Bitten 2 (42 page)

It was a lot more than just a scratch, but I didn’t think there was any point in arguing the matter. Neither did Alyssa if her snort was anything to go by.

Grasping my hand in one of his, he pressed an object into my palm, but didn’t release me right away. Meeting my gaze, he said, “My boy trusts ye verra much, dinne make him regret that choice.”

Unsure of what to say, I raised my eyes from our clasped hands to meet his and was struck by the weight behind his gaze. There was weariness in his eyes, but something else too, full of intensity and the hint of a promise that things would go very badly for me if I ever crossed the old leprechaun. Swallowing thickly, I nodded my understanding. Grunting, Alastair mirrored my nod and released his grip. Glancing down at the object he’d pressed into my hand, I found a USB drive nestled in my palm.

“What’s this?”

“Video of one of the bastards coming back to finish the job, and getting run off by me and the lads,” he replied with a wide grin that turned the wrinkles in his face to rocky canyons.

“One of?”

“Aye. It wasna a damn wolf this time, but a filthy fanger instead.”

So we’re back to the vamps now?
I thought, more confused than ever.
None of this makes any sense.

Although I knew the likelihood of Alyssa having a computer conveniently tucked away amongst the rolls of gauze and bottles of iodine was somewhere between slim and fat fucking chance, I still asked “You wouldn’t happen to have a computer around here somewhere, would you?”

“Yes, there’s one in the office.”

* * *

I still hadn’t decided if I liked Alastair, and being crammed into a room about the size of a broom closet with him was not my idea of fun. Shifting in the office chair, I tried to ignore the overpowering scent of Alastair’s blood as I popped the USB drive into one of the ports on the front of the machine tucked under the desk.

It took a moment to pull up the footage on the USB drive, and another few seconds to make out the figure in the grainy black and white image, but when I did the shock was like a punch in the stomach.

“Is... is that... Chuckles?” I asked, leaning forward to be sure that the figure on the video was in fact the bald-headed security guard.

“Who?” Alastair asked.

“Marcus, the head of security at Asylum. He’s like Cordova’s second in command. Shit. I kinda liked him,” I said, flopping back in the chair with a sigh. “What the hell was he doing there?”

“Trying to finish what his partner couldn’t, I expect.”

“Crap. I need to call Chrismer again.”

Ducking out into the hallway, as much to get away from the smell of blood as to have some small modicum of privacy, I rested a shoulder against the wall while listening to the phone ring. If fae hearing was anything like mine, I knew that Alastair would hear every word of my conversation with Chrismer, but I sought the illusion of privacy all the same.

“Jesus, Cray, it’s 3am. What do you want now?” Chrismer asked by way of a greeting. “I put out the story like you asked.”

“Are you alone?”

“If you’re interested in exploring your lesbian feelings, I suggest you dial a 1-800 number.”

“Can it, Coffin Whore. This is serious,” I snapped.

I was surprised when she didn’t fire back with a snide comment, especially considering the harshness of the insult, and instead prompted, “Well?”

“It’s Chuckles.”

“What are you blathering about now?” she asked, and I could all but hear her eyes rolling.

“The vamp killing weres. It’s Chuckles... er... Marcus.”

Silence reigned on the other end of the line, and I began to think that maybe we’d been disconnected until she finally asked, “Are you sure?”

“I’m looking at his pretty face on video right now,” I replied, turning my eyes back to the paused image on the computer monitor that showed Chuckles and Alastair locked in battle.

I heard her utter something under her breath in some foreign language I didn’t understand, but the inflection of her voice left no doubt in my mind that prime time television would’ve had to bleep out whatever it was.

“Meet me at my apartment in half an hour,” she instructed before rattling off the address in downtown Denver. I’d ceased to be offended by Chrismer hanging up on me, and just slipped my phone back into my pocket.

* * *

Chrismer lived in an upscale part of town, her top floor condo overlooking the manicured stretch of Cheesman Park. Approaching the door to the building, I was surprised to find a uniformed doorman surveying the street with a vigilant and critical eye, no doubt wary of a horde of hoodie-wearing hoodlums. I hadn’t even realized that doormen actually existed outside of New York and the movies.

An expression of horror flickered across the doorman’s face before he smothered it beneath a look of aloof professionalism at my approach. I was on the verge of demanding what the hell his problem was when I caught sight of my reflection in the glass doors and felt my ire slip away like sand through my fingers.

Yeah, I probably wouldn’t let me in either,
I thought as I took in my sleep tangled hair, sunken eyes, and blood splattered jeans. I looked like I’d been through a war, and the stiffness in my neck was a testament to the rough night I’d spent at Dermot’s bedside.

Trying to smooth down my hair in what I knew was a futile gesture, I braced myself for the embarrassment of being turned away at the door and having to call Chrismer to come down and meet me. The look the doorman gave me said he was more than a little tempted to not only deny me access, but call the cops and have me carted away. By some miraculous stroke of luck, however, he begrudgingly settled for pinning me with a disgusted look.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he greeted in a cultured voice that somehow managed to sound polite while still expressing his opinion that only deviants and miscreants were out and about at this hour.

“Same to you, Jeeves,” I replied while throwing him a mock salute.

Moving with the same kind of speed and fluidity I’d expect from Cordova, he sidestepped in front of me to block my path.

“May I be of assistance?”

Rocking back on my heels to avoid plowing in to him, I replied, “I’m here to see someone.”

“The resident’s name?”

Drawing in a deep breath, I counted to ten in my head. As much as it irked me to be questioned by the trumped up rent-a-cop, I had to remind myself that to normal folks I probably looked like I’d spent the night engaging in violent and illicit acts. The guy was just doing his job, even if it meant he was being a pain in my ass.

