Hunter's Trail (A Scarlett Bernard Novel) (5 page)

But Noring shook her head. “No, no, nothing that dramatic. The body tells me what’s happening inside it, and
I . . .
encourage it. To get better. Sometimes it works, and sometimes the body is just too sick to recover.”

“And you were trying to get my body to talk to you just now?”

“Yes,” she said briskly. “A reflex.” She leaned over to rummage in her enormous bag. “I believe I have something for that burn. But can I give you a piece of advice, Scarlett?”

I doubted that she could be worse at running my life than I was. “Sure,” I said with a shrug.

She paused her purse expedition to look at me directly. “You need to stop fighting above your weight class,” Noring said simply.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Every day I take care of people who are crippled by a terrible illness, and what you’ve put your body throug
h . . .
” She shook her head. “You’re in worse shape than many of them.” She had located the burn cream, and she dabbed a generous dollop onto my wrist. Putting the cap back on, she added, “Other than these injuries, you’re in good health. That’s a gift. Stop squandering it on these”—she waved an arm absently—“these
people
.”

Tears stung my eyes. Under ordinary circumstances I probably would have been angry, but I’d been caught off guard, and beside
s . . .
that was exactly what my mother would say.

“It’s not that easy,” I said helplessly. “There were people counting on me, and I had to help stop—”

“Let someone else help,” she interrupted, voice firm. “
You
are getting your ass kicked.”

It was such a coarse expression from such a cultured accent that I laughed out loud, a feeble, painful sound.

“You have no idea,” I told her.

Chapter 7

Detective First Grade Jesse Cruz was very sick of people.

He’d spent all of the last two days conducting interviews on a hit-and-run homicide just off Fairfax. A dark red—or maybe brown, or maybe purple—minivan had sped off after clipping a nineteen-year-old actress/waitress who had been rushing across the intersection to get to her shift at IHOP. The van had sped off, and the teenager had bled out at Cedars-Sinai after seven hours of surgery. The intersection was within view of three different high-rise apartment buildings, and Jesse and his squadron had been going door to door, asking the same useless questions of useless people. He was tired and defeated, and as he headed back to his department-issued sedan Jesse wanted nothing more than to not speak to anyone for a few hours.

But it didn’t work out that way.

A late-model Mercedes S-class was parked illegally at a fire hydrant directly behind Jesse’s vehicle. As he neared it, the Mercedes’s door opened and an enormous black man began to climb out of the vehicle, his movements purposeful and efficient but not aggressive. Jesse froze on the sidewalk, marginally aware that his right hand now rested on his weapon. The stranger wore a black polo shirt, pressed chinos, and what looked like an empty shoulder holster. He closed the car door gently and held up both hands in the universal gesture for “I mean you no harm.” A business card was trapped in the fingers of his left hand. “Detective Cruz?” the man rumbled. A pleasant, professional smile was tacked on his face.

“Yes?” Jesse said cautiously.

“My name is Hayne.” The black man extended his arm, holding out the business card. “Mr. Dashiell sent me to get you.”

Jesse automatically reached out to accept the white paper rectangle. It was his own card, with the department’s official logo and his name, title, and contact info. He flipped it over. On the back was an all-too-familiar address, and the name
Dashiell
in elegant cursive.

Jesse dropped his hand from his gun and looked up at Hayne in disbelief. “He’s jus
t . . .
summoning
me? Right now?”

“Yes, sir.” Hayne opened the back door and looked expectantly at Jesse, who only gaped.

“I can’t come now; I’m working,” Jesse protested.

“Your shift ended twenty minutes ago, sir,” Hayne said easily.

Anger rippled across Jesse’s back, tightening his shoulders. “He’s keeping tabs on me? Screw that. I’m not at his beck and call.”

He started away, toward his own car, and Hayne’s professional smile wavered. “He said you’d say that, sir,” Hayne said quietly, forcing Jesse to stop so he could hear the other man. “He said to tell you it’s about Miss Bernard.”

The manipulation was obvious, but effective. “What about Scarlett?” Jesse asked sharply. “Is she going to be there?”

When Jesse made no move toward the car, Hayne closed the door again and leaned against it, probably trying to look harmless. Instead, the man seemed about to dent the car door. “I don’t have that information, sir. But Mr. Dashiell said to tell you that she’s in trouble.” He stood and reached for the door behind the driver’s again, holding it open, and Jesse stared at him for a long moment, trying to read intent in the bigger man’s expression. Finally Hayne sighed. “It’s not a trick,” he said quietly. “Not a trap. Dashiell just genuinely needs to talk to you. Sir.”

“I have a phone,” Jesse reminded him, trying not to sound sullen. Something about Dashiell always made him feel like an insolent teenager, and it apparently happened whether or not the vampire was actually present.

Hayne broke into a grin, and for the first time his expression seemed real. “And Mr. Dashiell has a way of doing things, sir. You’ve survived this long, you must have figured that out by now.”

