Under Suspicion

Chapter One

You’d think by the time a guy had gained immortality, he’d tire of copying his butt on the office copy machine.

Not so.

I was pulling out the third paper jam of the morning—and tossing fistfuls of copies of a weird combination of butt cheek and hoof—when Nina poked her head in, scanning the room, and asked, “Is she gone?”

I flopped backward and blew a few strands of my hair (done up in Clairol’s Red Hot) out of my eye. “Who?”

Nina shimmied into the copy room and straightened her vintage boat-necked Balenciaga dress. She had paired this little number with black-and-purple lace tights and those peekaboo booties that make me look like a poor lumberjack while it made supermodels (and vampires) look amazingly chic.

I guess living through two world wars and umpteen clothing revolutions would pique your fashion sense.

“What do you mean, who? Mrs. Henderson. This dress”—Nina did an elegant twirl—“is not only vintage, it’s irreplaceable. I wore it when I nabbed a bite of John Lennon.” Nina batted her lashes and grinned, her small fangs pressing against her red lips.

I cocked an eyebrow and Nina blew out an exasperated sigh.

“Fine. It was Ringo. So, is she gone?”

Mrs. Henderson—the Underworld Detection Agency’s busybody dragon and all-around most obnoxious client—and Nina have a bit of a history together. It’s one that most often leaves Nina naked and hairless, with Mrs. Henderson hiccupping smoke rings and not-so-genuine apologies.

I looked down at my watch. “Oh my gosh, I’m totally late. Thanks for reminding me.”

I thrust the last of the hoof-and-butt Xeroxes into Nina’s hands and headed to my desk—hopping over the burnt-hole remains of a wizard, who had blown himself up, and looking away from Lorraine, UDA’s resident witch and finance whiz. She tried to stop me by waving in front of my face a folder full of invoices, but I was able to dodge her, thanks in part to the seminar that HR held on “Respecting Your Coworker’s Personal Space.”

I flopped into my ergonomically questionable chair and blew out a deep, comforting breath, then laced my fingers over Mrs. Henderson’s files. In addition to being a fire-breathing, St. John Knit–wearing dragon, Mrs. Henderson was a divorcée hell-bent on squeezing her cheating ex-husband for every last dime. As our agency detected all supernatural movement within our region, Mrs. Henderson dropped in monthly for updates and especially liked it when we were prepared for her with Mr. H’s paycheck stubs and warm, fuzzy stories about his current financial woes.

Fifteen minutes later, Mr. H’s statements were still undisturbed in my file folder, and Mrs. Henderson was nowhere to be found.

I buzzed the reception desk and Kale answered—I could hear the murmur of the iBud she kept continually tucked in her left ear. “Reception,” she said, “what can I do you for?”

“Hey, Kale, it’s Sophie. Did Mrs. Henderson call in? She’s almost twenty minutes late for her appointment.”

I heard Kale muss some papers on the other end of the phone and then the snap of her gum. “No, nothing. Are you sure she was scheduled today?”

“Positive. It’s the fifteenth.”

“Ooh, alimony pickup day. She’s usually a half hour early.”

“That’s what I was thinking. I’ll try and ring her house.”

“Okay. Oh!”

I rapped my fingers on my desk, suddenly impatient. “Yes?”

“Um,” Kale started to stutter and drift off, and I could almost see her biting her lower lip, curling the telephone cord around her finger.

“What about Vlad?” I asked.

Vlad was Nina’s nephew—and he was a current UDA employee, leader of the San Francisco chapter of the Vampire Empowerment and Restoration Movement (VERM for short, and for annoying Vlad incessantly), and a permanent fixture on Nina’s and my couch. He had the bright eyes, video game fetish, and disdain for folding clothes that most sixteen-year-olds had.

Except that he was 112.

“Do you know if he is seeing anyone?”

Kale had been in love with Vlad since he first blew into the city—moody, restless, and dressed like Count Chocula. The Vampire Empowerment and Restoration Movement required that its adherents stick to the “classic” dress code of the fearsome vampires of yesteryear (more Bela Lugosi, less Edward Cullen) and also preached a staunch code against vampire/nonvampire mixing. That left Kale—a Gestalt witch of the green order—to pine relentlessly and call me on numerous occasions to ask about Vlad’s dating status.

“No, Kale, I don’t think so.”

She let out a loud whoosh of relief. “That’s what his Facebook status said. I just wanted to make sure. Bye, Sophie!”

