Bite my fire, p.21
Bite My Fire, page 21
Tight-ass started chafing his arm. “Come on, O’Rourke. The wounds were pretty distinctive. Some sort of knife.”
He was calling the stabs to Schrimpf’s ’nads “distinctive” wounds. Was Tight-ass hinting he knew how “distinctive”? Maybe he wouldn’t think I was a complete nutcase if I told him what I was really thinking.
Well, not exactly what I was thinking, because that was too unbelievable. But maybe I could get close. “Yes, sir. I think they may be, um, bite wounds.”
He stopped chafing. “Bite wounds? From what?”
The incredulity in his voice should have warned me. I was being cautious but not cautious enough. Maybe I was high—too little sleep and too much great sex. “From the prostitute Drusilla, sir. I think she bit Schrimpf during sex and he bled—”
“Are you insane?” Tight-ass’s face mottled. His voice went castrato-high. “What are you implying, O’Rourke? That this hooker is some sort of monster? A bloodsucking v-v-v—”
“A vampire? No! Well, not exactly.” I shrugged, hunching a bit.
“This is unbelievable!” He was beyond jet-engine and heading for a range only dogs could hear.
I winced. “Captain Titus, please. I’m not saying it was a vampire.”
He must only have heard “vampire”. His voice revved like a turbo. “Do you think this is the National Exploiter? ‘Police Reveal Killer is Vampire Vamp.’ Fuck, O’Rourke! What do you think this would do to our department’s reputation? To my reputation?”
“Sir, once again. I’m not saying Drusilla is a vampire—”
“You’re off the case! And if I have anything to say about it, off the force!”
Tight-ass whirled and stalked out.
Shocked, I could only stare after him. Off the case. And off the force?
I made my way slowly to the desk, slumped behind it. My father stared out of my family photo in condemnation, and Chief Dirkson’s painted eyes were very disappointed. “That could have gone better.” My eyes stung. I fisted them, was chagrined to feel hot trickles thread down my cheeks.
All my life, I wanted to be a cop. A detective, yes. But even more basic, to right wrongs, to protect the innocent, to serve the public. To fight for justice.
A fighter for justice. Alice was right, much as I hated to admit it. It was who I was. I knew that now. Because if that were taken away…I’d be nobody.
The wall clock said five fifty-five when the scrape of feet brought me out of it. “Ma’am?” A muddy rasp. “Detective Ma’am?”
As if my night couldn’t get any better. I wiped my eyes. “What is it, Ruffles?”
“I saw Captain Titus. He was pretty angry.”
“Yes, Ruffles.” My voice sounded as listless as I felt.
“He says you’re off the Schrimpf case.”
Hearing it from Ruffles made it real. “Yes.”
“Isn’t this kinda sudden?” He sidled up to the desk, his muddy eyes tinged with compassion.
Compassion, coming from the Dirkenator. Somehow that made it even more awful. “Yes, Ruffles.” I couldn’t seem to say anything else. Now how would I get to be a full detective?
“But why?”
I didn’t want to talk about it. “You find out anything about Josephine Schrimpf? Where she was the night of the murder?”
“Well, yes. But I don’t know…if you’re off the case…maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” I clasped my head with both hands. “Well, make sure you do tell whoever takes over.” My big chance. Gone.
There was no response from Dirkenstein. The silence was so unusual that I found the energy to look up. His face was a study in sheepish pride.
“Oh, no. Who’d Titus assign? Who took over the Schrimpf case?”
Dirk thumped his skinny chest. “That would be me.”
…
So what did I do now? With all that had happened, maybe I should stop and think. Reflect. Try to make sense of my life.
Or maybe I should stuff myself with chocolate.
As if that was really a decision.
I went to the Caffeine Café, where I ordered a double mocha latte with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Carting the mug to my favorite back corner table, I sat and dipped my spoon into the whipped cream. Licking the soft sugary goodness was an awful lot like licking Bo’s smooth goodness.
