Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 20

Dana climbs behind the wheel with a smirk on her face, but, miracle of all miracles, she doesn't say anything.

My fingers long to touch my lips, but I'm determined to pretend nothing out of the ordinary happened. "I didn't hear a call come in," I say, searching our dash-mounted computer for the reference.

"Like you were paying attention." She gives me an arch look, then sucks at her coffee. "Santos hurt himself. He called my cell. He doesn't want it going out over the radio." She drives uncharacteristically slow, which appears to be an effort. She's fidgety, tapping the steering wheel and continually scraping a loose strand of hair off her face. I really must talk to her about her hair. "That man has more pride than a tribal warlord. It must have killed him to call me." She giggles.

Great. Santos.

"What happened?" I ask, worried. "He must really be hurt to call us." I remember last night and my breath kicks up a notch. The accusations. Maybe this is all a ploy to get me cornered. I'll let Dana deal with him.

"I didn't ask and I don't care," she says. "This one's all yours."

I stare at her.

"What?" Dana barks at me. "Just because I fuck someone doesn't mean I love them, Anne. Every time I have a boyfriend you think I'm going to marry him and have his babies."

"It just baffles me how you can be so in love one moment and then utterly indifferent the next."

"When it's over, it's over. I don't go back."

Santos is obviously a sore subject, but I can't help wondering why their relationship ended. Before I have a chance to ask we're pulling down a narrow back alley, brakes groaning as we roll to a stop behind a row of restaurants and bars. Dana squints to see through the gloom. Two squad cars sit shrouded in fog, motors idling but lights off, dusted in a fine layer of snow. Trash is piled in cans and steam puffs from rooftops. A keen wind whistles through the alley and Dana zips up her navy jacket as she steps out of the truck. My cold tolerance is preternatural, but for appearances sake, I follow suit.

Bundled against the cold, Santos braces himself on the edge of his driver's seat, but with his legs outside the cruiser. His right pant leg is pulled up, revealing a deformed knee and the thick muscle of his quad bunched above it in spasm. A small holster rests against his ankle and a slender blade is slipped in his left boot. I stay back. But I can see his brown skin is whiter than it should be and there's a sheen on his brow. I want to lay the back of my hand against his forehead to gauge his skin, but I don't. He gives me a hard look, and I'm tempted to turn and wait in the truck, but I refuse to back down. Beside him stands a magnificently tall officer, blacker than Lucien, leaning against the car. He grins at Dana as we walk up.

"Glad you're amused, Samson," Santos says between clenched teeth.

"A chick kicked his ass," the deputy says with an enormous smile.

"Jesus Christ." Santos shakes his head. "Let the stories begin."

"What happened?" I ask

"I rolled up on a scamp skulking about in the shadows and when I stopped to check it out, she bolted. So I chased her. I jumped a wall and landed wrong. Popped my fucking knee."

"That's his story and he's sticking to it," Samson says.

"That's the truth."

"She outran him," Samson chortles. "Hey, those crack monsters are fast."