Part 4 (1/2)

”Methadone?” I said. She blinked rapidly and shook her head so hard her greasy hair flew.

”I never touched that c.r.a.p!” she said fiercely. ”Not after what it did to Bryan.”

I pointed at the circular track marks on her arms. ”Stella, I'm not going to bust you. If you need help, better tell me now.” I didn't know where this alternate-reality kindhearted me had come from, but I think it had something to do with the desperate, trapped-animal look in Stella Howard's eyes. She reminded me of something in myself, at a younger, more terrified age. A million roads spread out before you, all of them bad, and no map to navigate.

”I'm anemic,” said Stella. ”Not on smack.” She pulled a pill bottle bearing the logo of the public health service out of her pocket and handed it to me. Sure enough, it contained large white pills and was purportedly to treat severe anemia.

”How ...” I started, and then Shelby's blood donor comment made sense. I could smell nothing but plain human from Stella and Dusty, but the gang sign outside and the big needle marks in Stella's arm filled in the blanks. ”You sell it to them,” I said, understanding. She nodded once.

”And it's not illegal, so you can go now.”

Maybe not in the sense that cooking meth and stealing Ferraris was illegal, but selling human blood to witches definitely walked in the gray zone. And if the blood witch Stella was a.s.sociated with allowed her to partic.i.p.ate in workings as a reward for a ready supply of blood ... that was just bad all around.

I helped Stella up and brushed my knees off. ”Think very hard about what you're doing here, Stella. You may not be a junkie, but you're feeding addicts just like the dealer who sold Bryan his last shot.” If Bryan Howard had really died of an overdose at all.

”I know what I'm doing,” said Stella, her lips compressed. ”We don't push it to the gangs on the street. Dusty and I are respectable commodities.”

I couldn't formulate a response to that one, so I murmured, ”I'm very sorry for your loss,” and called to Shelby that it was time to go.

”She called herself a commodity,” I fumed to Shelby as we drove back to the precinct. ”Like ... like she was a freaking slave! And liked it!”

”She is a slave,” said Shelby in a tone that let me know she was entirely unbothered by Stella Howard's plight. ”Blood donors are like prost.i.tutes, only worse, because they let blood magick happen as a result of their trafficking.”

I took my eyes off the road to study her. She was picking something out of one of her nails, then blew on them and examined the tips in the flickering road lights.

”You don't care,” I said, not a question. Shelby crinkled her brow.

”Why should I? People like that deserve whatever comes to them. They debase themselves willingly.”

”I can see all that time in Vice did wonders for your outlook on the world,” I muttered.

”I'm a realist, Luna. I never would have pegged you as an idealist.” Her tone was lightly derisive, and I wanted to slam the brakes so her pert little nose bopped against the dashboard.

”I'm not a Hexed idealist,” I growled, and just to be difficult I continued, ”I think Bryan Howard may not have died from an OD.”

”Of course he did,” said Shelby dismissively. ”Once you dilute your blood with hard drugs you're of no use to blood witches. He probably killed himself because he couldn't be someone's donor b.i.t.c.h any longer.”

She was one to talk about b.i.t.c.hes. I had heard the cold academic tone Shelby used before, usually in talk directed at weres. It ran p.r.i.c.kles of anger up and down my back, and I pressed the accelerator a little harder.

”A suicide still isn't an accident,” I persisted. ”I think we should look into it.”

”And I think we should close it so I can do some actual casework,” said Shelby. ”Just because Morgan has you on a choke collar doesn't mean I can't make my bones on a real murder.”

The Twenty-fourth came up on my right and I popped the emergency brake, squealing the Fairlane to a stop at the curb. I reached over a jostled-looking Shelby and shoved her door open. ”Out.”

She c.o.c.ked her head. ”Why should I get out here?”

”Because that's the precinct house,” I said, ”and if you don't get your smug little buns out of my car I am going to slap you.”

”You take things way too personally,” Shelby told me as she collected her coat and climbed out. I took the brake off and revved the engine.

”What am I going to tell Morgan about you leaving?” Shelby demanded over the noise.

”Tell her to bite me,” I said, popping the clutch and roaring away.

CHAPTER 6.

The Belladonna club hunkered behind Nocturne University, a ramshackle ex-brothel that had been outfitted with a stage, a bar, and questionable restrooms. On weeknights it was mostly scenester college kids, but weekends brought out some of the less wholesome crowd.

Still, a booking there meant local celebrity and Trevor's band was doing a sound check when I walked in. I had left my s.h.i.+eld and gun locked in the glove compartment of my car, since I was off duty, and my black jeans, combat boots, and scuffed jacket blended me right in with the rest of the clubgoers.

I ordered a whiskey on the rocks from the bartender for show, because I didn't want to embarra.s.s Trevor with my usual club soda with a twist. Whiskey had been my choice poison before I'd largely stopped drinking.

”Hey.” Trevor's smooth voice washed over the crowd via a crackly PA. ”Thanks for coming out. I'm Wicked, and we're the Exorcists.”

Someone flung a bottle that shattered at Trevor's feet, but he ignored it and strapped on his black Fender to play the opening chords of ”Deadly Sin.” I sighed. ”Deadly Sin” was an ode to Trevor's ex-girlfriend, the one who ran off with the Exorcists' former drummer.

”Something wrong with your drink?” the bartender hollered as the rest of the band joined Trevor for the industrial-heavy chorus.

The bartender was big and heavily pierced, so I shook my head. ”Don't blame you!” he shouted. ”This s.h.i.+tty music would put me off booze too!”

I dropped my forehead onto my folded hands. Sure, the Exorcists were a goth band in a post-industrial world, and they had a stupid name, but they weren't that that bad. bad.

”Deadly Sin” died away with a moan from Trevor- Wicked was his stage name, another thing I'd tried to talk him out of-and he grabbed the mic stand, leaning on it and breathing heavily.

”That was for Sherrine,” he whispered. ”The dark G.o.ddess who broke my heart. Sherrine, mistress of my soul...”

I looked back at my gla.s.s. Suddenly, the whiskey seemed mightily appealing.

”This next one is new material.” Trevor abruptly straightened up and handed his Fender to his roadie. ”It's about being delivered from the darkness.”

He started to sing. ”Black like the face of a brand-new moon, Never seen eyes hold a love so true.” ”Black like the face of a brand-new moon, Never seen eyes hold a love so true.”

I froze, certain that every head in the place was turned to me.

”Luna, my Luna, I'm mood-mad for you.”

Oh, Hex me. This could not really be happening. Dating for a couple of weeks and he was writing songs in my name? Could an offer to join him forever in the dark pit of his bleeding soul be far behind? And G.o.ds, couldn't I have inspired something other than a power ballad?

The bartender noticed me hunched in abject humiliation. ”You Luna? He singing about you?”