The hangup sounded in my ear as I pulled up Mrs. Henderson’s phone number. I was in the middle of dialing when Nina stalked in, slamming the door behind her. “So what did the big lizard have to say today? She needs more money for crickets?”

I hung up the phone and rubbed my temples. “She’s a dragon, not a lizard, and she still hasn’t shown up. That’s not like her.”

Nina whipped out a nail file and gave her perfectly manicured nails the once-over. “Maybe she lit herself on fire. One can only hope. “She snorted, her smile lingering. “I want to go shopping. What do you think? Boutique in the Haight or mainstream on Market?”

I frowned. “I’m kind of worried about Mrs. Henderson.”

“So send her an edible arrangement. Don’t they have one with staked mice or something? Anyway, boutique or mainstream? I need your financial prowess to point me in the right retail direction.”

I pulled out my calendar and flipped back a few pages. “Last week I had two missed appointments.”

Nina pouted. “Are you doubting your popularity at UDA now? You know everyone here adores you and we don’t even consider your ... issue.”

I felt a blush rise to my cheeks.

My “issue” was my breath. Not that it was bad (at least I don’t think it is); it is that I have some. The Underworld Detection Agency not only caters to the demon community—providing transfer papers, tracking paranormal activity in the city, detecting demon activity, and protecting from demonic or human threats—it is also staffed by demons.

Except for me.

Which is why there is currently a bologna and cheese sandwich wedged between two blood bags in the office fridge and why there is a constant CAUTION: WET FLOOR sign in front of the hobgoblin receiving line (hobgoblins are constantly slobbering demons and seem to have better traction than I do).

I rolled my eyes. “I know no one cares about me being human. I’ve been working here forever. It’s the appointments. No cancellations, no phone calls, nothing. I called the last two for follow-ups and couldn’t reach anyone.”

Nina shrugged. “Who cares?”

“Where do you think they’re going? It’s not like there is another company out there protecting demons.”

“Like a demon Walmart undercutting our fees?”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Yes, Nina, I’m really worried that we’re losing business to Walmart.”

“Bring it up with Dixon.”

I gnawed my bottom lip. “I guess I could. We do have an all-staff meeting at four.”

Nina’s coal black eyes went wide. “I had totally forgotten about that.”

“Cuts into your shopping time?”

“No.” She clapped a hand to her forehead and started a rigorous massage. “Do you know how awkward that’s going to be? Me and him in the same room together after what happened!”

I leaned forward. “What happened?”

“Ohmigod, you and I live together, Soph! Have you not paid any attention? Me and Dixon?” she enunciated. “The whole dating thing? It totally didn’t end well.”

“Oh, right. That’s probably because it was all in your head. Nina, he’s our boss. It’s expected that he’d call you. And asking you to collate his copies means just that. The man needs staples.”

Nina narrowed her eyes. “Oh, and I suppose you’re going to tell me that him asking me to boot up his hard drive was completely innocent, too!”

I groaned.

Nina leaned over to gather her coat and enormously gaudy Betsey Johnson bag. “So you never told me. Shopping on Market or Haight?”

“I don’t know. Both. I can’t make a decision.”

Nina raised an eyebrow and grinned salaciously. “Ain’t that the truth?”

I pursed my lips and straightened the already-straight selection of Post-it notes and general office tchotchkes on my desk. “Bite me.”

Nina dumped herself into my office chair again and lolled back. She kicked her Via Spiga booties up on my desk, crossing her ankles. “Hey, I’m not judging. If I had two hot otherworldly creatures ready to duke it out to save my afterlife”—and here she splayed a single pale hand against her chest—“I’d do my damndest to keep them both around, too.”

She swung out the nail file again. “So about that shopping trip ...”

I gathered a few files from my cabinet. “Give me a half hour and I promise to be your couture mule all the way through San Francisco. Deal?”

Nina cocked her head, her long, newly colored sunshine-blond hair swishing to her elbow. “Deal.”

I poked my head into the outer office, where I used to sit (back in the Pete Sampson–werewolf-boss days), and mustered up my most harmless human smile for the vampire sitting at the front desk. He was heavily interested in whatever Cosmo had to say, but I saw his nostril twitch. When I sucked in a breath, he stiffened.

I am pretty well used to living a vampire-filled life, but having coworkers who could smell me at fifty paces is still a little unnerving.

“Hey, Eldridge.”

