Infected: Lesser Evils (6 page)

“I’m saying she came in this club a Human.”

“How is that possible? I mean, it takes about an hour to transform, right? I mean, for most.” Roan heard the unspoken
Not for you, you freaky ass bastard, but for everyone who has even a shred of humanity left
. “Someone would’ve noticed.”

“I agree. Someone would have. Maybe the someone who poisoned her.”

“Poisoned? She’s poisoned?”

“Run a full tox screen. Better yet, get Doctor Petra Rosenberg in on this.”

“Who?”

“My doctor, she’s an expert on infecteds, I’ll give you her number.”

There was a scoff, and a male voice—not Seb’s—exclaimed, “How the hell does he know this stuff? I mean, we all know he’s one of them, but—”

“He says something, you can bet on it,” Seb snapped, more impatient than angry. “And if you don’t believe me, ask the Chief. Got it?”

The boy answered with a cowed, “Yes sir.”

Roan didn’t know if he looked Human enough or not, and really didn’t care. He hurt, he could taste his own sour blood in his mouth, and this rookie just fucking pissed him off. He glared at him, a potato-faced boy who was probably on the wrong side of twenty-two, and said, “One of them? I am not one of them. She is a Human being who’s probably been murdered by some fuck you barely questioned twenty minutes ago. Don’t forget you’re looking at an illness, not an outcome.”

“Murdered?” Seb repeated. “You don’t think she’s gonna make it?”

Roan shook his head, even though it hurt. There weren’t enough drugs to ever block out this pain, although the ketamine worked surprisingly well. Maybe he should’ve asked Holden if he had more. “It smells like it’s permeated her system. No wonder she was acting crazy.”

“Um, did you just say you weren’t Human?” the female officer asked, obviously confused.

He wiped the blood from his chin, wishing he’d brought one of the cars after all. He needed more pills just to function; it felt like he was full of broken glass, clogging his bloodstream like crushed ice. “Yes. Now where are the fucking paramedics?”

Maybe it was the pain, or the continued restlessness of the lion in his own head, but he had a bad feeling that this was just the start of something. And there was no fucking way it could be any good.

Pretty Visitors

R
OAN
stayed on the scene until the ambulance took her away, strapping the virtually comatose cat down to a reinforced stretcher with so many ties Roan found it hard not to laugh. She’d be lucky ever to wake up, so why not put a few more plastic ties on her? It was absurd, and yet he knew it was regulations, and they were just doing their jobs. Just like putting on what looked like hazmat suits was just part of the regs.

He got Rosenberg on Seb’s phone and left him to talk to her as he wandered off, finding his bike and a stray Percocet in his pants pocket. He dry swallowed the pill before putting on his helmet and taking off.

He decided to stop by Silver, since it was on the way, but he pulled off into a Starbucks on the neighboring block first, mainly so he could duck into their restroom, clean blood off his face, and make sure he looked reasonably Human and presentable. He still didn’t look like Silver clientele, but fuck it. He zipped up his jacket to cover up the bloodstains on his shirt (mostly his, some the leopard’s), and hoped that normal people couldn’t smell it as much as he could.

Silver was a sleek restaurant of smoky glass and brushed chrome, going for a retro feel but a classy one, less fifties diner, more grounded space yacht. The only thing that took the polish off its aura was the fact that it was taking up the corner of a downtown street that wasn’t nearly as upscale as it was. But the gentrification was just beginning. Give it a year, and it might be.

He walked into a lobby of burgundy velvet and warmly polished wood, a scent like brandy and thyme overlaying the char of meat (seventy-five-dollar steaks were big here—who the hell would pay seventy-five dollars for a chunk of beef?) and came up to a maître d’ in black tie and tails. He looked like he’d fallen off a wedding cake.

He raised a slim black eyebrow imperiously, clearly gearing up to tell him he wasn’t suitably attired, but Roan cut him off. “I’m just here to give my partner Dylan his house key. He left it at home, and he’s gonna need it.” This was bullshit, but just saying, “Can I see my boyfriend” wouldn’t get him past the door.