Jesse stared at him for a second more, then relented. Ignoring the open door to the backseat, he walked around the Mercedes to the passenger door and climbed in.

Smog hung low over the city’s skyline, but the temperature had dropped so low that Jesse could almost pretend it was a nice clean fog instead of man-made airborne poison. The sunlight had faded behind the city by the time they pulled up to Dashiell’s Spanish-colonial mansion in the old-money portion of Pasadena. Hayne bypassed the main part of the driveway and pulled the Mercedes into a four-car garage at the back of the property. He hopped out of the Mercedes, but Jesse was faster, getting out of his own side before the man could open his door. Smiling benignly, Hayne guided Jesse toward a service entrance that lead into a Spanish-tile kitchen that he had seen before. They went through the kitchen, and Jesse suddenly found himself back in the same living room area that led out onto the patio.

He blinked. Dashiell was in the living room, having a quiet conversation with Will Carling, the leader of the Los Angeles werewolf pack, and a stunning woman who appeared to be in her late thirties. His wife. Jesse had seen her before.

Dashiell broke off what he was saying as Jesse entered. The vampire was a blandly handsome man who appeared to be in his late thirties, with dark hair and eyes. He wore a perfectly pressed shirt and black slacks. “Thank you for coming, Detective,” Dashiell said, turning toward Jesse, who shrugged noncommittally. Like he’d had a choice.

“Detective Cruz,” the woman said warmly, rising from her place next to Dashiell on an overstuffed sofa. She stepped toward him, holding out a hand. “I’m Beatrice. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“Right,” Jesse said awkwardly. She was a knockout, with long dark hair spilling across a cream-colored sundress that set off her olive skin. Spanish, he figured, which connected to the decor. He automatically took the vampire’s hand as it was offered, half expecting it to be icy cold. But no, whatever magic animated vampires kept them room temperature as well. “We’ve sort of met before.” The last time he’d been in this room, he and Scarlett had stopped Jared Hess and a vampire named Ariadne from killing Dashiell and Beatrice.

Beatrice’s smile smoothed over into a solemn nod. “Of course. But we weren’t exactly introduced then, were we?” she asked, with a little twinkle in her eye.

“No, ma’am.”

Jesse realized that Will and Dashiell had gotten up too, fast enough that he hadn’t even seen it. Despite the demonstration of speed, Will looked exhausted. After shaking Jesse’s hand, the alpha sank immediately back down in an armchair, as though the handshake had been the only thing keeping him on his feet. Dashiell did not hold out a hand to shake, but simply gestured for Jesse to take the last remaining seat in the living room, an ornately carved dark wooden chair. They all sat back down, and Will was the first to speak.

“Have you heard from her?” he asked quietly.

“Scarlett? Yeah.” Jesse’s hand automatically touched his phone in his pocket, as though it might conjure the girl out of thin air. “She stopped by my apartment about a week ago, to tell me she was gonna join her brother in the UK for a few days to recover from the mess with Olivia.” Will’s eyes slid over to Dashiell, who smoothed down the front of his spotless shirt. No one said anything for a long moment, and Jesse felt like he had missed something. “What?”

Beatrice finally spoke up, her voice warm and thick like sap running down a tree, smothering everything in its path. “Detective, can I offer you something to drink? Or perhaps a sandwich? We have a well-stocked refrigerator.”

Cold realization gripped Jesse, and he jerked his eyes toward the floor.
Stupid
, he cursed himself. Stupid of him to meet their eyes. He’d spent so much time around Scarlett while he was talking to these people that he’d forgotten to be afraid.

And that wasn’t the only thing he’d forgotten.

“I’ve never told Scarlett where I live,” he said flatly. “And now that I try, I can’t remember what she was wearing or her words. She wasn’t really at my apartment, was she?”

“No.” Even in that one word Dashiell’s calm voice held something, a weight, and despite his resolve, Jesse’s gaze flicked hungrily toward the vampire. He suddenly wanted Dashiell to speak again, to ask him for something, a favor maybe that Jesse could—

“Enough,” Will’s voice was ice-pick sharp, and the spell broke. Jesse’s breath rushed into his lungs with a sudden ferocity, and he knocked over the chair as he scrambled away, unconsciously searching for a wall he could put his back against. The glass patio doors were behind him, though, and he had to work on calming the panic.

“You pressed me,” he said, hating the tremor in his voice. Terror gripped his body, and Will and Dashiell both turned their heads sharply in his direction, smelling the fear. “You pressed me to thin
k . . .
” He shook his head, trying to clear it. One of the vampires had pressed him to believe Scarlett had stopped by his place. But if that hadn’t been rea
l . . .
He looked up. “Where is she?” Jesse demanded.