Eldridge Hale raised his perfectly manicured eyebrows—mine looked like mating caterpillars most often—followed by icy silvery eyes.

“Ms. Lawson.”

I waggled my files. “Dixon in? I need to talk to him.”

Eldridge flicked a page of his magazine, effectively letting me know he was bored. “He’s busy. You’ll have plenty of time to talk to him at the staff meeting.”

I straightened, clenching my jaw. “I need to talk to him now. It’s official UDA business.”

“Send her in, Eldridge!” Dixon Andrade’s voice was spun silk even as he called from his inner office. His hearing was 100 percent killer vamp, as was his olfactory skill, which meant he got a whiff of my Lady Speed Stick as I nearly jumped out of my pants. Disembodied voices never cease to creep me out.

Though it’s been over a year, I found that walking into Dixon Andrade’s office still pricked a little pang of sadness in my heart and gave me a small shudder of fear. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to walk into this part of the UDA again and not think of Pete Sampson, not think of the day I walked in and found my desk smashed to smithereens and his office—including the steel wrist and ankle cuffs used to hold him through full-moon nights—destroyed. The worst thing about that night was that Sampson was missing, blood was spilling in the streets, and Sampson—my Sampson, who had given me my first job, took me under his wing, and brought me more morning donuts than my pants could stand—was the chief suspect.

Now Dixon was lounging behind a desk the size of a Hummer, dressed, as usual, in a top-notch Italian suit that hugged every inch of his six-foot-plus frame. He looked formidable with his dark hair slicked back, his eyebrows pinched in a cautionary scowl. And that was before he showed his fangs.

“Ms. Lawson.”

“Dixon, hi. Thanks for seeing me.” I flopped down in his visitor’s chair and slid Mrs. Henderson’s file across the desk. “Mrs. Henderson didn’t show up for her appointment today, and neither did two other regulars over the last week. No answers when I call, no cancellations, nothing.”

Dixon’s dark brows rose, his eyes catching on something over my left shoulder. I turned and sighed.

“Hi, Vlad.”

If Dixon was San Francisco chic, Vlad LaShay had all the chicness of Castle Drac, circa 1850. His black pants were a heavy wool blend, his red damask vest was resplendent, and his frilly white ascot made him look like a dork.

“Nice ascot,” I said.

“Are we making the announcement first, sir?” Vlad asked, effectively ignoring me.

My ears perked. “Announcement?”

Dixon and Vlad shared a look; my head ping-ponged between them.

Finally Dixon shrugged; his broad shoulders nipped his ears. “She’ll find out soon enough. Ms. Lawson, Vlad is the Underworld Detection Agency’s new head of operations.”

Dixon grinned and Vlad beamed.

I wasn’t sure what caught me more off guard, the sight of Vlad smiling like someone who wasn’t perennially sixteen and mad at the world, or the fact that Vlad, with his face full of smooth planes and soft hints of baby fat, was going to be my manager.

I scratched my head. “Come again?”

“Vlad will be replacing Mr. Turnbow. Mr. Rosenthal will be shifting from support staff to finance, and Eldridge”—Dixon gestured to the blond vamp outside––“will be the new head of internal organization.”

“What happened to Mr. Turnbow? And the former head of operations?”

Dixon shrugged dismissively. “It was time for them to move on. We had a cake on Friday.”

Leave it to me to miss the one day that management sprang for cake over blood bags.

“Something wrong, Ms. Lawson?”

“No,” I said, swinging my head, “not at all. Congratulations, Vlad. This is a really great step for you.”

“So you said something about some missed appointments?”

“You know,” I answered, snatching the file from Dixon’s desk, “it’s really not that big a deal.”

Exiting, I shut the door to Dixon’s office and Eldridge looked up at me from behind his magazine, one eyebrow quirked, lip turned up and slightly parted to show off the scissor-fine edge of a fang.

“See you around, Sophie,” he said.

I hopped in the elevator and mashed the UP button. My heart was thudding underneath my Nina-approved button-down blouse; pricks of sweat were breaking out all over.

“Come on, come on,” I whispered to the metal box as it lurched its way up—we’re thirty-six floors down—to the outer world. There was a jaunty ding and the doors split open to sunshine streaming through the front vestibule of the San Francisco Police Department. The squawk and buzz of department radios and telephones littered the air. That was when I smashed—chest to cardboard box—into Alex Grace.

“Hey, Lawson.” Alex grabbed my arms to steady me and I wanted to crawl back against him—sans the box—and sink into those arms.

