The police had come and gone. Without argument or complaint, he’d allowed them to swab his mouth. He was prepared; his blood-sucking cavern was as clean as the day, several lifetimes ago, that he was born. His compliance revealed his willingness to cooperate—and the absence of evidential DNA deflected suspicion off of him. It was a win/win situation. He looked out the window and glared into the night. Someone would pay for sicing the cops on him. The pigs refused to tell him who’d squealed. Several people could have seen him leave the grounds. Was it Madam Mystic? She always had access to an opaque global window of information. The Voodoo Queen had better stay out of his affairs if she knew what was good for her. And she did—she knew her every breath depended upon her silence. Maybe it was Hugh. Skull scoffed. He didn’t really need an excuse to oft the bastard, but he would enjoy it even more if he had a solid reason. But with the police sniffing so close the wily assistant tiger-trainer and roustabout served a better purpose as fall guy.
