I handed the cabbie several crumpled bills and pushed my way into the apartment vestibule, sinking my key into the lock. It had only been a day, but I already couldn’t remember not feeling like my body was covered with the stench of death (and not the good kind), or when I didn’t want to slink out of my clothes, burn them—which is high holy treason with a wardrobe like mine—or slip away to parts unknown. I pulled out my cell again and hit speed dial again.
“Underworld Detection Agency, San Francisco. This is Kale. How may I direct your call?”
“Hey, Kale, it’s Nina. Can you put me through to legal?”
“Nina!” Kale’s voice brightened, then dropped to a low whisper. “Can you do me a favor and tell Vlad something?”
I swallowed. “Who told you he was here?”
“You just did.”
Before I could respond—or backpedal—Kale had put me through to legal where my “call was very important to them and would be answered in the order it was received.” I drummed my fingers on my purse while listening to an instrumental version of “(Everything I Do) I Do It For You” and told myself that I would deal with Kale’s Easter egg hunt later.
I was still on hold when I made it to the fourth floor, a perky UDA employee breaking in between during “A Groovy Kind of Love” to ask me if I knew I could file most basic UDA legal documents online. I clicked my phone off, depressed at my lack of a solution and dearly missing the good, old-fashioned slam of a receiver on its base.
Sliding an icon wasn’t very satisfying.
I was standing in front of Reginald’s door now, one piddling strip of crime-scene tape strung across the jamb, the door sealed with a flashy red sticker warning that no one other than the police, an inspector, or the coroner was permitted entry.
“Or the resident vampire,” I muttered under my breath before taking my fresh manicure to the thing.
Once the sticker was slit, I was surprised to find the door unlocked. I slipped into the apartment and winced, getting another sickly sweet hit of that new-dead smell.
I crossed the living room and cracked the kitchen window, letting the musty scent of New York summer seep in, letting the throb and bustle of the city pierce the silence.
“All right, Reginald, show me something that will help me.”
But there was nothing overtly cluelike in the apartment. The furniture, modern and standoffish, was pristine, not even bearing a telltale crease where some murderer may have taken respite after his job was done. There was nothing—except . . .
I climbed up onto the dining table, careful to skirt the dark smudges where Reginald’s shoes had scraped, and rolled up onto my tiptoes. There, on the top of one of the exposed beams, was a forgotten scrap of fabric—Emerson’s fabric. The fabric that Reginald’s murderer had tightened around Reginald’s neck until he had stopped breathing. I shuddered, pulled my barrette from my hair, and used it as a sort of makeshift, evidence-sustaining pair of tweezers and grabbed the swatch.
Other than the raggedy ends where the fabric had ripped, there was nothing significant or incriminating about it. The strip was about two inches wide, followed the print of the fabric, but was cut against the grain. No name plates, no fingerprints, no “if found please return to.” I held it up to my nose, whiffing the slightest scent of tuberose and freesia locked into the stitch. Apparently it hadn’t been in Emerson’s apartment long enough to adopt her scent.
There was nothing and I was annoyed, but I shoved the scrap in my pocket anyway, jumping off the table and closing Reginald’s door behind me.
What a waste.
I was only able to grumble for a millisecond; a feeling of stiff unease washed down the skinny hallway and my hackles went up. I spun, staring down Emerson’s closed door.
My nostril flicked.
Emerson’s patchouli smell still hung light on the air, but there was something else now, too, something that wasn’t there earlier.
And then there was the slightest, softest sound.
A footstep.
Someone, doing their best to step lightly, to carefully avoid the creaking floorboards. A drawer slid open. Someone rifling.
I slowly wrapped my palm around Emerson’s doorknob and was met with a lock. I bit my bottom lip, considering.
Then I slid a bobby pin out of my extensive updo (which was quickly falling due to my surprisingly helpful multiuse of barrettes and pins) and quietly stuck it into the lock. A single jiggle and the lock popped, the door popping open a millimeter. I pushed it open a tiny bit more and sucked in my stomach—a human habit that hadn’t yet died—peering into the apartment.
It was quiet, and the heaps of clothing and crap all around could have signaled that Emerson’s place had just been ransacked, or that Emerson employed the same kind of housekeeping style my roommate did back at home: slob chic.