“Oh, hey, Alex. Sorry, I guess I’m just a little bit distracted.”

I blinked, then looked up into those cobalt blue eyes of his. Oh yes, I was definitely distracted.

Alex Grace was heavenly. His milk-chocolate dark hair curled in run-your-fingers-through-it waves, which licked the tops of his completely kissable ears. Those searing eyes were framed by to-die-for lashes. His cheeks were tinged pink, and his lips were pressed into his trademark half smile, which was all at once genuine and cocky, with just a hint of sex appeal. A man like this was otherworldly.

And Alex had the two tiny scars just below his shoulder blades to prove it.

Alex was an earthbound angel. Fallen, if you want to be technical. But he lacked the certain technicality that made other fallen angels so annoying: He didn’t want to kill me. Most of the time.

I tried to tear my eyes away from his beautiful, full lips—lips that I distinctly remembered kissing—and focused hard on my rogue clients; but even though we had decided to be “just friends,” almost six months ago, there was still a sizzling something between me and Alex. Call it forbidden love or my addiction to Harlequin novels, but Alex Grace was not an easy man to get over.

After all, he was an angel.

“Nice box.”

“Oh, this?” Alex shifted the box and I rolled up on my tiptoes and lifted the lid.

This time, my thudding heart skidded to a stop. There were books and a few wrinkled copies of Guns & Ammo (What? Did you think fallen angels read the Bible?), what remained of a spider plant, which Alex had brought back to life for me, overstuffed file folders, and, rolling on top, the coffee-stained Don’t Hassle Me; I’m Local mug I got him last summer.

His eyes softened. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

I put the lid back on the box and blinked up at him. “Are you going somewhere?”

He nodded, licking his bottom lip. “I was going to tell you, but ...” Alex shrugged and looked away in that annoying, alarming way men had when they’ve just told you something vague and noncommittal that could either be “I’m considering changing from boxers to briefs” or “The fate of the world hangs in the balance.”

“But what?” I tried to keep my voice steady, reminding myself that a good friend doesn’t let her voice go into high-pitched hypersqueak when another good friend might be leaving.

“It’s not really a big deal.” He shifted the box. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

I sucked in a deep breath. “Can’t we talk now? In your office?”

“My office is pretty much cleaned out, but sure.”

Since fallen angel-ing didn’t come with a paycheck or a 401(k), Alex spent a good chunk of his mortal life working as an FBI field detective, generally stationed in a back office at the SFPD. The vagueness of his actual job title or description allowed him to come and go as he pleased, attending to official police—or angel—business whenever necessary. And also, he really liked donuts.

I followed Alex to his office and gaped at the half-empty room. The desk, where he had worked on cases—and where I once had imagined him pulling me down into a passionate embrace—was shoved against a wall and stacked with cardboard boxes. His office chair was upended on top of them. The free 2008 Honda calendar, which had been tacked to the back wall since 2010, was missing, as was the souvenir picture of us at the Giants baseball game.

“Why is your office cleaned out?”

“It’s no big deal. I just wanted to let you know I won’t be around for a while.”

The file in my hand was suddenly filled with cement, was a hundred-pound weight that pulled my hand down. I leaned in close to Alex, swallowing heavily to try and find the smallest bit of saliva in my Sahara-dry mouth.

“Are you going back?” I finally managed.

Alex, though earthbound and fallen, wanted to return to grace—and I wanted that for him, even though grace meant I would never see him again. But now the thought of my life without him hit me like a raw fist at the bottom of my gut.

Alex was silent for a second that lasted millennia. He put the box down gently and blew out a sigh, which held all the emotion of the last two years of our life together.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I’m going to Buffalo.”

I choked on the love-soaked soliloquy I was composing in my head. The one that talked about how I would, as the Vessel of Souls and Alex’s only link to the Heavenly plane, be willing to give up my life for him to return to grace. I cocked my head and felt my lip curl up into an involuntary—and undoubtedly unattractive—snarl. “What?”

“Buffalo.” Alex leaned back against the wall and looked stupidly unaware of the fact that I was about to lay down my life for him, right here between the men’s room and the utility closet. “Stakeout. I’ll be gone for a couple of weeks. It’s starting to look like the trail of the guy I was after a few years ago is fresh again, and they’re shampooing the rugs here so I have to get everything out, anyway. Good timing, huh? Hey, Lawson, are you okay?”

