2
“If at first you don’t succeed, pry, pry again.”
Christos Karacis, on perseverance, the #1 tenet of PI work
Detective Armani—Nick—called as I was on my way to the storage unit where Uncle Christos had socked away his stuff when he’d decided to go walkabout. “Where are you?” he asked without preamble.
I told him, biting off the words, stung by his earlier brusqueness. “I’ll meet you there,” he said.
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him not to bother, but he didn’t give me the chance.
I sighed. Fine; if there was another intruder at the storage site, Armani was welcome to him. But based on the fact that the key had still rested in the top drawer of Christos’s desk, under a probably fossilized pack of gum, I didn’t think it was on the intruder’s radar. The computer, however, had been another matter. Detective Beverly had been right about that blinking monitor. I should have caught it myself. The hard drive had been shut down, but I must have interrupted the intruder before he finished covering his tracks. Whether the computer files or the financials gave it away, it was only a matter of time before the storage unit came to light. If there was anything interesting inside, I wanted to be the one to find it.
My hands shook on the steering wheel of my shiny red Camaro. When the car seemed to be shaking too—or lurching, more like—I realized my foot was bouncing up and down on the gas pedal like it was bopping to a beat I couldn’t hear.
Maybe I needed more caffeine—or less. Or maybe even food. Ambrosia, a soft voice whispered through my head. I swatted the radio on to drown out the voice and was blasted by Green Day, which was a much better soundtrack than the one playing in my head.
I distracted myself further by guessing at what I might find in the storage locker. I’d lived long enough in the circus with my family of folk and in LA with its Twilight Zone feel not to take for granted that I’d discover nothing more than neatly labeled boxes peaceably collecting dust.
All the way from my office to my Camaro I’d felt an itch between my shoulder blades, as if someone had painted a target on my back in … in really itchy ink. It was weird. Not the tingly sensation that warned me of imminent danger, but an ice pick of unease. I looked around the crowded street, especially behind me where I’d felt the stare, but this was downtown LA, a far cry from the glitz and glamour of Hollywood Boulevard. The streets teemed not with tourists, but the people who truly lived and worked and kept LA going. If anyone was out of place or paying me particular attention, aside from those people who stepped around me, annoyed that I’d stopped mid-sidewalk, I certainly couldn’t tell.
I did my best to shrug it off and continued on to the parking garage where my car, Cammi—yes, I’d named her—sat waiting for me.
The drive took me to an especially unattractive part of the city, an industrial section, nearly deserted on a Saturday. I slid Cammi into a space across the street from the storage place, really nothing more than a cement bunker inset with inmate-orange garage doors. Nothing and no one suspiciously pulled to a stop behind me. A sedan blocked the entrance to an open unit on the other end of the facility. Beyond that, all was quiet on the western front. So in all likelihood no one was watching me. I hadn’t been followed. The target I felt on my back was just more paranoia. From withdrawal? Oh yeah, that was much more comforting. I looked around once more, this time for Armani, but I didn’t see him, and didn’t feel compelled to wait. I’d liberated my handgun from my desk at the office and slipped it and its special holster into my slacks so that it literally had my back. Good enough.
The key to the storage unit was burning a hole in my pocket, and the mystery of what lay behind door number one was calling. I looked both ways before crossing the street, waited for a banana-yellow Hummer to pass, and beat feet toward the bay of doors. The key turned easily in the lock of Christos’s unit, but the door was badly weighted. It took an immense tug to get started on its upward path. Dust mites took flight, dancing in the air all around me, catching the light and tickling my nose, which wrinkled in reaction. Superheated air from within hit me like a slap in the face, stealing my breath and beading sweat on my forehead.
For this I was giving up a day at the beach. When I found Christos, he was going to owe me big time.
Based on the scorched, stagnant air, I was the first person to open the unit in some time. It was not going to be easy to explore. Furniture and boxes of all sizes vied for space, stacked on top of one another to within centimeters of the dirt line marking the door’s usual resting place.
