“New?”
“Old.”
“Old?”
“Stop repeating everything I say. He’s dead, Soph, dead. No one steps out in rayon, Z. Cavariccis, and a single stud. It’s the dead man’s triumvirate. He’s newly made, newly out, and he’s probably on the prowl.”
I rolled up on my tiptoes when a waiter blocked my view. Ninety-six laced his long, thin fingers through Fashion Forward’s and she gazed into his eyes, batting her thick, over-mascarraed lashes. The adoration oozed off her.
“His nails are probably all broken from digging out of the coffin—check for dirt, too.”
I squinted, and although I could see the shape of their linked fingers, I wasn’t close enough to see the telltale graveyard dirt or broken nails.
“I can’t tell if his hands are dirty. What else you got?”
“Well, once awakened, he’d be thirsty. Confused, but mostly thirsty. He’d be looking for easy prey.”
I bit my thumbnail. “Would he take his prey to dinner?”
“No, he would eat his prey for dinner. What’s going on out there?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Thanks for the tips.” I clicked my phone shut and arced around the potted palm, then nonchalantly brushed Ninety-six’s outstretched arm as I went back to my table.
“Everything okay?” Alex asked, his plate of pasta half empty.
“He’s warm.”
Alex quirked an eyebrow. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but seriously? Your lasagna’s a he?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not my pasta. Ninety-six.”
“What were you expecting?”
I scooted my chair closer to Alex’s and dropped my voice. “If a guy walks out dressed like that”—I angled my brows—“then he likely doesn’t know how far behind he is. You know, fashionably.”
“And that means . . . ?”
“God, Alex, do I have to spell everything out for you?”
“Yes. Please.”
“He’s dead. At least I thought he was.”
“But he’s warm, so horror of all horrors, he’s a live guy in twenty-year-old fashion? That never happens.” He popped another bite of penne into his mouth.
I cut into my lasagna and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t buy it. In this town?”
Alex put down his fork and knife. “Now that’s one thing I truly love about you, Lawson.” He blinked at me, his eyes catching the sparkle of the twinkle lights strung in the trees, his loose curls lazily licking the tops of his ears. I knew I was supposed to be flummoxed and mercurial and angered about his and my recent string of romantic follies, but when his voice dropped into that spun-sugar sweetness and the cornflower blue of his eyes pulled me in, I was a kitten, purring. The sexy softness of his voice dripped through me and I put down my own knife and fork, knitted my hands in my lap, and waited.
“What do you love about me, Alex?” I drew out my words, each one hanging on the soft night air.
“I love that if there’s a seemingly simple solution to an issue, say, a gentleman preps for a date by pulling out his best date duds—”
“Circa twenty years ago.”
“Circa twenty years ago, he can’t possibly just be a victim of fashion circumstance. He has to be newly risen from the dead.”
I smiled sweetly. “The simplest solution is often the best solution.”
“And rising from the dead is simple for you, eh?”
I picked up my wineglass and leaned back in my chair. “I call ’em as I see ’em. Hey, where’d he go?”
“Looks like his date didn’t mind his fashion flaws as much as you did. They’re leaving.”
“We should follow them.”
Alex blew out an exasperated sigh but threw down a few bills anyway. “Fine.”
I reached for his arm, but when I turned around, I was eye-to-glassy-eye with a pub crawl zombie. He dropped open his mouth and gurgled, little bursts of beer-soaked air bubbling in my face. “Ew!” I tried to edge around Beer Zombie, but there was another behind him and two more behind her. Nineteen-ninety-six and Fashion Forward had disappeared among the stiff, moaning crowd.
“I guess we’re not chasing bad pants tonight,” Alex said with far too easy a smile.
A little nervous zeal wound through me. Was I sending a woman to her blood-sucking, badly fashioned doom?
“You’re overreacting, Lawson. You work for a company that detects guys like that. Any new vamps?”
I bit my lip, considering. “No. But—”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.”
I scowled. “Well, he’s Cabbage Patch-ing to them.”
Alex cocked his head, silent, but challenging. I blew out a defeated sigh. “It is possible that I may have rushed to judgment as I have, on occasion—”
“Jumped to a conclusion or two?”
I cocked what I hoped was a menacing brow. “Not jumped. Hopped. Frolicked toward.”
Alex swung his head. “You’re impossible.”
We edged our way between the beer-soaked zombies and beer-buying zombie sympathizers, and then zigzagged into a slip of a store selling gelato and delicate, hot-off-the-iron pizzelles. The fog had finally blanketed the hot evening and I shivered, rubbing my palms up my arms.
“Cold?” Alex asked once I had my gelato-slash-pizzelle spoils.
“A little.”
