Dog with a Bone Page 10

  Twisting hard to the right, I rolled us into the grass. I was digging my nails into the dirt when Richardson sprung at me. Lurching out of his reach, I got my feet under me and bolted toward Shaw.

  “Thierry.” His voice ripped from a throat gone raw.

  For one terrible moment, my gaze locked with his. Blood dripped into his eyes from a gash across his forehead, but his fear was for me. Even as he deflected blows from his opponent, I was his main concern. My heart stopped, and I knew I couldn’t lose him like this. Not to them.

  The open door to the shelter gaped in the ground ahead. Unsure of the extent of the Richardsons’ magical immunity, I ran down the stairs, inside their lair in search of an effective weapon to use against them. The smell hit me first, cold and bloody, like a freezer full of freshly butchered meat. A short hall gave me three options. I shot through the door on my right, where the cloying scent of death was weakest.

  Footsteps thumped behind me. Richardson was on the stairs.

  Inside a sterile white room, I flipped the door lock then ransacked the area, searching for a way to combat him.

  “There are scalpels,” a frail voice said, “under the counter.”

  “Who said...?” My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh my God.”

  “Yes,” he chortled. “Pray to yours. Mine abandoned me long ago.”

  Behind a white curtain, strapped to a gurney, a slender male fought for his life. His skin was the color of a ripe avocado. His knees bent at odd angles beneath the sheets. He was nude except for the thin white sheet draped over his waist, covering him from the hips down.

  Bile rose up the back of my throat when I saw his chest, sliced open, flaps of skin pinned to his sides, revealing organs pulsing as silver contraptions cradled them. Behind him, on the walls, were shelves filled with bespelled jars. In them, lungs expanded, hearts pulsated. All major organs were accounted for, and most were in pairs.

  Fists pounded on the door. “Open this door.”

  “The scalpels,” the male urged.

  “Right.” I headed for the counter and rifled through the bins underneath the first shelf. “Better than nothing.”

  “You’re with the conclave?”

  “I am.” His voice brought my head up, and I forced what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Marshal Thackeray at your service.”

  “Good.” He relaxed against his paper-thin pillow. “Good.”

  The door rattled in its frame. Richardson was ramming it. Had to be. With a fistful of scalpels, I placed myself between the wounded fae and the monster about to barrel into the room pissed off and ready to brawl. Picking one blade from the others, I gripped it until my fingers went numb.

  “May I?” the male asked.

  I darted a glance back at him. He jerked his chin toward my handful of blades. “Uh, sure.”

  After so long being a victim, if a scalpel in his hand bolstered his courage, I owed him that.

  He flexed the fingers of his nearest hand. “Cut the tether first, please.”

  I sawed through the thick nylon strap as the door burst open. After wrapping his hand around the stem of a blade, I turned to face Richardson. He braced in the doorway, face purple from strain. A faint musky odor perfumed the room, slithering over me, leaving chills in its wake. I shivered away the sensation.

  Sweat droplets blossomed on his forehead. Maybe he had absorbed too much magic. Maybe his body was melting down and all I had to do was give him a firm shove toward No-Going-Backsville.

  “His lure.” The injured fae coughed. “He’s using his lure.”

  I blinked at that. Either Richardson sucked at playing the seduction card, or hanging around Shaw had given me a degree of immunity from other incubus lures. Honestly, it was probably a little of both. Richardson wasn’t attacking me, because he thought he already was. With his lure. Okay. This might work.

  I let my shoulders slump. My arms fell limp at my sides, my grip on the scalpels sure. I widened my eyes the way I had seen Shaw’s victims do dozens of times and shuffled toward Richardson. His face shone with perspiration. His victorious grin made me want to stab him there first, but I had other plans.

  A sudden, keening cry bounced off the walls.

  I hesitated, trying to get a reading off Richardson. Was his backup on the way? Did that mean Shaw was...? No. He couldn’t be. While watching Richardson for a reaction, I continued playing the role of the lust-ridden zombie.