“Jessica Chrismer.”

There was a minute flicker of recognition in his face before his expression of suspicion melted into a professional smile and he stepped out of my way. “Go on up, Ms. Cray.”

The lobby of Chrismer’s building was as silent and austere as a fancy hotel, even the potted plants dotted here and there were fake and lifeless.

Just like its tenants
, I thought, as my nose wrinkled at the undercurrent of vampire stink on the air. I was guessing a lot of the units in the building came equipped with light-tight blinds and a no sunlight penetration guarantee.

Riding the elevator up to the top floor, I worked my jaw to ease the feeling of pressure building in my ears, and tried to think about anything except how long of a drop it was to the ground floor. Heights aren’t something I’m overly fond of, and I was relieved when the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened onto a hushed hallway. I rarely give much thought to my appearance, choosing my clothes based on comfort and function rather than trendiness, but I experienced a brief stab of regret that I hadn’t taken time to freshen up, or at least, put on some clothes that didn’t smell of blood and sweat. I couldn’t care less what the doorman had thought of my less than stellar appearance, but for some inexplicable reason, I wanted just once, not to look like Chrismer’s homeless cousin.

Not much I can do about it now
, I thought with a sigh as I raised my hand and knocked on the smooth paneling of the door.

Chrismer answered the door almost immediately, looking polished and professional in a pair of dark grey palazzo pants and a russet colored, belted cardigan over a silky black shell.

If that’s what she wears to hang out at home, no wonder she thinks I shop in the reject bin at the homeless shelter.

While my house was predominantly filled with hand-me-down furniture built in warm woods and promoting comfortable softness, Chrismer’s condo was all hard angles and cold metal, with a color scheme reminiscent of Cordova’s office.

They must have the same decorator.

As sleek and modern as the space was, even the fresh scent of clean linens and furniture polish couldn’t mask the lingering, musty smell of vamp. My nose wrinkled at the
eau de corpse
, and like so many times before, I marveled at the obliviousness of mundanes in general, and Day Servants in particular.

Ugh. Seriously, how can she not smell that? Do they just go nose blind after a while?

“Problem?” Chrismer asked with a sneer that bared perfect, straight teeth.

“Not at all,” I replied, baring my own in an emotionless smile. At least my teeth were just as white and straight as hers.

Thank you, Grandma, for insisting I get braces.

Her answering sniff let me know that she didn’t believe me for a second, and for a moment she looked at me with a mix of irritation and expectance. Seeing I wasn’t going to explain, she asked, “Well? Where’s the video?”

I was a little hesitant to hand it over at first. I didn’t trust the walking blood bag further than I could toss her, but I reassured myself that that was why I had a back-up copy tucked away in Alyssa’s hands. Fishing the USB drive from inside my jacket, feeling like a drug dealer from some crappy early nineties, made-for-TV drama, I slapped it into her waiting palm.

“Come on then, let’s get this over with,” she said, turning and leaving me to trail after her like a lamb being led to slaughter.

Following her into what had been originally designed as a guest bedroom, I was taken aback by the expensive looking technical set-up. Heavy black-out curtains covered the windows, casting the room into perpetual twilight, but I didn’t get the impression it was for her vampire master’s benefit. Much of the room was taken up by a large L-shaped desk, a couple of expensive looking video cameras on tri-pods, and racks of computer equipment.

“You practicing to be a hacker in your spare time?” I asked, only half joking as I eyed the four monitors on the desk, their screens dark.

“I like to do a lot of my own editing,” she replied with an uncharacteristic shrug. “It helps me sleep.”

Surprised by her moment of humanity, I could only make a small sound of vague interest.

I had no idea what half of the stuff was; all I knew was that there was a veritable cornucopia of buttons and dials, and the child in me wanted to push and turn every single one of them. Tuning me out, Chrismer pulled an office chair over to one side of the desk and pushed several buttons, bringing the system whirring to life. As the computers booted up, the room was filled with a low hum, like the sound of bees heard from a long way off, and the vaguely electrical smell of the computers running through their processes. It was soothing in a way, and I could see how she might find it relaxing.

Within seconds, she had the video up on the screen and was toggling switches and turning knobs seemingly at random to improve the quality of the video. Watching the image move in and out of focus was somewhat nauseating, prompting me to turn away and scope out the rest of the room.

Although my run-ins with Chrismer had generally been about as pleasant as an appendectomy performed with a rusty spork, many people considered her to be an accomplished reporter. The framed journalism awards hung on the wall closest to me attested to that. It was as I was studying a Conscience-in-Media award with no small amount of derision, that she uttered a curse under her breath and sat back in her chair.

“Well, shit. You were right.”

“You doubted my sleuthing abilities?” I asked, mustering up a speck of indignation for her benefit.

Swinging about in the chair she pinned me with a look that clearly said, “Duh.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

I WAS RELIEVED to see that Chuckles wasn’t manning the door when we arrived at Asylum; with Dermot’s blood still staining my jeans, I didn’t think I could have restrained myself from trying to gut him on the street. Her heels clacking on the sidewalk, Chrismer stalked to the door, moving through a group of dedicated partiers loitering outside without actually touching any of them. As if by magic, they appeared to roll out of her way as if driven by some unseen force. Then again, if I saw her coming towards me with fury in her eyes, I’d move my ass out of the way, too. Following along in her wake, I enjoyed the freedom of moving through the club without being stopped every five feet with inquiries and solicitations.

Shedding a camel cashmere coat that likely cost more than I made in six months, Chrismer didn’t miss a beat as she breezed through Cordova’s waiting area, tossing her coat over one of the space-age chairs on her way. Behind the reception desk, Katarina leapt into action at our arrival; jumping up from her chair she tried to intercept us.