Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [32]
I kept my hands at my sides and said, “We heard that you and Vincent Blackburn sometimes worked as a team. Is he here?” Innocent and guileless, that’s me.
A smile flickered and died on Samael’s face. “Vincent is dead, pretty.”
How the hell had he known that? “He is? How awful.”
There was a moan from behind Samael and I peered around him to see a girl strapped to a padded massage table, bloody red marks defining her ribs and breasts. Samael’s assistant walked over and casually began to fondle her, making soothing noises.
“Is she okay?” Shelby asked. She was still twitchy and I willed her not to make a scene.
“She is experiencing the greatest pleasure of her life,” said Samael with a smile. “She will learn the rituals of pain and come to expect it as a reward. A very fortunate young lady.”
“Sorry to take up your time,” I said. I had been about to identify myself and question Samael properly, but I became aware of the soundproofed, closed-in room and thought better of it. Right now, I just wanted to teleport out of the Creep Dimension and go home.
“I know you, young lady,” said Samael to Shelby, fixing his glacial eyes on her.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Shelby. “I’ve never been here before.” She tugged at me. “We can’t get that two-on-one team-up we wanted, er … Hester. Let’s go.”
Hester? Well, Shelby won the prize for worst undercover improv ever.
“No,” said Samael and we both reflexively stopped. “No, I remember you now.” He stripped off his mask and crossed the space to Shelby, squeezing her arm so hard she cried out. “Top Hat,” he said. “You’re the little bitch who arrested me in front of half a dozen colleagues. Do you have any idea the humiliation I suffered?” His formal accent was gone, replaced with an edge born somewhere in New York or Jersey.
“I do, and I also remember pulling you off a thirteen-year-old girl,” Shelby spat. “Get your hands off me!”
Samael threw her across the room and Shelby hit the metal wall, crumpling. He turned on me, but I already had my gun out. “Police,” I said. “Show me your hands.”
Rage flaming like blue fire in his eyes, he slowly raised them.
“On the ground,” I said. “Slowly and calmly. Clasp your hands behind your head.”
He didn’t move, just shifted his eyes over my shoulder a split second before I felt something heavy smash into my skull. Stars spun and I went to my knees. I lost my grip on my gun and felt hard hands pull me up by my arms and hair.
I lashed out, growling and fighting as a were, not a homicide detective. My jaw twinged as I fanged out and I dimly heard the girl’s shout as she and Samael struggled to contain me. Someone hit me again, and everything went black and soft as cotton as I spiraled into darkness.
CHAPTER 11
I came to with mesh pressing into my cheek and the rhythmic chanting of a crowd in my ears. My head vibrated like a guitar string and I felt sick when I tried to raise it. I touched the back of my skull and a little blood came away on my fingers.
“Luna!” That voice I recognized. Shelby swam into view, arms pinned by two bouncers and nearly engulfed by the crowd pressing in. Mesh separated us. I was in the cage.
A hand lifted my head by my hair and I swatted weakly. “Now, none of that,” said Samael, squirting my face with a water bottle. It was cold and stung at the small cuts the mesh had left across my skin, but it did wake me up.
“I’m a cop,” I said. “So is Shelby. You can’t do this to us.”
Samael leaned close to my ear, his breath caressing it. “Do you really think anyone in this place will care what you are, cop?”
He had a point there.
The floor of the cage vibrated as Samael crossed it and opened the door, admitting two scrawny men in jeans, torsos bare. Maybe that was Bete Noire’s dress code—shirtless, scrawny, servicing.
The men milled behind Samael, bringing with them an overdrive version of the hormone-laden stink that permeated the