When Sirens Screech (Bedlam in Bethlehem Book 4) Read online

  But isn’t she more dangerous?

  I turn up my radio until it’s blaring, loud enough to drown out any songs she might be humming. Travis, my old partner, gave me a cigar a while ago even though he knows I don’t smoke. Driving at such reckless speeds is dangerous enough with two hands. I’m doing it with one, the other rummaging around in my glove compartment. Paper, more paper, paper cut… there! The smooth cylinder of the cigar.

  My car rears into the left lane, and a driver honks at me. Really, dude? I’m the cop, and my alarm is on. The least you can do is make sure you’re out of my—

  The siren slams on her brakes. Considering there isn’t much space between our cars, I slam into the back of hers. Thank God I put on my seat belt, or else I would’ve gone flying out the window.

  She takes off again, merging to the left to get onto 78-West. I’m trailing behind. My foot is on the gas pedal all the way to the floor. My poor car just doesn’t have enough power to catch up to hers. My anxiety level is sky high, and I’m desperate to try anything.

  I lower my window and hold the cigar to the lighter receptacle. It’s not easy jamming the cigar in there, but I manage. When smoke starts to billow, I know I’ve got to get into high gear.

  The lit cigar in my left hand dangling out my window, I squeeze every last bit of juice out of the car. I’m begging her, pleading with her to give me a little more. We’re coasting down a hill, and my foot is still on the gas. Somehow, I’ve managed to pull almost neck and neck with her, and that’s good enough.

  Bracing myself, I slam my car into hers, pull away, and then slam it again. Her car hardly moves at first, but then I do it again, and one of her front tires blows out. Her car hangs down awkwardly in the front. I press her car to the right one more time, scratching it against the guardrail, pinning it there. The screeching is so terrible that it drowns out my blaring radio and whatever she’s trying to sing, considering her lips are moving. Actually, if my lip reading skills are any good, it looks to me like she’s cussing me out a storm.

  It’s too early for me to feel any relief. After all, she’s still alive. But at least she isn’t on the road, no longer a threat to other drivers.

  So long as she keeps her mouth shut.

  Just a little faster, and the right corner of my car juts out at an angle to further slow hers down. I slam on my brakes, but we continue on for a minute until the guardrail runs out. Now, we’re off the highway and into the grass, but the side of the car she stole is devastated, destroyed. I’m shocked that the siren isn’t bleeding.

  I jump out of my car and race around to hers. If I can just cuff her or…

  Her door is slammed shut, unable to be opened because my car is blocking it. She scrambles to crawl over to the other side to get out.

  The drip of gas almost brings a smile to my face. With a flick of my fingers, I toss the cigar. The spark goes up slowly and then quickly growing into a burning inferno. Burying my face into the crook of my elbow and backing away doesn’t help the searing sensation in my chest. In no time at all, both cars are on fire.

  With grim satisfaction, I watch the fire, mesmerized. The flames are majestic, eating high into the sky. A sire blares. Fire truck. Man, that’s one fast response team.

  They make short work of the fire. Yeah, it’s morbid of me, but I rush over as soon as the smoke clears away.

  No bones. No burnt body. Nothing.

  Somehow, the siren slipped away.

  Again.

  Where is she? What plan does she have for next time? Who else is she going to hurt? My emotions—anger, frustration, apprehension, worry, and annoyance—swirl within me like the last dissipating swirls of smoke. Yes, I’m thrilled no one got hurt. There hadn’t even been a car crash in our devastating wake, but now my car is toast. She’s on foot, which will probably make her even more dangerous.

  I’m not a smoker, so I’m not pinning for a cigarette to calm my frazzled nerves. I sure as heck could use a stiff drink right about now, though.

  Chapter 25

  Yes, I really am gonna get that drink, but no, I’m not gonna drink alone. After seeing him recently, I know just who to call.

  Diego answers on the second ring. “I was hoping you would call. Are you all right?”

  “You. Me. Drinks. The only question is where.”

