by Faith Hunter
“He killed them all?”
I nodded. “Humans and vampires both. We—the girls, I mean—were all at the bar. O’Hare kicked open the door, started shooting. Danny was angry. He was offended. He kept shooting until bodies were hardly recognizable. Until the girls couldn’t regenerate.”
“How’d you get out?” Luc’s voice was quiet now.
“The speakeasy had a priest hole, accessible through a trapdoor. That’s how I knew about the spring gun; they were illegal, but the crews used them for protection, to keep the booze safe. There were bottles down there—the old stuff. The good stuff. The pre-Prohibition stuff. I was nicking one when Danny and his men came in the door. I looked out—just enough for a peek—but stayed there until the shooting was done. I knew there was nothing I could do.”
“Of course there wasn’t,” Luc said, and his tone changed. “You think Danny saw the magazine, found out you’re alive, and wants to settle an old score?”
I pulled the coin from my pocket and held it out for Luc’s inspection. He looked it over.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a coin from the Green Clare, Danny’s pub. He gave them out to people he liked. Like a chit they could redeem for a favor. I found it in the bottom of the closet. I think he wants to finish what he started. That’s the only explanation. He thought I was dead, but realized I wasn’t when he saw this.”
“But the magazine came out months ago,” Luc said.
“And it would have taken time for him to figure out how to hurt me. And to find Rachel.”
Luc nodded, pressed a soft kiss to my lips, and released me. “What should I bring with me?”
I didn’t understand the question. “What?”
“What I should pack?”
“You aren’t going. I’m going alone.”
I felt his jarring concern. “What do you mean, you’re going alone? You need backup.”
I didn’t want to talk about backup. I didn’t want to talk about anything, so I didn’t.
I walked to my closet and grabbed clothes from hangers, which I stuffed blindly into the duffel. It didn’t really matter what I packed. It just mattered that I was going, and going alone. There was only one goal: keeping Rachel safe.
“This is my battle. I’ll fight it alone.”
But his emotions only spiked further, driving the headache deeper into my brain.
“Bullshit, Lindsey.”
I froze and slid him a glance. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re a good guard—a smart guard. You know better than to head off to New York to deal with someone who obviously is crazy and wants to kill you.”
“It’s too dangerous,” I said.
“And I call bullshit again. You know I can handle myself, and I’d be an asset. You’re shutting down. And that’s cowardly.”
I stared back at him, absolutely furious. “You’re calling me a coward?”
“I wasn’t, actually, but now I am. You know why? Because that’s exactly what you are. A coward. You’re pushing me away because you’re scared. Scared you’ll lose me. Scared you’ll lose yourself. Scared you’ll lose our friendship.”
“That’s a decent reason to be cautious.”
“You aren’t being cautious. You’re in denial.”
“We’re going to fight about this right now? Right now?”
Luc threw his hands into the air in obvious exasperation, the move sending a shock wave of magic through the room.
“When else would we fight about it, Lindsey? I thought we were over this. I thought I’d finally managed to scale the wall you’ve built around yourself. But apparently not. Because you want to go to New York—knowing you’ll have to face something big and nasty—by yourself. Because you don’t want me there with you? No,” he said. “No, you expressly want me to stay. You can’t even fathom taking me with you.”
“This isn’t about you. It’s about me.” I slapped a hand on my chest. “Me.”
“No,” he said, sadness in his eyes that made my stomach ache. “It’s about us.” He looked down, the pressure in the room changing so quickly I nearly took a step back from it. “I’ll tell Ethan you’re leaving.”
“This isn’t about us,” I persisted, but once again, we both knew I was lying.
“Good-bye, Lindsey,” he said. And then he turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar.
I blinked back tears, and blew out a breath to compose myself. It didn’t matter what happened here, with him. Getting back to New York and taking care of business—that’s what mattered.
I crouched, flipped back the rug that covered the hardwood floor, and pulled up a board I’d loosened many years ago. In the cavity, I’d kept a few mementos from my time as a vampire, including a folder containing information about Danny O’Hare and the Rookery, the neighborhood where he and Tommy DiLucca had held court. The Rookery held a good chunk of the city’s supernatural populations, and according to my research, it hadn’t changed much over the decades. Whether because of the sups’ magic or the humans’ fear, the Rookery and its occupants had been left to their own devices.
The neighborhood still housed the Green Clare, which according to state records was still owned by “William Daniel O’Hare.” It’s not that I’d expected O’Hare or anyone else from the Rookery to look for me after all these years—they hadn’t known I was alive, after all—but I was a Cadogan guard. Luc had trained me to anticipate and prepare, however unlikely the threat might be.
Tears threatening again, I zipped up my duffel and pulled the strap over my shoulder. “Take care of business,” I murmured to myself.
I kept repeating those words all the way downstairs, to the front door, down the sidewalk, and out the gate to the waiting gypsy cab.
Not once did I actually believe them.
—
Lights—red, white, amber, green—blurred through the fog as the cab sped toward the airport. I rolled the window down a crack, just enough to feel the stiff breeze on my face. That didn’t diminish the guilt about the fight or the lingering sense that I’d been wrong about the whole thing, but what was done was done.
