But oh, it was so hard.
CHAPTER 22
At least she seemed to find the office mildly acceptable—more spacious than that of the Everly penthouse, though the shelves were lined with decoratively arranged books chosen solely for gradations of color on their spines, interspersed with unfamiliar curios bearing no significance, sentimental or otherwise. A lingering, longing gaze at the sleek black computer, its blank dark screen at an angle to the leather blotter on a vast oak desk, an examination of the broad, night-curtained windows looking out over what little garden this lair possessed, and his leman finished her circuit of the room by trailing her lovely hand over the back of a leather couch, one of a duo holding conference near a mock fireplace.
The office’s secondary purpose was to provide the Andranov cover, more than half a gangster, with an informal meeting space—which accounted for the matching oak sideboard stocked with expensive, unopened bottles plus a clutch of empty glasses and decanters. All Everly businesses had been drained by now, assets transferred, and though Lukas had moved house the control of territory both physical and financial was still assured.
Most underlings would not even notice the change in regime, so long as their paychecks were honored.
“Sir.” Wrenfeldt almost tugged his forelock; he had been doing that more frequently of late. “Bit of news.” The dogsbody did not add any cheeky observation, though he clearly wished to, and he indicated the stack of files set on the massive desk. The grey in his pomaded hair had advanced a bit; Lukas noted that, welcoming the brief stab of a small regret among his ribs.
The feeling was another luxury, possible only because of her. Even pangs of mourning were preferable to creeping stultification.
Black cashmere jumper and those denim trousers—jeans, yes, that was the word, labourer’s wear. But she seemed far more comfortable, and the way the heavy cloth skimmed her legs was appealing. She had even selected a pair of dark-blue trainers with something like a pleased smile; his Beatrice touched a silk flower drooping from a decorative basket, fingertips granting the poor thing an unaccustomed luster before she turned away.
The Gift was working in her, gathering speed. Lukas was very much looking forward to the next feeding. “By your tone I assume it troubling, instead of pleasant. Go on.” In other words, she could hear anything the dogsbody would say.
A flicker of something unfamiliar crossed Wrenfeldt’s wide, comfortable face. Before swearing fealty his nose had been broken more than once; a dogsbody’s durability was considerably more than mortal, and such things troubled him no longer. He would be vital until he dropped; that day would be a sad one, though Hardison would step into the duties left vacant.
Hopefully the redheaded youth would prove a little less willing to dip into certain…troubling behaviors, but so long as requirements were met a good lord would overlook much.
“Incursion, sir.” Wrenfeldt settled into a posture of relaxed attention, hands crossed before his belt. “From the south, I think. We’re at five now, drained and dropped.”
An annoyance indeed. Five mortal bodies—it could be traveling fledglings, though any entering his territory should know to keep such things decently hidden, the nest unfouled. “The authorities?”
“Skittish, though burying the incidents as usual.” Wrenfeldt did not dare glance at the mistress of the house again; she had turned from her perusal of the sideboard’s crystalline wonders. “It’s only a matter of time before someone gets curious, sir. Or...vengeful.”
A warning, couched in terms a dogsbody could feel comfortable deploying. Perhaps some sanguinant slew the bearers of bad news among their underlings, but Lukas found it much more efficient to encourage a certain fearlessness in expressing opinion. And after all, his Beatrice had been intent upon vengeance. Wrenfeldt was correct in being cautious.
“True.” He opened the first file, glancing over the garish crime scene photos, flipping to the autopsy report. Ah. How very interesting. They certainly appeared to be fledgling kills, though not bloodcraze-messy. The second was the same, and the third. The fourth and fifth were a double scene, this one entirely consonant with glut.
Very odd. Who expects me to be fooled by this? He returned to the first. It had been some while since he felt this sharply awake while looking over an incident report; a drench of wonderful musky warmth was his leman sidling closer, clearly curious.
Her hair was shaking off the dye nicely. Lukas could still feel her mouth against his, timid before gathering confidence. A terrible bravery, offering herself to the beast; she chattered gamely, displaying brittle bravado, but could not mask the fear in her scent. He did not think it likely a single feeding had accomplished more than temporary détente; no, she would absolutely test his vigilance again.
That will be enjoyable. The thrall gave a sleepy twinge, deep in his bones.
Beatrice was very close. He could pretend to be unaware, but did not; she halted beside the desk when his gaze rose from the autopsy’s dry detailing of trauma and decay. Her beautiful eyes widened, either pretending guilelessness or frankly fearful, and he closed the manila folder somewhat decisively.
She almost flinched. Her throat moved—a quick swallow, she was indeed still anxious.
“This is a demimonde affair.” Lukas sought a tone of gentle explanation; no need to trouble her with more complex considerations. “I do not think you wish to see.”
“I’ve probably seen worse.” Her arms folded, chin raising slightly; a flung challenge. No doubt she was thinking of her brother.
Lukas remembered what the greiben had done to the boy’s body. Had she approached the broken wreck, after peering through the stable window? Smelled the charnel reek, gazed at the viscera pulled free and flung about?
The thought caused a sharp pang, yet more beautiful, painful heartache.
Very soon, I will cleanse those warrens. He took a single step aside, indicating the slim stack of paper, but did not retreat further. If she wished to view such things, he would at least stand near enough to offer paltry comfort.
She did not betray much—a swift grimace, empathy briefly breaking through. He leaned close, basking in her nearness, and pointed.
“See the damage over the jugular? Opposite, there, is where the lesser fangs on the bottom clamped, for leverage. And there.” He indicated the next crime scene photo, wishing she were not staring at such garish, pitiless detail. “The layers of flesh curling in that particular manner denotes a clawstrike. That stipple is where a tip punctured, but the hand was turned before it dragged, you see? This is sanguinant violence; had I attacked your brother, the results might be similar.” Or not, since I learned well to cover any traces long before I could drain without killing. “The autopsy report states a great loss of blood, yet it’s clear from the scene and livor mortis that the bodies were not dumped, they stayed where they fell. A police detective or two is now asking, where did the claret go?”
The file folder quivered slightly before closing, shutting away the sight. She settled it precisely upon the pile, then rubbed her fingers against denim, a swift unconscious movement. “I suppose the others are the same.”
“Yes.” Mostly. His suspicions could wait for a more appropriate time and venue. “Would you like to examine them further?”
