Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 121735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
“WNDK news desk. How can I help you,” a terse male voice said.
12th Avenue and Market Street
Downtown Caldwell
AH, THE GOD-AWFUL overhang of a bad day’s sleep, Xhex thought as she stood, back-flatted and headachy, against the far wall of the club.
Fuck that, it was more like a number of days.
All around her, humans were deliberately cutting their ties to reality, using drugs, alcohol, and orgasms with strangers, to extinguish the burn of their regular lives. Whether they were working shit jobs or for people they hated … or in relationships that sucked … or worried about a sick parent … or whatever it was they were bitched about, here, they could surf free of all that weighed them down.
As a symphath, she knew the particulars of what they were avoiding. Okay, fine, not names and birth-dates, but the emotions were all there for her consumption, the evil side of her feeding off the toxic feelings that drove the humans, defined them … and ultimately threatened to destroy them.
Although, hey, maybe there were people here celebrating something, a graduation, a promotion, a new apartment or coupledom. But the good feelings were no nourishment for her so she self-selected out the happy-joy-joys.
And went for the traffic accidents.
Then again, maybe it was because of how things were going in her own life. Fuck knew she was close to cracking open.
“Misery loves company,” she muttered as her earpiece continued to burble with reports.
Blasphemy was a new club, part of Trez Latimer’s portfolio of emporiums that served up all kinds of legal and maaaaybe-not-so-legal products for consumption. He owned four now, and each had a different vibe. This one, in spite of its name, did not have an anti-religious theme, although it was painted black and red, and there were a lot of Gothic details. The clientele was very steampunk, which by her taste, was sooo much better than the Botoxed, lip-injected glamour bullshit.
But no one asked her.
Just as well.
Her eyes did their scan-thing automatically, her instincts weeding through the crowd on the dance floor, at the bar, down in the back by the bathrooms, ever searching for blowups about to happen, and drugs that were being done too obviously, and actual penetration being engaged in.
You could snog all you want. But you couldn’t—
“Alex?”
At the sound of the male voice, she turned her head. T’Marcus Jones was a human who was built like a heavyweight boxer, and even though he was a new hire, it was not hard to respect the crap out of him. He was level-headed, nonreactive, and he had enough muscle on him that, if he had to engage, he was going to win. Even if shit went to a ground game.
Oh, and Alex Hess was the human name she’d always used around Caldwell.
“What’s up?” she said.
“We’ve got a guy smoking in the back hall.” T’Marcus nodded toward the bathrooms. “I went down and asked him to leave—”
The human man winced and rubbed his forehead like his frontal lobe had been stabbed with an ice pick.
“It’s okay,” she told him. “You take my station. I’ll deal with it.”
T’Marcus pegged her with a hard eye. “I don’t let you down. I don’t—”
“I know. You’re fine.”
She left him to be in charge of the floor—testament to how much she already trusted the man—and proceeded down to the corridor in question. Passing the woman’s bathroom, her keen ears picked up on a whole lot of moaning. The men’s bathroom, on the other side, was quiet, and not likely to stay that way.
The shallow hall hung a louie, but she smelled the Turkish tobacco even before she came to the corner.
And somehow, even though she knew who it was, it was still an uncomfortable shock to see Vishous way down by the emergency exit. The Brother was in a lean, one shitkicker planted against the wall, his leather-clad body strung like a powerful bow.
“You know,” she said as she walked up to him, “there are laws.”
V’s icy diamond eyes shifted over to her and he stroked his goatee with his black-gloved hand. “Are there? Tell me everything.”
“In the state of New York, you’re not allowed to smoke in public places—”
He gestured his hand-rolled forward. “This bothering you?”
“No.”
“Then that’s the only law I’m following. New York State can go fuck itself.”
“I’m not sure whether that’s anatomically possible. Given that it’s a piece of land.” Xhex planted herself across the way from him. “So what brings you here?”
“How’re ya.”
Not a question. But come on, like she was going to answer that truthfully. “Great. You?”
“I’m perfect.” He exhaled. “No, I think I’m better than that.”
“It’s good to know your ego remains unscathed.”
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd that was when he went silent. V just smoked and stared at the lit tip of what he’d rolled, likely right after First Meal, given the time.
“Spit it out,” she muttered. “And if this is some kind of hardass intervention, you’ll have better luck talking to an inanimate object.”