Chapter 18
Shit!
Oliver raked a hand through his hair.
They’d been watching the screen when she walked into that room. And now it was completely dead.
“Saul, how come we dropped out?” Oliver bellowed.
“I don’t know.” The orc started to fiddle with the control panel. “It’s not our end. The connection’s broken on her end.”
Oliver fisted his hands. “This is fucking bad.”
“Should we send the men in?”
It was tempting to give the affirmative, but he sensed it was too soon. If they did that, her cover would be blown, and any chance of further undercover work forfeited. But what if she was in danger? What if Clare fucking disappeared? He’d never forgive himself.
“Wait a few minutes.” He was relying on bare intuition.
He tried to switch on his methodical logic.
His emotions were muddying the picture. As he paced in the small van, and Saul fiddled helplessly with the controls, there was a crackle, and then they had a view of the main club again. Sounds and music resumed.
What was going on? Did that room have a force field surrounding it that blocked out surveillance devices?
Nevertheless, he breathed a sigh of relief. “She’s out.”
“Thank the gods.” Saul huffed an equally huge sigh.
“Damn weird,” Oliver muttered. He watched intently as she circulated for maybe ten more minutes, noting the species she was chatting to.
She sounded okay, was doing a good job of sounding like a na?ve little human on her first foray into the monster realms. But gods, he was sick of seeing those monsters’ eyes on her, and how often their gaze dipped below the camera to her beautiful breasts.
He wanted to fucking haul them against the wall and pummel their smug, rich faces.
Purely professional concern.
Yeah, like fuck.
Soon after, she bade her farewells to Emmaline and left to catch a cab that just happened to be driven by Trent. As she stepped into the cab, Oliver breathed again, knowing she’d be delivered safely home.
As soon as she was inside the car, he called her. She answered almost before it had rung.
“What the fuck happened? You went completely offline.”
“Did I? When?”
“You were heading toward a door with Emmeline Shaw and then … nothing.” He tried to keep the tension out of his voice.
“Damn,” she said. “That was the most important part.”
“What the fuck went on in there?”
“I was introduced to a guy, it was kind of a cliché, he was called Master and sat on a dais like a king… he was definitely in charge.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Tan skin, dark hair to his shoulders, dark eyes, very good looking.”
Oliver thinned his lips. Gods, was he jealous? And then she added, “He was wearing black silk gloves. And a huge diamond ring on the middle finger of his left hand.”
“Matteus. He always wears gloves.” The Kominskys had claws even in their non-vampiric form, and papery veined skin on their hands. It was the one thing that undermined their good looks. Vlad flaunted his claws, but Matteus was too vain, and kept them hidden.
“It did look like Matteus, but also—not quite. This guy was better looking, more charismatic than the pictures we have on file.”
Oliver let out a low expletive. It was Matteus, for certain. He wasn’t sure how that fucker could have gotten even better looking. Plastic surgery? Botox? Whatever, he still didn’t like the way Clare kept mentioning it. “What did he talk to you about?”
“Me being special. And beautiful. About an influential employer who wanted what I had to offer.”
“Did he touch you?” His hands balls into fists at the thought.
“He kissed my hand—no, not my hand, my inner wrist, before I left.”
He wanted to kill the bastard. “That’s all? He didn’t puncture your skin?”
“No, he didn’t. I thought I saw a fang, but it might have been the light.”
“Are you sure no one followed you out?
“We have affirmative to no one following her, sir,” Saul interjected. “The other unmarked vehicles have been vetting the site.”
“Good. We’ll debrief properly in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Trent will stay until you’re safely inside your apartment. If you can write up everything you remember, we’ll discuss it in detail first thing tomorrow.
“Yes, sir.”
“And Clare—”
“Sir?”
“Well done tonight,” he added softly.
“Thank you,” she replied, her own voice softening.
He didn’t want to put the phone down, didn’t want to break the contact, but he forced himself to, and pocketed his cell.
Saul let out a big huff. “Well, I guess I’ll go home. Harriet will be wondering where I got to.”
Oliver checked his watch—it was nearly 10 pm.
“No time for a whiskey then?”