My heart was lodged securely in my throat. Images of bloodshed, of bullets firing, of Alex’s lifeless body roared through my head.

“I swear to God, I’m going to kill you Alex Grace.”

Alex cocked his head. “Aw, Lawson, I’m going to miss you, too.”

I let a beat pass and my annoyance die down. “You’re going on a stakeout? I thought you were—you were ...”

Alex’s eyebrow arched as a hearty officer sauntered into the men’s room across the hall, newspaper tucked under his arm, dark eyes intent on us.

“You were saying?”

“Have a nice trip.” I could feel the scowl weighting down my lips.

Alex blew out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes. “Now what?” he wanted to know.

“Nothing.”

Alex crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Out with it. You can’t be that pissed off about Buffalo. What is it that’s making you look like someone kicked your puppy? Come on, you can’t hide it. I am an angel, you know.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t your only angelic powers wolfing down a pizza in one bite—”

“And the occasional mind reading.” Alex grinned salaciously and I wanted to crawl under the table. He never said it outright, but I had the overwhelming suspicion that Alex had done the occasional mind dip when my mind was ... indisposed. Like imagining Alex Grace greased up with coconut oil and reclining on a beach—that kind of indisposed.

Why couldn’t I fall in love with an inmate, like a normal woman?

I worked to avoid the blush that I knew was creeping over my cheeks. And here’s the thing about blushing: on chestnut brunettes a bashful crimson makes a pretty glow; ditto on those sun-kissed blondes. But when you’re redheaded (my Red Hot hair color only served to slightly mask my natural Crayola orange ’do) and have the kind of skin that people politely refer to as “porcelain” (meaning glow-in-the-dark white), a “hint of blush” equates to looking exactly like an overcooked lobster in a white button-down shirt.

“Can I go to Buffalo with you? I’m good on a stakeout. I come with my own donuts.”

“Why?”

“We’re having another shake-up at UDA.”

Alex rifled through a box and handed me a Styrofoam cup; then he filled it from the office water jug. “Big deal. You’ve been through that before.”

I took a gulp of water. “Yeah, but this time Vlad is my boss.”

He did something between a guffaw and a choke, and water dribbled down his chin.

I narrowed my eyes. “You deserve that,” I said, pointing to his wet shirt.

“Vlad? Your boss? That’s priceless.”

“It’s not just that. In the last month alone, Dixon has replaced every higher-up with a vampire. He said a couple of people retired, but I’m not sure I believe that.”

“Why? Wasn’t there cake?”

“And then there’s this.” I handed him the file folder and he squinted at it.

“Mrs. Henderson?”

“She didn’t show up for her appointment today. She never misses an appointment. And another couple of my clients were no-shows, too. Isn’t that weird?”

Alex finished the water in one final gulp and handed the file back to me. “Not really. Why don’t you just call her?”

I bit my bottom lip. “I think I’ll do one better. Thanks, Alex.” I spun on my heel and was halfway into the hall when I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he wanted to know.

I shrugged. “Just going to make a pit stop.”

“Don’t get involved, Lawson.”

“Who’s getting involved?” I snaked the check out of Mrs. Henderson’s folder. “I’m just doing a friend a friendly favor.”

Mrs. Henderson and her two obnoxious teenagers lived in a gorgeous Old Hollywood–style house in a quiet neighborhood off Nineteenth Avenue. I was pleasantly surprised when I found it on my first try. I had been there numerous times for Mrs. Henderson’s Christmas parties, but generally there was an eight-foot winking Santa to guide me down the tree-lined streets.

The house, usually resplendent with an impeccably manicured lawn and showy dusting of baby pink impatiens, was hardly recognizable. The lawn was overgrown and the impatiens were leggy and capped with drooping brown blooms. I continued up the stone walk and stooped on the porch to gather up at least a week’s worth of Chronicle newspapers and local circulars advertising great prices on everything from fertilized duck eggs to tripe.

Clamping my mouth shut against a wave of nausea, I rapped on the door, then waited. The hairs on the back of my neck slowly started to rise, as did the suspicion that I was being watched. I pressed the newspapers to my chest and slowly turned my head over my shoulder. The Hendersons’ overgrown lawn and shaggy plants remained as they were and the street was empty, but I couldn’t shake the creepy feeling. I stepped off the porch and glanced up and down the street. Mainly deserted, except for a few parked cars—ticketed, of course—and an old man walking a basset hound four houses down.

