Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(13)
Beatrice gave me a brief, light embrace and ushered me through the house into the courtyard, her stiletto heels clicking smartly on the marble tiles. She wore a tight, pale-yellow dress that set off her olive skin and waterfall of dark hair. I suddenly wished I’d dressed better. Next to Beatrice...Well, to be fair, most people would look scrubby next to Beatrice. She has this exotic-grace thing going on, vampire or not.
Dashiell’s mansion is shaped like a circle, with a surprisingly large outdoor area in the center the size of a baseball infield. Beatrice had it neatly tiled, with walls that were covered in long, climbing flowers and subtle lighting that was augmented by the classiest-looking tiki torches I had ever seen. There was a banquet-sized table in the center where Dash conducted most of his Old World business. I had a vague sense that Dash had plenty of legitimate business interests as well, but I didn’t really know anything about that. Nobody hires me for my business skills.
I paused by the courtyard door, looking at Dashiell for where to sit. He was parked in his usual spot at the head of the long oval table, down the courtyard to my left. When necessary, Dashiell will get close to me, but he prefers to keep his distance. I think it’s more about vulnerability than vanity—Dashiell is very old and very powerful, with plenty of enemies. I suspect that being reduced to human again makes him feel as if there’s a target on his back. Sure enough, Dash tilted his head to indicate that I was to sit down to my right, keeping him out of my range. I sat.
“Scarlett,” he called across the distance, “what is happening with the young policeman?”
I wondered, not for the first time, where Dashiell came from originally. His English is excellent, but the formal way he speaks reminds me of someone who started out with another language entirely. I always think he looks a little Italian, but Dashiell is French—of course, that could just be a name he picked. Someday, when he wasn’t irritated with me, I would ask.
Or not.
“He’s willing to cooperate,” I said in a normal voice. Vampire hearing is excellent, of course. Heightened strength and speed and all that. It had taken me a few tries to get used to this kind of conversation, but I mostly had it down. “He’s agreed to keep his mouth shut in exchange for me helping him with this case.”
“You?” Dashiell said with an indulgent little smile, as if I were a toddler who had just offered to drive his car. “What can you contribute to a police investigation?”
I spent a second wondering whether I’d just been insulted and decided that it didn’t really matter. “He thinks that there are supernatural elements at work here, and I can be sort of his...liaison, I guess. I’m the only person he knows who is connected to the Old World.”
He went still, thinking this over. When vampires go still, it is scary, since they don’t need to actually breathe or blink. “Very well,” he decided, finally. “I did not get very close to the victims.” Something like embarrassment flickered across his face, and I realized for the first time that Dashiell hadn’t approached the scene because of all the blood. As I’ve said, vampires gain control with age, and Dash’s control is stellar. That much blood, though, would have tested even his strength. No wonder he was touchy about the whole situation. “But I would like to know more about this strange killing as well. And this way you can keep an eye on Officer Cruz. I do not love the idea of having you as a spy,” he continued, with an annoyed little emphasis on the word you, “but I suppose it cannot be helped. We will discuss the fate of the policeman further when your collaboration is finished.”
Fine. Message received. I was an idiot, and Cruz’s life would depend on how he handled himself during his investigation. But if that were the case, why had he let Cruz live in the first place? It wasn’t because he was a cop, because if vampires know how to do anything, it’s make a murder look like an accident. It couldn’t actually be because I’d asked him...could it?
Nah.
“Now, to other business,” he said and waved through the window at Beatrice, who was in the kitchen.
She nodded and left the room for a moment, and when she came through the patio door, Will was with her. I brightened a little. The werewolves, as a rule, like me a lot better than the vampires do, probably because I calm the sense of unrest that comes with being a shape-shifter. It also helps that I pose no immediate threat to them.
My spirits dropped again a second later, however, when I saw the next person through the door. Wolf packs are usually led by a mated pair, the alphas, who function like parents, and then there are a whole bunch of intermediate wolves who are like their kids. Ordinarily, the two alphas would go almost everywhere together, but Will hasn’t found a mate yet, so instead, his pack has a beta, a platonic second-in-command who accompanies him on “official” visits like this. Unfortunately, in Will’s pack, the beta happens to be Eli, who trailed Will onto the patio. His ice-blue eyes—the color of a husky puppy’s—met mine and flickered with the recognition you only get from people who’ve seen you naked. I tried not to squish down farther in my seat.
Along with his second-in-command, Will had brought his sigma. Even though the pack hierarchy is sort of vague in the middle, everyone does know who the weakest member of the pack is. In a healthy werewolf pack, the sigma is the absolute lowest member of the food chain—why they’re called sigmas and not omegas is beyond me, but they probably have their reasons. Unlike regular wolves or even dogs, though, werewolves value this person. The sigma is the member most in need of the pack’s protection, and he or she becomes like a favorite younger sibling. Kind of like the Tiny Tim of the wolf pack.