Selene Page 4

  The right thing to do? And you wouldn’t leave me alone once you found out I could track the bastards, even after years and the War and the death of witnesses and God alone knows what else. And it doesn’t matter to you that I have to sell my fucking body to do it, does it? No. You got what you wanted and now it’s too bad for me. Just like a man. “Yeah,” Selene said. Come on, Jack. Prove me wrong. “And catching the scumbag that did a fucking Inquisitor job on my brother is the right thing to do. Whoever it is tore him apart. Into little tiny pieces. Just like a Heretic’s Tangle.”

  He actually went pale. Jack was old enough to have seen footage from the Republic’s mass public ceremonies of purification. He was old enough to remember all sorts of things.

  Jack took in a deep breath. Then he turned around, picked up a slim manila folder from his desk. “For God’s sake, don’t let anyone but Nikolai see this. I can’t help you, Selene. But I’ll look the other way, okay? It’s all I can do. Come on.”

  Selene nodded. Well, that’s more than I hoped for, at least. She shoved the folder into her purse, mashing to make it fit, and pulled the zipper closed. “All right. I guess.” She couldn’t help herself. “You bastard.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed harshly.

  “I can’t afford to piss Nikolai off. I got a mortgage and two kids, Lena,” He was still staring at the window ledge. “And Maureen.”

  “Yeah. You’re lucky. All I had was my brother.” That and a sucktooth breathing down my neck, wanting to own me. She hopped down off the window ledge. Jack’s eyes shifted up to her breasts, and color began to stain his flat cheeks. “What can you tell me, Jack? Anything?”

  There was a tap on the door, and Jorge opened it, a sixteen-ounce latte balanced delicately in one large hand. “Your coffee, Miss Selene. Detective.” He nodded to Jack, his bald head gleaming.

  Dammit. Just when I was getting somewhere.

  “I take it you’re Nikolai’s representative.” Jack’s shoulders went back and he dropped into the only chair in the office that wasn’t buried under a drift of paper—the one behind his desk. The ancient wooden thing creaked alarmingly as he leaned back. “I have your statement from last night, Lena. Want to eyeball it?”

  Selene nodded and slid down from the window ledge. She slid her purse strap up her arm, taking the papers Jack held up over his shoulder. “I guess so. I suppose if I want to make corrections, you’ll tell me not to waste my time?”

  “Take it up with Nikolai, not me,” Jack snapped. “So, Mister. . .?” He looked up at Jorge, trailing off.

  Lena scanned the statement. As the official version of last night’s events, it left out about three-quarters of what actually happened and didn’t mention Nikolai at all. She picked up a pen from Jack’s cluttered desk and bent down to sign it. Jack’s eyes skittered over the desk, touched her face, and Selene glanced up to see the detective look hurriedly away.

  “Czestowitz,” Jorge said. “Jorge Czestowitz.”

  “Good Christos.” Jack sounded half impressed. “Gesundheit. Nicetameetcha.”

  Selene tossed the signed statement onto Jack’s desk. “Ciao, Pepper. I’m going to pick up some mementos from my brother’s apartment. Unless I’m not allowed to even grieve for him.”

  “Why don’t you get out of my face, Thompson?” Jack snarled back. There were half-moons of sweat on his wilting shirt, under his arms. “Go and play with your bloodsucking boyfriend, why don’t you?”

  Oh, I’d love to. I’d love to take a stake and about fifty gallons of petroleo to the bastard. And I’m not going to forget this, Jack. You can hunt your own goddamn murderers from now on. “Fuck you,” Selene tossed over her shoulder as she took her latte from Jorge and opened Jack’s office door. “Don’t call me, Pepper. I’ll call you.” So I can tell you to go to hell.

  “Yeah, likewise,” Jack muttered, and Selene heard Jorge’s heavy footsteps behind her as she clicked out into the hall, swallowing the lump in her throat. That went well. Better than I thought it would, really.

  So why do I feel like screaming?

  Three

  Yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the doorframe. Jorge contemplated the plywood boards some thoughtful soul had nailed up. “I don’t know, Selene. It hasn’t been cleaned, or anything.”

  “Come on, Jorge.” Selene eased herself another half-step closer to him. “I have a right. He was my brother.”