I tossed the spoon. Not thinking about Bo. Or the Case of the Poked Penis. Not Bo, not v-creatures, and especially not the Case of the Bit Balls. I drank chocolate coffee. Let it soothe me. I was not thinking about Bo, or Ruffles, or Tight-ass, or Gnawed Gonads.
It wasn’t working. Pricked Privates. Even drowning my confusion and sorrow in chocolate wasn’t working. Punctured Prick.
Yeesh. I needed to talk to someone. Preferably someone a) human and b) who wouldn’t shriek when I said the v-word. Someone who could walk with me through all the weird.
At that point I was not entirely surprised to see my sister Gretchen come in. When you’d been through that much alien landscape, even impossible coincidence began to look normal.
“Hey,” I said as Gretch sat.
“Hey, yourself.” My sister waved at the Princess. Ha. Gretch might as well have been waving to a wall. The owner—a regal blonde who looked like an older version of Princess Diana, had she lived—sat behind the bar like her stool was a throne. The Princess never waited on tables.
Her Highness called, “Your usual, Gretchen?”
Well, shit. Alien coincidence was one thing. Then there was plain impossible.
“Sounds good, Diana.” To me, Gretch said, “Diana owes Bo. She repays him by feeding his people.”
“Diana?”
“Diana Simone Prince. The coffee shop owner.”
Huh. She really was Prince-S Di. “And she gives you great service because Bo gives her great sex?” My throat seized. I couldn’t believe I’d said that.
But my own words accused me, made it pathetically obvious that I was jealous. Jealous of my man…who wasn’t mine, and wasn’t even a man. Oh, goody. Even deliberately not reflecting on life (and Bo), I was finding out all sorts of things about myself (and Bo). And I didn’t like it.
Gretchen said, “Not sex. Diana owes Bo her life. As do I.”
I grabbed two packs of sugar. Tore them into my latte. This was going to be a long morning. “And Steve. Steve owes Bo his life.”
Gretchen sighed. “Not exactly. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”
Not unexpected, but it was still a bit freaky. “How did you know where to find me?”
Before Gretch could reply, the Princess brought her drink, a frappe. “Anything else?”
Gretch nodded. “Another mocha for Elena. And could I have one of those raspberry scones, please? With extra frosting?”
“Coming right up. On the house.” The Princess swayed away.
Wow. I never got service like that, not even with my gun. I covered my amazement with a big swig of mocha latte. “How did you know I was here?”
“Bo told me. I would have arranged to meet you somewhere more private, but your cell phone…er, Bo told me about that too.” Gretchen colored. “Not everything.”
But enough that she would blush. I was going to have a talk with Mr. Mouth. Which made me think about Bo’s mouth, how he used it on me…which made me hot, which made me blush too.
Except that was all a ruse, right? If Bo was what I thought, he was sex personified. And I wasn’t his girlfriend, I was dinner. Anger flared, fueled by pain. “Enough stalling. How did Bo know where I was? I didn’t tell him. I didn’t even know I was going to the Caffeine Café until I got here. Did he know because of what he is?”
Gretchen jerked. Bull’s-eye. “He said it was time to tell you. I didn’t believe him. Elena, please understand. I didn’t keep this from you because I wanted to.”
This being the dark underbelly yawing below Meiers Corners. Imaginary creatures made real. And naturally, because it was me, it couldn’t be leprechauns or the Easter Bunny. My imaginary creatures had to be bloodsucking monsters.
A clunk caught my attention. The Princess slid a thick plate in front of Gretchen, a raspberry scone dwarfing it. Icing flowed like a glacier over the scone and onto the plate. Another whipped-cream-topped mug appeared at my elbow.
Food and drink. Homey warmth. It made the creepy recede a bit.
As the Princess moved off, Gretchen cut into her scone. The fork’s tines sank through gooey frosting and soft dough. Steam rose, smelling of butter and sugar.
“C’mon, Gretch. How’d Bo know where I was?”
She slid scone into her mouth, but it didn’t seem like she tasted it. Reluctantly, she put her fork down. “Master Bo knows where all his donors are.”
“What?”
