“I’m a doctor. Latin is a daily pain in my behind.”
“What does it mean?” Bobby asked.
“Venatores Mali translates to ‘hunters of evil.’”
“Evil what?”
“Unfortunately,” Christiansen murmured, “we aren’t going to be able to ask her.”
Chapter 13
I managed to escape before anyone beyond Greg Gustafsson, emergency services, tried to question me. Greg offered me a ride to the clinic in town; I refused.
I had a few scrapes. I’d live. I just wanted to get out of there.
The scene was chaos. It wasn’t every day something blew up in New Bergin. That it had blown up after yet another murder …
Like I said, chaos.
I wouldn’t be able to escape questioning indefinitely, but for now I took the opportunity and ran with it.
Jenn was more hysterical than I’d ever seen her—hysteria gave her hives—and that was before a piece of Mrs. Noita fell out of a tree.
My father arrived on the scene right after Mrs. Noita’s arm. His gaze went to the house, before scanning the crowd. When it reached me, his lips tightened and he strode over.
I wanted to apologize; I always did. That incessant need to please and appease. He let out a sigh that sounded more like a huff, then ran his finger down my cheek. Not a caress, more of an indictment. His finger came away black. I had been a little close to the action.
“Not a scratch on me,” I said brightly. I did have a scratch, probably more than one, but I lifted my hand anyway. “I swear.”
He didn’t believe me, but he didn’t say so. Instead he lifted his chin to indicate Jenn. “What’s wrong with her?”
I’d always thought Jenn was making up the connection between hives and hysteria but apparently not. One look in her direction, and I steered her toward her car. “She needs calamine, Benadryl, Epsom salts—maybe all three.” I could probably do with some myself. “I’ll call you later.”
I tried to put Jenn in the passenger seat. That woke her up pretty fast. “Are you nuts?”
“She’s baaack,” I said as she tore free and got behind the wheel.
We reached my apartment a few minutes later. “Oh,” she said. “Forgot. You’re staying at your father’s.”
“No.” I laid my hand on hers. Her skin was like ice, or maybe mine was on fire. “I had an e-mail that my apartment was cleared for me to go back.”
“Is it safe?”
I knew there was another killer, but she didn’t, and considering her condition, I wasn’t going to tell her. She’d have hives on top of hives.
I’d be safer here than in the forest at my father’s. He wouldn’t be back for a while anyway. Almost everyone in town was at the scene, and there was a lot to see. But mostly I didn’t want Jenn staying with me. Because there was another killer, and I did not plan to allow Jenn anywhere near her. Him.
“It,” I said. In my book, murderers were definitely it.
“What?”
“It’s safe.” I’d always been good at making my often random statements less random, and lately I was getting even better at it.
Bright red spots bloomed on Jenn’s cheeks; several bumps littered her neck and chest. I thought her lip might be starting to swell. “Are you gonna be okay?”
She flicked a glance into the rearview mirror. “I gotta go.”
“Jenn,” I started. Though I didn’t want her insisting on staying with me—too dangerous—I also didn’t want her alone if there was any chance her being alone was equally dangerous. What if her throat swelled up like a puffer fish and she couldn’t breathe?
“I need to down some pills before I look like Angelina Jolie. So either get out, or come along. Your choice, but make it fast.”
I hesitated, and she started to pull away. “Wait.” She’d had hives before; she had pills. My cursed presence was going to be more of a threat than bumps and splotches. There wasn’t a pill that could cure death by Venatores Mali.
“Call me,” I said. “I can always—” She took off with the door still open. I managed to shut it before she flattened a mailbox.
She raced down First Street far above the legal speed limit. What else was new? At least everyone was still at Mrs. Noita’s, so there was no one for her to run into or over, and no police presence to issue yet another ticket. She was getting close to losing her license.
Again.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment. Even though I’d only been gone a few days, the place smelled musty—closed in and old. I cracked a few windows.
At first I thought the scent of smoke was coming through those windows, and I nearly closed them. Then I got a glimpse of my hands, my clothes. That smell was coming from me.