Hunted By The Others (2 page)

The rest of the day seemed to take an age to creep by. I was inundated with paperwork to fill out from the last couple of runs I had done, so that kept me busy until a little past lunch. Afterward, Jenny wanted to crunch some numbers with me.

I usually let Sara do all of that, but she left after lunch to go do some recon on her latest mark, a charmingly lecherous teenager who’d run off from his parents about three weeks before. It wasn’t the first time he’d run away, but it
was
the first time he’d done it with a vamp. That the parents knew of. Seeing as how the parents were rabid White Hats (card carrying, with little antivampire legislation pamphlets they carried in their pockets—I kid you not) and the teen was a Goth, judging from his picture, this was neither surprising nor entirely unexpected. At least for Sara and me.

Since the boy was nineteen (and the parents were psychotic), the police didn’t give much of a hoot that he’d gone missing. They’d gone through the motions of searching after the missing persons report was filed, but that basically just meant an APB went out, some flyers were posted, and that’s about it. So now the kindly Mr. and Mrs. Borowsky waited until the trail was almost cold to set us on his tail.

Hence Sara’s bright idea for how I could meet Royce. I go in, ask around after the kid, ask for the management and whatnot. After all, he was the most influential vampire in the city. Almost every bloodsucker for three states had to clear their movements, purchases, political aspirations, and most important, who they “turned,” through Royce. If nothing else, he might at least be able to point the way to the sire of the vamp who ran off with the teen.

So now I had a perfectly legitimate reason to talk to him. The idea didn’t make me feel any better about it.

“Shia? Did you hear what I just said?”

Whoops. “Sorry, Jen, what’s that?” It took a real effort to actually concentrate on the figures in front of my eyes. I hate bookkeeping. Hate, hate, hate it.

“I was saying that two of our permits are due for renewal next week, and even with what you brought in on that deposit, we’re going to run shy unless we skip part of the rent or insurance payment. We’re really in the red here.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

Jenny sighed, turned, and pointed to the computer screen across the desk, jabbing a finger at a couple of figures on a spreadsheet column.

“See this? Between what you pay me, gas, electricity, and a few other things, we’re running at a loss. Hasn’t Sara been over this with you?”

I shook my head, ire rising. “How long have you known this? When did you first let Sara know?”

“After we almost failed to pay the rent about seven months ago. I don’t know how, but Ms. Halloway…” Oh God. If she was calling Sara “Ms. Halloway,” we were really screwed. “…dug up the money from somewhere and saved the day. She’s managed to scrape us out of a tough spot a couple of times. I’m sorry, I would’ve mentioned something sooner, but I thought you knew.”

Which meant Sara was dipping into her coffers to keep us afloat. Great.

One of the benefits to working with Miss Sara Jane Halloway was that her parents had been very successful in their investments in stocks and real estate before they were killed in a horrific accident—a drunk driver on the interstate who careened into theirs and three or four other cars—three years earlier. Sara and her younger sister, Janine, split the estate; it left both of them very, very wealthy.

It cheesed off Janine and the surviving relatives that, instead of carrying on the family tradition in real estate, Sara had partnered with me in this private investigations venture. Janine hadn’t taken up real estate either, but for some reason she expected Sara to pick up the slack and run everything.

Though she’ll never admit to it, I’m almost positive that pissing off her family was why Sara did it.

We first met five years ago in college; I was working on a degree in criminal justice, she was halfheartedly pursuing a joint business and corporate law degree. I was frantic to keep my grades up so I wouldn’t lose my scholarship. She was considering dropping out and taking an extended vacation in the Hamptons.

Since we had a few classes together, I helped her out and urged her to at least finish up the term. By the end of the following year, we both had our degrees and had cemented a friendship. I met her parents a handful of times when she invited me along to parties or other outings at one or another of her family’s properties. The parents were nice enough but the rest of her relatives kind of left me cold, especially the neurotic, whining Janine.

More often, I invited her over to my parents’ place—a little ramshackle house on a hill overlooking the Sound. It was tiny compared to what she was used to, but the warmth and affection my Irish-Catholic family showed her made her far more interested in going to my clan’s gatherings than her own.

While I loved it that Sara helped finance the start-up of this crazy idea of mine, I told her all along that if it didn’t look like we were going to make it financially, we’d have to just sell the biz and start something fresh. I didn’t want to be a burden or a freeloader. I hate being indebted to people.

She protested and bitched about it a bit, but in the end we came to terms. I even paid back most of my half of the start-up money she’d fronted me. A couple more takes like my latest and I’d have the balance paid off in no time.

I really didn’t relish the idea of selling the business, but I also didn’t want it to be said that I was a hanger-on to Sara for her money. I got enough of that back in school. Plus, with two successful brothers, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of letting on to my parents that my biz was a failure. They already gave me enough crap for being a PI instead of a lawyer like Mike. My mom was fond of dishing that one out, along with the whole don’t-you-think-it’s-about-time-you-settle-downand-pop-out-a-few-grandkids-for-me speech. Sara gave me hell for that, laughing about it and bringing it up every few days for weeks afterward.

