Chapter 22
At least she seemed to find the office mildly acceptable—more spacious than that of the Everly penthouse, though the shelves were lined with decoratively arranged books chosen solely for gradations of color on their spines, interspersed with unfamiliar curios bearing no significance, sentimental or otherwise.
A lingering, longing gaze at the sleek black computer, its blank dark screen at an angle to the leather blotter on a vast oak desk, an examination of the broad, night-curtained windows looking out over what little garden this lair possessed, and his leman finished her circuit of the room by trailing her lovely hand over the back of a leather couch, one of a duo holding conference near a mock fireplace.
The office’s secondary purpose was to provide the Andranov cover, more than half a gangster, with an informal meeting space—which accounted for the matching oak sideboard stocked with expensive, unopened bottles plus a clutch of empty glasses and decanters.
All Everly businesses had been drained by now, assets transferred, and though Lukas had moved house the control of territory both physical and financial was still assured.
Most underlings would not even notice the change in regime, so long as their paychecks were honored.
“Sir.” Wrenfeldt almost tugged his forelock; he had been doing that more frequently of late.
“Bit of news.” The dogsbody did not add any cheeky observation, though he clearly wished to, and he indicated the stack of files set on the massive desk.
The grey in his pomaded hair had advanced a bit; Lukas noted that, welcoming the brief stab of a small regret among his ribs.
The feeling was another luxury, possible only because of her. Even pangs of mourning were preferable to creeping stultification.
Black cashmere jumper and those denim trousers—jeans, yes, that was the word, labourer’s wear.
But she seemed far more comfortable, and the way the heavy cloth skimmed her legs was appealing.
She had even selected a pair of dark-blue trainers with something like a pleased smile; his Beatrice touched a silk flower drooping from a decorative basket, fingertips granting the poor thing an unaccustomed luster before she turned away.
The Gift was working in her, gathering speed. Lukas was very much looking forward to the next feeding. “By your tone I assume it troubling, instead of pleasant. Go on.” In other words, she could hear anything the dogsbody would say.
A flicker of something unfamiliar crossed Wrenfeldt’s wide, comfortable face.
Before swearing fealty his nose had been broken more than once; a dogsbody’s durability was considerably more than mortal, and such things troubled him no longer.
He would be vital until he dropped; that day would be a sad one, though Hardison would step into the duties left vacant.
Hopefully the redheaded youth would prove a little less willing to dip into certain…troubling behaviors, but so long as requirements were met a good lord would overlook much.
“Incursion, sir.” Wrenfeldt settled into a posture of relaxed attention, hands crossed before his belt. “From the south, I think. We’re at five now, drained and dropped.”
An annoyance indeed. Five mortal bodies—it could be traveling fledglings, though any entering his territory should know to keep such things decently hidden, the nest unfouled. “The authorities?”
“Skittish, though burying the incidents as usual.” Wrenfeldt did not dare glance at the mistress of the house again; she had turned from her perusal of the sideboard’s crystalline wonders. “It’s only a matter of time before someone gets curious, sir. Or...vengeful.”
A warning, couched in terms a dogsbody could feel comfortable deploying.
Perhaps some sanguinant slew the bearers of bad news among their underlings, but Lukas found it much more efficient to encourage a certain fearlessness in expressing opinion.
And after all, his Beatrice had been intent upon vengeance.
Wrenfeldt was correct in being cautious.
“True.” He opened the first file, glancing over the garish crime scene photos, flipping to the autopsy report.
Ah. How very interesting. They certainly appeared to be fledgling kills, though not bloodcraze-messy.
The second was the same, and the third. The fourth and fifth were a double scene, this one entirely consonant with glut.
Very odd. Who expects me to be fooled by this? He returned to the first. It had been some while since he felt this sharply awake while looking over an incident report; a drench of wonderful musky warmth was his leman sidling closer, clearly curious.
Her hair was shaking off the dye nicely.
Lukas could still feel her mouth against his, timid before gathering confidence.
A terrible bravery, offering herself to the beast; she chattered gamely, displaying brittle bravado, but could not mask the fear in her scent.
