S. Harper - Cursed

Dexter continues. “She used a drug called Protectus to be able to walk in daylight. She went back to school, held down a part-time job, lived like everyone else. Even our friends didn’t know.”

“So she mainstreamed.”

“Totally. And as far as I know, she never had contact again with the vamp who sired her. Or any other vamp, for that matter.”

“Can you tell me the address of the Blood Emporium she frequented?”

“It’s somewhere downtown in the Gaslamp District.” He leans toward me. “Do you think the vampire connection is important?”

“Truthfully, I’m not sure. But I’m glad you told me. It’s one more lead to pursue.” I read his next question in the shadow of anxiety in his expression. “Nothing we spoke of today will ever be part of the official record. It can’t be.”

Dexter closes his eyes for an instant, settling back in his chair. When he opens them again, the darkness is gone. “You have no idea how tied up in knots I’ve been about this. I love Isabella. But I just knew if I told the police what I told you, they’d ship me to Sharp Mesa Vista Hospital for a psychiatric evaluation.” As quickly as the optimism has appeared, it’s swallowed up by a grim frown. “Then again, if I had told them, maybe Isabella would be home instead of God knows where.”

“Don’t do that to yourself. You were right when you said how the police would have reacted.” That, of course, is true. But what I say next sounds like cold comfort, even to my own ears. “Don’t give up hope. We’re not.”

Dexter reaches into his pocket, pulls out a piece of paper, opens it, and slides it across the table toward me.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A receipt from the Blood Emporium. Isabella always paid cash. I found this in her room. She went there on the day she disappeared, then came home afterward. Someone there might have been the last person to see Isabella before she disappeared. Maybe she said something. Maybe someone at the Emporium saw something.”

I glance at the date on the slip, refold it, and slip it into my handbag. “Thanks for this.”

“You’ll look into it?” he asks.

“I’ll look into it,” I assure him.

Yet Dexter still looks uncertain. “I feel horrible. Before now, I didn’t know who to go to. Do you think this is too little too late?”

“No. Every detail is important.” I push my chair away from the table and stand up. “Thank you for trusting me. I promise to be in touch.”

He takes my outstretched hand but doesn’t get up with me. I glance back once on the way to the exit. He’s staring down at the table, as still and inanimate as one of his statues.

It’s not easy to put that last image of Dexter out of my mind as I drive to the office. It would be a miracle if we found Isabella after two months. Was it possible she didn’t want to be found? Dexter seemed convinced she was taken. But maybe she’d merely decided living a double life was too hard and left to find sanctuary with her own kind. If that’s the case, we’ll never find her.

What I do find when I approach my cubicle is a note on my desk from Zack. I’m in the conference room. I stop just long enough to text Liz before trekking off to find him. I ask her to see if Evan knows anything about the Blood Emporium in the Gaslamp District.

Zack has taken over the conference room we usually use for staff meetings and potlucks. The long table is now scattered with the folders stacked in neat little piles. The whiteboard is covered with notes, some handwritten directly on it in blue or red pen, others on Post-its of various colors. Zack is sitting at the far end, hand suspended in midair as if he’s forgotten the cup held halfway to his mouth. He’s staring at the notes. I take a moment to observe him.

“Waiting for an invitation? Come and join the party.”

Note to self: it’s hard to spy on a werewolf.

He puts his cup down. “The coffee’s fresh.”

I shake my head. “I think I met my caffeine quota before lunch today.” I look over at the board. “Anything?”

“No.” The one word is spit out in disappointment and irritation. “And my research into Barakov’s first wife went nowhere, either.”

“Well, the board looks lovely. Very . . . colorful.”

He gives me the fish-eye. “Where have you been all afternoon? Fending off attacks from the Nordstrom perfume girl?”

I ignore the gibe and close the door to the conference room.

Zack immediately perks up. “You’ve got something worth closing the door for? What?”

I sit down beside him. “I had a meeting with Michael Dexter.”

“How did that happen?”

“He called me right after you and I hung up this morning. He asked if I could meet him.” Now comes the tricky part, how to address the matter of Isabella’s nature. I need to convey to Zack my knowledge of the supernatural world, without intimating that I’m part of it. I’d like to be able to do it without him feeling threatened, exposed. But after thinking it through, I don’t think I can. This could be an important new lead, and whatever his reaction, I’ll come up with a way to deal with it.

I draw a sharp breath. “There’s something about Isabella that he wanted to tell me. Something that wasn’t in the official police report.”

I have his complete attention. “Oh?”

“She’s a vampire, Zack.” Before he can sputter that vampires don’t exist and I must have had too much wine with lunch, I cut him off. “Don’t waste time pretending to be shocked or telling me that I’m crazy. This isn’t going to end up in any report. It won’t leave the room. But we both know vampires are as real as . . . well, werewolves.”

Both eyebrows shoot up, but he recovers quickly. He reaches out and places a hand on my forehead. “Are you running a fever?”

I push it away, then lower my voice and lean in close. “I won’t expose you, promise. But I know what you are. I’ve known it from the beginning. From the instant we met.”

Zack’s shoulders stiffen.

“This isn’t about you. It’s about Amy and Isabella.” I stand up and walk over to where photos of them are taped to the board. “They’re depending on me, on us. I feel time may be running out. We have a new angle to explore. I want to, I need to follow it. And I need your head in the game. I need you with me. We have to find out if any of the other kidnap victims were vampires. Can I count on you?”

I’m not only asking him to do his job; I’m asking for an admission as well.

Zack stares at me, mouth set in a hard line, fingers drumming the table. I can tell he wants to give me a firm yes, but something is holding him back, nagging at him. I’ll bet it has nothing to do with the case and everything to do with me. Quid pro quo.

We’re alone. I could insert a simple thought, a suggestion. He’d accept it, move on. But I can’t risk using my magic with him. I know that. So I stare back at him, waiting. Hoping.

“What are you?” he asks finally. “You’re not purely human, either. What happened last night in the kitchen was not just emotions running wild. It was something else. Something I think you made happen. Or encouraged to happen. It’s time for you to come clean.”

“What I am is not important. What happened in the kitchen was a mistake. One we should make sure doesn’t happen again.”

“A mistake? Is that what you call it?” His voice has an angry edge, but there’s something else in the tone, too. “Wow, and here I was, thinking it had something to do with magic. Only it wasn’t like any magic I’ve ever felt before. So much for trust.”

I swallow, resisting the urge to smooth things over.