“I’m just jumpy,” I muttered to myself. “Jumpy.”

I went back up the walk and I rapped again, harder this time. The door swung open. I jumped in and spun around, catching the taillights of a car as it sped down the street. The prickly feeling was still there; so I slammed the door, then pasted on a smile, ready to greet Mrs. Henderson or one of her annoying teens.

“Thank you so much,” I started to say. “Sorry, I just ... Hello?”

There was no one in the foyer and it was dim. All the curtains were drawn and the little wedge of outside light, which came in through a small crack in the fabric, illuminated dancing dust mites.

“Mrs. Henderson? It’s me, Sophie. From the UDA. You missed your appointment today... .” I stayed pressed up against the door, my shoulder blades wincing against the cold wood. “Is anybody home?”

My instinct told me that something was terribly wrong, that I should turn around and leave, drive straight back to the UDA.

But I was never very good at trusting my instincts.

Instead, I took tentative steps down the hallway, still clutching the newspapers, still calling into the empty house.

“I’m coming down the hall now,” I announced, giving the man with a hook who was likely waiting to gut me a play-by-play. “Is anyone home?” My voice rang out hollow in the gaping hallway and I tried to think of positive things—like a surprise dragon birthday party or Care Bears.

There was a crunch underneath my foot and I let out an embarrassing yowl, dropping the newspapers in a heap and leaping backward. I clawed at my chest as my heart hammered and my sweat glands went into hyperdrive. I could feel the kinks that I dutifully blow-dried out this morning popping back. I took giant gulps of air, spinning like a maniac to catch an intruder at all sides. Nothing. I toed the newspapers and pushed last week’s away, revealing a newly crushed hot pink iPod.

“Uh-oh,” I murmured.

I casually kicked the iPod aside, covering it again with the newspaper. When I found the Hendersons, I’d explain it. Silently I continued down the hall into the kitchen. I stopped dead, wincing, then pressed my hand to my nose. Either someone had gotten in on the fertilized-duck-egg deal or something was rotting. I didn’t want to go farther, plagued with crime scene images of dismembered bodies—their milky, staring eyes—but I had to see.

The kitchen would have looked homey under any other circumstance. There was a decorative fruit bowl on the large oak table, and a valance and chair pads all coordinated with a sea of Laura Ashley–inspired roses. I walked carefully around the tiled island. A crock, which had been stuffed with cooking utensils, was cracked and lying on its side; spatulas and slotted spoons littered the gray slate floor. There were two covered pots on the stovetop and I pushed one lid back a half inch. I tried to peer inside, but the overwhelming stench of rotting food made me gag. I rushed to the kitchen sink and heaved, feeling hot salty tears rush down my cheeks.

A cold rush of air whooshed over me and I looked up, for the first time seeing the jagged hole in the glass. The sink and the counter were littered with tiny glass pieces. I had mashed my palms into some and now the blood—searing hot—was dribbling over my wrists.

I don’t know how, but suddenly I found myself outside on the Hendersons’ lawn, speed dialing Alex and shifting my weight from foot to foot, silently imploring him to answer.

“Grace?” he said into the phone.

“Oh, thank God. Alex, you have to come out here. Something’s wrong. Something bad happened to the Hendersons.”

“Again with this? Lawson, didn’t we—”

A coil of anger overtook my fear. “No, Alex. Now.” I read him the address and paced nervously, trying to work the tiny shards of glass from my palm. When I saw Alex’s SUV round the corner, not ten minutes later, I let out a breathy sigh and a torrent of tears. He jerked the car to a stop and I ran toward him.

“Alex!”

He got out of the car and sped toward me, his blue eyes stormy and looking me up and down. “What happened to you? Are you okay?”

I shook my bloodied palms. “Nothing. Just broken glass. We have to go in there. Mrs. Henderson could be hurt. She could be dying!”

I snatched Alex by the shirtsleeve and dragged him toward Mrs. Henderson’s front door. “Something—something happened in there.”

“Was there anyone inside?”

I wagged my head, using the back of my hand to swipe at tears that had suddenly started to fall. “I don’t know.”

“Stay here.”

Alex tried to guide me back to the car; but the second he turned, I followed him. He crept up the porch and carefully pushed open the door. I ran up behind him. My breasts were just brushing against his back; my heart was thundering like a jackhammer.

“Doesn’t this look suspicious?” I whispered in Alex’s ear.

