He continued. “Someone’s gotten out, and they’re moving around. A woman. Light hair, but not blonde. I can see her haircut, she’s got it cut like that bitch on Channel Twelve—”
“Susan Zamora? The anchorwoman?” Zamora had a sleek, leonine bob dyed a fashionable chocolate-cherry color. She was a barracuda in human form.
There’s no love lost between me and the press. I like to keep things quiet, because let’s face it, normal people don’t want to know about the nightside. Reporters have just enough orneriness to think they want to know, that’s all. Which equals a huge pain in the ass for a hunter and the cops.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the Fourth Estate like any red-blooded American. But Jesus wept, they make my job harder. Fortunately, they get stonewalled by everyone except UFO nutjobs and fake psychics.
Anyone who knows about the nightside knows not to talk about it.
“Yeah, her. That way. She’s moving around, there’s nobody else out there. And I’ve got a bad, bad feeling about this, because the furry smelly thing is snuffling, and I got this feeling like I’m going to throw up. Anyway, the woman barks something, and the furry thing leaps up into the back of the van and I can see the entire thing rock a little bit. Then it brings out something real pale, and I can see it’s not right. The only thing that big is a body, but it handles it like it’s nothing. The furry thing kind of shuffles to the edge of the sidewalk, and it throws the thing, and I see it is a body but something’s wrong with it. It hits with a kind of thud and the furry thing is back in the van, and the woman gets in. Then the engine gets to purring again, and they’re gone.” He shivered, despite the close muggy warmth of Micky’s. His eyes came up to meet mine, and they were dark enough that I reached up and pushed my beer across the table.
“Take it. It’ll do you good.”
He did, setting down his coffee, and took down about half the cold bottle in one long throat-working swallow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his dirty hand. “I bet it did smell me,” he said miserably. “I bet it did.”
“Don’t worry about that right now. Was there anything else? Did she talk, laugh, move around the van at all?”
“Moved around looking up. That’s all.” He finished the rest of the beer. “What the fuck was that thing? It warn’t human. I warn’t drunk, ma’am. It warn’t human ’tall.”
The more worked-up he got, the more hillbilly he sounded. “Maybe, maybe not,” I soothed. I’ll take him to Galina’s and leave him there; that’s the safest place for him right now. And she won’t stand for any street bullshit. “But what’s important for right now is to keep you out of sight. I’ve got someone you can stay with, if you don’t mind a bit of work. It’s either that or hit the streets where these people—whoever they are—are looking for you. Think back, and tell me everyone you told about this. Everyone.”
He did, and the list was depressingly long and imprecise, finishing with: “That kid who hangs around Plaskény Square, with the blue hair and the rings in his nose. Tall kid. I mentioned it to him. That’s all.”
That’s all? Oh, man, this just keeps getting better and better.
“Tell her what you told me,” Saul said suddenly. “About what the woman said.”
“Oh, yeah. Almost forgot.” His mournful face brightened. “It sounded like French.”
Huh? “French?”
“I took four years of French in high school. I think that’s what she was speakin’. Somethin’ about… well, shit, I’m rusty. But I’d swear it was French.”
“French.” I nodded, my head resting on Saul’s shoulder. Suddenly I was incredibly, bone-crunchingly weary. It’s the reaction of coming very, very close to certain death: after the adrenaline and the urge for sex wear off, the only thing left was terrible exhaustion, as if every appendage is dipped in lead. “Okay.”
Wonderful. A French-speaking broad with fancy hair, multiple murders and more on the way, and something so tough even Perry’s frightened of it. Not to mention the fact that I think Perry knows more than he’s telling. For a moment I closed my eyes, listening to the clink of glass from the bar, the clatter of silverware and murmur of voices from out in the restaurant, the sound of water and frying from the kitchen, a waitress’s voice lifted in a snatch of song along with Bonnie Raitt on the restaurant’s speaker system, giving “them” something to talk about, a little mystery to figure out.
Coincidence. Getting a little help again.
Saul was warm and solid beside me, his arm tightening, and he didn’t let go until I opened my eyes and leaned away.
This just kept getting better. But for right now, all I wanted to do was go home and sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
Saul collapsed, his lax weight resting on me for a brief moment, his hipbones digging into the soft insides of my thighs. The tattoo high up on my right thigh writhed, its winged tingle running under my skin. I kissed along the edge of his jaw, found his mouth again. He tasted of night, of cold wind and wildness and the Scotch I’d taken down four mouthfuls of before he’d slid his arm around my waist and half-dragged me to the bed.
My hair was still wet, the charms tinkling slightly as the spillfire of orgasm tore through me again, my hips slamming up. The third was always the nicest; I gasped into his mouth and heard the low rumble of his contentment begin, a purr that shook through every cell, every bone, and chased away all remaining fear. Sweat mixed with the water from the shower, his smell of Ivory soap and animal musk making a pleasant heady brew.
“Shhh,” he whispered against my mouth. “Kitten, shhh. It’s all right.”
I quieted, more air gasped in, flavored with his breath. He kissed my cheek, my temple, my mouth again, bracing himself on his elbows.
As usual, he didn’t want to let go, nuzzling along the line of my jaw and down to the hollow of my throat, teeth scraping delicately as aftershocks rippled through me. It had taken months of patient trying before I could let him touch me anywhere covered by a bikini, and even longer before I could rest there under his weight, utterly vulnerable. We were branching out, experimenting, and I finally felt like I’d trampled some of the demons of my adolescence.
But coming so close to death raised demons of its own. I went limp, closed my eyes, let him nibble at my throat. It was a highly erogenous zone for Weres, especially Weres of the cat persuasion. A sign of trust, and a sign of territorial marking. A hickey on the neck of a Were’s mate means seriousness, means don’t touch this, it’s mine.
He was Were. He wasn’t a human man, and sometimes I wondered if that was why I could let him touch me. With Mikhail it had been different—he had been my teacher, trusted absolutely even in the confines of the bed, always in control.
Until Mikhail had no longer wanted me.
My hands relaxed, slid down Saul’s arms. The leather of the cuff touched his shoulder. He nuzzled deeper in my throat, the sharp edges of his teeth brushing the skin just over my pulse. A strand of his hair, freighted with a silver charm, lay across my chin.
“Saul,” I whispered. He sucked at my throat, a spot of almost-pain, gauging it perfectly. I could feel the blood rising to the surface, blossoming on the skin, the bruise would be flawless. A dark mark, almost like a brand.
One last gentle kiss against my carotid artery and he moved, sliding out of me with exquisite slowness. Off to the side, the bed creaking as it accepted his weight, and the usual slow movement ended up with my head on his shoulder and his arm around me, my body slumped against his side. He was warm, flush with heat, and purring contentedly.