“Reach for it, and I’ll make you regret being born,” I told him.
The man reached for it.
Scowling, I blurred across the room with vampiric speed, through the waist-high swinging doors beside the register, tearing one wooden flap off its hinges. I caught him by the shoulder before he could pull the handgun he’d been reaching for, forcing a horrified gasp from him.
A lot of firepower for an automotive shop—then again, this was Los Angeles, and anything could walk through his doors.
I spun him around and caught his gaze before he could have a heart attack—or ruin my shirt by putting bullet holes in it—and then I pressed him with hypnotic power.
He went under my spell immediately, his expression going tranquil.
“You feel very calm,” I informed him.
“I do,” he agreed.
“Nothing bad will happen to you, as long as you do what I say.”
“Okay.”
It shouldn’t have made me uneasy, but I didn’t like how blank he looked—like I’d hit the off switch on his personality. At least when I’d put Sam under a suggestion, I knew she’d chosen it. This felt… ugly.
“What’s your name?”
“Paul,” he murmured, eyes glazed, giving me a happy smile that revolted me.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath. I was getting soft in my old age. More loudly, I added, “Do you have access to the security footage out in the alley?”
I probably should’ve led with that.
Paul nodded happily. “Sure do.”
“Okay, so here’s what’s going to happen, Paul. You’re going to pull up all the footage from the cameras in the alley from two nights ago, between one a.m. and three a.m. You’re going to send the files to me. Then you’re going to open the store and forget that I was ever here. Can you do that, Paul?”
He nodded, then coughed. Belatedly, I noticed the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. I frowned at him. Not only was the habit unseemly, it was obviously already affecting his health.
“Why do you smoke?” I asked, surprising myself.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I used to enjoy it,” he said slowly. “Used to enjoy the excuse to step outside.”
“And now?”
“Now I can’t quit.” He paused, voice still neutral. “I’ve tried.”
“But you wish to stop?”
“I keep trying, but it never sticks.”
“Why not?”
“Whenever I feel stressed, I smoke,” he said, still monotone. “That’s what happens every time. I get hit with a craving and I cave.”
“I can’t believe I’m about to do this,” I muttered. Vampiric rehab services weren’t a thing.
He gave me a glazed, dopey smile that made me want to throw something. “I’m not sure I understand.”