“Partner?” the maître d’ repeated, then scoffed, looking into the restaurant. Over his shoulder, Roan could see the bar, a curve of silver and translucent glass like ice. “I knew he was gay. He’s too good looking to be straight.” He looked Roan over once more, but with new eyes. Oh, he was gay too, wasn’t he? Yep. Of course an upscale restaurant would have to have the stereotypical efficient, obnoxiously fussy gay. It was probably seen as a necessary accessory, like linen napkins and a rageaholic chef. “Fine, we’re slow tonight, you can go see him, but don’t try this when Weaver’s on the floor. He doesn’t like the staff displaying their gayness.” At that, he rolled his eyes, unspoken disgust at Weaver’s policy, and gestured him on with a wave of his hand.

He assumed Weaver was the manager. So, was he a straight who didn’t like gays but hired them anyways, or was he a self-hating gay? He’d have to meet him to know.

It must have been a slow night. The lighting was low, “moody,” but he could still see that only four of the tables in this section (there were at least two others, one a VIP room that no ordinary peon could access) were occupied. There were two people at the opposite end of the bar, a woman in a red dress and a man in a suit who looked like he was either a lawyer or a white collar criminal (or both).

Dylan was behind the bar, looking handsome and posh in a long-sleeved black dress shirt and a silver vest that looked like it was the closest thing the place had to a uniform. (Dylan wasn’t the type to own a silver vest. The only guy he ever knew that might was Paris, and even then, only as a joke.) Roan took one of the tall stools at the empty end of the bar, and that’s when Dylan glanced down and saw him. He gave him a genuine, lazy smile, and said, “I know what you want.”

He was tempted to say, “I doubt it, it’s not on the menu,” but kept the innuendo to himself as he watched Dylan work. It may have been a new bar, with more space and more clothing, but he still moved like he’d always worked there, picking up a crystal highball glass and pouring a scoop of crushed ice into it in one smooth motion, then decanting some juice in it before coming over and placing the glass in front of Roan, on a coaster that looked like it was made of cork and wicker. Dylan leaned on the bar, close but not too close.

“Pineapple juice?” Roan asked. “You couldn’t Irish it up a bit?”

“Since when do you like whiskey?”

“I don’t. I just don’t want to feel like the designated driver.” He sipped the juice. Fancy place or not, it was still the equivalent of store-bought. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad. It’s kind of nice not being deafened, and having a shirt on is a novelty.”

“It’s killing you, isn’t it?”

“No.” He glanced around, perhaps to make sure no other staffer was close, then admitted, “It’s a little staid. It seems a bit unreal, so formal and… regulated. I feel like a butler.”

“This is not your world.”

“Is this anyone’s world? It’s bizarre. I mean… my life is nuts. I guess I got used to nuts.”

“What kind of nuts are we talking about here?”

Dylan raised an eyebrow at that, and had to fight down a smile. “Don’t you start.”

“It was an innocent question.”

“Innocent, my
culo
,” he replied, using the Spanish word for ass, possibly because this place didn’t like its employees swearing. What a change from Panic, where almost everything was okay, as long as it was consensual and not a violation of the health code (in full view of anyone who might complain). “You are many things, Ro, but innocent has never been one of them.”

“Well, if you’re going to take that attitude, I’ll just go buy my juice at the 7-Eleven. By the way, how much is this gonna set me back?”

“Nothing, I’ll say I drank it. But, if you were a customer, five bucks.”

“For a pineapple juice? This isn’t even a proper glass.”

“It’s an expensive place. The cheapest salad is twenty-five dollars.”

“I hope that comes with extra croutons and a hand job.”

Dylan laughed, and instantly clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle it. He glared at Roan, trying to give him the death stare, but there was too much mirth in his eyes to properly sell it. “Bastard,” he finally muttered. “Making me laugh.”

“What, laughter is a crime in this place? Fuck it then. Let’s blow this pop stand. Better yet, let’s get some of those Improv Everywhere people in here to make them have conniption fits.”

“My first night on the job, and you’re already planning to destroy it.”

“Not destroy, it’s such a harsh word.” He paused, mainly for effect. “I prefer bloodless coup. Or bloody coup, as long as there’s some kind of coup, I’m good.”

Dylan was shaking his head, but he was still smiling. No matter what, Roan knew he could make him laugh, and that was a good feeling. “Did you just come here to sabotage me or what?”