  Jorge’s eyebrows beetled together. He looked a little confused, and miserably certain he was going to get in trouble one way or the other. “Nikolai will not like this.”

  “He expected it, and he didn’t tell you to stop me. I’m not in any danger.” She actually wheedled, stepping even closer and pushing stray tendrils of her hair back. Her shields were thinning, she could smell Jorge’s acrid lemon worry and the faint flavor of delicious chocolate wickedness that meant he was Nikolai’s. She inhaled, filling her lungs with the smell.

  Nikolai.

  Stop it. Business, get down to business. Quit thinking about him. You’ll deal with him soon enough, I’m sure.

  “Well. . .” Jorge looked at the door. A slight shudder passed through his broad shoulders.

  “He didn’t tell you to stop me, Jorge. I have a right to go into my brother’s home.” Selene grabbed at the crime-scene tape and tore it down, the plastic stretching and biting her hand. “Yowch.” She curled her fingers over the edge of the plywood, wriggling them through a gap. She pulled, grimacing, but couldn’t move it. She hissed out through her teeth, frustrated. It wouldn’t budge.

  She yanked again.

  Jorge shouldered her aside and thrust his fingers through the small space. Nails squealed and the plywood ripped free. He spent another moment on the piece of plywood nailed below it, and Selene let out a pent breath. “Thanks.” There was a coppery, awful smell boiling out through the smashed doorframe. “Do you do parties too?”

  Jorge’s hazel eyes met hers. He magnanimously refused to reply.

  Selene had to bend down to slip through the hole he’d made. “Wait—” Jorge began, but she was already through. Too late. Thanks, Jorge. I owe you one for being a decent person after all.

  The carpet was soaked with blood, still tacky-wet. Selene’s heels slipped. I’m going to have to burn these shoes. Her stomach flipped under her ribs, her hands were slick with sweat.

  There were footsteps out in the hall, and she heard Jorge’s voice saying something about an investigation. Another voice, querulous—an old woman, maybe a neighbor. Where were you last night? Selene wanted to shout. Huh? Where were you when he needed help? This had to have made a fuck of a lot of noise, where were you when he needed someone, anyone?

  Where were you when he needed me?

  Selene went down the hall—the daylight glared in here, showing her the pools of blood, drips and spatters on the walls. The air swirled uneasily. Murder, and Selene’s own magick, and the highly-charged fear and nausea of the cops and forensics personnel who had photographed and measured the scene all mixed together, a heady stew.

  I could tap in and use that, stave off having to feed. A trickle of heat spilled into her belly, overwhelmed by revulsion at the idea. Danny. Dear God, what happened? What did you do?

  She didn’t have much time. At any moment, Jorge could rip off another piece of plywood and come in, deciding that Nikolai wouldn’t like her in here at all even if he hadn’t specifically banned it.

  Just look at it like any other scene. You’ve done this a million times, maybe more.

  A panicked, breathless little thought rose up after that. I can’t look at it like any other scene, it was Danny, Danny was lying right there—or what was left of him, anyway.

  Stop it. You have to be calm, Lena. You have to be calm. Do what you have to do, then you can cry. Save the weeping and whining for later, okay?

  She found herself in the kitchen, crouching down. On one side of the stove, there was a cabinet. There was little blood here—Danny had died in the hall and the single room of th
e studio, maroon splashed on walls, soaking into the carpet. In here there were only a few trailing drops.

  Give my regards to Nikolai. Selene let out a soft shapeless sigh, pushed the memory away. It didn’t want to go.

  Her footprints marked the linoleum, the dots of her heels, the rest of the shoe making a softly rounded triangle against the hard surface. I’m tracking around his blood. It isn’t even dry yet. God.

  She opened the cabinet and pulled the mixing bowls out. Behind them was a shapeless cloth-wrapped bundle. There was something hard in there as well as the softer edges of the notebook. Danny’s little black book.

  I can’t hide this, my purse is already full. She cast around for something else.