  “My place?”

  I laugh. “Nice try, but no.”

  “Yours?”

  “I don’t have anything worth drinking.”

  “What about Molly’s? I can be there in ten.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  Molly’s Irish Grille & Sports Pub is a nice enough place over on East Fourth Street. Since it’s after ten, we just order two-dollar well drinks.

  “You hungry?” Diego asks.

  “Famished,” I admit.

  He orders buffalo chicken fingers with fries and stuffed potato skins.

  “So,” he says.

  “So.”

  “The lieutenant says there’s a siren in the picture.”

  I nod.

  “Have you seen her?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  His eyes widen.

  I punch him hard.

  “Ow. What was that for?”

  “I’m sure you were wondering if she was hot or not.”

  His grin is wide and reckless. “Why? Worried I’d think she’s hotter than you? You don’t have to worry about that, but I bet her voice is hot as Hell.”

  I roll my eyes. “Do you even hear yourself?”

  “I would love to be tied up so I could hear her sing.”

  “So, what, you want to emulate Odysseus now?”

  “Have you heard her sing?” Diego asks.

  I hesitate. “Not quite. I heard something faint that might have been singing, but it didn’t compel me into being her minion.”

  “You’re too strong-minded for that.” He gives me the once-over.

  Anxious and unnerved, I rub my arms. Is it because of whatever my father is that the siren doesn’t affect me?

  “You’re still working, aren’t you?” he asks.

  “You know it.”

  “Can’t stop, won’t stop,” he mutters. “That’s your motto, isn’t it?”

  I bark a laugh. “Basically,” I agree. “I’m a workaholic. I’ll admit it.”

  “I’ll accept dating a workaholic.” He grins.

  “You never give up, do you?” I mock-sigh.

  His grin grows, and he winks. “That’s my motto.”

  “I’m trying to get you reinstated.”

  I blink in surprise. “Do you know the details of—”

  “That you were set up? Yeah. Everyone believes you, Clarissa. We’re all behind you. For whatever reason, supernaturals have it in for you. They’re gunning for ya. We have your back. It’s just that the lieutenant’s hands are tied. If the evidence he has gets out and he hadn’t at least canned you, it would’ve have been really bad.”

  “I get it. It’s just hard. Doesn’t make it any easier.”

  He reaches over and pats my hand. “I know. I’m always here for you. You know that, right?”

  “As a friend.”

  Diego hesitates. “Yes. If that’s all you need me to be.”

  “For right now at least,” I mumble.

  Crap. Did I just say that? Like I’m leaving the door open? Shit. Must be the alcohol.

  Don’t they say that alcohol makes the truth comes out? How many of these well drinks have I had? They’re weak, and I don’t feel drunk, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t affecting me.

  “I’ll give it a week tops. Then I’ll wear the lieutenant down,” he boasts.

  Irrationally, anger burns through me. It’s as if my letting him in slightly has me wanting to erect firmer walls between us.

  “Don’t fight my fights for me,” I say critically.

  “I’m fighting with you.”

  Damn it. Diego really does know what to say. Why doesn’t it sound cheesy like it did
before? He’s such a flirt. He doesn’t mean any of this.

  But I don’t believe that. Not anymore. We’ve been through a lot, too much. More than Angelo or Travis, we’ve been the supernatural fighting duo.

  “So,” I start, mind racing, trying to change the subject because I want to hold his hand, and I shouldn’t want that. I shouldn’t want that! “Do you guys have any leads at all?”

  “Honestly, we’re having a tough time without our top detective on the case.”

  “Har, har.”

  “Seriously. We can’t figure out what the siren wants. If the siren really wanted to cause mass hysteria, why have the bomb go off near the Sands instead of somewhere inside the casino? So many more people could’ve been killed.”

  “Good point.” I run my chin. “Maybe people weren’t the targets. Could vamps have been hiding out thereabouts?”

  “I guess that’s possible. This bomb wasn’t a UV one though.”

