The Burning Bush (6 page)

“The mother showed up at the station a few nights ago drunk and crying. She said Onyx was an honor roll student in high school and had a lot of talent as an artist.” Rivera drummed an out-of-rhythm tune on the wooden table with his long, dirt-caked fingers. “But I discovered another story. I’ve been showing Onyx’s picture around the streets and found out she’d been turning tricks for this low-life pimp name Kilo.”

“Prostitution? How old was Onyx?”

“Sixteen.”

“Excellent.” I rubbed my temples.
An underage prostitute? This case may emotionally kill me.
An ache throbbed behind my brand. I’d barely recovered from last month’s serial killings. Now I had two new victims, one a young Mixie that could have made something of her life.
Wait a minute.

“Onyx’s mom said she was a talented artist?” I asked.

Rivera nodded his head and began cracking his knuckles.

“And you said earlier that Shelly was an art major and her fiancé had an art showing,” I reminded him.

“Okay?”

“Well, I don’t know, but that’s something.” I chewed the inside of my cheek. “They are all connected by art, maybe.”

“That’s not enough to get you off this case, but it’s good stuff.” Rivera stood up, rubbing his hands together. He was probably ready to get outside and smoke. “I hate artsy people, Supernatural or Human. They’re all a bunch of wackos.”

I gazed at Shelly on the burning bush. Someone could consider this a piece of art, if that person was a sicko.
Is the killer an artist?

“Okay. I’ll question Onyx’s mom tomorrow.” I picked up the folders and tried my best to avoid bumping into the bush’s spell.

Rivera snatched up his pack of cigarettes. “So what’s on your mind? Where are you going to start?”

I opened the containment room’s gray door, tucking the files under my arm. “I have no idea who the killer is, but he or she started with Onyx so that’s where I’ll begin.”

My phone rang again. I checked it this time, wanting to avoid MeShack yelling at me some more. Zulu’s name glowed. I put the phone to my ear and said, “I’ll be home soon, baby.”

“Where are you? I thought Bottelli’s Vamps captured you. I’ve been storming this habitat searching everywhere.”

“And you didn’t just call me first?” I grinned.

“Where are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not an answer.” A deep rumble came from his side of the phone line.

Rivera guided me past several habbies joking by their desks and pointing at a calendar of nude, partially shifted Shifter women. They’d been throwing darts at it. I groaned, ready to get out of there.

“Lanore!” Zulu barked.

“I’ll be home in five minutes.” I hung up. My phone rang again. I checked it, figuring it was Zulu calling back to roar. The words
Lucky Ganga
lit up the screen.
Fuck me. Am I going to get a break tonight?

I still had not met with the Palero. It wanted to know who the vessel was. I was pretty sure Angel was the vessel, but Angel begged me not to say anything once I told her the Palero looked like a wrinkled genderless being. I couldn’t blame her for being nervous, but I had to deal with the Palero soon.
The Palero will have to wait. My to-do list is packed.

My head’s aching throb progressed to a pounding against my skull. I swung open the station’s front door. Rivera had promised to give me a ride home since he’d dragged me all the way to the other side of Shango District.

“I’ll need you to report to me each evening at nine,” Rivera insisted as the cold air hit my face. “I want notes written so I can file them as mine. My boss was suspicious about my actually solving the last case.”

“Imagine that. Maybe it’s because you didn’t actually solve the case.” I looked up at the checkered sky. The moonlight peeked through the ceiling’s bars.

“They’ll want capricious notes now.” He dangled his keys. A white rabbit’s foot hung from one of the key rings.

“I don’t think the word you want to use is capricious.”

He halted in the middle of the street. “You just put that big brain on these murders and not my vocab.”

I snatched at his car door and flung it open before I decided to set him on fire. A screech came from the rusted hinges.

“If I call,” Rivera said, “you better answer.”

The whole interior of his car reeked of cigarette smoke.
Ick.
It reminded me of when MeShack would smoke those wretched things.

“You hear me?” he asked.

“Fine. And I’ll make sure to give you capricious notes.” I twirled my fingers in the air. “Will I be giving you weekly blowjobs, sire?”

“Maybe if I lower my standards.”

I directed a flame to the edge of his coat’s right sleeve. He waved it away frantically looking behind him, no doubt wondering where the fire had come from.

“What’s wrong, partner?” I raised my eyebrows, mock concern spread across my face.

“Nothing.” He patted the tiny flames away before they licked up his arm. “And don’t call me partner.”

I walked in on Angel sticking her tongue down Quinn’s throat. Quinn had been appointed by Zulu as head artist and business manager of his tattoo shop, the Inked Guerilla. Quinn was also a Were-hyena and Rebel who, to everyone’s utter disgust, enjoyed bragging about her humongous clitoris. Apparently female Were-hyenas had big clitorises, called pseudo-penises.

In any case, Quinn did an excellent job of managing the shop, which was mainly a front operation for Mixbreeds for Equality’s headquarters. To hide MFE’s base even more, Zulu paid a security group to cover the whole shop in Fairy glamour. The only way someone could get to the Inked Guerilla was if they had a business card with a location spell.

“Hey, you two,” I said, as Angel and Quinn continued to make out. Holding in a laugh, I slammed the Inked Guerilla’s front door, hoping to interrupt them. Nothing.

In the right corner, sage burned in a bronze pot. Swirls of bright blue and yellow paint decorated the walls. Green speakers hung in the air, but the usual reggae music had been turned off. Slurping sounds were the only noise that filled the lobby.

