He shakes his head. “It’s not all about me. I know it’s not. But how will a woman ever put up with my moodiness? I have an intense need for freedom, Seb. It’s part of my star sign. I just don’t see how that meshes with a permanent relationship.”
I shrug. “The creator has a way of sending us just what we need when we need it.”
He groans. “So, this guy, Stanley Trainor, is some sort of film financier, eh?”
“Yep. He’s produced a few too.”
“How would you like to proceed?”
I scan the modern monstrosity in front of us. The place is mostly windows and is lit up like a jack-o’-lantern, making it not difficult to see inside. A small group of men appears to be meeting in the front room, but I can’t make out any of their faces from this angle. I can only see from their knees to their necks. “What does Stanley look like?”
“He’s the one with the ring,” Remus says snarkily.
I level an annoyed look in his direction. We’re too far away and at the wrong angle to gauge who has a ring and who doesn’t. “Getting close enough to see the ring or rings without triggering them is the problem at hand.” A server dressed in a black dress shirt with a silver tray balanced on one hand passes from the front room into what appears to be the kitchen. “I say we put on the camouflage and slide into the kitchen. Listen in on what the staff is saying about Stanley. See what we’re dealing with and what it would take to cut the ring off his finger.”
“Best plan yet.”
“It’s our only plan,” I mutter.
Remus blinks out of sight and starts for the back door. He knocks, and we flatten ourselves against the side of the house. When someone opens the door to look around the side, we slip inside.
The kitchen is enormous. State-of-the-art. A chef arranges some type of appetizer on a tray, something that looks like meat but smells like mango. “Who was that?” the chef asks.
“No one’s there,” the server says.
“Fucking kids. Get these out to Mr. Trainor and his guests. The guests must always have food and drink readily available at these meetings. Never hide in the kitchen.”
“Understood,” the server says. Picking up the tray, he heads through the door toward the front room. Remus moves to follow, but I hold him back. Something in the way the chef looks at the second server tells me there’s some gossip coming we won’t want to miss.
The moment the door closes, he turns to the second server. “How is Mr. Trainor tonight?”
“Fastidious as usual,” the server says. “He gave the new guy hell for serving him wine in a stemless wineglass. I just poured it into one of the old ones and sent it back out to him.”
“Excellent. Make a round with the cigars in a few minutes, and make sure there’s always a tray within his reach. He’s in one of his moods.”
The server looks over her shoulder at the door and then back at the chef, her blond ponytail swaying. “Can’t say I blame him, all things considered. I overheard him tell one of the other guests that four of their friends were murdered recently. What exactly are these people into?”
The chef raises one eyebrow. “You don’t want to know.” He nudges the tray toward her. “Go. And don’t spill anything on that cream suit of his, or we’ll never hear the end of it.”
The door opens and we move, silently drifting through the door after the server and following close behind her into the main room. We skim along the back wall and settle into a shady corner.
The blond server offers her tray to a man with a mustache in a cream-colored suit who takes one of the canapés with a hand sporting a ring. This must be Stanley. I silently thank the creator that this room is big enough that our presence doesn’t cause that ring to glow blue. I consider that a win.
Still, we are close enough that my dragon vision detects an inscription on the face. This is one of the originals. I nudge Remus. He taps my hand twice, acknowledging he saw it too.
Beside him, a familiar-looking young man with sandy brown hair takes a canapé. No ring, but I can’t get a read on his opposite hand, which he leaves in the pocket of his jacket. Why does he look so familiar? Maybe an actor?
The third man stands from his chair and waves the server off. “We’re wasting time,” he says. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. Are you going to sponsor my son or not?” As he moves toward the windows, an Order ring catches the light. Is the familiar-looking man his son? If so, there is no family resemblance in the man’s silver hair and bulbous nose. But no, the fourth man who sits with his back to me stiffens in his seat. I’m guessing that’s the son.
“Leave us,” Stanley orders, and the two servers hustle back toward the kitchen. Once they’re gone, he says, “It’s not a yes or no question, Alex. It’s a question of timing.”
“I’ve contributed handsomely to the Order. You owe me this,” Alex says.
The familiar man takes a bite of the puff in his hand. “It’s not a matter of denying him a place. We need more blood, or we can’t make more rings.”
“Exactly.” Stanley crosses his legs. “I have Scott on the list. It’s just a matter of time?—”
“If you need dragon’s blood, hunt a dragon.” Alex throws up his hands. “This is why the Order was founded in the first place. It shouldn’t be that hard.”