  “Still, the fire would’ve hurt the vamps. I don’t think it would’ve killed them. Just slow them down.”

  “We can look at any surveillance footage to see who fled the scene.”

  “The pawn shops, were silver swiped from all of them?” I ask.

  “Mostly. The last one, all the gold was taken. I thought that was kinda odd.”

  “Not really. Gold or silver can be used to kill vamps.” I rub my chin.

  It’s taken a while, but our food finally comes. More than worth the wait as least. We dig in, our conversation more teasing and off topic.

  By the time we stumble out of there, it’s no longer a question. I’m definitely feeling the alcohol.

  I bump into his shoulder as we walk along the sidewalk.

  He laughs. “Easy, tiger.”

  I reach up and tweak his nose. “I’m not a tiger.”

  “Oh, no?” He sounds amused. “What are you then?”

  “I’m the storm,” I whisper to make it sound more ominous.

  “I’ve always loved storms,” he murmurs.

  I roll my eyes.

  “I’m serious,” he protests. “Whenever it would thunderstorm, I would run out onto my front porch to watch. Would scare my mama. She’d threaten me in Spanish and drag me in by the ear.”

  “She wanted to keep you safe.”

  “I’ve always liked to live on the edge. Safety is overrated.”

  When did we stop walking? We’re standing so close, too close. He tucks some hair behind my ear and presses his knuckles against my cheek.

  My eyes close.

  What am I doing? What are we doing?

  He does kiss me, but it’s only on my forehead. My eyes fly open, and I’m torn between disappointment and self-loathing.

  Diego chuckles softly. “When you pick me, there will be plenty of time for kisses.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

  “It’s eating away at you that I haven’t picked you, hasn’t it?” I challenge. “That’s why you’re trying so hard.”

  “You aren’t a conquest. I told you that.”

  “No? So what am I then?”

  “I think you’re the first woman I truly love.” His eyes widen with shock, and he winces.

  His regret and shame have me believing him.

  His embarrassment has him walking away.

  It takes everything in me to not chase him down. And do what? Kiss him? Ask him to wait until I get my head on straight? He’s gonna be pissed as Hell when he finds out I told Dean about everything. Because it means that Dean does mean something to me.

  The thing is, Diego does too.

  Damn it. This is the last thing I need. I need to focus. I can’t be out getting drunk. It’s irresponsible.

  But it’s also freeing. I’ve been so caught up in the Hell of it all, the terror, the horror. Trying to save Bethlehem like the weight of the city falls squarely on my shoulders. To take a step back and regain some of the peace and joy I first experienced at Thanksgiving isn’t too selfish of me. Is it?

  Or maybe I’m just a coward. Afraid to fail. Afraid to learn who my father is. Afraid to learn who I am.

  I just want… I want Bethlehem to have peace.

  But I kinda want my own peace too. Peace of mind, mostly, because I really do feel like I’m out of my mind.

  Chapter 26

  The next day, I get absolutely nowhere. It doesn’t help that I had dreams about Diego all night long or that I woke up with a hangover. Talking to Diego had helped some, even if it had also been somewhat of a disaster too.

  Samantha’s too busy. I swear she’s as much of a workaholic as I am, so I call up Travis. It’s been far too long since we’ve talked.

  To my surprise, he answers.

  “Clarissa. It’s been how long since we’ve talked?”

  I laughed. Same wavelength.

  “Oh, so it’s funny that we haven’t gotten together?” he asks as if hurt.

  “We did see each other at Thanksgiving,” I point out.

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t count.”

  “Why not?” I demand.

  “Stop blowing me off,” he grumbles.

  “I haven’t been—”

  “You haven’t been returning my calls or texts,” he mutters.

  Oh, man. Seriously? Travis too? Have I really gotten sucked that deep into a supernatural hole? I guess I hadn’t realized when I saw the other missed calls and texts that some had been from Travis.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I should have you and Ali over.”