“It’s some sort of internal sense he has. They all have it. Even Steve.” Gretchen raised blue eyes to mine. Pleading. Pleading for understanding…for sympathy.
But she’d confirmed my fears. “They.” I spat the word. Monsters. Soulless creatures of the night.
Vampires.
“Tell me about them,” I said. “What are donors? What happened to Steve? Why do you call Bo ‘master’? And are they hurting you?”
“No!” Then more softly, “No, of course not. Steve is my husband, Elena. And Bo saved my life.”
“But he’s your master.”
She picked up her fork. Toyed with the scone. Pulled off little moist flakes. “Bo is master of our household. He runs things. Makes sure there are enough of um, them, to protect all of um, us.”
Um-us, I translated, were humans. Um-them were vampires. Evil, dead, soulless killers. Except Gretchen was alive. And so was I, despite Bo holding me helpless in his evil clutches (sexy, strong evil clutches…yeesh) several times. It didn’t square. “How many of them are there?”
“Three. In our household.” She muttered the last.
Three—but “some restrictions apply”. A qualified answer, suspicious enough in a witness. Coming from my sister it screamed evasion. “And outside of your ‘household’? How many in Meiers Corners?”
Her fork stopped. “A couple. I’m not sure.”
“A couple, I see.” I killed my first mocha…er, drank it off, and set it down with an irritated thud. I decided to change my attack.
Attack? I was treating her like a hostile witness. I would have been ashamed, except my own sister was protecting fanged evil soulless monsters from me. True, one was her husband. But one had me in his sexy, strong…evil clutches. I had to get to the bottom of this. “Fine. What and where is this ‘household’?”
She heard my tone and started tearing scone again. “The apartment building is the household. We all live together. It’s easier to protect us that way. We try to make it as easy as possible for Master Bo.”
“Him being overworked, and all.”
“Well, he is.” She flashed me a resentful glare.
“If he’s so overworked, why not just get some help? Or is he just into the drama?”
To my surprise, she blushed. “He has Thorvald. And Steve.”
“Who, by your own admission, aren’t enough.”
“Well, yes, but…I don’t know. Maybe it’s hard to find that kind of help. Or maybe Bo doesn’t trust anybody else to protect us well enough.”
The whole mistrusted-partner thing again. “Right. Protect you against what, for pity’s sake? The worst crime we have in Meiers Corners is kids stealing smokes.” Well, usually. And I was frustrated enough to ignore the evil undead underbelly.
Her head shot up. “We just had a murder, remember?”
“Oh, I see. It’s Bo who protects you from murderers. Not the cops. But Bo Strongwell, ninja apartment manager.”
She dropped her fork with a clatter. “Bo protects us from being slaughtered in the most horrible way imaginable. And he protects every single soul in this city. He works like a dog, risking his life every night for people who never know it. You should be grateful, not insulting him!”
“Okay, okay. Calm down. You have to admit this is all pretty hard to swallow.” I waited for her color to subside. “So Bo doesn’t manage an apartment. He ‘runs a household’. And he runs things because…?”
“He’s oldest. And strongest.”
“Oldest? At thirty?”
Gretch pushed her plate away. “He’s not thirty.”
“Right. He’s fifty but he’s been drinking formaldehyde.”
“Elena, he helped Reenie with a history assignment. On the American Revolution.” At my questioning look she added, “One of the kids in the building.”
Bo helped a kid with homework? Father material, I thought, then slapped myself. Was I Rita on Dexter? Soulless monsters were not father material. “Big deal. He helped a kid. That shows maturity, not age.”
“Bo knew things no book has. And…he had a letter signed by General Washington. Addressed to a Sergeant Bo Strongwell.”
Which might be an ancestor with the same name. Or might make Bo hundreds of years…no. That was impossible.
But so were vampires. “All right. Say I believe all that. Why are you living in the Cullen Apartments instead of the home you love?”
“Cullen…? Oh, Twilight. You and your taste in reading.” She almost smiled. “I’m living there because of Steve. Because of…the attack.” The smile disappeared. “Elena…there’s something I’ve never told anyone. Never been able to tell anyone.” Her eyes got suspiciously glossy and she blinked rapidly.
