EIGHT
It had been such a long time since the last one that I foolishly thought they were gone. That, and the fact that the last time the Vargr were in town, I’d killed two of their pack mates—or whatever they called themselves. The mere mention of them brought me right back to that room, with the manacles on the wall and the smell of dog lingering in the air. They were a race of wolves, looking more like Scandinavian supermodels than dogs, with eyes as cold as glaciers. I shuddered at the thought of staring into those eyes again. But since they’d left another marker—a severed animal head with their mark written in blood on its forehead—the odds of that happening were high.
It was the third one. The first one showed up months ago on 128th Street, followed by a second marker found on the Lower East Side. The markers were their official calling cards, putting everyone on notice that the wolves were in town.
“Where did you find it?”
“Lincoln Center. They left the damn thing on the ring of the Revson Fountain.”
“That’s bold.” I imagined a severed stag head lying on the granite ring as the patrons of the arts gawked in horror.
Greer grunted in agreement. “I guess we should consider ourselves lucky that we found it before half of Manhattan did.”
His people had a way of finding these things. The markers were usually left with something else, a small sacrificial artifact guaranteed to attract the attention of Greer and his men, leading them straight to the bloody message.
“So, what do we do now?” I asked.
“We do absolutely nothing.”
If there’s one thing I learned from my brief encounter with the Vargr, it’s that they’re bona fide egomaniacs. “Won’t that piss them off?”
“Let’s hope so. Agitated equals careless.”
“That’s all good and nice, but I’ll be the target of all the agitation.” I was the one they wanted. The more we stirred them up, the worse it would be for me when we met, and I had no doubt we would.
“Then you better make sure you bleed.”
My jaw dropped. I don’t know why, because it was exactly the response I expected from him. He was right. A drop of blood was all it took to make visceral confetti out of the last two dogs that held me in that dungeon.
“I don’t think we have to worry about them yet,” he said. “They’re up to something, but they’re lying low.”
The door to the library swung open, and Rhom and Loden walked in.
Rhom looked back and forth between us. “What’s up, boss?”
Loden was the youngest gun on Greer’s team—at least he looked to be the youngest. He was wearing a pair of black leather pants with a black silk shirt, signifying that he hadn’t gotten the message that the eighties were dead. On him it actually worked, and based on the cocky grin he was sporting, he knew his style—good or bad—stood out.
“There’s my girl.” Loden greeted me with one of his flirtatious winks that were always laced with innuendo. “Long time, love.”
Greer handled him with a single look. Loden’s grin rose higher for a defiant instant, then flattened.
Rhom looked at me and then back at Greer. “Did you tell her?”
“She knows about the marker, but we have more immediate issues to address.” He stared at Rhom while they had some silent debriefing. “What do we have?”
“What we have is a situation.” Rhom circled the room before taking a seat in one of the big leather chairs. “Isabetta wants to have a sit-down.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Who’s Isabetta?” The room went quiet as everyone waited for Greer to answer my question.
“Isabetta Falcone.” Greer’s expression soured as her name left his mouth. “She’s one of those people you’d prefer not to sit down with.”
Rhom snorted. “Yeah. Unless you like getting your balls busted.”
“A real man-eater,” Loden added. “I hear she likes chicks, too.”
Greer reined the conversation back in with a loaded stare pointed at Rhom.
“Says she’s got some information we might be interested in. Says it’s about the vessel.”
The vessel Rhom was referring to contained the ultimate grand prize—the third prophecy, the ability to control space and time. The amulet was the key that opened it. Now that we had the amulet, all we needed was the vessel, and voila, the world would be safe from its own self-destruction.
“Set up the meeting,” Greer said.
Rhom glanced at Greer’s attire. “Lose the sweats, boss. We’re late.”
Being late for a meeting with Isabetta Falcone was not a good idea, so we were going into it without taking the time to formulate a plan. Greer described her as some sort of syndicate head.
“She controls lower Manhattan. Everything south of Houston Street.”
“You mean mafia?” I prayed he’d correct me with something a little less criminal sounding.
“Something like that.”
“And you need me there because…”
“You’re collateral. If Isabetta has a lead on the vessel and she’s willing to share that information with us, it’s because she wants us to do the dirty work and find it for her. She sees you, she has more incentive to share.”
He took his right hand off the steering wheel and held it out. “Give it to me.”
I clutched the amulet hanging under my shirt. “Why?”
“Because if I’m wrong, you’re the target. Now, let me have it—please.”
I pulled the chain over my head and handed it to him. The separation was painful as I watched it disappear in his fist.
We parked just north of Little Italy. “Keep an eye on the door,” Greer told Rhom as we got out of the car and approached the restaurant. He tossed the amulet to Loden. “You know what to do with this.”
The place was packed, but the noise level was subdued, giving the illusion of privacy. The waiters were dressed in uniform black suits, good enough for any Park Avenue eatery.
When we entered, a man motioned for us to follow without having to tell him whom we were meeting. He led us toward the far end of the room to a tall booth lined with leather dyed the shade of ripe cherries.