  Wind rustled past my ear. My hand lifted on reflex at the same time Richardson let out a startled grunt. Blood coated my fingers. The tip of my ear was nicked, but a shiny silver handle stood out of his forehead. I whirled around, but the fae’s head lolled. His unbound hand hung off the stretcher, his long fingers brushing the floor. A shrill beeping split my ears as his alarm cried for help and his monitor flatlined.

  My vision blurred as I turned to face Richardson. He slumped on the ground, feeling around the wound, working up his nerve to grasp the handle and yank out the blade. He wasn’t dead yet, and that told me he would heal from his injury. Probably thanks to me. Unless I put him out of commission first.

  Before his fingers touched the warm metal, I grabbed the handle and yanked it out of his skull. I palmed his forehead, putting his skin into contact with as many of my runes as possible, and I let the trickle of power still lit from our earlier encounter flare to life with the heat of my anger.

  Power left me in a rush. This time I didn’t try to hold back, I didn’t give him time to absorb the magic. No. This time I ruthlessly lit him up from the inside, until pale green light shone from his pores and his body seized.

  Shaw was alone out there, and God only knew what other horrors awaited us down here.

  Stoking the fires of my powers, I unleashed it all, burning through his veins as my magic sought out the spark of creation itself and clamped its jaws around Richardson’s pathetic excuse for a soul.

  Torn free with a squelching tug, a piece of rancid fruit plucked from a rotten tree, I devoured it.

  Energy coated every inch of his skin. He was still twitching when I peeled away his flesh.

  Kicking aside the husk of humanity left after Richardson’s death, I jogged up the stairs. Too full of fear and magic to tap into common sense, I stepped onto the field without first checking for Shaw or the remaining Richardson. When fingers dug into the fleshy part of my shoulder, I clamped a hand around the thick wrist and, stepping into the body pressed flush to mine, sank my right elbow into...

  “Oof.” Shaw hit the ground like a ton of bricks.

  I fell to my knees at his side. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  “Jake?” he mumbled.

  “Dead.” I took his hand. “Bethany?”

  “Dead.”

  I hovered over him, afraid to touch him. One eye was reduced to a red, puffy slit. His bottom lip was split. The bottom third of his nose bent left. I traced the high edge of his cheekbone, the only part of his face not ruined. Being shirtless meant I got an eyeful of the carnage below his collarbone.

  He winced when I touched the purple splotch blossoming under his eye.

  I pulled my hand back despite his protests. “Do you want some help with this?”

  “I’m good.” He wet his lips. “I’ll just— Fuck.”

  My palm ignited. Energy arced between us, and instinct clocked Shaw’s noble intentions upside the head. Poor guy had no choice, really. His hunger played moth to my flame, latching on and jolting me to the core. Tugging healing gulps of magic, Shaw drained the feeding buzz I was happy to relinquish.

  I gave more than I should have, enough to erase Richardson’s imprint, enough that when this case closed and I saw my bed again, I might get to sleep without his oily essence roiling in my belly.

  “Thierry,” Shaw groaned.

  “Shh.” I brushed damp hairs from his forehead. “I’ve got you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I was sprawled on my bed at the dorm, ready to sleep for days, when my phone rang. Tempted as
I was not to answer it, Shaw and I would be tangled up in paperwork and interviews for days, which meant not taking a call wasn’t an option. I flicked the green icon and yawned. “Marshal Thackeray.”

  “You sound tired.”

  Shaw’s voice in my ear made me smile. “Yeah, well, you sound exhausted.”

  He chuckled. “Did Mai finally go home?”

  “About thirty minutes ago,” I said. “I fell asleep when I was supposed to be admiring the flex of Jeremy Renner’s biceps in some action flick she bought to add to her collection. Mai slapped me for insulting her man with my short attention span then left in a huff muttering about how I wasn’t maid of honor material.” I dug the remote from under me. “How about you? Are you home for the night?”

