Pure Blood Part 4

"Methadone?" I said. She blinked rapidly and shook her head so hard her greasy hair flew.

"I never touched that c.r.a.p!" she said fiercely. "Not after what it did to Bryan."

I pointed at the circular track marks on her arms. "Stella, I'm not going to bust you. If you need help, better tell me now." I didn't know where this alternate-reality kindhearted me had come from, but I think it had something to do with the desperate, trapped-animal look in Stella Howard's eyes. She reminded me of something in myself, at a younger, more terrified age. A million roads spread out before you, all of them bad, and no map to navigate.

"I'm anemic," said Stella. "Not on smack." She pulled a pill bottle bearing the logo of the public health service out of her pocket and handed it to me. Sure enough, it contained large white pills and was purportedly to treat severe anemia.

"How ..." I started, and then Shelby's blood donor comment made sense. I could smell nothing but plain human from Stella and Dusty, but the gang sign outside and the big needle marks in Stella's arm filled in the blanks. "You sell it to them," I said, understanding. She nodded once.

"And it's not illegal, so you can go now."

Maybe not in the sense that cooking meth and stealing Ferraris was illegal, but selling human blood to witches definitely walked in the gray zone. And if the blood witch Stella was a.s.sociated with allowed her to partic.i.p.ate in workings as a reward for a ready supply of blood ... that was just bad all around.

I helped Stella up and brushed my knees off. "Think very hard about what you're doing here, Stella. You may not be a junkie, but you're feeding addicts just like the dealer who sold Bryan his last shot." If Bryan Howard had really died of an overdose at all.

"I know what I'm doing," said Stella, her lips compressed. "We don't push it to the gangs on the street. Dusty and I are respectable commodities."

I couldn't formulate a response to that one, so I murmured, "I'm very sorry for your loss," and called to Shelby that it was time to go.

"She called herself a commodity," I fumed to Shelby as we drove back to the precinct. "Like ... like she was a freaking slave! And liked it!"

"She is a slave," said Shelby in a tone that let me know she was entirely unbothered by Stella Howard's plight. "Blood donors are like prost.i.tutes, only worse, because they let blood magick happen as a result of their trafficking."

I took my eyes off the road to study her. She was picking something out of one of her nails, then blew on them and examined the tips in the flickering road lights.

"You don't care," I said, not a question. Shelby crinkled her brow.

"Why should I? People like that deserve whatever comes to them. They debase themselves willingly."

"I can see all that time in Vice did wonders for your outlook on the world," I muttered.

"I'm a realist, Luna. I never would have pegged you as an idealist." Her tone was lightly derisive, and I wanted to slam the brakes so her pert little nose bopped against the dashboard.

"I'm not a Hexed idealist," I growled, and just to be difficult I continued, "I think Bryan Howard may not have died from an OD."

"Of course he did," said Shelby dismissively. "Once you dilute your blood with hard drugs you're of no use to blood witches. He probably killed himself because he couldn't be someone's donor b.i.t.c.h any longer."

She was one to talk about b.i.t.c.hes. I had heard the cold academic tone Shelby used before, usually in talk directed at weres. It ran p.r.i.c.kles of anger up and down my back, and I pressed the accelerator a little harder.

"A suicide still isn't an accident," I persisted. "I think we should look into it."

"And I think we should close it so I can do some actual casework," said Shelby. "Just because Morgan has you on a choke collar doesn't mean I can't make my bones on a real murder."

The Twenty-fourth came up on my right and I popped the emergency brake, squealing the Fairlane to a stop at the curb. I reached over a jostled-looking Shelby and shoved her door open. "Out."

She c.o.c.ked her head. "Why should I get out here?"

"Because that's the precinct house," I said, "and if you don't get your smug little buns out of my car I am going to slap you."

"You take things way too personally," Shelby told me as she collected her coat and climbed out. I took the brake off and revved the engine.

"What am I going to tell Morgan about you leaving?" Shelby demanded over the noise.

"Tell her to bite me," I said, popping the clutch and roaring away.

CHAPTER 6.

The Belladonna club hunkered behind Nocturne University, a ramshackle ex-brothel that had been outfitted with a stage, a bar, and questionable restrooms. On weeknights it was mostly scenester college kids, but weekends brought out some of the less wholesome crowd.