“Isabetta.” Greer greeted the Italian princess as an arm extended from behind the wall of leather. He kissed the hand at the end of it.
I walked around him to get a better look at Isabetta Falcone, but I was blocked by a man standing at the edge of the booth. Obviously, he was her linebacker.
“No, Demitri. Leave her alone.” Isabetta sank deeper into the leather booth and examined me. Her eyes walked from my face down to the lowest point the inconvenient table would allow. “So this is the golden child.”
I waited uncomfortably for an introduction as she pinned me with her stare.
“Is she yours?” she asked Greer without looking at him.
“No, I’m not,” I informed her before Greer had a chance to chime in. “Are you his?” I nodded toward Demitri.
“That’s quite a set of testicles you have, baby.” Her grin widened. “I like it.”
“Isabetta Falcone, this is Alex Kelley.” He glanced at the seat opposite hers. “May we?”
“Where are my manners? Please, sit.” She motioned for the waiter. “What would you like to drink?”
We both ordered Scotch.
Isabetta Falcone was a good-looking woman, but under all that makeup, I imagined there’d be an ordinary face. She appeared to be in her late thirties, though she could have been younger. Certain lifestyles can do that to a woman. Her lavender blonde hair was swept up in the back and teased to give it volume at the crown. Nobody had eyelashes that long, and her pale, frosted lips were enhanced with a thick line at the outside edges to give them pout. But what stood out the most were her sharp hazel eyes.
“Why are we here?” Greer asked.
Isabetta seemed surprised by the abrupt question. “Where I come from, pleasure precedes business—within reason.”
T
wo waiters approached, one carrying a large tray while the other unfolded a small portable serving table. Waiter number one placed the tray on the server and waited for his instructions. “Just make room and leave it,” she ordered as she swept the back of her hand over the tabletop. Waiter number two carefully placed the large platters and basket of bread in the middle of the table.
“I hope you like pasta. I was in the mood for a good steak, but I didn’t know how you liked your meat. We can still order some, if you’d like.” Her eyes flipped up to mine. “Unless you don’t eat meat.”
“I like meat just fine,” I retorted.
She reached for the bottle of wine. As she poured it into our glasses, her long fingernails revealed a tiny diamond embedded in the center of each. There wasn’t a mark on her skin. The combination of pampering and bling gave away the fact that she wasn’t a fan of manual labor. And why should she be?
She looked at the two of us just sitting there. “Eat.”
Still stuffed from chicken curry, we loaded up on pasta out of courtesy, because the real reason for the meeting wasn’t going to be revealed until we showed some respect.
I tried to relax as she watched me eat, occasionally glancing at Greer but never taking her attention away from me for more than a few seconds. Something touched my knee and I realized it was hers. I looked up and she was still staring at me, running her middle finger over the pout of her lower lip.
The waiter replaced the empty bottle of wine on the table, disrupting the awkward moment.
Greer looked at the two of us. Picking up on the situation, he diverted Isabetta’s attention by repeating his earlier question. “Why are we here, Isabetta?”
She ignored him and continued with the visual conversation she was having with me. “I ask out of courtesy, Alex. I usually just take what I want.”
A response escaped me. The idea of Isabetta Falcone using me as her plaything wasn’t pleasant, and even Greer might not be able to get me out of this corner.
She lingered on me for a few more seconds and then turned to address Greer’s question. “We have a mutual interest.”
“In what?” he asked.
“In the prophecy.”
“Half of New York City has an interest in the prophecy. What makes yours any different?”
She straightened in her seat and lost the grin. “I own this part of town.” Her voice dropped an octave, and I had a feeling we were about to see the other side of her—the authentic side. “Do you think I plan to give that up for some little fuck who finds it before we do?”
Something deep and hollow sounded around the table, and I realized it was Greer. “You’d be wise to remember whom you’re talking to, Isabetta,” he warned. It was the scary Greer I hadn’t seen in months.
Demitri stepped forward. Isabetta put her hand up, stopping him before Greer did. The room went still as every ear in the place was on our table. The sudden absence of noise almost made me forget we were in a crowded restaurant.
“You’re right.” She smiled cockily back at Greer. “It was rude of me to lose my temper.”
He nodded once, acknowledging the concession. “Now, stop wasting my time and get to the point.”
She took a deep drink of wine. “Have you heard of a man named David Oxford?”
“No. Who is he?”
“Dr. Oxford has developed something that could be quite useful to us. Rumor has it that the vessel containing the prophecy has been so elusive because we can’t see it.” Her cocky grin returned as she saw the interest fire up on Greer’s face. “It could be sitting right on top of this table and we wouldn’t know it.”
My eyes shot to Greer for confirmation that what she was saying might be true.
“Where did you get your information?” he asked.
“I have my sources, and they’re bulletproof. Apparently it’s made up of colors we can’t see.”
“Ultraviolet?” His interest piqued.
“Oh, it’s beyond that. From what I’ve been told, the spectrum has never been documented. David Oxford has figured out a way to detect it.”
Greer saw the question in my eyes. He had the ultrasonic hearing of a moth, so I assumed his eyes were just as powerful. He moved his head slightly, warning me not to speak as he asked the question himself.
