Page 47

Graham hums and his talons sink away. “I... I might know a few people, but not everyone would be happy to talk to me.”

“I know that feeling.”

“What would you like to know?”

“If Vince Pazcuso put a hit out on me or someone named Victoria.” I realize I’m not even sure of her last name.

“Pazcuso. Oof. I didn’t deal with him or his kind. I worked as a repo man for a two-bit loan shark who owned a bar. Incubus named Aras. He’d know. I don’t think he’d speak to me.”

“Ah.”

“But... But I can try the bartender there. He didn’t talk much, but he listened a lot.” He checks his phone, scrolls, and nods. “Any other questions you want to ask? I do have his number, and it’s only around five in California. The bar will just be getting busy.”

I step closer, voice soft. “Ask him what he knows about Frank Bocella’s death. If there are any people looking for his killer.”

To Graham Kane’s credit, he doesn’t look shocked at all, just mildly concerned. He nods, takes his beer, and steps outside.

“Can you tell him I’m downstairs?” I ask Eddie Hyde. I know I should stay and wait patiently, but I feel like ripping something in half. The tension is too much. The feeling of uncertainty, of anxiety... It feels like I’m losing control. Like I’m dying inside, and I wish I knew why it felt so bad.

Because you tried to trust her. You care about her, you stupid hunk of sewn-up meat. You saved her, and tasted her, and let her look up at you with those big, blue-black eyes, and you believed in making love. In love at all. That you could feel it with your stitched-up nothingness.

It feels like dying because you were meant to stay dead, and they forced you to come back.

If she’s been sent by Pazcuso, there’s nothing good coming from her.

She had a gun.

With a silencer, damn it.

I shake my head to clear it as I enter the hazy pink and red billiard section of Jax Alley, the pool hall portion that’s lit by red neon, surrounding black tables with red felt and concrete floors and walls.

She picked it up from one of the men she was with.

She’s not after you. Why would she be after you?

And if she was... Maybe you oughta let her end it.

Just so you never have to feel or think again.

“Hey.” Graham Kane is back, and I realize it’s been a while. The muffled television in the corner of this dark, moody lower level was showing local coverage of a Lumberjacks’ game as the puck dropped. Now, there are two goals.

“Hi. Anything?”

“Uh. Yeah. A couple of things. I don’t think I have the whole picture, and this guy is some sort of demon, so—”

“So I’ll take it was a bunch of salt.” I flex my hands.

“Frank Bocella was killed by his mistress, and she killed a bunch of his men, too.”

“What?” I suddenly picture Victoria massacring a bunch of crime bosses and underlings with a Tommy Gun, like the scene in Some Like It Hot. Maybe she even jumped out of a cake.

I’m kinda turned on by that.

Not just the cake. The whole thing. My Victoria. Angel of Justice. Slayer of wicked men.

Now I want to lick the frosting off of her—and if there’s blood with it, I’m suddenly okay with that, too.

I need so much therapy, but I don’t even know if you can fix a brain that’s been preserved and deep-fried.