Sweet Last Drop (13 page)

“Nice try, but no,” Dominic said coolly, his tone less amused. “If the murderer was a vampire, I would know.”

“Not to pick at fresh scabs, but Jillian was a vampire, and you didn’t know about her rebellion. I think it’s entirely possible that a vampire is committing mass murders and you might not know.”

Dominic let out a choking noise. When he finally spoke, he growled. “That wound has not scabbed yet, and since Jillian, I have tightened my control of the coven—”

“You’re losing more of your powers every day as the Leveling approaches.”

“—and you would appreciate that tenuous control if you had ever seen me in command of my full powers. Not all of my vampires want to usurp my rule. In fact, most want me to survive the Leveling.”

“But the few who don’t might be committing mass murder.”

He growled louder. “You are missing the point of my news entirely.”

“Fine,” I conceded. “What is your point?”

“My point,” he snapped. “Is that the murderer has killed one person every night for the last two weeks.”

“I’m still waiting on your point.”

“One person every night. It’s a pattern. Your FBI refers to it as an M.O. Why now, all of a sudden and for no apparent reason, has he not struck two nights in a row? Why would his M.O. change?”

I sighed. “A serial killer satisfies his or her urges through killing. There’s usually a cooling period until the urges return, and then he kills again. Our guy’s cooling period is relatively short, and he kills the next night.” I frowned. “If anything, his cooling period would diminish over time, not lengthen. He should be killing more people per night, not less, and he certainly wouldn’t stop entirely.”

“Well, Greta’s serial killer has stopped entirely for two nights in a row, and neither Greta nor the FBI seem to know why.”

“Wonderful.” I sighed. “At least you’re right about one thing.”

Dominic snorted. “I’m right about everything.”

“I’m not missing out on breaking news. I can only hope when the FBI arrive, they’ll be more helpful here than they’ve been in the city.”

Dominic didn’t speak for a long moment. “Why would the FBI follow you from the city to Erin, New York?”

“Because instead of bringing the weather with me, I brought the crime. We have two murder scenes and three victims in the span of two days, and the Sheriff here didn’t wait for a third scene before calling in the feds.”

“In the span of two days or two nights?” Dominic asked. “The same nights that our murderer didn’t strike here?”

I opened my mouth and closed it, shocked into silence. “It can’t be the same murderer,” I whispered.

“Little Erin, New York experienced the two murders that we were supposed to experience here in the city. It’s entirely possible.”

“I was just joking about the crime following me.” My heart pounded through my sternum, its beat frantic. “Why would he come here to Erin, of all places?”

“What do you know about the case?” Dominic asked. Of all my interaction with him, I’d never heard his voice sound so calm and yet so utterly serious.

“Not much, actually. Greta was very tight-lipped about it. But—” I hesitated. One lead linked the murders here in Erin, and now that I thought about it, if the murderer had indeed followed me, it may have been the very reason why Greta was so tight-lipped.

“But…” Dominic encouraged.

When I first met Dominic, I thought he was a sociopath capable of murders—degrading, unimaginable murders like the cases we were investigating—and I wouldn’t have thought twice about blaming him for them. I thought he was a monster with no regard for other people’s pain, suffering, life, or loss. Now, I knew Dominic cared about many things, myself included. He was still a monster and manipulative, cold, calculating and for a man to be powerful—physically, mentally, in every way possible—but I also knew that Dominic was not responsible for these murders. He was certainly capable of them, there was no doubt, but leaving kills out for public display and eating their hearts wouldn’t have served his purposes or brought him closer to achieving any of his goals.

“But…” I said, slowly. Knowing he wasn’t responsible for the murders, I knew I could trust him, but confiding in him would break my confidence with Walker. I sighed. “Walker wasn’t as tight-lipped about the case here.”

“Of course he wasn’t,” Dominic said, and a tinge of jealousy crept into his tone.

“He could have easily kept the information to himself,” I said defensively. “The police here in Erin aren’t as forthcoming as Greta and Harroway.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to be. You’ve never saved their lives like you have Greta and Harroway. They don’t owe you any favors.”

