Blood Truth, page 7
They would surely come, if only to gawk, assuming the news of how the death had occurred would hit the gossip phone tree—and how could it not? His father had been attacked in front of over twenty other members of the aristocracy, and all of them, evidently, had survived.
And as for Boone’s stepmahmen? He had to assume that her family would take care of, and honor properly, her remains. She had, after all, come from a very good bloodline with plenty of proud heritage of their own.
As if his father would have mated anybody lesser than he.
“I’m going to keep the ceremony low-key,” Boone heard himself say. “You are all welcome to attend, but I understand if—”
The gonging sound that echoed around the foyer was a surprise, and at first, his congested brain didn’t know what the interruption was caused by.
“That’s the front door,” he mumbled.
Getting to his feet, he was aware of a tensing throughout his chest and shoulders, although that was not because of whoever might have arrived: He didn’t want to go the rounds with the butler.
But Marquist didn’t make an appearance.
As Boone opened the heavy panels, he exhaled in a combination of surprise and curious relief. “Oh, it’s you. You didn’t have to come . . . but I’m glad to see you.”
“I just heard.” Rochelle’s pale eyes were just as lovely and warm as they had been a year before. “I am so sorry.”
There was a long pause. And then they both moved at the same time.
Even though he had not seen the female since the night their arrangement had ended, and in spite of the fact that it was totally improper, Boone opened his arms wide, and in a similar breach of protocol, Rochelle stepped in against him. At first, the contact was light, but then they were holding each other tightly. Like his father’s house, she smelled the same, Cristalle by Chanel perfume and the expensive French soap she had always favored. She was dressed in the same style, too, wearing an Escada suit that tastefully set off the subtle curves of her figure.
It was black. For mourning. And as most aristocratic females only wore color, he knew she had changed for him before she’d came over.
As they eased back, he noticed absently there was loose snow on the crown of her blond chignon.
“Oh,” she said with a start, “you have guests.”
Boone glanced over his shoulder and saw his fellow trainees leaning forward in their various seats and staring out of the archway at him—at him and Rochelle—with wide, interested eyes.
“Come meet my friends,” he said. “You already know Peyton and Paradise, of course.”
As he drew her in beside him, it felt natural to walk into the elegant parlor with her against his hip. But the fact that he was still armed, and so were the people on those sofas, was a reminder that his life had diverged greatly from Rochelle’s since their arrangement.
She had stayed in society, yet he hadn’t heard she’d been mated? Then again, he was out of every thing, for the most part.
He was so glad she’d come, though.
“Everyone,” he announced, “this is Rochelle.”
“You don’t have to make me tea.”
As Boone spoke up, he stared across the kitchen at Rochelle. She was over at the sixteen-burner stove, putting a copper kettle on an open flame. He was over in the alcove of windows, at the table where the staff sat and took their meals. There was no one else around. Marquist had clearly announced the passing to the other staff and the doggen had all retired unto mourning for their master, as was proper.
Meanwhile, the butler was probably polishing Altamere’s shoes with his own tears.
Man, their relationship had had some blurry lines, hadn’t it.
“Boiled water is the only thing I know how to make,” Rochelle said.
The other trainees had left shortly after her arrival, as if they were hoping Boone needed privacy with the female. He was going to have to take care of that after nightfall. When he went back to work.
He would set them straight that there was nothing going on.
“And even so,” she murmured, “I may burn this kettle.”
“Don’t worry, I’m no great chef, either,” he murmured as he rolled his shoulder, testing out its range of movement.
“Where is your china?” She pivoted around and measured a square mile’s worth of cupboards. “So many places to choose from.”
Boone shrugged. “Let me help. We should be able to find it together.”
When he went to stand up, she shook her head. “You stay put. I’ll do the sleuthing.”
She worked her way around the cabinets, opening up the doublesided, paneled doors, inspecting all manner of spices, mixing bowls, cooking equipment. She finally found some mugs above one of the three dishwashers. They were fine porcelain and ornamented with a handpainted gold-and-maroon pattern. They were rarely used, however. Boone’s father had not approved of them, calling them unforgivably coarse.
In a tone that suggested their height and their contours were an offense against the laws of nature.
“Are these okay?” Rochelle asked. “They do not have saucers, but I can’t seem to find anything else.”
“They’re perfect.”
“And I even located the tea.” She smiled as she returned to the stove. “Do you take honey or sugar?”
At least the condiments were easy to get a bead on. They were cloistered on a silver tray on the counter, ready to be portioned out in the way the master of the house had preferred things—
Wait, she had asked him something, hadn’t she?
“I can’t remember,” he said. “It’s been so long.”
He had no idea what was coming out of his mouth. But she didn’t press him, and the next thing Boone was aware of was a fragrant, steaming mug in front of him, with Rochelle taking a seat across the table.
“So how have you been,” he said as he took a test sip. “How are things with your male?”
He was trying to make simple conversation, but the way her eyes teared up made him regret the attempt at pleasantries.
“Oh, Rochelle.” He shook his head. “What happened?”
“It just didn’t work out. In spite of your very valiant attempt to help us.”