  “Not yet.” A bell tinkled in the background. “Did you call your mom?”

  “She does not know and does not wish to know.” If he heard the bitter edge in my voice, then he ignored it. He was polite like that. “If I get hurt on the job, I want her worst-case scenario to be some guy pulling a gun on me or a car accident or whatever else CSI has taught her kills cops. That’s why I signed the cremation voucher my first day. Whatever happens, she doesn’t need to know the truth.”

  His end of the call stayed quiet.

  “Sorry.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “I didn’t mean to unload all over you.”

  “You’re fine.” Static crackled. “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  I screwed up the nerve to reciprocate. “What about you? Have you made your life-affirming calls?”

  “I’m doing that now.”

  Heat swept through my chest, prickling up my neck. “Oh.”

  “Have you—?” A blaring car horn cut him short. “Asshole.”

  I scowled at the phone. “Excuse you?”

  “Not you.” He grunted. “Have you eaten?”

  I covered my mouth, swallowing hard, forcing myself not to dwell on Tobias Long, the caelifera fae Mrs. Richardson had used as her food source for the last three months. “No. I’m not hungry. You?”

  “Open your door,” he answered.

  “I’m in my pajamas,” I warned him.

  A teasing note entered his voice. “Same ones as last time?”

  “No.” I plucked at my Eeyore sleep shirt. “Unless...” I snorted, “...was that a request?”

  “Sure,” he said after a moment. “Take off the pajamas you’re wearing.”

  Fingering the hem of my shirt, I walked around the room in search of Pooh. “And then?”

  “And then open the door.”

  I straightened. “We’re not at the place in our relationship where I answer the door nude.”

  A purely masculine groan vibrated in my ear. “Fine.”

  Knocking sounds commenced, and I cautiously approached the peephole in my door. What can I say? It had been that kind of day. Peering through the fisheye lens, I spotted a weary Shaw carrying a cardboard box with a familiar winery logo emblazoned on the side.

  “What have you got there?” The words tumbled out before I got the door unlocked.

  “Dinner.” He slid past me into the room. Glass tinkled when the box hit the desk.

  My eyebrows climbed. “Since when are you on a liquid diet?”

  When his response was to mash his lips together, a sense of dread coiled around my chest. “Would you like ice or a glass with your meal?”

  Shaw reached into the box and pulled out two bourbon glasses. “I’ve got us both covered.”

  I approached the desk and inspected a dark purple label on a wine bottle. “Sweet Dreams, huh?”

  “Brewed by narcoleptic pixies under the full moon.” He recited the label verbatim.

  “Do we need—” I counted the corked tops, “—seven bottles?”

  The thick-bottomed glasses hit the desk with a thump. “The evac team found the other shelters.”

  The cushion of wellbeing I had built up over the past few hours burst. “And?”

  “The Richardsons sealed the vents over the four other containment areas the night before.”

  I dropped into the nearest chair, suddenly ready for that drink. “Were they occupied?”

  “Thierry...”

  Leaning forward, I braced my elbows on my knees and covered my face. “That’s a yes.”

  “We couldn’t have saved them,” he said softly. “They were gone by the time we got there.”

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I nodded. “What about Mr. Long?”

  “They couldn’t save him.” Shaw’s hands settled my shoulders. “He died on the way to the medical ward.”

  “How do you do it?” I wiped the dampness from my cheeks.

  He began a slow massage that made me feel worse for feeling better. “Believe it or not, sometimes the good guys actually win.”

  “Not this time.”

  “We stopped two people from processing fae like livestock. That’s a win in my book.”

  “We don’t know how they accessed those fae or how they transported them here. This happened in our territory. We should have known.” I gulped a sharp breath. “This doesn’t feel like winning.”

  The firm hands on my shoulders vanished. “You have to take victories where you find them.”

  “Yeah” was the best answer I could manage.