And it seemed like Luc and I were done.
I wiped my cheeks, rolled the window up, and crossed my legs. I was a Cadogan vampire, a fashionista, a fighter. A woman who’d seen more in a decade of life than most humans saw in a lifetime. I didn’t need another warden—or someone who validated my existence.
And that’s what I kept telling myself.
I made it onto the plane—the last one out of Midway for the night—just before they closed the doors, and slid into my seat in first class. I’d saved enough money over the years that I could afford the upgrade. I’d checked my duffel, as it held the only weapon I’d brought with me, a small dagger that would fit neatly inside a boot.
Only half the seats on the plane were filled, and their occupants looked exhausted and slept soundly, heads pressed against windows or against the headrests of reclined seats. As they slept, I stared out the window, wide-awake and grieving. I watched the dark earth pass beneath us, cities glowing like amber circuits in the dark.
The airport was empty when we landed, except for a few stranded passengers and shop staff refilling their stock in preparation for the next day’s flights.
I grabbed a cab and headed toward the Rookery. It was a narrow, dark, and dingy rectangle of blocks near the East River, as close as New York came to Gotham. The cab dropped me off on an ominous-looking corner, steam rising from subway vents and the scent of smoke and decaying buildings filling the air.
The smell of the place hadn’t changed much, either.
It was late, and the sun was nearly on the rise. I would be nearly unconscious, and completely vulnerable to the sunlight, which meant I needed to find a place to rest.
According to the Web, the closest
hotel was six blocks away. It was called the Wellington Arms, and a sign above the door read ALL SUPS WELCOME.
The hotel’s name was much more regal than its interior. The lobby was small and shabby, but clean. A man with chopped hair and a piggish face that only a mother could love sat behind a beat-up counter, watching hockey on a portable television with an antenna three times its size.
A bell on the door rang when I entered, and he glanced up and looked me over. “Welcome to the Wellington Arms,” he said, his voice nasal and accented. “Where all your wildest dreams come true. Can I interest you in the bridal suite?”
I reached the counter and dumped my bag on the floor. “You have a bridal suite?”
“Don’t this look like the kind of establishment that has a bridal suite?”
His voice was flat, utterly sarcastic, and I grinned for the first time in hours. “Not exactly. It looks like the kind of establishment that’s got bedbugs the size of my ass, though.”
He perked up an eyebrow and leaned over the counter just enough to take in said ass. “Eh, you’re small. That may not do ’em justice. I assume you’re looking for a room before the sun rises.”
“You assume right.”
“Fancy vamp like you can’t afford a nicer place?”
“Fancy vamp like me doesn’t need a nicer place. How much?”
“Hundred for the room. One fifty if you want a view.”
“Of what?” I wondered, thinking of the steaming alleys and rusting fire escapes outside.
“Our quaint neighborhood and its lush surroundings. Cash only.”
Fortunately, I’d grabbed some at the airport. I took six twenties out of my pocket and laid them on the counter. His eyes widened.
“One hundred for the room,” I said. “Twenty for your refreshing approach to service. An additional twenty when I leave if you never saw me come in.”
He grunted, but he was already sliding a trapezoidal plastic key fob and brass key across the counter. “You weren’t so fancy, guy might think you’re from around here.”
I snatched the key and lifted my hand from the cash, which he transferred to his pocket. “Guy thinks too hard, he loses his tip. Which way?”
He grunted, bobbing his head toward a dingy hallway to my left. I hefted my duffel and made my way to the room.
Like the office, the room was shabby but surprisingly clean. The floor was hard tile, the furniture and decor from an era when disco was king—lots of yellows, oranges, and greens thrown together in wild floral patterns. I wondered if there’d been a Mrs. Wellington Arms who’d picked out the furnishings while her husband minded the front desk. If so, she might have been a vampire, because the floral curtains were lined and carefully clipped together to keep out the sunlight.
I washed my face and brushed my hair and teeth, but kept my clothes on just in case my day was interrupted. I set the chain lock on the door and found two glasses by the sink, which I propped carefully in front of it. They wouldn’t strengthen the door, but they’d make enough of a racket to wake me up if somebody tried to force it.
Luc, I thought, would be proud of the slightly paranoid preparations. But that idea only made me more miserable.
“Task at hand,” I whispered to myself. “Focus. Complete the mission. Then go home and deal with whatever’s left.”
Speaking of home, it seemed a good idea to let somebody know I’d actually made it to New York. I picked Merit; she seemed the most drama-free option. I climbed into bed and adjusted lumpy pillows behind my head, then sent her a message.
IN NY, I texted. BEDDED DOWN.
It took her only a second to answer. GLAD YOU’RE SAFE. ANY NEWS RE: O’HARE?
I guessed word had spread. NOT YET. HE’S MY FIRST VISIT TOMORROW. GOT LAY OF LAND TONIGHT; OVERVIEW.
A few seconds passed before she responded.
AND LUC?
I could practically hear the hesitation in her voice. She wouldn’t want to raise an uncomfortable subject—that was Merit—but she was still a friend, and would have worried.
