Black Wings, Gray Skies (Black Hat Bureau 4)

>Thanks for doing the legwork on this.

>>Well, I do have more than you.

>Ha. Ha.

>>Me and my legs are going to play with my friends.

Most of her guild was back from their holiday breaks, and they were all eager to be together again.

>Have fun. Call if you need me.

>>Do you think the daemon can play with me when you get back?

Heart clenching that she would ask, I flashed the screen at Asa.

“Tell her yes.” He touched her words with a gentle finger. “I would like that. Very much.”

>Game on.

As we stepped out onto the sidewalk, a man leaned a woman against our building for a long kiss.

“Are you ever jealous of them?”

“Humans?” Asa paused to consider. “Or their ignorance?”

“Their ignorance,” I decided. “They get to live these firefly lives, to burn bright and burn out, and they never have to know the truth. That monsters exist, and they like people with a side order of ranch.”

A twitch of his shoulders told me I had startled a small laugh out of him, but he shook his head. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“If I were mortal, I would have been bones by the time you were born.”

“I’m a black witch.” I elbowed him. “Bones aren’t a dealbreaker.”

Okay, even as a black witch, necrophilia held no allure for me. Though it did beg the question of how sex with a vampire was categorized. They were dead humans, resuscitated by necromancers. Undead wasn’t the same as alive, and…I was putting way too much thought into this.

“I’m not sure you qualify as a black witch.” He led the way to our first destination. “Your smell…”

“No longer makes your eyes water?”

“I’ve never had a problem with your scent.” He inhaled at my throat. “You’ve always smelled like home.”

Asa had told me that once before, but not with the same tender inflection he used now.

The softness in his eyes made my throat close over any response I might have made.

“Come on,” he said, tugging me along as if he hadn’t just shattered me. “Our turn’s on the left.”

Charleston was bisected with public alleys scenic enough to rate their own walking tours. They tended to be bricked or cobbled, with high walls protecting the privacy of the homes to either side. Creeping fig clung to every available surface, and moss grew in thick clumps. The green film enabled vandals to scratch such timeless messages as for a good time call without damaging the walls themselves.

Our first victim’s blood had been found down such an alley, one famous for duels in the late 1700s. The spot was so popular for settling matters of honor that a ghost tour guide (the city was lousy with them) hinted one of its archways once led to a cemetery for easy body disposal. I wasn’t sure if that was true, but it did make for a good story.

“Hey.” I put my hand on his arm. “Look.”

A palm-sized wreath of dried white flowers lay on the cobbles, marking a crime the cleaners had erased beyond my ability to detect the faintest hint of the victim, Luke Reynolds, or his attacker.

Oleanders.