Lost Angeles

by Mantchev, Lisa

  He bounces up, every muscle in his body clenching. “Oh, shit.”

  I take one step in his direction, but Roman catches me by the elbow. “Let me get you a drink. We have matters to discuss.”

  “I don’t have any matters that I’m willing to discuss with him,” I fire back.

  But Roman is already pouring out the expensive Scotch. “Those matters involve him, Xaine.”

  “Oh yeah? So you wanna discuss how he ran Euro-trash euros through every international piece of commercial real estate I own?” I spit the words, eyes fixed on Matty’s face. He’s backed up against a wall of bookshelves now, gaze hopping from my face to Roman’s. “Or how he cooked my books so hard they left scorch marks on the damn desk?”

  “Well, yes,” Roman says, handing me a glass. “We could discuss that. Or we could discuss why he did it.”

  If anything, Matthias dials up the nervous-twitchy when we both cast eyes toward him.

  “Ah,” I say, taking a sip of Scotch. It burns, but at least I’m not the one with my nuts to the fire. “So you think he had a motive beyond lining his own pockets?” I pause a moment, realizing there might have been another reason that I bumped into the GQ twins outside. “Wait, did Cas put you up to it?”

  “Fuck no,” Matty says, vehement all of a sudden. “It was my own idea.” Then, as if realizing what he just admitted, he clamps his lips and clears his throat. “Nobody gives me any credit.”

  “Because you’re a halfwit with a get-rich-quick scheme for every occasion.”

  “It was working this time!”

  “Yeah, at my expense,” I snap. “You let strange people funnel strange money through my asset pool. Now, I’m no angel, but I’m no Trick St. John either. I generally like to keep my nose out of politics and my business on the up-and-up. Keeps the feds off my ass, y’know?”

  “It wasn’t hurting anything,” he insists. “It was just a bunch of rich old vamps trying to make a break for the US border.”

  “Yeah, you were just breaking the law, no big deal.”

  “What do you care?” Matty says. “You break the law all the damn time.”

  “I care, because if they’d caught you smuggling cash into the country then it would have been my ass on the line. Do you think the IRS would have slapped me on the wrist and let me off with a warning? Not for billions of dollars. Not to mention the fact that you’d be in prison.”

  “It was perfect,” he insists. “Nobody would have ever figured it out.”

  “Newsflash, asshole, someone did figure it out,” I say. “You’re just lucky it was my guys or you’d really be in the shit.”

  He swaps out defiant for petulant. “I just wanted my own money.”

  “Then go make your own money.”

  “I want what you all have.” Matty pulls himself up and puffs out his chest. “Respect. Power. All of that.”

  One step, two steps. Menacing, but not menacing enough for Roman to stay my hand as I get right up in Matty’s face, chest to chest with his stupid crew neck tee and leather jacket. I can see the fear, in his eyes, in the way his jaw twitches, and how he tries to avoid my gaze.

  “You want respect and power, Matty?” I ask. “You have to quit trying to take every damn shortcut under the sun and earn it. I earned it. Cas earned it. Hell, even St. John earned it.” The eerie green of his irises finally fix on my face, but at least he has the sense to keep quiet. “These men demand respect. They don’t ask permission, but they also don’t walk someone else’s corner either. You want to know who built America? We did.”

  “Yeah, well, America’s already built, isn’t it?” Matty frowns. “What the fuck is left for me to do?”

  “Figure it out.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he tells me. “You motherfuckers have all the money in the world to ‘figure it out.’”

  “We watch your back, don’t we?” I ask. “We keep you out of the gutter, off the street, and generally flush. I gave you a job, Matty, and despite the fact that you almost royally screwed me, I’ve got no plans to toss you out into the sunlight. Trick takes care of you, although god knows why. Hell, even Cas would help you out if you asked.”

  “Jesus, whatever,” he mutters, indignant. “Save your bullshit solidarity speech. You assholes hate each other.”

  “You can hate a guy and still respect him,” I say. “Just like you can like a guy and still think he’s a child hellbent on trying to run before he can even walk.”