Saul hesitated. “Tempting, but not tonight. One of the girls has been sick and Harriet would like me home.”
“Of course. Good man.” Oliver gave a thin smile. Why did it bother him? That Saul had a woman to go home to, to listen to how his day went, and warm his bed afterward. Children to kiss goodnight.
You’re going soft in the head, man.
He would go home and have a whiskey alone on the balcony overlooking the city.
“You go. I’ll finish up here.”
Saul powered down the computer system and gave him a grateful smile. “Good work from Clare tonight. She’s a fucking awesome detective.”
“She sure is.”
When Saul finally scooted out of the empty department, Oliver meticulously checked that everything was put away. Then he grabbed his jacket and left.
But instead of heading home, he strolled into Old Motham. To a bar. There he sat, while couples laughed and friends caroused around him, all on his lonesome in a corner of the bar, downing more whiskey than he should. Brooding over the events of the evening, trying to make sense of them.
No matter what Clare said, he was sure the “Master” was Matteus Kominsky.
And he was using unnatural means to keep surveillance away.
The same magick he’d used to elude capture last time, probably.
How could he slide into Motham, then slide out again without being spotted?
Nothing in vampire heritage allowed for these kinds of disappearing acts.
His instinct that the Kominskys were involved in this case was even stronger now.
Shona Dove’s kidnapping three years ago was enough to link the two cases. Old dogs never learned new tricks.
And now Clare was in the mix, putting herself out there. And yeah, okay, she probably didn’t have AOx blood, but he knew himself how intoxicating her blood scent was.
How intoxicating she was.
She’s mine.
Holy fuck. He hated himself for viewing her like his possession. But there was no denying it, he would fucking stake Matteus personally if he harmed one hair on her beautiful head.
You were no better than him for a century.
He slugged the contents of his glass, then ordered another to drown out the memories of his own blood-frenzied feeding, the way he’d seduced young humans and practically sucked them dry.
Had any died? The thought made his face contort.
Maybe. He’d never waited to find out, sinking back into the shadows once he’d had his fill.
Until a mage had found him. Broken by shame and stumbling around the dark streets of Motham, drunk and disoriented on blood. Emerson had taken him into his home, treated him like a son. Put him through intensive therapy.
When he’d asked the mage why, what he had seen in Oliver’s bitter, twisted soul that was worth saving, Emerson had said, “You have great goodness in you, Oliver. One day you will understand.”
He hadn’t believed Emerson. But bit by bit, he had responded to his care, his belief in him.
It had taken decades. In that time, he’d taken blood through other means. Joined the police force and worked his way up the ranks, finally becoming a detective.
The darkness in him helped in solving crimes. The work he’d done to infiltrate the demon grimaalds and have them removed from the Motham wastelands had earned him a promotion, and as far as his career went, he’d never looked back.
His personal life, on the other hand, had remained a desert. But he’d found some peace of mind in solitude. The lack of closeness to someone was the price you paid for sanity and reason. For being a decent, moral vampire.
But still, despite all the therapy, he couldn’t let go of his hatred of the Kominskys, couldn’t forgive and forget.
It was a hatred that this fucking case was feeding.
And yet, while some things pointed to their involvement, other facts did not.
For one thing, as Clare had kindly pointed out, it didn’t make sense that the Jordak family would trade with vampires.
They hated and reviled all monsters, vampires included.
Maybe Clare was right, maybe he was letting his vendetta against the Kominskys get in the way of reason and common sense.
Ergh, his head was a mess.
He drained his glass, then waved at the bartender again, a bear shifter. “Another whiskey,” he said, tapping the glass on the bar.
The big guy gave him a dubious look. “Just hand over the bottle,” he growled, slapping down a hundred-dollar bill. “And here’s another $20 for your trouble.”
The guy grabbed the money and brought over the bottle.
Afterward, he wasn’t sure how much he’d drunk, but when he picked up the bottle it was less than half full.
He shoved it back on the bar and got up to leave.
His head spun. He steadied himself and walked out of the bar, shoulders pinned back, priding himself on managing to walk in a straight line even though he was seeing double.
He was about to call a hover cab, then changed his mind. He’d walk, to clear his head.
