Skin Trade

“I didn’t say they were thinking it in the front of their heads, but somewhere in the back, where all those Neanderthal urges still live, they are wondering if just being human makes them less in every way than the monsters.”

I tried to look past that flash of smile and see what was underneath, but it was too much shadow. I finally said, “Is that how you feel?”

He shook his head. “I had a lady leave her wereanimal lover for me.”

I smiled; I couldn’t help it. “That must have happened in the last two years because when we first met, you were a little insecure about my werewolf lover.”

He shrugged and spread his hands. “What can I say, I am as good as I think I am.”

That made me laugh. “Oh, nobody’s that good.”

“Are you saying I’m conceited?”

“Yep.”

He laughed, then his face sobered, and he turned so that some stray patch of light caught his face. He was suddenly serious, painted in shadows and light like some abstract photo. “No brag, Anita, just fact. I’d love to prove that to you someday.”

“I do not need to have the other cops hear that kind of shit from another man right now.”

“I’m still willing to help you feed.”

“I thought you were creeped by what happened with Morgan.”

He frowned, thinking about it. “I was.”

“I thought that would make you take the offer to feed the ardeur off the table.”

He frowned harder, making creases between those big, dark eyes. “Yeah, actually I thought it had changed my mind.”

“So, why the renewed offer?”

“Habit, maybe.” But the frown stayed.

I had an idea, and not a good one. I did need to feed soon. In fact, I should have felt more energized, less “hungry,” because Victor was supposed to have helped share his energy with me. But maybe all he’d been able to do was help me heal. I’d used up a lot of energy healing and fighting, and Belle Morte had been right about me feeding only the minimum to get by lately. We were also past the twelve-hour mark, when food was usually a good thing. Then I realized that I hadn’t eaten any solid food, either. Shit, I knew better than that. One hunger did feed the other, and if I didn’t eat enough real food, both my beasts and the ardeur rose faster and stronger. I knew this, but in the middle of a case, it was hard to find time to be human. Was I accidentally shopping for food now? Was I trying to bespell Bernardo without knowing it? It was the not knowing that creeped me the most.

“I need to get some food.”

“You can eat after seeing that?” He didn’t motion at the body; it was just implied really loudly.

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“Then I…”

“If I don’t eat solid food often enough, it makes it harder to control all the other hungers,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, then frowned. “I’m thinking something really inappropriate, even for me.”

“Do I want to know?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You’d be pissed.”

If it was bad enough that Bernardo wouldn’t say it out loud, then it was bad. That he’d thought of it, then thought better of it, was a sign that something was wrong. I was betting that I was what was wrong. Was the ardeur calling to Bernardo? I didn’t even know how to tell.

“Okay, let’s get back to… Ted, and see if we can get the files we need from the locals.”

“If you want to eat tonight, it has to be before we see more crime photos.”

“Agreed,” I said.

We turned and started walking back toward the knot of men and the remains of Vittorio’s latest victim.

54

MORGAN WAS SAYING, “You’ll have everything you need in a couple of hours, but we have to finish up here.”

“Call someone,” Edward said.

Shaw was a little bit down the alley talking to some of the crime scene techs. It was just Thurgood and Morgan to watch us come closer and frown. Morgan just seemed generally cranky, but Thurgood had passed to hostile.

“We’ll get you the information, but you’ll have to wait until one of us gets back to the station.”

“Why?” Edward asked.

“Because you’re going to have to borrow one of our computers, and someone’s going to have to babysit you.”

“You don’t trust us with paper copies?” I asked.

“We don’t trust you,” Thurgood said.

“So much for my sisterhood.”

“I am not your sister,” she said. “Women like you make it harder for the rest of us to do our jobs. Women like you make it harder for us to be taken seriously by the other cops.”

“Women like me,” I said. “What does that mean?” I knew, but I wanted to see if she’d say it out loud.

“Anita,” Edward said.

I said, “What?”

“You know what you are,” she said.

Morgan said, “Thurgood.”

“I know what you think I am,” I said.

“That’s enough,” Edward said. “Both of you.”

“You aren’t my superior,” Thurgood said.

“We’ll see how our superiors like knowing that the Vegas PD is preventing us from doing our jobs,” Edward said. His voice was low and cold, with an edge of warmth to it. He didn’t lose control that much normally. Apparently, Edward hadn’t been able to soothe things.

“We just don’t want her and her lovers going through our files.”

“Geez,” Bernardo said, “because you’re a slut, we’re sluts, too.”

“Shut up, Bernardo,” Edward said. He started walking down the alley away from them and toward the reporters. It was where our car was parked, unfortunately. The rest of us trailed after him. We all pulled our gloves off at the entry to the alley and put them in the trash bin someone had set up for it. There was a uniform guarding the can to make sure no one tried to take a souvenir. You think I’m kidding, but people go nuts on serial cases. The glove would be on eBay that night, if they listed it right and it didn’t get pulled before purchase; eBay tried to police itself, but people put weird shit up.

Another uniform held the tape up, and we were suddenly blinded by camera flashes and the lights from handheld shoulder cams. They’d moved all the bigger equipment back, but the mobile stuff had crept forward.

We ignored all questions. It wasn’t our town, and one of the fastest ways to piss off the locals was to talk to reporters. Some of the uniforms had to actually wade into the crowd and make a hole.

The questions were about the murders at first, and then someone in the crowd recognized me. You’d think that a serial killer vampire would be more interesting than my love life with a different vampire, or maybe they just thought I might actually answer those questions.

“Anita, Anita, what does Jean-Claude think about you hunting and killing other vampires?”

I ignored it, like I had all the rest. Because I’d learned that no matter what I said, it would go worse than if I said nothing. No matter what questions I answered, the locals would see it and think I was talking about the case. They were already pissed at me; I didn’t need to help them hate me.