Infected: Lesser Evils by Andrea Speed Read Free Book Online Page A

a potato-faced boy who was probably on the wrong side of twenty-two, and said, “One of them? I am not one of them. She is a Human being who’s probably been murdered by some fuck you barely questioned twenty minutes ago. Don’t forget you’re looking at an illness, not an outcome.”
    “Murdered?” Seb repeated. “You don’t think she’s gonna make it?”
    Roan shook his head, even though it hurt. There weren’t enough drugs to ever block out this pain, although the ketamine worked surprisingly well. Maybe he should’ve asked Holden if he had more. “It smells like it’s permeated her system. No wonder she was acting crazy.”
    “Um, did you just say you weren’t Human?” the female officer asked, obviously confused.
    He wiped the blood from his chin, wishing he’d brought one of the cars after all. He needed more pills just to function; it felt like he was full of broken glass, clogging his bloodstream like crushed ice. “Yes. Now where are the fucking paramedics?”
    Maybe it was the pain, or the continued restlessness of the lion in his own head, but he had a bad feeling that this was just the start of something. And there was no fucking way it could be any good.

5
    Pretty Visitors
     
    R OAN stayed on the scene until the ambulance took her away, strapping the virtually comatose cat down to a reinforced stretcher with so many ties Roan found it hard not to laugh. She’d be lucky ever to wake up, so why not put a few more plastic ties on her? It was absurd, and yet he knew it was regulations, and they were just doing their jobs. Just like putting on what looked like hazmat suits was just part of the regs.
    He got Rosenberg on Seb’s phone and left him to talk to her as he wandered off, finding his bike and a stray Percocet in his pants pocket. He dry swallowed the pill before putting on his helmet and taking off.
    He decided to stop by Silver, since it was on the way, but he pulled off into a Starbucks on the neighboring block first, mainly so he could duck into their restroom, clean blood off his face, and make sure he looked reasonably Human and presentable. He still didn’t look like Silver clientele, but fuck it. He zipped up his jacket to cover up the bloodstains on his shirt (mostly his, some the leopard’s), and hoped that normal people couldn’t smell it as much as he could.
    Silver was a sleek restaurant of smoky glass and brushed chrome, going for a retro feel but a classy one, less fifties diner, more grounded space yacht. The only thing that took the polish off its aura was the fact that it was taking up the corner of a downtown street that wasn’t nearly as upscale as it was. But the gentrification was just beginning. Give it a year, and it might be.
    He walked into a lobby of burgundy velvet and warmly polished wood, a scent like brandy and thyme overlaying the char of meat (seventy-five-dollar steaks were big here—who the hell would pay seventy-five dollars for a chunk of beef?) and came up to a maître d’ in black tie and tails. He looked like he’d fallen off a wedding cake.
    He raised a slim black eyebrow imperiously, clearly gearing up to tell him he wasn’t suitably attired, but Roan cut him off. “I’m just here to give my partner Dylan his house key. He left it at home, and he’s gonna need it.” This was bullshit, but just saying, “Can I see my boyfriend” wouldn’t get him past the door.
    “Partner?” the maître d’ repeated, then scoffed, looking into the restaurant. Over his shoulder, Roan could see the bar, a curve of silver and translucent glass like ice. “I knew he was gay. He’s too good looking to be straight.” He looked Roan over once more, but with new eyes. Oh, he was gay too, wasn’t he? Yep. Of course an upscale restaurant would have to have the stereotypical efficient, obnoxiously fussy gay. It was probably seen as a necessary accessory, like linen napkins and a rageaholic chef. “Fine, we’re slow tonight, you can go see him, but