But his sense of direction was clearly way off, because he found himself walking not back to Motham Hill, but toward the graveyard.
And no, he wasn’t close to sobering up, and yeah, he should fucking turn around, but he was being drawn by something that defied logic. And with a hell of a lot of whiskey in his belly and no dinner, he wasn’t in the mood to be logical.
His nerves were short circuiting as he got closer to Clare’s apartment. No amount of alcohol could mask his hunger for her.
He tried to tell himself he was only going to check that she was safe.
Yeah, right, playing Peeping Tom outside her apartment.
What’s fucking wrong with you, pervert?
Nevertheless, he ducked into the shadows of the graveyard entrance and watched.
Her curtains were closed, but there was a light on in the room still. There was a small crack between the curtains, and his breath caught as her figure flitted past. She needed to close those curtains properly. If he could spot her, so could someone else.
And then she did, she closed the gap, and disappointment coursed through him. He was sobering up, and realizing this was a dumb idea, and yet, he couldn’t seem to move away.
Because what if he left, and in the morning, she was gone?
It clawed at his heart, this feeling. Of course it wasn’t love, nothing close to that. He was, however, able to admit, in a state of openness that the whiskey had brought on, that he was badly infatuated with the woman.
Go man, get out of here.
He sighed, turned to leave, then noticed a shadow next to the trash cans outside her apartment building.
His vision arrow sharp now, he watched.
The shadow moved. Oliver blinked, refocused. Why couldn’t he see it for what it was? It was ephemeral, a shadow creature. Was it an elemental of some sort? No, too large for that. The bulky shadow slunk around the trash can. A cat meowed and shot out from behind one, all the fur on its back raised.
The cat didn’t like that shadow. And neither the fuck did he.
Stealthily, Oliver moved closer, skimmed across the road. He was about to duck down behind a bush when something grabbed him in a choke hold.
His eyes felt like they were being forced out of his skull, His vision blurred. His airways were beginning to close over, such was the strength of the creature’s grip on his throat.
Oliver used a quick karate move to slice behind him, then grabbed at some part of the creature’s anatomy. Whatever he’d grabbed, the shadow didn’t like it. Letting out a wheezing sound, it loosened its grip enough for Oliver to swing around and belt the thing with a curled fist.
For a moment, he was free. Self-preservation told him to run, but no way could he leave this thing lurking outside Clare’s apartment.
Suddenly it was on him again, clawing at his face. Pain seared through him.
He tried to use his arms to punch, his legs to kick, but it had him in a vise. Its breath was foul, making him gag, a stench like rotting fish skins and sump oil.
Shit. Was it a grimaald? It sure smelled like one. One way to know for sure. Grimaalds were allergic to vampire spittle and the small amount of venom it contained.
He spat at it and his saliva sizzled like acid on the shadowy form.
It let out a whelp of pain and loosened its grasp enough that Oliver could free his arm and shove his fist into some part of its midriff.
He registered slimy, cold scales. Grimaald for sure.
But then it came back, twisting his arm so hard he let out a loud expletive, then swiped at his cheek with a claw.
Sharp pain registered, then came a punch to his left eye, and he was twisted around and thrown face down on the ground.
A dead weight landed on his back, squeezing the air from his lungs. His arms were yanked behind him in a deadly grip, and a fist grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. He knew what was coming, his fucking face was about to be slammed into the pavers. He braced for impact.
But instead, there was a shout, a beam of light and then the beast’s weight on him was gone, leaving him winded and gasping for air.
“Are you okay!?”
Ah, that voice, like the sweet sound of an angel floating down to him.
“Sir! Is that you?”
A torch beam bobbed around his head.
He must have briefly lost consciousness, because the next thing he knew, a warm hand was on his arm, turning him over. He shifted onto his back, groaning from the sharp pain in his jaw and around his eye.
“Oh gods, almighty, what happened to you?”
Oliver winced at the warm liquid running into his eye, guessing it could only be his own blood. He squinted up into his savior’s beautiful face.
Yep, he decided, he’d died and gone to heaven.
Which, for a vampire, was a fucking miracle.