9. It’s Just One Dinner
It’s Just One Dinner
Another day with no further leads. We’re getting closer to the forty-eight hours set by Vincent Rodriguez.
Not that either Tim or I really think he would make any sudden vigilante moves.
He’s far more covert than that. My concern is more that he will start withholding info that would impede our investigation.
The Pack needs reassurance and strong leadership right now, so Jake stayed at the compound last night.
Coups have been staged at the slightest hint of weakness from an Alpha, even one who’s loved and respected.
There always seems to be a hotheaded young Wolf looking for the main chance, or an older Were with a secret vendetta of bitterness who believes it’s his due. And Jake didn’t earn his position.
The most common way to become Alpha is through a Challenge. The previous Alpha merely retired and named Jake as his successor, without all the usual bloodshed. No one had wanted to Challenge a Werewolf as powerful as either of them.
Lycos live far past human lifespans thanks to their regenerating cells and quick healing ability, so the old Alpha could have been hundreds of years old for all anyone knew.
In the past, Weres have predominantly died by violence, but that has changed with the World Treaty between Vamps, Lycos, and humans.
There are more laws in place now to ensure the survival of all species on Earth.
Much as I wanted the comfort and reassurance of Jake’s warm body curled around mine- and sure, having him rail me against a wall would’ve been a bonus- I need to keep my distance for now and be the badass detective he loves.
Tim and I spend all day interviewing more of Rodriguez’s men, climbing further down the food chain, getting essentially nowhere for our efforts.
Then we head to Delilah’s, the nightclub where Jason was murdered, to question the owner, bartender, and security, while street cops continue their canvas of the surrounding businesses.
Unfortunately for us, the club is popular for a reason.
They don’t require a micro to be scanned to get in, allowing Weres and Vamps to mix with humans.
Few Vamps want to, as they’re predominantly elitist by nature.
While Vamps will never say no to a human offering blood, they don’t often have relationships with the living.
Weres are far more social, often choosing human partners. Especially the males. I’m sure there’s some psychology behind that. Likely the innate dominance that comes with Lycanthropy.
Consequently, finding out who was there two nights ago and if they had noticed anything to do with Jason will be nearly impossible. But all the boxes need to be ticked.
The owner is a tough woman in her forties with blue hair and a hard face.
She wasn’t there that night, but knew Jason.
Apparently, he was a regular. The bartender, a twenty-something with holo-ink he thinks makes him edgy, remembers Jason being there with Gina.
But he was too slammed to notice where our vic went after their fight.
They’re not willing to give us any info on other customers, but we know roughly what time Jason slipped out the back to avoid more angst from his sometimes-girlfriend.
And from experience, I doubt the killer was hanging around in full view in a packed club, and then followed Jason into the alley and shredded him like cabbage.
‘Planting a print and Were hairs into the slashes after his death tells me it was planned,’ Tim says as we exit the almost empty club.
‘Someone wanted Jason dead, and for there to be no leads back to them. Whether Jake was framed for the murder as a vendetta or revenge for something, the killer had his prints and Wolf fur, not human hair. How did they get it?’
Neither of us had an answer to those questions. Yet.
‘What about more than one perp?’ I throw out yet another theory.
We’re standing outside the club, me with my hands on my hips, Tim adjusting his jacket.
‘He wasn’t a small guy. Plus, he had supps in his system, which could have made him violent, or at least angry,’ I continue with my theory.
‘One to hold him down, another to inflict the slashes, then they plant the evidence against Jake. If it’s not another Were, it’s fake claws that mimic a Lycos.
I’ve never heard of them, but it could be a Werewolf fetish.
We need to see if anyone manufactures them. ’
‘If it’s a partnership, we’re even more screwed, Eve. The perps could be smaller, weaker. A different profile altogether,’ Tim says, showing his concern as he pushes his dark blonde hair off his forehead and blows out a breath.
He looks like I feel: frustrated and slightly disheveled, which is unusual for my partner.
‘Ruby did say she thought they were real claw marks, not metal or anything. And there’s no trace evidence to suggest otherwise. They’re just slightly different than a Were’s, whatever the hell that means.’