He shimmied out of the button-down shirt he was wearing over his fitted tee, and I tried to convince myself that the my immediate salivation was due to the proximity of my dark chocolate pinot noir gelato, rather than the sweet hunk of ice creamy goodness flexing his muscles in front of me. Either way, I was engulfed in jaw-dropping, panty-melting pleasure with a spoonful of gelato in my mouth and Alex’s gentle touch as he settled his shirt on my naked shoulders. His fingers trailed the tiniest bit across my collarbone, leaving a trail of electrical sparks that shot licks of fire directly to my belly. I clamped my legs together and pleaded with my intellect to remember that I was in the throes of a moral issue, caught between two men I really cared for. Then Alex gently cupped my chin and rubbed his thumb carefully over my bottom lip.
“You have a little bit of chocolate sauce there.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off his sly smile, the drip of chocolate on his thumb as he brought his hand to his mouth, parted those perfect lips, and licked.
The heat that roiled low in my belly starburst and was everywhere now; the angel on my shoulder reminding me of my morals had been solidly sucker punched by a red-leather-wearing demon who told me to pounce when ready.
I stopped and stepped in front of Alex. “About last night.”
There was a sweet look of sympathy on Alex’s face that cut right through me. “It’s all right, Lawson. I know what that was all about.”
I took a step back. “You—you know what what was all about?”
“This.” Alex made circles with his arms. “All of this. The nerves. The awkwardness. It’s all right. You were drugged last night. You had no idea what you were saying. I know what you meant. You love me, we’re friends.”
“Oh,” I said, stunned, nervous heat shooting through me. “No, that’s not what I—that’s not what I meant.”
“You don’t have to explain it. I know about it. You and Will, I mean. I’m not exactly happy about it, but you know.” He shrugged and jammed his hands in his jeans pockets, starting to walk around me. “He can give you stuff that I can’t,” he said to the sidewalk. “He can give you a future.”
Alex wouldn’t look at me, but I saw his face tense up. He cleared his throat.
“Alex, Will and I . . .” I bit my bottom lip, started kneading my palm. “We—but we—and we’re not.”
Alex put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and gave me a practiced smile. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.”
“There’s nothing serious between Will and me, Alex.”
“Like I said, you don’t have to explain.” He turned and I grabbed his arm.
“I might not have to explain, but you do. What do you mean Will can give me something that you can’t? What can Will give me that you can’t?”
Alex studied me hard, his eyes going so dark they were almost chrome colored. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Will can give you a future, Lawson. That’s something I could never do.”
I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. “What?”
Alex opened his mouth, looked like he was about to explain, when a howl sliced through the silent night. He straightened, his blue eyes going from sympathetic and human to seasoned-cop hard in less than a millisecond. “Did you hear that?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
A string of howls answered back, but these were short and yippy, and ended with the guffaws of drunken zombies and North Beach partygoers.
“Stupid kids,” I muttered.
We stepped into the darkness, our moment gone, my gelato a syrupy, melted mess. I scanned for a garbage can to toss it, then stiffened.
Suddenly, there was a charge in the air. It was the same thing that made cats arch their backs and spine their tails; the same thing that put dogs on snarling alert. My hackles went up, adrenaline boiling my blood. I licked my lips, the saline taste of danger in my saliva.
I heard the growl, first.
It was a low, predatory rumble. Earthy and primitive, like nothing I’ve heard before.
Except I had heard it before. Once.
My feet were rooted to the ground, but I turned my head slowly. The rumble was low enough that I couldn’t hear which direction it came from. But it called to me, and I knew where it was.
“Lawson.” I heard Alex call behind me and I slowly held up a hand, silently willing him to understand, to stay put.
And when I turned again I saw it. A wolf, in the narrow, darkened corridor between two houses. I could make out nothing but his eyes and his teeth as the black rim of his lip curled up into a fearsome snarl.
The sclera glowed an eerie yellow-green, but it was the silky black of his pupils that drew me in. The edges were jagged and rimmed in a bloody red. Sampson once told me the black was the wolf eye; the red, where it tore through the man. I took a tentative step back and the wolf eye kept its focus on me. There was no flicker of recognition, no restraint in his eyes.
I wet my lips with my tongue. “Sampson?” I whispered.
A low growl. Not confirmation, not denial. Animalistic.
“Lawson!”
The wolf was over me before I knew it. I felt the slice of his claw over my shoulder, heard the thud of the powerful body hit the ground behind me, watched in horror as it crossed the street, scaled my car, and took off into the surrounding darkness.
Alex grabbed me before I fell.
“Lawson! Lawson!”
I blinked up at him, utterly dazed.
“What the hell? What the hell was that?”
“Werewolf,” I said, my voice low and hoarse, the word itself like a betrayal.
“Who was it?”
I felt myself start to shake. “I really don’t know.”
And it was the truth.
After an uncomfortably quiet ride home, we pulled into the police station parking lot.
“First the Shively case, now this,” Alex said.
I almost added the Sutro Point murders but thought better of it. “Yeah.”
“And you didn’t know anything about this.”
“ No.”
