Chapter 12
NATHANIEL DROVE BECAUSE I was too shaky to concentrate. I was functioning, moving forward, solving the problems one at a time, but it was as if the very ground I walked on, the air I breathed was precarious and new. As if everything had changed, because I had changed. I knew better. I knew that no matter how bad you feel, or what horrible thing happens to you, that the world just keeps on going. That the rest of the world doesn't even realize that the monsters are eating your heart. A long time ago it use to bother me that I could be in such confusion, such pain, and the world just didn't give a shit. The world, the creation as a whole, is designed to move forward, to keep on keeping on without any one individual person. It feels damned impersonal, and it is. But, then, if the world stopped rotating just because one of us was having a bad day, we'd all be floating out in space.
So I huddled in the passenger seat of my Jeep in the late darkness and knew that only I had changed. But it was just such a big change that it felt like the world should have changed its orbit, just a little.
June was back to its normal hot, sticky self. Nathaniel wore a ribbed tank top and silky jogging shorts. He'd tied his nearly ankle-length hair in a loose braid that curled on the seat beside his thigh. He'd found that if he let his hair fall onto the floorboard, sometimes it tangled around the pedals. He had to watch the gear shift between the seats, too. I'd never had hair that long.
Nathaniel had only had his driver's license for a few months, even though he was twenty. Gabriel, their old alpha, had not encouraged them to be independent. I sort of demanded it of them, as far as they were able. At first Nathaniel had been lost when I started to demand that he decide things for himself, but lately, he'd been doing better. It made me hopeful, and I needed some hope right now.
He'd picked out the clothes that he'd brought to the makeshift hospital for me. Black jeans, royal blue scoop neck T-shirt, a black bra that fit low enough to accommodate the low neckline, matching undies, black jogging socks, black Nikes, a short-sleeved black shirt to cover the shoulder rig with the Browning Hi-Power. People kept urging me to go shopping for a new main gun. They were probably right. There was probably something out there that would fit my hand better than the Browning. But I'd been putting it off. The Browning was like a piece of me. I felt incomplete without it, like I was missing a hand. It was going to take something more than a smaller grip to convince me to switch guns. So, for now, it was still me and the Browning.
Nathaniel had also brought my wrist sheaths and the matching silver knives. I was going to leave them in the car since the shirt was short-sleeved. They were a little too aggressive to wear into the police station. I had just replaced the back sheath I had ruined in New Mexico. It had been a special order, and it had cost mucho extra dinero to get a rush job on it, but it had been worth it. There really wasn't anywhere else on my body that I could carry a blade that large and still be able to sit down, without the hilt showing.
We drove in silence. Nathaniel hadn't even turned the radio on, which he liked to do. He rarely moved in silence if he could have music for background. But tonight he let the silence seep into the Jeep.
I finally asked a question I'd been wanting an answer for. "Who put the derringer in my robe pocket?" The derringer was in the glove compartment.
"I did."
"Thanks."
"The two things that you always do first is get dressed and get armed." His smile flashed in an instant of street light. "I'm not sure which is your highest priority."
I had to smile. "I'm not sure either."
"How are you doing?" His voice was very careful when he asked it, quiet in the rushing silence of the car.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Okay." He was one of the few people that would actually take me at my word and not press. If I told Nathaniel I didn't want to talk, we didn't talk. The silence between us was no longer strained. In fact, silence with Nathaniel was one of the most relaxing sounds of my day.
Nathaniel parked the Jeep and we got out. I had my executioner's license with me, and most people knew me on sight. It occurred to me that they thought I was dead. As we walked towards the door, I realized I should probably have called ahead and given them a heads up, but it was too late now. I was a yard from the door. I wasn't using the cell phone now.
I was a familiar enough sight that I could usually just wave as I went past the desk, but tonight the officer's eyes got big as he waved me on to the left so I didn't have to go through the metal detector. But he was picking up a phone as he did it. I was betting he was calling ahead. You don't see people rise from the dead every night. Well, I guess I do, but most cops don't.
