“Did he touch you?” His hands balls into fists at the thought.
“He kissed my hand—no, not my hand, my inner wrist, before I left.”
He wanted to kill the bastard. “That’s all? He didn’t puncture your skin?”
“No, he didn’t. I thought I saw a fang, but it might have been the light.”
“Are you sure no one followed you out?
“We have affirmative to no one following her, sir,” Saul interjected. “The other unmarked vehicles have been vetting the site.”
“Good. We’ll debrief properly in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Trent will stay until you’re safely inside your apartment. If you can write up everything you remember, we’ll discuss it in detail first thing tomorrow.
“Yes, sir.”
“And Clare?—”
“Sir?”
“Well done tonight,” he added softly.
“Thank you,” she replied, her own voice softening.
He didn’t want to put the phone down, didn’t want to break the contact, but he forced himself to, and pocketed his cell.
Saul let out a big huff. “Well, I guess I’ll go home. Harriet will be wondering where I got to.”
Oliver checked his watch—it was nearly 10 pm.
“No time for a whiskey then?”
Saul hesitated. “Tempting, but not tonight. One of the girls has been sick and Harriet would like me home.”
“Of course. Good man.” Oliver gave a thin smile. Why did it bother him? That Saul had a woman to go home to, to listen to how his day went, and warm his bed afterward. Children to kiss goodnight.
You’re going soft in the head, man.
He would go home and have a whiskey alone on the balcony overlooking the city.
“You go. I’ll finish up here.”
Saul powered down the computer system and gave him a grateful smile. “Good work from Clare tonight. She’s a fucking awesome detective.”
“She sure is.”
When Saul finally scooted out of the empty department, Oliver meticulously checked that everything was put away. Then he grabbed his jacket and left.
But instead of heading home, he strolled into Old Motham. To a bar. There he sat, while couples laughed and friends caroused around him, all on his lonesome in a corner of the bar, downing more whiskey than he should. Brooding over the events of the evening, trying to make sense of them.
No matter what Clare said, he was sure the “Master” was Matteus Kominsky. And he was using unnatural means to keep surveillance away. The same magick he’d used to elude capture last time, probably. How could he slide into Motham, then slide out again without being spotted? Nothing in vampire heritage allowed for these kinds of disappearing acts. His instinct that the Kominskys were involved in this case was even stronger now. Shona Dove’s kidnapping three years ago was enough to link the two cases. Old dogs never learned new tricks.
And now Clare was in the mix, putting herself out there. And yeah, okay, she probably didn’t have AOx blood, but he knew himself how intoxicating her blood scent was.
How intoxicating she was.