Oh, snap. She was going to cry. Yeah, Gretch had been wandering in the land of weird long before me, alone. And she was even more scared than I was.
Time to put aside the cop. Gretchen needed her big sister. I covered her hand with mine. “You can tell me.” She didn’t answer, still fighting tears. “Pretty please with puke on top?”
That earned me a watery smile. “Thanks.” She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “The mugging. It wasn’t just a mugging.”
Chapter Nineteen
Gretch took another deep breath. “There were two of them. One attacked me, one attacked Steve. The one attacking me also wanted to…he tried to…”
Her face was so twisted in horror, I knew what she couldn’t say. Rape. “I’ll kill the fucker.”
“Oh, Elena, I love you.” Gretchen gave a little laugh. “My protector.”
“Your big sis.”
“Same thing. You don’t have to kill him. Master Bo already did.” Her smile faded. “Stella was screaming. I was on the ground. The monster was on top of me, pawing at my skirt. His strength… It was inhuman, Elena. I couldn’t do anything. My little girl was scared and I couldn’t do a thing.”
“Shh.” I scooted my chair next to hers and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s over. It’s over and you’re safe. Drink some of your frappe, you’ll feel better.”
I held the cup for her. Gretch took a sip. Her shoulders loosened under my arm. She drew a breath. Closed her eyes. “Suddenly the man’s weight was gone. I got to my hands and knees…and there were…bodies. Three bodies. One was Steve’s. He had a huge wound in his throat. I looked around for Stella. She was gone. I got hysterical.” Gretchen trembled violently.
“It’s okay.” I held her with both arms, hugged her tight. Good God, what had I unleashed? She was hurting worse than I could believe, had faced horrors I never would have wished for her. “We can stop.”
“But I…I want to tell you. I need to.” Gretchen turned in my arms to look me in the eye. “I crawled over to Steve. He was so still. His throat was torn open. He was…even I could tell…oh, God. I burrowed into his arms as if he could still hold me. Still protect me.” She was trembling again so I picked up my hot mocha latte and made her drink some.
“The other two bodies were our attackers. They weren’t breathing. But suddenly—oh, Elena. Their eyes snapped open. And they were red. Bo had only knocked them out so he could get Stella somewhere safe. He didn’t want her to see when he…when he…”
“When he killed them?”
My sister looked surprised. The question seemed to bring her back from someplace dark and scary. “Oh, no, Elena. You don’t kill them. You have to destroy them.”
“Destroy.” I thought back to the strange attacks, John Smith and Boris. “Cut off their heads?”
“And remove the heart.” Gretchen’s tone was so matter-of-fact I nearly smiled. But she was serious.
“And burn them?” I was thinking about the black charred streaks.
“That’s best. Although if you leave them out, the sun does the trick.”
The sun. Buffy and Dracula. And my comfort read, Sunshine. “Then the stories are true? Blood drinking, silver allergy, flying bats? All of it?” Evil, bloodsucking creatures. It appalled me. I had sex with a soulless monster. Oh hell—what did that make me?
I wished the legends were wrong. That the books were wrong. That some vampires were not beyond redemption.
And that I was therefore not beyond redemption.
“Most of the legends are true.” When Gretchen saw my face she added quickly, “The physical ones, Elena. Like the sun and the dirt. Not the religious ones.”
Wondering what that meant, I remembered the time I’d had coffee with Bo. “What about mind reading?”
“Not that, either. Or, not exactly. They read scent and expression so well, it seems like mind reading sometimes.”
Okay. Not mind reading, or religious legends. Just sun, and…what about the dirt? Something to do with the dirt-floor den…dirt floor…sleeping in a shallow grave?
No! Bo said he relaxed there, not slept. He had a bedroom. He slept there. I hoped. Because if his bed was a shallow grave how could I cuddle up after really great sex…dammit! What was I thinking of? I had no future with a monster, especially not one who drank people smoothies. “Bo got back in time to save you. And then what?”
