Chapter 7 #2
“Did you find what you needed?” the clerk asked, pulling an ancient set of iron keys from her gingham bag. She fixed Rye with a suspicious look, glaring down her nose. “I heard you were close?”
Rye coughed to smother the giggle that slipped free, standing carefully on shaking legs to set down the fallen papers. “Yes, I think we made a breakthrough this evening. Thank you again for accommodating our schedule.”
“Well, as Mr. Barlow said, ‘Chinese markets can’t be swayed.’” The clerk fixed me with the same imperious look before stepping smartly to the door.
Rye and I avoided eye contact and followed the woman out into the dark. We watched her click down the cobblestone street until she was merely a shadow on the horizon, and then we both dissolved into laughter, collapsed on each other under a streetlamp.
“We’re never going to get anything done if you descend on me like that every chance you get.” Her face was flushed with pleasure, eyes hazy, smile crinkling her normally stern features.
“And what if that was my way of saying I found something?” I grinned back at her, planting a cheeky kiss to her forehead and wrapping a possessive arm around her waist.
“It would certainly be motivating.” She sidestepped my grasp, squeezing my fingers. “Did you?”
I nodded, quickly catching her up on my discovery. “Billy says there’s still a Huxley here in town,” I finished. “I think we should pay him a visit.”
Rye nodded, fishing out her cellphone from one of her coat’s many pockets.
“He’s on the historic preservation council,” she muttered, squinting at her phone.
“He gave Billy hell last year about the manor and the fanglings.” Before I could respond, she held up a finger, pressing her phone to her ear.
“Yes, this is Rye Amato.” She paused, face dropping into silent alarm, before she handed the phone to me. “It’s for you.”
I’d barely pressed the phone to my own ear before a liquid honey voice dripped through. “Cellphones do little good if left behind.”
“Who is this?” I asked, patting my pockets and realizing too late that I had in fact left the tiny silver flip phone plugged in on my nightstand.
“I am many things, Patrick, but namely, I am not a woman to cross. Tell me.” The voice continued, a threatening edge defining itself among the sweet velvet. “Are the fanglings under control yet?”
“Their training will take some time.” Realization slid icy fingers down my spine. There was only one woman who would be calling to check on the fanglings’ progress. Madame Laveau—owner of the Clotswold and head of the vampire colony under which Billy and I both fell.
“Time we don’t have, Patrick.” She said my name like an insult, a condescending note souring her otherwise honeyed address. “I cannot risk those pea-brained humans discovering our kind because of a few loose ends being allowed to fuck around in their feelings.”
I nodded, then choked out an affirmative grunt.
Billy hadn’t warned me the madame herself would be checking up on our progress—just that she was invested in the nest coming under some sort of control.
I’d been given no timeline, no expectations, no request for progress updates.
I was going to kill him myself when we returned to the hotel.
“If I call again, have real progress for me, or I’ll deal with the pests myself.” Her voice dripped through the phone, sizzling acid.
“Yes ma’am, uh, Madame,” I stumbled, grasping for anything that would soothe her venom. “Queen Highness.”
“Patrick.”
“Yes?”
“Get it together.” The line clicked dead.
I handed Rye the phone, stunned into silence.
Madame Laveau dealing with the fanglings meant only one option—turning them to ash.
It was the most final sentence our kind could receive, next to severing the head.
Most physical wounds, including the mythical stake to the heart, would eventually heal.
Although it was true that some attacks took much longer than others to recover from.
But a vampire tied to a post and left to the mercies of the sunrise was a vanished being, reduced to a pile of ash that would soon flutter into molecules on the breeze. There was no healing from that.
Alex’s tear-stained face flashed through my mind, the proud, lopsided smile on his mother’s face, the chaotic press of the nest on all sides as they took notes and asked questions in my hotel room.
Damn it all to torturous hell, I’d grown attached.
Rye’s face was pale with worry, her brows knitting together as she watched my face for some explanation.
Damn it all a second and third time—so was Rye. And I desperately wanted to save her from heartbreak.
“You giving out my number?” she asked, teasing falling flat in the night air. I shook my head slowly.
“You should head back,” I said, trying to pull a plan from my scattered thoughts.
“And what’re you gonna do?” She pocketed her phone before crossing her arms and popping a hip.
“I’m going to see Alexander Huxley.” I looked dumbly around the square, as if a big magic arrow would point me to his home.
Rye rolled her eyes, taking my hand and hauling me unceremoniously in the opposite direction of the hotel. “Like you even know where to start.”
“And you do?” I muttered.
“Of course I do.” She sniffed. “It’s my job to know.”
“Why do I doubt that?”
She rolled her eyes harder this time, snorting in derision. “His address was on all the paperwork suing Billy. Is that good enough for you, or should I pull up the case and show you?”
Instead of acknowledging my weak apology, Rye simply pulled me down yet another side street, the nighttime bustle of the village center quieting behind us.
She counted under her breath, head whipping from side to side, steps slowing.
I slammed into her as she stopped abruptly in front of a cottage that could’ve been straight from a fairytale.
Unlike the many thatched roofs around it, this one had a quaint tiled roof sloping sharply like the curve of a dragon’s spine.
A two-story tower with a witch’s hat perched jauntily to the left, and a whispering oak stood watch to the right.
A dark green fence marked the tidy border of the lush English garden, complete with fragrant spring blooms wafting into the night breeze.
Warm yellow light seeped out of each window, pooling in the fresh-cut grass.
“Are you sure you want to come with me in your . . . current state?” I nodded to Rye’s crookedly buttoned coat. She shrugged, readjusting the buttons and smoothing her hands down the front.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I met an official without any underwear.”
Before I could question what that meant, she was through the gate and across the yard, rapping smartly on the low front door. The top half swung open almost immediately, spilling more yellow light out in a wide arc, silhouetting a thick-set man.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking Rye up and down before his gaze landed on me, still lingering by the fence.
“We’d like to speak with Alexander Huxley,” Rye answered, transformed immediately into the commanding legal presence I knew Billy must’ve hired her for. She was all demand, no weakness, and there was no question in her words despite their polite phrasing.
“Make an appointment at the council offices like everyone else,” the man sputtered. “This is highly inappropriate.”
“Talk to us now,” I compelled, fear slicing through me as my powers met a mental brick wall from the man.
Humans weren’t equipped to combat a vampire’s power of compulsion—it was one of the many reasons they’d been targeted as a food source for this long.
Someone had trained this village council local in the middle of rural England to withstand mind control.
The man snorted. “No.” With that, he slammed the top half of the door closed, narrowly missing Rye’s face. We exchanged a silent “what just happened” look before setting off back to the hotel, fear keeping us apart in our separate thoughts the entire long walk.