Good As Dead

Chapter Six

It's Thursday morning and I'm dressed in the best clothes I have. The kind I wear whenever a government inspector stops by to ensure Gran's qualified for hospice housing and I'm qualified to stay there with her. Clean, dark jeans, a turquoise blouse with ruffly shit at the neck and sleeves to make it look more dressy, and black ballerina flats with the scuff marks polished over. I even dug out an old purse of Gran's to use, a caramel-colored leather bag embroidered with patterns of brightly-colored birds and flowers. Much more presentable than my patched-up backpack.

And right now, presentable is what I need to be if I'm going to convince a detective there's a vampire living next door.

The hour and a half bus ride to Glimmer left me rumpled, so I pause at one of the massive glass buildings making up the core of the city, using my reflection to straighten myself up. The bun I put my hair in already looks sloppy, stray strands hanging loose by my neck, and the ruffles on my shirt deflated, itching against my skin. And shit, I forgot to put in earrings. I wish Maria was here; she's so good at looking collected and presentable.

The Preternatural Investigation Center, Glimmer branch, isn't hard to find even with crowds of people to fight through. Like any building owned by the Necalian government, it's all sharp steel and black glass gleaming with the dark iridescence of beetle wings. It's only four stories high, but wide enough to take up half a block.

The entrance reveals a room empty except for some drab paintings and a receptionist set to one side. She's not much older than me, and quickly puts down a half-eaten doughnut when I approach. "Do you have an appointment?"

I bring out my most confident smile. "No, so I'd like to—"

But she already brandishes a form to fill out. "Might as well not talk until you bring this back. All I can do is log in your reason for being here and send you to the right division when an open appointment is available. There's a small waiting room around the corner for privacy."

The waiting room in question has uncomfortable chairs and a dying potted plant that makes the attempt at cheerfulness only more depressing, but at least it isn't crowded. Two other people are in here, a woman with a haggard look on her face and two coffee cups in each hand, and a white man in the grimy boots and grease-covered clothes of a mech witch.

After seeing the coffee in the woman's left hand slowly drain away without her moving, and then a bite-shaped piece disappear from the rim of the cup itself, I decide sitting nearer to the man is a good move. He gives me a wink and a close-lipped grin. Even I can tell it's not just friendly but friendly. "They pull you in, too?"

I look away from the form long enough to give him another glance, and this time I see the tattoo of stylized wolves circling one muscular upper arm. Shit, no wonder he's interested in me. He's not just a mech witch; he's a wolf witch, too. From one of the Saint Islands, going by his accent.

"No," I say, before my silence stretches into rudeness, and keep writing.

I hear his chair creak, like he leans toward me. "Have we met? Something about your don't-fuck-with-me face looks familiar."

I check out his reddish hair and the way his eyes look clear as glass, shifting from blue one moment to green the next. His grin changes. If the previous version was suggestive, this one is an outright invitation to sex, if I like what I see. I don't. He's not repulsive like Valentine, but he still makes me edgy. "No, I'd remember your accent."

"Then it must be coincidence. Good; I'd be ashamed to forget teeth as lovely as yours. Who's your pack?"

"I was raised human." I keep the words clipped to let him know I'm sick of this. And I definitely don't want to admit to another wolf that I can't change.