“It’s not safe,” Sampson said, carefully enunciating every word. “You’re not going alone. Period. End of story.”
“So you’re going to stay here and rot until Will comes back, then you’re going to run away like a pup with his tail between his legs.” I stopped, realizing what I’d said. I chanced a glance at Sampson and I could see the fire in his eyes, see the slight curl of his lip.
“Sorry, Sampson, but I’m going.”
“You’re not going alone.”
I put my hands on my hips, ready to make a deal. “I have an idea.”
Chapter Eight
“So, Dixon told you about this guy, huh?” Alex asked.
“Yeah,” I lied, nodding, keeping my eyes focused on the freeway as it whizzed by. “Dixon said this guy might have some information that could be useful—um, for the case. He might know what Feng was looking for, or if there is a new demon we should be looking at.” I had fabricated the story and repeated it numerous times to my reflection in the bathroom mirror, but I could still read suspicion in Alex’s questions. I tried to play it as coolly as possible, but bat wings flapped in my stomach and my guilty conscience was working overtime.
I could feel Alex’s icy blue eyes studying my profile, but I refused to look at him. “And you trust Dixon? I mean, we’ve been driving for almost an hour now. Are you sure he’s not leading us into some crazy vampire den?”
I gulped. “What do you mean, do I trust Dixon? Of course I do. We got over our whole issue. Why? Don’t you trust Dixon?”
Alex shrugged, his eyebrows rising with his shoulders, “Hey, I’m just the arm candy,” he said, switching lanes. “Is this where we exit?”
I squinted down at the map Sampson had drawn out for me. “Yeah, this is it.”
“Who is this guy again?”
“Dixon,” I said his name carefully, “said this guy is kind of—like, he kind of works on both sides. Underworld and non-Underworld, I guess. He’s—he’s kind of like me. Half-breed.”
Alex savored my last statement before replying. “Did Dixon tell you that, too?”
I wracked my brain for any additional crumb of information that Sampson may have offered that I could attribute to my fake conversation with Dixon. All I could answer was a piddly, “Yes.”
“So this guy might have information on who—or whatever—tore these people apart?”
I took a tiny sip of the latte I was holding. “Yep.”
“And you don’t know anything else about him?”
“Nope. Just that he’s, like, a super librarian. He knows something about everything.”
“Isn’t that called the Internet?”
I rolled my eyes and pointed. “There! Between the trees. That’s the road.”
Alex squinted. “It’s unpaved.”
“He warned me it was rural.”
“How does this guy know anything living this far out from society?” Alex asked as branches flopped against the hood and windows of the SUV.
The dirt road wound another hundred feet through weeping trees and waist-high weeds, then opened onto a clearing. Or what would have been a clearing if it hadn’t been packed with discarded car parts, pieces of old furniture, and the remains of a VW Bus.
“Are you sure this is it?”
I looked at Alex. “Do you see any other houses around here?”
“I’m not sure. There’s so much crap out here. Maybe the other houses exploded.”
I flashed an uncertain smile. “Vampire night clubs, bald-headed biker pixies, and now”—I waved toward the remarkable graveyard of crap—“this.”
“Can’t say it’s never an adventure with you, Lawson.”
I undid my seat belt. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
The car lurched to a stop between the remains of a bus and a selection of rusting movie theatre chairs. “Do you think the car will be okay here?”
“Not sure. That bus will either eat or mate with the SUV.”
“Again, never a dull moment.”
I pushed open the car door and looked at the house skeptically. There were piles of general crap all around it with weeds shooting out in the few bare spots in between. The roof was puckered in places and set at a weird angle, and stacks of shingles not yet tacked down were used to weight a cheery red checked tablecloth over what I surmised were holes. I was fairly certain the mounds of crap were holding the whole place up and as far as finding the secret to clearing Sampson here—well, let’s just say I didn’t have much hope.
We made our way through the maze of dead car parts and thistle weeds to a porch equally loaded with all manner of junk—most of it shoved into ancient Target bags and molding cardboard boxes—and knocked on the front door.
“Who’s there?” came a gruff voice from the depths of the house.
“Um, my name is Sophie Lawson. Are you Mort Laney?”
“Who’s asking?”
I looked at Alex, who hid his obnoxious half smile behind his palm. “Still Sophie Lawson.”
“Who sent you?”
I paused, feeling heat in my cheeks while Alex studied me. “Underworld Detection Agency.”