Chapter 11 Cord
HOW DID I let myself get talked into this? I work alone. The last thing I need is someone tagging along on a hunt, especially if that someone is Asher.
For one thing, he’s not qualified. He’s a businessman, for Christ sakes.
The more concerning part, however, is he’s a distraction. I may not want to admit it, but I care about him and worry if he’s put in danger. And I don’t know what kind of threat this asshole Smyth poses.
I should’ve known Asher would take it upon himself to dig into Smyth. He never could mind his own business. His SUV pulls up as I’m exiting the building, and I groan inwardly as I watch him get out. Impeccable, as usual. He’s going on a hunt dressed like James Bond.
I don’t say anything as we get into my car, watching him out of the corner of my eye as I start it up and ease out into traffic. Finally I can’t stand it any longer.
“What gives you the right to look into my job?”
He turns to me and offers that smug smile I want to punch off his face. “You could just say thank you.”
I could, but then I’d be admitting I needed his help. Which, apparently, I did. Because let’s face it, I never would have found out about this second property on my own. Dante didn’t even know about it.
“Thank you,” I grit out. “Since I’m sure that’s not the extent of your meddling, what else did you find out?”
He pulls out his phone and opens a document and starts reading me a history of how Smyth, aka, Pascal, was a dirtbag from his childhood and has left a trail of bodies across four states.
“Jesus, how the fuck did the Clan sanction this guy?”
“That’s what I want to know,” Asher replies. “I’ve got some feelers out, not that it matters right now. The important thing is to stop him before he kills again.”
I bite my tongue to keep from saying what I’m thinking–he sounds like Dante. Something tells me Asher wouldn’t appreciate the comparison. “So where did you get this information?” I ask instead, wondering how he was able to find out stuff Dante’s guys couldn’t.
He puts his phone away. “My PA. She’s very resourceful.” He looks up at me. “I don’t mind helping you, you know.”
There’s a lot of things I could say to that, but most of them would start an argument and quite frankly, I’m not in the mood to fight with him. It never gets me anywhere anyway. “I get that. It’s just, you don’t need to.”
“This is a bad guy, and he’s putting all our lives in jeopardy. Why wouldn’t I want to help?”
I shrug and am about to say something I’ll probably regret when my phone rings. I glance down at the screen and see it’s Dante.
“What’s up? I’m driving so I have you on speaker.”
“I thought you were sitting on Smyth.”
“Change of plans. Smyth has another place in Staten Island. I’m on my way there now.”
“How’d you learn that?”
My eyes flick to Asher, who’s watching me intently. “I have my sources. What do you want?”
“This just got a whole lot messier. Another victim turned up this morning, this one at the Warwick. Maid found the body. The mayor is holding a press conference right now out front of the hotel.”
“This one like the last two?”
“Yeah. And I can’t get my guys in there to clean this up, which means we need to find this fucker fast.”
I know when he says “we,” he means me. “I’m on it.”
“And Cord, when you find the bastard, I need you to end him. I don’t care how you do it. I’ll send a cleaning crew to deal with the aftermath. Just take care of it.”
He hangs up before I can reply. I glance over at Asher.
“Do you do that often?” he asks.
I know what he means, but I ask anyway, putting off my answer. “Do what?”
“You know. Kill people.”
Asher knows what I do for Dante. God knows it’s caused enough fights between us. “Why? You got a problem with that?” It comes out harsher than I intended.
“Would it matter if I did?”
“Probably not,” I reply, realizing I mean it and almost feeling sorry about it. “You know what my job entails.”
He’s quiet for a minute, as though he’s thinking about how to respond. That’s new. Usually Asher just says what’s on his mind with me, consequences be damned. “Do you enjoy it?”
I do a double take. What? I was half-expecting him to make some comment about how I should’ve learned by now, not asking me how I feel about it. The fact that he asks means I should probably be a little more deliberate in how I answer.
“Part of me does. You know I’ve always liked the violence.” I recall my trip to the fight club yesterday and almost grin.
“I suppose that’s true. Even as a kid you were prone to it. Always picking fights.”
Half the time they were because I was sticking up for you, I don’t say, but he must read the thought in my eyes.
“I’m sorry for whatever part I played in that.”
“Don’t be. This is who I am. I’ve got a screw loose somewhere.”
“I don’t think so,” he replies quietly. “You’ve got a very well-defined sense of justice.”
I snort. “Yeah. Right.”
“You do. You’re not like Smyth, killing indiscriminately. You do what you do for a purpose.”
I look over at him, unable to hide my surprise. “Who are you and what have you done with the judgmental asshole I used to know as Asher?”
“I told you, I’ve changed. And I wasn’t a judgmental asshole.”
I grin. “You kind of were.”
“So does that mean you don’t hate me now?”
