by Alex Rivers
“Because cameras can’t take his picture,” Kane said slowly. “He’s a vampire.”
I nodded. “And that means we can’t pick his pocket—he’ll notice it. And we can’t trick him into drinking truth serum. Vampires drink nothing but blood.”
Chapter Twenty-One
I had less than ten hours to come up with an alternative plan, or our chance to break into the dragon’s mansion tonight would be blown.
Harutaka had gone to sleep in the bedroom upstairs, leaving me and Kane in the dining room alone. I fiddled with my empty Starbucks cup as I tried to figure out what to do.
Now that we knew Maximillian Fuchs was a vampire, his nightly excursions to pick up women suddenly took on a much darker aspect. He was picking up his dinner. I doubted he killed them; he probably only drained as much as he needed. Vampires who killed their prey didn’t survive for long. The vampire community was small and tight, and policed its own. A vampire who killed his food endangered them all, which meant he had to go. But still, I doubted that these women Maximillian picked up knew what they were getting themselves into.
Could we use it? Maybe one of these women would help us somehow? Could they know something about him? Or they might serve as a distraction—barging up into the banquet, throwing accusations…
No. I couldn’t see how that would help us, and I was leery of using anyone else for this job.
“You want to discuss it?” Kane asked. He stood by one of the dining room windows. He’d opened the blind and was gazing out at the garden.
“Discuss what?”
“The plan. Obviously we need to change it a bit.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“We can think of something together,” he suggested, turning to face me. “Brainstorm it. Throw ideas into the wind. No idea is too dumb to consider.”
“Fine. Sure. What do you have in mind?”
“We could force him to open it,” Kane suggested.
“How exactly?”
“With a holy symbol. Or garlic. Threaten to drive a wooden stake through his heart.”
“That’s a dumb idea.”
“I don’t think you understand the whole brainstorming concept.”
“Vampires don’t really fear holy symbols, and they have no problem with garlic, you know that as well as I do. Besides, we’re burglars, not fighters. I doubt if even the five of us together could overcome one vampire.”
“What about running water? Vampires can’t cross running water.”
“So what do you want to do? Dig a canal?”
He walked over to the table and grabbed the chair adjacent to mine, sitting down. “I’m just thinking out loud. Why are you being so hostile?”
“Because we’re screwed, that’s why! There’s no way we can beat a vampire. Maybe if we had a week to plan… but the banquet is tonight. And Breadknife knows what we’re planning. He knows tonight is the night. He’ll show up tomorrow morning at my door, wanting his box and his Yliaster crystal, and I’ll have to tell him, ‘sorry, dude, but it turns out that a vampire got in our way, no hard feelings, right?’ And then he’ll burn my shop and… and…”
Kane grabbed my palms, squeezing them lightly, his grass-green eyes looking into mine. I stopped rambling, lost in the depth of his gaze, feeling a sudden warmth in my stomach. I took a deep breath.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“Breadknife is our client?”
“Yeah.” I already regretted blurting that. “He just wants the box with the Yliaster crystal, nothing else. You don’t have to worry about that. Breadknife is my problem.”
“I see. And we’re talking about the Yliaster crystal? The one that can contain souls?”
“You’ve heard of it?” I tried to laugh it off, but it came out as a strange gurgle. “I doubt the Yliaster crystal is real. It’s a box with a crystal inside it.”
“But Breadknife thinks it’s the Yliaster crystal?”
“It really doesn’t matter, okay?”
“Okay.” His fingers slid along the back of my hands, rubbing them in a soothing motion. “Then let’s figure out how to handle this vampire problem.”
“How?” My breathing became husky. I wanted him to keep sliding his fingers up my hands forever. I wanted him to go higher, up my wrist, my arm, to my neck.
“Maybe we don’t need to beat the vampire. Maybe we can figure out how the dragon enters his vault and use that.”
“Harutaka is right, dragons are incredibly powerful. It could be anything. Maybe he can teleport. Or move through walls. Anything is possible. It might take days to find out how he does it.”