  “That’s all right. You can bring a dessert or something.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Unfortunately, making plans with Travis is the only thing that gets done that day. I do grab a Marie Callender’s Dutch apple pie from Giant, but that’s the extent of my productivity.

  It’s not like I don’t go out and try to be productive. Although I’m not on the force anymore, I seek out the owners of the pawn shops that had been broken into. All of them are willing to talk to me. It’s possible some might recognize me as a cop even though I’m not in uniform. I don’t bother to say either way.

  But they have nothing worthwhile to say. None of the stores had been open, so none of them witnessed the robbery firsthand. None had seen anyone with silver eyes or red for that matter. They give me strange glances at that question, but none are curious enough to ask about it. Good. I don’t want to have to lie to them.

  Although I then stalk the streets, patrolling them, I don’t see anyone who looks suspicious. I don’t see any silver or red eyes either.

  At one point, I realize I’m being followed. I duck into an alley and peek around to see who it is.

  A woman with a limp waves to me.

  I’m confused until she nears. There’s something familiar about her, and I feel at ease, which is uber perplexing. I’m not who she is, so I should be wary and on edge. Being comfortable with a stranger isn’t a good thing when you’re a cop. Being skeptical and cautious is too important.

  “You don’t recognize me. That’s okay. I’m not surprised.” She holds out her hand.

  A flash comes to me, and I just know.

  “You’re the wolf who got wounded protecting me from the other guy.”

  “You pegged me. I’m Natalia.”

  “Clarissa,” I say, even though she probably already knows my name. “Thank you for what you did.”

  “No, thank you. I never understood why Shane was so angry with you. Frustrated, maybe, but angry? Granted, he was really hoping that you would be able to put Amarok down for good. Seriously, though, that’s asking too much of a human. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “That you even bothered to help us against him is insane. He’s so powerful and ruthless. I’m just thankful that he’s not here in Bethlehem anymore. That’s all that matters. Sometimes, it’s not about the big picture. Anyhow, I just wanted to thank you for having our back. In my mind, you’re one of the pack.”

  She fist-pumps me and walks away.

&n
bsp; Not about the big picture. Hm. Maybe that line of thinking can help with the siren. Maybe the whole silver and god thing is just a herring.

  Or maybe it’s the crux of the matter.

  Is the siren trying to arm her minions against the vamps and the wolves? Wants to kill them all in the end?

  Or maybe the siren just doesn’t want us humans to be protected against supernaturals. Maybe we’re supposed to be as powerless and inferior as possible. So we can all be victims.

  The idea takes away any measure of hope I have for a good night this evening.

  <<<>>>

  Ali’s waiting for me on their front porch when I pull up. She runs down the sidewalk and gives me a big hug before I even shut my door.

  I laugh. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’m just happy to see that you’re all right. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “About me? Why? Don’t be!”

  “I know how much your job means to you,” she says quietly.”

  “Yeah, well, life goes on, right?”

  “Not for you.”

  “Let’s just say life hasn’t changed for me all that much.”

  “Hey, I thought she was my friend,” Travis calls from inside.

  “Nah. You’re chopped liver,” Ali yells back.

  “I love you,” I tell her.

  “I know.”

  Travis’s actually out back. He’s crazy, one of those who will grill out even when it’s raining or in the thirties, like it is now. But I’m not complaining. His steaks are perfectly marbled, perfectly medium, and perfectly mouth-watering.

  If he ever stopped wanting to be a cop, he could definitely start up his own steak joint.

  Ali’s pulling aluminum foiled-wrapped baked potatoes out of the oven. I ask if there’s anything I can do to help, but the two of them work like a well-oiled machine. Without needing to ask each other, they’re already in sync, getting the plates, doling out the food, grabbing silverware.

  Ali tells me to go ahead and sit at the table. The dining room table is a small tucked away room. I bypassed it earlier when I looked through to the kitchen. Wine’s already been poured. I don’t normally care for reds, but I take one sip and grin. Clover Hill’s Concord. The only red I wholeheartedly enjoy.