A Bloody Good Secret: Secret McQueen, Book 2 (5 page)

I was appalled by both her cavalier reference to my werewolf consorts and her flagrant disregard for eighties pop culture.

“Duran Duran,” I sighed.

“Hmm. I know all your boyfriends had names that started with a D, but wasn’t the cute brunet called Desmond?”

I set the cat on the yellow loveseat and placed my shoes on the mantle above my fireplace. “Duran Duran is a band. They
did
sing a song called ‘Rio’, but the song about wolves was ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’, and it was more of a metaphor than an anthem.” I plopped down on my overstuffed, oversize armchair and stared at the ceiling, trying to will myself back to Elmwood.

“Oh.” She adjusted her towel. “Well, we can’t really call her that.”

The cat was staring at me. This was all a little too much for me to handle so soon after getting back. I kicked off my flip-flops, then stood back up and grabbed the Louboutins, stepping into them and enjoying my new height.

Ignoring Brigit’s inquiring stare, I picked up a small purse from the floor, then took the only two things I needed off the table next to the door.

A gun and my keycard for Rain Hotel.

Chapter Seven

I caught a cab a few blocks away from home, and in those short blocks I was already reconsidering my plan. Admittedly, I was chickening out on seeing Lucas. We hadn’t left our relationship on the best footing when I ran away. First, there was the small problem of me also being connected to Desmond and the teeny-tiny issue of me having slept with him. Then there was the real problem—they both now knew I was part vampire, and Lucas had made a huge sacrifice to save my life when he shared his blood with me.

We hadn’t had time to discuss the ramifications of that particular revelation. I’d needed to heal, and then I’d needed a lot of time to clear my head. All of this was time spent apart from them. The wolf king was a patient man, but he was probably having to field a lot of questions at home about what had become of his Southern wolf princess.

The pack within New York was small, only twenty-four wolves. Twenty-four people were not likely to forget their leader telling them he had met his mate.

I sighed.

“Lady, this ain’t a sitting room. Where you wanna go?”

If the cab were a sitting room, it would have been one in a sauna. There was no air conditioning, and the bitter tang of sweat was rolling off the potbellied, wifebeater-clad cab driver. If it was still legal to smoke in taxis, I was willing to bet he’d have a cigar dangling from his meaty lips. His singular eyebrow was dipped in a scowl in the rearview mirror.

I was about to say SoHo, but it came out as a sibilant breath. No. I wasn’t ready, not yet. He must have seen the slight head shake, because he coughed with a phlegmy rattle and spit something out his open window. A cyclist cursed and the cabby snarled at him.

“
Lady
.” He drew out the word, emphasizing his impatience.

I gave him an address in the West Village, northwest of Rain Hotel, and he put the car in drive before I listed the cross street. As we drove, I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and dialed a number I almost never had cause to use.

“Miss me so soon?”

“Sig,” I said, no friendliness in my tone. “We need to talk about Brigit.”

“Yes?” As if he had no idea what I meant.

“She needs to go.”

“She is your charge.”

“I never had to live with my warden.”

There was a long pause. I hadn’t mentioned Holden by name, but it hung unsaid in the air.

“You will continue to monitor her. She is your responsibility.”

“She can be my responsibility somewhere else. Somewhere I am less likely to shoot her in her sleep. I got home and my
shoes
were everywhere. My power’s been shut off.”

I was thankful I’d had the foresight to pay up my rent until the end of the summer, especially now that I knew the newbie vampire hadn’t spared much thought for the little things, like bills.

“Shoes,” Sig said with a laugh. I don’t know if I’d ever heard Sig laugh, and it made my pulse trip. “Very well, Secret. I will have Ingrid make arrangements for Miss Stewart. And I will make a call about your power.” His tone told me he was less than thrilled about having to deal with such trifling issues. He hung up without any further comment.

The streets slid by slowly, and I watched as groups proceeded along the sidewalk to find their place in the Manhattan night. Girls in too-short sequined dresses and too-high heels moved in giggling packs. Men in cheap suits were leaving happy-hour pubs and advanced on to more promising nightspots. A red double-decker tour bus snaked past the cab, and groups of wide-eyed city virgins snapped endless photos of the glittery face of the city. New York was a shameless showgirl who never took off her makeup and always had a little too much leg showing. She was dazzling and unrepentant. I smiled, feeling like I was well and truly home.