I allowed the slam of a car door to distract me from starting on the Herculean task of sorting through the mish-mosh. Okay, it wasn’t exactly the stables of Augeas. I didn’t have to contend with the acrid reek of horse dung baking in the Mediterranean sun, but still …
My pulse jumped as it always did at the sight of Detective Nick Armani. He was movie star gorgeous in the roughed-up, Daniel Craig kind of way. Only he was dark where Craig was light—his jet-black hair framing a face that was arresting rather than pretty. His brows were a little too heavy, but they worked somehow to emphasize his amazing blue eyes, almost cobalt with a ring of midnight all around. And an intensity that made me feel sometimes like we were the only two people in the world. Like now …
His gaze snagged mine as he jogged toward me and I was helpless to look away, but I didn’t have to be happy about it.
“Hey,” he said, stopping just shy of my personal space.
“Hey,” I answered as neutrally as possible.
He took in my look, hands planted on my hips—a confrontational stance, I realized. Not body language he’d miss. For his part, he looked grim, but that was hardly uncommon. Police work was rarely puppies and rainbows.
“Look, I’m sorry.” He reached out to cup his hand around my neck, stroking the side with his thumb. My pulse jumped another few notches, but I didn’t let it show. “I didn’t mean to shut you down earlier. We just need to keep everything by the book, at least until IA wraps up their investigation. Something’s happened in the last day or so. The Feds have been around. I’ve been getting sidelong glances at headquarters. All I really know is that it involves more murders.”
“The Feds haven’t questioned you?”
“Matter of time, I guess. Maybe they’re gathering stories to compare mine against.”
“Lovely.”
“They’re just doing their jobs,” he said.
“Whatever.” I shrugged and started to turn away.
“Tori—” It stopped me. My name on his lips always did. I looked back at him. “I’ve missed you.”
That did it. My whole body turned to mush, and this time I couldn’t blame it on the withdrawal. I let him turn me toward him and kiss me, the heat rushing through me like a flash fire, burning away the last of my resentment. Damn the man.
When he finally drew back, he said, low and husky, “You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold,” I lied.
“It’s got to be ninety degrees out here.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I’m coming down with something.” He studied me like a crime scene photo.
“You gonna give me a visual diagnosis?” I asked.
His lips twitched into one of his rare grins and my heart did a somersault. “Well, I’d be glad to play doctor, if you think it would help.”
I looked around us. “Where?”
He did the same. “You’re right. Maybe we’d better clean out this unit first.”
“Whatever the doctor orders.”
I waved a hand, indicating that he should precede me into the cluttered unit. Truthfully, I wasn’t feeling too well, and I didn’t want him to see my moment of weakness, where I closed my eyes and struggled to summon up the strength to go on. When the idea of playing doctor with Armani put me in mind of a cold compress and a nice nap rather than a steamy roll in the hay, I knew I was in trouble—and not the kind I usually chased.
Two hours, many boxes and a sneezing fit later, I came upon a box of old statements. I had enough energy left to pull them down off a stack that consisted of a dining room table, overturned chairs, a table lamp and an old computer monitor before I collapsed to the ground, taking them with me. Armani quickly tossed the tackle box he’d been examining back onto some industrial shelving and rushed to my side. “Tori!”
It seemed too much effort to tell him I was okay, and anyway, I didn’t think he’d believe me. Something poked my thigh. Something else jabbed into my back, but it didn’t stop me from wanting to lie down and sleep. Or die, as pain blossomed in my stomach—a small thing at first, just a bud, but then it bloomed into a whole freakin’ mushroom cloud. I knew I’d blown my analogy. I didn’t care.
I must have made a noise or curled in on myself, because Armani’s hands were suddenly everywhere, searing and painfully hot.
“Sweetheart, you all right? When was the last time you ate?”
“Dunno,” I mumbled. I think I did anyway. I know I thought it.