He held up a silencing hand and pulled his gun from the holster. I clapped a palm to my forehead, then grimaced at the sting from the broken glass. “I should have brought my gun. Or at least my Taser.”

Alex gave me a cursory look. “I think you’ve done enough.”

“What is that supposed to mean? If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be here, possibly putting both our lives in dan ... Oh. I see what you mean.”

“Stay out here.” Alex gave me a gentle but firm push back.

“I’m not staying out here!” I said, pushing back against him. “The perp is probably out here just waiting to gut me!”

“Fine. Just stay quiet and close.”

I clung to Alex’s back as he walked silently from room to room. On the upper floor there was slightly more damage—pictures knocked from the wall, clothing torn and scattered on the floor, drawers left open.

“So? What do you think? Homicide? Special circumstances?”

Last year I had the opportunity to work with Alex to solve a case, so I was pretty well-versed in the police lingo.

Alex cocked an amused eyebrow, trying to keep the smile from his lips. “I thought we promised—no more CSI for you?”

I snarled, “Can we just focus on the case?”

“Okay. It’s obvious that the Hendersons are not here, but it’s not entirely obvious that this is a crime scene.”

I stomped my foot. “Crooked pictures! Broken glass! A smashed iPod. Add it all up, Alex, it spells duh. What more do you need? A gallon of blood? A note from the kidnapper?”

Alex shook his head slowly, his angelic, gentlemanly way of ignoring me, and stepped around me, poking his head into a gaudy bathroom with gold fixtures and cheetah print wallpaper. Then he rested his hand on the doorknob of the only closed door in the hall. I watched as his fingers curled around the knob in slow motion. My heart lurched, lodging itself squarely in my throat. I started to shake my head.

“I don’t think you should open that.”

Alex’s eyebrows disappeared under his bangs. “Why not? Did you hear something in there?”

I rubbed my arms, feeling the gooseflesh under my palms. “I have a bad feeling. Maybe we should wait for someone. Backup or something.”

Alex rolled his eyes and nudged the door open with his shoe, poking his head in.

“What do you see? Are they—”

I couldn’t finish my sentence as Alex’s coughing and retching cut me off. He doubled over, stumbling backward.

“Alex!”

He snapped the door shut before I could get a look inside and I rushed over to him, helping him settle onto the carpet, clapping his back as he coughed while tears streamed over his red cheeks.

“Are you crying?” I asked, huddling down. “What did you see?”

Alex’s eyes narrowed into an exasperated glare. “Couldn’t you smell that?”

I looked at the closed door, my palm closing over the knob. Alex backed away and used the back of one hand to rub his damp cheeks, the other hand clasped over his nose and mouth. He nodded—a sort of “go ahead and take your life into your own hands” look in his eyes—and I wrenched the door open a half inch. I sniffed at the tiny gap, looked over my shoulder at Alex, and shrugged.

“I don’t smell anything.”

Hand still pressed firmly over his mouth and nose, he inclined his head and gestured for me to go in. I did, pressing the door open farther, stepping into the dim room.

“Oh God,” I whispered.

The silent calm hung in the air like its own entity, oppressive and ominous. Thin shards of sunlight cut through the tears in the curtains, casting inappropriate cheery washes of light over the naked mattress, over the nightstand that was half crushed, its innards oozing out through splintered wood. My eyes immediately went to the bedclothes heaped on the floor—expensive jacquard silk and matching pillows with delicate fringe looked tramped on. These were torn and sodden with a brackish, viscous-looking liquid. The walls were stained with the same dark water; it colored the pale paint a sooty black. This time I slammed the door as I felt the bile rise in my throat.

I doubled over in the hallway and gasped, breathing in lungfuls of stale air.

“So what is that?” Alex wanted to know. “Toxic mold or something?”

I looked at him, dumbfounded, trying to work up enough saliva to unstick my jaws, to swallow down the burn in my mouth. I felt my eyes start to water, felt my nose start to run. All I could do was wag my head from side to side, my gaze fixed on the plush carpet under my feet.

“It’s blood.”

Alex let out something that was halfway between a snort and a chuckle. “Lawson, I may not be all that ... local ... but don’t forget, I’m a cop. I do know what blood looks like.”

“You don’t know what dragon blood looks like.”

Alex visibly paled and rubbed a palm over his chin.

“We have to go back in there.” His cobalt eyes raked over me and then to the closed door. “Ready?” he asked.