“The obvious question is why you haven’t gone after this Dr. Oxford yourself. What do you need us for?”
She looked back and forth between the two of us. “Well, I don’t want it for myself. Like I said, I just don’t want some piece of shit getting his hands on it and fucking up the whole damn world.” She let out a throaty laugh. “I mean, could you imagine some guido from Staten Island getting his hands on the prophecy?”
“That’s not a very nice way to refer to your relatives,” he said.
Isabetta’s face went as still as a stone. Her pale coloring flushed to a bright shade of pink as the blood rushed to her head. A second later the table jolted as she lurched forward, practically knocking over the bottle of wine. “I’ll feed you your balls if you ever say something like that to me again!” Her eyes darted to mine, and her temper lowered to a simmer. “Don’t you ever call me that again, Sinclair.”
He hadn’t actually called her anything, but a nerve had been struck. He knew just which button to push, and I wondered how.
Greer showed no reaction to the outburst. I, on the other hand, was plastered to the back of the booth from the force of her threat. I knew a cat when I saw one, and Isabetta Falcone had some pretty nasty claws.
“I assume you’re going to tell me where I can find this Dr. Oxford?” he continued, calmly taking a sip of whiskey.
She sat back down, moving a strand of hair from her eyes and taking a forced bite of pasta. “Now I’m not so sure I want to. You really are a bastard, Greer.” She glanced at me. “You know what I’m saying.”
I’d been quiet through most of the exchange but felt the urge to cut the rubber band tightening around the table. I expected Demitri to get in on the action, too, but he just stood against the wall looking bored.
“All right, I’ll tell you,” she finally conceded. “This is business, and I’m not going to let a prick like you stop me from taking care of business.”
I wanted to defend him. Greer may be a prick, but he was my prick. If anyone was going to call him one, it was going to be me, not some mafia princess with a diamond manicure.
“He’s a professor at Cornell. Physics or something like that. He’s been working on some kind of telescope. You know, the kind NASA uses to see what’s out there.” She leaned into the table and lowered her voice. “My sources tell me he stumbled across some anomaly, whatever the fuck that is.”
“What are we supposed to do with a thousand-pound telescope?” I asked, no longer able to stay quiet.
Greer looked at me and then back at Isabetta, because it was a valid question.
She shook her head. “See, that’s the thing—he’s working on something else. He’s got some kind of glasses or goggles that can see shit.”
“And this ‘shit’ is…?”
“Look, I’m no scientist, but I know we can’t see ultraviolet light with the human eye—learned that in high school. We can use a black light to make ultraviolet things glow, but this invention of his can see even beyond that. We’re talking beyond ultraviolet.”
“Interesting.” He nodded as the notion rolled around his head. “So these glasses are in some lab at Cornell?”
“Most likely. He knows about the prophecy, Greer.”
That was all he needed to hear. It was one thing for a professor to be working on the next great discovery in electromagnetic spectrums, but another for that same professor to use that technology for the purpose of finding the vessel.
“He lives in Binghamton.” She handed Greer a slip of paper with David Oxford’s home address as we got up to leave.
We grabbed Rhom on the way out and headed for the car. Loden gave me back the amulet, and we filled the two of them
in on what Isabetta Falcone had told us.
“If she’s telling us the truth, and I think she is, we’re taking a road trip,” Greer informed me without opening it up for discussion.
Rhom looked unconvinced. “I don’t trust the bitch. Excuse my language, Alex.”
“It’s okay, Rhom. She is one.”
“She’s as greedy as the next one,” he muttered. “Why the hell isn’t she sending her own guys up there?”
Greer smirked as he considered the question. This wasn’t his first rodeo with Isabetta Falcone, and I had a feeling he knew her better than he let on. “Because she doesn’t think her idiots can get the job done, and she knows we can.”
Rhom wasn’t buying it. “I still don’t trust her. And she’s full of it if she says she doesn’t want to get her hands on the vessel. Wants us to safely contain it—bullshit.”
Greer nodded in agreement. “She wants it all right, but she wants us to do all the work. As soon as we get our hands on whatever this thing is up at Cornell, she’ll come for it.”
“Then let’s do it,” Loden said.
Greer gave it about two seconds of thought and then looked at me. “Want to take a drive?”
NINE
Cornell University was located a little more than two hundred miles northwest of Manhattan in the city of Ithaca. That meant I was about to spend a minimum of three hours in a car with Greer—depending on how well he obeyed the speed limit.
There were faster ways for him to get to Ithaca without the use of a car, but those methods would require a tremendous expense of energy. With me in tow, it would be worse. The benefits of saving a few hours would be outweighed by the time it took for him to rejuvenate after manipulating matter—for both of us. And Greer liked his fleet of toys. A trip upstate gave him an excuse to let loose on the road without the restrictions of city driving.
“Respectfully, boss, I have to disagree with you on this one.” Rhom shook his head as we prepared for the trip.
“I second that,” agreed Thomas. “Nothing good will come from the two of you up there without backup.”
The Blood Thief (The Fitheach Trilogy Book 2) Page 8