Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(8)
“Scarlett Kaylie Bernard, now twenty-three. She was arrested last year for arson, burning down a shed in the suburbs. The DA didn’t press charges, which is a little weird—usually they at least plead out. Anyway, that’s her.” She gave him a suspicious look. “Now tell me I didn’t just use department resources to look into your blind date.”
“No, no, it’s definitely important,” he assured her. He thanked Glory and headed back to his desk to think about his next move.
Chapter 4
My dreams were full of blood—splattered over trees and twisted, ripped limbs. This time I was in the middle of the clearing, not just on the edges, and the blood was all around me, 360 degrees of it. It crept toward me, threatening to ooze its way up my legs and onto my clothes, all the way to my face and down my throat. I woke up shivering, the blankets tangled in my legs.
I spent most of the day sleeping, watching TV, and avoiding my cell phone. Dashiell, Kirsten, and Will all had specialized ring-tones, so it was easy enough to ignore everything else. When I finally checked the little screen late that afternoon, Eli had called three times, probably wondering where I was. Whoops. I had sort of forgotten all about him. I’d also missed a call from my brother, Jack. That was a surprise—Jack and I don’t talk much. He still lives in Esperanza, the little town ninety minutes east of LA where we both grew up. Jack wanted to be a doctor, but when our parents died he couldn’t swing medical school, so now he works as a laboratory technician at Esperanza’s only clinic. We avoid each other by unspoken mutual agreement—him because he feels guilty about not taking care of me when Mom and Dad died, and me because, well, I was responsible for their deaths.
So why would he be calling me? I decided I would put off finding out. I’m brave like that.
Just before sunset, I pulled on my gym clothes and took off for my daily four-mile run. I can’t be attacked by supernatural forces, but I can sure as hell be chased, and I bruise and break bones just like any other human. I’m just not a gun-carrying, karate-knowing, kick-ass kind of girl, so I lift weights a couple of times a week, and I run every day. Not that I’m one of those go-getter Nike kind of runners, either. I actually kind of hate it, but it’s the only real responsibility I have.
Molly “woke” up when the sun went down at six thirty, and we ordered Chinese and watched reruns of Friends for a few hours. Molly gets a huge kick out of things like eating, going to the bathroom, and just generally pretending we live in a bubbly sitcom universe where nobody is undead. I get that, and I was definitely in the mood to hang out in bubbly sitcom land for a while.
At ten, I went upstairs to shower and change. When I came back down, damp hair darkening the back of my shirt, Molly eyed my jeans and green T-shirt with what could only be described as a foreboding disdain. “That’s what you’re wearing? You’re not going to change?”
“Molls, I thought you liked me the way I was.” When she didn’t smile, I looked down at myself. “What? The T-shirt’s from Banana Republic.”
“Scarlett”—she sighed and shook her head—“he’s the most powerful person in the city, for crying out loud. At least find pants without holes. And brush your hair.”
I looked down and spotted the small hole worn in the knee of my jeans. Whoops. “Spielberg’s got more power,” I grumbled, but I went back up to my room and dug out a pair of khakis. After a moment’s thought, I also swapped my Chuck Taylors—one of the most popular shoe brands on the market, which helps when I have to leave footprints—for my good boots. I tugged the elastic band out of my messy ponytail and picked up my brush from the nightstand. When it was finally neat, I twisted it up into a smooth ballerina bun and secured it with a rubber band and bobby pins, turning my head back and forth to check my handiwork in the mirror. Good enough. Sometimes I consider chopping my hair down to a nice manageable three inches, but I would miss it too much. It’s less useful and more confidence-boosting, like Superman’s cape.
Besides, it’s just like my mother’s hair.
By eleven, my stomach was doing nervous backflips, the way it always does when I butt heads with Dashiell. To be fair, though, I should have seen all this coming quite some time ago. I’d gotten overconfident with eight months of nonemergencies, and then I’d let this smack me down hard. Of course Dashiell was upset. I took my Taser off the charger (although it really only works on vampires while they’re close enough to me to be human, it makes me feel better to bring it along when I can), picked up my keys and wallet, and stuffed everything into the various pockets of my olive-green canvas jacket, which looks like something an investigative journalist would wear in a political thriller. Molly calls it my “coat-o’-nine pockets.” Then I went through the back door and into the autumn night.
As LA neighborhoods go, West Hollywood is fairly benign after dark. Molly’s house is the unchanging oasis in an area that has developed around it for decades, crowding her in with restaurants and bars that have gone through various stages of hipness. At this point, there are only four other residences on Molly’s street, and the neighborhood is mostly frequented by a middle-aged, upper-middle-class crowd that goes to bed before eleven.
I went through the teeny backyard in about six steps and closed the decorative gate behind me (vampires don’t worry too much about security), breathing in the cool, congested LA air. It smelled pleasantly of concrete and hamburgers and car exhaust. Molly’s property has a single-spot carport next to the back door where she parks her Prius. I have to pay a small fortune to keep my van in the big parking garage down the street. The garage was mostly empty by the time I got there, and I kept my head down and walked quickly and purposefully down the wide, empty pavement to my van on the lower level. When I glanced up, though, I realized that someone was leaning against my hood. My hand went toward the pocket with the Taser. As I got closer, though, he pushed himself off and turned to face me, hands tense and ready at his sides. I recognized the handsome cop from the clearing.