My fingers paused over the letters, loath to confess the truth. WE DECIDED NOT TO PURSUE RELATIONSHIP.
That sounded entirely logical. So I stuck with it.
But Merit wasn’t buying. YOU’RE ALREADY IN A RELATIONSHIP.
DEFINITELY NOT, I texted back, but an uncomfortable warmth spread through my chest. An emotional foreboding.
ARE TOO, she texted. YOU LOVE HIM. YOU RESPECT HIM. YOU SPEND ALL YOUR TIME TOGETHER—WORKING OR OTHERWISE. THAT’S A RELATIONSHIP.
That wasn’t true, I thought. Couldn’t be true. Because if it was, I’d made a miserable mistake.
—
The sun rose and fell, and I woke just as I’d slept, fully dressed, dagger at my side. I splashed water on my face and checked my phone, which was absent of messages, even from Luc. Though that absence was completely my doing—and my choice—it still stung. I’d become used to him. His jokes. His emotions. His presence. I’d given that up for a cramped hotel room and a run at a man who was threatening my family.
I opened the door, found a bottle of Blood4You, the packaged blood that most American vampires used for convenience (and assimilation) beside it, along with a note: “Have a good night, fancy vamp.”
“And to you, too,” I murmured, popping off the top and drinking the entire bottle in a matter of seconds. I was usually more careful about drinking blood regularly, but the travel hadn’t allowed for it, and I’d been too panicked yesterday to think about it.
Panic led to bad decision making, or so Luc had taught us.
And there he was again, invading my thoughts.
The lobby was empty when I walked through, the TV still blaring sports in grainy black and white. I put the promised twenty on the counter and my key atop it, and headed for the Green Clare.
The pub was hard to miss, short and squat among the multistory buildings in the neighborhood as it was. The street in front of it was marked by a vivid green Shamrock twenty feet from edge to edge. It was the only thing in the Rookery that wasn’t dirty, scraped, or peeling.
I opened the door, letting in a fresh breeze that blew around the scents of blood, booze, and smoke. Patrons, shocked by the interruption, turned to look suspiciously at me. Most were supernaturals, but their expressions and their magic were dulled by alcohol, their emotions equally passive. Fear and sadness lingered, not helped much by a jukebox that blared Delta blues.
I ignored their stares and headed for the brass-railed bar, where a barrel-chested man in his fifties was wiping down the counter.
“Drink?” he asked over the music, without looking up.
“No, thanks. I’m looking for O’Hare.”
He stilled and looked up at me, one absent eye covered by a grisly patch of skin. “Who’s asking?”
“Rose. He’ll be expecting me.”
The bartender looked me up and down, sizing me up. His emotions were relatively flat. He probably figured me for a vampire, but not much of a threat. If Danny was looking to finish his project, this guy didn’t know much about it.
And that only made me more wary.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “He’s in his office.” He gestured toward a hallway that led away from the bar.
“Thanks,” I said, and wandered through tables and gazes.
The hallway was painted black, and it didn’t smell any better than the rest of the bar. Restrooms were located to one side and a fire exit at the end.
That left only a single open door to my left.
I felt for the dagger I’d tucked into my boot, blew out a breath, and stepped into the doorway.
Danny O’Hare was a handsome man. Broad-shouldered, with a cheeky grin and a ruddy complexion. His eyes were blue, and they twinkled at the sight of me.
He sat behind a desk in a tiny office that was crowded
with papers and stacked with boxes of booze. Ironic, I thought, that all that booze was legal now, but it had probably been bought with Prohibition money.
“And who of all people should walk through my door,” he said, with Ireland in his voice, “but a wild Irish Rose.”
“I’m not Irish,” I reminded him. “And you knew I was coming.”
I dropped the coin onto his desk, where it spun for a moment before settling flat again. I set the bait, and waited for his emotions to bob to the surface. But all I could sense was vague interest and childish enthusiasm. That was very much like Danny, who’d seemed to approach life like an adolescent bully. The world was composed of what he owned and what he didn’t own yet. Anything in the second category was fair game.
“I heard through the grapevine you were alive,” he said. “And I’ve seen your face in the glossy. But wasn’t me that asked you here.”
His voice had, as before, a singsong quality that belied his enthusiasm for violence. But nothing seemed dishonest. How was that possible? If he hadn’t called me here to take me out, to finish destroying those close to Tommy DiLucca—or my family, if he couldn’t get to me fast enough—then who had?
“Who’s looking for me?” I heard the mild panic in my voice and pushed it down. I was in control of my own fate. But it was Rachel’s I was worried about.
“Darlin’, times have changed. I don’t control the world as I used to. I’m a simple businessman, working my trade in this public house.”
I didn’t believe that, not for one second. He might be a businessman, but I doubted there was anything simple about it.
“You must know something,” I insisted, peeling off a handful of twenties and dropping them onto the desk in front of him.
His eyes flicked to the cash, just for a moment. “I have heard tell of a woman interested in speaking with you about that night.” He sat back in his squeaky chair, linking his hands behind his head, just like Luc often did, but with considerably more malice.