Page 184 of White Wolf

A lump formed in her throat. She remembered, distinctly, Nikita’s terror – the same as Lanny’s. And Sasha’s – the same as her own. She wondered, hoped, that Nikita knew that only something as strong as love could compel a person to ask immortality of another. That love was bigger than death; that when the natural course of things became unacceptable, as it so often did, when bystanders couldn’t bearto bebystanders…sometimes the impossible was the only solution.

“Lanny, come sit down.” When he didn’t, she patted the cushion beside her. “Please. I want to tell you something. Something I saw when I was inside Nikita’s head.”

His arms fell to his side, palms smacking against his legs. Shoulders slumped, totally defeated, he shuffled over and dropped beside her.

She explained to him, in detail, the way in which Sasha had helped to turn Nikita. Lanny didn’t so much as twitch.

“He was dying,” she added, after, quiet, “and Sasha wouldn’t let him go. Maybe that was selfish of him, yeah. But.” She looked at him, and willed him to look back – he didn’t; he was a stubborn asshole like that. “I don’t know if Nikita regrets it. You’d have to ask him that.”

Then hedidturn to her. “Alright. Maybe I will.” But it wasn’t by any means a concession.

She was calling his bluff, though. “I hope you do. Here.” She fished out one of her cards and a pen from her blazer pocket. “This is Sasha’s cell number.” She printed it neatly, despite her shaking hands.

She held it up between two fingers. “Call them. Ask your questions.”

He looked at it a long moment before taking it, rolling his eyes to hide the fear in them. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m serious, you–”

Her phone rang, and somewhere beneath the junk on the coffee table, Lanny’s phone rang too.

“Ugh,” she groaned as she fished hers from her pocket. She was never going to get to finish a single damn conversation with him at this rate. “Baskin,” she snapped when she answered, too strung-out for politeness.

When the dispatcher rattled off the address, her stomach dropped.

“Shit,” she said as she hung up, scrambling for the Post-It in her jeans pocket. “Shit, shit.”

“What?” Lanny had finally located his phone under a mountain of Chinese takeout boxes and was frowning at its screen. “New DB.”

“Yeah.” The address she’d taken down back at the precinct matched the one she’d just been given. “Shit. Our neck-biter went back to finish the job, apparently.”

~*~

Jamie Anderson had a roommate, Jessica Montgomery – already contacted and on her way to the precinct – but she’d been out for the night, sleeping over with her boyfriend. According to her, relayed to Trina and Lanny by the uniformed officer who’d called her, Jamie was “sweet” and “hilarious,” but had been “paranoid” lately.

Jamie’s apartment told the story of a promising life cut short. He was an artist – had been, Trina corrected in a small, sober inner voice – and the walls were hung with his watercolor creations. He’d liked to draw landscapes, and cityscapes, and people, all of it fuzzy and soft, oranges, purples, pale blues, and spring greens. Above the sofa was a woman’s face, half-realistic, half-splatter, her lips a shocking burgundy: a provocative piece. The apartment corners were crammed with canvases, easels, neatly folded drop-cloths. Art magazines on the coffee table. Rows of paint tubes lined up along the windowsill beside potted aloe and lavender.

Jamie Anderson wasn’t what Trina had thought he’d be, after reading his complaint back at the station. He was slight, slender. His hair was the soft brown of a child’s teddy bear. He wore trendy, black-framed hipster glasses, skinny jeans and Converse sneakers.

He lay on his side on his blue midcentury-modern sofa, one pale hand cupped beneath his cheek. He could have been sleeping. Color still bloomed in his cheeks, crushed rose petals.

The neighbor had walked past and found the door open, had called out to see if anyone was home. She was currently sitting out in the hall, a blanket around her shoulders. A paramedic had offered her an oxygen mask.

The apartment was undisturbed. There had been no struggle.

“Holyshit,” Lanny said through his teeth. “Holyfuckingshit.”

Trina wanted to sit down. Badly. Laying eyes on Jamie Anderson had cut her off at the knees.

Ignoring the regular scuffle of crime scene sounds behind her, she crouched down, snapped off her right latex glove, and laid her bare hand on Jamie’s forehead. Still warm, yes, but fading.

Lanny grabbed her shoulder, grip tight. Fear, desperation, or both. “What the fuck? Don’t touch him.” He said it under his breath, not wanting the uniforms or lab photogs to hear.

There was a faint smudge of red on Jamie’s lower lip. Blood. An exchange had been made.

“I think he was turned,” she whispered. “I don’t think he’s really dead.”

When she glanced over her shoulder at her partner she found him pale and sweating. He was still in his sweats, had just pulled his trench coat over them.

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