Heart and Soul (Shayne Davies #3) - Jackie May Page 0,3
he says quietly, “But I won’t be me. Not really. Not until they’re gone.”
I feel the bitterness of an odd jealousy. His heart doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the pursuit of those monsters. He just said as much to my face. The butterflies swarm with a vengeance, chittering at me with I told you so, and This will end badly, and Run while you still can!
But I’m fast enough, I vow, mentally stomping my foot. I’m strong enough. And Lady Luck…I want to shake her in desperation. Threaten, beg, put a knife to her throat. You owe me.
“We can’t seem too eager,” I say sullenly. “Give me tomorrow to poke around the office, see what I can find out.”
Pulling me to him, Brenner folds his arms around my shoulders. As I grasp desperately at him, more classic song lyrics come to mind, though not as upbeat this time.
“Give Me Just One More Night.”
“Everytime You Go Away.”
I don’t know much…
I can’t help but finish that one: I don’t know much…but I know I love you.
The nagging butterflies slump in dejection.
It’s still dark when a cryptic text from Nick Gorgeous awakens me, ordering me to get up, get ready, and “await further instructions.”
I roll out of bed. “This is it, Jay. Something’s definitely go—yeee!” The ice-cold floor shocks my feet. I hop from foot to foot. “—definitely going down. That was Nick.” I fall backward on the bed and kick both legs high as I pull jeans over them.
Brenner mumbles, “I’m on it, I’m…some coffee…going…” His sleep breathing resumes.
Outside, a frigid breeze cuts right through my Detroit Tigers jacket. Any normal person would wear half a dozen layers against this arctic freeze, but my inner fox will have none of that. Too much like a cage. What if I suddenly need to shift? So I just have to deal with chattering teeth and numb fingers. It doesn’t help that I’m borrowing an old truck with a heater on its last breath. It will warm up eventually, but only after filling the cab with air that smells like burnt farts.
The ’85 Chevy 4x4—faded blue with a white cab—sits high above large tires. I haul myself in and crank the engine. After three failed starts, she finally turns over with a grumble, as though reminding me that I don’t got to be in no damn hurry. In the cold dark, I talk back to it: “Yeah, I know Nick’s text said to await further instructions, but he knows I don’t ‘await’ shit. I go, and fast.” When I stomp the gas, the truck mocks me with a sputtering crawl.
“You’re a disgrace to your year,” I complain. “Do you have any idea what songs came out in 1985? ‘Rhythm of the Night,’ ‘Freeway of Love.’ Fast songs. ‘Neutron Dance,’ for crying out loud. Oh, here’s one I know you’ve never heard: ‘The Heat Is On.’” I slap the air vents. They belch a cold stink at me.
I’m halfway to the office when Nick calls. “Bagley Street in Corktown,” he barks over loud background chatter.
“What about it?”
“I need you there ten minutes ago.”
“But I’m past Corktown. I’m almost to the office.”
“The office! Did I tell you to come to the damn office?” Nick’s using his big-boy voice. This is definitely major.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“A runaway vamp with major blood fever. You’re up.”
“No, but I mean at the office. It sounds like a zoo.”
“Forget the office, Shayne! Listen to me. I got a rampaging vamp with a human hostage in Corktown. I’ve told police the FBI negotiator is en route. They’re expecting you.”
“Negotiator? You expect a vamp with blood lust to talk?”
Nick’s voice goes away from the phone, shouting angry commands at some other poor soul. Then back to me: “Run that bloodsucker down and drag his corpse back here, dead or alive. We’re all-hands-on-deck over here, or you better believe I’d send somebody else.”
“Gee, I’m overwhelmed by your confidence.”
“Make me eat my words when you haul his staked ass in.”
“With no backup? Don’t you usually send a small army after rogue vamps?”
“Not rogue. He’s clan, but his sire bond was just severed. He’ll be weak.”
A severed bond? That could only mean a dead master. “Which clan?” I blurt, trying to sound natural. I already know it must be Henry Stadther. This is a nightmare. We’re talking top-five biggest bombshells of all time in the Detroit underworld. All-hands-on-deck is a major understatement. “Don’t tell me it’s Henry Stadther.”