Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [80]
The first time, I didn’t even let the phone ring before I slapped it shut. Then I took a deep breath, reminded myself that he had to be told what was going on, and redialed. This time I made it to two rings.
“You’re not in seventh grade,” I muttered as I dialed and listened to the phone ring before Dmitri answered groggily.
“‘Lo?”
I sat there, trying to think of what to say. Hey, your new fucktoy came by and threatened my life, so now I have to cure you. Hi, there, remember that daemon bite you got from Stephen Duncan? Hello, Dmitri, this is your insane ex Luna calling to tell you that I have to cure you, or I’m werefood.
“Luna, I know that’s you. I have caller ID,” said Dmitri. Face flaming, I shut my phone. I couldn’t do it. Everything we’d shared and I couldn’t think of one solitary word to say to Dmitri right then. There was no way to explain what had happened with Irina, or why I had really made the deal.
I didn’t care about my life one way or the other—hell, I prodded dead people and faced down armed psychotics for a living. Self-preservation was not in the equation.
But I did care about Dmitri. Still. Hex it, I was a pathetic excuse for a grown woman. I got the scotch, and a clean glass, and proceeded to get royally hammered, something that hadn’t happened since my days in uniform. I had hoped the alcohol would paint me in a better light with myself, but I still held the same opinion when I staggered upstairs and passed out.
In love. In danger of losing my job and my life. Pathetic.
CHAPTER 24
I woke up to a percussive beat, and after a confused second realized it was my heart beating a tattoo against the inside of my aching skull. The sun was down and after a consultation with my alarm clock I discovered I’d slept an entire day away.
Bang-up way to use precious time I could be using to find a cure for Dmitri or collecting any of the many loose threads of Vincent Blackburn’s case.
Hangovers disappear fairly quickly with were healing, and I was walking straight by the time I got showered, dressed, and selected my beat-up black Chippewas, ideal footwear for what I had in mind, which was to drive aimlessly around feeling sorry for myself.
I almost missed the blinking message on my land-line phone, but someone had left a voice mail while I was unconscious. Probably someone hideous, like Matilda Morgan or my psychiatrist.
Figuring nothing could be worse than meeting Joshua, I pressed the code to retrieve my messages.
“Detective Wilder, this is Melissa Gordon with the district attorney’s office.” She sounded like she’d rather be talking to Charles Manson’s voice mail. Not news, considering I’d killed her former boss. “I’m calling to inform you of a court date to testify against Arthur Samuelson, aka Samael, in the matter of his assault charges. November twenty-fifth at ten A.M., Nocturne City superior court part forty-three.” She slammed the phone down and my machine bleeped, telling me I had no more messages.
Arthur Samuelson. I knew his real name was something geeky. The only person I knew who had concrete ties to Vincent, who may have seen him the night he was killed. Then I hit on the fact that Samael was facing trial for assaulting a police officer. He was a sex club worker. Even in Nocturne City, it was highly unlikely he’d made bail.
I grabbed my gun and badge and ran to the Fairlane, stopping to assess the damage from ramming the O’Hallorans’ gate. One headlight dangled out of its socket. The chrome bumper, added by me when I’d been promoted out of uniform, was smashed beyond repair. A remarkably symmetrical V creased the hood. All in all, it looked like the type of vehicle a carjacker would back away from in terror.
Gods-damned O’Hallorans. I’d be sending them a bill. The Fairlane looked like crap, but it started with a louder-than-usual grumble, the