I touched my tongue to his.
He stopped. Froze in place for a heartbeat or ten. I slid my tongue along his, testing the texture and the shape. His tongue moved. Following mine like a dance.
My breath was coming fast. Fear and excitement trembled through me. My cell buzzed and I jumped halfway into the kitchen. So did Occam’s. The werecat cursed softly, and we both pulled our cells.
I read the group text from Rick aloud. “Debrief in sixty. No exceptions.” I didn’t look up before I added softly, “So much for a date.” The word felt odd on my tongue, as if it didn’t belong there. Like the kiss. One not sanctioned by family or church or contract for marriage. Negative lifestyle patterns. I wasn’t certain if I was relieved or disappointed. I touched my mouth. Looked up at Occam.
“Temporary delay, Nell, sugar. Temporary delay.”
“But that was a very proper kiss.” I felt my mouth form a surprised and satisfied smile as I turned to the kitchen.
I put the Dutch oven in the fridge, gathered up my gobag and coat, and followed Occam out of the house. Thinking. I could eat a meal with Occam. I could. I had kissed him. Not because I was supposed to, or had Daddy’s permission to, or had wifely duties to perform, but because I wanted to. So. Dinner. Though I might not swallow a single thing. I might just push food around on my plate nervously. But I could sit at a table with him. I could kiss him again. Maybe.
SIX
The EOD—end-of-day debrief—was short and full of nothing much. While we ate pizza from the “All” shelf, Rick spoke. “PsyLED isn’t lead agency for the investigations, but it’s probably only a matter of time. So I want each of you to keep up with all interagency findings. First up is the fire at the Justin Tolliver home. Initial testing results are uncertain regarding accelerant on-site. However, consistent with the way the fire spread, investigators are still looking at the possibility of an accelerant-induced fire, deliberately set. I want the Tollivers’ lives combed through. FBI has financials, offshore accounts, cumulative debt, life insurance, trust funds, extramarital affairs, friends, lovers, enemies. I want us to take their data and sift it. Find out if this is part of the restaurant shooting and the Holloways’ party shooting, an accident, or just an opportunity taken by an unhappy spouse or family member or business partner.
“Pierced Dreams. JoJo? Casings? Physical evidence?”
JoJo punched a key on her laptop. “All the casings collected from the shooting sites have been tested for fingerprints and all were clean. The shooter used gloves from the beginning of the process to the end, likely nitrile, according to the tech who looked at them under a scope. Nitrile can leave swipe marks that cotton won’t, and nitrile is more common these days for shooters, since it gives good tactile sensation. All the casings matched. Same gauge, same brand of ammunition, further indicating that we have only one shooter. None of this has been released to the media so unless someone at one of the hospitals talks about the caliber they pulled out of the victims, we’re good on keeping this part of the shooter’s MO under wraps.” To Rick she added, “I’m putting on weight. You gotta stop picking up pie from Elidios’.”
The SAC’s face softened into an almost-smile and I realized how seldom Rick had actually relaxed since he got back from New Orleans on his last trip. I needed to call his ex-girlfriend and my only almost-friend who lived outside of Knoxville. There might be things I needed to know.
As if the near-smile had been her goal, JoJo said, “On to physical evidence. We have three cigarette butts from the Carhart Building, all the same brand, but recovered from a location that would make the shots fired difficult to make, about twenty feet from the nearest casing. I’m guessing that someone in the building takes illegal ciggie breaks up there, but the butts have been sent to the forensics lab for possible DNA evidence. A lot of fast-food wrappers and empty water bottles, a used condom, and two flip-flops, both of them left feet, one orange, one white with skulls on it, were also bagged from the Carhart roof. From the roof of the other building, Occam and his vampire partner recovered a tarnished key, three old marbles, a stick of pink chalk, a pair of men’s underwear—briefs, size medium—an old faded ID, possibly a Michigan driver’s license from the seventies—”
“Anything pertinent to the case?” Rick interrupted.
“Not a thing. But it’s all gone to FBI labs for workup.”
Rick thumbed through printed reports on his table. “What do we have on the number of threatening e-mails and letters and their writers provided by the senator’s office and by Ming of Glass’ personal assistant?”
Tandy said, “There were no overlaps between the two. No name appeared on both lists,” he clarified. “No similar handwriting. No similar e-mail addresses. The feds eliminated four serious death threat contenders for the senator, and according to my research, one is in jail, one’s dead, one’s too disabled to be our shooter, and one’s living in the Pacific Northwest, working in a marijuana bar and too stoned to want to travel. Fifteen others they eliminated based on lack of skill set. We eliminated another dozen based on them being human, wrong general body type (too tall, too short, major weight difference from the blurry images we have to date), or with alibis that checked out on initial inspection. We still have about twenty on the original list of possible suspects.”
“And on Ming of Glass’ list?” Rick asked.