As she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her pinky, careful not to smudge her makeup, he reached across and touched her arm.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“It’s all right.” She took a deep breath. “It just . . . wasn’t meant to be.”
The pain in her face was so difficult to witness, and in that moment, he hated the aristocracy. Undoubtedly the male had heard about the broken arrangement and hadn’t wanted to deal with the baggage.
“The glymera is a bad place,” he muttered.
“I’m very sorry about your father,” she said roughly.
He opened his mouth to share that sentiment out of a sense of propriety—and couldn’t get the lie out. “Thank you. It was rather unexpected.”
“Life is unexpected.”
“Too true.”
If anyone would have told him a year ago that the pair of them would be sitting here, unchaperoned, after his father’s death, with him now a soldier and her unmated? He’d have you’re-nuts’d the person.
As the silence stretched out, he wanted to ask her more about her male, and he had a feeling that she wanted to know more about what had happened to his sire. But they were both lost in their own mourning, grief like a third wheel who was taking up all the conversational airspace in the room.
The two of them just sat across from each other, the tea she had made them both untouched and gradually losing its warmth.
Until it was stone cold.
* * *
Dawn crept up slowly on Caldwell, the sun’s rays ushering in the start of the workday for the human population, the end of the work night for vampires. The fact that the glowing bastard’s arrival took a while was the only thing good about winter as far as Vishous was concerned.
He got back to the Brotherhood’s crib from that LARPers club downtown just in time, and as he re-formed at the mansion’s cathedral-worthy front entrance, his retinas burned and his skin prickled under his leathers. Overhead, the sky was thick with clouds, but that didn’t mean shit considering the stakes at play. You got caught outside? One slice of blue heaven peeking through all the overcast and you needed to get the barbecue sauce and an urn for your ashes.
Cranking open the heavy front door, he entered the vestibule and put his mug into the security camera. Fritz did the duty on the other side, the butler’s wrinkly face stretching into a wide smile.
“Sire, welcome back!”
Okay, so, V hated cheerful people. Spunky people. Folks that would be described as “happy,” “chirpy,” “perky,” and/or “peppy.”
Especially those peppy fuckers.
But Fritz, the Brotherhood’s head of household, was another story. The old butler was just so unreservedly delighted by all the people around him. He lived to serve the needs of his masters and mistresses, and how could anyone, even a misanthropic motherf ’er like Vishous, not love the guy? After all, just because 99 percent of the mansion’s occupants could not tolerate sunlight, that didn’t mean the place couldn’t use a little sunshine. And all Fritz had to do was walk into a room, and the doggen brought that kind of warmth and optimism with him.
“How you doin’, my man?” V said as he shut the vestibule door behind himself.
“May I get for you some Grey Goose, sire?”
“Nah, that’s okay. I’ll . . .”
As the doggen’s face drooped into total, abject sorrow, V’s voice dried up. Jesus Christ, it was like he’d kicked a puppy.
“Ah, that’d be great. Thank you, I’ll take a double.”
Cue the return of that brilliant smile and the bounce in that step. “I shall make you the most perfect tumbler! Right away!”
Fritz took off for the billiards room like a winning lottery ticket had been left out on the bar, and V could only shake his head. He really didn’t want to be waited on, but for all the S&M he had enjoyed over the course of his lifetime, he couldn’t stand the pain of disappointing that doggen.
The butler was like kryptonite.
On the other side of the majestic, multicolored foyer, Last Meal was in full swing in the dining room, the members of the household sitting around that long-ass table, all kinds of doggen serving food and drink, the loud voices and raucous laughter the kind of thing that emanated outward and filled every room in the house, no matter how remote. Ordinarily, V would have headed in there, but he took out his phone and checked his texts. Yup. Jane was wrapping things up in the training center’s clinic, and then they were going to have a dinner just the two of them in the Pit.
Nice and private.
Yum.
And no, he wasn’t talking about the expertly prepared food or the good wine. Not even the peach cobbler he’d requested for dessert.
Nah. He was thinking of another kind of . . . peach.
Courtesy of his impatient nature—which had just had its blade sharpened with a molar-grinding dose of sexual need, fuck him very much—
V turned to the ornate staircase that led to the second floor. He wanted to be on the ascent already. He wanted to be in front of his King, making his report. He wanted to be heading back to the Pit to see his shellan get very, very, very naked—
“Here we are, sire!”
Fritz held out a silver tray. In the center of it, a tall glass filled with ice was sporting about six inches of Grey Goose. There was also a lemon wedge broken over the rim and a monogrammed cocktail napkin underneath the production like a little area rug.
“Thanks, my man.”
V took the glass and the napkin. With his gloved hand, he dropped the wedge in, took a test sip . . . and the long sigh he let out was not a lie. The shit was perfect. Just the way he liked it, and prepared with the kind of love and devotion he would never understand, but had certainly come to appreciate.
Not that he would be sharing that sappy fact with anyone anytime soon.
“This is amazing.”
