Night's Cold Kiss (13 page)

Antoinette nodded.

“Good. Now, are you willing to undergo the procedure?” the witch asked.

Antoinette nodded again.

“Excellent, but first you have to sign a waiver.” She produced a form out of her briefcase. “Christian can be your witness.”

Antoinette stared blankly at the paper in her hand for a minute. The words seemed to dance around the page, just beyond her understanding. But anxious to get it over with, she signed.

After the paperwork was completed, the witch placed the cold glass orb into Antoinette’s hands. “Have you had anything to drink tonight?”

The orb warmed slightly. “Yes.”

The witch swore. “That may affect the results but we’ll just have to see what we get. Okay—in your own words, tell me what happened here tonight.”

As Antoinette talked the glass sphere grew milky and warmer, throbbing against her palms so by the time she’d finished it glowed and was almost too hot to hold.

“So—you fired the murder weapon?” Bianca asked, taking the globe and wrapping it in a black velvet cloth.

“Yes,” Antoinette said.

“Where is the gun now?”

“Um…” Antoinette looked at her empty hands and
around the floor. Oh God, I don’t know. Panic bubbled; this was all starting to get out of control. “I can’t—”

“She dropped it out on the balcony,” Christian said.

Antoinette stole a grateful glance at him. He put a hand on her shoulder and she actually found it comforting instead of disturbing.

“Excuse me for a minute.” Bianca pulled a cell phone from her jacket pocket and walked out onto the balcony.

A few moments later Bianca joined them, her face drawn and businesslike.

“I’m afraid they want you taken into VCU headquarters. Someone will be here to escort you shortly.”

Did they really think she did it? She was a victim here, and they were treating her like a suspect. She turned to look at Christian, but his expression said it all—there was nothing he could do.

Antoinette had since skipped past scared and moved straight to pissed. For the hundredth time, she stood and paced the small interview room. It was rank with the scent of stale perspiration, aggression, and fear. None of it helped her mood. Her head throbbed and a foul post-drinking sourness coated her tongue; she’d kill for a toothbrush or a drink of water.

The image in the mirror screwed up its face; she barely recognized it as herself. Dark circles ringing her eyes and smudged makeup made her look like a panda in drag. The bright orange jumpsuit they’d given her to wear when they took her dress looked as unflattering as prison garb possibly could—and she hadn’t even been formally arrested. Yet.

They had poked and prodded, scraped and swabbed. Questioned her endlessly and then left her alone in this tiny room for well over two hours. Antoinette sat down again on the hard metal chair and leaned on the table bolted to the concrete floor. Nothing was soft in this room, including the harsh fluorescent lighting.

Leaning back in the chair, she glared directly at the mirror. “Bring it on,” she mouthed to whoever was behind it.

A few moments later the door opened and the huge agent
from the party downstairs stepped inside carrying a folder she assumed was about her. He’d traded in his tuxedo for leathers, making him look like a cross between a biker and a rock star. Tall, dark, and menacing. His almost seven-foot frame made the small room even smaller.

“Ms. Petrescu.” His sarcastic tone immediately put her on the defensive.

She didn’t like him, not one little bit.

“I’m Oberon DuPrie, Special-Agent-in-Charge of Personal Security,” he said, dropping the file on the table across from her. An ursian, that accounted for his size.

He didn’t look like a typical agent in a black heavy metal T-shirt that stopped just above his navel, revealing an expanse of rippling abs. A line of dark hair started from his navel and disappeared behind the large Harley Davidson belt buckle. White gold or platinum and turquoise adorned his fingers and wrists, and secured his dark dreadlocks at the nape of his neck.

The door opened again and she slumped with relief when Christian and Viktor walked in. She’d never been so pleased to see an Aeternus in her life.

“What are you doing here, Laroque?” Oberon growled.

“We have a vested interest in this case, Oberon.” Christian pulled a folded document from inside his tuxedo jacket. “Here’s our authorization.”

Oberon scanned the pages, his expression growing darker. “I don’t like this, but there’s very little I can do about it. You’re not to interfere with my interrogation.” He locked eyes with Christian. “Understood?”

“Calm down, Oberon. We may work for different divisions but we’re all on the same side here.” Viktor tried to defuse the rapidly mounting tension between Oberon and Christian.

Antoinette watched the silent battle of wills as they stared each other down. Finally Oberon nodded but the scowl never left his face as he dropped his gaze to her.

“Let’s get down to business then.” He slid into the chair opposite and leaned his elbows on the table. Christian took the last remaining chair at the head of the table and Viktor leaned against the wall behind him near the door.

“Tell me what happened,” Oberon rumbled.

