A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [67]
The doctor spit out his Jack.
Oh, hell no!
NO MATTER WHERE YOU GO
Tanya Huff
“I overheard a couple of uniforms talking today.” Her head pillowed on Mike’s shoulder, palm of her right hand resting over his heart, Vicki made a noncommittal hmm.
“There’s been some vandalism in Mount Pleasant Cemetery the last couple of nights.”
She tapped her fingers on sweat-damp skin to the rhythm of the rain against the window, wrapping it around the steady bass of his heartbeat. “You don’t say.”
Mike closed his hand around hers, stopping the movement. “Someone dug a small firepit on a grave and cremated a mouse. The officers responding found wax residue on the gravestone, chalk marks on the grass, and evidence from at least four people.”
“Uh huh.” Vicki rose up on her left elbow so that she could see Mike’s expression. He seemed to be completely serious. Although the pale spill of streetlight around the edges of the blind provided insufficient illumination for him to see her in turn, his eyes were locked on her face, waiting for her to draw her own conclusions.
“You think some idiot’s trying to call up a demon.”
“I think it’s possible.”
“And you think I should . . . ?”
He shrugged, a minimum movement of one shoulder. “I think we should check it out.”
“We?”
His fingers tightened, thumb moving down to stroke the scar on her wrist. “I don’t want you there alone.”
She had a matching scar on the other wrist, a pair of thin white lines against pale skin, a reminder written in flesh of a demon nearly unleashed on the city by her blood. But that had been years ago, when Vicki Nelson, ex-police detective, not particularly successful private investigator, had only just discovered that creatures out of nightmare were real.
“Things have changed.” Turning her hand in his, she stroked in turn the puncture wound on his wrist, already healing even though it had been less than an hour since she’d fed. “I’m pretty sure vampire trumps wannabe sorcerer.” When he didn’t answer, merely continued to look up at her, brown eyes serious, she sighed. “Fine. A vampire and an exceedingly macho police detective definitely trumps wannabe sorcerer. Worst case scenario, it won’t be much of a demon if all they’re sacrificing is a mouse. We’ll check it out tomorrow night.”
Dark brows rose. “Why tomorrow? It’s barely midnight.”
“And it’s pouring rain. They won’t be able to keep their fire lit.”
“So tonight . . .”
Vicki grinned, tugged her hand free, and moved it lower on his body. “Well, if you’re so set on not sleeping, I’m sure we’ll think of something to do.”
Mike Celluci had spent most of his career in Violent Crimes. One night, back before the change, when alcohol had still been able to breach the barriers Vicki kept around her more philosophical side, she’d called the men and women who worked homicide the last advocates of the dead—bringing justice if not peace. Over the last few years Mike had learned that, on occasion, the dead were quite capable of advocating for themselves. That knowledge had added a whole new dimension to walking in graveyards at night.
By day, Mount Pleasant Cemetery was a green oasis in the center of Toronto, the dead sharing their real estate with a steady stream of people looking for a respite from the press of the city. At night, when shadows pooled in the hollows and under the trees and clustered around the hundreds of headstones, the dead seemed less willing to share.
“Isn’t this romantic.” Vicki tucked her hand in the crook of Mike’s elbow and leaned toward him with exaggerated enthusiasm. “You, me, midnight, a graveyard. Too bad we don’t have a picnic.” She grinned up at him, fingers tightening over his pulse. “Oh, wait . . .”
Mike snorted and shook his head but he understood her mood. It had been too long since they’d worked a case together. And okay, a cremated mouse and some wax residue wasn’t exactly a case, but it was more than they’d had for a while.
He tugged her off the path, following the landmarks from the original police report. “It was this way.”
As they