Hannah Jayne - Under Suspicion

The muscle in Alex’s jaw twitched and I saw he was fighting a smile. “You’re just waiting for someone to get gutted, aren’t you?”

I blew out a sigh. “Don’t you have a stakeout to go on?”

“I’m not leaving just yet. And I’m concerned, Lawson, I am. But like I said, this”—and here he jutted his chin toward the Hendersons’ very plain, very non-Underworld-looking house—“is really not police department jurisdiction.” His eyes were soft, what I imagined would be bedroomy and rather sexy—were I not half covered in gauze and dried blood and just about to pee.

“So what do I do?” I asked, my voice hoarse. “Just ignore a crime scene and file it under, I don’t know, weird, demonic coincidences?”

Alex wound the last bit of gauze around my left hand and then pulled it close to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss on my palm. He looked at me through lowered lashes; the blue of his eyes was intense, piercing. “I promise to look into it,” he murmured, “if you promise me you won’t.”

I swallowed and he held my eyes.

“Promise,” I said, trying to consider how to cross my fingers while Alex still held my hand.

I was fishing my keys out of my shoulder bag—and cursing my apparent need to pack everything I’ve ever owned into eleven inches of knockoff Kate Spade—when I heard the thump from behind my locked apartment door. My hackles immediately went up. My suddenly sweaty palms worked the straps of my bag while my heart thudded into my throat and I pressed my ear to the door.

There was an audible groan. A breathy whimper.

I dumped my bag and gave the door a “hi-ya!” with my foot, splintering it open—at least, that’s what I imagined I would do. Instead, I shakily retrieved the hide-a-key from the dusty top of the door frame and sank it into the lock, very slowly pushing open the door. I peered into the darkened living room, gulping heavily when my little lunatic of puppy fur and kibble breath didn’t come barreling and barking to the door to greet me.

“ChaCha?” I whispered into the darkness.

The metallic stench of blood hung heavy in the air.

“Sophie?”

“Vlad?” I pressed on the light and felt my stomach churn as Vlad sprang up, shirtless, his chest alabaster pale in the now-glaring lights.

Kale sprang up from underneath him, her manicured black fingernails working furiously to button her shirt.

“Oh God. You guys! This is ... ew!”

I tried to look away as Vlad reworked the contraption that passed for his VERM-approved seventeenth-century button fly.

“Ew, ew, EW!”

“What are you doing home?” Vlad demanded. He looked down at Kale, whose cheeks were a heady red.

“You said she was seeing Mrs. Henderson.”

Kale looked up at me, dark eyes a combination of horror and embarrassment. “You were supposed to be seeing Mrs. Henderson.”

I crossed my arms, and my eyes scanned the living room, littered with blood bags, a tipped glass of something sticky-looking dripping onto the carpet and—I cocked my head to listen—Barry White crooning softly on the stereo.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

Kale stood up, dressed now, eyes wide. “Please, Sophie, don’t tell Lorraine about this.”

I felt my left eye start to twitch.

“Just go, Kale.”

Kale gathered her purse and turned to Vlad, pink lips in midpucker.

“Now,” I groaned.

Kale hurried out the front door and I kicked it shut behind her and then got to work blowing out what remained of my last Pottery Barn mulberry candle.

“You were supposed to be at work,” Vlad grumbled from his spot on the couch. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you?”

I spun to face Vlad. “First of all, it doesn’t matter if I was in Timbuktu. You were schtupping Kale on the couch. My couch! I watch Maury on that couch. Now I’m going to have to burn it.”

“If it helps, we hadn’t actually gotten to the schtupping part.”

I glared. “It doesn’t.”

“So ... you’re not going to say anything to anyone?” I thought of Vlad’s flock of Bela Lugosi–dressed VERM members and their anti-mixing stance while I looked at Vlad, right now more teenaged boy than broody immortal. I couldn’t be entirely certain, but I’m pretty sure that trading whatever vampire’s passed off as spit with the finance intern/receptionist (a witch) was probably frowned upon by the Count Chocula set.

“No, I won’t say anything.”

Vlad grinned, relieved, his fangs showing the slightest tinge of blood-stained pink. “Thanks.”

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence. “By the way,” I stated, “congratulations on your promotion. How did it go over at the staff meeting?”

Vlad beamed. “Really well. People seemed really excited—I mean, most people.”

Vlad’s eyes held mine and I could feel myself shrink.

“I’m really excited for you, Vlad, I am.” I forced a smile almost bigger than I could stand.

“But?”

“Nothing.”

Vlad’s eyebrows remained high.

“You’re sixteen,” I finally relented.

“I died when I was sixteen.” Though his voice had a determined, dark edge, there was still something in it that was soft and vulnerable—something that I wanted to nurture and protect.

“I am really proud of you, Vlad. It’s just going to take a while to put two and,” I said, pausing, “one hundred and twelve together, okay?”

Vlad rolled his eyes, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I know, it’s the best you can do. You’re only mortal.”

“The expression is ‘you’re only human.’”

“Whatevs.”

And he was back to being sixteen again.

There was a quick rap on the door and Vlad yanked it open, grinning at Will.

“Hey, mate,” Will said.

Vlad sucked a leftover splatter of blood from his fingertip and pointed at me. “Sophie’s over there. I need to get ready for my meeting.”

Vlad disappeared into Nina’s room, shutting the door softly behind him. Will looked from the door to the torn blood bags still dripping on the coffee table. The alarm was evident on his face. He held me by the shoulders and looked me up and down, finally tilting my neck. “You okay, love? Did he, uh”—Will bit his lips, trying to choose his words—“hurt you?”

Oh! My guardian angel!

I crossed my arms. “Some Guardian you are. I could have been fang food and you’d come sauntering in here asking if I was okay, love.” I feigned Will’s English accent.

Will narrowed his eyes. “I’m a very good Guardian, which is why I didn’t embarrass us both by rushing in here all ‘good angel’ on you. I knew you weren’t in any real danger.”

The “good angel” jab stung. While most women would adore the fact that two incredibly attractive men moved Heaven and Planet Earth (sometimes quite literally) for their personal protection, the “angel” versus “Guardian” barbs got quite old.

“Besides, I’m here for Nina.”

Let’s get one thing straight: I like Will Sherman. He’s attractive in that sandy surfer with a head full of completely mussable blond-brown hair kind of way; in that sun-kissed skin, English accent, “mind the gap” sort of way. And I’ll admit, in a few instances of utter weakness, I have felt a certain below-the-belly-button twinge when he smiled and his eyes did that mischievous little crinkle thing, or when he said something adorable and Englishy, like “Let’s have a lag-ah and watch telly at the pub.” So I like him, yes. He’s my Guardian—and not in that “until you’re eighteen” sort of way, but in an “until the balance of power has been restored between the good and the fallen, I will protect you” kind of way. Which, when you really get down to it, is hard not to like. But I don’t love him. Which is why getting a tiny twinge of jealousy pricking at my spine was a completely unnecessary surprise.