How many times would she have to go over this? She leaned back and crossed her arms. “The ambassador and Lucian Moretti were shot.”

He slammed his hand on the table and leaned in closer. “Don’t play games with me.”

“I have already gone over this several times with your colleagues.”

Oberon’s lips thinned above his goatee. “I want to hear it again—from you.”

Antoinette sighed and recounted how the attacker fired from the balcony leaving out, as she had done every time, the fact she recognized him as Dante Rubins—her mother’s murderer.

“Where were the men that were assigned to guard Sir Roger?” Oberon asked.

Antoinette humored him. “They were standing outside the door.”

“Why weren’t they in the room?” Oberon barked at her.

“You know damned well why. Sir Roger told you before we went upstairs he wouldn’t allow them inside.”

Oberon’s opened the file on the table, his lips thinning. “Your hands and clothing tested positive for gunshot residue. Why should I believe you didn’t shoot the two men yourself and just made up this mystery intruder?”

This bastard was after a confession. Antoinette raised her chin as she met his hostile expression, refusing to flinch.

“Oberon,” Christian said in an even voice. “She’s already admitted to firing the gun.”

She glanced at Christian out of the corner of her eye. The ticking muscles along his jaw were the only outward sign of emotion.

“I asked Ms. Petrescu the question.” Oberon pierced Christian with his intense coal black stare. “You’re here to observe. Keep your mouth shut or I’ll have you thrown out. Authorization or not, this is still my investigation.” Oberon swung his coal black eyes to her. “Now—why should I believe you?”

“Why would I want to shoot Sir Roger or Lucian?” she asked, incredulous.

Oberon’s eyes narrowed. “Were you sleeping with Moretti?”

Antoinette rocked back in her seat, the metal bit into her backbone. Christian’s hand formed a fist on the table, his knuckles white.

“That’s none of your business,” she said, pulling her shoulders straight.

“Everything is my business,” Oberon said. “Now—answer the question.”

She leaned forward. “Is this how you get your kicks—intimidating women into telling you about their sex lives?” She wasn’t going to let him rattle her.

Viktor coughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I am trying to establish why you were in the room,” Oberon said.

She met and held his gaze. “Because—I—was—his—date,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“How fortunate for you,” Oberon said.

“What are you implying?” she asked, getting seriously pissed off now.

“As Lucian’s date you had access to the ambassador few other people had.”

“What are you playing at, Oberon?” Christian asked.

The ursian gave him a dirty look. “Come on, Laroque. It’s common knowledge that Sir Roger was grooming Lucian to be his replacement in CHaPR—making Lucian the perfect way to get close to His Excellency.”

“What possible motive could she have?” Christian asked.

Oberon leaned back and raised his massive hands behind
his head, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Ms. Petrescu, it’s no secret that there’s been bad blood between the ambassador and your uncle since Sir Roger classified your father as a renegade. I think that’s more than enough of a motive for murder.”

He may as well have slapped her upside her face.

“Now wait a minute!” Viktor came away from the wall.

“What are you talking about?” Her father a renegade? She’d never heard this before.

Oberon leaned forward, dark eyes intent and he glanced quickly at Christian.

“You didn’t know?” Oberon straightened, his brows coming together. “This is…unexpected.”

Antoinette shifted her gaze from Viktor to Christian. They knew.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Neither Viktor nor Christian would make eye contact, only Oberon’s piercing gaze met hers.

“Some time ago,” Oberon said, “Roger Wilberforce-Smythe was head of the Venator Registration for the European division. When your father murdered the Aeternus, Dante Rubins, it was the late ambassador who put out a warrant for Grigore’s arrest. But rather than face trial for Rubins’s murder, Grigore drove his car over a cliff.”

“No.” She leapt to her feet—her chest tightening and her ears ringing. “You lie—my father’s death was an accident.”

“Oberon, enough,” Christian said. “She knows nothing of this.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. It couldn’t be true. Her father wouldn’t commit suicide.

“You stay out of this, Laroque—I’ve told you before.” Oberon stood, leaning on his hands across the table. Christian rose to match him—nose to nose.

Before they could all choke on the testosterone in the room, the door opened.

“Can I have a word?” a plainclothes detective said, looking at Oberon.

The ursian glared at Antoinette then reluctantly left the room.

She turned on Christian. “What is going on?”

“We’ll explain later.” Viktor came around the table to clasp both of her shoulders. “First let’s get you out of here.” He leaned forward and whispered, “The walls here have ears.”

Antoinette clenched her fists, her anger rising. The opening door cut off any chance of a reply. Oberon and the detective reappeared.

“You’re free to go,” the cop said and left the room again.

Oberon didn’t like it one bit, she could see that written on his face.

