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I frown at the brick wall in front of me. We are behind the nightclub, where it’s quieter and people can’t hear me try to rip the leader of the biggest vampire kiss in Babylon City a new one. Unfortunately it’s just as stinky and dirty as all back entrances to clubs. Not my best pick for a location. ‟I am talking about the rotting vampire that your people sacked a few weeks ago, and that you forgot to mention whenever I brought up the topic. I am talking about how you also skimmed over the presence of cultists and their weird behavior around vampires. How come you didn’t tell me about what happened at the Nightshade Lounge when we were asking for points of interest? Why didn’t Stanley, when I pressed him?” I stop myself with a sharp intake of air before I yell. It’s a close thing.

Loreley’s voice comes through the phone, cool as ice. ‟You must be mistaken. I do not know what you are talking about.”

‟Cut the crap, Loreley,” I growl into the phone. ‟I know you know something. Don’t treat me like a fool.”

She sighs, exasperated. ‟Alright, alright. Meet me at my penthouse in half an hour, and I’ll fill you in on what I know.” Her voice sounds weirdly strained, angry even, which comes as a surprise to me. From what I read, vampires as old as she rarely lose their temper, except… Did I just find a hornet’s nest to poke?

Before I can say anything, she hangs up. Yup, definitely poked something.

I slide my phone back into my pocket and take a deep breath to calm myself down before heading towards the front of the club to find a taxi, or some other form of transportation. I don’t have an Uber account, too easy to track, but there has to be some service I can use if bad comes to worse.

I stop and sigh, slightly deflating. Loreley’s penthouse is almost an hour by car, and getting Cor there might be trickier than expected. We can’t take a taxi if it’s not an emergency, not with Cor splattered in blood and black-eyed. I relent with a grumble and call Stanley, very briefly explaining what I need him to do. He curses a little, then snaps out an address close by as a pickup point, mumbling something about ‘fucking losing this bloody phone in a river’ as he ends the call.

At least he is exactly where he said he would be when we arrive, glaring daggers at me and doing his best not to look at Cor at all. Or at least not for more than a quick glance. The blood all over his face and chest makes him roll his eyes and shake his head as he pulls out of the parking spot.

‟There’s an emergency hoodie under the front seat,” he snarls at me.

I fumble around until I find it and throw it towards the back seat area, where Cor puts it on without commenting. He even uses his old hoodie to scrub most of the blood off his face. So far, so good.

As we speed towards Loreley's penthouse, I try to calm my nerves and think of what I'm going to say. As angry as I am with her right now for keeping secrets from me, Loreley is a powerful ally to have, and it will be worth it to hear what she has to say before I go full Hunter on her face and do something regrettable. Regrettable for me, mostly, because she definitely has the upper hand, even with Cor as a backup. She hasn’t become lady of her kiss because of her looks, after all.

The elevator doors open onto the top floor of the building, and I step out into the opulent hallway leading towards her penthouse. It’s night, so the vampire side of business is in full swing, with people milling around who throw us sharp glances. I didn’t expect Loreley to manage her business from her private apartment, but it makes sense I guess; she’s a vampire and probably sleeps underground, so why not use the space for something useful?

Stanley scuttles away like a cockroach before we reach the door to Loreley’s meeting room, disappearing into a side door before I can stop him. I can’t blame him either; everyone in the room is staring at Cor like he is an apparition from hell, some of the younger ones shrinking back and fleeing as he prowls down the hallway. And he watches them go like he’s contemplating playing a little cat and mouse with them.

I don’t think it’s the blood on his face that scares them off. Looks like I found the actual vampire bogeyman. And brought him right into the heart of their power.

As I reach the door to the meeting room, it opens before I can even knock. Loreley stands before me in all her glory, dressed in an elegant white pencil dress with her long hair cascading over her shoulders. Is she wearing her Sunday best for me, or does she always dress for success? I wonder.

‟Come in,” she says with a smile, gesturing for me to enter, as if nothing whatsoever was wrong. Her expression falters when she meets Cor’s death glare, and she stops smiling. I can see the moment she recognizes him, because she goes ramrod-straight all of a sudden, her hand twitching like she is contemplating slamming the door in his face. But she doesn’t stop him from entering behind me, giving him more space than necessary as she stalks back to her desk.

I follow her inside and watch who I assume is her assistant scramble out of the room as Cor steps close behind me, like a shadow of doom.

Loreley clears her throat and sits down behind her desk, brushing her hands down the skirt to flatten it. She makes a gesture towards the chairs on the other side of the desk, and I sit down. Won’t help to posture now; she already knows I’m fed up. ‟So,” she begins without preamble. ‟What do you want to know?” I can see on her face that she desperately wants to ask why Cor is here, shadowing me like a Collie his favorite tennis ball, but she doesn’t. She can’t, not without losing face.

I narrow my eyes at her. ‟Don’t play dumb with me, Mylady. I need to know what your men did with the corpse of the cultist that went crazy in the Darkmoon Market. And the vampire who killed her. Did you dispose of them?”

Loreley’s brows raise at my directness, but the surprise is fleeting, and she quickly schools her features into a more neutral expression. I can see the wheels turning in her head as she tries to gauge how much I know and how much I'm willing to reveal. She leans back in her chair, fingers laced together on top of her desk. ‟I assume you're referring to the incident at the Nightshade Lounge earlier this month. The vampire who got… sick afterwards.”

I nod, not bothering to hide my impatience. ‟Yes, that one. And I want an honest answer from you, Loreley. I need to see the corpses. And I need their IDs, names, and connections. The vampire is one of yours, or was, right? You have to have information about him.”

She sighs, and for a moment I think she's actually considering lying to me. But then she seems to think better of it and gives me a resigned look. ‟Fine,” she says with a small shrug. ‟We took care of it.”

‟And by 'take care of it', you mean dispose of their bodies?”

Loreley's expression turns guarded, and she straightens up in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. ‟I assure you, Mr. Caldwell, that those corpses were disposed of properly according to our laws and protocols.”

‟And what exactly are those laws and protocols?” I demand.

‟That information is not for outsiders like yourself,” she replies coolly.

I grit my teeth in frustration. Of course she wouldn't just tell me willingly. But if there's one thing I've learned in the last couple of days about dealing with vampires, it's that they love their secrets. I lean forward, lowering my voice as I growl, “That cultist is most likely the source of the rotting vampires I am hunting. And your vampire has already bitten and infected another one, that is running around out there, free like the wind and already getting moldy. Do you really think I care about your burial rites? I just need to either see them myself so I can look for clues, or need to know that they have been fully burned and cannot infect anyone else.”

Loreley’s expression turns aristocratically frosty as her glance jumps between Cor and me. Somehow I get the feeling that she would do something unfortunate to me, were it not for my vampire shadow. She stays quiet for so long that I am about to really go hunter on her, when she slowly licks her lips and relents.

“We burned the mortal in the incinerator. Our clansman is in the crypt. We are trying to revive him like we would do with other vampire corpses.”

ANDREW FARTHING WAS of British descent, although I wonder how many years have to pass before you stop being an immigrant. In Andrew’s case, he has been in the states for a little over 115 years, having had to flee his home country because of charges of buggery. Meaning he was into little boys. Choir boys mostly, since he was a pastor in his life before vampirism, but I don’t think he was too picky in that regard. And he had to flee Britain in the early century because he kept killing priests. Around here, women—even the vampiric kind—knew to stay away from him if they didn’t outrank him. Seems like he was a real charmer.