Fritz beamed like a kid who’d gotten a gold star for perfect attendance, and you had to admit that the reaction was a heart-warmer. But even if V had been a hugger, and he wasn’t—unless it was to strangle someone from behind—you couldn’t so much as shake the butler’s hand. The last person who had actually embraced the doggen, assuming the story was true, was Beth back before they’d all moved in here, before she’d learned the protocol. Fritz had nearly needed life support from shock. Yes, he was delighted to be valued, but if you actually told him how much he meant to you or the household? Or, God forbid, showed him affection? He went fainting-goat on you.
“Thanks again,” V murmured.
Fritz bowed so low it was a wonder his jowls didn’t brush the carpet. “It is my most sincere pleasure to serve you.”
Hitting the stairs, V finished his Goose by the time he got to the second-floor landing. The doors to the study were wide-open and the great Blind King, Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, was sitting on his father’s throne. Behind an ancient desk the size of an SUV.
“More good news, huh.” The King rolled his shoulder and it cracked like a stick. “Can’t wait.”
Yup, even though Wrath was fully blind behind those wraparounds, there was nothing wrong with his hearing or sense of smell.
“Just keeping the trend going.” Stepping into the study, V shut the double doors. “You know, ’cuz I follow fashion like that.”
The room, with its pale blue walls and French furniture, was a total mismatch for the last pure-bred vampire on the planet, but it was what it was. This was where the Brotherhood and the fighters in the household met after hours, all twenty tons of male crammed in here, trying to only put one butt cheek down on the delicate Louis XIV bergère chairs and settees. At this point, though, the absurdity had worn off, habit had set in, and now it would be weird to congregate anywhere else.
“So the dead female wasn’t a false report?” Wrath said as V came over and parked it by the fire.
“No.” He swirled the melting ice in his glass and took another drink. “It was legit.”
“Did you get an ID off her?”
“No. She was naked. Clothes were gone from the scene.”
Under the desk, George, the King’s golden retriever, thumped his flagged tail in greeting, but the dog didn’t leave the feet of his master.
“How messy was it?” Wrath asked.
“Very. We contained things and I removed the body with the help of Zypher and Balthazar. It’s at Havers’s across the river. The only thing we can do is wait for a missing persons call or for someone to post something in one of the social media groups. No one at the clinic recognized her, but somebody has got to know her and be missing her.”
“Such a goddamn waste. Are we looking at a human perpetrator?”
“I don’t know. Lot of scents down there, of both species. In the storage room where she was hanging, too.”
“This is the third body at Pyre.” Wrath cracked his knuckles one by one. “The third female, right?”
“Yup, but one was a human. It’s pretty much the same M.O. as far as I can tell. At that club, after sex, everything taken, body left to bleed out. I think we’ve got a serial predator. I also think we need to bring in a professional on this.”
“Agreed. I want to find the SOB who’s playing with knives. And I want you to put out a warning on social media. I’m tempted to even shut that club down the old-fashioned way.”
By the term “old-fashioned way,” V knew damn well the King wasn’t talking about petitioning the human mayor of Caldwell to throw a padlock on the front door of that shitty old factory. It was more a case of a hundred ounces of C4, a gas tank’s worth of accelerant, two matches, and some popcorn.
And you know, it might be nice to make some s’mores.
“I’ll post the warnings online,” V said. “And we should make sure the Audience House has flyers. The word will get out fast.”
“I want someone monitoring that place. If it is a serial killer, they’ll want to go back to their hunting grounds. We can catch him that way even if he’s left no clues to his identity behind.”
“Or hers.”
“It can’t be a female.”
“Says who.”
“Good point.”
As V considered the staffing requirements, he mostly hid a curse. They were shorthanded already, and after the altercation with those shadows earlier tonight? Things were going to be extra tight as they tried to pin down exactly what had happened at that glymera party.
But, whatever, someone’s off-rotation was just going to have to be spent rubbing elbows with fake vampires because the King was right. They needed somebody on-site to catch the motherfucker.
“We’ll take care of everything,” he vowed.
The King dropped his chin and stared out over the top of his wraparounds, his pale green eyes lit with an unholy light. He might have been unable to see, but he could still send a message and a half with those peepers.
“You find this murderer,” Wrath said in a deep growl, “and deal with it, do you understand me.”
Vishous nodded once. “I’ll handle the endgame personally.”
Humans had jails for this kind of thing. Vampires, on the other hand, believed in an eye for an eye. And whether the perp could handle sunlight or not, this was going to be taken care of the “old-fashioned way.”
You pick off members of the race, whether or not you knew what they were? You were knocking on a door that was going to be answered.
“I’ll keep you posted.”
“You do that, V,” Wrath growled.
The following evening, Boone dematerialized to the rear driveway of the King’s Audience House, re-forming back by the detached garage. Following a shoveled pathway, he entered through a reinforced door, and as he went through the kitchen, he raised a hand in greeting to the various doggen who were preparing fresh pastries for the waiting room. The scents of baking sweet dough and homemade cherry and strawberry preserves reminded him he had not had First Meal, but as soon as he was out the flap door and away from the triggers, he forgot all about his stomach.