‘It’s baffling,’ Tim agrees before we part. Him to cook dinner- I can’t think of anything less relaxing- and me to get ready for my date.
Dinner, I correct myself sharply as I sink into a steaming, fragrant bath. Not a date. A dinner I owe.
Micah didn’t even ask me himself. A holo came from Barclay this morning.
I was surprised that he knew how to make one.
He doesn’t have a microchip, but for those without, there’s a tiny black square- a mini-holo- that can send and receive holos.
Those without micros and contacts can’t get flickers, news, or social feeds in front of their eyes.
Instead, they use a small, old-fashioned handheld tablet.
The smell of lavender takes the edge off my nerves, and I drift blissfully until the water cools. My vanity wars with trying not to care as I stand in my walk-in closet and stare at the rows of clothes and shoes.
Vanity wins. Let’s face it, Micah will think what he wants anyway, and I’d rather look stunning. I’ve found it takes more effort to pull off the I look casually amazing without trying thing anyway.
Berating myself, but doing it anyway, I pull on a black lace balconette bra and matching thong.
I can’t resist a red bandage dress that clings to my curves, dipping between my breasts and riding high on my thighs.
Black heels give me height and make my legs look longer, but I will still be several inches below Micah’s well over six-foot height.
I leave my dark hair loose to swing around my face, and my makeup light, aside from dramatic winged liner and blood-red lipstick.
Looking at the effect in my full-length mirror, I push aside thoughts of Jake and smile in satisfaction. I’m not nineteen anymore, and I’ll make damn sure Micah Saint James knows it.
My ego is possibly also involved.
I drive myself to the restaurant so I can make a quick getaway if needed. Micah never specified how long dinner had to be, and I also need the feeling of control driving gives me, when everything else right now feels so far out of it.
Pulling up outside one of the most exclusive restaurants in Manhattan, where I would never be able to get a table, I decide that whatever happens, I’ll enjoy the food.
But when a liveried ma?tre d opens the door, and I step inside, all thoughts fly away.
There’s a waiting list of two years, yet it’s empty.
I must look confused because a waiter in a tux says, ‘Follow me, mademoiselle.’
Leading me to a table on the far side of the room that would afford privacy even if the room had been full of people, he melts silently away.
Everything is perfect in an understated way, as only the truly exclusive can be. From bone china plate ware to real silver cutlery, crystal glasses, and linen tablecloth, it screams elegance and wealth. My heart pounds with the realization that Micah booked it for us to be alone.
I briefly wonder if he paid for the entire restaurant or used Mesmerism to get what he wanted.
He has more wealth in crypto, gold, jewels, artwork, and property than he could spend in all his lifetimes.
But I also know he revels in his supernatural abilities.
He never harms people, but it would be very like him to use the power of Compulsion for a meal at an exclusive restaurant.
When Micah steps out of the shadows, I almost roll my eyes at him. But the way he looks at me stops me cold, the smile dying half-formed on my lips.
Darkness ripples from him, stealing the light from the room as he runs his eyes over me, looking like the lethal predator he is. Ancient, immortal, and ruthless in getting what he desires.
His black dinner jacket and pants, immaculate as always, are tailored to fit his perfect body. He exudes effortless grace wrapped in night-swept power; onyx eyes glowing with it. He hasn’t bothered with the usual dampener on his power.
One dinner. Two hours of my life. I can do this.
I’m no longer a love-sick teenager in awe of the man who had saved me.
Still, I can’t help but compare my unease around him with my fearlessness as a Paranormal Detective.
I’ve faced down both the human and supernatural underworlds of New York.
But Micah Saint James is in a league of his own, and always has been.
He’s an apex predator in ways a Lycanthrope could never dream of matching.
His power comes in more subtle forms than fur and claws and canines.
‘Evangeline,’ his deep voice slides over my skin like a caress as he moves toward me. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss my cheek, and I stiffen slightly, but he only pulls my chair out smoothly.
‘Micah.’ I keep my voice level as I sit, resisting the urge to tug my dress down over my thighs. I’m not cold, but not friendly either, as if he’s an acquaintance I haven’t seen for a while.