“Who provided you with the technology and the gear?” His eyes raked over her. “Where are you keeping the wings?”
Her lips twitched. “Technology? What do you think you saw tonight?”
“A fetish cult, obviously. Those people had fangs and were sucking each other’s blood. And the tattoos on their wrists, those must be to mark their subs. I doubt they’re all willing volunteers. Once we blow the lid off this thing, I expect we’ll learn they’ve been trafficked. So why don’t you tell me who you really are and how you just did what you did?”
Rowan frowned. As tempting as it was, she could not let Nick labor under the delusion that everything he’d seen tonight had been human. If he returned with guns and backup, the vampires would retaliate and they would win. Nick could get hurt or killed, and she couldn’t have that on her conscience.
“I’m taking you back to my place. We’ll get you patched up. Then we can talk.”
He didn’t protest, but his hand stayed on his gun.
She kept a unit in the Dakota building, which was built in 1884, and Rowan had purchased her penthouse soon after that. If there were any place she’d call home, it would be there. The building was a relic of the gilded age with corner pavilions, stepped dormers, pediments, oriel windows, and decorative terra-cotta paneling and molding. The German Renaissance architecture suited her, as did the internal courtyard and location near Central Park. Not only did her tenth-floor apartment boast double-height ceilings and ten rooms, but her unit had the only rooftop terrace in the building. An oread named Flubell maintained the place like no human could, and when Rowan stayed there, she felt as if she’d turned back the clock to a simpler time.
But perhaps the biggest draws of the property were the security and the fact that the other property owners who lived there were masters of discretion. After all, this was the hotel where they’d filmedRosemary’s Babyand also where John Lennon had been shot. The residents were used to a steady stream of tourists and the need for heightened vigilance. She remembered the day Lennon had been murdered and how she’d wished she’d been close enough to make a difference in his fate. She’d adored the musician and his wife. But then, a building like this held many ghosts. Humans were terribly fragile when it came right down to it. Which was why she needed to tell Nick the truth. He needed to know what he was up against.
Djorji dropped them off at the entrance, and Rowan led Nick to the front door.
Brian, the doorman, gave her a concerned once-over. “Are you okay, miss?”
“Oh, the blood, yes.” She smiled warmly. “My friend has had the world’s worst bloody nose. We’re going upstairs to get it cleaned up right now.”
Nick nodded, obligingly moving the ball of bloody cloth from his neck to his nose. Fortunately, Brian didn’t ask any further questions and Rowan again thanked her lucky stars for the Dakota and its discreet staff. She led the way into her corner of the building and up the elevator where she unlocked her unit and ushered him inside.
Nick’s gaze roved over the foyer. “One hell of a place you’ve got here. I thought you said you were a gallery owner who ran a community center?”
“Gallery owners can’t have nice homes?”
“You don’t get a place in the Dakota just by being rich. This place turned down Madonna. Fucking Yoko Ono lives here. You have to be a legend to share this address.”
She smiled broadly. “Maybe there’s more to me than just a pretty face.”
He scoffed. “I never thought you were just a pretty face. But once again, I have to wonder who you work for. Are you a spy?”
“No.” She winked and gave him her most flirtatious smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “But if you want me to tie you up and interrogate you, you only have to ask.” She reached for the bloody cloth he was holding. “You’re already bloody. Half my work is done. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He gently pushed her hand away. “Bathroom?”
“Down the hall and to the left.” She raised her hands and reached for the bloody cloth again, but he drew back. “Let me help you.”
He shook his head. “I got it. I’m fine.”
* * *
Nick was not fine.In fact, he was feeling a little tipsy, likely the result of blood loss. On some level, he understood he’d been stupid coming here, possibly walking right into her trap. At least this explained the lies. She had to be a spy. Possibly Russian or Iraqi. If she was, she was barking up the wrong tree. He didn’t know anything. He was a homicide detective. That was all.
More likely, it wasn’t him she was after but whatever that was he’d seen in the basement of Wicked Divine. She’d saved his life tonight; clearly it wasn’t her intention to hurt him. Maybe she was FBI? CIA? Special Ops? Goddamn, he needed a drink.
He found the bathroom and was surprised to find a man’s shirt already hanging inside. He stuck his head out the door, looked right and then left. No one. He took a closer look at the shirt. It was his size. What the fuck? Did she keep a selection of men’s shirts on hand just in case?
He stripped out of his jacket and his bloody shirt and used a towel from the counter to clean the excess blood from his neck and torso. Luckily his pants had been spared. He turned to the side and inspected the two puncture wounds still oozing on the side of his neck. Now that he’d cleaned off the old blood, he noted they were barely bleeding anymore. Could’ve been worse. Thank God the guy missed his jugular.
A box of gauze pads, tape, and related first aid accouterments filled a basket on the counter. That was it; she was definitely a spy. Any woman who kept materials to patch herself up in her guest bathroom had major secrets. He washed the bite out with plenty of soap and water and layered on some antibacterial cream. He’d probably have to see the doctor about this one for some oral antibiotics. He didn’t even want to think about the shitload of germs in a human bite. He placed a stack of gauze over the bite and taped it into place.
After washing his face, he rinsed the blood out of his hair and into the sink, scrubbed it with a towel, and ran his fingers through it. There were benefits to wearing it high and tight. By the time he’d put on the shirt—fit like glove—he looked almost as good as new, aside from the pallor from losing a pint or two. He’d live. He tucked in the shirt, then made sure his gun and holster were in place.
When he came out again, he found Rowan sitting in a leather sofa in a room that was bigger than his entire apartment. He couldn’t tell if it was a living room or a ballroom. If you pushed the furniture aside, there would be plenty of space for hoop skirts and dancing. In fact, the entire room had a certain historical quality, like he’d walked onto the set of some PBS episode. The walls were lined with fabric, and a fire burned in a fireplace along one wall. The carved mantel looked custom made. It depicted dragons of all things, beautiful and gracefully made to look like they were climbing up the sides and holding up the shelf.
Rowan had changed into a pair of athletic pants and a sleeveless T-shirt. He missed the stilettos and the short skirt but liked that she seemed more comfortable in this. Maybe it was a sign she planned to tell him the truth about who she was.
