Desired by Shadow (A Shadow Walkers Novel) (13 page)

Sitting up on the couch, Monroe took stock of his surroundings. He’d passed out on the sofa again. Probably for the best, given he couldn’t remember the last time the sheets had been changed. For all he knew, they’d gotten up and walked off of their own accord to escape the filth. Rubbing his eyes, an empty bottle of Glenfiddich lay on its side under a chair with the stuffing coming out of the seat. Another empty on the top of the table.

Suspended for a month over the way he’d handled Emily’s case last year. Had to give Shamus credit, he’d helped Monroe cover, but in the end walking into his boss’s office in early October, fuck, his ears were still ringing after the dressing down he’d taken from his superior. He thought back. Emily was a Yank whose friend had fallen down some stairs at the museum and broken her leg. Monroe had met them when their hotel room at the Balmoral was ransacked.

She told him what at the time seemed a fantastical tale—now he knew otherwise. Some things were better left in the shadows. She’d gone missing and because he knew her problems were related to his cold case on Alice, he never reported any of it. Broke so many rules he’d lost count and the worst part? Didn’t care…all he’d cared about was justice, whatever it took, no line was sacred anymore. Alice. His girlfriend of long ago. Murdered, when he should have been there to protect her. He searched for years until finally getting the mother of all breaks last year. Found the bastard who killed her and then some. Who would have ever believed that all the preaching he’d endured as a child was true—though it wasn’t angels and demons…well, there were demons but not that kind. A war was being waged. Every day. Good versus evil. Brewing for millennia and his beloved Edinburgh was in the middle of it all. Monroe had found out ghosts were real during an investigation over a year ago. He’d found Alice’s killer. The guy looked human but was not. He was on the side wanting to destroy humanity. Alexander was his name. The guy killed him, well, emergency workers brought him back after three minutes, and now he could see Walkers. Robert had saved his life. Not only that, the guy allowed him to finish Alice’s killer off. He’d owe him forever. All Shadow Walkers had some kind of freaky power and a kill-first, ask-questions-later attitude. Monroe also met Colin and a seriously scary man named Thorne. He had Robert to thank for the information download. Rubbing his eyes, Monroe thought about what he knew. Looking around his hovel of an apartment, he scowled. The place had reached a level of nastiness even he was having trouble ignoring. He’d bet he couldn’t pay any cleaning service in town to clean it up, be better to torch it and start over.

Rolling off the couch, he groaned, pressing his hands to his temples to stop the spinning. Listing to the left, he staggered to the bathroom, chewed a handful of aspirin and stood under the shower until the hot water turned cold. Toweling off, he picked up clothes off the floor, smelling a shirt here, pants there, searching for something that didn’t smell like dead things. Finally a pair of Levis 501s, a black V-neck sweater, black Doc Marten boots and he was sufficiently dressed.

Head exploding with every step to the kitchen, he navigated moldy pizza boxes and take-out containers scattered on the floor. Finally. Relief was contained there in the old, battered fridge. And great. Not much choice other than a partial bottle of mustard, a green piece of cheese, and half a moldy tomato. He grabbed a beer off the counter and swigged it back as he left, shutting the door behind him. Snagging his coat off the chair, he beat feet outside, cranking the tunes in the black Mercedes SUV to drown out the pounding in his head and drove to the station to face the music.

On the way, Monroe stopped to grab a cup of coffee. His stomach rebelled at the thought of food so he decided on a double espresso. Feeling marginally alive, the flat, gray day did nothing to improve his mood. It was raining, sheets of rain, driving everyone away. The streets gave off an eerie vibe, almost deserted. Up ahead there was a lone pedestrian scurrying along, umbrella failing miserably to keep him dry against the gusting wind. At ten o’clock in the morning on a Thursday, he thought there’d be more people around. The cold and wet never kept the city’s denizens inside, especially the tourists. Even they had abandoned the streets today. He blew out a heavy sigh.