He did not think it likely a single feeding had accomplished more than temporary détente; no, she would absolutely test his vigilance again.
That will be enjoyable. The thrall gave a sleepy twinge, deep in his bones.
Beatrice was very close. He could pretend to be unaware, but did not; she halted beside the desk when his gaze rose from the autopsy’s dry detailing of trauma and decay.
Her beautiful eyes widened, either pretending guilelessness or frankly fearful, and he closed the manila folder somewhat decisively.
She almost flinched. Her throat moved—a quick swallow, she was indeed still anxious.
“This is a demimonde affair.” Lukas sought a tone of gentle explanation; no need to trouble her with more complex considerations. “I do not think you wish to see.”
“I’ve probably seen worse.” Her arms folded, chin raising slightly; a flung challenge. No doubt she was thinking of her brother.
Lukas remembered what the greiben had done to the boy’s body. Had she approached the broken wreck, after peering through the stable window? Smelled the charnel reek, gazed at the viscera pulled free and flung about?
The thought caused a sharp pang, yet more beautiful, painful heartache.
Very soon, I will cleanse those warrens. He took a single step aside, indicating the slim stack of paper, but did not retreat further. If she wished to view such things, he would at least stand near enough to offer paltry comfort.
She did not betray much—a swift grimace, empathy briefly breaking through. He leaned close, basking in her nearness, and pointed.
“See the damage over the jugular? Opposite, there, is where the lesser fangs on the bottom clamped, for leverage. And there.” He indicated the next crime scene photo, wishing she were not staring at such garish, pitiless detail.
“The layers of flesh curling in that particular manner denotes a clawstrike. That stipple is where a tip punctured, but the hand was turned before it dragged, you see? This is sanguinant violence; had I attacked your brother, the results might be similar.” Or not, since I learned well to cover any traces long before I could drain without killing.
“The autopsy report states a great loss of blood, yet it’s clear from the scene and livor mortis that the bodies were not dumped, they stayed where they fell.
A police detective or two is now asking, where did the claret go? ”
The file folder quivered slightly before closing, shutting away the sight. She settled it precisely upon the pile, then rubbed her fingers against denim, a swift unconscious movement. “I suppose the others are the same.”
“Yes.” Mostly. His suspicions could wait for a more appropriate time and venue. “Would you like to examine them further?”
“I’m good.” An extraordinary, almost venomous glance from under her long lashes. “There’s whiskey over there. Can I have some, or is it just for show?”
“Of course. It will not halt the thirst, but the taste is pleasant enough.” He gathered the folders, acutely conscious of her retreat.
“I will handle this personally, Wren. Alert security to watch for the usual signs and run a full check of countermeasures before midnight.” It would at least keep them busy; he hoped against hope this was merely what it seemed and not.
..an event necessitating thorough housecleaning, so to speak.
“So you don’t think it’s just wee ones, then?” The dogsbody took care to sound only mildly interested in the prospect; his duties were to keep his master’s daylight holdings secure, not interfere in demimonde business. A challenge for territory would naturally seek to eradicate such conveniences.
A sanguinant who could protect neither clients nor vassals also could not hold a nest or territory. Nor could a lord unaware of certain troubling signs within ranks of underlings.
“It’s best to be sure.” Lukas watched his prize stand before the sideboard; she appeared to be reading the bottle labels. “Tell the housekeeper we regret missing dinner and double-check the bonuses for the maintenance staff, then you may be at what ease our security permits. That will be all.”
“Yes, sir.” Wrenfeldt retreated at his usual pace, closed the door in his accustomed way.
It was irritating—Lukas had planned a leisurely dinner, a night spent in his leman’s company. But this was perhaps for the best.
* * *
“Please don’t.” She did not quite resist when he took her arm, merely stiffened as she realized their destination. Her pleading, however, was very nearly desperate. “Don’t lock me up in there again.”
“I must deal with this, Beatrice. It cannot wait.” Especially since it had been brought to his attention at such a juncture.