Then the world tilted on its axis and my stomach nearly heaved up whatever it had left. It took me a long moment to realize Armani had picked me up and was carrying me away. I closed my eyes to blot out the sensation of movement, but it didn’t fool my gut. At least I finally had someplace to lay my head—right on Armani’s extremely nice chest. It seemed like only a second before I was getting dumped. The world went suddenly purple-gray and when my vision cleared, I was sitting in the passenger seat of my car. Armani was nowhere to be seen. A second later he reappeared—having gone to close the storage unit? I didn’t know, didn’t care.
All I wanted was—
—ambrosia—
Oblivion.
Another burst of pain rippled through my abdomen. I wasn’t going to survive this.
Nick got behind the wheel. “Hospital?” he asked.
“Home,” I managed.
He stared at me, assessing. I could tell even with my eyes squinched against the pain.
“Food poisoning,” I bit out, knowing he’d need something more than that.
I’d had food poisoning before. Wanted to die then too. It gave me hope for the future. Plus, I knew from experience there was nothing to be done but let it pass. Armani would know that too.
Nick, dammit.
Not important now.
A blink and we were elsewhere. Stopped. Parked. I wished I were up to taking advantage. Nick pulled me out of the car and tight to his body, which felt like a raging inferno. My skin crackled and peeled away. I could feel it. My brains were liquefying. I worried how Armani would explain brain matter all over his clothes. I hoped IA didn’t notice.
On some level I knew I was incoherent. On another it all made a sick sense.
Armani had my keys. Somewhere along the line he must have frisked me and I’d been too far gone to notice. He let my legs down to have a hand free for the door, but held the rest of me tightly to him as I would have slithered to the floor. He pushed the door open and picked me up again. It probably would have been romantic if I hadn’t wanted to puke down the front of his shirt.
Even my back hitting the bed was almost too much to bear. It was a bed of nails or hot coals or razor blades.…
Armani vanished and was back, dumping half the contents of my medicine cabinet, water, a half-finished package of saltines and what I guessed was a barf bowl onto my bedside table.
“I’ll sit with you,” he said, brushing my hair back from my face. His hand was like sandpaper.
Shaking my head hurt, so I worked my throat to croak, “No. Won’t be pretty. Don’t want you to see me this way.”
He didn’t move, but sat studying me. I’d never told him about the ambrosia. I was sure I could kick the addiction and was too embarrassed about my own stupidity in consorting with the gods … well, god. But mostly, I was afraid he’d righteously try to kick Apollo’s ass. Afraid he’d fail.
Which made me an addict and a liar-by-omission.
My stomach lurched and I reached for the bowl. Armani jumped out of the way.
“I’ll check in later then,” he said hastily. “Call me if you need anything.” And he fled. Coward.
It was a false alarm. I fell back against the pillows, bowl clutched in my arms, and prayed for death.
My eyes closed, and I fell into a hell of shakes, sweats and lost time.
My face and neck split open from the razor-sharp claws that slashed from every direction. So quickly that I only registered the pain as I was falling. Teeth flashed then, so many. Drawn by the blood? Definitely slathering—drool dripping down, burning as it hit my open wounds, then seeming to bubble like acid, eating right through me, melting me away. The better to eat you with, my dear. Those teeth—biting, rending—rivaled even the breath, hot as the fires of hell, that seemed to cook me on contact. It smelled of death, and not just one. An entire abattoir.
Spreading numbness started to chase away the pain, and I knew I was lying somewhere, bleeding out. Literally half the girl I used to be. Chill air hit my exposed … everything … temporarily whipping up the pain again, bringing the nerves back online. I knew from the breeze that I was outdoors, even as I knew that didn’t make any sense.
I burst awake, flailing, panicked, my heart pounding as if to prove it still could. I wasn’t going out like this, dammit. I had things to do, a mystery to solve.
It took two tries before I could get my hand to obey me and move. The buttons on my phone betrayed me, but I still had voice dial.
“Call—Apollo,” I managed.
I faded again until his voice startled me out of it. “Tori?” he answered. “You have a lot of nerve—”
“Help,” I cried.