“Curses, foiled again. No, well, besides that, I just wanted to let you know I might not be home when you get home.”

His face fell, and while he tried to smooth it over, Dylan clearly wasn’t happy. “Why not?”

He gave him the shorthand version of what had happened at Club Damage. He seemed as bewildered as Roan felt. “What? How the hell did it get into Damage?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. And that smell… it was like a chemical factory, even counting out the perfume. I haven’t smelled a lot of poison, but it wasn’t anything that seemed possible. All I could think was chemical weapon, but that doesn’t make sense.”

“Are you okay?”

“Superhuman, remember? She never even scratched me.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

No, it wasn’t, was it? He was ready to lie, but Dylan’s dark eyes were sympathetic and imploring. With a sigh, he admitted, “I dunno. This is really bothering me, and I can’t say why.”

Dylan briefly put his hand over his before removing it, a quick caress, and probably all the public display of gayness that he dare risk here. “Because it’s a puzzle, and you do love your puzzles.” He said it with a kind of affectionate weariness, like he knew that Roan was going to be preoccupied and busy for the near future.

“I love you too, you know,” he replied.

Dylan gave him a brittle smile. “I know. But if you don’t solve this, it will kill you. I should be used to being a detective’s husband by now.”

“How do you think it is for me, being a bartender’s husband? Especially when that husband will only give me pineapple juice.”

There was an overweight guy approaching the bar, looking like the most harried ad man in existence, so Dylan gave Roan a sly smile as he turned away. “Gotta earn better,” he whispered with a wink.

He should have known—blackmail. Bastard. Husbands were all alike.

Of course the case wasn’t why he’d be home late, it would be Dee chewing him out. But he didn’t want to admit he’d be home late because of an ex-boyfriend, even though there wasn’t a chance in hell they’d ever sleep together and Dylan knew it.

Dee had an apartment in a downtown complex with decent security, although the weather-beaten brick facade made it look more run-down and an easier mark. For a man who hated heights, it was probably ironic that he lived on the top floor (the eighth), but he didn’t like having people over his head (in an apartment sense).

As if Roan by himself wasn’t enough to put the lie to the stereotype that all gay men were neat and good decorators, Dee nailed it home. His apartment was generally a mess, a riot of dirty clothes and unopened mail, unwashed dishes and empty cartons. He basically cleaned up when he had days off, so then it looked like less than a pigsty, but during the work week it was like visiting a straight frat boy’s place, and it caused no end of amusement. It even smelled like stale beer and Chinese food starting to go south. He wondered how Luke, his boyfriend, liked this. (But he was a male nurse, just as busy, so maybe his place was similar.)

“Weren’t you two moving in together?” Roan asked, as he moved Dee’s uniform jacket aside and sat down on the ratty blue sofa that Dee had had as long as he had known him.

Dee was obviously just home from work. His hair was still wet from the shower, pasted down to his scalp, and he wore a gray sweatshirt and navy sweatpants. He looked tired but frazzled, which was typical after work. “Luke and I? I don’t know that I’m ready, really. I thought I was, I’m getting old… but I don’t know if I could actually live with another person.”

“How’d you find out?”

Dee fixed him with a bitter look, lips thinning, as he sat down in the recliner that was his game chair (where he sat to play video games). “What, you just assume—”

“Yes.”

He glared at him for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine. We went to Ocean Shores for a weekend, shared a hotel room, and I found out he has annoying habits.”

“Everybody has annoying habits. You just work around them or learn to live with them.”

“Is that what Dylan does with you?”

“Ha. Yes. He and I spend time pursuing separate interests, we both have loner tendencies, and that works for us. He does yoga and paints, and I break heads and become a lion. It’s a win-win.”

“Is it? He seems to think you’re on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

“He’s a very insightful man. Is there anything else?”

Dee stared at him again, but this time it was suspicious. “Did—did you just admit you were on the verge of a nervous breakdown?”

“What am I going to say at this point, Dee? It’s a slow-motion collapse. The pills keep it at bay, but it won’t hold forever, just like I won’t be Human forever. Got it, don’t need it spelled out for me. But thanks.”

Dee now sat forward, hands on his knees. “What? What was that about not being Human forever? Shit, is this related to Willow Creek? It is, isn’t it? What did you find out?”