I was up the stairs leading to RPIT's headquarters when Detective Clive Perry opened the door and started down the stairs. He was slender, handsome, African-American, and the most unfailingly polite person I'd ever met. He actually missed the step and had to catch himself on the railing. Even then he leaned against the wall like his legs weren't working quite right. He looked shocked--no, scared.
"Anita." His voice was breathy. It was probably the second time in all the years we'd known each other that he had used my first name. It was usually Ms. Blake.
I responded in kind, smiling. "Clive, it's good to see you."
His eyes flicked from me to Nathaniel, then back to me. "You're supposed to be ..." He straightened on the stairs. "I mean, we heard ..." I watched him visibly try to rally. By the time we reached the step he was on, he looked almost normal. But his next question wasn't normal. "Did you die?"
I smiled, then felt the smile fade as I stared into his eyes. He was serious. I guess I did raise the dead for a living, so the question wasn't as ridiculous as it sounded, but I was realizing that some of his shock wasn't just from seeing me walking around. It was from his fear of what I was now. He thought I was the walking dead. In some ways he was closer to the mark than was comfortable, in others he was so far off.
"No, Clive, I didn't die."
He nodded, but there was a tightness around his eyes that made me wonder, if I tried to touch his arm, would he flinch? I didn't want to find out, so Nathaniel and I just walked past him, leaving him alone on the stairs.
I pushed into the squad room with its crowded desks and the busy clatter of people. RPIT had some of its busiest hours after three A.M. The noise died gradually like fading water rings, going out into the room, until I moved in silence between the desks and the staring faces. Nathaniel stayed at my back, moving like an attractive shadow.
I finally said, loud enough to carry through the room, "The rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated." And the room exploded into noise. I was suddenly surrounded by men, and a few women, hugging me, slapping me on the back, pumping my hand. Smiling faces, relieved eyes. No one else showed the reservations that Clive Perry had shown on the stairs, and it made me wonder about his religious background, or his metaphysical one. He wasn't a sensitive, but that didn't mean he hadn't grown up around people who were.
It was Zerbrowski who picked me completely off the ground in a huge bear hug. He's only five eight, and not that big, but he spun me around the room, finally putting me down, laughing and a little unsteady on my feet. "Damn, Anita, damn, I thought we were never going to see you come through that door again." He pushed a tangle of dark curls that were beginning to streak with gray from his forehead. He needed a haircut, but then he usually did. His clothes were the usual mismatch, as if he'd chosen his tie and shirt in the dark. He dressed like he was either color-blind or didn't give a shit. I was betting on the latter.
"It's good to see you, too. I hear you're actually holding someone on suspicion of having killed me."
His smile faded around the edges. "Yeah, Count Dracula's in a cell."
"Can you get him out, because as you see, I am very much alive."
Zerbrowski's eyes narrowed. "I saw the pictures, Anita. You were covered in blood."
I shrugged.
His eyes became cool, suspicious cop eyes. "It's been what, four nights? You're looking positively spry for suffering that much blood loss."
I could feel my own face grow neutral, distant, as cool and unreadable as any cop's. "Can you get Jean-Claude out and ready to go? I'd like to take him home before it gets light."
"Dolph's going to want to talk to you before you leave."
"I thought he might. Can you please start processing Jean-Claude while I talk to Dolph?"
"You going to take him to your house?"
"I'm going to drop him off at his place, not that it's any of your business. You're my friend, Zerbrowski, not my dad."
"I've never wanted to be your dad, Anita. That's Dolph's delusion, not mine."
I sighed. "Yeah." I looked up at Zerbrowski. "Will you please get Jean-Claude ready to go?"
He looked at me for a second or two, then nodded. "Okay." He looked past me to Nathaniel, who had moved to the side of the room to let the great reunion take place. "Who's that?"