I slid through the doorway, head cocked, still listening. Whoever was inside paused, because suddenly the room went uncomfortably still.
But the scent was still there.
I scanned the room, my footfalls silent even on the squeaky floorboard (we vamps have no discernible weight) and stopped short when I saw Emerson’s sketchbook laid out on the glass-topped kitchen table. It was open to a black-draped design that was a mirror image of something I had been working on and everything in me started to boil.
Which was probably why I didn’t hear him.
He clamped one leather-gloved hand around my waist and another around my mouth and dragged me backward. I tried to dig my heels into the heavy carpet to slow him down but my weightlessness worked against me and it was an easy slide. I tried kicking and punching, but with my assailant behind me, firmly clasping me against his chest, it was futile.
“Let me go,” I growled against the man’s hand, feeling the angle on my fangs sharpening.
He responded by tightening his grip and I opened my mouth, sinking my teeth into his palm.
He howled and pulled away from me; I lurched for the vase on the counter, swinging it hard. Water and roses shot out in a clear arc and the heavy leaded crystal made a pleasing, smacking sound when it caught my attacker square in the jaw. I thought it would stop him but the shot only angered him and his hands were on me, grabbing fistfuls of shirt. I was off my feet and face to face with eyes that spit white-hot anger.
A voice echoing in the hallway startled us both and I was tossed to the side, landing in a crumbled heap in a pile of discarded muslin sketch paper. My assailant cast one backward glance at me, cracked open the living room window, and disappeared onto the fire escape.
I sat up like a shot—vampire pride wounded, the strap on my Jimmy Choo busted, and pulsing with rage. I vaulted toward the window and followed the black-clad man out onto the fire escape for exactly forty-five seconds. He shot an upward glance at me as he climbed down the escape ladders. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open just the tiniest bit and I knew he saw the smoke, the little burst of fire as it pierced my skin and singed my hair. I edged back as far from the single flicker of fire bringing sunlight that I could, patting my shoulder and trying to put out the flame. I slapped it out. It smoldered, smoked, and seemed to die, only to pop once again like a cobra dancing out of its basket.
“Son of a bitch!”
My entire body was rigid and the tension pulsed through me like an electric shock as Pike lunged out the window for me and dragged me inside. He pressed a dishtowel against my shoulder, holding and waiting until the flame died out. He folded up the blackened towel and tossed it on the table.
“What happened?” Pike asked me. “What are you doing here?”
I figured if I drew his attention away from my little Sterno moment, he might forget about it. “What the hell are you doing here? I live here.”
He pointed. “You live there. This is Emerson’s place and you were on fire.”
I harrumphed. “I was on fire? You were seeing things, dude. I was just smoking.”
Pike cocked a disbelieving eyebrow.
“I know. It’s a foul habit. I’m trying to quit. Got one of those patch things, and some of that gum . . .” I was rambling.
“So you decided to come over to Emerson’s house to indulge in this foul habit?”
I offered him my “duh, isn’t it obvious?” shrug. “What are you doing here?”
Pike took a step toward me. “I was actually heading over to your place to check in on you.” A tiny blush shot over his cheeks. “I don’t have your number.”
“Then how’d you end up here?”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You left Emerson’s door open. And after I saw that Reginald’s place had been opened, I thought I’d see what was going on.”
He looked earnest enough but a girl doesn’t walk the earth for centuries and (continue) to be fooled by a pair of gorgeous eyes and well-tanned swimmer’s shoulders that slouched pitifully.
“How do I know you weren’t coming to my place to kill me?”
Pike took another step and I backed up against the window, instinctually. I felt the singe on my back but I needed to put as much distance between him and me as possible.
He cocked a grin that would have been heartwarming, had he not been a psychopath. “Why would I kill you?”
“Because I saw you this morning. Drunk or not, you were leaving the scene of a crime. If I tell the cops . . .”
Still grinning. “Having another cigarette?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re smoking again.”
I felt my brow furrow and put my hands on my hips, feeling indignant. “I’m smoking? I’m not smoking anything, Pike. I saw you well and fine.”
“No,” he said, striding toward me, pointing. “You’re actually smoking.”
