Read Online City Under the Moon by Hugh Sterbakov - Free Book Online Page A

inflammation here, nothing to be concerned about.”
    “It burns,” she rasped.
    And the lesion was spreading. A new patch of red grew before their eyes. Richard moved the necklace again, to examine the new—
    The necklace.
    “This is silver?” Jessica asked as she pulled it over Kenzie’s head.
    “Please don’t. It was a gift from my mother.”
    “I’ll put it right here, Melissa. It’ll be safe,” Jessica said, laying the necklace on the bedside tray. The pendant rattled on the metal, calling everyone’s attention to her shaking hands. “This is sterling silver, right?”
    “Yes.”
    Jessica tilted Kenzie’s head for a better look. The spread had stopped.
    Any child knew that werewolves were supposed to be allergic to silver—at least, any child who watched their creature double features. But in the real world, silver is antimicrobial. We use it as a disinfectant. We eat off of it.
    Silver should not cause lesions.
    Richard’s eyes silently warned her to stay calm.

    Six
    United Nations Plaza
    New York
    December 31
    8:58 a.m.
    FBI Special Agent Brianna Tildascow was deep in the spellbinding throes of a perfect meatball sandwich: silken ground beef cut with a perfect balance of bread crumbs and Parmesan, dripping with spicy meat-infused tomato gravy, draped in thick mozzarella and nestled in a crispy, chewy Italian roll. The masterpiece steamed off a robust bouquet in the twelve-degree morning air.
    The vendor had just plugged in his street cart when she arrived. He was the kind of Italian who’d bleed tomato gravy if you cut him, and Tildascow was contemplating doing just that if he hadn’t canned it with the breakfast talk and made her a meatball special. His eyebrows furrowed with dirty thoughts as she demanded extra extra cheese.
    Most women—especially young ones—felt uncomfortable when they sensed a man sizing them up. Tildascow took it as a compliment. Hell, she took pleasure in it. The way she saw it, men always got the ass end of society’s sexual hang-ups. If it was a crime for a middle-aged man to see a 14 year-old pop starlet as a sex object, why was it okay for those girls to dress like whores? What, exactly, did they expect?
    She was careful not to lead anyone on, of course. And she knew how to handle herself if a guy took it too far. But when handled properly, the art of flirting was the same as interrogation: Read your target, give them as much as they need, take as much as you want, and hope you were graceful enough to improve their day. A little validation could go a very long way.
    She bit into the sandwich and cooed heartily for the vendor’s delight. Yummmmm . A hundred percent in the tip jar, and then she headed east across First Avenue.
    “Happy new year!” he called with a wave.
    “You too,” she replied. It sounded like “oofoo” through her stuffed mouth, but what the guy really wanted was the wink and the toss of her curly blond hair. Better than the tip, and it cost her nothing. Leverage everywhere.
    Tildascow climbed the wide concrete stairs to the elevated promenade of the United Nations Headquarters, which was just across the street from the scene of Holly Cooke’s attack. Dealing with the UN was always a pain in the—
    A series of honks turned her attention back toward First Avenue.
    Cars had swerved to avoid a woman who’d stumbled into the heavy morning traffic. She was soaked head to toe in blood, her tattered hospital gown exposing all the bits and pieces.
    Tildascow drew her weapon and raced back down the stairs and into the street, holding up a hand to traffic. “FBI!” she called out to the woman. “Put your hands in the air and move to the sidewalk!”
    But the woman didn’t acknowledge her. She continued across First Avenue, heading west toward 44th, shambling like some kind of zombie, oblivious to the growing shouts, honks, and camera phones. Tildascow stayed with her, keeping her 1911 trained. “Ma’am. Can you hear me?”
    The Jane Doe was in