The Lost (Celestial Blues, Book 2) - By Vicki Pettersson Page 0,31

eyes.

“And she was the one who introduced him to the crocodile?” Kit asked.

“All I know is he wasn’t using it, and then suddenly he was.” Brunk shrugged, growing bored—or, more likely, tired—with the conversation. He slumped farther in his seat. “But if anyone knows what happened to Jeap, it’d be Brandy.”

“Or Bianca,” Grif muttered.

“Britney, I think,” Brunk said, bobbing his head until it fell to his chest. Kit looked at Grif and sighed. Waste of time.

But, surprisingly, Brunk rallied, head snapping back up. “Good guy, that Jeap. Laid-back for a tweeker. I think he really believed in all that mystical Oriental bullshit. Thought it would help him get clean, so one day he could work in a restaurant. And then he could own a restaurant. Those other burnouts would laugh, but they were assholes. I never laughed.”

“That was nice of you,” Kit said, as if that made him less of a burnout.

Brunk nodded. “Well, he was the best cook.”

The fact that he’d lost his most reliable heroin cook dawned on Brunk then, and his nostalgic smile melted. He picked at his arm for a moment, then looked up at Dennis. “I’m thirsty, man. Got anything for me to drink around here?”

Dennis shook his head, impatient now that he knew Brunk couldn’t help. “I look like a waitress to you?”

“You said you’d make it worth my while, bro.” Brunk’s eyebrows lowered, and so did his voice. “C’mon. It’ll help me sleep.”

“Shit.” Rolling his eyes, Dennis pushed from the wall.

Brunk’s head sagged as Dennis walked away, as if the retreating detective were pulling all his energy away with him. His chin dropped onto his bony chest, and a soft snoring started up almost immediately.

Grif jerked his head at the slumbering junkie. “Didn’t give us much.”

“And we still don’t know how the Russians tie in.” Wincing, Kit flopped into the chair across from Brunk. “Marin’s going to have my head.”

“That’s too bad, sweetheart,” Grif said, pulling out a smoke. “I like it where it is.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“No, actually it balances you out.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t smile.

“Fine.” Grif shrugged, and blew out a stream of smoke. “Maybe she’ll stuff it and mount it over her office door. You could chin-wag at her all day long from that position.”

“Yeah.” Kit finally smiled back. “She’d hate that.”

Grif’s reply was cut short by Brunk’s head unexpectedly swiveling around on his shoulders. It popped up on his neck like a jack-in-the-box before snapping straight. The tinny tune was still bouncing through Grif’s mind when he caught sight of Brunk’s eyes, which were suddenly star-pricked and darkly alive with interest.

Kit gasped.

“Hello again.” Brunk’s whole face shifted as someone else’s smile raised his cheekbones high. Though still gaunt, his face looked wide and almost healthy. His body straightened in his chair, and his fidgety hands folded together. “I thought we might make a formal introduction.”

What the hell are you doing here?” Grif whispered, dropping close to Kit, palms on the table. Shocked into silence, still staring into those overbright eyes, she didn’t move at all.

“Just visiting. Same as you . . . Griffin Shaw.”

The fallen angel’s voice remained light, but its words had the weight of knowledge, and each syllable emerged from Brunk’s thin lips in a way that made the human look like a ventriloquist’s dummy, which wasn’t too far off. It was merely animated flesh instead of wood.

“Oh, yes,” it said, at Grif’s lowered brow. “I know all about you now. I’ve been asking around, you see.”

“Wait,” Kit said, recovering, though she clutched Grif’s biceps in her hands. Grif didn’t blame her. An icy breeze enveloped them every time Brunk opened his mouth. “He can possess the living?”

“It can possess those who have no possession of themselves,” Grif said shortly. “And it’s not a he.”

The fallen angel scrambled Brunk’s features into a scowl, but they smoothed out once the onyx stars in his eyes shifted. “There you are. Katherine Craig. Reporter, native Las Vegan. The girl who lives in the moment, but dreams of the past. The girl who loves the truth.”

“How do you know me?” Kit whispered, color draining from her face.

“I torment dead people,” it whispered theatrically, then laughed so that Brunk’s Adam’s apple bobbed madly.

Swallowing hard, Kit lifted her chin. “Then someone should have told you that it’s Kit, not Katherine. Only my parents called me that.”

“Don’t engage, Kit,” Grif warned. Everything was ammo in the warped wings of the Fallen. Besides, Jeap Yang’s words were pinging around