“I’m sorry, but isn’t that kind of what the Underworld Detection Agency does? I mean, don’t you detect things that come out of the Underworld?”
A roiling heat went through my body, though I wasn’t sure who I was mad at. “I told you, Alex,” I started, enunciating every word carefully. “I don’t know. Dixon thought that Octavia was killed by a werewolf.”
“Which you very quickly ruled out.”
I slammed the car into park. “I just didn’t want anyone to jump to any conclusions.”
“And now people are dead.”
“Oh, no.” I turned around in my seat so that Alex would get the full effect of my pissed-off glare. “Don’t you try and pin this on me. You and the whole freaking San Francisco Police Department have done jack crap on this case. You’d still be looking up your own asses if it weren’t for me and my information. And you still don’t have any actual evidence that your murders and mine are connected.” I was seething mad now, feeling thirty steps—or paw prints—behind this entire investigation. I wanted nothing more than to dump Alex out of my car and go confront Sampson.
“I really can’t believe you, Lawson. You’re so damn fixated on protecting the memory of your precious werewolf buddy that you refuse to look at the facts. You’d rather give up the Underworld than admit that someone you care about might not be what you think he is.”
I was floored. “Are you talking about Sampson?”
Alex’s eyes flashed hard. “You tell me,” he said, before kicking the car door open and slamming it hard behind him.
I drove home in silence, letting the rumble of the engine thrum through my entire body and blinking back tears that I refused to let fall. I was angry at everyone—at Alex, for his outburst; at Sampson for not knowing—or not telling me that there was another wolf in town; and at myself for being so stupidly trusting. I refused to believe that I was responsible in any way for the murders, but I couldn’t keep the guilt from welling up inside me. By the time I pulled into the apartment building parking lot, my throat was aching from the solid lump and my dry eyes were burning. I wanted nothing more than a jug of wine and a sleeve of chocolate marshmallow pinwheels, and for the world to stay sane for just one night.
I’d deal with the fate of San Francisco first thing in the morning.
I pushed my key into the lock and edged through the door, pausing and frowning before turning on the light. The apartment was a sour-smelling, stuffy, dim box thanks to the closed-tightly blackout curtains. Once my eyes—and nose—adjusted I looked around.
“Nina?”
She was stretched out on the couch, still in that adorable, silky jumper, but now the flouncy fabric at the bust line was limp. One of the straps had flopped down toward her elbow and her hair matched the jumper: limp, floppy. Neither had been washed. Vlad was stretched out on the floor in front of her, corpse style. His eyes were dull, and his bare, pallid chest shone eerily in the dim glow from the muted television. He was wearing nothing but boxers and his usually slicked back hair was disheveled. I blinked, unable to tear my eyes from Vlad’s concave, white marble chest. He looked like a starved, felled statue of David.
“You guys look like you’re dying,” I said with a frown. And then, concerned, “You’re not dying, are you?”
Nina rolled her eyes. “We might as well be. This is torture!”
“Fucking torture,” Vlad echoed.
I chewed the inside of my lip. “Is there anything I can do?” I stepped forward, gingerly touching Nina’s calf—still ice cold. “Do you need to be like, refrigerated?”
The sharp annoyance that flashed across Nina’s face let me know that she was nowhere near dead, and the current situation wasn’t as dire as she and Vlad portrayed it. “We don’t need to be refrigerated. We’re vampires, not sides of beef.”
I held up my hands placatingly. “Hey, just trying to help. I’m a born and bred San Franciscan. This heat thing is a little weird to me, too.”
“We should go back to Seattle,” Vlad moaned from his spot on the ground.
Nina’s eyes rolled back once more. “Never again. Too close to all those sparklers.”
I put down my purse and snuggled with ChaCha. The heat was apparently too much for her, too, as her usual spastic patter was more of a lazy lope tonight.
“Hey,” I said, eyes flicking to the TV screen. “News.”
Vlad shot the remote control at the TV, and the coifed newscaster roared into action. “We’re at day three of the most severe heat wave the San Francisco Bay Area has ever seen. While most of you are out there enjoying the heat, some of you are left wondering, when is it going to end?” She flashed a set of dazzling, blue-white veneers, then shuffled her papers and flirted with the camera once more. “Usually, San Franciscans can depend on the offshore flow to beat the heat, but not tonight. We don’t have a cold front in sight! And rain? What’s rain?” The anchorwoman guffawed while Nina and Vlad groaned.