Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(20)
I wondered if that meant that Yummy and Occam had ever—
“Come on.” Occam turned his back on her in a catty insult, speaking to me. “I got a camera for you to work with.”
Yummy’s eyes lit up in what must have been relish at the insult. As if she found Occam even more interesting and delightful prey now than before.
“Nell? Camera,” Occam said.
The camera was a ruse to keep the humans among us from having a fear reaction at a paranormal person. I was listed in Unit Eighteen as an undifferentiated paranormal, meaning that I wasn’t among the short list of paranormals with known powers, gifts, and disadvantages—like vampires catching fire in sunlight. Yummy knew I wasn’t human because she had seen me communing with the land once. And because she knew Jane Yellowrock. Reading the land in such a public place might tell everyone everywhere that I wasn’t human, and . . . well, I hadn’t told my mama or daddy yet. So holding a camera was a ruse.
Keeping to the semiprotection of the brick wall, I followed Occam down the street to the winter-bare trees. And the ten-by-twenty plot of land was revealed to be the brick-paved outdoor eating area of a restaurant, one with cement planters for the trees and greenery. There were rounds everywhere, each marked with a numbered yellow evidence marker. Tables and chairs were overturned; drinks were pooled and reeking of alcohol. There had been people eating out here when the shooting started, outside in the cold, which was just stupid to my way of thinking. But there was nothing for me to read, no land in sight. I looked at Occam and crossed my arms over my chest. Yummy was watching the byplay with the same kind of amusement that a human might display when watching monkeys in a zoo.
Occam looked around. Sighed. “Right. Okay. I see.” He handed me a camera. “Try anyway.”
I threw the blanket back at him and sat on the cement edge of a planter. Placed the camera on the ground prominently in front of me as if it had a purpose. I dug my fingers through six inches of mulch and stuck them into the soil. It was good-quality potting soil mixed with topsoil. There was a nice concentration of nutrients. One spot where some stupid human had dumped in a cup of coffee. I boosted the tree, just in case the winter was long and cold, and withdrew my hand. “Nothing. But why do they think the shooter stood here? The rounds probably popped off the roof.” I looked up. So did Occam and Yummy, who pursed her mouth.
She laced her fingers together, bent her knees, and said, “Come on, cat. I’ll boost you up and you can pull me up. Maggot can wait down here.”
I spotted Rick in a group of suited men and women, mostly Secret Service and feds. “I’ll be eavesdropping over there.” Occam didn’t acknowledge my comment. Without looking, he took a running start and bounded into Yummy’s hand. The vampire tossed him up and forward and he touched down on the roof with cat grace. In his cat form that leap would have been easy all on his own.
Yummy backed up and raced in, leaping onto the planter and pushing off with one foot. Occam reached out over the edge and grabbed her arm, pulling her up. They collided, fell out of sight, and hit the roof. There was little doubt they had landed flat, together. Yummy laughed, the sound delighted. Teasing. Sexual.
A strange feeling opened up in my middle at her laughter. I was pretty sure I had never heard laughter like that before, but I knew what it was and what it meant. The strange feeling in my rooty middle went wide and empty at the sound, sad and betrayed. Until Occam said, “No,” his tone cold and full of threat. “Look away from me.”
The vampire made a pouting sound. “You take all the fun out of the hunt. Now put away your toy before we have an incident.”
“Put away your fangs first.”
The frozen tone of his voice eased some of the odd emptiness inside me. If there had ever been something between them it was long gone. I heard nothing else until the sounds of them rising reached me, and they walked across the metal roof. Then I heard them repeating what sounded like the “hands and push”/”leap and catch” being replayed as they attained the roof of the two-story building next over, one that shared a wall with the restaurant with no land in front.
My attention returned to the shooting scene and when I breathed, the air was heavy with diesel exhaust. All the emergency medical vehicle engines were still running. I turned and moved toward Rick, through the law enforcement officers and crime scene techs, all milling around, all with jobs to do. I was almost to the street.
Shots rang out. I dove to the pavers behind the planter. I caught a blur of movement from the corner of my eye on a roof. Either there were two shooters or the shooter had repositioned catty-cornered across the street. He—or they—had us pinned down. But then the movement was gone. Had someone been targeted? Or was the shooter just creating confusion so he—it?—they?—could get away?
My heart was slamming in my chest. My breath was fast and shallow. I was terrified. Had I mistaken clouds in the sky for a shooter?
High up, I caught a distorted shape against the skyline, an amorphous form bending over a long rifle, aiming down. Three shots sounded. Three more. These three hitting emergency vehicles with the injured inside.
FOUR
Cops ran everywhere. Screams. Shouting.
“JoJo!” I shouted into my comms. “Active shooter on the roof of—I can’t see the business name. Multistoried building on South Central. There’s a white plaque in the brick, like an original name. It might start with a C, and the word Building after it?”