“I think we might have to try, Lou. Vampires can’t be easily tricked. They are faster and deadlier than almost anything. They can smell the fear in our blood. They want nothing that we can offer them. We can’t tempt them with lust or bribery or gifts—”
“Smell the fear in our blood,” I repeated. I snatched my hands from his, trying to clear my mind. “They do want something from us, Kane. Something we all have. Blood.”
“Lou, no offense, but if you’re thinking of offering that vampire a goblet of your blood, spiked with a little truth serum, I think you might be disappointed by the result. Vampires are not known for their stupidity.”
I was only half-listening to him, my mind whirling with possibilities. “I think I have a plan. But I have to get to my lab and start working. There’s no time to lose.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
By the time I finished preparing the potion, my body was drenched in sweat. The lab was more than just stuffy. The alchemical reactions my preparations created exuded heat and steam, and the air was almost hazy with warm fog. A single vial, containing a sticky, dark red fluid, sat on the counter.
I checked the time and spat out a curse. It was half past five. The banquet started at eight, and I had to be there at seven sharp.
My hair, clothing, and even my skin stank from alchemy.
I smelled like a mixture of ammonia, ripe cheese, and the weird tobacco my great-uncle used to smoke in his pipe after Thanksgiving dinner. I couldn’t go to the banquet smelling like that; I would be fired before I even stepped through the gate.
I dashed to the bedroom, Magnus chasing me and barking in excitement. Cursing and repeatedly glancing at the time, I shrugged out of my shirt, pants and underwear, throwing them all in a stinking crumpled pile. Magnus stepped to the heap of clothing, sniffed at it, then commenced rolling in it, eyes closed in glee. Given that my dog had a penchant for rolling in roadkill carcasses, that wasn’t a great compliment on my current odor.
Okay, shower. I opened the door, stepped inside, closed the door behind me while leaning against the wall, one foot pushing Magnus out. I turned on the water and adjusted the temperature to “fires of hell.” Only water close to boiling would wash this stench away.
I’d had the foresight to braid my hair before I began working, so I only needed to shampoo it three times to get the stink out. I scrubbed my body until it was red and raw. Then I got out, toweled myself, wrapped the towel around me, and went out to the bedroom.
I had picked the outfit for the evening beforehand, and it was spread out on my bed. Black shirt and pants, dark boots, a brown belt with a silver clasp. It was well suited for both a waitress and a bona fide burglar. The pants’ legs were tailored to be wide and loose. After putting them on, I grabbed the ankle holster with my small Glock and slid it onto my left ankle. My lockpicking kit snapped shut and tight on my right ankle.
I put on my shirt, and checked the hidden pockets in my sleeves. One already hid a vial of Margherita’s fix-it-all. Another held a potion intended to help me crack the safe. I picked up the vial of red liquid, and slid it into the third hidden pocket. Then I touched my silvery chain, and let it slide up my wrist. It looped several times and latched into a loose bracelet.
“Angustus,” I murmured, and the bracelet tightened, flawlessly fitting my wrist.
I went up to the mirror, and put my
Bluetooth earphone in my left ear. Then I carefully combed my hair until it covered it completely. I grabbed a can of “Extra Super Hold Professional Hair Spray” from my night table, and sprayed the hair covering the earphone with it thoroughly. I moved my head around a bit, verifying that the earphone remained well hidden under the stiff hair.
Amateur burglars often forgot to pee before a job, and found themselves trying to crack a safe while cross-legged. I was anything but an amateur. I quickly went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet, realizing a fraction of a second later that it was still wet from my shower. I did what I had to, dried myself up a bit, and fixed my clothing again, making sure in the bedroom mirror that all was well.