We turned onto Christopher Street and followed it for a few moments until we arrived at Carmine, where the cab stopped in front of a short strip of brick buildings. I got out at a bakery called Sweet Jean’s and thrust some crumpled bills at the cabby. The air outside was cooler than it had been in the cab, and I enjoyed the slight turn of breeze that smelled like hot brick and the promise of a dirty night.

Beside the entrance to Sweet Jean’s was a small alley where a wrought-iron gate was the only indication something lay beyond. I squirmed down the pass and found the door buzzer next to the locked gate. After a short run of rings, a female voice asked, “Yes?”

“Cedes?” I knew it was her, if only because of the peevish, tired tone in her voice. Mercedes Castilla was a homicide detective with the NYPD. She knew I was a little wolfish, but that was about it. She was the only human I knew, aside from Keaty, who believed in monsters.

“Secret?” So many question marks, so few actual questions.

“The one and only.”

“You wily little skank. Stay right there.”

The buzzer fell silent, and I watched a couple walk by the mouth of the alley, laughing at a joke I had missed. I heard the fall of her footsteps raining down the inner stairwell, and then with a click of bolts being turned, she emerged on the other side of the gate, pushing it open to get a better look at me.

Her unruly, curly black hair was swept up into a bushy ponytail, and she wore a gray NYPD shirt that was one size too large over a pair of jean shorts. Her face, as usual, looked worn and tired, but her eyes were bright and her skin was fresh. I couldn’t help but smile at her as I said, “Hi.”

“Hi?” She laughed at the statement and pulled me in for a tight hug. “I can’t believe you. Do you know how crazy people have been going about you?”

Mercedes and Keaty were the only people who knew where I’d gone. I figured it would be best to tell her outright rather than deal with the fallout if she launched a manhunt for me. I hugged her back, enjoying the sweet, fruity scent of her shampoo and the warmth coming from her small, muscular body.

“Come on,” she said as she locked the inner door and gate behind her. “We have some catching up to do.”

We found ourselves at a small bar within walking distance called Fat Sam’s. The bartender was a slim, tall man who smiled at Mercedes in a way that suggested more than passing familiarity. Her color darkened the slightest bit, but she gave no other indication of how they knew each other.

“Evening, Detective,” he said warmly.

“Owen.” She nodded and held up two fingers, then added, “And keep ’em coming.”

We slid into a booth with cracked leather seats which sank beneath our individual weights so we were at an almost comically low height with the scarred wooden table. Owen came over carrying a tray and threw down two Newcastle Ale coasters, then put a pint glass down on each one of them. Next to the pints he gave us each a shot glass brimming over with strong, old-smelling whiskey. He eyed me the way bartenders often do when they suspect someone of being underage. Cedes touched his forearm and smiled sweetly, something I’d never seen her do before.

“She’s on the level, Owen, I promise.”

“You’re the cop.” He turned back to the bar where a group of college-aged man-boys in NYU sweatshirts were waiting. He ID’d them right away, and I felt a little guilty knowing it was me who’d set off his radar.

“Owen?” I asked, smirking at her.

“Shush. We’re here to talk about
you
.”

“Are we?” I leaned back in the booth, trying to act as casual as possible. “What did you mean when you said people were going crazy about me?”

She was drinking from her pint, and I could smell how robust the stout was. She held up her pinky to silence me a moment while she continued to drink, and then licked the foam from her top lip before speaking again.

“People came to see me. At work. About you.” She pulled the ponytail out of her hair and shook it loose, letting the dark curls settle around her face. I could see some of her hair was still damp, which explained the strong, lingering smell of her shampoo. My own hair was greasy, and the curls always looked extra heavy when that was the case. I also was increasingly aware of the fact my shirt was still covered in dry blood, and no one had commented on it yet.

Perhaps Brigit was too dense. Mercedes, on the other hand, must have assumed it belonged to someone else. I picked at the front of my shirt uneasily.