“Greta and Harroway don’t owe me anything.”

“But I have no doubt—” Dominic continued as if I hadn’t interrupted, “—that Walker will share all of his information with you, whether he owes you anything or not.”

“Which is good of him, considering we need to know all the information we can get,” I argued.

“Yes, it is good of him. I never said otherwise, however—”

“Your tone said otherwise.”

“
However
,” Dominic pressed, “I wouldn’t get too paranoid about the case until we have proof that the crime literally followed you. All we have thus far is speculation, and it’s a bit far-fetched.”

“Vampires exist,” I said grouchily. “Nothing is far-fetched.”

Dominic sighed. “What information did our Ian Walker confide in you?”

I sighed, equally frustrated. “The hearts are missing.”

Silence.

“Hello!” I snapped. “I can’t infer what you’re thinking by your expression because I can’t see you. When you’re on the phone with someone, you actually have to speak to them to carry a conversation!”

“How exactly are the hearts missing?”

I blinked. “In how many ways can a heart be missing?”

“In shredded, bitten pieces. In pieces, but whole. Entirely, but nearby. Entirely missing. From under the sternum. Through the ribs. From over—”

“I get your point,” I said hastily, before he could finish his recitation. “Entirely missing. The first victim was so torn apart, I doubt the medical examiner could determine the means of removal. I’m not sure about the other two victims, but from what I’ve gathered, their bodies were found in the same state as the first victim. In pieces.”

“I thought they were found in the State of New York.”

I opened my mouth and after a moment of stunned silence, I closed it, resigning myself to not having a response.

“Too soon?” he asked.

“A few weeks ago, you never would have made that joke,” I said quietly.

I could hear Dominic’s breathing in the silence this time. “A few weeks ago,” he said softly, “I didn’t know you.”

The line went dead.

When I was in high school, my parents had strict rules against piercings and tattoos, so in rebellion, I had my belly button pierced on my fifteenth birthday. Mandy Hopkins and I were in newspaper club together, and her brother, Morgan, was practicing to become a tattoo artist. He had gnarly-looking tattoos of random animals, skulls, and bands intermixed with blobs of indeterminate shape and color covering his entire body—his first attempts at artistry. There was definitely a learning curve to tattooing.

Morgan pierced me in their parents’ guest bedroom. He had me lay on a padded table that I suspected his mother used for massage therapy, he wore surgical gloves, and he sterilized the needle and ring. He was quietly professional and well-mannered, and his shyness, combined with the loudness of his tattoos, drew me to him. I remember being both embarrassed and excited to reveal my stomach for the piercing, but as his little sister’s friend and a customer, he was very efficient. He pierced my belly, charged me five dollars, and reminded me that I was still too young to legally consent to the piercing. He didn’t know it because he didn’t know me, but he didn’t have to worry. Even as just a member of high school newspaper club, I knew to protect my sources.

Morgan was one of the piercers at I.P.P. (Inked Pierced & Proud) by the time Nathan wanted a nose ring. He was fourteen at the time, and frankly, I was surprised that he hadn’t come to me earlier. I took Nathan to see Morgan, and being eighteen, I pretended to be Nathan’s legal guardian. Morgan knew I was lying, but he also knew that I could keep a secret. He pierced Nathan’s nose, charged him fifty dollars, and I complimented Morgan on how well his career was progressing.

He smiled, and by the way his eyes lingered, I suspected that he didn’t see me as his little sister’s friend anymore. But I was leaving for Berkeley in the fall. I wasn’t interested in keeping permanent ties in New York City because once I left, I wasn’t ever coming back.

I returned his smile anyway.

When our parents saw Nathan’s face, his nose ring like a glittering F.U. on display, they threw a fit. Nathan promptly threw me under the bus, asking them to explain the difference between his nose ring and my belly ring when he knew damn well they hadn’t known about my belly ring. He accused them of being unfair and sexist and closed-minded, but in the end, when they demanded he tell them who had pierced him, a minor without parental consent, his mouth was a steel trap. He’d known when to keep a secret when it mattered.