  When she finally ducked back out into the hall, carrying a small blue canvas bag she’d often used to bring Danny his library books, Jorge was still looming with his arms crossed over his massive Jarmani-clad chest. The dingy orange-carpeted hallway was quiet around him, a midday sort of quiet. Someone’s television was turned way up, and Selene heard a newscaster’s voice rising and falling through the thin walls. It sounded rich, not tinny—maybe someone had one of the new three-dimensional holograph televisions Danny was always talking about.

  “Did you retrieve what you needed?” he asked, kindly enough. He really was a decent guy.

  Selene nodded. Her throat constricted. The medallion warmed again between her breasts, the silver shifting slightly against her skin. “Thanks, Jorge. I mean it.” I shouldn’t have even had to ask anyone to bring me out here, and I shouldn’t have had to twist your arm and wheedle. . .but thank you.

  She’d taken two pictures of Danny and his threadbare teddy bear Carson—named after the camp where the rebellion happened, who said refugee kids didn’t have a sense of humor?—as well as a red button-down flannel shirt that had been tossed over his foldout bed. It had a few speckles of his blood on it, good for tracking. She could use it for Working if she had to.

  There were a few other things she wanted, but those were the most important and space was limited. She also took a little blue glass apple, found in a dumpster the week after they’d left the camp. It had perched proudly on Danny’s desk for as long as he’d had the apartment. She’d played with it every time she’d come over, tossing it up in the air, catching it, running her fingers over the slick glass. A useless bit of pre-War glitz, but he’d loved it.

  “Nikolai suggested we might visit a funeral parlor,” Jorge said, turning to the plywood sheets he had set to the side. He put the first back in place and held it for a moment, metal nails squealing, and when he took his hands away, it stayed. A breath of Power brushed Selene’s skin. Jorge repeated the process with the second sheet of plywood.

  It was mighty handy, having a thrall around.

  Was that an order, or was Nikolai trying to be polite? What’s the etiquette for this? I bet he’d know, wouldn’t he. “I don’t. . .” Selene trailed off. That would make it too real. Picking out an urn, scheduling a memorial service, and dealing with Netley and Jorge looming over her at the same time. . .Christos, no. Her stomach rose in revolt, the latte churning against her back teeth, she managed to push it down with an effort. “I just want to go home, Jorge. Please?”

  Jorge deftly knotted the torn crime-scene tape together. “Of course. Would you like Netley to stay with you?”

  “I’d rather get eaten by an epileptic shark.” Selene hitched the blue canvas bag and her black leather purse higher up on her shoulder. “I suppose Nikolai wants someone to stay with me, right? Just to make sure I don’t head for the bus station or do something silly like try to find out who killed my only brother.” Settle down there, Selene. It’s not Jorge’s fault. It really isn’t.

  Jorge shrugged, let her go first down the hall toward the stairs again. Selene’s blood pounded in her ears, nervous sweat running down the shallow track of her spine to the small of her back, soaking into the waistband of her skirt. Her nylons rubbed against the inside of her thighs, damp and uncomfortable. God, I just want to go home. Why am I so nervous? What was Danny hiding in there?

  The foyer downstairs looked even more dingy and depressing with pearly rainy light coming in through the glass doors. The phone box crouched obediently in its corner. A chill finger touched Selene’s nape.

  The medallion warmed against her skin, vaguely comforting. She wondered if she’d tracked blood out onto the thin orange carpet. Her stomach roiled again, doing its best to declare an insurrection, quelled only by the fact that she would go to hell before she let Nikolai’s thralls see her puking her guts out.

  Jorge opened the door for her. The limo idled quietly at the curb, right next to the red No Parking strip. The driver seems to have a thing for No Parking zones, doesn’t he? Maybe it’s working for a Nichtvren that does it. Selene’s ankles hurt, and her lower back. The sweat was starting to spring up underneath her breasts, soaking into her bra. Lace and the underwire began to chafe.

  She looked down at the cracked pavement, her shoes gleaming black and dotted with rain. How much of Danny’s blood was she tracking over the pavement now?

  The thought made her stomach flip again, and something acidic boiled up into her mouth. She stopped on the sidewalk, looking down at her feet. Am I really going to puke? Please don’t let me throw up. Let me keep a little dignity, God, please? I know I’m not supposed to have any shame, but please let me have this one shred of dignity. Please.

