The male pulled some more head bobbing and took over the talking, clearly the hand-popper kid in the front of the class who had to get the A. “About three weeks ago. It was also close to dawn. Same thing, except it was a male who’d gotten in trouble at Blasphemy.”
Rehv closed his eyes briefly. “You left that body and let it burn?”
“Yes. I mean, what am I going to do—we, I mean.”
“Join the club.” Rehv waved off toward the electric car. “Just go, okay.”
“Thanks.” Like the guy was assuming that Rehv would handle things. “I’ve been feeling badly about just leaving the other one. Oh, and um… what’s the spread on the Eagles next week?”
“Call me later.”
The female lingered for a split sec as her BF headed off for the Tesla, as if she were giving Rehv a chance to ask for her driver’s license or something. Maybe her bra size. When there was no bait taken, she gave him a rear view and a half as she went over to the road Roomba.
When the happy couple were gone, he went back to ground, so to speak, even though the close-up didn’t change anything. The male was still dead, and under any other circumstances, Rehv wouldn’t have given a shit. He could imagine exactly the kind of “trouble” the bastard had gotten into with that woman in the loo, and assholes deserve what they got.
The problem was all in the eyes, as they say.
Or in this case, the no eyes.
Both peepers had been removed from their sockets, although not in a sloppy, messy way. There were no straggles of an optic nerve or parts of the sclera left behind; the meat had been scooped out cleanly, all melon-baller-tidy, like a spoon with a deep cup had been wielded with excellent skill.
“Damn it, Xhex. What are you doing.”
He knew the answer to that, and it was a devastating one.
Taking out his phone, he pulled her contact up and initiated a call. When it wasn’t answered, he wasn’t surprised.
He didn’t leave a message. But he knew where to go.
* * *
Club Basque
Market Street and 27th Avenue
Just another night in paradise.
As Xhex looked around the dance floor, things were going well when measured against the extremely low standards set for behavior at the club. Nobody was actually having sex, doing a line, or playing pound-per-pound push-and-shove. Now, there were a couple of throuples who were in the but-for-pants brigade, whatever clothing they’d slapped on their naughty bits the only thing stopping penetration. And she was very sure if she’d pulled a stop-and-frisk on the two hundred humans grinding to the Euro rap soundtrack, she would have liquidated all kinds of illegal assets out of pockets and cavities.
But there was no reason to get invasive.
She checked her watch. Nice. Another four hours and she could go home.
John Matthew had promised to be waiting for her in their bedroom, and she’d been specific about what she was looking for. And it did not involve any clothing, job-related discussions, or third parties.
“Do you want me to handle closing tonight?”
She glanced over her shoulder. T’Marcus Jones had come up, and he was, as always, calm, collected, composed. He was one of the few humans she trusted to keep their heads straight no matter the situation—which was why she’d brought him over from Blasphemy when Trez had opened this fifth club two weeks ago.
“That would be great.” As all kinds of naked images of her mate played across her mind, she refocused on the crowd. “And at least they’re behaving now.”
T’Marcus lined up with her and crossed his heavy arms over his chest. “Nothing like showing ’em what happens when they don’t.”
Xhex opened her mouth to say something—and promptly forgot what she’d been about to come back with. As some kind of warning crawled up the nape of her neck and knocked on the back of her skull, she jerked around. Then covered up the paranoid twist by nodding at one of the bouncers who was stationed by the bar.
When she pivoted back to the dance floor, her skin prickled, and that was when her instincts really came alive. The disturbance in the air was subtle, not the kind of thing that anyone else would have noticed. Then again, she’d picked up on it not because her hearing or her eyesight was good.
This was probably not good news, she thought.
“I’ll be right back,” she told her second-in-command.
“You okay?”
“Peachy. Thanks.”
Cutting through the crowd, she was bumped into by a guy, and instead of throwing him out of her path, she nudged him aside. And when a woman asked her for directions to the bathroom, she paused and gave them. Then one of the bartenders rushed over with his finger wrapped in a dish towel because he’d cut it opening a beer bottle. She sent him on to the first aid kit in the manager’s office and told him to get to the ER because he was going to need stitches.
Finally, she was at the club’s easterly exit, the one by the storage rooms that were locked.
“You might as well come in,” she said at the reinforced steel door.
There was a split second of pause—and then the male who opened the heavy panel with his mind made his appearance.
As usual, Rehv was wrapped up in his floor-length mink, a symphath burrito who was trying his damnedest not to leach any body heat if he could avoid it. Tough goal for Caldwell in November, but then he was also fully dressed underneath, with a dark gray suit and a black silk shirt and tie. His mohawk had been recently trimmed, so the horizontal stripe down his cranium was even shorter than usual, and his amethyst eyes seemed extra bright in the low-watt glow of the service hall.
“Who’s dead,” she asked grimly. Because that tight expression on his face was hardly bearer-of-good-news shit.
“I think you’ve got the answer to that.”
“Excuse me?” When he didn’t come in, she put her hands on her hips. “Are you looking for an engraved invitation? Or do you just want to play doorstop.”
By way of reply, those purple eyes narrowed on her, and she knew exactly what he was doing. But instead of getting all thought up about him going symphath on her, she just got good and relaxed in her shitkickers and let him do his thing. He was going to scan her grid anyway. Arguing with the motherfucker was a waste of breath.
“You mind coming in?” She indicated the hall around them. “You’ll be warmer, for one thing. For another, I’ll be warmer. But fuck the weather, you’re about to set off an alarm that we don’t need to deal with, thank you very much.”
Rehv stepped into the corridor, and the door eased shut behind him. As the lock was returned to its secured position, the symphath in her flared up in response, but she didn’t give in to the payback scan. At least one of them could remain polite.
As the silence stretched on, she glanced up at one of the ceiling fixtures, which was out. How many half-breed symphaths did it take to change a light bulb? Answer: None. Because they’ll just manipulate an army of humans to do it for them. Or vampires. Or Shadows. Or…
Wolven, a voice in her head whispered.
No, we’re not going there, she thought to herself.
“Are we done yet?” She motioned over her head. “You finished checking I’m okay, or shall we stand around for another hour while you diagnose me with shit I already know about—”