Status Updates From Pain Management (Burke, #13)

I wasn’t going anywhere near watching Belle die. Or Pansy. Both from bullets they took for me. I still had their love. And wherever they were, they had proof of my love for them. In my vengeance.

“Yes,” she said sharply, as if I had been sarcastic. “Pain. That’s what I am. A painkiller.” “I’m not following you.” “Listen, and you will. I’m not talking about headaches. Or arthritis, or . . .” She took a deep breath, let it out. Made sure she had my eyes. “I mean bone-deep, searing, unbearable pain.

You couldn’t even sell your blood so easy, anymore. Ask any derelict. The AIDS scare had dried up the market for untested blood and put the Dracula vans that once roamed every big city’s skid row out of business.

I marked my way with quick spurts of red paint from the little spray can I carried. Being a strict environmentalist, I didn’t deface any of the trees, just the NO TRESPASSING signs.

I always carry significant currency when I work. It isn’t just for the mordida that’s so much a part of the kind of business I do. A piece of it is emotional—I feel scared without some cash in my pocket. Only born-rich people are comfortable walking around without money.