“I am many things, Patrick, but namely, I am not a woman to cross. Tell me.” The voice continued, a threatening edge defining itself among the sweet velvet. “Are the fanglings under control yet?”
“Their training will take some time.” Realization slid icy fingers down my spine. There was only one woman who would be calling to check on the fanglings’ progress. Madame Laveau—owner of the Clotswold and head of the vampire colony under which Billy and I both fell.
“Time we don’t have, Patrick.” She said my name like an insult, a condescending note souring her otherwise honeyed address. “I cannot risk those pea-brained humans discovering our kind because of a few loose ends being allowed to fuck around in their feelings.”
I nodded, then choked out an affirmative grunt. Billy hadn’t warned me the madame herself would be checking up on our progress—just that she was invested in the nest coming under some sort of control. I’d been given no timeline, no expectations, no request for progress updates. I was going to kill him myself when we returned to the hotel.
“If I call again, have real progress for me, or I’ll deal with the pests myself.” Her voice dripped through the phone, sizzling acid.
“Yes ma’am, uh, Madame,” I stumbled, grasping for anything that would soothe her venom. “Queen Highness.”
“Patrick.”
“Yes?”
“Get ittogether.” The line clicked dead.
I handed Rye the phone, stunned into silence. Madame Laveau dealing with the fanglings meant only one option—turning them to ash. It was the most final sentence our kind could receive, next to severing the head. Most physical wounds, including the mythical stake to the heart, would eventually heal. Although it was true that some attacks took much longer than others to recover from. But a vampire tied to a post and left to the mercies of the sunrise was a vanished being, reduced to a pile of ash that would soon flutter into molecules on the breeze. There was no healing from that.
Alex’s tear-stained face flashed through my mind, the proud, lopsided smile on his mother’s face, the chaotic press of the nest on all sides as they took notes and asked questions in my hotel room.
Damn it all to torturous hell, I’d grown attached.
Rye’s face was pale with worry, her brows knitting together as she watched my face for some explanation.
Damn it all a second and third time—so was Rye. And I desperately wanted to save her from heartbreak.
“You giving out my number?” she asked, teasing falling flat in the night air. I shook my head slowly.
“You should head back,” I said, trying to pull a plan from my scattered thoughts.
“And what’re you gonna do?” She pocketed her phone before crossing her arms and popping a hip.
“I’m going to see Alexander Huxley.” I looked dumbly around the square, as if a big magic arrow would point me to his home.
Rye rolled her eyes, taking my hand and hauling me unceremoniously in the opposite direction of the hotel. “Like you even know where to start.”
“And you do?” I muttered.
“Of course I do.” She sniffed. “It’s my job to know.”
“Why do I doubt that?”
She rolled her eyes harder this time, snorting in derision. “His address was on all the paperwork suing Billy. Is that good enough for you, or should I pull up the case and show you?”
Instead of acknowledging my weak apology, Rye simply pulled me down yet another side street, the nighttime bustle of the village center quieting behind us. She counted under her breath, head whipping from side to side, steps slowing. I slammed into her as she stopped abruptly in front of a cottage that could’ve been straight from a fairytale.
Unlike the many thatched roofs around it, this one had a quaint tiled roof sloping sharply like the curve of a dragon’s spine. A two-story tower with a witch’s hat perched jauntily to the left, and a whispering oak stood watch to the right. A dark green fence marked the tidy border of the lush English garden, complete with fragrant spring blooms wafting into the night breeze. Warm yellow light seeped out of each window, pooling in the fresh-cut grass.
“Are you sure you want to come with me in your . . . current state?” I nodded to Rye’s crookedly buttoned coat. She shrugged, readjusting the buttons and smoothing her hands down the front.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I met an official without any underwear.”
Before I could question what that meant, she was through the gate and across the yard, rapping smartly on the low front door. The top half swung open almost immediately, spilling more yellow light out in a wide arc, silhouetting a thick-set man.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking Rye up and down before his gaze landed on me, still lingering by the fence.
“We’d like to speak with Alexander Huxley,” Rye answered, transformed immediately into the commanding legal presence I knew Billy must’ve hired her for. She was all demand, noweakness, and there was no question in her words despite their polite phrasing.
