boots were glued to the sidewalk.
"Fuck this," he hissed, flicking his cigarette butt down the narrow alley.
Ten minutes later he was walking down a similar alley and into The Cell.
Chapter Seven
The afternoon sun was making Angel uncomfortably hot as she stood outside the police station. She'd been there for at least ten minutes, desperately trying to compose herself enough to walk through the wrought iron gate and into the salmon colored building. She needed to be in the correct frame of mind when speaking with the police, or more specifically, Kevin McCoy. Right now, she was a wreck.
Just before she'd left for the police station, Ash had stopped by her house. He hadn't taken the news about Satin well. In fact, he was devastated.
She understood. He and Satin were frequent lovers, something she had never been particularly pleased about. It wasn't that she cared on a personal level; Ash could sleep with whomever he chose. But Satin had a reputation of promiscuity, and while Ash assured her he was always protected during love-making, knowing her primary Donor was frequently involved with a woman not the least bit concerned with communicable disease was unsettling.
Ideally, a Donor would be in a monogamous relationship, either with the Vampire or another person. But she didn't have the luxury of being so particular. Her blood and energy needs were far too great.
Reducing her dependence on blood was one of her primary goals. She would prefer to be like Armand was: capable of deriving the majority of Prana directly from people and using blood merely for pleasure. If she could reduce her Cravings to once a week, her life would be simpler. It was one of the things that had prompted her to open the yoga studio five years ago, one of the main reasons she liked performing. The exchange of energy. Good energy.
Her problems weren't easily solved; she knew that. Detective McCoy's were. At least the physical ones were. If she hoped to help him, she needed to be at the top of her game.
Burying the remaining emotion from her heart-wrenching encounter with Ash, she turned her focus to the sexual energy she would use to convince the detective to accept her help. A quick makeup check, a cleansing breath, and she entered the police station with determined purpose.
* * * *
"McCoy! McCoy! Wake up!"
A hand gripped his shoulder, and his head wobbled on his neck as someone shook him roughly.
Kevin peeled open his eyes to look into the panicked face of his partner. Fuck, he was so exhausted. Why the hell would Fitz wake him up?
And then he remembered.
He sat forward with a jerk. They were on stakeout. He was supposed to be keeping watch while Fitz got some shut-eye. He sure as hell wasn't supposed to be drooling.
"Oh, shit!"
"Shit is right. He's gone."
He jerked his gaze to the house. The maroon sedan was no longer in the drive.
"What the hell happened to you?"
He rubbed his hand over his eyes, desperate to remove the last of the filmy exhaustion from them. "I don't know." He shoved open the car door. There'd be time to be disgusted with himself later.
"Holy shit… Is that Angel?"
Brian Johnson's voice dragged Kevin out of the memory. He glanced up from where he'd been staring blankly at Lohr Varius' disturbing photos. Sure enough, Angel was sauntering down the hall toward them. Just as breathtaking as he remembered, if not more so, she was perfectly polished in a slim pencil skirt and fitted jacket. A vision straight from the silver screen, circa 1942. From the finger waves in her platinum hair and the hat and veil pinned to it, to the bold red lipstick perfectly applied to her lips, to her long leather gloves.
He brushed self-consciously at his wrinkled suit jacket. He'd ended up crashing at the station. He was able to shower and kept a clean shirt in his locker, but the suit hadn't fared so well after being slept in.
The tiny fangs exposed when she smiled were a bold reminder she was not
"Fuck this," he hissed, flicking his cigarette butt down the narrow alley.
Ten minutes later he was walking down a similar alley and into The Cell.
Chapter Seven
The afternoon sun was making Angel uncomfortably hot as she stood outside the police station. She'd been there for at least ten minutes, desperately trying to compose herself enough to walk through the wrought iron gate and into the salmon colored building. She needed to be in the correct frame of mind when speaking with the police, or more specifically, Kevin McCoy. Right now, she was a wreck.
Just before she'd left for the police station, Ash had stopped by her house. He hadn't taken the news about Satin well. In fact, he was devastated.
She understood. He and Satin were frequent lovers, something she had never been particularly pleased about. It wasn't that she cared on a personal level; Ash could sleep with whomever he chose. But Satin had a reputation of promiscuity, and while Ash assured her he was always protected during love-making, knowing her primary Donor was frequently involved with a woman not the least bit concerned with communicable disease was unsettling.
Ideally, a Donor would be in a monogamous relationship, either with the Vampire or another person. But she didn't have the luxury of being so particular. Her blood and energy needs were far too great.
Reducing her dependence on blood was one of her primary goals. She would prefer to be like Armand was: capable of deriving the majority of Prana directly from people and using blood merely for pleasure. If she could reduce her Cravings to once a week, her life would be simpler. It was one of the things that had prompted her to open the yoga studio five years ago, one of the main reasons she liked performing. The exchange of energy. Good energy.
Her problems weren't easily solved; she knew that. Detective McCoy's were. At least the physical ones were. If she hoped to help him, she needed to be at the top of her game.
Burying the remaining emotion from her heart-wrenching encounter with Ash, she turned her focus to the sexual energy she would use to convince the detective to accept her help. A quick makeup check, a cleansing breath, and she entered the police station with determined purpose.
* * * *
"McCoy! McCoy! Wake up!"
A hand gripped his shoulder, and his head wobbled on his neck as someone shook him roughly.
Kevin peeled open his eyes to look into the panicked face of his partner. Fuck, he was so exhausted. Why the hell would Fitz wake him up?
And then he remembered.
He sat forward with a jerk. They were on stakeout. He was supposed to be keeping watch while Fitz got some shut-eye. He sure as hell wasn't supposed to be drooling.
"Oh, shit!"
"Shit is right. He's gone."
He jerked his gaze to the house. The maroon sedan was no longer in the drive.
"What the hell happened to you?"
He rubbed his hand over his eyes, desperate to remove the last of the filmy exhaustion from them. "I don't know." He shoved open the car door. There'd be time to be disgusted with himself later.
"Holy shit… Is that Angel?"
Brian Johnson's voice dragged Kevin out of the memory. He glanced up from where he'd been staring blankly at Lohr Varius' disturbing photos. Sure enough, Angel was sauntering down the hall toward them. Just as breathtaking as he remembered, if not more so, she was perfectly polished in a slim pencil skirt and fitted jacket. A vision straight from the silver screen, circa 1942. From the finger waves in her platinum hair and the hat and veil pinned to it, to the bold red lipstick perfectly applied to her lips, to her long leather gloves.
He brushed self-consciously at his wrinkled suit jacket. He'd ended up crashing at the station. He was able to shower and kept a clean shirt in his locker, but the suit hadn't fared so well after being slept in.
The tiny fangs exposed when she smiled were a bold reminder she was not
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