Chapter Three #3
In the vamp world, Walter had a rep as a swordsman.
A dangerous rep. Their bodyguard and bone of royal contention, forced them to keep their fighting skills properly honed.
Walter, forcing them to keep in practice, was another price for their freedom.
But EJ had come to enjoy the practice sessions, not that he’d tell Walter.
EJ said, “Other than the dog walking, we’ll stay inside our shells as requested. And fight, of course.”
Angie grumbled, “Requested, my ass. Ordered. And George is your dog, not my dog. He sleeps on your bed. He eats in your apartment, and he snores under your desk.”
“You filled out the adoption papers. You brought home a rescue dog and two cats, like a witch in a fic-vid or novel.”
“You—stop the vid. Back up. There. That guy.” Angie synced her portable tablet’s feed to the office’s wall screen and tapped the face. “Who is he?”
The guy in question was standing with Angie’s ex, and both men were watching Ivyanna flirt with the Queen’s Consort.
It was the second time they had caught Angie’s ex watching Ivyanna, and her interest in the Consort made this sticky political situation more difficult.
EJ pulled up the guest list and scrolled through the headshots.
“Got him. He’s attendee number forty-eight, Willim Danil Yorath IV, fanghead, turned in 1740.
His bio-father and bio-mother were human, of Welsh lineage.
Vampire sire was his bio-uncle, who, with Willim’s parents, owned a plantation in Jamaica.
And…Well, well, well. Hello there, my ol’ pal, coincidence. You show up again.”
“What?” Angie asked.
“When Willim sold his interest in the family plantation and returned to England, he brought two young slaves from Jamaica, a female and male.”
Angie sat up. “WY. The initials branded onto Walter’s face. That was his…his…owner. Torturer. Walter had to know Willim was going to be at the reception. That has to be why he declined the invitation to attend,” Angie said.
“I’ll chat with him privately, later.”
“Better you than me,” Angie said. “He’ll still be pissed at me for last night.”
“It’s after dark,” EJ said. “Ojos, is Walter on premises? And is he alone?” EJ didn’t want to bust in and find Walter in a bleed and read of one of last night’s prisoners, or, worse, entertaining a blood donor.
“Walter is in his quarters,” the security system replied. It was using what EJ thought of as its nondescript UK butler voice, not quite upper class, but not southside either. “There is one human with him, Ms. Constance.”
“I’m not interrupting him,” Angie said, “wild sex or not.”
Unlike most vampires, Walter didn’t have typical blood servants who lived with him and served him.
Walter contracted with blood donors, meaning that sex was off the table, as were living arrangements.
The exchange was totally transactional on his part: human blood for money, or sips of vamp blood.
Vamp blood improved any human donor’s general health, provided longer life-spans, and sometimes cured some otherwise untreatable diseases.
That didn’t stop the donors from experiencing a sexual response of some kind, and for some donors, it was intense.
But Walter never capitalized on a donor’s blood-induced sexual needs.
According to his dossier—the parts that weren’t redacted—when Walter had applied to work in the queen’s household, he had stated in his video application, “Modern humans have a saying—do not defecate where you eat—which is vulgar and earthy but conveys my philosophy well. I do not take my pleasure from the same place I receive sustenance. Such foolishness results in blood servants one must feed and provide for. It results in being forced to keep a lair and uphold contracts and maintain bloody financial records, of all the ridiculous things. It results in emotional and familial responsibility. Which I abhor.”
EJ said, “Ojos, notify us when Walter walks Constance out.”
“Of course,” the system said.
EJ swiped through the information they had gathered so far on the case, part of his mind on Walter.
Constance was one of Walter’s favorites, stopping by every week or so to donate.
Personally, EJ thought the woman had the hots for Walter, but that wasn’t an opinion he’d share.
Walter was intensely private, and would likely be horrified that EJ had a copy of his dossier, one that included some unredacted sections.
Angie had only the redacted dossier. Angie didn’t need to know the things that had been done to Walter when he was a slave.
She already had full-on hatred for the man who had hurt Walter.
“Walter is escorting Ms. Constance down the stairs,” Ojos said.
Angie brought up the live footage of the entry door cam.
Walter never took the elevator, and Constance seemed fine with a five-floor walk as long as Walter was by her side.
At the outer front door, Constance slid into an Agric coat, a weave of hemp and milk-based fibers, and took her pocketbook from Walter.
She said, “I’ll see you next week. Take care. ”
“Be well and safe, Miss Constance,” Walter said.
He saw her out and secured the entrance door, watching her climb into a self-driving rental.
He turned to the cam, lifted the eyebrow on the unscarred half of his face, and said, “Good evening, Evan Junior. I assume you want to know what I learned from Labaka and the man who attempted to abscond with Angelina’s friend. ”
“We’re in The Firm’s workroom,” EJ said. He touched off the screen and slid his eyes to his sister. “Busted.”
“So totally busted,” Angie agreed, going to the coffee bar. She made herself a cup of tea and EJ a cup of coffee, each on its dedicated appliance. “But he’s freshly fed so he’ll be less patronizing.”
“Is that what I am?” Walter asked, entering the first-floor workroom.
“Patronizing, as in fatherly, doting, perhaps.” His voice was velvety, if velvet were made from silk and the hair of angels with an undertone of old pain, old violence.
Walter’s vampire scent was the floral of funeral flowers and sweet peppers beneath the warmer scent of EJ’s coffee.
He took the armchair he usually sat in and crossed his legs, ankle over knee.
He was wearing what passed for casual clothes in his life: tight-fitting black jeans, equally tight-fitting long-sleeved black T-shirt, and slippers that looked like ballerina slides but without the ankle ties.
The coarse leather soles made them excellent sparring shoes.
Elegant. Dangerous. The scar on his face hidden in the shadows.
“Patronizing as in looking down on us mere witches,” EJ said.
Walter didn’t reply to that. “I smell pizza with meat,” he said, “several hours old. The pizza was for Angelina, as you, Evan Junior, are far too health conscious to have ordered a bread-and-meat pizza for yourself. Pizza means something happened whilst I slept.”
“Yes. Would you care for coffee, Walter?” Angie asked, handing EJ his mug.
“No, thank you. My report first or yours?” Walter asked.
Walter wasn’t part of The Firm, in terms of having a specific job, but he had announced soon after moving in, that he was bored and would enjoy us bouncing things off him.
He said it more elegantly than that, but that was the gist. Bored.
Bounce. Only an idiot would refuse such an offer from an old, experienced, and brilliant vampire.
EJ took his seat behind the beat-up two-sided wooden desk. The workroom was not for clients, and was decorated with worn, comfortable, serviceable pieces they had bought from various junk shops. “Your report, please,” he said.