Page 29 of Midnight Coven

When they fired off more questions to that, Nick kept his voice polite.

“Yes, Farlucci suggested I come up here, get away from the city for a while…”

“Yes, my superior officer, Sr. Det. James Morley, approved it through the chain of command at NYPD…”

“I’ve been here for six weeks. Six and a half. Almost seven,” he told them, when they asked the question a second time. When they pressed him on that, Nick only shook his head. “No, I haven’t left. I haven’t even left this house.”

They scoffed openly at that.

But they didn’t stop questioning him.

It went on. And on.

And on.

They had questions about his answers.

Not all of those questions were particularly polite.

“Injury?” the handlebar mustache cop sneered. “Since when does an undead prick like you sustain an ‘injury’ in the line of duty? Did you stay in the sun too long, going after some jaywalker? Hug a cross at the big Church heist of San Francisco?”

The dark-haired detective with him chortled. “Eat a few cloves of garlic while staking out an Italian grocer?”

“Or did you justeatthe Italian grocer?” handlebar dickhead asked.

Both of them seemed to think that was hilarious.

The shorter one with the dark hair leaned an arm casually on the broad shoulder of handlebar mustache. Despite his smile, Nick heard nothing resembling humor in his voice. Revulsion. Hatred. Rage. Resentment. Maybe a touch of petty smugness.

But not humor.

He looked maybe a decade younger than the cop with the crazy amounts of facial hair.

“…Or maybe you drank some holy water out of the baptistery, bloodsucker? Thinking it was a water fountain? Is that it?”

Next to him, handlebar laughed.

The younger cop, with the perfect wave in his near-black hair, smirked.

Guy must be Catholic.

Whatever he was, he clearly thought he was clever as fuck, and funnier than a rabbit on ice.

Nick did as he’d been told. He took Morley’s advice.

He didn’t let himself rise.

He kept his words and expression polite.

He didn’t even use his lack of reaction as a means of digging at them, at least not obviously, or letting them know what absolute fucking morons he thought they both were.

The only time he reacted for real is when one of them saw a virtual image of Wynter on the low, antique-style entertainment center by the wall. The framed image-capture sat just under the wall-length monitor of Wynter’s living room.

Mustache stared at the image of Nick’s wife wearing a low-cut, wrap-around dress, smiling into the camera, flowers in her hair. Nick had taken that picture. Tai had put the flowers in her hair while they were out hiking somewhere in the nearby hills. Nick brought one of those sunproof vampire umbrellas, so he could go with them at least part of the way.

Still, he hadn’t been with them when Tai picked the flowers.

The sun got too low, forcing him to head back early.

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