Daemon’s Mark by Caitlin Kittredge (web ebook reader .TXT) 📕

and Will wasn’t a were. He couldn’t give me the bite, turn me to his pack, and take control of me. That part helped a lot.

“Luna,” Will said, short and to the point like he was with most things. His hand left my breasts and stroked against me, once, twice.

“Yes,” I told him, as the deep-belly shudder gripped me.

Will shut his eyes and drove into me one last time, his thumb mimicking the rhythm. It sent me over the edge and I lost myself for a second, feeling him inside me like a miniature heartbeat. Breath short and ragged, Will lowered himself on me, kissing along one cheekbone and down my jawline.

I let myself ride out the last aftershock and then unwrapped my legs, draping one knee over the back of his.

“You feel like you staked your claim?” I said with a half-smile.

Will returned it. “The real question is, do you?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I’m ruined for all other men now.”

Will grabbed a throw pillow and bopped me lightly in the head with it. “You and that big mouth of yours.”

“Hey, I don’t hear you complaining about what that mouth can do for you,” I said.

Rolling off the bed, Will went into my small bathroom and splashed water on his face. “I’m up for taking it slow this time around if you are.”

Fatigue lay heavy on me now, like the sheen of sweat on my skin. I got up and came into the bathroom with Will, spinning the taps on my ancient, rust-ringed tub. “I need a bath and a decent night’s sleep,” I said. “No offense to your prowess as a lover, honey.”

Will squeezed my shoulders. “None taken. I’m going to sack out. Be sure to wear that little black negligee I like.” He dropped me a wink and shut the bathroom door.

“Unbelievable,” I told him through the wood, but not without a smile. Will made me feel relaxed instead of jumpy with his very presence, and that was new for me, too. I stripped out of my clubbing costume and sank into the bathwater, draping a washcloth over my forehead.

Steam closed over the mirror, filled the air, and I felt my hair grow damp against my neck. I slid lower into the water, trying to float.

The faucet dripped, a Zenlike meditation in the white non-space of the water and the steam. I breathed in, out, watching my breath move wisps like skeleton fingers across the tile.

Lily Dubois stood at the edge of the tub, her skin and hair waterlogged and white, her clothes tattered, the gaping hole in her sternum red-black with clotted blood. “Help me,” she said, and then reached out her hand and shoved my head under the water.

I thrashed and struggled, her tiny arm stronger than a piece of rebar, and white lights exploded in front of my eyes. This was it—I was dead and I’d open my eyes in the afterlife.

My lungs convulsed and I jumped upright, coming out of the water, thrashing and sending a minor tidal wave across the tiles to soak my wicker basket of towels and a pile of discarded laundry I hadn’t had time to lug down to the laundromat.

Awake and choking, I pulled myself out of the tub and rested on all fours for a moment, shivering and coughing.

Will came bolting through the door, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Luna. Luna, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” I croaked. “I had a bad dream…”

Will’s hair was mussed from the pillow and his eyes were black with worry. “Are you sure? You didn’t hit your head and go under?”

I checked myself over and found I was free of bruises and scrapes. “No … I must have dozed off…” I grabbed a damp towel, suddenly freezing. “I saw Lily. She was dead.”

“She is that,” Will agreed. He grabbed my ratty terry-cloth robe and wrapped me in it, guiding me to the bed.

“Come on. You’re not the first cop to dream about the bad ones.”

I let him lay me down and hold me close. I didn’t tell him how real the whole thing had seemed. I have plenty of dreams, most of them perfectly normal Jungian archetypes like we all have, but this—this was different. If I breathed deeply, I swore I could still smell sea water and decomposing flesh, as if Lily were still standing there, watching me with her clouded eyes.

Dellarocco looked up when I came into the ID lab the next morning, carrying the shoebox I’d found in JB’s apartment. “I was just about to call you.”

“Must be psychic,” I said, and then grimaced. The nightmare was still dogging me, and even two tall hazelnut lattes couldn’t chase it away completely.

“I got an ID on your wallet’s owner, the talented Mr. Black,” said Dellarocco, sounding ridiculously proud of himself. He brought up an AFIS file and sure enough, there was Johnny Boy. “Does the name Ivan Salazko ring any bells?”

“No,” I said. “But that’s who he is, really?”

“Really,” said Dellarocco. “He has a bust from about five years ago, in Miami. He was running whores, and buying coke to give to said whores, and he bought from an undercover cop. It was a minor thing, and he did two years and skated out west.”

“Lucky us,” I said. “Maybe he wanted to see the California Disney.” Or take up running whores again, judging by the snapshots under his bed.

“He got his fake ID from the same place that gave your girl Lily hers,” Dellarocco said. “Any leads yet?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But I’ll have some today, you bet your ass. Can I get a printout of that?” I indicated the screen. Dellarocco obliged me, and I took my evidence and myself to the SCS.

“Check it out,” I told Bryson, slapping the booking photo on his desk. “I found us a new suspect numero uno and I didn’t even break a sweat.”

Bryson frowned. “Who the hell is that guy?”

“This is Ivan Salazko,” I said. “Pimp and maker of the fake ID that