TWENTY-FIVE
Benedict glanced at his watch—a loaner from Mugs—then back to the doors of the hotel’s bar and lounge. It was five after nine, and only a couple of broad aliens accompanied by what were clearly prostitutes had strolled through the doors.
Which meant Vito was late.
Benedict swirled his drink again, watching the melting ice clink off the sides of the glass. He resisted the urge to look at the doors again. He wanted to be cool, calm, and collected. Being agitated would just make him look suspicious, and if Vito started needling him, he might come undone.
He didn’t like this. Any of it. He didn’t like lying, even if it was to someone like Vito, and he didn’t like putting Oz in danger. Mugs was confident that Oz would be able to get out, but Benedict wasn’t so sure.
He especially didn’t like that he’d had to order Oz to do it. He wished that the Vetruvian had just agreed to help, the way he’d volunteered to help Benedict go through the paperwork, to try and figure all of this out.
He supposed there were limits to people’s good will and desire to assist. Benedict had hoped Oz would recognize that this was the only way to get them all to the other side, with the businesses intact. Then Benedict could give them all their freedom.
Wasn’t that incentive enough to help? Benedict had to think he would have jumped at a carrot like that, but Oz’s stormy expression lived on in his mind, telling him otherwise.
He checked his watch again. Seven minutes after. Time seemed to drag.
Mugs was waiting with Oz in one of the nearby alleyways, a known fence for illegal wares. The slave market operated with impunity out of the hotel basement—according to Mugs, everyone knew that—but that wasn’t always where transactions took place. Auctions, yes. Very official sales, but there were lots of shady deals that went down in back alleys and dive bars, things that were never recorded.
It made Benedict’s stomach twist, especially as he peered around at the shiny interior of the hotel, the unwitting tourists strolling by, laughing and smiling. They had no idea a criminal enterprise was operating under their noses.
Then again, scant weeks ago, Benedict hadn’t had any idea that his aunt was operating a bloody criminal empire, so he supposed there was something to be said about those in glass houses not throwing stones or something.
Another glance at his watch. Ten after. Where the hell was Vito?
Benedict’s palms slid against his glass. Maybe the mobster wasn’t coming? Maybe he knew the treachery they were up to? Maybe he’d figured out where Oz and Mugs were and had sent his goons over there to …
Kidnap them? Rough them up? Benedict’s stomach soured, and he wasn’t sure the alcohol had anything to do with it.
A flash of white caught his eye, and he watched Vito stride into the bar, cool and confident, twirling his hat on his hand, a cane tucked under his arm. He looked the picture of refinement, yet somehow still slimy beyond anything Benedict had ever encountered before.
He rose to greet the mobster, who pointedly ignored him as he slid onto the barstool beside him. He flagged down the barkeep, asked her for some spirit or another—“on the rocks”—then finally turned to Benedict, eyes flashing dangerously.
“Finally come to your senses, ah?”
Benedict didn’t know what to make of that statement; he didn’t think he’d ever been relieved of his senses, and he hadn’t truly changed his mind on anything. No, he was even more determined to keep his aunt’s “empire” intact after hearing about what Vito’s goons had done to the patrons and the staff at The Pub when they’d taken over. He hadn’t been able to get in there in days, but Mig had reported through Sassa (which was curious in and of itself; Benedict hadn’t thought the two of them were on speaking terms).
None of it was pretty, and it only served to convince Benedict that under no circumstances could he let Vito take over the businesses. It was that cliché about letting a weapon fall into the wrong hands that he’d seen in most of the movies he’d watched since Oz had showed him how to work the TV in the penthouse.
Oz. His heart twanged, even as he reached for Vito’s proffered hand and shook.
The guy was as slimy as he looked, and it was all Benedict could do to hold back his grimace. “I like to think I’m a reasonable creature,” he said, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his pants when he released Vito’s grip, “so long as the fellows I’m dealing with are also reasonable.”
Vito gave him a sharp grin, and Benedict sipped his drink, hoping Vito mistook his shudder for the alcohol burning through him. The bartender set a glass down in front of the mobster, then departed again.
“So,” Vito hissed, tilting his head.
Benedict nodded. “I’m sorry it took so long,” he said. “You know how it is with these things though.”
Vito took a long pull of his drink. “I do,” he agreed, setting the glass back down. “I’m impressed you managed to pull it off. Took your aunt forever and a day.”
Benedict tried to swallow his nervousness. “Well,” he drawled. “I have certain … connections.”
Vito’s grin was slow and sly. “Is that so,” he replied. “The monks aren’t quite as holy as they pretend to be?”
Part of Benedict wanted to throttle the mobster for even suggesting that, for dragging the brothers into it, but he shrugged instead. “We see a lot, hm?”
Vito lifted his glass again. “Suppose that’s true,” he offered, then shot back the alcohol, draining the glass and slamming it down. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “All right, enough dilly-dallying, Benny boy. Let’s see the goods.”