  “Fuck you,” Matty tells me. “One day I’m going to be bigger than all of you, and you will all get to eat my shit.”

  “Yeah, well, good luck with that.” Turning, I glance at our maker and add, “Roman, you wasted a pint of perfectly good blood turning this bottom-feeding brat.”

  It’s a dare. A challenge. Apparently, planting one on Cas only whetted my appetite.

  A few seconds pass. Matty even goes so far as to ball up a fist, but that’s all. It’s not even worth rubbing in, frankly, so I take my drink and throw myself onto the couch. Tired of him. Tired of the nonstop crap, first at the club, now here.

  “So now that we have a really clear picture as to the why, maybe we can address the who,” Roman says. For a long moment, the only noise comes from the fire that he keeps burning, winter and summer. Not gas, but wood that hisses and pops, with sap bubbling on the surface. The flames are soothing. Hypnotic. I should be relaxing into the chair, but all the tension in my neck and shoulders released during the car drive is back again full-force.

  I exhale hard through my nose. “Please do not tell me that he was running mafia money through Scion.” And then… then it’s like being clobbered in the back of the head with realization. “Except that would explain why a dead body turned up behind Scion last night.”

  “It wasn’t the mafia!” Matty yelps. “Jesus, how stupid do you think I am?”

  “Pretty stupid, obviously!” I counter. “So if it wasn’t the mafia, who was it?”

  But I aim the question at Roman, who obviously already knows the answer. That’s why Matty is here, called to the carpet. Probably why Cas and Trick were here, come to think about it. Whatever is going on, it’s big.

  “First,” Roman says, in that way he has of shutting things down, “let us discuss this body they’ve found.”

  Rules of the house say I answer his questions before he answers mine. “Some asshole pulled her out of the dumpster behind Scion, but the police keep questioning me like I’m the prime suspect.”

  “They should know better.” He sits down opposite me on the couch. “You’re smarter than that.”

  I hope?

  I hear the unspoken question in his voice and glare at him. “Yeah, I am.” And we both know the last person I killed didn’t end up in a dumpster. “The body smelled weird, Roman.”

  “Most bodies do,” Matty says, choosing that moment to toss his last two cents on the table. “Man, I’m glad I’m not the one having to deal with that shitstorm. I bet Reille is pissed.” He flops into a chair near the fire, taking up a cup full of red and sipping at it like it’s a fine wine. He’s too young to stomach anything but blood, and I’m too old to stomach his post-post-adolescent rebel-neophyte bullshit.

  “Yeah, thanks for that, douchebag.” I shoot him a dirty look before returning my attention to Roman, who’s watching me thoughtfully. “It was like… more than death, I mean. Not human. Not vampire, but still something Dark.”

  Roman leans forward an inch. “What makes you think that?”

  “There wasn’t a mark on her, but I know that girl had been tortured. Brutalized. But not… physically.” The frustration mounts, because there’s no way to explain the hunches and gut feelings that run my life. Everything I’ve ever done was because of some little voice inside my head. Angel or devil or both, that voice guides me in the right direction. Right now, there are things bouncing around in my brain, circumstances and reasons, none of which I actually understand. “I don’t know, but my instincts are telling me that somethi
ng’s wrong here.”

  Roman’s gaze scours my face, giving me that warrior once-over that probably made grown men piss themselves back in the olden days. “Describe the smell.”

  “Sweet, like syrup, but with a little bit of decay.”

  Matty pipes up again. “Bodies—”

  “Smell, I know,” I say, cutting him off, which earns me a grim expression of reproof from Roman. “But that wasn’t it, you know? Everything was too fresh for that.” It’s like I’m being punched in the instincts now. Blows I can’t see coming, the foe invisible but probably not unknown. There’s too much confluence: Cas and Trick here tonight; Lumen back from Italy. “What are we dealing with? Because I think you have some idea.”

  Roman rubs his thumb alongside his nose before answering. “It recently came to my attention that certain people have taken strides toward, shall we say, revolution?”

  “Certain people?” I ask, to clarify. “Or certain vampires?”

