“Why is your wrist buzzing?” Marius demands as my watch begins to vibrate.
I glance down at the warning scrolling across the screen. “It’s an alarm.”
I don’t elaborate on what that means, instead leaving the balcony and heading inside through the double doors of my study. Had I been on any of the other outdoor patios or terraces, I would have teleported. But, in this case, walking takes roughly the same amount of time.
“I gathered it’s an alarm,” my best friend says as he follows me inside. “An alarm for what?”
“Search algorithms,” I murmur, taking a seat at my desk. My monitors automatically turn on, my movement triggering a sequence of electronic processes to spur to life. A scanner confirms my identity, thus allowing me to log in to every program without so much as touching my computer mouse.
Then the cause of the alarms plays across my screen.
Marius asks me a clarification question about algorithms, but I ignore him, not in the mood to explain the highly elaborate security protocol that I’ve crafted for monitoring potential threats in this world.
Technology isn’t his strength. Nor was it mine until recently. However, I’ve had a lot of time to study this new era of digital information and social networking.
“Hmm,” I hum, intrigued by the search details appearing before me.
Someone has been looking into the Negru estate. That’s not abnormal. The castle is infamous for being off-limits. But I pay the requisite government officials a handsome sum to allow me my privacy. And those who push a little too hard are simply glamoured into compliance.
Although, whoever is researching this topic—the history of deed transfers that I falsified throughout the centuries—appears to be noticing patterns that few others have picked up on. Mostly because it seems this individual has been studying the signatures, as well as other historical occurrences.
Purchases of furniture.
Contractor bills.
Things most humans shouldn’t be able to find because I signed many of those forms under other names. Or didn’t sign anything at all and simply used glamour to achieve results.
Who are you?I wonder, surprised as more search history appears on my screen.How long have you been researching my estate?
“What is all of this?” Marius asks, leaning against my desk as he stares at the three monitors with a furrowed brow. “It looks like dozens of web browsers.”
“Because it is dozens of web browsers.” I glance at him. “I’m surprised you even know that term.”
He grunts. “I’ve been visiting you enough lately to learn the phrase.”
“Yes, and why do you keep visiting me?”
“Because I’m bored.”
“Then your persistent question as to why I’m in this world instead of our home one should answer itself, Mars.”
His silver-blond eyebrows lift. “The Strigoi King makes jokes now?”
“Never,” I growl. Then return my focus to the screen just as an illustration of me from the sixteenth century pops up. My lips part. “Wheredid you find that?” I marvel out loud, clicking on the item to locate the source of it.
A library scanned it from an ancient text in Dublin, Ireland.
Trinity College.
Hmm.
I follow the source material and use my fancy tools to alter the image file with something else. I also make a note to visit Trinity College personally to steal the textbook.
Of course, it’s too late for whoever has already downloaded this piece of damning evidence.
Because there’s a print icon on the screen.
Which means she or he has already created a paper copy.