  The limo’s engine hummed obediently. The sound of another car shushing wetly through a puddle made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Selene, frozen, stared down at her toes. Her intuition prickled, the same chill panic she’d felt last night when the phone rang and Danny—

  Someone yelled. Jorge pushed her and she went down, heavily, her teeth clicking together. Training brought her head down, she tucked and rolled along the wet pavement. One shoe skittered off. Her elbow sang with pain. The back of her head hit concrete, she literally saw stars, bright pinpricks of light flashing through the gray mist the day had become.

  Pocking sounds—pop! pop! pop! Chips of concrete flew. Selene heard a scream, realized it was hers. Copper and the flat iron of adrenaline filled her throat.

  Jorge’s hand closed around her left arm. He yanked her up from the ground so hard her shoulder gave a screaming flare of pain. Her right arm clamped around the blue canvas bag and her purse. Something hard and round that must have been the glass apple bounced against Selene’s ribs as he spun her around, sheltering her behind the bulk of his Jarmani.

  He shoved her into the limousine. There was an acrid smell—cordite, Selene thought, recognizing it from childhood violence and the firing range where Jack had taught her to shoot. Someone’s firing a fucking gun. At me. Why?

  Glass shattered. The limousine pulled away from the curb. Selene looked over her shoulder, through the broken window. Jorge grabbed her arm and pushed her down against the leather seat, but not before she saw a low-slung black shape—someone on an old petroleo motorcycle, hunching down, the snub of an assault rifle poking up.

  Netley calmly shoved another clip into a silver automatic—9mm, maybe, some part of Selene said with chilling, lunatic calm. Her body burned, little prickles of electricity crawled over her skin. The latte rose hot and insistent against her back teeth again, sour and tainted with the taste of false hazelnut.

  She was lucky she didn’t crave sweets like Danny did, after the perpetual scrounging for food that was living in the camps. God, how he loved sweet things—the first time she’d ever been paid for sex she’d bought him twenty candy bars. It had seemed like so much money, back then. And Selene’s hungers were darker. The flush of fear pouring through her was enough to make her curse half-wake. She struggled to breathe deeply, scrabbling for control.

  Netley took aim and fired twice out the broken window, deafening thunder in the small space. Selene clapped her hands over her ears. Her nylons were destroyed, a thin trickle of blood slid down from her right knee. She couldn’t get enou
gh air in with her throat shrunk to the size of a straw.

  “Check her,” Netley snapped. “God, tell me she’s not hit.”

  She was on fire, the fear biting into her belly and making her entire body liquid and hot, clothes rasping against her skin. Selene heard her own shallow, panting gasps and curled up around the blue canvas bag and her purse. Jorge spared her a single look. He was bleeding from his cheek and his shoulder, a crimson wetness spreading across his gray jacket.

  “Selene?” His gaze was dark, and for a moment something moved in its depths, something old and dangerous. She wondered, not for the first time, if a Nichtvren as old and powerful as his master could look out through a thrall’s eyes. “Are you hurt? Are you?”

  She couldn’t tell. Her entire body was numb and throbbing at the same time, her curse hard to control when she was this terrified. “I—” she began. Had to take another deep breath. “No. I don’t think so. . . what was that?”

  “That,” Price Netley said, his hazel eyes wide and sparkling and his hair wildly mussed, “was why Nikolai told us to accompany you, Miss Thompson.”

  The limousine pulled into a cavernous garage, rows of sleek cars lining either side of the central aisle, and Selene raised her head.

  “I don’t want this, I want to go home, I want to go home—” she began again, and had to take another deep shuddering breath as fresh fit of trembling seized her. Her teeth chattered.

  “Orders, Miss Thompson,” Netley said, his bland blond face unusually severe. Darkness swallowed the limo. The garage didn’t have windows and the door was going down, shutting out daylight. “Nikolai’s orders.”

  And we all obey when Nikolai orders, don’t we. All his little puppets, dancing on strings. “I don’t care,” Selene gasped. “I want to go home. I don’t want to be here.”

  “If they’ve marked your brother’s home, then they’ve probably marked yours too,” Netley pointed out, sounding maddeningly calm. “Ah, here we are. The Master will want to see—”