“Why not?”

“Because,” he said, looking me square in the eye, “when this is over, I want you to kill me too.”

Chapter 15

When you consider it objectively, it might seem like a pretty common request for a null—helping a vampire or werewolf commit suicide. But no one had ever asked me this before. I’d never even thought about it, and if I had, I would have assumed the request would come from one of the werewolves, who are constantly struggling against the ill-fitting magic that tears them into two shapes. Vampires have it good: super strength, speed, advanced healing, eternal youth, and the ability to control human minds. The only cost is being nocturnal and taking a blood donation every night or two. And unlike the werewolves, vampires almost always choose that existence, for one reason or another. Turning someone into a vampire is too much work for it to happen by accident very often.

“I’ve never met a suicidal vampire,” I blurted. “Isn’t that kind of at odds with your whole . . . everything?”

“I would appreciate if you did not make light of my situation,” he said stiffly. “Ellen was my soul mate, Miss Bernard. I have no interest in spending eternity in a world without her.”

“I apologize,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to mock you, I promise.”

Wyatt went on as if I hadn’t even spoken. “It’s only been a few days, really, and I already feel like someone cut off one side of my body and left me to die. I’m not complete anymore. Ellen was . . . she was everything.” I glanced down at his hands, which had been worrying at his hat again. It was practically a new shape by now.

Suddenly the idea of a cowboy vampire didn’t seem like such a joke. For the first time, I looked past the vampire and his clothes and saw a man in serious pain. “Wyatt . . . I’m so sorry.”

“Then help me,” he said doggedly. “All I can think about is finding out who did this and killing them myself. After that, I want to be with my Ellen again.”

“Even so, why would you need me to kill you?” I blurted. “Can’t you just . . . like . . .”

“Wait for the dawn?” He looked amused. “I can, if it comes down to it. But I’ve no desire to burn. I’d rather eat a bullet. It’s cleaner and simpler.” Seeing my horrified expression, he added in a softer tone, “You wouldn’t have to pull the trigger, Miss Scarlett. I just need you to be there.” He gazed at me, his eyes pleading. “Please.”

“I gotta think,” I said abruptly. I stood up and paced over to the window, resting my forehead against the cool glass. My room had come with a partial view of the Strip, and it was instantly mesmerizing. Lights didn’t just shine in Las Vegas; they glittered and flashed and blinked in an always-moving, almost violent display of opulence and recklessness. Environment be damned! We’ve got neon!

Stop distracting yourself, Scarlett.

I usually prided myself on being more or less dead inside, but dammit, Wyatt had gotten to me. And it wasn’t just because I’d recently broken up with Eli. That was too easy. Even if I wasn’t in a romantic relationship, there were plenty of people I cared about: Jack and his family, and Molly, and Jesse too. I wasn’t alone, not like Wyatt.

Or was I? Just a little while ago I’d been thinking about how being a null came with its own isolation. In a way, you were always alone, always different, whether you were in a group of humans or a group of supernaturals. Wyatt had had one person in all of time and space who got him, and for that, I envied him. And now that that person had been taken away . . . well, yeah. I could relate to not having anyone who truly saw you. Hell, I understood that a lot better than I understood healthy relationships.

Despite my better instincts, I wanted to help him. But how would I even start? I wasn’t actually an investigator; that was Jesse’s job. And I couldn’t just ask him to come help me, because I needed him to be on call in LA. And to keep an eye on Corry and Shadow for me.

I thought about the little I knew about what was happening: the Holmwoods, Demeter, the missing vampires, Jameson, the skinners. It all seemed so big, like a huge piece of wallpaper plastered to a wall, and I couldn’t figure out where to begin trying to scrape it off. There was no obvious loose corner I could get my fingernails under.

Yes there is, insisted my inner voice. Which sounded suspiciously like Jesse’s.

It was the victim pool.

I turned around to face Wyatt again. “I would need to check with some people before I could agree to help you. Can you give me an hour or two?”

He nodded eagerly. “Anything you need.”

“Okay. Meanwhile, if I were to help find Ellen’s killer, I would need to know exactly who’s gone missing. And,” I added before he could speak, “not just who, but when, and from where. If we can figure out what they have in common, or how they’re being chosen, we’ll be a lot closer to stopping it.”

Wyatt jumped to his feet, looking as excited as a laconic cowboy vampire probably gets. “I can get you a list,” he said, his eyes bright. “I’ll get started right now.”

Wyatt left the room to make some calls of his own. I didn’t know where he’d go to do that, but it didn’t matter. As soon as he was through the door and out of my radius, I went back to my phone and called Dashiell.

The phone barely got through a single ring; he had been expecting my call. As quickly as I could, I explained what I’d learned that night: the missing vampires, the show, the Holmwoods’ people-eating after-party. He listened in silence for most of it, although I could swear I heard him actually hiss when I described the rebuilding of the Demeter. And then I told him about Wyatt’s offer of a freelance job.

Part of me was hoping he’d get all blustery and possessive, forbidding me to take the job in Vegas. Although if he’d actually reacted like that, I would probably have jumped to take Wyatt’s offer, because I am naturally contrary.

Maybe Dashiell had come to the same conclusion, because at the end of all that he said, “My, Scarlett, you have been busy,” in his usual dry tone. “You’re right, the situation is more complicated than I had suspected. Are you calling for an extraction?”

“An extract—no,” I said, confused. What was I, James Bond? “I want instructions.”

“Ah,” he said, more thoughtfully. There was a pause, and then he added, “In that case, as far as I am concerned, you have fulfilled the terms of our agreement. You went to Las Vegas, saw the show, and reported your findings to me. I release you of all further obligations to me this weekend.”

Well, that didn’t help. “But what should I do?”

“You’re on your own time now, Scarlett,” he said, and there was something in his voice that was hard to read. Smugness, maybe. “You can come home, or continue investigating. All I ask is that you come to the mansion on Monday night to debrief me. I can make further plans at that time.”

And then he hung up.

He hung up?

“Dammit!” I yelled at the silent cell phone. Dashiell was supposed to tell me what to do. Now I felt more frustrated than ever, and images from the last twelve hours were spinning through my brain. Jameson’s guarded, troubled expression. Laurel’s plea for me to help Wyatt. Wyatt himself, looking so forlorn and lost.

Pacing the opulent suite, I called Jesse and ran him through the whole story. He was flabbergasted. And also extremely entertained.

“You know, for someone who claims her dream job is a professional couch potato, you find yourself in the most bizarre situations,” he marveled. “Jesus, Scarlett, I don’t even know where to start.”

“What do I say to Wyatt?” I pleaded.

“What do you want to say?”

I fidgeted. “It’s too much money, you know? And I don’t know the city, and it’s probably dangerous, and there are Juliet and her friends to consider. I should just come home, right? I mean, at this point I’m so far outside my job description—”

“Oh my God,” Jesse said in a groan.

That brought me up short. “What?”

“Your job description? Are you frickin’ serious right now? Or are you just fishing for compliments?”