I checked the time again, muttered the obligatory “Fuck,” and dashed outside, grabbing my purse on the way and shouting apologies at Magnus, who howled at the door, mortally offended that I wasn’t taking him with me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I reached the mansion only five minutes early, which was, to my taste, cutting it a bit close. I immediately noticed that the gate now held three guards, not two. Jonathan Roth waited in the entrance and tried to hurry me inside, but the guards checked my ID meticulously, and verified my name was on the list. There would be no mistakes tonight. As Jonathan briskly led me to the dining hall, muttering angrily that I could have been a bit earlier, I noticed there were two patrolmen with dogs walking alongside the outer wall. They didn’t want anyone crashing this party. We went past a hostess standing by a table with dozens of seat placement cards, around through the back door, and into the kitchen.
“Each table needs to have a bread basket and a bottle of wine before the guests show up,” Jonathan told me. “Each bread basket should contain a dozen buns. After that’s done, we begin setting the salads. Hurry, the rest of the staff are already working at it.”
I joined the waiters in the dining hall. Sally, a nice waitress I had befriended the day before, whispered that Jonathan had already changed his shirt once. Apparently, this was his first big banquet, and his armpits were drenching his suit. Though he was a thoroughly annoying individual, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.
Going to the farthest table, I took out my phone and logged into our voice chat.
“I’m here,” I murmured. “Baroness Fleurette? How are you doing?”
“Wonderful, darling,” Sinead’s voice rang with a rich Dutch accent. The engine of the car hummed in the background. “I am on my way in our lovely car, driven by my ravishing butler, Bente Visser.”
“Hardly ravishing,” Kane’s voice interjected.
“You’re just upset because I made you leave that ghastly coat of yours behind,” Sinead said, her baroness accent becoming even more pronounced.
I stifled a smile. “And your personal assistant?”
“I’m here,” Isabel’s voice was soft. “Looks like we’ll get there at eight sharp.”
“No rush,” I murmured. “Reception is until eight-thirty. You can be ten minutes fashionably late. Harutaka?” He was supposed to be in the nearby mansion, monitoring us.
“Right here,” he said. “Watching you through the security camera. A waiter behind you is checking out your ass.”
“Well, if she’s wearing her black pants, her ass looks delicious in them,” the baroness said.
“Yes, thank you for keeping this chat professional,” I muttered. “Okay, I’m going to set some tables. Baroness, remember, once you’re here, you need to order a—”
“Bloody Mary, yes darling. You’ve only told me eleven times.”
I placed twelve buns in the bread basket, and moved to another table. In the background, Jonathan was yelling at a waiter that there were no bathroom breaks until nine o’clock. I tuned his nasally voice out, feeling irritated.
Something nagged at me, but I wasn’t sure what. Had I forgotten something? I made sure that I had the potions and the lockpicking kit. Setting a bread basket on another table, I began going through the plan. The baroness and her entourage would get here in their car. They would go to the front gate, give the invitation to the guard. The guard would verify that the baroness is on the guest list, then usher her in. She would sit at her table, and order a Bloody Mary. I would serve her the drink after adding the potion to it and—
She would sit at her table.
“Harutaka,” I said quietly, my lips hardly moving. “Did you add the baroness to the seating arrangements?”
A few seconds went by. I counted twelve buns. Put them in a bread basket.
“No,” Harutaka finally admitted. “I didn’t think of that. I’ll do it now.”
“It’s too late now,” I said, feeling the blood leaving my face. “The seat placement cards are already outside, waiting for the guests.”
“You’ll have to switch them,” Sinead said urgently, the Dutch accent gone from her voice.
I glanced at Jonathan, who watched the action around him, his eyes intense. “Yeah. Leaving might be tricky, but I’ll have to try.”
My mind whirled, trying to find a good excuse to leave the dining hall.
“Sinead, don’t show up until I tell you to,” I finally said. “I’ll fix this.”
Jonathan’s garment bag hung on one of the chairs. I went over to it, carrying a bread basket. Once at the table, I set the basket down, glanced around to verify no one was looking, and quickly grabbed the garment bag. Marching quickly to the corner, I slid it under a table, dragging the tablecloth slightly so it hid the bag.
