she used as a couch and a bed and curled her legs in tight to her body. Her stomach was doing a slow churn job on the mac and cheese, waves of nausea followed by marching rows of shivers passing over her skin.
A soft meow brought her head up.
“Hey, Boo,” she said, wiggling her fingers listlessly. The poor guy had run for cover when she'd come through the door tearing her clothes off and throwing them across the room.
Meowing again, the black cat padded over. His wide green eyes looked worried as he leaped into her lap with grace.
“Sorry about the drama,” she murmured, making room for him.
He rubbed his head against her shoulder, purring. His body was warm, his weight grounding. She didn't know how long she sat there stroking his fine, soft fur, but when the phone rang, she jumped.
As she reached for the receiver, she managed to keep pace with the petting. Years of living with Boo had honed her cat/phone coordination skills to perfection.
“Hello?” she said, thinking it was past midnight, which ruled out telemarketers and suggested either work or some sicko crank-calling her.
“Yo, B-lady. Get your dancing shoes on. Some guy's car blew up outside of Screamer's. With him in it.”
Beth closed her eyes and wanted to weep. José de la Cruz was one of the city's police detectives, but he was also a friend of sorts.
As were most of the men and women in blue, come to think of it. Because she spent so much time at the station, she'd gotten to know them all pretty well, although José was one of her favorites
“Hey, you there?”
Tell him. Tell him what happened. Just open your mouth.
Shame and remembered horror tightened her vocal cords.
“I'm here, José.” She pushed her dark hair out of her face and cleared her throat. “I can't come tonight.”
“Yeah, right. When you ever turn down a good tip?” He laughed easily. “Oh, but take it smooth. Hard-ass is on the case.”
Hard-ass was Homicide Detective Brian O'Neal, better known as Butch. Or just plain sir.
“I really can't… make it tonight.”
“You getting busy with someone?” Curiosity spiked his voice. José was married. Happily. But she knew down at the station that they all speculated about her. A woman who looked like her without a man? Something had to be up. “Well, are you?”
“God, no. No.”
There was a stretch of silence as her friend's cop radar obviously kicked in. “What's up?”
“I'm fine. Just tired. I'll come to the station tomorrow.”
She'd file the report then. Tomorrow she'd be strong enough to go through what had happened without breaking down.
“Do I need to do a drive-by?”
“No, but thanks. I'm okay.”
She hung up.
Fifteen minutes later she was in a pair of freshly laundered jeans and a floppy shirt that covered her butt and then some. She called for a cab. Before she left she rummaged through her closet until she found her other purse. She grabbed the pepper spray and held it hard in her hand as she stepped out of her apartment.
In the two miles between her front door and the bomb scene, she was going to find her voice. And she was going to tell José everything.
As much as she hated the idea of reliving the attack, she wasn't going to let that asshole walk free and do the same thing to someone else. And even if he was never caught, at least she would have done her part to try to nail him.
Wrath materialized in the drawing room of Darius's house. Damn, he'd forgotten how well the vampire lived.
Even though D was a warrior, he had the tastes of an aristocrat and it made sense. He'd started life as a highborn princeps, and fine living was still of value to him. His nineteenth-century mansion was well cared for, filled with antiques and works of art. It was also secure as a bank vault.
But the drawing room's soft yellow walls hurt Wrath's eyes.
“What a pleasant surprise, my lord.”
Fritz, the butler, came in from the front hall and bowed deeply while shutting off the lights to ease Wrath's squint. As usual, the old male was dressed in black livery. He'd been with Darius for about a hundred or so years and was a doggen, which meant he could go out in the day but aged faster than vampires did. His subspecies had been serving aristocrats and warriors for millennia.
“Will you be with us for long, my lord?”
Wrath shook his head. Not if he could help it. “Hour,