I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see a plume of gray-black smoke rise up from my shoulder blade and the cotton strap of my tank top engulfed by a tiny flame.
“Son of a bitch!”
Pike had me in his arms in a split second and was wrapping me in one of Emerson’s discarded muslin swatches. He spun me as he wrapped and before I knew it, I was fairly well mummified.
“Thanks. I think it’s out.” I tried to wiggle my arms but they were clamped to my sides. “A little help?”
Pike pulled a chair out from Emerson’s drafting table and plopped himself down. He kicked up his feet and crossed his own arms in front of his chest. “No.”
“No?”
He wagged his head. “No. I’m not going to help you get out of that until you answer some questions for me.”
I tried to take a step, but my legs were clamped too. I considered a Hulk-like show of vampire prowess, but then I’d have some explaining to do.
“What kind of girl catches on fire and doesn’t know it?”
I bit down hard, feeling the edge of my fangs slicing into my gums.
Looks like I would have some explaining to do, after all.
“Why do you care?” I asked, chin hitched.
“Because I just walked in on a woman snooping around a dead woman’s place, and said woman—the first one—caught on fire.”
I tried to shrug nonchalantly. “So?”
“So there is no fire around. And I had to tell you that you were on fire. Who does that?”
“Spontaneous combustion happens, Pike. Look it up on Wikipedia.”
He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow.
“Can you help me sit down at least?”
I started to take a series of minuscule steps while Pike pulled a chair out for me. He put his large hands over my shoulder and that same spark shot through me, making every hair on my swaddled arms stand on end. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Get off me,” I said, maneuvering myself into the chair. I sat down hard, feeling Emerson’s cheap chair selection ringing up my tailbone. “This is rather uncomfortable.”
Pike sat across from me and narrowed his eyes into what I figured he supposed was an intimidating glare. I rubbed the tip of my tongue over one fang and felt my stomach growl when my eyes fell to the thick vein in his neck, pumping fresh blood.
“I’m here.” I tried to shrug. “What the hell do you want to ask me?”
Now Pike leaned back and kicked one ankle over his knee. I told myself that the constant salivation was a result of skipping my breakfast pouch and had nothing to do with the way his jeans rode up at the thighs or the way he pursed his red, full lips.
I bit mine.
“Apart from this whole thing,” he said, gesturing to the apartment. “How do you know Emerson?”
I rolled my eyes. Why were the pretty ones always so dumb?
“We’re both fashion designers. We meet up at events and she’s a two-faced design stealer.” Pike’s eyebrows rose and I hurriedly tacked on, “God rest her soul.”
“So you and she weren’t friends?”
“What gave you that impression, Colombo?”
Pike blew out a sigh. “So before you,” he cleared his throat, “caught fire, what were you doing here? Stealing?”
“Stealing my own designs? Hardly. I was looking for clues.”
“Clues?”
I was getting frustrated and the muslin was starting to chafe. “About who killed Emerson!”
“If you hated her, why would you care?”
“Because I’m a good f*cking person, okay?” I stopped trying to hide my annoyance, and that seemed to make Pike crack a self-appreciative grin. “I’m not so sure about that. Good f*cking people don’t burst into flames.”
“Look it up!” I snapped.
Pike popped out of his chair. “Can I take a picture of you?”
“So you can sell it to some bondage website? Hell no.”
“Okay, I’ll cut you free.” He produced a pocketknife and flicked it open. He didn’t look menacing nor did he brandish the weapon in any way other than to show me he had it, but my hackles went up.
This guy wanted something.
“What do you want?” I asked, suspicion shading my voice.
Pike leaned toward me and gingerly edged the tip of the knife into a piece of muslin, directly between my breasts. “Nothing, Nina. Just a nice, normal, honest-to-goodness photo of you.”
I glanced down at the tip of the blade resting an inch from my chest. He could plunge the thing in with all his might and nothing would happen. I’d keep (not) breathing, blinking, and looking very much alive.
But the blood-free wound would be a little bit more difficult to explain than my completely plausible spontaneous combustion explanation.
“What are you?” Pike asked, his voice slow, his eyes wickedly alive with something that looked only vaguely human.
“A San Franciscan,” I tried.
