Nice Girls Don't Live Forever

I opened a door into Sergeant Lane’s brain and saw three things. One, he seemed to think that Dick and I had drained Andrea dry and stashed the body and were reporting her missing to cover our tracks. Two, if we had killed Andrea, or even if she was legitimately missing, he thought she probably got what she’d deserved. What could a girl expect when she hung out with this kind of crowd? He planned to go back to the station, make a joke about it at roll call, and forget Andrea ever existed. And three, he had been staring at my boobs through the entire interview. At this point, I’ve come to expect this of human men and realize that it has nothing to do with me. They want to see all women naked. Except for their mothers.



“Andrea doesn’t just flake out,” I told him. “This is completely out of character for her. If you think we did something to her, then take us to the station and question us so you can get that out of the way and you can start looking for her.”



“Well, I can’t exactly hook you up to a lie detector when your heart doesn’t beat, now, can I?” Sergeant Lane pointed out.



“Pardon me for being blunt, but she’s a missing pretty young woman,” I told him. “We both know there’s going to be a CNN van parked outside any minute. And I’m going to be more than happy to tell the nice reporters all about your lack of interest in finding my friend.”



Lane was smug now. “I think once they hear about Ms. Byrne’s background, they won’t be all that surprised.”



I growled. “Is it uncomfortable to have your head jammed that far up your—”



“Jane!” Dick said, locking his fingers around my wrist, to keep me in place.



“You two have a Happy Halloween, now.” Lane sneered and ambled out of the shop.



I let loose a stunning string of profanities and chucked the pewter fairies across the room, shattering one of the little tableside reading lamps. I expected Dick to be having the same reaction, but when I turned, he was sitting on the floor, rubbing a hand over his chest.



“I can’t take this,” he said, his sea-green eyes round and wet. “I can’t—I can’t take not knowing. What if she’s hurt? What if she’s scared? What if this is my fault? What if someone I made one of my stupid back-alley deals with came here and took her to get back at me? I shouldn’t have left her alone. But I wanted to—it seemed so important to surprise her.”



His hands shaking, Dick took a little blue velvet box out of his back pocket and opened it. Inside was a simple white gold band set with a little heart-shaped ruby. It was obviously old and worn but had recently been cleaned. “I went to pick this up. I thought I’d go the whole traditional, down-on-one-knee route. I thought she’d think it was funny, getting a proposal while she was all dressed up like a princess. When I got back, she was gone.



“She’s my happy ever after, Jane,” he said quietly. “What am I going to do without her?”



“You won’t have to worry about that,” I told him. I was trying so hard to keep my voice upbeat, hopeful, that my throat seemed to burn. “We’ll find her.”



Dick’s face crumpled in on itself, for the briefest of moments. He sniffed and pushed to his feet. “I have to go somewhere, do something, or I’m going to go crazy. You just stay here, OK? In case she calls or the police … Wait for me or Gabriel to call you. You call me if you hear anything . Got it?”



I nodded. “Dick …”



He kissed my forehead and disappeared out the shop door.



Sitting at the counter staring at the phone was making me crazy. I needed to do something with my hands. I cleaned up the mess I’d made of the broken lamp and put the damaged fairies in my office. I wiped down shelves, restocked the coffee bar. I found a pile of unclaimed special orders under the counter with a note from Andrea: “For Jane, reshelve using your ‘crazy system.’”



Caught between laughing and bursting into tears, I hauled the books to the shelves, replacing them in the stock one by one. Zombies: Fact vs. Fiction, On the Hunt for the Wendigo, Chupacabra and Other Demons of the Southern Hemisphere, and finally, Rituals and Love Customs of the Were . I ran a finger down the worn spine of the final title.



“Oh, crap.” I sighed, thinking of the box of Mr. Wainwright’s books I’d culled from my personal library all those months ago. With everything that was going on, I’d put them in my trunk and forgotten about them. I grabbed my keys and retrieved the box from Big Bertha, finally realizing how early it was when I saw the pink streaks of dawn creeping across the horizon. There was no time to make it home, and I didn’t want to leave the shop at this point, anyway. I wondered idly how sun-safe the storage room was, flipping through the book covers on my way back into the shop.



I shelved Rituals and Love Customs of the Were with our other copy and took The Spectrum of Vampirism over to the special-collections display case. When he’d given it to me, Mr. Wainwright had said it was a particularly rare volume, written by a respected Harvard academic, meaning that I felt even worse about leaving it in my trunk for so long. I carefully wiped off the cover with a soft cloth and unlocked the display case.



The sheer violent force of the blow to my back sent me crashing into the case, splintering the glass. I landed with a thump on the carpet, razor-sharp shards jutting from my arms. One of them must have hit an artery, because my blood was forming a rather large pool on the carpet.



Ow.



“So, you’ve had it the whole time?” an indignant voice above me growled.



Through the gray haze of pain, I looked up and tried to focus on Emery’s face. He sneered down at me, just as pasty as ever but not quite as sweaty. In fact, there was a subtle radiance to his pale, round face. His eyes were no longer dusty brown but a clear, liquid amber color. And his teeth were brilliant, white, and … pointy.



Shit.



I shouted, “Emery, who the hell was dumb enough to turn you into a vampire?”