Still, a booking there meant local celebrity and Trevor's band was doing a sound check when I walked in. I had left my s.h.i.+eld and gun locked in the glove compartment of my car, since I was off duty, and my black jeans, combat boots, and scuffed jacket blended me right in with the rest of the clubgoers.

I ordered a whiskey on the rocks from the bartender for show, because I didn't want to embarra.s.s Trevor with my usual club soda with a twist. Whiskey had been my choice poison before I'd largely stopped drinking.

"Hey." Trevor's smooth voice washed over the crowd via a crackly PA. "Thanks for coming out. I'm Wicked, and we're the Exorcists."

Someone flung a bottle that shattered at Trevor's feet, but he ignored it and strapped on his black Fender to play the opening chords of "Deadly Sin." I sighed. "Deadly Sin" was an ode to Trevor's ex-girlfriend, the one who ran off with the Exorcists' former drummer.

"Something wrong with your drink?" the bartender hollered as the rest of the band joined Trevor for the industrial-heavy chorus.

The bartender was big and heavily pierced, so I shook my head. "Don't blame you!" he shouted. "This s.h.i.+tty music would put me off booze too!"

I dropped my forehead onto my folded hands. Sure, the Exorcists were a goth band in a post-industrial world, and they had a stupid name, but they weren't that that bad. bad.

"Deadly Sin" died away with a moan from Trevor- Wicked was his stage name, another thing I'd tried to talk him out of-and he grabbed the mic stand, leaning on it and breathing heavily.

"That was for Sherrine," he whispered. "The dark G.o.ddess who broke my heart. Sherrine, mistress of my soul..."

I looked back at my gla.s.s. Suddenly, the whiskey seemed mightily appealing.

"This next one is new material." Trevor abruptly straightened up and handed his Fender to his roadie. "It's about being delivered from the darkness."

He started to sing. "Black like the face of a brand-new moon, Never seen eyes hold a love so true." "Black like the face of a brand-new moon, Never seen eyes hold a love so true."

I froze, certain that every head in the place was turned to me.

"Luna, my Luna, I'm mood-mad for you."

Oh, Hex me. This could not really be happening. Dating for a couple of weeks and he was writing songs in my name? Could an offer to join him forever in the dark pit of his bleeding soul be far behind? And G.o.ds, couldn't I have inspired something other than a power ballad?

The bartender noticed me hunched in abject humiliation. "You Luna? He singing about you?"

I threw back the whiskey and jumped off my stool. "Not anymore, he's not." I took off at a run for the ladies' room, shoving my way through leather-and-spike-clad patrons, all of whom were transfixed by Trevor's earnest shriek.

"Luna, my Luna- Luna, where are you going?"

I managed to slam the door and slip the bolt lock, face heated past boiling. What in the seven h.e.l.ls did Trevor think I was? His dark G.o.ddess, 2.0? And why did he have to sing sing about it? In front of about it? In front of people? people?

I banged my forehead against the door. It just figured-I attracted one man who ran off never to be seen again, and one so clingy that he wrote poetic songs in my honor after knowing me for less time than it takes to obtain a new driver's license.

Breathing deeply slowed my pounding heart and I stayed leaning against the door for a few ticks of the clock, trying to convince all of my were parts that Trevor was just a plain human, foolishly in love, and didn't mean to turn me into a laughingstock in front of the entire club.

That, and I owned the deed to the Siren Bay Bridge.

If I stayed in here long enough, I could slip out during "Devils in My Mind," which involved a strobe light. And then I could move to an obscure third-world country, dye my hair, and forget this ever happened.

Opening my eyes and moving toward the sink, I caught sight of a crumpled male figure on the tile floor. He was in a pool of vomit and blood, body curled rigid like a seash.e.l.l.

"Aw, s.h.i.+t." I dropped to my knees and half-slid over to him, rolling him onto his side and moving his head to clear the airway. I felt for a pulse in his neck, but nothing beat under my fingers.

I examined his open, bloodshot eyes and clawed fingers, nails digging into the palms so hard they rent flesh. Hex it. He was dead. I let the body fall back to its original position, and my eyes drifted upward to the dingy wall above his head. In the low light the words could have been stained in purple ink, but I could smell the fresh blood mixed with bile.

save me

My first order of business was to grab the bartender. "Do you have a key to the women's bathroom?"

"Who the Hex knows. What of it?"

"I need a key!" I demanded, hitting the bar with the flat of my hand. He fished in the cash register and handed it to me, along with a sour look.

