Hot Blooded

bench-press two-fifty in the department
gym. That's got to be twice her body weight. No normal chick could do that. Not
one built like her, anyway. I'm thinking maybe she had the surgery."
    "Surgery? What surgery?"
    "You are such a fuckin' idiot. Like to cut off her dick, genius. Like I think
she was a guy."
    "You're so full of…"
    Grace snarled as she slammed her door on the rest of the conversation. "Bet
you say that about all the girls who kick your sexist ass, Rod." He'd grabbed
her butt once, and she'd bodychecked him into a locker. Maybe she should have
reported him instead, but there's nothing cops hate more than a snitch with a
badge.
    "What?" Mrs. Drinksalot asked from the backseat.
    "Nothing." She threw the car into gear with a vicious slap of her palm. "Just
a little department in-joke, that's all."
    As she turned her head to pull out, she saw the Jag sitting in the parking
lot behind her. She could feel the burn of Lance's stare even through its tinted
windows. Despite her irritation with her coworkers, something within her melted
and ran hot. Grace jerked her eyes away and hit the gas.
You are
not
sixteen anymore
.
    But the heat didn't go away.
    Â 
    THE house stank of mildew and human waste, and a roach crawled past the toe
of her shoe. Grace kept her eyes focused politely on the old woman's wrinkled
face, illuminated solely by the beam of her flashlight. The power had been cut
off.
    "All hours, I'm telling you," the woman said, her voice cracking. There was
only one tooth visible in her mouth, and it had gone brown from years of dipping
snuff. "All hours they're playin' the music and flashin' lights into my house."
A sheen of tears rimmed her faded blue eyes. "I can't sleep. All I want to do is
sleep."
    "Yes, ma'am. Have you got any children? Does anybody come to visit?" Grace
headed through a doorway, following the smell of rotted food. Sure enough, the
scent trail led to the kitchen. She stepped to a cabinet and opened it, but her
flashlight beam illuminated nothing but a dusty stack of cracked dishes and
something that scuttled. Grace closed the door and opened the one next to it,
shining the flash inside to pick out a sagging bag of rice and a few dented
cans. "When was the last time you bought food?"
    "Hear that?" The woman's voice rose. "There it is again—that music! All
hours, I'm tellin' you!"
    Grace glanced back at her sharply. There was no music.
    "How long has it been since you had anything to eat, Mrs. Lacey?"
    "Sometimes he parks that truck of his right on top of my house. Right on the
roof! Races the engine all night long…"
    Oh, hell, the old woman was delusional. "Mrs. Lacey…"
    "I deserve better." She straightened her pitifully thin shoulders and lifted
her sunken chin. The southern drawl faded as her voice took on a trace of a
regal accent, clipped and familiar. "I am the daughter of Lord Galahad. I danced
at the vampires' ball. They shouldn't do me this way."
    Carefully, fighting the impulse to slam it, Grace closed the cabinet door.
"No, ma'am, they shouldn't. And if you'll wait right here, I'm going to do
something about it."
    "You should have seen me at my debut." Slowly, the frail figure began to sway
back and forth. "I wore a beautiful dress. All lace and silver, and I danced…
oh, how I danced." A tear rolled down her seamed, dirty face, shimmering in the
flashlight beam.
    "Yes, ma'am." Grace gave her a tight smile. "I'm sure you were lovely. If
you'll excuse me, there's somebody I want you to meet." She strode for the front
door.
    Outside, just as she expected, she saw the Jag parked behind her patrol car.
Setting her jaw, she stalked across the weedy front yard Mrs. Lacey was too sick
to cut.
    The passenger-side window hummed down. She bent and aimed a snarl at Lance's
inquiring eyebrow. "Get out of that car and come with me. There's somebody you
need to meet."
    Grace spun without waiting to see if he'd obey and marched back to the house.
His door opened and closed with an expensive thunk. And damn it, every nerve
cell in the nape of her neck broadcasted his potent male presence to her brain.
Shake it off, Grace
.
    She shoved the warped screen door open and led the way inside.
    As he followed her, Grace directed her flash at the ceiling and turned to
study Lance in the spill of its beam. His nostrils flared in aristocratic
disgust at the smell of age and rot.
    "Nice, huh?" she said. "Brings back my