Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [21]
“It was a very sweet thing, Trevor,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “You’re sweet.”
“Don’t talk like that.” He grinned. “You’ll ruin my reputation.” He kissed me on the lips, for a lot longer than I’d planned on, and then released me. “Go to work, babe. I’ll call you soon.”
CHAPTER 7
Shelby was leaning against a sporty white Nissan in the parking lot, tapping one stiletto-heeled foot. I made her footwear as brand-new Jimmy Choos and had a brief flash of envy before I said, “Blackburn was a fetish club bartender, but my boy—source—didn’t know which place.”
“Well, if you’re determined to work this to death, it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out which one,” said Shelby. “They’re a specialized industry, very insular. We could pay his employers a visit.”
“And here I was just thinking I hadn’t seen enough middle-aged men being spanked recently,” I said, unlocking the Fairlane.
“That’s only the surface,” Shelby told me with what I’m almost certain was glee. “Good fetish bars have dom/sub, flogging, footplay… and a lot of other options.”
“Great,” I said. “Can’t wait to get my toes licked by some guy in a collar and a leather bikini.”
“You were the one who wanted to pursue this,” said Shelby. “Meet you back at the house to file our report?”
I bit my lip. “We need to notify Vincent’s family. The sooner, the better.” With two notifications in as many days, I was not on the winning square at the cosmic roulette table. But the Blackburns were a clannish bunch, and I had a feeling they wouldn’t be too specific about where their fury landed if they found out Vincent was dead from someone other than the cops.
“If he even has a family; the Blackburns are strictly underground,” said Shelby. “Nobody knows where they live.”
I got in the Fairlane and opened the passenger door. “I do.”
Ghosttown is the creeping rot on the underside of Nocturne City, a place where no one goes unless they’re desperate and where plain humans disappear faster than the ash on the end of a burned-down cigarette.
Shelby grabbed my arm as I pulled off the expressway at Exit 43. “You cannot be serious.”
I glared at her hand until she moved it. “Do I look like I think this is at all amusing, Shelby?”
The Fairlane ground over desiccated pavement and broken glass, and I pointed it down the wide boulevard that had once been the heart of the federal housing project burned in the Hex Riots of 1969.
“I thought no one lived here,” Shelby murmured, face pasted to the glass as we passed blackened cement boxes that had once been homes and shops. My headlights picked up a few skinny, hunched figures on the edges of the road, and my hands tightened on the wheel.
“Don’t let the name fool you. There’s a lot more than ghosts here.” Including most of the blood witches in Nocturne City. My cousin Sunny, a caster witch herself, had told me all the juicy rumors of the Blackburn compound, guarded by blood wardings and full of depravity beyond imagination. Probably an orgy or two to round it out. Then again, Sunny was prone to exaggeration. The one concrete fact I’d gathered was that the Blackburn manse was somewhere near the center of the projects.
“Unbelievable,” Shelby murmured. “It’s like Wonderland.”
“Like Hell, you mean.” Being in this strange shadow-world made me break out in a nervous sweat, because weres lived in Ghosttown too. Were packs, all of whom defended their territory jealously. And here I was, an Insoli were, strolling in just as cocky as you please. Insoli are cast out by their pack after receiving the bite. Or, in my case, they run away as fast as their legs will carry them. The lowest of the low, untouchable. That’s me.
Most days, I was fine with being Insoli. I had never had a pack and didn’t want one. Someone, or thing, jumped in front of the Fairlane, hooting. I jammed on the brakes and the scent of dirty were invaded the car. A ragged teenage boy beat his fists on my hood once and then took off across