I focused on the man, and with Bouda’s senses layered over mine, the darkness thinned. The room was large—possibly a warehouse or some derelict commercial building.
“I wanted to see what sort of woman aligned herself with a monster like Prothero.”
“That’s rich coming from someone like you,” I snorted.
“My client has his reasons.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“Your boyfriend has made some powerful enemies.”
Boyfriend sounded strange.
“Do you think that’s news to me? Who doesn’t want to kill him?”
The man chuckled.
“That’s true.”
“What did you drug me with?” I asked, keeping my anger in check.
“Nothing that would harm your brat.”
Let me shift, Bouda growled.
We can’t. Not yet. I don’t want anyone knowing about you—and we don’t know how many people are outside this room.
I thought of Fenrir and closed my eyes.
This would not end well.
I wouldn’t mind seeing him in action, Bouda said darkly.
“Is he even human?” the man asked, stepping closer.“Rumour has it he went to a dignitary’s home and took a piss on him—just because he could.”
He’d need a sink nearby. Or wet wipes. But that kind of territorial marking, done purely because he could, did sound like Blaidd.
The man moved past me and flicked the light on.
I blinked.
He wasn’t a thug—just another prick in a suit.
“Rumour has it he’s killed.”
“And who exactly are you?” I asked, looking him up and down.
“You’re not scared,” he observed, taking a long drag of his cigarette.“Mr Prothero stirs the pot. I’m the one who tries to clean up the mess he leaves.”
A fixer.
“Shouldn’t you be grateful?” I said.“He keeps you employed.”
His eyes were dark like mine—but empty. Dead. As cold as Blaidd’s had been the first time I met him. Dark hair, not black. Possibly mixed race. Eastern European, maybe.
“What do you see in him?”
“Are you my fucking therapist?”