"Better bring it back... and no shooting up in there!" he warned. I ran back to the ladies' room and locked it, preserving the crime scene as best I could, which amounted to practically nothing. Public bathrooms are the absolute worst place you can drop dead, for everyone concerned.

Then I went to the Fairlane, got my badge and gun, and called Mac.

"Get CSU on the wire," he said after I'd given him the ten-second version of finding the body. I left out Trevor's musical styling and the fact that I wasn't, at the present moment, on duty like I should be.

"And call your partner," McAllister added.

"Mac, no," I moaned. "I can't deal with her right now. Can't you come instead?"

"You know what I had planned for this evening, Wilder? Drinks with a nice girl from the clerical staff at the Thirty-third. You know what I'm going to be doing now?"

"What?" I asked, knowing that I had him.

"Having drinks with the nice girl from the Thirty-third. Morgan gave you a partner, Wilder. You're a grown-up; you don't need me there to referee. Go fly free and all that."

I squeezed the phone and it gave a pathetic chirp.

"I'm late," said Mac. "Have you finished thinking evil thoughts about me so I can hang up?"

"Yeah, go. Have a good time," I muttered, ending the call. I dialed dispatch and had them put me through to Dr. Kronen's private number. Then, after Bart had the address of Belladonna, I pulled up Shelby's contact number and called.

"O'Halloran," she answered, sounding perky as a cheerleader for Dallas.

I pushed down the urge to break things and said, "Shelby, it's Luna."

"That's what my caller ID says. I thought you were off duty."

"Well, the dead guy in the bathroom of my boyfriend's club changed my mind. How fast can you get over to the university?"

I could practically see her composing her speech for her promotion to lieutenant. Witch.

"I'll be right over!"

"Take Devere and loop around behind the campus. Belladonna bar, you can't miss it." She had already hung up.

I went back to the bathroom and stood by the door, tapping my foot as I waited for Bart and Shelby to arrive. Trevor was still onstage and people were milling and drinking without a care in the world.

Scenting the crowd yielded me nothing except the overwhelming urge to force deodorant on every person in the place. A sensitive nose is rarely a blessing, in practice. There are a lot of smelly things and people in this world. But tonight, none of them scented of blood, which left me at a dead body and a dead end.

I caught a flash of khaki and blond at the doorway and saw Shelby flash the bouncer her s.h.i.+eld and then shove him out of the way. "This is a mess!" she shouted at me over the heavy synth of Trevor's music. "We need uniforms in here to secure the scene!"

"n.o.body's leaving until the set is over!" I shouted back. "And I'm thinking causing a scene in a place like this is the last thing that will help the investigation!"

Shelby took out her phone and spoke quietly into it, turning back to me with a self-satisfied expression. "The head dispatcher is a friend of the family. She'll have every available uniform here within ten minutes."

"How fabulous," I snarled, turning the key in the bathroom door. "Shelby, if I didn't want anybody to listen to me I'd take a G.o.dd.a.m.n vow of silence."

"I'm not following," she said, pus.h.i.+ng past me and pulling on gloves next to the body. I slammed the door after us and bolted it, drowning out the club noises except for the heavy heartbeat of ba.s.s.

"Partners respect each other," I told her, pulling on gloves of my own. "Partners don't go over each other's heads."

Shelby bent over the body, examined his hands and face and began to search through the pockets of his black jeans. The man's black b.u.t.ton-down was open almost to the navel, leaving little to the imagination. He was skinny and powder-pale with a small tufting of black hair on his chest.

"That's true," Shelby said. "But you don't seem to want me for a partner, so as far as I'm concerned our proximity is an unfortunate stumbling block to my career goals."

"You know, miniskirt," I said loudly, "I haven't done anything to offend you. I think you're just worried that getting stuck with the were detective is going to sink your precious career." She didn't look up from her examination. I added, "That, or you're just a cla.s.s-A rich b.i.t.c.h who can't even succeed at slumming a blue-collar job." I adopted Morgan's snotty tone almost without realizing it, and felt appalled when I heard myself say, "Maybe you'd be better suited to marrying another trust-fund waste of s.p.a.ce and pumping out a few brats, because you don't have any skills that I can see." Her head snapped up and she glared at me.

"You crossed a line there."

"If you want to swing on me, you might as well," I said. "Then we'll both have it out of our systems and we can get some work done."