Page 3 of Viktor

“Yes, well we are very busy here. Hundreds of donors.”

“Address?”

“Sorry, no. We don’t keep records on everyone who—”

“What do you know about her?”

“I have no recollection of her being here before. That right there,” he pointed to a V next to her first name, “V. As in V for Virgin. As in first time. Not all donors are forthcoming with their donations. As you know sir, donors can request anonymity for a variety of reasons. It’s difficult to tell with certainty if they’ve donated.”

“Was she alone?” Viktor asked.

“She was alone. Persistent little bird. Kept asking about another girl. Looking for a friend and such. But of course, I told her that I couldn’t provide her with the answers she was seeking. Confidentiality and all.”

“Of course.” Viktor rolled his eyes. Jesus fucking Christ. Don’t kill him, Vik. Patience.

“But she was welcome to become a donor, to mingle with the other guests. I mean who am I to stop her from seeing who’s already here? That’s none of my business.”

“Who’s the friend?” Viktor tapped a finger on the cold marble stand.

“Teagan Rockwell. She’s a regular. She’s in at least once a week, sometimes more. She used to own a botanical shop in South Beach. I’ve heard it recently closed.”

“Witch?” Viktor guessed.

“I don’t believe so, sir. I have her categorized as human, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t dabble.”

“This Teagan Rockwell. Does she have a home address?”

“Of course, sir, but I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

“Just give me the damn address,” Viktor demanded, baring his fangs.

“No need for alarm,” the host assured, his voice wavering. His hands trembled as he reached for a pen, scrawling down the information.

Viktor snatched the paper and turned toward the door.

“Sir, please.” The maître d' held up a finger. “You cannot tell them where you got this information. We have a reputation to uphold.”

Viktor stopped cold and smiled. “I was never here.”

Within seconds, he’d released his power and dematerialized, assured that no one in the entire club would ever recall his presence.

Viktor materialized in the bright pink hallway. A devilish grin bloomed on his face as he confirmed the apartment number. Lucky 777. As he lifted his hand to knock, he noticed the lock had been forced open, splintered wood edging the doorjamb. A slice of light speared through the slightly ajar door onto the hallway floor.

Viktor’s smile faded as he nudged the door open with the tip of his bloodstained shoe. Though he’d immediately sensed other humans in the building, the silent, ransacked apartment appeared empty. Books and knick-knacks littered the floor. The upturned sofa had been shredded, a knife tossed amidst the mounds of cushion stuffing. Viktor glanced to the small efficiency kitchen. The cabinet and refrigerator doors hung open; empty food containers had been strewn about the counters.

He stepped over a toppled bookcase and headed toward the bathroom. As he caught sight of the dingy sink littered with hypodermic needles, a growl rolled through his throat. “What the hell were you into, Miss Rockwell?”

Viktor shook his head and entered into the otherwise quaint bedroom with its key lime green painted walls and white rattan furniture. The drawers had been emptied, the mattress flipped, and the sheets stripped and bunched onto the floor. Aside from torn mounds of batting, the room was completely empty. No clothes. No shoes. No humans.

He peeked into the empty closet and spied a crumpled piece of paper wedged into the back corner. He reached for it, unfolding what appeared to be an envelope addressed to Teagan Rockwell. On the upper left corner, he recognized the first name. Waverly. But now, he had a last name and an address to go with it.

Waverly LaFleur. San Diego, California.

“Found you, surfer girl.” Viktor’s lips formed a satisfied smile, entertained by his own sleuthing skills. “Ah, I do believe happy hour in La Jolla is overdue.”

As he turned to leave, a pink plastic hairbrush lodged into the mattress caught his attention. Long gray hair was twisted through its pins. As he drew closer to the object, the familiar putrid scent of sulphur registered. Demons.

Viktor’s lips tightened in consternation. Something had gone terribly wrong in this apartment, possibly with Teagan Rockwell, and while the witch wasn’t his concern, his curiosity about his blonde sprite had been piqued. Had she become intertwined in this nefarious situation? If so, what was the extent of her involvement?