Chapter 19
Ten human pulses, each readily distinguishable, sang in her sharp vamp ears.
They were amped, but that was pretty reasonable if you were going to meet a bloodsucker; also, the deal had been six to eight security, and she wondered why they were pushing it until she spotted a familiar mop of ginger hair.
He was taller than she’d thought, only having seen him seated onscreen before. And next to him stood a bandy-legged male shape which had to be the mysterious rich client.
The Gunslinger Ballroom had a very nice wooden parquet dance floor—the pictures on the hotel’s website carefully showed it to advantage—currently covered by thick protective matting, dustcloth-shrouded tables and chairs stacked between the doors studding the left wall.
A truly magnificent view of Denver spread into the distance past the floor-to-ceiling windows to her right, twinkling ferociously.
The roof was glass as well, a marvel of modern architecture.
At the far end three steps rose to an empty stage big enough for two warring rock bands and their respective mosh pits, flanked by what had to be two freight elevators for bringing up supplies, false screens pushed aside.
So, eight security, plus the client. And an additional surprise.
“Barry.” She halted, hands on her hips, and gave her very best professional, so don’t try it smile.
The lingering relaxation of old-vamp blood was deep and soft all through her body; she felt loose, ready for almost anything.
“Fancy meeting you here. And wow, you weren’t kidding. This is Elton Huske, right?”
Low light conditions might give humans trouble, but were high noon to vamp eyes.
Four of the security—big and beefy, just the thing for a nervous billionaire—had night-vision goggles strapped on, their heads insectile shadows.
Two more were tucked into what they probably thought were good hiding places among cloth-draped furniture.
Another pair flanked the client, and figuring out his name was no big trick.
It was the face on a thousand promo shots, after all—close-set goggle eyes, nose clearly re-sculptured by surgery at some point, jowls treated with expensive skincare to give a greasy glow masquerading as youth, a haircut so bad it had to be expensive as well as aggressively self-chosen.
And there was the eternal fleece vest, half-zipped over a T-shirt no doubt chosen for quirkiness by an underpaid assistant, and the slightly bowed legs in expensive stonewash Levi’s ironed to provide a crisp crease front and back.
Birkenstocks and black socks completed the uniform, and to top it all off, there were four fancy ‘smart’ X-OL rings on his left hand, not surprising since he owned the company, plus a high-end smartwatch with a nylon strap and an earpiece that was probably a X-OL prototype as well.
Car manufacturing, ultralight planes, ‘smart’ wearables, his very own social media platform only his fans and yes-men were allowed on—yep, it was Elton Huske all right. In retrospect it made a kind of sense, since he certainly had the cash to burn.
Still, several thin, tickling claws of unease walked down her back. The sensation was subtly different than the sense of being watched she’d felt at odd moments while she cased the hotel, which might be John keeping an eye on proceedings despite his promise to stay the hell out of her business.
No, this was something else, familiar from her human days. An atavistic reminder—one of those guys, be careful.
“Wow.” The billionaire actually clapped, soft dutiful cupped-palm smacks used at ribbon-cuttings or the end of particularly boring office meetings. And he strode right for her, brand-new sandals squeaking counterpoint. “Jane Smith, a huge pleasure. I’m a big fan of your work, very big.”
A trace of accent—the puff pieces made a big deal of his family’s roots in foreign mining—lurked behind the almost-nasal California flatness. It was, she discovered, more irritating than John’s cowboy drawl, because at least the ancient vampire hadn’t sounded… well, fake.
Just old, and painfully stilted.
“Really.” Simone still gazed at Barry. Her finder had the grace to look uncomfortable, slouched in jeans and a camo fatigue jacket, shifting his weight from one Converse sneaker to the other. “Always good to meet an admirer, I guess.”
“Oh yeah. The drone footage is really great, excellent.” Huske seemed to get the memo, stopping at a reasonable distance—which was pretty wise of him, all things considered. “Goes real well with popcorn and a good sauvignon blanc.”
“Drone footage.” Simone had never before been able to raise a single eyebrow, Spock-fashion, but she felt like she was getting close.
Barry’s fidgets intensified. Now he was almost swaying like a kid at a rock concert, and his fingers were twitching as well. “Last three bounties,” he muttered, and did he look almost ashamed? “Tracking the targets, Janie, not you.”