“Will’s right, that’s enough,” Beatrice declared. “Dashiell, please stop. Detective, please put away your weapon.” Jesse looked down and realized he was holding his gun. He looked at Beatrice, focusing on the center of her forehead like it had a target on it. “We are not going to hurt you,” she said calmly. “We asked you here because we need your help.”

She looked at her husband, giving him one of those pointed, nudging expressions Jesse had seen on his own mother’s face. That look, more than anything else, helped Jesse quell his panic.

Dashiell took the hint. “My wife is right, of course,” he said, the weight gone from his voice. He sounded like an ordinary, tired man. “We do need your help.” The vampire gestured to the chair again. “Please, sit.”

Reluctantly, Jesse reholstered the gun and squared his shoulders, trying to concentrate on avoiding eye contact. It was harder than he’d imagined. “Somebody just tell me what’s going on,” Jesse said. “Where is Scarlett? Is she okay?”

“She’s injured, but fine,” Beatrice assured him, and Jesse nodded his thanks at her.

He was about to ask another question, but Will leaned forward. “Detective Cruz. Remember last fall when Scarlett was in the hospital?”

“Of course.”

“Did she tell you why she had to stay for a few days?”

Jesse’s brow furrowed. “She said she hit her head during the fight with Ariadne, after I left.” He looked at the female vampire. “She was trying to help Beatrice.”

“And she did help me,” Beatrice confirmed. “She saved me. But she didn’t hit her head. She did something that her kind shouldn’t be able to do.”

She glanced at her husband, who nodded. “She turned Ariadne into a human,” Dashiell said gravely. All three of them looked at Jesse, waiting for a reaction. Jesse’s eyes moved from face to face, not getting it.
“
Permanently
,”
Dashiell added emphatically.

Understanding struck Jesse. “That’
s . . .
how is that even possible?”

“It’s not supposed to be.” Beatrice noted. “But Scarlett is the strongest null any of us have ever encountered. None of us kne
w . . .
well. As it turns out, she’s strong enough to turn one of us into a human again.”

“But it sort of shorted out her brain,” Will added. “I didn’t hear about it until much later”—there was the briefest annoyed glance at Dashiell—“but apparently it works on werewolves too, because nine days ago she changed Eli back into a human.”

Whoa. Jesse sank back into his chair, trying to process. Scarlett could undo magic, for good? And Eli was human again? What would that even mean? “Why didn’t she tell me?” Jesse said out loud.

He had mostly been talking to himself, but Dashiell answered anyway. “I ordered her not to tell anyone,” he said firmly. “I was afraid that the wolves and the vampires, in particular, would come after her if they found out. The vampires would either fear her or want her dead. The wolves would all want to become human again—”

“Or want her dead,” Will broke in. “There are zealots among the werewolves who believe that we should all b
e . . .
grateful. For what we are.” The alpha’s voice was weary. “They would consider Scarlett a threat.”

“We were also dealing with the Olivia situation,” Dashiell continued, “and I wanted time to consider what this development could mean.”

And how I could use it
, Jesse finished for him. Dashiell was a textbook opportunist, and that kind of ability would be a dangerous addition to his toolbox.

No wonder Scarlett had been so strange during the last few months. Jesse felt a childish sense of betrayal. She could have told him.

And then the rest of the conversation caught up to him. “Wait. You’re saying her
brain shorted out
again?”

Will held out a hand to placate him. “No, not that. Her abilities are intact this time, for some reason. But Eli was our beta, and the wolves can feel his absence in the pack. It’s causing problems.”

“Can’t you jus
t . . .
pick a new beta?” Jesse asked sensibly.

The werewolf sighed. “It’s not quite that simple, I’m afraid. For one thing, we weren’t sure that the change was permanent.”

Jesse looked from one to the other. Beatrice and Dashiell were still and calm, with a well-mannered detachment that Jesse had noticed the only other times he’d been near vampires without Scarlett. He supposed that when you can live forever, everyday crises don’t exactly push you over the edge. In contrast, though, Will looked agitated and restless, one of his legs jiggling up and down at a frenzied pace. “That’s why you pressed me,” Jesse said at last. “You were hoping it would just go away.”

“Yes,” said Will with no inflection. “But rumors are spreading in the pack, and we aren’t as united as we need to be. And now there’s another problem.”

Jesse gaped at him. “Another problem? She’s hurt, the wolves are panicking, everyone is finding out that she’s a
cure
—”

“We don’t like that word,” Beatrice broke in.

Anger had pushed away Jesse’s fear. “Lady, I don’t give a shit what word you like. What’s the other problem?”

Without speaking, Dashiell picked up a manila folder from the top of a stack of files and papers on the side table. He passed it to Jesse, who flipped it open to find a gruesome eight-by-ten photograph of mangled limbs and torn skin. The woman’s face was untouched, but shaded the grayish hue of death, her blue eyes open and filmed over. Jesse flipped past this photo and found another shot of the same woman from a different angle. And another. They were all the same body, and they all had the same date stamp: December 29. Yesterday’s date.