She rattled off the address before ending the call.
“Plebian my fucking ass,” Patrick muttered.
“Knightsbridge?” Jono mused. “Lucien really is a posh bloodsucking arsehole.”
“That asshole better do the job we’re paying him for.”
Personally, Jono thought one hundred years of freedom to cause an unending amount of trouble was a bit much, but no one had asked him.
“How will the Night Courts here handle Lucien’s presence?” Sage asked.
Patrick shrugged. “Probably how the Night Courts in the five boroughs handled it—by not getting in his way.”
“Suppose that’s our job,” Jono said.
Sage sighed. “Wonderful.”
Wade cackled loudly before opening up a box of Jaffa Cakes and shoving one into his mouth.
* * *
Wellington Courtin Knightsbridge was the sort of neighborhood Jono would never be comfortable in, much less welcomed. The streets and buildings were too posh, to say nothing of the people inhabiting them. Those who lived in Knightsbridge would probably have a heart attack if they knew Lucien was their neighbor and driving down their property values by his sheer presence alone.
Sometimes the monsters in the shadows found their way into the light, and humanity had to learn how to play nice. Jono knew there was no playing nice with Lucien.
The rental they drove stuck out on the street, but Jono didn’t care. He got out, staring up at the grand, red-bricked and white building taking up space across from One Hyde Park. The soft glow of the streetlamps provided more than enough illumination to the front entrance of the massive residential building. Night in London was a cacophony of noise and scents and light pollution that he used to love. Strangely, Jono found himself missing New York.
“Place overlooks Hyde Park and has a mess of windows. Makes no sense for a vampire to live here,” Jono said.
“Real estate is a money sink Lucien has been investing in for centuries,” Patrick said.
“He should invest in a crypt. Might be more to his liking.”
Patrick laughed, though his eyes held no humor in them. “Let’s go.”
They headed for the front entrance, and Jono was unsurprised to see the inside lobby manned by a concierge. The man on duty wore a dark suit and looked down his nose at them.
“Are you lost?” he asked with all the enunciation of an old-school BBC presenter.
“Do we look lost?” Patrick shot back. “We’re guests of the penthouse owners. We should be on their approved visitor list. Look for Patrick Collins.”
The man didn’t blink as his gaze cut away to his computer. Jono knew the second their names popped up, because the man’s expression smoothed out into one of fawning cheerfulness. Jono rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. It was well past sunset, and he knew it was ridiculous to wear them, but he hadn’t wanted to tip off anyone here about what he was.
“Of course. Ms. Foscari is expecting you. I’ll scan you into the lift.”
He escorted them to a private lift, using a key card to give them access. The doors closed on his smiling face, and the lift started to move. Jono took off his sunglasses and gave them to Sage.
“Foscari?” Jono asked.
“It’s an alias.” Patrick paused. “I think.”
“You think?”
“If you want to interrogate Carmen about her name, be my guest.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Sage said.
“Spoilsport,” Wade muttered.