There had been rumors and whispers floating around with the panic-inducing word “virus.” He’d heard it mentioned in hush-hush tones as he walked by a war room at the station. Funny thing, the media hadn’t seized on it. Usually they were the first ones to whip everyone into frothing, foaming-at-the-mouth frenzy. He smelled a cover-up.

Gah, he was in a grouchy mood. Pulling into the lot, he parked and jogged in, feeling partially alive. Waving to Shamus as he passed through the open bullpen, he squared his jaw and rapped on his sergeant’s door.

“Enter. Monroe sit. Close the door.”

Monroe resisted the urge to bark and instead moved a stack of files off the only chair in the sight and sat like an errant school kid called into the headmaster’s office for some infraction or another. “Hey Sarge, sorry I’m late. Alarm clock is busted. Haven’t had time to get a new one.”

A rotund man in his mid-forties, with thinning gray hair and tired eyes, looked up from his desk at Monroe. “Really? An entire bleeding month of sulking and you couldn’t find the bloody time? From the looks of ye, haven’t been able to buy a razor either. My god man, have you been sleeping in the gutter? I was hoping you’d use this time to think about your career, but from the look and stench of ye, I think you spent the entire month soused.”

“Nice word,
soused
. Was that in your crossword puzzle today?” Monroe pointed at the open newspaper and cracked his knuckles, full of attitude.

“Watch the mouth, Monroe. I’m no in the mood.”

“I’m back, who the hell cares how I look or smell. I want the missing person cases.” He tried not to spit the words but flinched hearing his tone, knowing he sounded like a jackass.

“You want? You want? After the stunt you pulled. Years, you’ve been tiptoeing the line, pushing boundaries; you went too far with the American. Let your personal feelings cloud your judgment same as you did with Alice. For the next three months, you’ll be working a desk, doing paperwork until I’m satisfied you can play by the rules and play nice with others, clear?”

Sarge’s face was beet red, the veins bulging in his neck and forehead as he stood from his chair, leaning over the desk, shouting at Monroe.

“Leave Alice out of this,” he growled at the Sarge. Boss man was still sore over Alice ten years ago…talk about holding a grudge. Course she was a family friend and Monroe had burned a lot of bridges when it happened, guess he couldn’t totally blame the guy.

“That’s it. I’ve had it with your attitude. You’re working a desk doing paperwork for six months. You will steer clear of all missing person’s cases. Piss me off further, and I’ll make it a sodding year. Got me?”

Before Monroe could retort. Boss man lumbered around the desk and got right up in his grill, poked a stubby finger in his chest to hammer the point home. “Get your head out of your arse. And quit drinking, admit you’re a drunk—get some help.”

“The hell I am. Everybody likes to drink, doesn’t make you a bleeding advert for some sodding twelve-step program.”

“Denial won’t help you, son. Alice is dead and gone, God rest her soul. You need to move on. I want you to see the office shrink and start going to AA meetings or I’ll have your head. You’re an alcoholic. Just like your old man was and look what happened to your mum because of it.”

A red rage washed over him. How dare Sarge bring up what happened when he was a child. He was nothing like his old man. Without thinking he struck out, punching his superior in the face. Blood streamed down the guy’s nose.

“Get out. You’re fired.” Holding a handkerchief to his nose, Sarge pointed to the door. “Leave your badge—”

Monroe couldn’t see past the anger. He threw his badge on the desk, flung the wooden door open so hard it made the men outside jump at the loud band, and stalked across the bullpen. He was halfway there when he heard Sarge’s voice. “Get some bloody help, you’re a pathetic drunk with anger management problems.”

Not paying attention to where he was going, he found himself in the locker room. Slumping into the bench, head pounding, he refused to think about any of it. Bollocks. He didn’t have either of those issues, he wasn’t that cocked up.

Someone clearing their throat had him looking up, ready to take the head off of whoever was interrupting his brooding.

“Are you sure you want to do this, mate? It’s not too late. You can sit down, discuss things…” His partner trailed off. They’d been partners for the past ten years. Now Shamus stood there with a look of pity on his face.

