I stopped, my eyes catching a trail of scattered soil leading to matted grass. There were footprints pressed into the dirt, and I felt my throat tighten as I bent down to examine the two distinct sets of prints there. “Footprints.”
Will crouched down with me and shrugged. “Doesn’t look like anything more than a scuffle, though.”
I wish I didn’t see anything else.
“There’s blood,” I said, feeling a lump form in my throat. “Lots of blood.”
Will cocked his head; his eyebrows mashed together. “I don’t—”
“It’s not human. It’s demon.”
Will seemed unfazed, until I straightened up, crossed my arms in front of my chest and held my elbows tightly, trying to ward off the shudder which I knew was coming.
“It’s Bettina’s. There are some drops here,” I said, not willing to point.
I knew the official word was blood “spatter,” and that was easy to say when the blood was anonymous, left at the crime scene from a victim I felt sorry for but never knew. This was the blood of someone I knew, talked to, cared for. The realization made me queasy.
“Can we just get out of here?”
Will touched me gently at the small of my back. “We still have no idea what happened, love. If it’s just a bit of spatter—”
I sucked a gulp of air and blinked away tears. “See where the grass is all matted there?”
Will nodded.
“There’s more blood.”
Will looked toward where I was pointing and then shook his head. “Well, if the blood is covered by some magical shield, then that must mean our guy is a demon or something, right?” His voice was almost hopeful.
I took his hand and we both sank down to a squat. “Look.” I pointed again, and the world went deathly still. The light from the naked bulb stopped flickering; the banana trees stopped their gentle flap in the breeze; the city seemed to hold its breath.
“Can you see that?”
Will cocked his head the way I showed him; and as his eyes started to register, to see what I was seeing, his mouth went slack.
“Is that—is that it?”
Demon’s blood isn’t wildly colored or Hollywood glittery. It’s as angrily red as our blood, and thick and viscous, but there is an almost blue-black sheen to it, which seems not to register to human eyes.
Unless, of course, you’re looking for it.
Will paled and I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.
Bettina’s blood was spattered in the plant soil, then smeared where there had been a definite struggle along the walk. It looked as though she had struggled for about four feet before the grass was matted when she was pressed into it. Her blood seeped through the broken blades of grass, pooling at the edge of the walk.
“Tell me demons have an inordinate amount of blood and we’re looking at a skinned knee here.”
I shook my head, unable to form the words. Will twisted toward me, his hazel eyes miles deep. “You know with this much blood loss, there isn’t a lot of hope that this bird—”
“Bettina. Her name is Bettina.”
“That Bettina could have survived.”
My fingertips went cold. My lips went numb. I should have been crying, but my eyes were tired. I felt like I had already done that. I looked somberly at the crushed grass, the pooled blood.
“We have to find out who did this. We have to find him and kill him.”
Will stepped back, his eyes wide. I could tell he was considering whether to placate me (“We will, love”) or to correct me (“An eye for an eye is not justice, love”). But all he did was take my ice-cold hands in his, straighten us both to our feet, and gather me to his chest. I swallowed against the knot in my throat.
“Is that all?” Will asked, raking his fingers through my hair.
I wanted to melt into his palm.
Chapter Nineteen
I heard her before I saw her. The unmistakable pounding of Jimmy Choo stilettos backed by 102 pounds of pissed-off vampire was thundering up the three flights of stairs toward the apartment. The front door flew open; and although I knew it was coming, I jumped, my skin immediately feeling too tight for my body.
“Nina?” I asked.
If the flames of Hell were to live in a woman, Nina would be that woman. Her coal black eyes had a glossy, smoky sheen to them; her lips were pursed tightly, the corners pulling down, and her hands were clutching what remained of a photocopy of a typed business letter.
“Can you believe this?” She shook the letter over her head. “I’m incensed. I’m going to file a UDA-V injunction, then suck the crap out of Lilia Hagen Literary Management.”
“Something wrong, hon?” I asked, trying on sweetness and light.
Nina’s nostrils flared. “Is something wrong? Yes, Sophie, something is very wrong. Listen to this.” Nina whipped the letter back in front of her; electricity shot through the room. “‘Dear Author.’” She slapped the paper against her thigh. “Can you believe that? ‘Dear Author’? Don’t they know who I am?”