She got two of them out and came over to him. After she handed him his, she twisted the top off the other one and took a long sip. Then another. As she sat down, he just wanted to stare at her, but considering he’d looked at her for most of the trip over here in that old Honda, it was probably better to play it cool.
Cool-er.
Cool… ish.
“So you’re telling me,” she said after she took another draw off the glass bottle, “that if I call dispatch, they’re going to report that a body at that address has been phoned in already.”
“Yup.”
“Do you people do that a lot around here?”
He shrugged and opened his beer. “It’s not the first time.”
“I’m just going to text my partner and ask. No offense.”
“None taken,” he murmured as she got out her phone.
The instant she looked at the screen, her brows went together. Then she went into what seemed like her texts or her emails, and started reading something.
Balz looked out to the living room. As he measured the couch, he totally pictured himself sleeping on it, his head on one end propped up by that throw cushion, feet dangling off the far—
Shit. Windows.
Or did he really think that he’d magically outgrown a vampire’s sensitivity to sunlight in the last, oh, twelve hours?
“I may not be able to stay here during the day,” he said.
She glanced up. “You’re right. A call came in from nine-one-one. My partner’s on the case. Man, what a night.”
“I’m glad. The old man’s family has a right to be notified.”
“Yes, they do.” Erika stared at the little glowing screen. “And I should notify my department that I was there.”
In the pause that followed, he knew she was thinking to herself: But what the hell can I tell them that won’t make me sound crazy.
“We’re going to figure this out,” he volunteered.
Her eyes lifted to his. “If I knew what the ‘this’ was, I might feel more optimistic.”
Actually, you’d probably feel worse, he thought.
“And honestly…” She released a long sigh. Took another sip from her beer. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
Balz blinked. And then felt himself go red in the face. Which was totally a flush from the alcohol. ’Cuz Miller Lite packed one helluva punch.
“You are?”
“Yes.” She shrugged. “I really am.”
* * *
Erika had to look away from Balthazar. Like she was frickin’ twelve and had just admitted to having a crush on Billy Wittenhauer in seventh grade.
Which was something that had actually happened, so the metaphor, simile, whatever, truly did apply.
Or maybe it was just a comparison, she conceded. Instead of anything grammar-glamorous.
“I’m glad I’m here, too,” he said.
There was a period of silence, and she was aware that there was a big question she wanted to ask him, maybe “the” big question. She wasn’t sure she could handle the answer, though. So she asked a less dire one on the dip-your-toes-in-cold-water theory.
“That brunette woman…” She took another swig from her beer. “What is she? Really.”
Balthazar’s brows went together over his eyes. “You sure you want to do this right now?”
“As opposed to when, next Christmas?”
He tipped his beer to her. Then he apparently gave up on the couching-terms thing. Like, entirely: “She’s a demon.”
Erika sat back. And yet wondered why she was even slightly surprised.
Well… because it wasn’t every day you woke up and realized you were in a Conjuring sequel. And she really should have a response. A shocked face, at least. Maybe a curse or two breathed softly.
Instead, she felt absolutely nothing.
“A demon.” More beer. She needed a loooooot more beer. “As in, pea soup, spinning heads, Linda-Blair-type demon?”
Like there was another kind?
“That’s what you humans call them.”
Annnnnnnnd that was a lead-in to the real question.
So she kept going with what they were on: “She’s what you are fighting.”
“Not by choice, but yes.” He put his hand on his bare pecs. “She’s in me, Erika. Do you understand what I’m saying.”
As the little hairs on the back of her neck stood up, she thought about her dream of the shadow. Then she focused on him properly. Funny, how this man wasn’t a stranger anymore. Then again, they had so much in frickin’ common after tonight that things had changed. He was more like a friend now.
No, that wasn’t the right word, was it. “Friend” was not how she thought of him.
Not when she looked at his lips.
But whatever, the not-a-stranger thing was why she had asked him to come to her “apartment” that wasn’t really an apartment. If he’d been a straight suspect, a thief, a possible killer, she’d have taken that Honda right over to HQ and called for backup to go raid the garage and bring him in.
None of this was normal, however. Not one goddamn thing, not what he was able to do with her brain, not that brunette, certainly not the shadows. So yeah, Balthazar was a thief, but what would turning him in do for her or anybody else? He’d just manipulate the minds and memories of anyone who showed up with handcuffs. Work of a moment.