AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He was right. I wished he wasn't, because right now I didn't know what the hell was going on. I didn't understand what had happened with Nathaniel. I didn't know how the marks worked with Richard. I didn't know how to find out if Malcolm was still among the undead, or if he'd crossed into that more permanent state of true death. In fact I had so many questions and so few answers that I just wanted to go home. Maybe Larry and I could both take a pain pill and sleep until tomorrow. Surely tomorrow would be a better day. God, I hoped so.
41
The house was still smoking when we got there. Thin greyish wisps of smoke rose from the blackened beams like miniature ghosts. Some trick of the fire had left the high cupola on top of the building intact. The lower stories were gutted and blackened, but the cupola rose like a white beacon above the wreck. It looked like a black-toothed giant had taken a great bite out of the house.
The fire truck took up most of the narrow street. There was a spread of water seeping along the street like a shallow lake. Firefighters waded through the water, rolling up miles of hose over their shoulders. A uniformed police officer stopped us well back from the action.
I eased down my window and flashed my ID. It was a little plastic clip-on card and looked official, but it wasn't a badge. Sometimes the uniforms would let me through, and sometimes they had to go ask permission. Brewster's Law was going around Washington and would give vamp executioners what amounted to federal marshal status. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. It takes a hell of a lot more to make a cop than just a badge, but for me personally I'd love to have had a badge to flash.
"Anna Blake, Larry Kirkland, to see Sergeant Storr."
The officer frowned at the ID. "I'll have to clear this with someone."
I sighed. "Fine, we'll wait here."
The uniform went off in search of Dolph, and we waited.
"You used to argue with them," Larry said.
I shrugged. "They're just doing their job."
"Since when has that stopped you from bitching?"
I looked at him. He was smiling, which saved him from the scathing comeback I had ready. Besides, it was nice to see him smiling about anything right now. "So I'm mellowing--a little. So what?"
The smile widened to a grin, a shit-eating grin, my uncle would have called it. It was like the next thing out of his mouth was almost too funny to say. I was betting I wouldn't think it was funny at all.
"Is it being in love with Jean-Claude that's mellowed you or the regular sex?"
I smiled sweetly. "Speaking of regular sex, how is Detective Tammy?"
He blushed first. I was happy.
The uniform was walking down the wet street towards us with Detective Tammy Reynolds in tow. Oh, life was good.
"Well, if it isn't your little sugarplum now," I said.
Larry saw her then. The red flush brightened to something the color of raw flame, redder than his hair. His blue eyes were a little bulgy with the effort to breathe. The soot had been wiped away, which saved his face from looking like a reddish bruise. "You won't say anything, will you, Anita? Tammy doesn't like to be teased."
"Who does?" I said.
"I'm sorry," he said, speaking very fast before they could get to us. "I apologize. It will never happen again. Please do not embarrass me in front of Tammy."
"Would I do that to you?"
"In a hot second," he said. "Please don't."
They were almost at the car. "Don't pull my leg and I won't pull yours," I whispered.
"Deal," he said.
I eased down the window, smiling. "Detective Reynolds, how good to see you."
Reynolds frowned because I was seldom glad to see her. She was a witch and the first police detective ever with preternatural abilities beyond psychic gifts. But she was young, bright, shiny, and tried just a little too hard to be my friend. She was just sooo fascinated with the fact that I raised the dead. She wanted to know all about it. I'd never had a witch make me feel like such a damned freak. Most witches were nice understanding souls. Perhaps it was the fact that Reynolds was a Christian witch, a member of the Followers of the Way. A sect going back to the Gnostics, who embraced almost all magical ability. They were all but wiped out during the Inquisition due to the fact that their beliefs don't allow them to hide their light under a bushel, but they survived. Fanatics have a way of doing that.
Reynolds was tall, slender, with straight brown hair falling around her shoulders, and eyes that I would have said were hazel but she called green. Greyish-green with a large circle of pale brown around the pupil. Cats have green eyes. Most people don't. She'd tried to be my friend, and when I wouldn't tell her about raising the dead, she'd turned to Larry. He'd been reluctant at first for the same reasons I was, but she hadn't offered me sex. It pushed Larry over the edge and into her arms.
I'd have complained about his choice of sweeties if I'd any moral high ground to stand on. It wasn't the witch part that bothered me or the cop. It was the religious-fanatic part. But when you share the sheets with the walking dead, you don't get a lot of room to bitch.
I smiled sweetly at her.
Reynold's frown deepened. I'd never been this happy to see her before. "Good to see you, too, Anita." Her greeting was cautious, but seemed sincere. Always willing to turn the other cheek. A good little Christian.
I was beginning to wonder if I was still a good Christian. I didn't doubt God. I doubted me. Having premarital sex with a vampire had shaken my faith in a lot of things.
She bent her five foot ten frame to peer in the window past me at Larry. "Hi, Larry." Her smile was genuine, too. Her eyes sparkled with it. I could feel the waves of lust, if not love, going from her to him like a warm, embarrassing current.
The blush had left Larry's face milk-pale with the sprinkling of freckles like brown ink spots. He turned large blue eyes to her, and I didn't like the way he looked at her. I wasn't sure it was just lust on Larry's part. Maybe it wasn't for Reynolds, either, but I didn't worry about her feelings the way I did Larry's.
"Detective Reynolds," he said. Was it my imagination or was his voice just a touch deeper? Nah.
"Larry." That one word was full of too much warmth.
"Where do you want us to park?" I asked.
She blinked hazel eyes at me, as if for a second she'd forgotten I was there. "Anywhere back here."
"Great."
She stepped back and let me park, but her eyes lingered on Larry. Maybe it was more than lust. Damn.
We parked. Larry undid his seat belt carefully, grimacing. I'd gotten the door for him at the gas station.
"You want me to get the door?"
He turned stiffly towards the door, trying to keep his upper body immobile. He stopped with his hand on the handle. His breath came in little gasps. "Yes, please."
Me, I'd have gotten the door myself, just from pure stubbornness. Larry really was the wiser of the two of us.
I held the door for him and offered him a hand. I pulled, he pushed with his legs, and we got him standing. He started to hunch from the pain, but that bent his back, which made the pain worse. He ended standing as straight as he could, leaning against the Jeep, trying to get his breath back. Pain will leave you breathless.
Reynolds was suddenly beside us. "What's wrong?"
"You tell her. I'll go talk to Dolph."
"Sure," Larry said, voice strained. He needed to be in bed, knocked out on painkillers. Maybe he wasn't that much smarter than me.
It wasn't hard to spot Dolph. Pete McKinnon was standing with them. It was like walking towards two small mountains.
Dolph's dark suit looked freshly pressed, white shirt crisp, tie knotted against the collar. He couldn't have been out in the heat long. Even Dolph sweats.
"Anita," he said.
"Dolph."
"Ms. Blake, nice to see you again," Pete McKinnon said.
I smiled. "Good to know someone's happy to see me."
If Dolph got the dig, he ignored it. "Everyone's waiting for you."
"Dolph always was a man of few words," Pete said.
I grinned at him. "Good to know it's nothing personal."
Dolph frowned at us. "If you two are through, we've got work to do."
Pete and I grinned at each other and followed Dolph across the wet street. I was happy to be back in my Nikes. I could walk as good as any of the men, in the right shoes.
A tall, thin fireman with a grey mustache watched me stride across the street. He was still wearing helmet and coat in the July heat. Four others had stripped down to T-shirts with just the rubbery-looking pants on. Someone had sprayed them down with a water. They looked like an ad for a beefcake wet T-shirt contest. They were drinking Gatorade and water like their lives depended on it.