Rather than keep Jenny waiting, I took a breath to get some semblance of control over my temper and told her not to worry. “I’ll go over the numbers with Sara when she gets back. Look, it’s Friday. Why don’t you go ahead and take off. I’ve got to go get ready for tonight anyway; I’ll just wrap up here and lock up.”

Behind her glasses, her brown eyes held a hint of sympathy, though I had the feeling she’d head straight home and start posting her résumé all over the Internet. She was probably convinced we were going under. But between Sara’s generosity and my latest contract, I was sure we’d be able to pull out of this mess just fine.

So why did the whole situation still rankle so much with me?

“I heard you took a job doing something with that vampire who owns all those nightclubs. The one who’s in the news all the time. Is that right?”

I grimaced and nodded, avoiding her questioning gaze.

“Be careful, Shia. Those things are dangerous.”

“I know. Don’t worry. I don’t plan on doing any more than asking a few questions and leaving. They give me the creeps.”

She put a hand on my arm, surprising me with her serious expression and the touch of worry in her voice. “I’m not kidding, Shia. My cousin died about two years ago while she was dating one of those—those things. Those monsters.”

My eyes widened and after a moment I remembered to close my open mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. When? Why didn’t you say anything?”

She shook her head, not quite looking at me now. Her voice grew into a quiet, broken whisper, and terror gleamed in her soft brown eyes. “It was a couple of months before I started working here. Shia, you need to know this. You need to be careful. The coroner—he said it took her hours to die, bleeding out like that. The way it left her…after. I can’t bear the thought of it happening to someone else I know. Not again. Not you, please don’t let it get you, too.”

Almost involuntarily, my hand came up to gently wipe away the single tear that trickled down Jenny’s pale cheek. The feel of her trembling even under that light touch was frightening all on its own. For her sake, I smiled and took up her cold hands in both of my own to try to put her at ease, steeling myself against letting any of my private doubts come to the surface. Despite that, I knew the sincerity in my voice never touched my eyes. There was too much fear in them for that.

“I won’t. I promise.”

Royce’s clubs are a shade more risqué than his restaurants, though all of them are usually packed. Vamp-run establishments are “the thing” right now. I guess to some people, the idea of rubbing elbows with a leech is titillating.

His newest restaurant,
La Petite Boisson
(I suppose “The Little Drink” sounds more tacky in English), is the kind of outfit where you’d spot people like the mayor, celebrities, visiting dignitaries from other countries, that sort of thing. I would stick out like a sore thumb there. Not to mention that even a glass of water from that place was way outside my budget.

Luckily, his website said he was going to make an appearance tonight at The Underground, one of his less expensive nightclubs. I’d been there plenty of times. The bouncers know me on sight, and usually let me through at the front of the line as long as I wave some money at them. It’s not my favorite hangout, mostly because of the BDSM theme. The music is heavy industrial or dark techno stuff, and they have scantily leather-clad male and female dancers in cages hanging up near the ceiling, high over everyone’s heads.

Maybe that’s some people’s idea of a good time, but it usually just gave me a headache.

Unfortunately, it seemed the majority of my “find-that-cheating-rat-bastard” clients (as opposed to “find-that-rat-bastard-that-owes-me-money” and “watch-that-shifty-eyed-rat-bastard-for-me” clients) thought their significant others were hanging out in establishments like this. What was even more unfortunate was that they were usually right. Every once in a while they’d prove me wrong by actually working late in the office. Once the boyfriend I was checking up on was working a second job in secret so he could pay for the engagement ring he wanted to spring on his paranoid soon-to-be fiancée. Yes, really. There may be some hope for humanity yet.

After tidying up at the office, I locked up and headed home to change. Pressed slacks and a business jacket wouldn’t fly at The Underground. Now, standing in the cold about a half a block away from the club in the reassuring pool of light of a street-lamp, I was glad I’d taken the time to change. Staring up at the garish neon sign flickering over the entrance, in one of the two pairs of black leather pants I owned, with a white button-down shirt that flared at the wrists and waist, topped with a black wool peacoat to keep warm, I shoved my hands into my pockets and shivered against more than the biting winds coming in off the river.

The line was long. I guess I wasn’t the only one hoping for a peek at the owner of the club tonight. My feet were already hurting, too. The heels on my boots were a little higher than I normally cared for, but I wasn’t planning on dancing. Much. This was work, after all.

Muttering under my breath, I withdrew a slightly trembling hand from my pocket to clutch my jacket collar closed around my throat before resignedly clomping across the street and past the leather and PVC-clad crowd chattering behind a length of black velvet rope. How cute, someone had chained little handcuffs to the support poles for the rope since the last time I was here. I also picked up the scent of some smoke on the air that smelled suspiciously unlike cigarettes.

Yup, it was the same old club scene I knew and loved. There wasn’t much difference between the vamp-run establishments and the human-run ones, honestly. These days, the pedigree of the owner was all it took to make the difference between what was cool and what was not. Were-run bars and restaurants weren’t as common, but they also seemed to get more business than those run by us poor humans.