I nodded, unable to form any words. He pushed open the door and the grim scene greeted me again: the dark spatters climbing like gnarled fingers up the walls, the cold destruction in the room. I felt my heart do a choking double thump as I scanned the scene.

“This is bad, Alex.”

Alex picked his way around the broken furniture, careful not to step into the black puddles soaked into the carpet. He circled the bed, peered into the half-open closet.

“There are no bodies. Do you think maybe the Hendersons got away? From the look of the—the blood, they would have been pretty severely injured.”

“No. No, they didn’t get away.” I gulped, toeing the discarded duvet, clamping my jaws shut against the wave of nausea that flashed when my fears were confirmed. There was more blood, the outline of broken bodies, singed into the carpet. “They were murdered.”

Alex put a gentle hand on my forearm and I let him lead me downstairs and out the front door. He closed the Hendersons’ door firmly behind us and turned me to face him when we were out on the front stoop.

“I’m sorry about your friends, Lawson.” He pushed a lock of hair behind my ear, his fingertips gently brushing my cheek as he did so. “Are you okay?”

I sucked in a shaky breath and pinched my eyes shut, hoping to burn the image of the Hendersons’ destroyed room out of my mind. “I’m worried, Alex. This proves it. There’s something going on in the Underworld.”

The muscle in Alex’s jaw twitched, but his eyes stayed soft, stayed focused on mine. “It doesn’t prove anything. It could have been a random attack, for all we know.”

“They were”—I scanned the sidewalks, dropping my voice—“demons. That would be a hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Alex nodded, though he didn’t look convinced.

I shook my head, rubbing at the throb that had started near my temples. “And they were dragons. It’s not easy to take down a dragon. Who—what—ever did this knows what he’s doing. And he’s strong.”

“What are you going to do?”

I felt my mouth drop open. “What am I going to do? You’re the police. You’re a homicide detective!”

“And you work for the one entity in the entire world equipped to deal with demons.”

I stared Alex down, until he blew out a sigh.

“What am I supposed to do? Call a squad in for a disappearing dragon death?”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “You could do worse.”

“Call Dixon. Let him handle this. After what you’ve been through this past year, don’t you think it’s time to take it easy?”

Alex tried to squeeze my shoulder in what I supposed was an attempt to be appeasing and compassionate, but I dodged him, narrowing my eyes.

“I almost got blown up by a psychotic fallen angel,” I reminded.

“You almost got blown up in general.”

“Which makes looking into a demon murder look like a cakewalk.” I forced a Cheshire grin. “So we’re on the case?”

“Let Dixon handle it,” Alex repeated.

I thought of the dismissive way Dixon promised to “look into” the incident and then looked at Alex as he beelined down the front walk, stuffing his gun back into his holster. He paused at the sidewalk and looked over his shoulder. “Coming?”

I followed Alex down to his car, where he fished out a first aid box from under the seat. He carefully, tenderly picked the last bits of glass out of my palms, then swabbed the whole thing with Mercurochrome.

I squirmed. “That stings!”

“Hold still.”

He fished out a roll of gauze from the kit.

“I shouldn’t be letting you do this,” I said finally.

“Because I’m not a doctor?”

“Because you’re an idiot. Something is going on. It could be a band of—of Mexican drug lords or a fallen angel coming to seek her ultimate revenge or, you know, crackheads. And you didn’t do a thing about it.” My eyes started to sting and I sniffled furiously, willing myself not to cry. “You’re going to feel so bad if they come back and gut me.”

The muscle in Alex’s jaw twitched and I saw he was fighting a smile. “You’re just waiting for someone to get gutted, aren’t you?”

I blew out a sigh. “Don’t you have a stakeout to go on?”

“I’m not leaving just yet. And I’m concerned, Lawson, I am. But like I said, this”—and here he jutted his chin toward the Hendersons’ very plain, very non-Underworld-looking house—“is really not police department jurisdiction.” His eyes were soft, what I imagined would be bedroomy and rather sexy—were I not half covered in gauze and dried blood and just about to pee.

“So what do I do?” I asked, my voice hoarse. “Just ignore a crime scene and file it under, I don’t know, weird, demonic coincidences?”

Alex wound the last bit of gauze around my left hand and then pulled it close to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss on my palm. He looked at me through lowered lashes; the blue of his eyes was intense, piercing. “I promise to look into it,” he murmured, “if you promise me you won’t.”

I swallowed and he held my eyes.

“Promise,” I said, trying to consider how to cross my fingers while Alex still held my hand.