“I was gonna ask you about that.” Her voice gave no sign of any worried edge. If I was in trouble, she knew I would tell her.

“I forgot to change when I got home.”

“You thought to put on fuck-me pumps but not to change your bloody shirt?” She laughed, slapping her palm on the table. I saw Owen turn, his gaze fixed on her, an admiring smile on his lips. “Owen!” She looked at him, failing to realize he’d been watching her the whole time. “You still got those shirts Sam used to make the weekend girls wear?”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

He rummaged under the counter without asking her any details and came up with a tank top in his hand. He walked over to us and held the shirt out for her assessment. It was a skimpy spaghetti-strapped black tank with white printing that read—
Fat Sam’s: Helping People Forget Their Problems Since 1964
.

“Jesus,” I hissed.

Owen left it on the table, and Mercedes pushed it towards me. “It’s that or walk around looking like a crime scene.” She pointed to my chest, which could have given a blood-spatter analyst a hard-on.

I glared at her, then tossed back my shot for a hit of instant courage. Without waiting to see if the coast was clear, I stripped off my ruined yellow shirt and was in the process of putting the new one on when I heard the chorus of appreciative cheers from the boys at the bar. One of them looked Owen dead in the eyes and said, “This is the greatest bar in the world.”

At least I had worn a bra.

Mercedes grinned and saluted me with her pint glass.

“Now tell me who came to see you,” I said, getting our conversation back on track. Alcohol from the shot was whipping through my system at breakneck speed, making my head feel light. One of the blessings of my condition was that things like alcohol and coffee, the two greatest legal drugs on the market, acted extra fast. They also lasted for far less time, so I almost never got a chance to feel the hangover dregs or caffeine crashes.

“Lucas Fucking Rain, for one.” She said it like
fucking
was actually his middle name. “He nearly gave the front-desk girl a heart attack when he told her his name.”

If it was the same front-desk girl I’d met on several occasions, I was sorry he hadn’t finished the job. She was a snotty little thing, and there was no love lost between us.

“Must have made you popular.”

“Lucas Rain comes to the homicide department to ask about a missing girl? Yeah. Some knob in my department seemed to think that particular tidbit was fair game for Page Six. Poor Kellen Rain was the target of some pretty scandalous blind-item gossip. Something like
Real Estate Heiress’s Brother Talks to Cops: Bad News Beauty in More Than a Little Trouble?
”

From what I’d read about Kellen Rain, she was no stranger to being the center of attention. Page Six worshipped her antics, and she put most other spoiled party girls to shame with her drinking, sleeping around and general destruction of public property.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you were safe and you’d come home when you were ready.”

“And he left it at that?”

“He’s a proud man, Secret, and he’s richer than God. He didn’t try to bribe me, but I think he was testing the water to see if I might bite if he did.”

“Cedes, he could have bought you a penthouse on Central Park West without blinking. You should have
let
him bribe you.”

She laughed again, and I took a long swig of beer. It was cold and dark, and I could almost hear Irish tin whistles while I drank. It felt thick and cloying on my tongue. I loved it.

“He certainly didn’t like it when I sent him on his merry way without any information. For the life of me, I don’t know why you would run away and not take him
with
you. He is one hell of a good-looking man.”

I smiled and drank a little more but said nothing one way or the other.

“And your vampire came by a few days ago.”

I coughed and beer actually came out my nose as I attempted to stop choking. Had I heard her right? There was only one vampire Mercedes could be talking about, the only one I’d ever introduced her to and vouched for. She hated vampires, so he would also be the only one she would allow around her, all because I told her he was safe.

Holden had gone to see Mercedes, knowing she hated him, to try and find me?

Or, if he was a rogue like the Tribunal was claiming, was he finding people close to me and stalking them to smoke me out? Was his visit to Mercedes a veiled threat on her life? Was Holden telling me I needed to be on guard?

The thought of people I cared about being at risk because someone I once trusted might be turning his back on me sent a chill into my core. I used my old shirt to wipe beer off my face, and Mercedes stopped laughing when she saw the seriousness of my expression.