Simone had never heard any propellers. Yet she’d often felt watched, the sensation also slightly different than that just before John showed up.
Now she realized that crawling, unhappy sensation was akin to the feeling of live security cameras, dismissed because she took care to lure her bounties into deserted, pre-scouted locales.
It’s not paranoia if they’re really spying on you, right? The deep relaxation of powerful old-vamp blood thinned, turned brittle. Behind it rose a rasp of dislike—and outright unease.
“Yeah, the way you vanish after each kill, it’s really impressive.” The grinning billionaire stuck out a heavily lotioned hand. “Let’s make it formal, a’ight? Elton Huske, pleasedtameetcha.”
He was either brave, stupid, or both to get so close to a vamp.
Plus, the way he said kill, almost salivating over the single syllable, was disgusting.
Simone smiled, the way men were always telling women to; a slight crackling sound, and her fangs were out as her fingers blurred up, grabbed his, and squeezed.
Very lightly, so she didn’t turn the small bones to paste. Still, Huske gulped audibly.
The sharp teeth went back into hiding far more easily than usual, which was great even if she knew why.
She wasn’t thirsty. Not in the slightest. “Jane Smith,” she said, and watched the sweat spring up all over the rich man’s face.
The smell of fear excreted as salt moisture was cloying, mixed with expensive aftershave, organic deodorant, a faintly greasy all-natural fabric softener which probably didn’t do a damn thing for how new clothes always itched.
Along with those entirely civilian aromas was a tang of metal and gun oil.
She was betting he had a pistol stuck in the back of his waistband, and that it made him feel like a big man.
His pulse spiked, pupils dilating—a human animal recognizing an infected predator, and was she even more of a monster if she found the instinctive reaction perhaps a little funny?
“I hear you’re researching,” she said, softly, and let go of the moist little paw.
Hopefully John wasn’t close enough to listen; she’d meant for him to wait across the street or at least down in that ridiculous kitschy hotel lounge, but now she was almost certain he’d trailed her through the entire Continental. “For a cure.”
“Well.” To give Huske credit, he shifted from fear to schmooze in less than a heartbeat, backing up a few creaking sandal-steps.
His hand twitched, as if he wanted to wipe it on his expensive navy fleece vest and stopped just in time.
“Yeah. So, you… wow. Okay, so you see the biologicals are tricky, but we’ve got some very promising work. What I had in mind was a partnership.”
The kind I thought I had with my finder?
Simone listened to their pulses, all galloping along.
One guy had a congenital heart murmur, the sound a whooshing rasp; another was clearly on steroids, a metallic edge to the high pops of his cardiac muscle slamming shut.
It was amazing what you could tell just from that single sound, a pump working from before birth, day in day out until the ghost gave up through accident, injury, disease.
How long would her own significantly slower pulse last?
“I’m not big on team projects.” Simone suddenly wanted to be out of this empty, echoing ballroom full of nervous men—especially the ones with rifles.
Were they vamp hunters? She was fairly sure anything up to the experimental fragmenting ammunition wouldn’t be a problem, but if this guy had indeed done his research, he might also have supplied his backup with some fancy bullets.
She could get through the door behind her in a twinkling, or maybe right through the glass wall to her right. It had to be hardened in some way, like skyscraper-sheathing, and the drop afterward might be uncomfortable.
Really uncomfortable.
“It’s like this.” Huske stuck his thumbs in the vest’s side pockets, a habitual pose from his publicity pictures. “The same work you’re doing with Barry here, but just slightly different. We need research subjects.”
Is this dumbass for real? “What, you want me to go in with a clipboard and interview them? It doesn’t work that way. Vamps are fast, they’re mean, and…” She tried to think of John interacting with this guy, and drew a complete blank along with the urge to laugh.
Nervously. At length, and very close to screaming.
“Well, yeah, and they’re cautious. No human team can get near ’em the way you do—believe me, we’ve tried for a few years now.
Anyway, all you’d have to do is bring them to a predetermined point, and then pow!
” Now Huske’s hands jerked up, spreading, another familiar public-relations mannerism.
“We’ve got some techniques for, like, getting them relaxed.
We take some samples, administer some tests. It’ll move us along like lightning.”