Oh well. Bruno, the blond bouncer on the left, who was built like a truck and probably hit with those ham-sized fists like a ton of bricks, gave me a once-over when I brashly stepped around the front of the line to greet him. He cracked a Hollywood smile, all gleaming rows of pearly whites, when I held out a hand to shake. I was holding the requisite bills in my palm to bribe my way past the two-block-long line of complaining would-be patrons, who’d probably been standing in the cold waiting for entrance for at least a couple of hours already.

“Hey, Red, lookin’ good tonight.” Waving off the other three guys working security and unclasping the velvet rope for me to step through, he engulfed my hand in one of his. It looked like a shake, but he was really just palming the cash. I couldn’t stop from shuddering when he ran his thick, calloused thumb over my wrist. I wondered briefly if he could feel the staccato beat of my pulse before quickly drawing my hand back and shoving it back into my pocket.

“You gonna take me up on my offer yet?”

I laughed, though it was a little forced. Ugh, I’d tried so hard to forget that “offer” he’d made me last time I was here.

“Not yet, Blondie. Maybe next time.”

One of the other bouncers, new from the look of him, was holding the door for me. I didn’t keep him waiting and hightailed it inside to the sounds of catcalls and pissed-off complaints. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the leather.

Walking into the entrance was always a little intimidating. It was a short, pitch-black hallway, occasionally lit by the hint of a strobe light creeping under the thick metal door at the end. I could already feel my bones vibrating from the bass of the music inside. Taking a breath, I slid my hand into one of the pockets of my leather pants and drew out a silver chain with a matching silver cross. Not much in the way of protection, but at least it should prevent Royce from getting any ideas.

Once I’d settled the necklace around my throat, the cross prominent against my breastbone, I pushed my way past the door and dropped off my coat with the checker, a heavily tattooed boy with a blue Mohawk and more piercings than I could count.

The first bar was far too crowded, so I brushed past the first hurdle of bodies crushed against each other and worked my way toward the dance floor in the next room. The place had four floors. There were three dance floors, one with a stage, and a number of quieter rooms with plush couches and sideshows and whatnot for those who wanted a break from dancing or just wanted to get their rocks off watching the exhibitionists that came out of the woodwork for the sideshows. The rumored “private” show rooms and employee’s offices were all upstairs as far as I knew. Never been in them, never planned on being in or even near them, thank you.

I’d made nice with one of the bartenders a while back. James often helped me find my marks and made for good conversation when said marks were no-shows. Unfortunately, he was completely inundated when I made my way to the second floor, barely having enough time to return my wave of greeting. There went my bright idea of asking him where to find Royce.

Looking around with distaste, I figured I might as well work off some of my jittery energy on the dance floor for a few minutes until some space cleared up at the bar. If I didn’t calm my nerves, I’d probably end up looking and sounding like an idiot once I finally found the vamp anyway.

I headed to the one that was playing the least obnoxious remix, relieved to see that the third, smallest, dance floor was also the least crowded, as was the bar. Glory hallelujah!

After two songs without a partner to dance with, I was bored out of my skull. There were only a handful of other people dancing here, and there was plenty of room for us all to leave a good deal of personal space between one another.

Weaving past the gyrating bodies on the dance floor to get to the tiny bar, I waited just a couple of minutes to get the attention of the bartender and shout an order for a bottle of water. Much as I would’ve liked something with a little more kick to it to steady my nerves and give me a shot of much-needed liquid courage, I didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to interview a vamp while toasted.

One of the men who had been leaning indolently against the wall watching the dancers walked over to me, and I had to fight back a sigh and an eye roll. He was taller than me, though still average in height. He was dressed much like the other Goth posers on the floor, albeit without the heavy white makeup, dark eyeliner, or multiple piercings. At a guess, judging by his smooth, slightly dark-toned skin, he was in his late twenties, early thirties, tops.

I braced myself for what I was sure would be a cheesy pickup line, but the guy surprised me with a much more subtle opening.

“Alone, are we? You don’t seem like one of the usual crowd. What brings you here tonight?”

The directness of his question was what caught me. I took a quick sip of my water to hide my indecision. Well, I didn’t think it would hurt too much to tell him the truth. It’d probably work to make him move on to greener pastures.

“I was hoping to catch the club owner for a few minutes. I would’ve asked one of my friends who works here, but he was busy. Just killing some time until some of the bodies clear out.”

On closer inspection, I saw he had thick dark hair that hung down to his shoulders and partially obscured equally dark eyes, though in the dim lighting I couldn’t tell if it they were pure black or simply a dark brown. His features were strong, as were those well-defined shoulders and taut, flat stomach I could see through the netted black shirt he wore. Those leather pants seemed painted on, showing equally muscular and painfully well-defined legs. He was, dare I say, devilishly handsome?

He arched a brow at my answer, his gaze shifting from mine to the cross. It was a brief glance, not lecherous, simply speculative. I flushed a little anyway. Come on, the guy looked at my (albeit small) chest. Also, knowing I was coming to speak to a vamp with the cross on was pretty much blatantly stating that I was either a White Hat or the closest thing to it. Very cliché, and, depending on who you asked, very rude.

I didn’t mind committing the social faux pas as long as it meant Royce would keep his fangs to himself.

He surprised me further at his next words. “I can help you with that. Follow me.”