Then I went back to work, eyeing Jonathan and repeatedly checking the time. We began setting the salads. Six dishes to each table, each portion fit for a king. I checked the time. Almost eight. There were two large matching stains on Jonathan’s armpits, but he was distracted by the salads and didn’t pay attention.
I went over to him. “Um, Jonathan? The tomato salad with the leaves—”
He rolled his eyes. “The insalata Caprese?”
I glanced at his armpits for a fraction of a second. “That’s the one. Should it be placed by the salad with the lettuce and bread bits—”
“Good god, were you born in a barn? Those bread bits are croutons, and the salad is called Perigourdine.”
I eyed his armpits again, then quickly glanced away. “Right, Perigourdine. So should it be to its right or—”
“Like I said before, the order of the salads is, in a clockwise direction, the insalata Caprese, the Rojak, the Taramasalata, then the Perigourdine…” He slowed down, seeing my eyes as they dipped to his armpits again. “The, uh… Cappon magro and finally the Karedok. Clockwise. Do you know what clockwise means?”
“Sure, thanks!” I said brightly and strode away. From the corner of my eye, I saw him check his armpits, then hurry to the chair where his bag had been. He looked around frantically, checked under the table, then circled around several other tables.
I had expected him to go look for it somewhere else—in the bathroom or in his car—giving me time to sneak away, but he seemed to be circling the same tables over and over, his eyes widening in panic.
I sighed and approached him. “Is everything okay?”
“My bag! It was right here! Did you see it?”
“Did you check the kitchen?” I asked. “Or maybe the bathroom?”
“I would never leave my bag in the kitchen. And I wasn’t even in the bathroom today.” His voice croaked and a sad little squeak emitted from his nose.
“Hang on, is that the big gray bag?”
“Yes!”
“The one you had on your shoulder when you met me at the gate?”
“Yes… I mean… What?”
“You had a big gray bag on your shoulder. Remember?”
His eyes were unfocused as he tried to recall it. “I must have left it there,” he said miserably.
“Yeah.”
He glanced around him. “It’s eight o’clock,” he whispered. “The guests…”
“Do you want me to go grab it for you real quick?” I asked.
I ran outside and down the gravel path to the entrance. The first guests were already milling in, grand-looking men and women, some fussed over by personal servants, all dressed in fancy clothing and glittering jewelry. I approached the table with the seat placement cards. They were situated in rows on the table in front of the hostess, each folded into a neat looking V. A small stack of empty cards stood in the corner of the table, probably for last minute changes.
The hostess faced an elderly man, his arm intertwined in the arm of a woman about my age with an enormous cleavage.
“Name?” she asked.
I walked by the table and tripped, colliding with the young woman and knocking down some of the cards on the table. The woman shouted in outrage, while I stood up, apologizing profusely, helping the hostess rearrange the cards. I carefully palmed one of the empty cards, as well as a filled one, and the pen from the table. Then I slunk into the shadows. Hidden in the darkness, I took a look at the card in my hand. It said “Mr. Boris Vasiliev, Table Eighteen.”
Copying the flourished handwriting as well as I could, I wrote “Baroness Fleurette van Dijk, Table Eighteen” on the empty card, and folded it into a carefully shaped V. I shoved Boris Vasiliev’s card into my pocket. Then I returned to the table, where the hostess had just handed the placement card to the old man.
I approached the young woman, sidling by the table. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry again.” My fingers flicked the V-shaped card onto the table. “I hope you’re all right.”
The woman shot me an icy look and nodded. I gave her an embarrassed smile, and then glanced at the hostess. She peered at me as if I was a snail inside her shoe. I’d made good impressions all around.
Walking back, I murmured, “Okay, Baroness, you’re good to go.”
“Wonderful, darling,” Sinead’s Dutch-inflected voice answered. “You heard her, Bente, you can start the car.”