“Hate groups. Nothing that looks like a lone attacker. More like big talking, but if they really did attack, it would be a direct ambush with numbers on the attackers’ side. Nothing that looks like they would be willing to produce collateral damage while trying to kill fangheads. Humans First. DTF—Death to Fangheads. Homegrown hate and fear. And nothing that links the victims, according to the feds, who are following up on that angle.”
I took another piece of the wonderful pizza and listened with half an ear. The meeting dragged on for another hour until Rick finally asked, “Anyone got anything else?” When no one responded, the meeting ended with Rick’s orders. “All leave and time off is canceled until this is resolved and we have someone behind bars. All agencies are getting pressure from above to resolve it fast. Like yesterday. We’ll be pulling twelve-hour shifts, sixteen to twenty if needed, as of tonight. At the start of your next shifts, bring gear to catch naps here if necessary. T. Laine picked up four air mattresses and if the case gets too demanding, we’ll designate a room somewhere for everyone to crash.”
I tried not to think about how we would divide up the sleeping space if both women and men needed to sleep at the same time, though I realized that was probably an outmoded notion of propriety under the emergency circumstances. And I realized that through the meeting, I hadn’t thought once about Occam. Or Benjamin. Or the future as a lonely widder-woman. I sat a bit straighter. That was good. It had to be.
Rick stood, his movements more lithe than yesterday, more relaxed than last month, before he learned to shift into his black wereleopard. He was healing too, his body having put on weight, his face not quite so deeply lined this close to the full moon. He wasn’t fully healed, but he was getting there. Rick leaned forward, his fingertips splayed on the table, his weight forward, pressing on them. “We’ll be split into two divisions, each with a.m. agents and p.m. agents. One team member will be office detail, one will be field. Office agent will be in the office at all times, to collate information, coordinate efforts, and keep comms open. For the time being, one person will be with the senator and his extended family, including his wife and kid, his brother, his wife, and their kids, at all times, which means his house at night and his office by day. One person will liaise with the FBI team whenever possible. There are seven of us—” He stopped abruptly. Paka, his faithless, backstabbing, wereleopard ex-mate, was gone. She would not be back if she wished to live. “Six. Seven with Soul, who will be coordinating with the feds and filling in as needed. It’ll be tight but we can do it.
“I want JoJo in the office by day. Tandy, you’ll pull office coordinator on night shift. Occam, I want you to collate reports tonight, but cut it short. You’ll be with the senator by day, and T. Laine can spell you or split the assignment when the family isn’t all in one place. Nell, you’ll have to start early tonight and work long. I want you to ride by the Holloways’ house and check the dead vegetation left by our shooter, then go by Justin Tolliver’s and check for similar readings there. Make it fast. You’re first on night shift at the senator’s home, and he’s on the way there now with a motorcade. I’ve sent you the GPS and address. Read the land if you can without making it obvious. I don’t want you to take heat for being a para. Main purpose? Get a feel for things so you can spot anything new, anything that changes.” He held up a hand when I started to protest. “I know grass doesn’t spot anything new, doesn’t understand changes, short of fire and chain saws. I get it. Read it anyway. Confirm a baseline.”
“Yes, sir.” Even I heard my tone. It wasn’t as respectful as it should be. The thought that I had been rude to Daddy and enjoyed it a bit too much flashed through my mind. The thought that I had kissed Occam flashed through too.
Rick frowned at me. “Is there a problem, probie?”
“No, sir. Except that we’re stretched thin, since before you left for New Orleans. A little help might be nice. Why not ask Soul for a few people from Unit Twelve or Unit Fifteen? Especially if you think you’re going to be sent back to NOLA for the vampire Sangre Duello.”
Around the table, the team members were suddenly bent over tablets or taking notes by hand on pads. I frowned at them, trying to figure out what I had said.
Rick had grown up in New Orleans, knew it like the back of his hand. He and Soul had been sent to NOLA when a ship full of European vampires had attempted to debark from a cruise ship without proper or official papers. There had been bloodshed and political ramifications. And—though it hadn’t hit the media yet, and was something I knew only because I had access to Jane Yellowrock, a source not regulated by my low security clearance—the Master of the City of New Orleans was about to go up against the European emperor in a blood duel—Sangre Duello.
In the middle of the tense silence, I realized that no one in Unit Eighteen had ever spoken of the vampire war or the European vampires or NOLA around Rick. It was clear he had come back to Knoxville a quietly grieving man. He’d been sent packing by Yellowrock. She hadn’t been his first love, but she had, perhaps, been his most significant. It was complicated. The Sangre Duello was a sensitive subject, most of which was above my pay grade. And I had just galloped into all those complications like a barrel rider on a fast horse.
Stiffly, Rick said, “Soul is aware of our staffing situation. We’ll get help if this goes on much longer.”
“Ummm. Okay?”