  “The magistrates reported the crime to the Faerie High Court. It’s out of our hands.” He circled until his boots touched my toes. “We caught the leak on our side. Now they get to plug the hole on theirs.”

  “How is that enough?” I examined the mud flaking from his boots onto the tops of my feet through my fingers. “For them or us?”

  “It’s all we’ve got.” He sat on his haunches and pried my hands from my face. “The world is an awfully big place. You need to accept now that you can’t fix it. Do the best you can to make it better when you leave than it was when you got here. That’s all you can do. It’s enough. It has to be.”

  Gazing into his eyes, witnessing his sincerity, made it easier shrugging off the guilt. For now.

  “I also thought you might be interested to know the Richardsons’ boggart has been taken into custody.”

  “I guess they had to remove him, huh?” He wouldn’t allow the Richardsons’ things to be collected and the apartment to be cleaned for listing otherwise. “He would have been one heck of a deterrent for potential renters.”

  “They removed him because evidence was found linking him to the disappearance of Rosalie Lindt.” He explained, “She worked for a local maid service. She was the second Molly Maid to vanish after cleaning the Richardson’s apartment.”

  The blood I found on the bed had been hers. “Thank you.” I touched his cheek. “Her family deserves closure, even if they can’t know her killer was captured.”

  Gaze dipping to the floor, he shrugged. “I was tying up a loose end in a case.”

  Knowing better than to press my luck, I pointed to the wine. “Are you pouring, or am I?”

  “There’s something I want to do first.” He leaned forward, knees touching the ground. Walking forward on them, he wedged his hips between my thighs and wrapped his arms around my waist. Wide palms cupped my rear, dragging me closer until my hips were flush against his. “I almost lost you today.”

  I shuddered against him. “If I never see the inside of a giant worm again, it will be too soon.”

  “I’m serious.” His hands glided up my sides, smoothed over my shoulders. His fingers trailed over my throat until he cradled my face between his warm palms. “You let that annuli swallow you.”

  “It was him or us.” The math was simple. Even for me. “I chose us.”

  “This is me...” his warm lips brushed mine, “...choosing us.”

  I groaned into his mouth, hating to be the sensible one. “Are you sure?”

  His face obscured my vision, his nose almost touching mine. “You don’t trust me?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek, but ultimately I told him exac
tly what had been bumping around in my head for the past few days. Sometimes I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out the truth. “You’re used to using the incubus thing as a shield. Someone wants sex, you lower the shield. Someone wants more than sex, you raise the shield and pump ten thousand volts through it to discourage climbing.”

  A crease formed between his eyes. “What?”

  “Your dietary needs might be a restriction if I were, say, human. I’m not. I think I’ve proven that I can satisfy you.” When the tiniest pinprick of white dotted his eye, I swallowed hard. “I meant that I’m capable of feeding you. The question is, can you survive on chicken-salad sandwiches night after night after night? Because dietary restrictions or not, if we do the dating thing, then I expect fidelity.”

  “In this analogy...” he rubbed his jaw, “...you’re the chicken-salad sandwich?”

  I nodded. “Correct.”

  “Then we have a problem,” he said, withdrawing from me, his voice thick with regret.

  The tense spot in my chest coiled tighter. “At least you’re honest.”

  He used the arms of the chair to push to his feet. “See, I’m allergic to mayonnaise.”

  “You aren’t serious.” I hesitated when he reached for me. “Wait. Is the mayo thing an analogy for commitment?”

  Without answering, he pulled me to my feet and spun me around, shoving me onto my bed.

  “If only you were fried chicken.” He palmed my shoulder and pushed until my back hit the mattress. “Or lemon chicken.” He straddled my thighs. “Or even chicken tenders, then we could be together.” Leaning forward, he covered my body with his much larger one. He braced a palm near my ear and bent down, letting me watch as his pupils faded to stark white. Nails on the hand beside me elongated, and he used them to slice through the fabric of my pajamas. “All this chicken talk is making me hungry.”