“Don’t start, Shamus. After everything that’s happened, this has been a long time coming.” Monroe would miss his partner. But after he’d finally solved Alice’s ten-year-old murder case and had his eyes opened to what really went on out there, he’d wasn’t the same, would never be the same. Things that used to be black and white had muddied together into muted shades of gray. A year ago he’d have told you he’d be a cop and a bloody good one, until he retired. That was then, this was now. No sodding use crying about it.

Now if he could get Thorne to welcome him to the little happy Shadow Walker group—who was he kidding? He’d rid his city of all the scum taking up breathing space and killing humans whether Thorne welcomed him or not. Shamus was watching him with a concerned look on his face. Monroe wondered how long he’d been sitting there lost in thought. “It’s time to move on. Maybe Sarge did me a favor.”

“What are you going to do next?” Shamus was scratching his head, staring at the lockers, not looking at him. At least he had the good graces not to bring up the drinking or Monroe’s mom.

“I’m thinking of opening up my own investigative firm. Do things on my own terms. Don’t look like you lost your dog, I’ll still be needing information.”

Shamus snorted, looking relieved to move off the touchy-feely conversation. “What makes you think I’ll take your calls?”

They slapped each other on the back as he packed his locker. One lousy box. That was all he had to show for his time on the force. Mumbling under his breath, he headed out into the gloomy day.

The stygian darkness of Velvet soothed Solien. Reminded him of home. Passing the dance floor, the flickering strobe lights bouncing off his black shades, he headed directly to the bar.

“Grey Goose on the rocks, make it a double with lime.” Tossing back the drink, he ordered another, surveying the denizens of Velvet. Dressed in black leather pants, black shit-kickers, a black long-sleeved tee, and a black leather duster he blended into the shadowy interior of the most popular club in Edinburgh. With long midnight-blue hair that somehow enhanced rather than detracted from his looks, he could have been a model. At almost seven feet, he towered over most humans, and radiated evil like some men exuded sex appeal or charisma.

Restless, he zeroed in on two girls, barely legal and high on something from the look of them. Stalking over to the murky hallway leading to the alley, he nodded at the two women never glancing back to see if they followed. The women trailed him down the dark corridor of the club away from prying eyes to a small alcove next to the exit door leading out to the dumpsters. Before he could utter a word, the one dressed in a pink lace bustier gazed up at him with unfocused eyes and reached over palming him through his leather pants.

Shoving the brown-eyed brunette up against the wall, he popped the lacing on her top as her eyes widened. “Oh baby, I like it rough, give me more,” she mewed, wrapping her legs around his waist. Opening the bustier, he roughly rolled her nipple between his fingers and she moaned in anticipation. Pushing up what there was of her miniscule skirt; he ripped the pink lace thong off, discarding it on the floor. Solien stopped her from unzipping her thigh high black vinyl boots. “Leave them on, sexy,” he growled in her ear. Unzipping his pants, he reached for her, smiling as she let out a small squeak when he took her. As he pounded her into the wall in time with the bass of the music, the green-eyed brunette watched, caressing them while she swayed to a song only she could hear. Turning slightly so his dessert couldn’t fully see what he was doing, Solien leaned down to kiss the brown-eyed brunette—the air changed, the scent of an electrical storm filled the hallway as he deepened the kiss, sucking out her energy, her life-force. Brunette hair turned white, the bloom of youth fading to a brown wrinkled rose, discarded on the ground as he shot his wad and drained her dry. With a final gasp the brunette was dead. He propped the girl up in the corner, patting her arm for show. “Sleep it off, love.”

A tap on his arm had his head swiveling around to look at his dessert. The girl with the green eyes, pouted as she snorted cocaine from a vial around her neck. “She’s sleeping? Her loss. I’m Crystal and it’s my turn now, handsome.”

“Then let me oblige you with the best fuck of your life. You’ll think you’ve exploded from pleasure.” Laughing to himself, he thought she had no idea how true that statement would prove to be. To other humans, it would appear she’d had a heart attack or died from a drug overdose. He loved snacking on humans. Men he killed for the fun of it, the women he screwed and drained. They went with a smile on their faces every time.