“Look, at least put a TV in there or give me some magazines. Anything. Or, here’s a thought, I’ll stay in the master bedroom, you can put that Wren guy in the hall. I promise I won’t try anything. I swear.”
He could curse his own heedlessness; naturally she viewed him as a jailer, yet it had not occurred to him that she might see the saferoom as an explicit punishment. “I will have a few comforts added, as soon as possible. It is my oversight. I apologize.”
“He apologizes.” A bitter little laugh, and even the edge of contempt was sweet to hear. “I suppose I should be glad you don’t just jam me in a coffin. Look, give me today’s newspapers, or last week’s, dig them out of the recycle. Something.”
I would not put it past you to find some means of lighting them on fire.
She was an exercise in resourcefulness, indeed.
“For tonight, please bear with the inconvenience.” The last few stairs receded, and he ushered his leman into the saferoom’s soothing quiet.
“I have taken refuge in crypts more than once; understand that this is far better.”
“Please. I will promise, I will swear on a stack of Bibles not to try anything.” Her eyes were shining, her pretty fingers tangled together. She was stiff, just on the edge of outright struggle.
“Beatrice.” His hands ached to take her shoulders, ease the fear swirling through her scent. “This is to keep you, certainly, but more importantly to keep you safe.”
“Yeah, well, it can’t keep you out.”
It stung, but even that venom was far better than numbing ossification. Lukas confined himself to what comfort could be offered. “No sunlight will reach here; no mortal or demimonde attack can succeed once the seals are set. I will return before dawn to feed you.”
“Like a cat. Or a dog, because if I was a cat you’d at least put a dish on the floor.” The détente was well and truly over; his prize was nearly aflame with a mix of trembling fury and sweet supplication.
“I am at fault.” Even seeing her in this mood was a luxuriously honed pleasure, whisper-sharp, biting deep. “I am old, and my preference for saferooms is space and simplicity. I did not anticipate your discomfort.”
“What if you get hit by a bus or something, and I’m locked up here? Please...Lukas.” Using his mortal name, a thorny pleasure—she should never sound so fearful. “I swear, I won’t try anything. I’ll be good.”
At least she was not simply, numbly submitting. She might even hazily guess at his unwillingness to cause her more than the minimum necessary distress. Lukas raised a hand—mortal-slowly, though it took an effort—to clasp her slim, soft shoulder, and she froze.
He could lie, perhaps. Or misdirect with not-quite-falsehood.
Yet he had been truthful until now, and wished to remain so with his leman; later, she might even count it a sign of trustworthiness.
“If I am so careless as to suffer true-death, the seals will release. In that case you might flee and escape notice for some short while, but no sanguinant will let a leman wander. You would be caught, and claimed, soon enough.” His true teeth ached, the animal restless even contemplating such an eventuality.
“But have no worries. I am too old to be easily slain; I survive. It is my only true talent.” A bitter confession, indeed.
Lukas would have liked to offer her more.
Far, far more.
Beatrice’s gaze swung past him, fastened upon the saferoom door.
She watched as it closed of its own accord with a soft, definite snick of latch, a deeper sound of deadbolt engaging.
It was no great trick, any sanguinant elder could exercise such control upon physical material already sensitized by previous seals.
To a mortal, or a fledgling in the first bloom of the Gift, it might seem otherwise. His leman withdrew, though the physical movement was merely a slight shift, leaning away from him. Closing herself off, a castle on a crumbling shore, determined to resist the tide.
The ocean had time, and so did he. For the moment, however, he anticipated using a certain amount of savagery in dealing with those who rendered his intervention a necessity, just when he had glimpsed how sweet her eventual acceptance might be.
“Rest.” Care in enunciating, since his fangs were very nearly free. “I will return before dawn to feed you.” I might even bring a few heads, to lay them at your door. Would you care for that, my so-modern kitten?
He burst into mistform, streaming away, and the invisible seals settled into place. It was a truly unsatisfying farewell, yet he had little choice.
If he stayed even a few more moments, he might well accede to her pleas despite any better judgment. The calcification was gone, yes…but his ageless heart ached badly at even the idea of her distress.