Battle Bond: An Urban Fantasy Dragon Series (Death Before Dragons #2) - Lindsay Buroker Page 0,112
out of the fridge and frowned at me. “Are you sure?”
“No. The note he or she left was in English. But the bone daggers looked like something dark elves would have. And I don’t know who else would have stabbed a blade through Zav’s face.”
“Pardon?”
“His face in that poster.” I waved to where it remained on the desk.
Willard dropped off one of the drinks next to me and went to look. “Should I find it odd that you have a poster of a shape-shifted dragon in your apartment, or is it simply another sign of the inevitable marriage?”
“Trust me, he’s more likely to kill me—or tote me off for punishment and rehabilitation—after last night. He was not cool with me finishing off his enemy. Apparently, dragons don’t kill dragons. It’s a thing.”
“Like homicide?”
“I guess. The note is on my bathroom counter in case you want to take it to your office for forensics stuff. Can you get fingerprints on dark elves?”
“Only if they’re in the government database.”
“I think the ink is someone’s blood.”
“That would let us know who they killed, not who they are.”
“Look, Willard. I can only hand you so many clues. You’re going to have to do some legwork on your own.”
“Says the woman napping on the floor.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, came out without commenting on the freshly stabbed black bra left on the counter, and waved the note. “I’ll give it to the forensics tech on Monday.”
“Good.”
Willard came around the couch to frown down at me. “This ennui isn’t like you. What’s up?”
“Nothing.” I didn’t know how to explain my frustration with the Zav situation and would prefer not to try.
“It’s clear that you need something to do in order to distract your mind from your woes.”
“Are you going to ask me to hang out with you this weekend, Colonel? Is that allowed? Fraternizing with the lowly civilian contractor who doesn’t properly salute you?”
“Oh, that’s highly discouraged. But I signed the lease for a new less incendiary apartment in the city, and some of the guys from the office are coming to help me move tomorrow. I thought you might like to help.”
“What can you possibly have to move? Didn’t all your stuff burn?”
There went her judgmental eyebrows twitching again. Though maybe I shouldn’t have made the joke. She’d probably lost a lot of her treasured belongings in the fire.
“Most of it, but I had a three-bedroom house on base at my last assignment, so I still have furniture in storage. And I bought some new exercise equipment to celebrate being alive.” Her eyes narrowed. “I have some nice fifty-pound dumbbells you can carry into the apartment.”
“You bought celebratory fifty-pound dumbbells? You’re a weird woman.”
“Says the pot to the kettle.”
“Most women get the purple, pink, and teal dumbbell set that maxes out at twelve pounds.” Admittedly, I would laugh my butt off if I saw Willard wielding a pink six-pound dumbbell.
“I used to have a squat rack in my bedroom.”
“I bet that excites men and gets you a lot of dates.”
She rolled her eyes. “Enjoy your money. I’ll text you the address of the new place and see you tomorrow.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“You’ll get tired of your ennui and want to come.”
I waited until she left before opening the envelope. She’d arranged for the double combat bonus, as promised.
After taxes, there might be enough left to pay off the auto loan on the destroyed Jeep. That was a good thing, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about being rewarded for this, since killing Dob had pissed off Zav and broken some Dragon Justice Court law.
I reminded myself of the dead goblins and workers in the water-treatment facility and decided I’d done the right thing. Zav was wrong—or naive about his silly judicial system—not me.
I carried the fifty-pound dumbbells out of Willard’s Honda CRV, wondering what she did with them. Squats? Shoulder shrugs? Chest presses? The colonel was definitely a beast. I carried them easily enough, but that was more thanks to my father’s blood than my exercise routine. When I went to the gym, I spent more time doing sprints, practicing sword-work, and pummeling the bags than hurling weights around.
Willard’s “new” apartment was in another fifty-year-old building with external staircases and doors. Maybe she worried about being trapped in another fire—or an attack—and wanted to be able to flee straight outside. Given how her last apartment building had burned down, I couldn’t blame her.
When I reached the second floor, Corporal Clarke, who’d been pressed into