The blade came a hair closer, and I heard the distinctive sound of muslin starting to split. “What. Are. You.” Every word was its own sentence, each punctuated by Pike’s wild eyes.
I considered letting him stab me, then breaking out of my mummy costume and ripping his idiot throat out. But UDA law strictly forbade that kind of thing, even if your local breather was a nosy asshat.
Or so fiercely handsome that this completely unfortunate situation left a fire between my legs while I tried to lean into his blade. There was something sexy, something so undeniably hot about Pike’s hard-set eyes, about the danger of that slick blade resting between my breasts.
I locked Pike’s eyes, hoping my coal-black ones were as hard or as deep as his. I ran my tongue over my teeth and my mouth dropped open as Pike leaned into me. I could hear his heartbeat speed up. I could hear the blood as it pulsed through his veins. Could feel the hot moisture from his lips as he breathed.
“I—”
“Apartment sixty-one A, right here on the right.” It was the landlord, his voice a combination of asthma and Jersey—and he wasn’t alone. Another voice—low, gruff.
“Detective Moyer,” I whispered to Pike.
His face paled when the doorknob rattled and before I knew it, I was staring at Emerson’s ugly carpet while Pike carried me over his shoulder and shoved me—and then himself—into the bedroom closet.
“What the hell are you—” I started to hiss but he stopped me with a scathing look and a finger pressed to his lips as we heard the landlord, the detective, and, I figured, one or two of the pup cops, filing into Emerson’s living room.
“Shut up or they’re hauling us both off to jail,” Pike said with a low hiss.
There was something about his sudden slip into alpha male that was sexy and, growing slightly more comfortable in my muslin shackles, I leaned back into Emerson’s patchouli-scented clothes until my shoulder blades went flush with the back wall. Pike ducked and joined me in the black depths of the closet, our bodies hidden by the shapeless black clothing. I would have commented on the horror of it, but Pike had to press up against me to stay hidden. His back was to the door, his front pressed against mine, his outstretched arms essentially caging me in.
Something inside me started to flutter.
Something inside him started to harden.
“I guess we know what turns you on,” I said slyly.
Pike rolled his eyes, edged over, and fished his knife from his pocket. I hoped he couldn’t see my face fall in the darkness and went back to my pissed-off girl expression. “How are we supposed to—”
But Pike clapped a hand over my mouth and pressed himself against me yet again. I trained my eyes to focus on the ceiling, suddenly glad my arms were bound to my sides because they were aching to wrap around him even as I tried to ignore how perfectly our bodies seemed to fit together.
“Looks clear in here, boss,” one of the pup cops was saying. I could hear him turning fabric swatches in his hands, then I chanced a glance at Pike. His eyes were hard and round, drawing me in, his lips a half-inch from mine. I watched him purse them into a small pucker and for a fleeting second I weighed the idea of mauling this man right here in a dead girl’s apartment. It seemed like the wrong thing to do, but I found myself pulling toward him, a stripe of desire running like razor wire down my spine.
“Gibbs,” Moyer barked, “this way.”
When Pike pressed a single finger against his puckered lips, I thought my innards would explode—with embarrassment, rage, or unquenched desire, I couldn’t be sure—but held myself statue-still when I heard the closet door open, a yellow orb of light penetrating the closet’s darkness.
Through a drooping lapel and a circa 1982 butterflied collar I could see Detective Moyer’s bloodshot eyes, his meat-hook hand directing the flashlight over Emerson’s clothes. Pike held his breath but his heart kept thumping against my chest.
“I don’t know,” Detective Morris said to the clothes. “I’m not convinced it’s the same guy.”
“MO was the same. Woman, twenty-three to twenty-seven, killed in her workplace with a weapon of opportunity. I’d say that’s our guy.” I could see Gibbs behind the detective, shrugging, just before Moyer closed the door on us.
“That guy’s a serial, and this Hawk girl isn’t his type.”
“So what do you think?”
I heard Moyer suck on his teeth. “You know what? I like that LaShay girl for this one.”
Pike looked down at me, and my eyes widened.
“The one with the black hair who found her? She’s a tiny little thing. She may have done in the second one, but you think she could have gotten Fairfield, too? She couldn’t have gotten him up there,” Gibbs said.