“I never hated you. I just…” Couldn’t be around you anymore. “Never mind.”
We cross the Verrazano Bridge to the island and I turn into the first bodega I see, suddenly needing something to drink. I grab my phone and look at him. “What’s the address?”
When he gives it to me I enter it in my GPS and pull up the directions. The house is about a mile away. “You want anything?”
He looks around. “Not from here.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll be right back.”
I climb out and stride into the store, heading to the back where the coffee station is.
I pour myself a cup and cap it, then get in line to pay.
I got maybe an hour of sleep after I went home earlier and am starting to feel it, which isn’t smart if I have to face down a conscienceless killer.
Even vampires need to sleep, and I’m usually a little off my game if I don’t get at least six hours a night.
If someone had told me I would become a somewhat immortal being who survives on warm blood but still has to deal with all the mundane functions of humanity, I probably would have taken a pass.
To be honest, I thought I was signing up to be some kind of super hero. Color me surprised.
When I get back to the car Asher is typing something on his phone. He finishes up and drops it back in his pocket as we pull away.
“How are you functioning?” I ask as I take a healthy sip of coffee and set the cup in the console. He said he was up all night and he apparently went to the office right after I saw him, so no sleep for him.
He shrugs. “You forget, I often have to pull all-nighters to get a deal done.”
“Not me. I need my sleep.”
“You always were a bit of a layabout.”
“Am not.”
Asher chuckles. “You most certainly are. Even as a kid you were impossible to wake up in the morning.”
The reference to that part of our lives quiets any further objection I have. It’s easy to forget he’s known me as a human.
We enter an older neighborhood of bungalows and duplexes. The GPS guides me down a narrow street and announces our destination. I pull over a couple of houses down and turn off the car. We both take a moment to look around our surroundings.
The street is quiet; typical working class neighborhood with bicycles in the front yard and older model cars parked on the street or in the driveways.
There’s no one around, and I don’t notice any nosy neighbors peeking out the windows.
Somewhere a dog barks, though it sounds like it’s coming from a backyard.
Probably left out for the day while the owner works.
“There’s no car in the driveway,” Asher comments. “You think he’s home?”
“Maybe he doesn’t have a car.”
I look over the house. Heavy curtains are shut tight against all the windows. What grass there is in the yard looks like it hasn’t been cut in a while. There’s a rusty chain link fence out front and a broken concrete walkway leading up to the brick stoop.
“Well,” I say, swinging open my door. “Only one way to find out.”
I head around to the back of the car and pop open the trunk, reaching under a ratty blanket for the heavy wooden handle of the only weapon I keep there. Asher, who’s followed me, quirks a brow as I lift out the implement.
“An axe?”
“This isn’t a social call.”
Dante said to take the fucker out, and the fact is, there’s very few ways to do that since vamps are notoriously hard to kill. Considering the location, fire is definitely out. Which just leaves decapitation.
I shut the trunk and press the long handle of the axe against my leg in case anyone is watching, then start down the street toward the house. Asher falls into step beside me.
“The fact that you carry an axe around in your trunk raises some serious questions.”
“Can you think of an easier way to separate a head from a body?”
He shrugs. “I guess I just never put two and two together.”
“What do you mean?” I ask as I reach for the latch on the gate.
“I accept the fact that your job demands that you kill occasionally. I just never thought about the reality of it.”
“I’ll be honest, it’s not something I enjoy. Fighting, beating a guy up–that I can get behind. This…well, it gets messy. Which reminds me, stay out of the way. In fact, I’d prefer that you wait in the car.”
“Not going to happen.”
I roll my eyes. “Figured you’d say that. Just keep to yourself and try not to get involved.” I glance at him with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your suit.”
He glares at me. “What about you?”
“Why do you think I always wear black?”
I approach the stoop and set the axe against the wall outside the door then knock, listening for any signs of life inside.
I’m about to say fuck it and bust the door open when I hear the sound of locks disengaging.
The door opens a crack and a bleary-eyed man I recognize from the photo Dante sent me stands there, peering out at me.
He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and sleeping pants, his light hair disheveled like he just woke up.
Judging by his activities last night, he probably just got to bed.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Eduard Smyth?”
His eyes narrow. “Who wants to know?”
I don’t offer an explanation, just shove the door back and barrel inside.
Smyth stumbles backward, almost falling over an ottoman.
I don’t give him a chance to recover, grabbing the neck of his shirt and hauling him back to his feet.
He stares at me, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head.
Asher follows me inside and shuts the door, and Smyth’s widened eyes dart between us.
I have to admit, I’m getting off on the look of terror in them.
Not so tough when it’s you on the receiving end, are you shithead?
“W-who are you?”
“Me?” I sneer. “Consider me justice. You’ve been a bad boy, Eddie, and I’m the motherfucker who’s going to punish you.”