Reality flashed through her, and with a surge of fear, she kneed him in the crotch.
Art let go, falling to kneel before her, his hands covering himself. Not waiting, she fell back a step and snapped a front kick to his jaw. His head rocked back and he hit the floor beside the bed. "You stupid bitch," he gasped.
"Ass," she panted, trembling as her body rebelled at the sudden shift of passions. She stood above him, fighting the desire to fall on him, sink her teeth into him while he knelt helpless before her. Damn it, she had to get out of this room. Two unrequited plays for her blood in one night was pushing it.
Slowly Art lost his hunched position and started to chuckle. Ivy felt her face flame. "Get off the floor," she snapped, backing up. "They haven't vacuumed yet."
Still laughing, Art rolled onto his side. "This is going to be one hell of a week," he said, then hesitated, eyes on the carpet just beyond the bedspread knocked askew. "Give me a collection bag," he said, reaching into his back pocket.
Bloodlust still ringing in her, Ivy came forward, pulled by his intent tone. "What is it?"
"Give me a bag," he repeated, his expensive suit clashing with the ugly carpet.
She hesitated, then scooped up the bags from where they had fallen. Checking the time, Ivy jotted down the date and location before handing it to Art. Still on the floor, Art reached under the bed and rolled something shiny into the light with a pen from his pocket. With an eerie quickness, he flicked it into the bag and stood. The growing brown rim about his pupils said he was in control, and smiling to show his teeth, he lifted the bag to the light.
Seeing his confidence, Ivy felt a flash of despair. It had been a game to him. He had never been in danger of losing his restraint. Shit, she thought, the first fingers of doubt she could do this slithering about her heart.
But then she saw what he held, and her worry turned to understanding-and then true concern. "A banshee tear?" she asked, recognizing the tear-shaped black crystal.
Suddenly the words of the distraught man in the car had a new meaning. I didn't mean to hurt her. It wasn't me. Pity came from nowhere, making the slice of low-income misery surrounding her all the more distasteful. He probably had loved her. It had been a banshee, feeding him rage until he killed his wife, whereupon the banshee wallowed in her death energy.
It was still murder, but the man had been a tool, not the perpetrator. The murderer was at large somewhere in Cincinnati, with the alibi of time and distance making it hard to link her to the crime. That's why the tear had been left as a conduit. The banshee had targeted the couple, followed them home, left a tear when they were out, and when sparks flew, added to the man's rage until he truly wasn't capable of resisting. It wasn't an excuse; it was murder by magic-a magic older than vampires. Perhaps older than witches or demons.
Art shook the bag to make the black jewel glitter before letting his arm drop. "We have every banshee on record. We'll run the tear through the computer and get the bitch."
Ivy nodded, feeling her pupils contract. The I.S. kept close tabs on the small population of banshees, and if one was feeding indiscriminately in Cincinnati, they could expect more deaths before they caught her.
"Now, where were we," Art said, slipping an arm about her waist.
"Bastard," Ivy said, elbowing him in the gut and stepping away. But the strike never landed, and she schooled her face to no emotion when he chuckled at her a good eight feet back. God, he made her feel like a child. "Why don't you go home after the sun comes up," she snarled.
"You offering to tuck me in?"
"Go to hell."
From the hallway came the sounds of soft conversation. The collection van was here. Art breathed deep, bringing the scents of the room into him. His eyes closed and his thin lips curled upward as he exhaled, apparently happy with what he sensed. Ivy didn't need to breathe to know that the room stank of her fear now, mixing with the dead woman's until it was impossible to tell them apart.
"See you back at the tower, Ivy."
Not if I stake you first, she thought, wondering if calling in sick tomorrow was worth the harassment she'd get the next day. She could say she'd been to the doctor about her case of STD-tell everyone she got it from Art.
Art sauntered out of the room, one hand in his pocket, the other dropping the banshee tear onto the entering officer's clipboard. The werewolf's eyes widened, but then he looked up, eyes watering. "Whoa!" he said, nose wrinkling. "What have you two been doing in here?"
"Nothing." Ivy felt cold and small in her leather pants and short coat as she stood in the center of the room and listened to Art say good-bye to Rat and Tia. She forced her hands from her neck to prove it was unmarked.
"Doesn't smell like nothing," the man scoffed. "Smells like someone-"
Ivy glared at him as his words cut off. Adrenaline pulsed, this time from worry. She had contaminated a crime scene with her fear, but the man's eyes held pity, not disgust.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, his clipboard held to himself as he obviously guessed what had happened. There was too much fear in here for just one person, even a murdered one.
"Fine," she said shortly. Psychic fear levels weren't recorded unless a banshee was involved. That she hadn't known one was, wasn't an excuse. She'd get reprimanded at the least, worse if Art wanted to blackmail her. And he would. Damn it, could she make this any easier for him? Flushed, she scooped up the rest of the collection bags and gave them to the Were.
"I don't know how you can work with the dead ones," the man said, trying to catch her eyes, but Ivy wouldn't let him. "Hell, they scare my tail over my balls just looking at me."
"I said, I'm fine," she muttered. "I want it vacuumed, dusted, and photographed. Don't bother with a fear level profile. I contaminated it." She could keep quiet about it, but she'd rather suffer an earned reprimand than Art's blackmail. "Keep the tear from the press," she added, glancing at it, small and innocuous on his clipboard. "The last thing we need is the city in a panic, calling us every time a high schooler cries over her boyfriend."
The man nodded. His stubble was thick, and stifling the thought of how it would feel to rake her fingers and then her teeth over it, Ivy strode from the room, fleeing the stink of the dead woman's fear. She didn't like how it smelled exactly like her own.
Ivy passed quickly through the living room and into the hallway, trying not to breathe. She should have planned this, not made a fool of herself by acting on impulse. Because of her assumptions, Art had her by the short hairs. Avoiding him the rest of her day was going to be impossible. Maybe she could spend it researching banshees. The files were stored in the upper levels. Art might follow her, but the Inderlander ratio would be slanted to witch and Were, not only reducing the pheromone levels, but also making it easier to pull out early since the entire tower above ground emptied at midnight with their three to twelve shift. Only the belowground offices maintained the variable sunset to sunrise schedule.