“She could have a partner. I don’t know; maybe this competition was that important to her. Important enough to kill. It’s supposed to be on TV, you know. That could have stressed her to the point of popping off her competitors. Between you and me, she seems a few slices short of a grilled cheese.”
I bristled while Pike clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh. I glared at him, hoping to convey serial murderer seriousness, but he kept looking over my head.
Finally, I felt him let out a slow, shallow breath, as we heard the men move away from the closet.
“Yeah, a partner maybe,” the cop continued. “When are we interviewing the sister? She lives here, too, right?”
“She was hysterical. Guess the two were real close.”
I felt my brow furrow and Pike blinked at me. I shook my head and mouthed the word “no” as I had had the supreme displeasure of running into Emerson numerous times, but Nicolette only showed up this once.
“Medics took her to City General. Hilburn went with her, but I don’t think the girl has said anything yet.”
Pike started breathing again as Moyer and Gibbs left the bedroom, their footsteps getting lighter as they walked toward the door. I felt my shoulders slump and for the first time noticed sweat beading along my hairline. We started to loosen ourselves from each other but stopped when we heard Gibbs addressing the unknown cop in the living room.
“What do you think of the designer? The one who found her?”
“I don’t know,” the cop said slowly. “I’m not really into fashion.”
“As our murderer,” Moyer retorted, exasperation evident. “You saw the shears, right?”
“Heard about the engraving. And she certainly had motive.”
Pike looked down at me, his expression a combination of interest and suspicion. I did my best to meet his gaze with a menacing glare.
“She’s number one on the suspect list,” Moyer said.
“How do we feel about the photographer? I heard he and the vic used to date.”
Even in the darkness, I could see the blush washing over Pike’s face, could see the fear in his eyes.
“I can’t see why he’d do Fairfield in,” Moyer said.
“Maybe he offed the competition for his lady friend. She didn’t appreciate it so he whacked her, too.”
We heard Moyer cluck his tongue and then chuckle. “Interesting theory. Remind me to make you my deputy.”
Once the door clicked shut and the lock tumbled, Pike produced his pocket knife/rock-hard member again, silently slicing me out of the muslin. I left it in a heap in the depths of the closet, stepping over Emerson’s collection of thick-soled sensible shoes.
“So, you don’t know when you’re on fire and you’re a murder suspect.”
I put my hands on my hips, the heat that was roiling in my panties moving to an angry flame in my gut. “So are you.”
“Yeah, but I’m not guilty.”
“Neither am I.”
Pike took me in from head to toe, his eyes so sharp and hard it made my own body go on high alert. Finally he turned, leaving me behind as he went for the living room. “I’m not sure I believe you,” he said.
“Well, I’m not sure I believe you,” I fumed. “Besides, why would I kill Emerson? I would have beaten her in the competition anyway. And it’s not like she was even—hey.” I clenched my hands, kicked my feet apart, and glared at Pike, who had turned to face me, slight interest on his face. “I don’t have to defend myself to you.”
He shrugged. “The guilty always overcompensate.” He went back to work gathering his things.
“No,” I said, yanking on his shoulder until he faced me. “The guilty always act nonchalant. They always point the finger of accusation.”
We both looked down at my index finger, extended, my hot-pink fingernail pressed up against Pike’s chest, slice of red sticker across it. I quickly withdrew, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“Look, I don’t know about you, but going to jail for a crime I didn’t commit is really not on my bucket list. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to head out.”
“And do what? Hide out? Oh, no you’re not. I’ll tell them you were here.”
Pike glared at me and cocked his head. “You were here, too.” I blinked, realizing for the first time that I had just spent the last twenty minutes tied up and trapped in a closet by and with a possible murderer. A cold shiver washed over me and I squinted, trying to pick up the slightest twitch in Pike’s eyes—something that said he was hiding a secret, something that said he was guilty.
“What? You trying to read my mind?”
“That would be a short story.”
“Why would I kill Emerson?” Pike huffed.
“Because she was your ex-girlfriend.”
Pike opened the door. “She wasn’t my ex-girlfriend and I hardly ever saw her.”
