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He waved me on, so I followed the dead woman—well, deadwomen, although I could only see the one—deeper into the grasslands. They’d left her maybe another hundred yards in, not even bothering to cover her.
I knelt down, resisting the urge to reach out and close her filmed-over green eyes. “I’m so sorry they did this to you,” I whispered, knowing that she could probably hear me, even though I couldn’t see her.
Cold spread across my shoulder, and I looked up to see Sylvia placing her hand there—a gesture that was meant to be comforting, reassuring. Probably to let me know that Sabrina appreciated my sympathy.
Except I hate it when dead people touch me. It’s cold and it feels like they’re leeching something out of me. Magic, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really like it when living people touch me, much, either, but generally they’re at least warm-to-room-temperature, so it’s a little bit less jarring.
But since I appreciated the sentiment, I tolerated the slimy chill that was Sylvia’s hand, nodding at her to let her know that I understood.
And then I called out to Raj so he knew where to send half the CSI team when they arrived.
* * *
I triedto convince Raj to let me be there when they arrested the chicken-fried dicksteak that was Officer Darren Shelby. Raj informed me that while he was both entertained and impressed by my inventive epithets, he wasn’t going to let me watch Shelby’s arrest for reasons that had to do with both PR and my own personal safety.
I don’t think much of PR, but with my face and body looking and feeling like I’d spent a few hours as a heavyweight’s punching bag, he maybe had a point about me not painting a bigger target on my back by looking like it was my fault a cop’s cop was getting arrested by the feds.
It was kinda my fault, and I had absolutely no shame about that, but the fewer people who knew it, the more likely I’d be able to keep doing my job in relative peace. Well, the more likely I’d be able to keep doing my job without a marked increase in bullshit and harassment, anyway.
So I didn’t go, but I did make Raj promise to tell me when it was done.
Instead, I made up for bailing on Taavi by letting him decide what we were having for dinner, which was a very long and involved process of me guessing types of food. It wasn’t terribly efficient, but if my parents are any indication, couples spend more of their actual relationship time asking each other what they want for dinner than any other single thing.
Not that Taavi and I were a couple.
We were just cohabitating until we could get the damn drug out of his system that was keeping him stuck as a dog.
Or until one of us died, which was looking increasingly likely to be me, if this week was any indication.
Taavi had picked Korean, which we had to actually goget, so I’d made the questionable decision to juggle both bags of food and the dog on the way up the stairs. I was a bit winded by the top—not because I was out of shape, exactly, but because I was just so generally wrung out and beaten up. It’s surprising how much having the physical and emotional shit kicked out of you will drain your stamina for basic life skills like climbing stairs.
Nevertheless, we made it without any catastrophes, and both of us settled on the couch with our bowls of noodles to watch whatever cooking show had risen to the top of the recommended list. I didn’t actually cook much—although I did love bakingandI owed Ward some cookies—but I liked watching other people do it.
I needed to just shut off, and Korean food, cooking shows, and a very non-Korean cheesecake I’d picked up at the grocery store—while getting cookie ingredients—would hopefully help me do that.
The cookies could wait until tomorrow.
16
Since we’d stoppedoff to see Zhou’s shifter colleague—whose name was Hal Roberston—to have Taavi’s cast taken off, Taavi at least was in a good mood, bounding his way up the main stairs at the precinct, uncharacteristically tugging on the end of his leash.
“Okay, bud, I’m glad you’re feeling better, but I still feel like some asshole tried to throw me down these damn stairs,” I panted behind him. I was not in a good mood.
He stopped a few steps up and waited, looking slightly chagrined as I caught up. It had been a little over a week since I’d been beaten literally black and blue in the MFM riot, and while I was healing, shit sleep and stress weren’t doing my body any favors.
“Look who’s out of his cast!” Caro’s tone was happy, although it still sounded a bit forced. Everybody was on edge, but especially dispatch. There had been a lot of people—Raj and I included—playing the if-only game this week, and it was rough on all of us.
Taavi bounced around her feet, drawing a laugh from her.
“Don’t go getting all fancy, doggo,” I warned him. “Or you’ll just end up right back in another one.”
He calmed down a little, but his tail still wagged furiously as Caro bent down to ruffle his ears and head-tuft.
Then Caro looked up at me. “How are you, Hart?”
I blinked. “Oh. Um. Okay.”
Over her pale pink mask, I could see her brown eyes studying my face, probably assessing the progress of the massive bruise on my cheek. The swelling had gone down, and it was a fading dull purple and yellow. “Are you?” she asked, her gaze penetrating.
