Deathtrap (Crossbreed #3)(10)

“Did you pick up another scent?”

He nodded. “Didn’t matter. She was my priority.”

I turned around and looked at the car. “You know what’s bugging me? The doors were locked and the windows unbroken.”

Claude frowned.

“No sign of a struggle,” I pointed out. “Why does a woman, who’s living in her vehicle with her baby, open the door for someone? She wouldn’t have been sitting in her car with the doors unlocked.”

Claude pushed off the car and strode around to the driver’s side, his eyes downcast and scanning the ground. “She knew him.”

“He got away fast. Maybe his energy spiked when he was driving off.”

“This is the Breed district,” Claude reminded me. “People who commit murders don’t tarry.”

I kicked the tire. Had I not snoozed in the chair with a towel on my face, would I have gotten bored and walked around outside? Would I have been close enough to help her in time? It must have happened fast.

Claude briefly stuck his nose inside the car, and when he reappeared, his mouth was open, his eyes hooded. “Stay here.”

“Wait, where the hell are you going?”

“Hunting.”

In a flash, he took off, leaving me alone with a dead body and no jacket.





Chapter 4





Later that evening, after the cleaners had shown up and taken our statements, I headed out on foot. Claude had returned after searching the streets in vain for the killer, his shoes and pants soaking wet. Apparently it was much harder to run at Chitah speed in snow and ice to catch up with a moving vehicle. Everyone at Keystone was probably sitting around, waiting for me to show up and cook dinner, so I used my phone to order them a pizza. After seeing a dead woman, I didn’t feel like going home, and I sure as hell didn’t feel like cooking a meal for nine people.

After a long walk, I wound up in a club called Nine Circles of Hell, also known as Club Nine. They had nine specialty drinks, each representing a circle of hell. Skilled Sensors, who were also mixologists, spiked the drinks with just enough emotional flavor to make the drink worth every penny. Treachery was green, wrath red, limbo yellow, lust violet, gluttony orange, greed pink, heresy blue, violence turquoise, and fraud chartreuse.

I was currently enjoying a glass of wrath. “Can I have another?”

The bartender—a sketchy-looking man named Hooper with three lip rings and designs shaved on each side of his head—placed his palms on the bar and forced a smile. “One specialty drink per person. Otherwise, this place would be hell for real.”

“Tequila.”

While Hooper set a shot glass in front of me and filled it to the brim, I scanned my text messages. The only one I’d received was a Vampire emoji from Christian. Viktor didn’t keep us on a tight leash, and we were free to come and go as we pleased. Getting out was good for my sanity, and even though Breed clubs had never been my scene, I was learning to appreciate the company of my own kind. Maybe it had something to do with not being the scavenger anymore, not fearing someone would turn me over to the law. Now I had protection, and that offered me more freedom than I’d once had.

I caught my reflection in the mirror. Claude’s trendy cut was hardly noticeable amid the tousled clumps of wet hair, thanks to my standing in the snow without a hat.

Instead of knocking back the tequila, I sipped it.

“Nice hair,” a man said.

I glanced to my left, and recognition sparked my memory. “You’re the guy from the salon. No pink tips, huh?” The roots of his hair were dark, but a good chunk of it was bleached white and styled in every direction like an anime character. If it weren’t for his alternative hairstyle, his faded jeans and button-up shirt were so ordinary that he could have easily blended into a crowd.

“Is this seat taken?”

I closed my eyes and smiled.

“I know. It’s cliché.” He set down his glass and made himself comfortable.

I nodded at his specialty drink. “Which one is that? I keep forgetting all the colors.”

He lifted the green glass to his lips. “Treachery.” Then his eyes flicked down to my tequila.

I raised it up. “Apparently I’ve hit my limit on wrath.”

“All in good fun. This isn’t my usual, but then I thought, what the hell.”

I knocked back the rest of my tequila and stared absently at the bottles behind the bar.

The man beside me bit his thumbnail, and I could see in the mirror that he was watching me.

I glared at him. “What?”

“Can I have your number?”

“No.”

He turned his head and looked at me in the mirror. “I didn’t think it would be that easy. Just thought I’d ask.”

“You don’t even know me. I could be your worst nightmare.”

“We’re each our own worst nightmares.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“How is it you don’t have a boyfriend?” He chuckled warmly and lifted his glass. “Just a hunch.”

“I guess I’m lucky,” I quipped.

“Ah. A spinster at twenty-five. Such a tragic tale. Maybe you should give me your number after all. I’d like to buy you a cat.”