“Maybe that cop was right and you killed Reginald, too. For Emerson. Or maybe you wanted her to be your girlfriend, but she scorned you—although I can’t see Emerson scorning anyone, that whole beggars-can’t-be-choosers thing, but whatever. That’s it, huh? You loved her. It was one of those ‘if-I-can’t-have-her-then-nobody-can’ things, huh?” I bit my lip. “No, that’s preposterous. Emerson was an awful person.” A tiny niggle of guilt touched the back of my mind and I sighed. “But she didn’t deserve to be shish-kabobed by a pair of designer shears.”
A sympathetic look flashed over Pike’s face. “You should go home, Nina. Lock your doors. Don’t go anywhere alone.”
I frowned. “What are you going to do?”
Pike sighed, his chest rising mightily. “I’m going to go track a killer.”
The air in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees once Pike slipped out. I stood in Emerson’s empty living room, listening to the silence for a full minute before I took off like a shot down the hall, nearly pummeling Pike in the apartment vestibule.
“You can’t hunt down a killer,” I said, my voice sounding breathless and desperate. “You can’t do it alone. You need backup.”
Pike paused, listening, and I moistened my suddenly dry lips. “You need me.”
A hint of exhausted smile pushed at the corner of Pike’s lips. “And you’re credible backup?”
I pressed my teeth together, feeling the familiar push of my razor-sharp fangs. “You’d be surprised,” I muttered.
If this were a movie, our vestibule exchange would be followed by a musical montage of Pike and me with heads bent as we studied files and photo books over greasy takeout boxes of congealing Chinese food. The music would speed up as the scenes sped up to show the change of seasons, the stubble growing on Pike’s chin as we grew more and more disillusioned. But this isn’t a movie.
“How do we start?” I said after what seemed like an hour had passed.
Pike rested a hand on my shoulder, his eyes intense as he looked directly at me. “I meant what I said, Nina. Go upstairs. Lock your doors. Don’t go anywhere alone.” He spoke slowly, like a father explaining dating rules to his daughter and though I should have been offended and indignant, all I could muster up was a cold fist of fear gripping the bottom of my stomach. As Pike turned to go, I knew with every fiber of my being that he was about to fall into something grittier, dirtier, and far more dangerous than even he expected.
“Do you want to know why I couldn’t feel the fire?” I said to the back of his head.
He stopped, his hand on the door, back still toward me. I swallowed heavily when I saw his hand close over the door handle, the muscles at the back of his arms flicking as he went to push it open.
“Do you want to know why you can’t take my picture?”
Pike stopped. His shoulders straightened and he turned to me, his face open, eyes soft. I saw a sliver of pink tongue dart out of his mouth, moistening his lips. “Why?”
I took a step down, unsure of how—or why—I had bartered my biggest secret to find the murderer of a woman I couldn’t stand and a man I barely knew.
“Upstairs.”
Vlad actually looked up from his laptop when Pike walked in. I felt my eyebrows rise and a sweet warmth spread in my stomach when Vlad’s dark brows shot downward, his thin lips pulled into a menacing scowl as his eyes flickered over Pike.
Aw, Vlad. He cared.
“I’m sorry,” Pike said, looking from Vlad to me. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
“He’s not company, he’s my nephew.” I crossed over to Vlad. “Vlad, this is my friend”—my breath caught on the word—“Pike. Pike, my nephew, Vlad.”
The two men regarded each other casually, critically, before offering each other one of those barely perceptible manly head nods.
Vlad went back to his screen and Pike followed me to the couch.
“All right,” Pike said, sitting down beside me. “What’s the big reveal?”
I saw Vlad stiffen in his spot at the dining table. His eyebrows shot up over the screen, his eyes, wide and accusing, following. “Can you come here for a second, Nina?”
I beelined over to Vlad and leaned my head in, certain of what he was going to say. “Please tell me your big reveal entails your tits or your ass or something else that won’t potentially ruin my life or make you have to eat Pike.”
“I know what I’m doing, Vlad,” I hissed. And, because I felt like I should, I added, “And watch your language.”
Even though I had no idea what I was doing.
Pike edged to the side of the couch. “So?”
A knock on the door stopped him and I celebrated my good luck. I snatched open the door and was greeted by Felipe’s strangled cries, his shoulders shimmying under the dead weight of his emotion.