“I’m sorry, but isn’t that kind of what the Underworld Detection Agency does? I mean, don’t you detect things that come out of the Underworld?”
A roiling heat went through my body, though I wasn’t sure who I was mad at. “I told you, Alex,” I started, enunciating every word carefully. “I don’t know. Dixon thought that Octavia was killed by a werewolf.”
“Which you very quickly ruled out.”
I slammed the car into park. “I just didn’t want anyone to jump to any conclusions.”
“And now people are dead.”
“Oh, no.” I turned around in my seat so that Alex would get the full effect of my pissed-off glare. “Don’t you try and pin this on me. You and the whole freaking San Francisco Police Department have done jack crap on this case. You’d still be looking up your own asses if it weren’t for me and my information. And you still don’t have any actual evidence that your murders and mine are connected.” I was seething mad now, feeling thirty steps—or paw prints—behind this entire investigation. I wanted nothing more than to dump Alex out of my car and go confront Sampson.
“I really can’t believe you, Lawson. You’re so damn fixated on protecting the memory of your precious werewolf buddy that you refuse to look at the facts. You’d rather give up the Underworld than admit that someone you care about might not be what you think he is.”
I was floored. “Are you talking about Sampson?”
Alex’s eyes flashed hard. “You tell me,” he said, before kicking the car door open and slamming it hard behind him.
I drove home in silence, letting the rumble of the engine thrum through my entire body and blinking back tears that I refused to let fall. I was angry at everyone—at Alex, for his outburst; at Sampson for not knowing—or not telling me that there was another wolf in town; and at myself for being so stupidly trusting. I refused to believe that I was responsible in any way for the murders, but I couldn’t keep the guilt from welling up inside me. By the time I pulled into the apartment building parking lot, my throat was aching from the solid lump and my dry eyes were burning. I wanted nothing more than a jug of wine and a sleeve of chocolate marshmallow pinwheels, and for the world to stay sane for just one night.
I’d deal with the fate of San Francisco first thing in the morning.
I pushed my key into the lock and edged through the door, pausing and frowning before turning on the light. The apartment was a sour-smelling, stuffy, dim box thanks to the closed-tightly blackout curtains. Once my eyes—and nose—adjusted I looked around.
“Nina?”
She was stretched out on the couch, still in that adorable, silky jumper, but now the flouncy fabric at the bust line was limp. One of the straps had flopped down toward her elbow and her hair matched the jumper: limp, floppy. Neither had been washed. Vlad was stretched out on the floor in front of her, corpse style. His eyes were dull, and his bare, pallid chest shone eerily in the dim glow from the muted television. He was wearing nothing but boxers and his usually slicked back hair was disheveled. I blinked, unable to tear my eyes from Vlad’s concave, white marble chest. He looked like a starved, felled statue of David.
“You guys look like you’re dying,” I said with a frown. And then, concerned, “You’re not dying, are you?”
Nina rolled her eyes. “We might as well be. This is torture!”
“Fucking torture,” Vlad echoed.
I chewed the inside of my lip. “Is there anything I can do?” I stepped forward, gingerly touching Nina’s calf—still ice cold. “Do you need to be like, refrigerated?”
The sharp annoyance that flashed across Nina’s face let me know that she was nowhere near dead, and the current situation wasn’t as dire as she and Vlad portrayed it. “We don’t need to be refrigerated. We’re vampires, not sides of beef.”
I held up my hands placatingly. “Hey, just trying to help. I’m a born and bred San Franciscan. This heat thing is a little weird to me, too.”
“We should go back to Seattle,” Vlad moaned from his spot on the ground.
Nina’s eyes rolled back once more. “Never again. Too close to all those sparklers.”
I put down my purse and snuggled with ChaCha. The heat was apparently too much for her, too, as her usual spastic patter was more of a lazy lope tonight.
“Hey,” I said, eyes flicking to the TV screen. “News.”
Vlad shot the remote control at the TV, and the coifed newscaster roared into action. “We’re at day three of the most severe heat wave the San Francisco Bay Area has ever seen. While most of you are out there enjoying the heat, some of you are left wondering, when is it going to end?” She flashed a set of dazzling, blue-white veneers, then shuffled her papers and flirted with the camera once more. “Usually, San Franciscans can depend on the offshore flow to beat the heat, but not tonight. We don’t have a cold front in sight! And rain? What’s rain?” The anchorwoman guffawed while Nina and Vlad groaned.
“That’s it. We’re going to die here.”
The news cut from the in-studio view to a sweeping picture of Pacific Heights, zooming in on the yellow-taped house Alex and I had visited earlier. My stomach sunk and guilt weighed my shoulders down.
“How was your day?” Nina said without opening her eyes.
I thought of Dixon, of the zombies, of my blow-out with Alex. I thought of the way he’d told me that I was betraying the Underworld as my eyes shot over Nina and Vlad, looking so listless, so helpless. I swallowed hard. “Not over,” I said softly.