When the second dart hit him, he wheeled around and leaped up, eyes trained on the mattress.
Mr. X tensed, but the male came forward with more aggression than competence. His body was disorganized in its movements, suggesting he was still learning how to control his limbs after his transition.
Two more darts didn't slow him down. Clearly the Demosedan, a horse tranquilizer, wasn't enough to do the job. Forced to engage the male in a fight, Mr. X stunned him easily by kicking him in the head. The male let out a howl of pain as he went down to the dirty asphalt.
The commotion attracted attention.
Fortunately, it was only two lessers, not curious humans or, even more annoying, the police. The lessers stopped at the end of the alley and, after quick consultation, moved in to investigate.
Mr. X cursed. He was not prepared to reveal himself or what he was doing. He needed to work the kinks out of the information-gathering strategy before he came forward with it and assigned his lessers roles. After all, a leader should never delegate that which he had not done before and done well.
There was also a matter of self-interest. There was no telling who among the slayers might try to go around him to the Omega, either copping the idea as his own or bitching about preliminary failures. God knew the Omega was always receptive to initiative and new directions. And would have benefited from some Ritalin when it came to loyalty.
Even more to the point, the Omega's version of a pink slip was quick and horrific. As Mr. X's former superior had learned three nights ago.
Mr. X plucked out the darts from the body. He would have preferred killing the vampire, but there wasn't enough time. Leaving the male still moaning on the ground, Mr. X sprinted down the alley, sticking to the wall. He kept the minivan's headlights off until he'd slid into traffic.
Chapter Eleven
Beth's alarm clock went off, and she slapped it into silence. The buzzing was redundant. She'd been up for at least an hour, her mind humming like a lawn mower. With the dawn's arrival the hot night's mystery had faded, and she was forced to face what she had done.
Unprotected sex with a total stranger was one hell of a wake-up call.
What had she been thinking? She'd never done that before. She'd always been safe. Thank God she was on the pill to regulate her sporadic periods, but as for the other implications, her stomach rolled.
When she saw him again she'd ask him if he was clean, and pray the answer was the one she wanted to hear. As well as honest.
Maybe if she'd had more dating practice, she would have had some protection ready. But when was the last time she'd slept with anyone? A long time. Longer than the shelf life of a box of condoms.
The extended dry spell in her sex life was as much from lack of interest as any kind of morals thing. Men just weren't that high on her list of priorities. They ranked somewhere down around getting her teeth cleaned and having her car serviced. And she didn't have a car anymore.
She'd often wondered if there was something wrong with her, especially as she watched couples walk by on the street hand in hand. Most people her age were dating wildly, trying to find altar material. Not her. She just hadn't had any burn-ing desire to be with a man, and had even considered the possibility that she was a lesbian. Trouble was, she wasn't attracted to women.
So last night had been a revelation.
She stretched, a delicious tightness coiled in her thighs. Closing her eyes, she felt him inside of her, his thickness surging and retreating until that final moment when his body had convulsed into hers with a powerful rush, his arms crushing her against him.
Her body arched involuntarily, the fantasy strong enough to have her throbbing between her legs. Echoes of those orgasms made her bite her lip.
With a groan she got to her feet and headed for the bathroom. When she saw the shirt he'd ripped off his chest in the wastebasket, she picked it up and held it to her nose. The black fabric smelled like him.
The throbbing got worse.
How did he and Butch know each other?
Was he on the force? She'd never seen him before, but there were a number of them she didn't know.
Vice, she thought. He must be a vice cop. Or maybe a SWAT team leader.
Because he was definitely the kind of man who looked for trouble and served asses up on a plate when he found it.
Feeling as if she were sixteen, she shoved the shirt under her pillow. And then saw the bra he'd taken off her on the floor. Good lord, the front had been cut apart, sliced by something sharp.
Weird.
After a quick shower, and a faster breakfast of two oatmeal cookies, a handful of Pepperidge Farm goldfish, and a juice box, she walked down to the office. She'd been in her cube staring at her screen saver for a half hour when her phone rang. It was Jose.
"We had another busy night," he said, yawning.
"Bomb?"
"Nope. Dead body. Prostitute was found with her throat cut over on Third and Trade. If you come down to the station you can see the pictures, read the reports. Off the record, of course."
She was out on the street two minutes after she'd hung up the phone. She figured she'd hit the station first and then head over to the Wallace Avenue address.
She couldn't pretend she wasn't aching to see her midnight visitor again.
As she walked to the precinct house, the morning sun was unmercifully bright, and she dug into her purse for her shades. When they weren't enough to cut the sting, she shielded her eyes with her hand. It was a relief to get inside the cool, dim police station.
Jose wasn't in his office, but she found Butch coming out of his.
He smiled at her dryly, the corners of his hazel eyes wrinkling. "We have to stop meeting like this."
"Heard you have a new case."
"I'm sure you have."
"Care to comment, Detective?"
"We issued a statement this morning."
"Which no doubt said absolutely nothing. Come on, can't you spare a few words for me?"
"Not if we're on the record."
"How about off?"
He took a piece of gum out of his pocket and methodically unwrapped it, folding the pale slice into his mouth and biting down. She seemed to remember him smoking at some point, but hadn't seen him lighting up recently. Which probably explained all that Wrigley's.
"Off the record, O'Neal," she prompted. "I swear."
He nodded his head over his shoulder. "We need a closed door then."
His office was about the size of her cubicle at the paper, but at least it had a door and a window. His furniture was not as good as hers, though. His desk was an old wooden one that looked as if it had been used as a carpenter's workbench. There were hunks out of the top, and the varnish was so scratched it absorbed the fluorescent light as if thirsty.
He tossed a file at her before sitting down. "She was found behind a bunch of trash cans. Most of her blood ended up in the sewer, but the coroner thinks he found traces of heroin in her system. She'd had sex that evening, but that's not exactly news."
"Oh, my God, this is Mary," Beth said, looking at a gruesome picture and sinking into a chair.
"Twenty-one years old." Butch cursed under his breath. "What a fucking waste."
"I know her."
"From the station?"
"Growing up. We were in the same foster home for a little while. Afterward, I'd run into her sometimes. Usually here."
Mary Mulcahy had been a beautiful little girl. She'd been in the home with Beth for only about a year before she'd been sent back to her birth mother. Two years later she was back in state custody after having been left alone for a week at the age of seven. She'd said she'd lived on raw flour after the rest of the food had run out.