“Nina, Nina, oh, it’s awful!” He plunged himself into my arms and I was forced to hug him, to think of friend over fashion as a snot bubble popped on my dupioni silk blouse.
“Felipe, what’s going on?”
“It’s my Reggie,” he huffed.
Pike and I shared a very déjà vu look. “What about Reginald?”
“He didn’t commit the suicide. He—he—he was murdered.” The admittance came out with another rash of hysterical tears and Pike rushed over.
“What do you mean he was murdered?”
I knew what I heard at the cocktail party, but Felipe’s crushed face was painful confirmation.
“I just came from the police station. They did the”—sniff—“the”—sniff—“autopsy. It came back positive. Or whatever you say. My Reggie was murdered!”
Pike snaked his arms in front of his chest. “First Reginald and now Emerson,” he said just under his breath. He shot me a sidelong glance and I knew exactly what he didn’t say: that I was next.
We spent the next twenty minutes listening as Felipe filled us in on what the police had told him—which wasn’t much. By the time he left the sun was dipping into the Hudson and I was pacing. Pike grabbed both my shoulders and I stopped my march.
“What’s up?”
“What’s up? There is a murderer on the loose. And you and I both know who’s next on his list. Me.” Being mainly immortal I wasn’t all that nervous. But still, getting stabbed or hung would be nothing short of an enormous pain in my ass, not to mention the havoc it would wreak on my wardrobe.
“I’m not sure that’s what you should be most concerned about,” Pike said.
I raised a brow.
“Suspect.” Pike mouthed the word.
I shook my head. “No, no, that’s just a theory. And a flimsy one at that. You have more motive.”
“Like I said, Emerson and I barely spoke. The whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing was completely in her head. Emerson and Reginald were both your competitors. With both of them gone, you’ve technically won the competition. That’s your motive.”
I yanked my shoulders away from Pike and gaped. “Are you seriously accusing me of killing off my competition? I’ll have you know that I would have whipped their asses fair and square. God rest their souls.”
“I’m not accusing you. I’m telling you.”
“They don’t think it’s me. They think it’s you.” Pike rolled his eyes and I dropped my voice. “Or me.”
“How much do you know about Emerson? You said you used to run into her all the time. I know you two weren’t friends but—”
“But what? I knew nothing about her other than what I told you. I didn’t even know she had a sister for God’s sake until she showed up in my face.” I paused. “That’s it. The sister. We need to talk to her.” I bit my bottom lip. “But she probably wouldn’t talk to us.”
“Because she was apparently so hysterical?”
“Because she might think that one of us killed Emerson.”
Pike pinned me with a stare and I sighed, dropping my head in my hands. “I will be the hysterical one if I have to go to prison. They make everyone shower together. And you have to wear those stupid plastic shoes!” I frowned, my eyes skittering over the apartment and seeing bars, one of those ugly metal toilets, and a thin cot with four-thread-count sheets.
And then I saw Vlad.
Slowly, his eyes came up from behind the screen. “What?”
I felt a smile playing at the edge of my lips. “She’ll talk to you.”
“What?” Pike asked.
I stopped, excitement building in my chest. “She’ll talk to Vlad. He’s young, he’s charming,” I said and glanced at Pike. “He’s not you. She’ll open up to him.”
Pike looked over at Vlad and then back at me. “No offense to your nephew, but do you really think a girl who just lost her sister to murder is going to suddenly go all boy crazy for him?” He jerked a thumb toward Vlad, and threw in a, “No offense, bro,” for good measure.
“Well, Vlad’s got—” I paused, biting my tongue before I said the word glamours. A glamour is almost like a vampire pheromone; it attracts humans to us like bees to honey and once they find us . . . well, humans tend to become utterly entranced and allow us to eat them. Usually.
If you don’t adhere to UDA guidelines.
Glamours are strictly forbidden according to the UDA-V charter but I am almost completely sure that a glamour for solving a homicide was a way lesser charge than a glamour for committing a homicide. And either way, I’d rather be beheaded by the UDA than spend eternity in a prison cell and an orange jumpsuit.
“I mean Vlad’s got charm.” I turned toward him and threw on my best version of adorably irresistible Disney eyes. “Please, Vlad. For me?”
Vlad looked up, eyed me warily. “No.”
