Hard Bitten - Chloe Neill [76]
“This is V,” I said. “The same stuff we saw at the Streeterville party. Apparently it spread from Benson’s to Grey House to Temple Bar, where Cadogan vamps were stupid enough to try it.” I looked at Catcher. “This is why they’ve been so violent. It’s not the glamour or the magic—”
“It’s the drugs,” he agreed with a nod. “Not for humans, but for vampires.”
“I’d guess you’re probably right about that,” my grandfather said, pulling two small, clear plastic evidence bags from the pocket of his jacket. There were pills and envelopes in each.
“Where did you find those?”
“On the floor of the bar,” he said. “Someone must have dropped it in the confusion. Maybe the V stands for ‘vampire.’ Or ‘violence’?”
“Whatever you call it,” Catcher said, “it’s bad. V is in the clubs, it’s in the parties, it’s in the vampires.”
My grandfather glanced back at the paparazzi, who were flashing pictures from behind the police tape, their gray and black lenses zooming in and out as they tried to capture each bit of the scene.
“I can’t keep them from taking pictures,” he said, “but I’ll hold on to the V issue as long as possible. At this point, the drug’s only targeted at vampires, and there doesn’t seem to be an obvious risk to humans.”
“I appreciate that, and I’m sure Ethan does, too.”
A beat cop approached my grandfather, making eyes at me as he did it. Catcher, Jeff, and I were silent as my grandfather stepped aside, chatting quietly with the officer and, when they were done, passing him the bucket.
When my grandfather walked back over again, his brow furrowed, I assumed nothing good was heading my way.
“How do you feel about coming down to the precinct and giving a statement?”
My stomach curled. He was doing me a favor by letting me do the talking—letting me control the House’s destiny, so to speak—but that didn’t mean I was crazy about the idea of going voluntarily to a police station.
“Not great, to be real honest. Ethan will have a fit.”
“Not if the other option is a random Cadogan vamp without your training or allegiances. We need to talk to a Cadogan vamp,” he said, “and it’s better you than anyone else.”
I sighed. Not only was I now the bearer of bad news; I was the rat fink tasked with reporting all the dirty details to the CPD. But my grandfather was right—what better choice did we have?
I nodded my agreement, blew out a breath, and pulled out my cell phone again.
I might not be the bearer of good tidings, but at least I could give him a little forewarning—and hope to God he wasn’t waiting to strip me of my medal at the end of the night.
I rode in the front seat of my grandfather’s Oldsmobile, adrenaline turning to exhaustion as we drove to the CPD’s Loop precinct. He parked in a reserved spot and escorted me into the building, a hand at my back to keep me steady. Given the task at hand, I appreciated the gesture.
The building was relatively new and pretty sterile—the peeling paint and ancient metal furniture of cop dramas replaced by cubicles and automated kiosks and shiny tile floors.
It was nearly four in the morning, so the building was quiet and mostly empty but for a handful of uniformed officers moving through the halls with perps in handcuffs: a woman in a short skirt and tall boots with undeniable exhaustion in her eyes; a jittery man with gaunt cheeks and dirty jeans; and a heavyset kid whose straight hair covered his eyes, his oversized gray T-shirt dotted with blood. It was a sad scene, a snapshot of folks having undoubtedly miserable evenings.
I followed my grandfather through what looked like a bull pen for detectives, rows of identical desks and chairs filling a room bordered by a ring of offices. Detectives lifted their gazes as we passed, offering nods to my grandfather and curious—or just plain suspicious—glances at me.
On the other side of the bull pen, we moved down a hallway and into an interview room that held a conference table and four chairs. The room, part of the renovation, smelled like a furniture showroom—cut wood, plastic,