"Nathaniel, a friend."
He looked back at me. "A little young, isn't he?"
"He's only six years younger than I am, Zerbrowski, but he drove me tonight, so I wouldn't have to."
His eyes looked worried. "You okay?"
"A little shaky, but it'll pass."
He touched my face, staring into my eyes, trying to read them, I think. "I'd like to know what the hell is going on with you."
I met his gaze, face, eyes blank. "So would I."
That seemed to surprise him, because he blinked and dropped his hand. "I'll get Count Dracula out of hock, you go talk to Dolph."
My shoulders hunched a little, and I had to concentrate to square them. I was not looking forward to talking with Dolph. Zerbrowski went to get Jean-Claude, and I left Nathaniel talking to a nice-enough seeming police woman and went to Dolph's office.
He was standing in the doorway like a small mountain. He's six eight and built like a pro wrestler. His dark hair was cut very short, leaving his ears stranded and bare. His suit looked pressed, tie neatly knotted. He'd probably already been on the job for nearly an eight-hour shift, but he still looked fresh out of the box.
His eyes were very careful when they looked at me. "I'm glad you're alive."
"Thanks, me, too."
He waved a hand and walked me down the hallway away from the office, away from the desks, towards the interrogation rooms. I guess he wanted privacy. Privacy that even the glass windows of his office wouldn't give him. It made my stomach tight and a little trickle of fear go through me. I wasn't afraid of Dolph the way I was afraid of a rogue shapeshifter or a vamp I had to kill. He wouldn't hurt me physically. But I was afraid of the tight set of his shoulders, the cautious, cold look of his eyes when he glanced back to make sure I was following.
I could feel how angry he was, almost like the energy off a shapeshifter. What had I done to deserve such rage?
Dolph held the door for me, and I squeezed past his bulk. "Have a seat," he said, as he closed the door behind us.
"I'll stand, thanks. I want to get Jean-Claude out of here before dawn."
"I heard you weren't dating him anymore," Dolph said.
"He's being held without charge on suspicion of killing me. I'm not dead so I'd like to get him out of here."
Dolph just looked at me, eyes as cold and unreadable as if he were looking at a witness--no a suspect--that he didn't like much.
"Jean-Claude has a damn fine lawyer. How'd you keep him for over seventy-two hours without a charge?" I asked.
"You're a city treasure. I told everyone he'd killed you, and they helped me lose him for a while."
"Damn, Dolph, you're lucky some overzealous officer didn't put him in a cell with a window."
"Yeah, too bad."
I just stared at him not even sure what to say. "I'm alive, Dolph. He didn't hurt me."
"Who did?"
It was my turn to give him cool cop eyes.
He walked up to me, towering over me. He wasn't trying to intimidate me with his height; he knew that didn't work anyway. He was just that big. He touched my chin, tried to turn my face to the side. I jerked away.
"You've got scars on your neck that you didn't have a week ago. They're all shiny and nearly healed. How?"
"Would you believe I'm not sure?"
"No."
"Suit yourself."
"Let me see the scars."
I swept my hair to one side and let him trace one large finger down the healed wounds.
"I want to see the rest of the wounds."
"Don't we need a female officer in here for this?"
"Do you really want anyone else to see them?"
He had a point. "Why do you want to see, Dolph?"
"I can't force you to show me, but I need to see them."
"Why?"
"I don't know," he said, and his voice showed strain for the first time.
I shed the outer shirt and laid it on the table. I held my left arm out to him, pushing the sleeve of the T-shirt up.
He traced his finger over the marks. "What is it about your left arm? Its always where you get hit the most."
"I think it's because I'm right-handed. I'll let them chew on my left arm, while I grab a weapon with my right."
"Did you kill what did this to you?"
"No."
He looked at me, and the anger showed for a second. "I wish I believed you."
"Me, too, especially since I'm telling the truth."