Since I’d helped with his training, I also didn’t appreciate the spike of fear that jammed itself into my spine when I thought of everything that could possibly go wrong with him out there on his own. Which was the main reason I tolerated his ridiculous texts instead of putting him in his place. At least this way I could be sure he was still kicking.
I read quickly, happy that Cole spelled most things out, saving me the labor of code breaking.
Bored as a gay guy at Hooters. Cold, too. Mark is late. Rude of him, yes? Dreaming of you in ski boots and fur hat—nothing else! Tell Vayl he sux. Luv, C.
Uh-oh. Cole sitting around waiting for his target to show makes me wonder who’s going to get the banana up the muffler first. I immediately texted him back to behave himself and stowed the phone for later study. If I could figure out what part of the world Cole had been assigned to I might be able to give him better, more specific advice on how to stay out of trouble.
“I’m sorry, Jaz,” Dave said.
“Yeah?”
“I know you’re mad as hell right now.”
“Really? How can you tell?”
“You’re staring at my shirt. Which means you’re not meeting my eyes. Therefore you’re trying pretty hard not to punch me.”
Oh. Ha, ha, ha, not at all. I was just hoping that bizarre, bloody face wouldn’t reappear before we burn that rag you’re wearing. And then, yeah, come to think of it, I may have to beat the crap out of you.
Before I could say anything, Vayl stepped in. “Tact does not run in your family, does it?”
Dave and I shared a wry smile. Together we said, “No.”
Since that seemed to be the last word, Vayl leaned into his final stitches and I wandered into the bedroom. Just to the left of the door sat a canopy bed with a scrolled headboard. It was dressed in enough white lace for three brides, which made the arch-lidded trunk at its base seem like a shipwreck survivor. Beside it sat a table whose finish was flaking like hickory bark. It held a lamp and an empty wooden bowl big enough to hold an entire birthday cake. On the other side of the table sat an armchair in dire need of reupholstering, but once fit for royalty if the velvety blue and green fabric gave any clue.
Two white armoires that needed repainting covered the wall adjoining the bed. I was betting they blocked a window as well. The bathroom was just to the right, a mildewed, water-stained closet that I’d have to attack with a case of bleach before I’d feel comfortable using it. As in the sitting room, the floor had been left in its original wide-planked, wooden state.
I was getting ready to claim the bed and let the guys fight for floor space when I took a closer look at the painting mounted on the wall opposite the door. The bed’s occupant would view this picture every night before closing her eyes. If she could manage sleep, that is, after subjecting herself to its bold, slashing images. It showed a vampire feast. Without actual food. Yeah, screaming victims, their blood running like red tar in a backdrop of a blazing city. Chicago, maybe, back when everything was flammable, including the sidewalks.
I thought about it a second. Would it be better to snooze in the sitting room next to the rusty water and the fungus-covered walls? Nope, I still wanted the bed. But the picture had to go.
A tap at the outer door brought me back to the sitting room. “Were we expecting somebody?” I asked Vayl.
“Always,” he replied gravely.
I drew Grief, triggered the magic button, and sank into the chair nearest to Dave, holding the crossbow comfortably in my lap. All that my Sensitivity told me was that the creature on the other side of the door scented vampire. At least I had that. Before I’d died the first time, I’d been stuck in the five-sense box with everybody else I knew. I still hadn’t figured out if these extra-specials had been worth the price. But at the moment—any advantage they gave me got a definite hell yeah! As soon as I nodded to Vayl he said, “Come in.”
Marcon stepped inside and stopped, his eyes darting nervously from Vayl to Grief and back again. He winked, which I found odd, until he did it again and I realized he’d developed a twitch. Which meant something had changed. He’d been nervous before. Now he seemed überstressed. “Disa and Sibley wish to discuss Hamon’s contract with you,” he said.
“It’s a little late now,” I replied roughly.
“Ah, my apologies.” His bow, so courtly, took me to another age. I suddenly felt underdressed and ill-mannered. “Our sense of timing never seems to be in step with that of the outside world,” he said.
Despite my obvious red-neck ancestry, I soldiered on. “What is there to discuss? You people are in breach. You’ve allowed injury to my guy, here. Plus, you don’t seem to be able to tell your asses from a hole in the ground. What guarantee do we have that you won’t pull some idiotic stunt during negotiations that will blow our chance to eliminate Samos, or worse, get us killed?”
Marcon’s eyelid fluttered so wildly he put a finger to it and rubbed. “Sibley requested that I extend to all of you the Vitem’s deepest apologies, and ask if you would consider rejoining the contract. If so, we would like to confirm the details you and Hamon agreed to, as well as any new deals you might like to make.”
“What did Disa say she would do to you if you came back with a negative reply, Marcon?” Vayl asked gently.
He shuddered. “N-nothing.”
“But if I walked in the Trust once more, you would tell me . . .”
Marcon stared at him miserably, then shook his head. “You should never have left.”
“I was little more than a killer when I was here.”
“Yes, but you were ours.”
Vayl shrugged. “Now I am the CIA’s. And”—his eyes strayed to mine—“I am more.”
Marcon’s sigh could almost have been a sob. “What shall I tell the Vitem?”
Vayl tied off the last stitch and cut the thread with the scissors Dave handed him. “I will tell them myself.”
“Do you want me to come?” I asked.
“Not this time,” he said. Before I could argue, he was crouched in front of me, his fingertips warm on my face.
“I should be there to guard your back,” I whispered as his eyes lightened to the green I equated with long, breathless kisses.
“That is David’s job,” he said.
But he’s injured! Plus, the danger around us is so electric it’s practically sparking. If we’re separated here, where everyone’s against us, will we ever come back together?
Small nod of Vayl’s head. “Perhaps you could bring our bags in and get us settled. I believe that vehicle you wanted to take off-road is now parked in the garage. At least”—he lifted an eyebrow—“I am fairly sure Tarasios said that is what he did with it.”
It took me longer than it should have to get his drift. First I had to get past the I’m-not-your-goddamn-maid! reaction before I could decipher his real message. Tarasios had pulled all their cars out of the garage. Ours wasn’t even on Trust property. Which meant Vayl was giving me an excuse to go outside. Why?
Because Disa would never allow those Weres to live.
They were too hard to kill in their present form, so she’d probably just wait until they turned and then have one of her lackeys do them from a distance. It would be bad news for the Trust if the wolf got back to his pack and told his story. And the bear—well, he’d have his own loose-knit league who’d be enraged at his tale. Wars had started over less.