Benedict pushed his own glass away, then put down the credits to cover the drinks. The physical form of payment was a bit of a relic here, archaic and out of fashion, as Benedict had discovered when he’d been cabbing around looking for a hospital with Oz, but Mugs had insisted on it. Left no trail, not like all the transfers and stuff. Benedict didn’t know about any of it; coin was a way of life in the village surrounding an abbey. And, if you didn’t have that, you’d had better have a name and a good word for you, as well as someone willing to take an IOU.
He slid off the barstool. “This way,” he said, leading Vito back out of the bar, like the mobster hadn’t just walked in through that door.
They drifted across the lobby, past the front desk, where a clerk was eyeing them with some degree of suspicion. Benedict thought he did an admirable job ignoring them as he tumbled out into the still-busy streets. Twilight coated the world, but the sidewalks were a mass of movement, people hurrying to and fro, pushing together when various vehicles trundled down the street, forcing the crowd back from the road.
Benedict counted his steps internally, following the directions Mugs had given him: twenty-five paces from the hotel doors, hang a right, twenty-two paces to the next back alley, where he took a left, past the battered doors of a bunch of shops that emptied their refuse into the backstreet, past a dumpster full of old electronics, past the caterwauling alley cats, who peered out at them with luminous eyes. Another left, another right, and finally, they arrived at the non-descript door of the pawn shop, where Mugs and Oz were hiding.
He rapped on the door three times, squaring his shoulders and standing up a little straighter. Vito eyed him, then looked around. He tugged on the lapels of his jacket before straightening it.
No answer. Benedict’s heart skipped a beat. Why wouldn’t Mugs answer?
He knocked again, trying to hide how frantic he felt. Had Mugs … tricked him? Taken Oz and bolted?
Or had he fucked up and gotten the wrong door?
When silence reined, he gave Vito an apologetic grin—at least, he hoped it looked apologetic. “I, uh,” he started, just as there was a crash from the inside, and the door ripped open. A tiny, bespectacled alien peered up at them curiously.
Benedict stared down at them. He had never before in his life seen this creature, and his stomach sank instantly. Had he really fucked up and forgotten which goddamn door it was? Oh, seven hells?—
The alien adjusted their glasses. “Oh,” they said in a reedy voice, “you.”
Benedict shifted his weight to the other foot. “Yes,” he agreed, “me.”
The alien leaned out of the doorway, peering around, then waved them in. They closed the door behind Benedict and Vito without a word, a bell jangling behind them.
The shop was overcrowded and dusty, suggesting too many things and not enough buyers. Though, to be fair, Benedict wasn’t sure how anyone would find anything in this mess. He felt overwhelmed simply looking at the clutter; if he’d had a choice, he probably would have turned around and walked back out.
“This way, this way,” their bespectacled host said, guiding them down one of the aisles, to a closed door labeled “Office.”
The door swung open silently, revealing a poorly lit room with a shabby desk sitting on a peeling linoleum floor. There were two battered rolling chairs, both of which had seen better days—one had the stuffing popping out of the cushions. On the floor sat a human, bound hand and foot, gagged.
He lifted his head, and Benedict’s heart jumped at the flash of anger and hurt in those brown eyes.
It really was Oz. He’d transformed.
Benedict had no idea what Mugs had done to make the other Vetruvian shift his shape and hold this one, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know either. All that mattered was that Oz had done it, was doing it, was sitting there in human guise, playing along with their little charade, their desperate ploy.
He glanced at Vito, wondering if the mobster could recognize the not-human in front of him now. After all, if Benedict saw so clearly that this was Oz, then maybe the disguise wasn’t as good as he’d hoped.
But no recognition showed on Vito’s face; instead, there was just plain avarice, and Benedict almost shuddered to see sin so nakedly worn.
“Excellent,” Vito hissed, pacing forward, then stalking around the prisoner. “Much better than your aunt did. Oh, my buyer is going to love this one.”
“Your … buyer?” Benedict echoed, feeling his heart plummet.
Vito grinned slyly at him. “Oh yes,” he practically purred, “what use do I have for a human? But you know, the auctions—they’re not always fair, and a few people have asked me to go through … alternative channels to get what they really want.”
Benedict swallowed. “Of course,” he agreed. “The only sensible thing to do.”
“Let me give him a ring now,” Vito said, waggling his phone at Benedict. “We’ll meet at your fancy place.”
“Fancy … place? Oh, you mean Saveur.”
Vito merely waved a hand and stepped out of the room, back into the dusty pawn shop.
The sound of his voice carried into the office, and Benedict looked at Oz, who glowered up at him.
A hundred words crowded into Benedict’s mouth—an apology, reassurance that they’d get Oz out of this—but the bespectacled alien was still watching them warily, and the sounds stuck in his throat.
He swallowed them down, then looked back to the door as Vito stepped back into the office. “All right,” he said, “let’s get this show on the road—buyer will meet us there in an hour.”
“Right,” Benedict said mechanically, then leaned over and yanked Oz up by the arm. The Vetruvian swayed on his human feet, glowering at both of them.
“Let’s go,” Vito almost crowed, pointing to the exit like he was some kind of general leading his army on a charge. With great reluctance, Benedict followed, dragging Oz behind him.