Under Suspicion

“Statistically speaking, vampires are much more intelligent than any of those other demons,” Vlad snarled. “We don’t have to take them out. Given enough time, they’ll do it themselves.”

“Vlad, I ...” I stood up and tried to put a calming hand on Vlad’s shoulder.

Truth was, I believed what he was saying; and deep down—and maybe even more on the surface—I didn’t believe that VERM could be responsible for the Underworld murders. VERM had been around a long time—and the Underworld murders were just beginning. Vlad let my hand rest on his shoulder for a chilling millisecond before he flicked it away; he spun on his heel, and snapped his black leather duster from the hook by the door. He shot a look over his shoulder—anger? disgust?—and said nothing before he stomped into the foyer and slammed the door hard behind him. I let out a breath, which I didn’t know I was holding, and it was like every bone in my body turned to jelly. I collapsed on the couch and stretched out, pulling my grandmother’s afghan over myself and falling asleep.

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning when I rapped on Will’s door, I convinced myself that I was out to cover all my bases. My gut told me that Vlad and his VERM brethren had nothing to do with the Underworld killing, but over the long night, something niggled at me. Something whispered that maybe I was missing something, that maybe it was possible —however unlikely I wished it to be—that Vlad and VERM might have had a hand in the Underworld violence.

He answered in his usual guise—shirtless, low-slung jeans showing off his taut belly, the light sprinkle of hair across his pectoral muscles. He grinned when he saw me; then plunged a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

“Good to see you here. Thought maybe you hated me after all the vampire mumbo.”

“It’s not me you have to worry about on that front.”

Will paled and looked over my head at our closed door. I waved my hand.

“You’re fine right now. How would you like to go for a little adventure? Might help us find out for sure.”

Will’s eyebrows rose. His smile went from cute and lopsided to sly and interested. “Go on.”

“I think I might have some information to follow up on.” I pinched the bag of bullets between my thumb and forefinger. “About these.”

The smile dropped from Will’s eyes, but he shrugged. “If we’re going into the mouth of Hell, best to have your Guardian with you.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘Hell,’” I said.

We were seated side by side, rolling across Sutter, when Will poked the paper I was balancing on my lap.

“Now that is an impressive power,” he said.

I told him how I had dropped by Lorraine’s office and she had done a mental scan for the Du family, coming up with the address on the paper. Having a witch on staff: way better than Google Earth.

The bus lurched around a corner and Will sat up straighter, his knuckles going white as he gripped the seat in front of us.

“Wait a second,” he said, swallowing heavily. “Are we headed toward Chinatown?”

“Yeah. This is right.” I waved the paper. “I have an address.”

A light sheen of sweat broke out above Will’s upper lip. “Isn’t this business something the angel boy should be doing? I mean, I wouldn’t want to step on any toes or ... wings or whatever.”

“What’s going on, Will?”

He clapped a hand to the back of his neck and blew out a sigh. “I hate Chinatown,” he said under his breath.

I knitted my brows. “Nobody hates Chinatown.”

Will and I stepped off the 30 Stockton, squinting into the rare shard of city sunlight. I started to walk—hands fisted, zigzagging with dire purpose through the throngs of tourists—when I realized that Will hadn’t moved at all. It was as if his Diesel sneakers had melted to the ground.

Which, given the city, wasn’t entirely impossible.

I beelined back to him, grabbing his arm. “Hey, come on. We don’t have much time.”

Will’s eyes were focused over my head; his lips pressed together. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed slowly.

“What?” I looked over my shoulder at the two carved cement lion/dragon statues that guarded the mouth of Chinatown. “Those? They’re not real. Promise. They don’t come to life during a full moon or a Keeping Up with the Kardashians marathon or anything.”

“It’s not that,” Will said, starting to shuffle with the tourist crowd. “It’s”—and here he wagged his head from side to side, hazel eyes scanning, scrutinizing—“Mogwai.”

I stopped dead and crossed my arms, feeling one eyebrow creep up. “Mogwai?”

We had crossed through the Chinatown gates and were flanked by a couple with thick Midwestern accents, who were pausing to photograph everything, and a guy power walking while listening to his iPod loud enough to hear every one of Steven Tyler’s wailing screams.

“Yeah,” Will said, voice lowered, “Mogwai.”

“Look, Will, I know every single demon in the Underworld. And the majority in the upper world, too—wait. A Mogwai?”

Will nodded nervously, as if saying the word would bring one about.

“That’s a Gremlin, Will.”

“If you feed it after midnight, it is. And whose midnight, you know? They’re Chinese, right? Is it when it’s midnight in China or here? And, well, I’m British. Does my Mogwai become British—”

“It’s a freaking Spielberg movie, Will!”

Will stopped, putting his hands on his hips. “And you don’t think it was based on something real?”

I could feel my left eye begin to twitch. “Fine.” I put out my hand, wiggling the tips of my fingers. “Give me your wallet.”

“No. Why?”

“Give it to me.”

Will reluctantly fished his wallet from his back pocket and handed it to me. I pulled out his credit cards and all of the cash—seventeen dollars, all in ones—from it; then I handed it back.

“Hey!”

I shoved his money in my pocket, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “See? Now I’ve got all of your money. There is absolutely no chance of you buying a Mogwai, unless you’ve got some magic beans in your pants. Now let’s get going.”

Three uphill blocks and six wrong turns later, I had lost my spunky, go-get-’em spirit and was bemoaning the city as a whole. I spotted the Chin Wa bakery and its glistening selection of glazed confections in the front window and began fishing Will’s dollars out of my pocket.

“Pineapple bun?”

I pushed in the heavy glass doors of the bakery and was immediately hit with a blast of hot, pastry-scented air. I huffed it until my head felt light, and then traded some of my pilfered dollars for a bag of toasty pineapple buns and a Diet Coke. I offered the white bag—as it quickly became spotted with grease stains—to Will.

“Want one?” I asked, my mouth watering.

“Don’t like pineapple.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, fishing one out and taking a huge, satisfying bite. “There’s no pineapple in them.”

Will took a bun and shook his head. “I’ll never understand you.”

“So what does the map say?”

Will pulled the map from his back pocket, unfolded it, and smoothed it across his thigh. I leaned over, smattering the crudely drawn map with pineapple bun crumbs.

“Okay, from the looks of it”—I looked over both shoulders, feeling my ponytail bob against my cheek—“we