“Hello!” I clapped my hands.

Angel pressed Quinn into the lobby’s front counter, running her pale fingers through the Were-hyena’s pink spirals. How Angel was able to make out with a partially shifted Were-hyena I did not know. The jaw and fur alone would have given me pause.

“Angel!” I yelled. They stopped and both came up for air.

“Have you got whatever was stuck in Quinn’s tonsils, or should I get pliers?” I strolled toward them, taking out one of the Pristine
jars from my pocket and placing it in front of Quinn. “This is for babysitting Ben and my Pixies.”

Quinn squealed with delight, clapped her hands, and wiggled her tan furry ears as they poked through her curls.

“This is a two-hundred-dollar jar,” Quinn said in her squeaky baby voice, which sounded like a three-year-old’s instead of a grown woman’s. I never made fun of her voice. The few times people had teased her, they had lost limbs.

Quinn shifted her face to Human form. Her pores sucked in the tan fur. Her hairy jaw reshaped into a white chin and plump lips. Her black eyes lightened to brown. As usual, she kept her ears shifted and furry just like other Rebels.

“The jar is more than two hundred dollars since it’s one of the last,” I added. “I just wanted to thank you for all the past nights you’ve been babysitting Ben and taking care of my Pixies. It was really a big help and—”

Tiny shrieking noises came from above my head. I glanced up and froze. Usually only a copper sculpture of a screaming body in chains hovered over the lobby desk. Tonight, a big plastic cage hung next to the sculpture. Tiny multicolored Pixie hands and legs stuck out from the cage bars, wagging around and trying to escape.

“Those better not be my Pixies,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Lanore, please let me explain.” Quinn’s furry ears pressed into her curls.

“Why would you pack my babies into a cage?” I scanned the lobby for a chair so I could get up there to release them. The Pixies screeched louder, as if they recognized my voice.

“I told you she would be pissed.” Angel giggled, hopped up on the counter in a blur, and began messing with the cage’s latch.

How did Angel jump up there so fast?
I scowled at Angel’s new agility and speed. Yesterday, she had tripped over her own feet twice, and she could barely keep up with me as we jogged to the Fire Bean Café.

“Have you absorbed any powers?” I asked her.

“Of course not,” Angel mumbled, not looking at me. “I told you I wouldn’t do anymore power-stealing until we knew how to prevent the magic from hurting me after it wore off.”

When I’d met Angel, we had both been trapped by a killer. To escape, Angel had absorbed my fire powers to help me kill the murderer. Immediately afterward, though, she’d experienced seizures and nosebleeds. You’d think that would have made her stop absorbing powers once we were free. Nope. She’d been snatching up a new Supe power almost every week since she’d moved in with me.

“You have no new magic?” I asked.

“None.” Angel blinked her eyes twice.

Quinn cackled. I snapped my face in Quinn’s direction, and she stopped.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Nothing.” Quinn fluttered her long eyelashes. “It’s a Were-hyena thing. At times I’m overcome with the giggles.”

Yeah, right.

Metal clanked against metal. “There you go. The Pixies are free at least.” Angel back-flipped off the counter and landed on her feet.

I sucked my teeth.
She definitely has new magic.
I looked up. Twenty little Pixies flew out of the cage. They were barely four inches tall and looked more like tiny dolls with wings than actual living creatures. I’d stolen a whole pack of Pixie clothes from a pet emporium in Oya District, so each had a shirt and shorts that matched the color of their wings. Most of the Pixies dashed out of the lobby, probably going into Ben’s room. Five others landed on my right shoulder. The silver and turquoise Pixie, which MeShack had named Danger, went near Quinn’s face and stuck her silver tongue out.

“Get away from me before I eat you,” Quinn said to Danger.

Sneezing out glitter, Danger whimpered. Her wings flapped furiously as she zipped away, probably headed to her shoebox in MeShack’s room.

“Absolutely no Pristine for you.” I seized the jar before Quinn could grab it. “I told you they needed to be free and fly, and as soon as I leave, you stuff them all together in a tiny prison.”

“Look at the ground,” Quinn ordered. “Glittery poop is all over it. I’ll be on my hands and knees scrubbing that sticky mess out tonight. At least when they’re in the cage, the newspaper catches their poop.”

I sighed. It
was
difficult to get rid of Pixie poop.

“I kind of like the idea of you on your hands and knees, picking up crap.” Angel grinned, her blue eyes sparkling. She combed her fingers through her short blond strands.

“You’re demented, Angel.” I shook my head at her and went back to Quinn. “Is Ben in a cage too? Maybe a small box with some breathing holes.”

“No. I’m not that irresponsible.” Quinn pouted. “He’s playing with Nona’s boys in the warehouse.”

“You mean the place where all the Rebels smoke marijuana and preach about killing Humans?” I rushed toward the beaded curtains. The Pixies left my shoulder and flew up to the copper sculpture above the counter.

“Do not put my Pixies in a cage, and I told you Ben isn’t allowed to play in the damn warehouse by himself!” I yelled back at her.

“Yes. Okay. I got it.” Quinn groaned. “And since I don’t get the Pristine, then you clean up all of the Pixie crap!”

I halted in the hallway. Cleaning up Pixie poop was not on this evening’s agenda. I just wanted to check on Ben, take a shower, maybe read Ben a story, and send him to bed.

I sighed. “Clean up the poop, and you get the jar back.”