  “The latter.” He leans back, as if unconcerned by the prospect of a possible rebellion. “Pockets of restless vampires making waves, frothing at the mouth for social change, rioting, breaking things. The usual, really.”

  “What does that have to do with my dead body?”

  Roman takes another sip of Scotch and turns his eyes toward the fire. The silence extends outward, blanketing the room with an oppressive weight that I can actually feel. Those are the sorts of emotions Roman has, the kind that permeate and transcend, and right now I’m getting a whole lot of listless ennui coming off The Sire.

  “Everything and nothing,” he says eventually, cutting his attention back to me. “I’m not entirely sure how large the movement is. What I do know is, eventually, someone will rise to the top. The cream, so to speak. Things will progress, idealistic men will wrest control over this so-called revolution. Those leading the charge will need prominent and powerful allies, and they will not stop until they procure them. They will approach me. They will approach you. They will approach Caspian and Patrick and anyone who holds the reins of money, society, and fame.”

  “And by ‘approach’ I assume you mean bribe, cheat, extort, maim, and blackmail?”

  Roman gives a slow nod. “Small men with big ideas need bigger men with larger fortunes, both literal and figurative, and we are those men.” He goes silent for another moment before he adds, “We have always been those men, Xaine. Proceed with caution. It might be wise to have an alibi in case of similar incidents.”

  “You could ring up Trick and get one of his girls to follow you around,” Matty suggests cheerfully. “Maybe put her on a pretty leash, Hilton-style.”

  I glare at him, because the last thing I want right now is someone trailing after me, making noise, making demands. I don’t have any kind of 24-hour personal assistant for that precise reason.

  For the first time this evening, there’s a twinkle of amusement from Roman. “Well now, that would be something to see. Alas, I fear Xaine might actually catch a murder charge if left to that end.”

  It’s true that I don’t have an abundance of patience on a good day, and having someone perched on my nuts all day, every day sounds like a nightmare. Nope, believe it or not, I’m all about the chemistry and less about the biology. Trick St. John, though, he’s a completely different animal, one that’ll piss on any tree that’s green enough. And his girls? Not a single brain in the bunch. But speaking of girls… “What about Lumen?”

  Roman turns the crystal glass in his hand, fingertips walking across the smooth surface. “What about her?”

  “I know you didn’t bring her back from Italy so she could tell me she missed me.” I don’t like the idea of her caught in the crossfire, and that tends to happen to the women in my life. “What’s she got to do with all this?”

  His expression shifts then. Vampires don’t age, but he suddenly looks older, weary, with an undercurrent of sadness that I haven’t seen since Elin died.

  Finally he answers, “Everything and nothing.”

  And fuck me for asking.

  I sigh and hold my cup out, because apparently all I’m getting out of Roman right now is a refill.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lore

  It’s funny, the things you notice when people think you aren’t looking. Reille Reece flits past the main stage, taking up a seat at one of the tables on the ground floor, just past the light where it’s harder to be seen. She spreads out there, neat stacks of papers on the table, laptop open. Phone to her ear, she works there for the better part of two hours, ignoring the music from the stage, disregarding all interruptions.

  At the soonest possible opportunity, I’m marching my ass down there for a little tête-à-tête. Since arriving at Scion, ostensibly for rehearsal, I’ve been shoved in and out of various outfits, most of which would do a streetwalker proud. I don’t even get a dressing room, just three pairs of Spanx and a perfect view of all the things on the other side of the curtain. For the most part, I can ignore the jabs and pokes and admonitions to stand up straight, keeping my eyes on the redhead in the shadows.

  So close. And yet so far…

  But I figure she’ll be there when I’m done, at least until a lackey hits the dance floor. The woman is wearing a nude dress so tight that it hampers her walk, her too-tall heels creating a metronome beat, a pretty prestissimo that doesn’t faze the trio onstage. She skids to a halt at the corner of the table, drawing Reille’s attention as her hip bangs against the edge. There’s a moment of confusion, then a simple, two-word warning.

  “He’s coming.”

