CHAPTER1
Feather
Red and blue lights splintered the chilly Chicago night, painting swirling colors on the paramedics and police outside the Wright Children’s Home.Myhome for the past few years, though not anymore. I shifted my thin, mostly bare legs on the hard vinyl seat of the squad car, watching through the wire mesh as the former Mr. Marcus Wright was bagged and loaded up into a waiting ambulance. I shivered uncontrollably and glared down at the dancing pink and purple unicorns on my shortie pajamas.
The next time I killed someone in winter, I really needed to make sure I was wearing a coat, or socks at least. Jail was always colder than a brass toilet seat in Siberia.
I was pretty sure jail was where I was headed, too—at least until I died. I hoped my next life was in Fiji; I could handle a few years of eating papayas and shouting a friendly “Bula!” to all the tourists.
Trying to get a bit warmer, I folded my blood-spattered legs underneath me, though moving made my stomach churn. My head hurt like someone had tried to cave in my skull, my right eye wouldn’t focus, and my teeth chattered nonstop. But when I caught sight of Lily’s sweet, young face in an upstairs window of the Home, and saw her waving wildly, I smiled. It was all worth it to know I had saved my young charge. It was why I’d come here in the first place: to protect her innocence and her life.
I couldn’t wave since I was cuffed. I lifted my chin instead and blew a kiss back, a fresh surge of agony coursing through my body as I shifted position. Then movement right outside the squad car drew my attention.
The grizzled detective who’d questioned me earlier had returned with his fresh-faced blond partner in tow, stopping right outside. “Like I was saying, it’s harder than you think to get a knife into the heart in one thrust. And she used a regular table knife.” The detective opened his door and slid into the driver’s seat, waiting for his partner to shut his own door before continuing, “There’s no way she could do it without help, or training. Look at how small she is. Can’t believe she’s eighteen.”
“And she’s not injured at all. She could be on something,” his partner suggested. “PCP?”
“Maybe. PCP… or pure luck.”
“Not pure,” I muttered, grateful as one of them turned the heat on and a rush of exhaust-tinged air warmed the interior slightly.
“What’d you say?” the partner asked, twisting around to squint at me. I stared into his moon-shaped face, reading the faint, insignificant shadows on his soul, and smiled. He was a good guy, mostly.
“Not pure, not luck, and it’s the fifth time I’ve done that this century.”
It was the truth, but the guy just shook his head. “Drugs. Such a shame.”
When the car turned the first corner, I fell over, and the excruciating pain that resulted sent me at last into unconsciousness.
* * *
“Did you mean to kill Marcus Wright?”
The unfamiliar voice intruded on one of my favorite dreams—four strapping Greek powerlifters taking turns feeding me chocolate-dipped grapes and massaging me with warm, scented oils—as I swam back up through layers of pain.
Was it the detective? My splitting headache made speech impossible, but I thought,Yeah. Don’t you think he had it coming?
The deep voice came again, and I knew it wasn’t the detective now. I’d never heard this voice before. “Did you kill him intentionally?”
Though his tone was brusque, the voice itself was smooth, like melted chocolate, and sunlight, and warm sand. Almost as sexy as the raspy, mysterious voice I usually hallucinated between lives, but slightly lighter.
Was someone in the squad car with me? I struggled to open my eyes, but it felt like I had million-pound weights attached to my eyelids. I could feel the hard seat beneath me, the purr of the engine as we moved, and the jolting of the brakes. My shoulders ached from being restrained, and the all-encompassing pain that had taken me under was still there. I couldn’t have been out for more than a few minutes. I tried to move my head, but my muscles wouldn’t respond. Not even my lips.
What’s going on?I thought the question as loud as I could.Who is that?
“Who areyou?” The question rumbled like distant thunder through my mind. Low and intense, the kind of voice you dream about giving commands in the bedroom. Not that I’d ever had that sort of fun. Honestly, the BDSM stuff I’d seen on the internet seemed like overkill for what in my experience was a minute of sweatiness followed by an apology and a promise that “That’s never happened before.” But for that sexy voice, I would take my chances. Heck, I’d probably tiemyselfto a bed.
“Answer me, murderer.”
Okay, so sexy and judgy as hell.
“That’s correct,” the voice answered. “You are being judged. Did you kill that man intentionally?”
Internally, I sighed. Lying wasn’t worth the extra pain. But I had a feeling this guy wouldn’t like my answer. I did.
He was silent long enough that I wondered if he had left. When he spoke again, his voice held a note of confusion. “Who are you?”
Feather.
