“Sorry,” Jenks said. “I know you were really counting on the records.”

I shrugged, pushing and tugging the papers back into the bin. I wouldn’t be able to put the basket upright, but at least it would look like it fell over and hadn’t been rifled through.

“You want to go with Francis on his interview concerning his secretary’s death?” Jenks asked. “It’s this coming Monday at noon.”

Noon, I thought. What a safe hour. It wasn’t ridiculously early in the day for most Inderlanders, and a perfectly reasonable time for humans. Maybe I could tag along with Francis and help. I felt my rodent lips pull back across my teeth in a smile. Francis wouldn’t mind. It might be my only chance to dig something up on Trent. Nailing him as a distributor of Brimstone would be enough to pay off my contract.

Jenks flew up to stand on the rim of the basket, his wings moving fitfully to keep his balance. “Mind if I come with you to get a good sniff of Trent? I bet I could tell what he is.”

My whiskers brushed the air as I thought about it. It’d be nice having a second pair of eyes. I could hitch a ride with Francis. Not as a mink, though. He would probably scream like a sissy and throw things if he found me hiding in the backseat. “Talk later,” I spelled out. “Home.”

Jenks’s smile grew sly. “Before we go, do you want to see your record?”

I shook my head. I had seen my record lots of times. “No,” I wrote. “I want to shred it.”

Twelve

“I’ve got to get a car,” I whispered as I lurched off the bus steps. I snatched my coat out of the closing doors and held my breath as the diesel engine roared to life and the bus lumbered off. “Soon,” I added, pulling my bag closer.

I hadn’t slept well in days. Salt had dried all over me and I itched everywhere. It seemed I couldn’t go five minutes without accidentally hitting the blister on my neck. Coming off the caramel-induced sugar high, Jenks was cranky. In short, we were very good company.

A false dawn had brightened the eastern sky, giving the thin blue a beautiful translucence. The birds were loud and the streets were hushed. The chill in the air made me glad for my coat. I would guess the sun was only an hour from rising. Four in the morning in June was a golden hour when all good vampires are tucked into bed and wise humans hadn’t yet poked their noses out to find the early edition of the paper. “I am so ready for bed,” I whispered.

“Evening, Ms. Morgan,” came a gravely voice, and I spun, falling into a crouch.

Jenks made a snuff of sarcastic laughter from my earring. “It’s the neighbor,” he said dryly. “Jeez, Rache. Give me some credit.”

Heart pounding, I slowly stood, feeling as old as I was supposed to be under my age spell. Why wasn’t he in bed? “’Morning, rather,” I said, stepping even with Keasley’s gate. He was unmoving in his rocker, his face shadowed and unseen.