I crossed the room in two short strides and batted my lashes again. “Pweeze?”
He shook his head.
I tossed a quick glance over my shoulder, then laid my palm flat on the table, a quarter-inch from Vlad’s hand.
“Look,” I said, my voice low and dripping with heat. “I made you, Louis.” Vlad didn’t regard me visually, but I could see a stiffness run through his spine as I regarded him by his real, pre-vamp, pre-Count-Chocula-obsession name. “And I will be the first one to take you out.”
“Can’t. UDA bylaw.” There was an edge of teenage smugness in his words that made me want to kill him just a little bit more.
“Fine,” I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “I won’t kill you.” I snatched my cell phone from where it rested on the counter. “But Kale will.”
Vlad stood up so quickly his chair thunked to the ground behind him. “Fine!” he said, terror cutting through his eyes. “Just please,” he continued, holding up both hands as if the phone were about to spit bullets. “Whatever you do, don’t call Kale. Please.”
Now I was smug.
Pike looped an arm over the back of the couch as he turned to stare at us. “Who’s this—”
“Never mind,” Vlad and I said in unison.
I pushed Vlad toward the door. “Come on. Just go over there. Ask her for coffee.”
“I don’t feel good about this,” Vlad said, pulling on his collar.
“You’re doing a good thing,” I said, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “You saw the way Nicolette lit up when you introduced yourself.”
Vlad glared down at me and Pike piped in, “Besides, it’s just coffee.” His grin was wide and genuine and I melted just a tiny bit, barely even registering the fact that he could very well be a homicidal maniac.
I had Vlad in a vice grip and the doorknob in my hand when Pike grabbed my shoulder, his hand warm and heavy. “Wait,” he said, “do we have some kind of plan?”
I whirled. “Of course we do. Vlad goes out with Nicolette, asks some questions, gains some intel about whether or not Emerson has some horrid, murderous people in her immediate past—”
Vlad opened his mouth and I shot him a very loving but very deathly gaze.
“And then he relays it back to us. We find said murderous people and voila! Off the hook.”
“Sounds awfully simple,” Pike said skeptically.
“Don’t worry, it won’t be,” Vlad answered.
Pike and I sat in an uncomfortable silence while Vlad left the apartment. When an acceptable amount of time had passed—about thirty seconds—I sprinted toward the front door and pushed my nose through the crack that Vlad had left open. He was in the hallway and had just knocked on Nicolette’s door.
“What’s happening?” Pike came up behind me, his chest pressing up against my back, his hands resting on my hips. I wanted to grind into him, to toss him to the couch, to experience something other than this constant edginess and suspicion.
But Nicolette opened the door.
She was red-eyed and pink-nosed, her hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. She immediately straightened up when she saw who her caller was.
I felt Pike lean closer to me, his lips a hairsbreadth from my ear as he leaned down, his breath warm against the marble cold of my neck. “Damn. She asked him in.”
“That’s a good sign, though.” I tiptoed—sheerly for effect—weightless, remember?—across the hall and pressed my ear lightly to Nicolette and Emerson’s apartment door.
“He’s asking her to coffee,” I whispered over my shoulder. “She said ‘okay, how about in five minutes.’ Oh, crap.” I ran back across the hall, smacking chest-to-warm-carved chest into Pike and may or may not have held the stance for a longer-than-appropriate moment. I felt Pike’s arms go around me, his palm on the small of my back. Then Vlad pressed through the door and we sprang apart like a negative charge. Pike’s cheeks were flushed and there was a light sheen of sweat above his upper lip.
“What were you two doing?” Vlad asked without hiding the suspicious disgust from his face.
“Waiting for you. What happened?”
Vlad patted his well-shellacked hair. “We’re going for coffee. Just like he asked.” He pretend-breathed on me. “How’s my breath?”
“You’re disgusting,” I said. “Have fun. And don’t forget, you tell us everything. And really dig, you know? Pry.”
Vlad rolled his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He made sure to slam the door when he left.
I waited for a beat, worrying my bottom lip. Finally, I grabbed my keys, straightened my ponytail, and gave Pike the universal sign for “come on, get off my couch.”
“Where are you going?” he wanted to know.
“On a date with my nephew.”