Hours later, the image of Sylvan’s eyes glowing wolf-gold and the gleam of lethal canines against her sensuous lips made Drake’s clit quicken. Lying alone in the dark, she couldn’t deny her arousal and she couldn’t pretend ignorance of the source. Sylvan Mir fascinated her—beautiful, powerful, viciously aggressive, exquisitely tender. Drake shifted restlessly, so agitated even her skin was hypersensitive.
“Drake?” the nurse asked again.
Drake bolted upright. God, she needed to get control of herself.
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m coming.” Running her hands quickly through her hair and checking to be sure that her scrub shirt was tucked into her jeans, she pulled open the door. “Problem?” Pam Liu glanced worriedly down the hall. “A Detective Gates is asking for you. I told her you weren’t available, but she insisted on speaking to you now. Said it couldn’t wait until end of shift. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” Drake said. “Where is she? I’ll talk to her.”
“I put her in the private waiting room.”
“Okay. If you need me, come and get me.” Drake stopped in the small kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee, then walked to the far end of the L-shaped ER to the family consultation room. It was nothing more than an exam room that had been converted, by adding a round table and a few chairs, into a place where staff could speak with families of seriously ill patients. The walls were still institutional gray, the floors a nondescript patterned tile, the lights inset square fluorescents. Harsh, bare, and barren. Definitely not a warm and cheery place. The woman waiting for her looked right at home. Her face—though flawlessly featured with delicately arched black brows over midnight eyes, narrow nose, and elegantly refined bones—appeared as cold and emotionless as a magnificently carved marble statue.
“Drake McKennan,” Drake said, extending her hand. “I’m one of the ER attendings.”
“Detective Jody Gates,” the woman said, rising to return the handshake. She was dressed in tight, tailored black pants that shimmered with some kind of metallic thread woven into the fabric, a body-hugging dark silk shirt, and black leather blazer. A round gold shield glinted at her narrow waist. Her fingers were long, strong, and cool.“Coffee?” Drake lifted an eyebrow toward the cup she held in her hand. “I have to say, it’s pretty bad.”
“No, thank you.”
Drake pulled out a straight-backed plain wooden chair and sat down across from the detective. She spoke to hundreds of people every week and considered herself very good at reading nonverbal cues. She couldn’t get a thing from this woman who sat absolutely still, appraising her. She might have been looking at a painting. She sipped her coffee and waited.
“I’m investigating a report of a stabbing in Washington Park around ten p.m. last evening,” the detective finally said. “I understand you treated a girl for a stab wound about that time.”
“Your information isn’t quite correct, Detective,” Drake replied, thinking furiously. She hadn’t filled out any paperwork because she hadn’t actually treated Misha. She wasn’t certain why the police were involved, but instinctively, she wanted to protect not only Misha, but Sylvan Mir. The reaction didn’t make any sense, but she trusted her gut feelings. “I did not treat anyone with a stab wound earlier. What’s this all about?”
The detective leaned forward, resting her arms on the table and folding her hands. Her voice was perfectly modulated, calm, and seemingly unperturbed. “What’s your relationship with Sylvan Mir?”
“I’m sorry. If I had a relationship with Ms. Mir, I don’t think it would be anyone’s business. But I’m afraid I don’t know her.”
“You’re not acquainted?”
“Not personally, no.”
Detective Gates pushed a folded newspaper that had been lying next to her right arm across the table. With one efficient flip of her finger, she opened it to the front page. “This says otherwise.” The photo above the fold on the front page of the Albany Star, the local version of the National Enquirer, showed Misha lying on a stretcher in the examining room with Drake holding her down. In profile, Sylvan Mir, with canines gleaming, snarled in rage at Drake.
The headline in 50-point block letters read: Were Councilor Loses Cool—Animal Regulation, Not RighTs?
“Jesus,” Drake muttered.
“Would you like to amend your story?” the detective asked in her preternaturally calm voice.
Preternaturally calm. Classically beautiful. Emotionally enigmatic.
Cool. Literally.
Drake took her time studying the detective, who stared back at her with a faint smile, her eyes fathomless obsidian pools. Finally, Drake said, “Gates. You hear that name in the news a lot these days. I don’t suppose by any wild chance you’re related to…”
“Councilor Zachary Gates is my father,” Jody said.
Zachary Gates was the U.S. Special Councilor on Vampire Affairs.
Sylvan Mir’s counterpart in the Praetern Coalition.
“Does that make you a friend or foe?” Drake asked, nodding to the newspaper.
“That makes me a detective. Did the girl have Were fever?” Drake glanced at her watch. 5:50. The sun was up. She didn’t know this detective and had no reason to trust her, but she couldn’t control her automatic surge of concern. “Shouldn’t you…uh…be somewhere safer?”
Detective Gates smiled, a full smile that turned her from simply beautiful into breathtakingly spectacular. “I’m not dead, Dr. McKennan. Exposure to direct sunlight gives me a headache and occasionally makes me nauseous. But it doesn’t kill me within a matter of minutes. It won’t—not until I animate.”
“So you’re—forgive me if I use the wrong term—a living Vampire?”
“We prefer the term pre-animate, but basically, yes.” Jody tapped the newspaper. “The adolescent in the photograph. She’s a Were, correct?”
“Yes,” Drake said. “Look, I really didn’t treat her. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”
“Have you seen any other adolescents with Were fever within the last few months?”
“No. You should know as well as I they rarely seek emergency care.”
“These wouldn’t be Weres,” Jody said, with the first sign of emotion flashing in her eyes. “These would be humans.”
Chapter Seven
“What do you mean, humans?” Drake asked. The chill coming off the detective sitting across from her made the hairs on the backs of her arms stand up. If she hadn’t seen the fire flickering in the Vampire’s eyes a moment before, she would have thought her totally without emotion. The truth was completely the opposite—Drake finally understood what was meant by cold fury. She also appreciated for the first time that she was in a closed room with a predator. One just as deadly as a Were and not likely to give any warning before she struck. Drake kept her gaze steady on the detective’s, ready to move if she had to.
“I don’t bite,” Jody said softly. “Unless invited.” Drake made an effort to relax her shoulders. It wasn’t easy. Some primitive focus deep in her brain was flooding her with enough flight hormones to make her entire body quiver.
“I’m sorry.”