Page 22 of Half-Blood


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“We don’t know if Mr. Malone is dead, Jace. We still don’t have a body. Has he tried to contact you?”

“So, youdon’tthink he’s dead?”

“Like I said, it’s under investigation. Answer my question. Has Malone tried to contact you?”

“N-no. I swear.”

I had been lying to him about the blood so I could see his reaction. It was being tested, but I knew it wasn’t Malone’s. Vampire blood, even a half-blood’s, was black and smelled of the grave, a musty smell of dirt and decay. On all his official paperwork, done before he was turned, Malone had listed his blood type as O positive, however, so I had little doubt that the blood would come back that way. I wondered who the blood had really belonged to. There was no way to match blood to anyone except an already identified victim. But there was too much blood in Malone’s room for the victim to still be alive. Our sources were already checking for any exsanguinated bodies found in the area in the last few days.

Police found unidentified bodies drained of blood, all the time, but since they couldn’t explain them, and since the body was almost always of someone of little consequence to anybody, like the homeless or the people without families or friends, they either ignored the cause of death or made up excuses to explain it away.

Conway spoke up. “You seemed to recognize that machete in the picture. Is it yours then?”

“Yes, I think so. My-my dad’s anyway. His name was Henry O’Neal, and he wrote his initials like this and then carved them onto his tools as an identifying mark.” We all looked down at the picture, and it was obvious we were probably staring down at his dad’s old machete.

Conway and I glanced at each other and Jace caught it.

“I haveno ideahow it got in that dumpster! You have to believe me!”

“All right, calm down,” I said. “We’ve talked before about all this yelling. To be clear, you’re saying that you recognize the machete.”

He took a deep, shuddery breath. “I guess. It looks like my father’s. All the tools were my father’s, and I pay a kid from the neighborhood to mow the lawn for us now. I used to do it myself, but…” He let his words trail off. I could imagine that he probably hated yard work. Hated getting dirty and hot and sweaty. And why did the thought of him like that make my cock take notice?

“Dylan knew how much I dreaded it every week, and he used to help me sometimes.”

“Okay. Let’s take one thing at a time. So, it’s definitely within the realm of possibility that he knew where you kept the machete.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Would he have any reason to borrow it?”

“I don’t know of any. And not without asking first.”

He nodded. “Like I said, we don’t have a body, so we’re still investigating this only as a disappearance.”

“Until we find a body,” Conway put in helpfully.

“I don’t believe he’s dead,” Jace said, doggedly shaking his head. “He can’t be. He’ll show up in a few days and laugh about all the fuss. He’snotdead. This is all some kind of crazy mix-up.”

“What makes you say that, Jace? What kind of mix-up could it be? How do you think that blood got there in his room?”

“I don’t know. I just…don’t believe it.” He put his head in his hands again.

“Do you need some water?” Conway was asking.

“He can take a sip of his Coke, right, Jace?” I pushed the can into his hand, hoping the sweet drink would revive him a little. “Go ahead. Take a sip.”

He did as I asked and sat up straighter. “I’m sorry. It was just such a shock. Where did you say you found this? Did you say outside his rooming house?”

“In a dumpster, yes.”

“Your coworkers said you wore a hockey mask and carried a machete to your office on Halloween. Any connection?”

“Of course not!” he said hotly. “We all dressed up. Like I just told you. I came as Jason from that movie, because it was the only costume they had left in my size, but I didn’t wear the mask—it was too hot, so it was on my desk most of the day. And the machete thatIhad wasn’t real. I told you. It was plastic. And how on earth my dad’s machete get in a dumpster across town?”

I had no answers for him. He closed his eyes, muttering something soft and low. “This can’t be happening,” I thought he said.

“You look like you’re about to faint. Take another sip of your Coke if it helps.”

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