didn’t say anything, apparently sensing it would only lead to an argument. “I will set my alarm so you can go before sunrise.”
Samantha shook her head. “There’s no need. I can feel the dawn coming. I’ll know when to leave.”
Ricardo nodded. He slipped beneath the covers of his bed. “Buenas noches.” He shut off the light.
“Good night.” She huddled in the rocker again. In the quiet, she heard the susurrus of his breath, deepening as sleep claimed him. The beat of his heart slowed and blood pumped sluggishly through his veins. The smell of him was sumptuous with the life she lacked.
She was still weak from her earlier wounds and the heat of her transformation came upon her quickly, with her awareness of him as prey. Her fangs emerged. Her eyes adapted to the night, allowing her to see every inch of him: the pulse point throbbing along his neck as his head lay against his pillow, the fine network of veins just below his skin.
With her acute senses, the enticing masculine scent of his sweat was strong. The warmth of his skin as alive as if it was pressed to hers. It would be easy to break through that thin layer. Much easier than through the plastic blood bag. And his blood—it would be so hot and fresh on her lips, fill her with an energy the bagged blood couldn’t match.
Samantha hugged herself tight and buried her head against her knees, battling her urges. She had to go. Her control was too weak from all that had happened.
There was still activity outside, but it had lessened considerably.
She concentrated on those outdoor sounds: the shuffle of feet against the sidewalk; the slam of car doors; the rasp of equipment going back into storage areas; the murmur of voices.
Human voices in the night, unsuspecting of what was near.
The sounds became her sole focus, keeping the demon inside her contained until finally, there was silence.
Taking a last look at Ricardo as he slept, she hurried down to the kitchen where she gathered her things and left.
Dawn would not have come soon enough to spare her friend.
Chapter 2
NYPD Detective Peter Daly never made it home after the drive-by shooting. From the moment the call had come in, just past midnight, he’d been on the job.
It was just as well. He didn’t really have any reason to go home.
The sights at the morgue that morning had been grim. Three dead, all below the age of sixteen. Another one in critical condition. Amazingly, three had survived with barely a scratch.
He was still puzzling about those three as he stood on the sidewalk, examining the scene of the shooting once again. The Crime Scene Unit was supposedly finished here, but Peter thought there had to be something they’d missed. Something that would explain how three kids had escaped a fusillade of bullets.
He stepped backward, off the curb and into the middle of the street where the car had paused. With as many rounds as the Tec-9 could fire, you didn’t need good aim. Just point and shoot. That was enough to hit almost anything within close range.
Which didn’t explain how three of the children had somehow gotten away. Nor could the children explain it either. All they recalled was that they were suddenly whisked into the stairwell next door. The hangers-on in the neighborhood, religious semisuperstitious types from what Peter could see, had murmured that an angelita had saved the children. It was a miracle.
Peter didn’t believe in miracles or maybe even Heaven for that matter. But Hell. Hell was right here, he thought as he ambled back to the sidewalk, searching for any clues the Crime Scene Unit might have missed. Along the street and stoop there was nothing. Down in the stairwell of the building next door, he hit pay dirt.
Some drops of blood. Just a few on the top step leading down to the shelter’s lower level. Along the railing, what appeared to be a smear of blood. Removing a kit from his jacket pocket, he swabbed at the drops and the smear, and then safely tucked the evidence away for analysis.
Glancing up at the shelter, he wondered if anyone there had seen anything. Or if someone within had been responsible for the supposed miracle. And the blood.
As Peter turned, he caught sight of the garbage cans. A veritable source of information. He popped open the lid on the first receptacle. Nothing but recyclables. Lifting the lid on the next one, he noted the refuse from last night’s dinner. Taking off his jacket, he undid the cuff on his white shirt and rolled it up. Then he gingerly placed his hand in the garbage—a job he totally hated—and rooted around. Barely below the surface he came across something tucked into a bag from the local grocery.
The santero down the block had claimed to have been shopping. Peter grabbed the bag from the garbage. He undid the tied handles to reveal a woman’s blouse. Easing the blouse out using the plastic of the bag, to avoid contaminating the evidence, he noted the bloodstains and two glaring bullet holes—one high up on the shoulder, the other along the rib area.
Curiouser and curiouser. Peter slipped the blouse back into the bag and returned to his car. He stuffed the blouse into an evidence bag and noted the details about his discovery. Placing the blouse and the swabs in his trunk, he decided to visit the local market to see just who had been shopping last night.
As Peter walked to the Gristedes, just a few blocks away, he was struck by the neat and tidy conditions of this area. There was a sense of safety and community he hadn’t expected in this neighborhood. But then it hadn’t been the least bit safe for those involved in last night’s shooting.
At the market, Peter had no luck with the clerks or manager on duty. The night shift had just left. But the manager offered to let Peter view a tape from the night before.
There was a clear shot of a woman making a purchase shortly before midnight. A beautiful woman wearing a shirt much like the one Peter had discovered in the garbage.
“Do you know who she is?” Peter asked, motioning to the image paused on the screen. Had she been another victim? If she’d been hurt, why hadn’t she shown up in a local hospital?
The manager shrugged. “I’ve never seen her before. Maybe one of the clerks has.”
One by one the clerks were called into the manager’s office and one by one they all failed to recognize the woman in the video. Peter thanked them and added the tape to the other evidence in his car.
Then, figuring he had nothing to lose by following his instincts, he walked up the short set of steps to the door of the Artemis Shelter, identified by a small bronze plaque. Vaguely he recollected that Artemis was a warrior goddess in Greek mythology and wondered who had chosen the name for the shelter and why.
A young black woman with a toddler balanced on one hip answered his knock. “May I help you?” Hostility came off of her in waves.
Peter held up his shield for the young woman to see. “NYPD. I’m here investigating last night’s shooting. Do you mind if I come in?”
“Do you have a warrant?” she asked, maintaining her position smack in the middle of the doorway to bar his entry.
“I just want to ask a few questions. Find out if anyone saw anything last night.”
“Come