Later that week, when he’d finally groveled enough for me to speak to him again, I thanked him for not ratting on Morgan like he’d ratted on me. I’d never forget his response. He shook his head and said, “I didn’t rat on you. I threw them a bone.” He gave me a look. “You’re welcome.”

That was a skill Dominic had also mastered, but even after twelve years, I was still learning—how to give a little to throw someone off the scent of something more important. To me, everything seemed important and everyone needed protecting. Although I could appreciate the benefits of prioritizing, lately, my biggest priority was just surviving.

* * * *

The house was quiet as I left, making the creaks and yawning cracks of the floorboards under my hiking boots seem deafening in the silence. All the other good little night bloods were asleep in their beds, but I couldn’t sleep. Despite having been thoroughly mentally and physically drained, memories of Nathan kept me awake. After three hours of tossing and turning on the twin bed in my guest room, I’d finally given up on the pretense of sleep and decided to explore the area. If I couldn’t do what I wanted, which was rest, I may as well do what I’m good at: snooping into business best left alone.

I’d decided to find Ronnie’s abandoned childhood home.

According to Ronnie, the search wouldn’t be difficult: due south through the woods. From habit, I’d packed my silver spray along with my recorder and phone. We still had a few hours until sunset, but I’d never regretted being over prepared. Thanks to the balmy May weather, I forwent my jeans in favor of fitted cargo shorts and the hiking boots Walker had insisted I pack for the trip. I owned multiple pairs of flats, boots, heels, sandals, sneakers, and slides, but little did he know
, his request had actually required me to buy hiking boots.

Navigating the woods was far easier than I expected, and not because Ronnie’s house was due south. It wasn’t. To give Ronnie a little credit, the house was in a southerly direction, and I probably wouldn’t have missed it following her instructions. The house was unmistakable, even hidden in the thick of the woods, because the path between it and Walker’s house wasn’t as overgrown as Ronnie had claimed. I followed the winding trail for a quarter mile and it led me right to the house.

The roof crested behind the rise as I hiked. Once I reached the top and could see the house in its entirety, I took a moment to catch my wind and enjoy the view. The structures of the house that had survived the fire were lovely, from the wide, wrap-around porch to the gabled roof dormers. Ronnie’s house was smaller than Walker’s, but what it lacked in square footage it made up in charm; she had lived in a veritable gingerbread cottage. The stone chimney was still standing, and even after all this time and weed overgrowth, the matching stone landscaping for flowerbeds and garden walkways were intact. One walkway in particular led to a tree swing. Woodchips were laid under the swing, and I imaged Ronnie as a little girl, her parents pushing her on the swing, her legs pumping strong and high. I felt my throat tighten from my own loss.

Like Two-Face, with his handsome left profile and grotesque right, the quaint beauty of the house was tainted by the devastation of the fire. The roof had collapsed into the front porch awning, so the awning lay smashed under its weight. The half-exposed second floor siding and walls were nothing but charred skeleton beams on one side. On the other, they’d collapsed, reduced to rubble.

I didn’t visit my parents’ apartment after the fire. Everything during that time had been a whirlwind of grief and preparation for the viewing and funeral, and after those formalities, going through the motions of normal life—returning to work when I wanted to curl inside myself, eating when I felt nauseated, and speaking when I wanted to alternately scream and cry and punch someone—consumed my energy. Their apartment had been repaired over time, and another couple lived there now. The light had been off the few times I’d passed their building, but a new name was labeled on the outside intercom. With the rubble cleared and new tenants occupying the space, the only remnants of my parents were memories, pictures, and a few pieces of jewelry. The firemen had recovered Mom’s crucifix and Dad’s cufflinks, but other than those few items, everything had been lost.

The thought of those damn cufflinks threatened to overwhelm my composure. I felt my throat contract around the burn of tears.

No one had cleared the rubble here for Ronnie and no new tenants were likely to take root anytime soon. I wondered which was worse: watching as new life filled my parents’ apartment even as my heart remained a hollow shell or living with the physical reminder of her parents’ deaths for a lifetime.

Taking deep breaths to regain my composure, I continued toward Ronnie’s house, forging onward, as usual, despite the pains in my hip and in my heart.