  After that, it’s a mad scramble to tuck away papers and files and folders, and then both women are gone, exiting stage left even as His Royal Majesty enters stage right. He strides into the space, his nose to the air like a bloodhound. It would almost be funny, except Xaine looks far from entertained. He’s in a pair of his signature leather pants and a silk button-down, except there are no actual buttons on the dang thing. Bare-chested and scowling…

  Dark Prince Apocalypse.

  Xaine pulls to a halt below the stage, unperturbed by my state of undress. “Hey there, Fuzzy Bunny. They treating you right?”

  It takes a second, but then I realize Xaine means me. I am the Fuzzy Bunny. “Sure. Bottled water. Catered lunch. Et cetera.” I wave a hand at the nearby table, which is set up with a coffee service, sodas, blood packs, pre-made salads, sushi, and fruit. He gives me the briefest of nods, gaze already drifting out over the darkened auditorium when I tack on, “Thanks for all the… um… welcome gifts?”

  Not sure what I’m expecting by way of a reaction, but it’s certainly not the tiny crinkle of amusement at the corner of those famously-blue eyes. “So did you eat all the things?”

  “Yeah,” I say, wincing a little when the stylist stabs my hip with a pin. “Twenty pies, five dicks, and a sausage basket… I made a night of it.”

  There it is, then: the smirk. The one he wears onstage, in videos, in photoshoots. It’s his trademark half-fang grin, one I’ve seen on TV hundreds of times and in thousands of pictures. Seeing it in person is a little surreal.

  “Sounds like my kind of party,” he says, the whole of his attention now on me, on the outfit, on the stylists. “What have they got you dressed in?”

  “Given the amount of leather and the number of times I’ve been stuck by a pin,” I say, offering him a slightly sardonic smile, “I’m going to go with fetwear?”

  “Also sounds like my kind of party, except for the fact that you’re more covered up than a nun.”

  “I’m not sure what nuns you’ve met that wear leather pants…” I let that trail off, just to see what he’s going to say.

  Right on cue, he hits me with, “The ones in my kind of church.”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. “And this is why I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

  Xaine reaches out a hand and starts flicking through the rack of clothes like a little kid stuck in a department store. “Says who?”

  Affec
ting boredom is harder than it looks. “Everyone, and with good reason, probably.”

  “Newsflash, Bunny, I’m hardly a stranger. You’ve known me your whole life.”

  A smooth gambit, I’ll give him that. “Almost everyone has. You’re famously immortal. In any case, it was nice meeting you.”

  That recaptures his attention, but good. Xaine’s head cocks to the side, one brow arching in surprise. Abandoning the clothes, he moves toward me. The sound of his shoes on the stage is hollow, loud, and steady.

  Allargando.

  “Did you just dismiss me?” Before I have a chance to answer, he narrows his eyes and leans in a little to ask, “Who says fuzzy bunnies shouldn’t talk to strangers, anyway? Enquiring minds want to know.”

  I make a show of plucking at the fabric of my shirt. “My parents, my roommate, Jax Trace, every PSA ever.”

  Whatever remains of Xaine’s humor fizzles away. “Jax… Trace. As in Genesis Records’ Jax Trace?” He holds out a hand. “About yay-high, ass for a chin, enough hair gel to function as a motorcycle helmet Jax Trace?” When I nod, he adds, “How do you know him?”

  A half-shrug. “I do my research.”

  “Meaning you hit up Google.” Sounds like a joke, but Xaine’s still eying me like I might have spygear hidden under my Spanx.

  “Yup.” Then I slant him a sidelong glance. “A wealth of information there, but even the internet can’t tell me why you and Ms. Reece called it quits.”

  His expression goes black at that. “You’re right, you shouldn’t talk.”

  No qualification there, and he stares me down, waiting for me to flinch or balk, but like I told Jax Trace, I can do this all day.

  “The slutty ones are quieter,” I only offer up. “Or so I hear.”

  He snorts. “Not in my experience.”

  “So what exactly was your experience?” I drill him a little, then add, “Enquiring minds want to know.”