“Then, unless there’s anything else, we’re done,” she said, and turned her back on him. After a few seconds, she looked at Oberon over her shoulder. “Is there anything else?”

His lips almost disappeared as they thinned and his dark eyes were deadly, but he spun on his heel and left—the door slamming behind him. She dropped the smile.

“You know it’s not wise to piss off a ursian,” Viktor said.

She turned on him, curling her fingers into fists. “And it’s not wise to piss me off either.” That wiped the grin from his face. “Enough of these games—are you going to tell me what the hell happened to my father?”

“Not here,” Christian said.

Oberon knew two things about Antoinette Petrescu. First, even though the forensic evidence had substantiated her story and cleared her of the shooting, she wasn’t telling him the full truth about Sir Roger’s murder. And second, she was a dead ringer for the new serial killer’s victims. He hated the name they’d assigned to the perp. You’d think that sack-of-shit Roberts, who now headed the VCU, could’ve come up with something more original than “The Fang-whore Slasher.”

Oberon stood in front of the whiteboard covered with photos and details of the six victims they’d uncovered so
far. The before-shots of the women stared back at him. None had the amazing emerald eyes of Ms. Petrescu, but they all had the same lush Nordic blond hair, creamy complexion, and general build. Oberon was struck with the sudden thought; did she match their physical appearance or did they match hers?

Oberon wished he had access to firsthand information, but since he’d been kicked off the Violent Crimes Unit six months ago he could only access what his contact in VCU could pass him.
Thank God for Tony Geraldi.
This new killer was vicious.

The first body had been found floating in the river near Brooklyn two weeks ago. Since then several more had been recovered from the water in the same vicinity as the first. So far they hadn’t uncovered any of the heads. Oberon’s partner, Dylan, who’d left the VCU with him, had theorized the river currents might have carried the bodies away from the dumping place. But Oberon was inclined to think the killer kept them.

The victims were all human. Serial killers usually belonged to the FBI but here at the VCU headquarters they were taking an interest due to the fact all but one of the victims were known fang-whores and spikers and were in constant contact with the parahuman community. It could be the work of a dreniac—but the killings were too controlled, too precise.

The sixth victim had been a runaway and probably new to the game, given no record. Oberon learned from a copy of the report Tony had managed to get him that they’d had to use the tattoo on her hip to identify her remains.

The victims had dozens of shallow slashes to the torso and limbs. The lab reports said the wounds were made while they were still alive, resulting in exsanguination. Hours of immersion in the river destroyed any trace evidence, if there was any to destroy in the first pace. This guy was smart.

Six victims in a fortnight and yet nothing in the last few days. He should be concentrating on this business with the
Ambassador’s murder, not obsessing over a case he no longer had a right to. But that ass-wipe Roberts wouldn’t know a serial killer from the piss in his pants.

Oberon turned to face Antoinette and her Aeternus pals as they came down the passage, and crossed his arms as he leaned against the table. He fixed his eyes on the woman.

She met his gaze, then flicked to the case whiteboard behind him.

“Are you all right?” Christian asked.

She seemed about to say something then took a step closer. “Is this the Fang-whore Slasher case I’ve been reading about in the papers?” she asked Oberon, her gaze remaining fastened on the case board. “Are you working it?”

“Do you see that?” Dushic whispered to Laroque, looking from the victim photos to Antoinette and back to the pictures pinned on the whiteboard.

The Aeternus nodded.

“And you think he’s targeting them for their profession, hence the name the Fang-whore Slasher.” Her frown deepened and she moved around the desk taking a closer look at the photographs. “But I think they’re just easier to access—he’ll start taking others soon.”

I was thinking the same thing.
“Why do you say that?” Oberon asked curious to her reasoning.

“The fang-whores will start to get wise. Look at the way he slices them—so deliberate, each cut precise and probably slowly over hours.” She turned around and looked at him. “He’s having way too much fun to stop, don’t you think?”

“It doesn’t really matter what he thinks as he no longer has any interest in VCU cases.” Roberts came out of the office to stand in front of the case board and crossed his arms.
The ass-wipe
. “We gave you access to the witness to ask your questions, Oberon. I think you’re finished here.”

The roar rushed up from his toes and he gave it voice. Catching the edge of the table, he heaved it against the wall. Wood disintegrated into flying splinters and papers fluttered all around the room. He breathed in through his nose and
out his mouth, trying to calm the bear side of himself. It was exactly what got him demoted in the first place. Roberts sure knew how to push his buttons. One day he would get back at that little prick for kicking him off the team. But today was not that day. With one final glance at Antoinette, he turned on his heels and marched toward the exit.