S. Harper - Cursed

Zack’s not letting up. He takes a step closer, lowers his voice. “You get to know my secrets, but I can’t know yours. Is that it, partner ?”

His anger radiates outward like the heat from a torch. It makes me want to move away, out of range, before I get burned.

I hold my ground. “We’re not here to trade secrets, Zack. We’re here to solve a case. You’re losing focus. You—”

“Need to keep my head in the game.”

“Exactly. This isn’t personal.”

“Bullshit! You made this personal. Do you have any idea how many people I’ve shared my past with? I thought . . .” The anger vanishes. It’s replaced by something else, something far more difficult to bear. Sadness. “You aren’t human. Something happened between us. You made it happen. And it’s something I can’t stop thinking about.” He moves in closer, restraint crumbling. The air between us thick with desire and tension. My breath hitches as I look up into his eyes.

“Nothing happened between us,” I say. “You need to leave it alone.”

At first, I think he’s going to argue. He leans toward me, eyes flashing. His hands are balled into fists at his sides. Then his shoulders relax and he takes a step back. “That’s the way you want to play this? Fine. I imagined everything. It’s your call. Like everything else, partner .”

I feel the sting of the last remark. It hangs in the air, like a wedge between us. I don’t expect him to apologize. He’s right.

Zack’s eyes drift to the window, a spark of alarm registering as he catches the lengthening rays of the sun. There’s less than an hour until sunset. “I’ve got to get home. I should be there already.”

Before I can draw in a breath, he’s already left the conference room. From the doorway I watch as he continues past his desk. He grabs his jacket off the back of his chair without breaking stride and heads for the elevator. He doesn’t bother to look back.

I gather my things and go back to my desk. It’s been a long day. It’s going to be an even longer night.

I glance out the windows. Darkness will soon be descending, lights from the building across the way bite into the gloom. It’s the third night of the full moon.

The elevator door opens and a delivery boy with a huge flower arrangement steps off. “Do you know Emma Monroe?”

Zack turns to face me. “I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.” He steps onto the elevator, and the door closes.

I motion the delivery boy over.

“Emma Monroe? These are for you.”

I take the flowers and open the card. It’s a thank-you from a grateful Michael Dexter. There’s also an invitation to a fund-raiser/auction at the Hotel Del Coronado tomorrow night. The event starts at seven and there will be two tickets waiting for me at the door.

It’s the same benefit Liz mentioned.

The office is nearly empty. I tuck the note and invitation in my handbag. It’s time to go home. The conference room lights are still on. I wander over and scan the whiteboard. I think of Amy, of Isabella, of Zack and all the work he’s been putting in trying to find them. I sink into the chair he’d occupied. My skin itches with frustration and impatience. I’ll go stir-crazy if I go home to an empty house. I need to be doing something.

Amy Patterson’s file is open. I peruse our notes. A bit of conversation floats to the surface.

Amy’s empty cupboards.

Amy orders in a lot.

I sit up straight.

Maybe. But maybe there’s another reason her cupboards and refrigerator are bare. I snatch up Amy’s keys from my desk drawer and head out.

• • •

The first thing I do after letting myself into Amy’s apartment is slip on latex gloves and recheck the bathroom cabinets. Nothing. Next, I look behind towels and sheets in the linen closet. Then I move things around in her closets. I methodically peer into every nook and cranny. No Protectus. No hidden cooler with blood bags. Perhaps she drinks straight from the source. Perhaps she stays cloistered behind those special tinted windows until sundown.

Perhaps I’m totally off the mark.

Back to the kitchen. Another search of the cupboards reveals no new results. I lean against the center island, eyes scanning the countertops. My gaze drops to the dishwasher. I open it. There are only four glasses in the upper rack, two wineglasses, and two juice glasses. There are lipstick smudges on the rims of the wineglasses, so the dishwasher has not been recently run. But there is no residue in the bottom of any of them, either. Amy probably rinsed them.

I pull them out. One by one I hold them up to the light, looking for a trace of what they might have held. I close my eyes, sniff the inside. Nothing. I frown at the four glasses, lined up like good little soldiers on the counter. Zack could probably tell me what each of them contained—if he were here. And speaking to me.

I withdraw a spray bottle of luminol from my handbag. Dousing the lights, I spray the glasses and stand back. A blue glow appears in the bottom and sides of each glass. The glow lasts only half a minute, but it’s enough to prove my theory.

Each glass held blood.

Amy Patterson is a vampire.

Some days it’s pure pleasure to walk in my front door and close the world out behind me. Some days the stupid world follows me inside. I toss my keys, bag, and work files onto the coffee table and head for the bedroom. Now that the thrill of my earlier discovery is gone, I’m feeling restless again. In a minute, I’ve stripped out of the confines of my work clothes and into my favorite robe. It’s silk. The living, breathing fabric is one of the oldest in the world. Being wrapped in it usually affords me a modicum of comfort. Not tonight.

I pour a glass of wine. An old-world red this time, the last remaining from a case I bought two years ago. It’s complex, full-bodied, and very hard to find. Before I can take a sip, my cell phone rings.

I check the caller ID.

Liz.

I’m not ready to fill her in on the Zack situation. I’m tempted to let the call roll into voice mail. But then I remember I asked her to check with Evan about the Gaslamp’s Blood Emporium.

“Have you talked to Evan?” I ask as a greeting.

A sigh. “No. He sent me a text an hour ago. He has an important hearing tomorrow that he has to prepare for. He said not to wait up.”

“So you weren’t able to ask him about the Blood Emporiums?”

“Sorry. I do have someone else I could check with, though. I’ll call him in the morning if I don’t get a chance to ask Evan tonight.”

“I’m specifically interested in the place in the Gaslamp,” I remind her. Then I take a sip of my wine, taste the earthiness in the back of my throat, swallow. “Oh. I got an invitation to that benefit on Friday, too. Compliments of one of the participating artists.”

Liz squeals into the phone. “Hey. I’ll hook you up. We can double-date.”

I almost spew out a second mouthful of wine. “No, no. I’m not bringing a date. I’m not even sure I’m going. I have nothing to wear and—”

“Don’t be stupid. You can borrow something. You have to go. Keep me company. Evan will be networking all night.”

There’s an ominous pause. I can hear the wheels turning in Liz’s brain through the phone line. Or rather, the pages of her mental Rolodex flipping from one prospect to another.

“Yes,” she says triumphantly. “Walter.”

“The werewolf?” The irony is almost laughable. “No, Liz.”

“He’s a bit of a bore, and not very bright. But he looks great in a tuxedo and he’s absolutely amazing in the sack. He has this thing he does with his tongue . . .”

Once again, I have to swallow quickly to keep from choking on a mouthful of wine. “TMI, Liz. Really.” I put the glass down on the dining room table. Never know what Liz is going to say next, and I really don’t want to waste this wine.