Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(22)
Molly was still in the armchair in the living room when I came downstairs. She’d probably fallen asleep as a human and died when I’d gone for my run. When I got close enough, she yawned and stretched, then looked around in confusion. When she saw me, she smiled.
“You want coffee?” I asked. Molly likes to be awake during the day, if I can manage it. Going out in the sun completely delights her. Those kinds of perks are the reason why Dashiell has ordered his vampire minions to stay away from me. His protection is part of our deal, which is yet another reason why I don’t want to lose my job.
“Yep.” Molly swung her legs off the arm of the chair and followed me into the kitchen, careful to keep close to me. She sat down at the little breakfast counter, watching as I brewed the coffee. “So...I heard you’re in kind of a mess.”
“How did you hear about that?” I asked, though I shouldn’t have been surprised.
Molly just shrugged. “You know, the vampire rumor mill.” She hesitated for a second. “Do you want to talk about it?”
That surprised me, too. Most of the time, Molly prefers to act as if she and I are best gal pals in one of her romantic comedies. She’s always all perky and sort of surface. I wasn’t expecting a Do you want to talk about it? conversation.
In fact, maybe it wasn’t an idle question.
I pulled two mugs from the shelf above the sink and poured a dark stream of coffee into each one, stalling for time. Had Dashiell ordered her to ask me questions? I wasn’t stupid; I knew Molly reported to Dashiell about me. I just figured there wasn’t usually much to report, as long as I kept anything too personal from Molly. She had no idea that I had a brother, for example. If the impossible happened and I got a real boyfriend, someone I really loved, I’d keep that from her, too.
“Not really,” I said carefully. “I think it’s going to be okay.”
“Do you know—” she began, but then we both jumped as someone knocked hard on the door. “Whoa, jeez. I can’t get used to how humans sneak up on each other.”
That’s not really what knocking on a door means, but I didn’t bother saying so. “That must be Cruz,” I said, trying not to sound too relieved. “Where do you want me to drop you off?”
“Uh, my room is good.” I walked her up there and then skidded down the stairs, suddenly very excited to get out of the house.
Cruz and I were both quiet on the drive to Pico. He looked tired and worn-out, and I wondered how much sleep he’d gotten in the past couple of nights. I felt a sudden, very unwelcome pang of guilt. Because of my screwup with the park murders, I had almost set this guy up to be killed. Did that make him my responsibility? Should I be checking in on his emotional welfare? I considered how my mother would have answered that question, and then Olivia. Then I decided I didn’t care. Cruz had dug his own grave on this one. No pun intended.
The comic book shop, which was adorably called Nerdvana, was on a block with two dry cleaners and a day care center. Drop off your kids, read some comics! We couldn’t find a meter within a block or two, and Cruz shot down my suggestion that he use his special cop powers to secure illegal parking, so we ended up having to park a few long blocks away and walk back to the store. As we came in, I noticed a little sign above the door that said, No Cylons, replicants, or shoplifters allowed.
It was going to be that kind of day.
I stepped inside, Cruz at my heels. The store was one big rectangle, with bookshelves of comics lining the walls and four scarred and faded tables arranged in the open floor space. A glass counter with a cash register took up the back wall. It was 1:40 on a weekday, but each table held seven or eight guys and a huge stack of cards, with more cards spread around the tabletops in careful patterns. I could see a few cards with pictures of little weapons and elves and stuff. When I walked in the room, every single guy froze, staring at me with a combination of shame and resentment, as though I’d just walked into the men’s locker room and found them all jerking each other off. Great. I tried to look nonthreatening, and after a long moment, they all returned to playing, but the mood was subdued. Scarlett Bernard, professional buzzkill.
I took a few steps over to the wall, examining the comic titles, and then felt the brush against my radius that meant werewolf. I glanced up and locked gazes with Ronnie Pocoa, now fully clothed and bringing a few fresh decks of cards out from the back area behind the counter. Under the store’s bright lights, I realized he was a towhead, with ruddy cheeks and pockmarks dotting his face. Ronnie had to be in his early thirties, but had that baby-faced look of the perpetually timid. Or the perpetually victimized. You see that a lot with the wolves. Cruz stepped up beside me, and Ronnie looked from his face to mine, turning white. Then, to my surprise, he dropped the cards, turned around, and bolted from the room.
Cruz and I exchanged one of those quick What the...? looks, and without any advance coordination, he turned and ran out the front door, while I followed Ronnie through the back, trying to keep him within my radius. I was fairly fast, but if he got his werewolf strength and speed back, I’d never see him again. He knocked down piles of boxes and games behind him, trying to trip me up, but I stumbled my way around them. Ronnie raced through a door and into a narrow storeroom where a desk and file cabinet had been haphazardly assembled. I caught him just before he got to an emergency exit door on the far side of the room, grabbing the back of his T-shirt and rearing us both backward. We collapsed in a pile on the floor, and I scooted far enough to kick the exit door open, letting Cruz inside. All three of us were panting. Cruz leaned down to rest his hands on his knees. “What the hell...was that?” I gasped.