Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(54)

“Yes, ma’am. We’re trying to determine whether this killing follows the pattern of any established killers, in case it’s a repeat performance or a copycat. There’s just nothing—so far.”

Because the victims were vampires, and the killer was working with a null, and the closest thing to a witness was a werewolf who’d also been murdered. Jesse felt sluggish and stupid, as if he’d been torn in half and all the brain cells had gone to the half that was working in the Old World now. It was a good thing he’d never been chosen for undercover, he thought sourly. A suspicious drug dealer would have shot him in about three minutes.

“Nothing?” she said skeptically, as if he were pulling her leg.

“We’ve been through all the databases. I’m back to reviewing scene reconstructions and typing up interview reports.”

Miranda was silent for a moment, thinking. “Why don’t you take a closer look at the park,” she said finally. “See if there’s a pattern of violence anywhere.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stood up to leave.

“And, Jesse?”

He turned back.

“If you can’t get your act together, I can’t use you.”





Chapter 21


I needed to call Cruz and update him on the case, but I felt awkward about doing it in front of Eli. Especially since Eli was pissed about not being invited along to confront the handcuff maker. He did not like that I was going with Jesse instead.

“Who is this guy, anyway? What can he do that I can’t?” Eli said hotly.

We were driving back to Eli’s, where I would be dropping him off. Traffic had stalled on PCH, and I was working on a grating headache.

“I don’t know. Arrest people? Investigate things? How about just carrying a gun?” I didn’t mention the fact that I’d never had drunken sleepovers with Cruz, because there’s just never a great moment to bring that up.

“That’s bullshit. I may not have a badge, but I can protect you just as easily as he can.”

I pounded one fist on the steering wheel. “I don’t need to be protected, goddammit! I’m not some damsel tied to a railroad track; I can take care of myself. I’m strong and I’m fast, and nothing with claws or fangs can touch me anyway.”

“Railroad tracks?”

I threw up my hands, which would have been dangerous if we weren’t at a standstill. “Ugh! You know, those old movie serials where the evil guy with the big black mustache would tie up some girl and leave her on the railroad tra—why am I explaining this to you? The point is, I don’t need a rescue.”

He started to argue again, and with some regret, I pulled out my werewolf card. “Look, Eli, this guy’s place is going to be full of silver. If you take one step too far away from me, you could have another horrible reaction and almost die again. Remember how fun that wasn’t?”

He went silent, but still looked stubborn.

I hammered in my last nail. “If I have to spend the whole time being careful of you,” I said, “you’ll just slow me down.”

Defeated, Eli turned to look out his window. “Fine,” he said quietly, to the view of the Pacific Ocean. “The last thing I wanna do is slow you down.”

We didn’t speak the whole rest of the way to his place. In the silence, I found myself thinking about the first time I’d gone home with him, three months earlier. It had been my mother’s birthday, although I never told him or anyone else that. My brother, Jack, hadn’t called, and I hadn’t gotten up the courage to call him. I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone that night, and Molly had gone hunting, so I went out drinking alone. I could have called Jack or tried to rustle up some of my old high school friends, but I hadn’t spoken to any of my friends in years, and Jack was the last person I wanted to see. I didn’t want to play the happy remembering game with him, especially considering he still didn’t know that I was responsible for her death, and my father’s.

I had just wanted to drink.

I’d gone to Hair of the Dog by myself. I could have—should have—gone to a normal human bar within cheap cab distance from Molly’s, but the truth was, I wanted to punish myself. I wanted the stares, the curiosity, the dirty or eager looks. I wanted to feel what I was, and know what it had cost me. It was a Wednesday night, but Hair of the Dog is always crowded, and it took a while to get a table. After about twenty minutes, some nervous-looking weres got up and scooted away from me, forsaking their little booth in a dark corner of the bar. I swooped in and got it, and crooked a finger at the bartender.

He was tall and blond, with a lot of muscle that was more lean than big, like a swimmer. He was wearing jeans and a Hair of the Dog T-shirt, along with a smudged white bar towel flung over his shoulder. Despite being two whiskeys in, with no food in my stomach, I was paying close attention when he hit my radius. Sure enough, he was a were. He didn’t even slow down when he turned human, but a brief look of bliss flew across his face. Ah. One of those.

“We don’t usually do table service, Miss Bernard.”

“You know who I am?” My voice was still strong and clear, I noted with satisfaction. Although my question was dumb.

“Of course.” He gave me a kind of polite duh look. I’m like one of those rich society girls—ridiculously famous in certain circles but only for stupid reasons.