I tried to push up from the floor, but the itching torment of my skin expelling thousands of tiny glass slivers left my arms weak. I glared up at him. I knew that eventually, the shock of Emery’s betrayal would catch up with me, but for now, keeping up a sarcastic, condescending front seemed for the best.



“My mistress, Jeanine, only granted me the gift a few short days ago. First, I had to prove I was worthy.” Emery sighed. “She found me. She showed me the truth about the world, about vampires. She gave me answers I’d been looking for all my life. She saved me. And she asked so little of me. And I failed!”



Emery kicked out like a preschooler having a tantrum at Wal-Mart. His foot caught me in the ribs, knocking me back against the counter. Dazed, I followed his line of sight to the book still clutched in my hand. Even through the sharp throb of pain, my brain spun. The break-in. Emery’s overzealous interest in the inventory. His need to search through every single title. He’d been looking for one specific book all this time. And I’d had it in my trunk. If I hadn’t been bleeding profusely, I might have laughed.



“You’re an evil henchman, Emery? Seriously? You broke into the shop while I was out of town? Why would you do that? And why the big charade with arriving weeks later all scruffy and jet-lagged? I would have given you anything you asked for. Why are you doing this?” I asked. I wasn’t sure what made this situation worse, my stupidity or the choking regret over my stupidity. I’d felt sorry for this doorknob, guilty for not being nicer to him. And he’d been working for Jeanine since the moment I’d met him. He’d deceived us all, turned on his only family to help that crazy bitch terrorize me. I felt my fangs extend over my lips as I ground my teeth together. The anger felt good. It felt clear compared with a muzzy confusion of pain and worry.



Emery smiled down at me. In a patient voice, he said, “I need that book, Jane. I need The Spectrum of Vampirism to restore Mistress Jeanine to her full health.”



“Anything except that,” I spat, rising to my feet. Glass tinkled to the floor from my sleeves. “Now, tell me where Andrea is.”



Emery shoved me back down onto the floor, which, given the woozy feeling in my head, was probably where I needed to be anyway. Still holding on to the book, I crawled behind the bar to the fridge. Emery followed, seemingly undisturbed by the blood trail I was leaving.



“I’m a new man, Jane. Capable of things I never dreamed of,” he intoned with a faraway expression. “Mistress Jeanine touched me with her dark wisdom. I worship at her feet. I lick the ground where she treads.”



I took three bottles of Faux Type O from the fridge and poured one after another down my throat. Wiping my mouth, I peered up at him. My vision was starting to clear. My wounds closed. I was able to flex my arms. My legs felt stronger. I was practically Popeye the freaking Sailor. I hefted myself to my feet. “Adolescence left deep, deep scars on you, didn’t it? I think you need to meet this guy I went to high school with. Name’s Adam. I think you’d get along,”



The dreamy note vanished from Emery’s face. He’d just realized his mistake, not taking the book from me immediately. Being so new, he didn’t realize how quickly we recovered with the help of an infusion. He took a menacing step toward me; my hands tightened around the cover. “I need that book. The mistress demands it. If I don’t bring it to her, she will plant her heel on my—”



“I do not want to hear about your sexcapades with Crazy Jeanine,” I told him.



“Oh, no, I am not worthy of the mistress’s attentions,” he said in a hushed, reverent tone.



“Then why do you keep calling her ‘mistress’?”



“Because she controls everything I do,” he said. “What I eat, when I sleep, how long I’m allowed to go without—”



“I get the picture, Emery. Please don’t give me details. And stop talking about her feet, it’s icking me out.”



“I’m finally coming into my own, Jane,” he growled. “Do you know what it’s like, living your whole life, waiting for it to start? Knowing that there’s something out there for you, something that will complete you, but not knowing what it is?”



“All I’m is hearing is ‘blah, blah, blah, I’m a loony tune enjoying my moment,’” I told him. “Now, tell me where Andrea is.”



“If you don’t give me that book, Jane, I’m going to have to take it,” Emery said, drawing himself up before rushing at me. Fully charged from my bloody snack, I punched him in the forehead with all the force I had. And now that he’d lost the element of surprise, Emery wasn’t that much of a fighter.



“Ow!” he cried, collapsing in a heap on the floor.



“Emery, please don’t do this. You’re Mr. Wainwright’s family. As much as I hate what you’ve done, I don’t want to—dang it.” I sighed as he charged me again, and I punched him in the forehead. Again. “Stay down, Emery.”



“Give me that book,” Emery demanded.



“Hmmm … No ,” I roared.



“Jane, you leave me no choice.” Emery pulled a large wooden crucifix out of his jacket.



I gave him an acidic smile. “Sorry, I’m kind of at peace with the whole Christianity thing.”



“I thought you might say that.” Emery pressed the center of the crucifix, and a stake snicked out. He raised the stake and charged me again. And I punched him in the forehead. Again.



“Why aren’t you learning from this?” I grunted, staring down at Emery’s crumpled body.



I almost felt bad about the whole thing, right up until I got knocked unconscious. One minute, I was looking down at Emery, and the next, white-hot pain sliced through the back of my neck, paralyzing every muscle in my body. My legs folded under me, and I crashed to the floor, my breath wheezing out in a weak “uhhf” just before my eyelids slid shut.

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