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"He's well-meaning, I guess, and we have fun." She shrugged. "I don't know. There's just not much there - beneath the camaraderie, I mean."
I nodded. "I get that."
She waved a hand in the air. "More important issue at hand." She swiveled in her seat to face me. "Before we hit Hyde Park, I want to be sure what we're doing. Are we going to kick vampire ass, or are we just going to ask about this death-threat issue?"
I gnawed the inside of my lip as I considered her question. We were walking into a nest of trouble, and had only ourselves - an ad executive and a not-quite-two-day-old vampire - as weapons. And while Mallory spent an hour in the gym every day, and I had ten years of ballet lessons and a lot of jogged miles under my belt, I doubted either of those would help significantly. They certainly hadn't helped a few days ago.
"We're going to talk to them calmly and rationally," I decided.
"And you're not going to tell Darth Sullivan you reject his fascist assumption of authority?"
I stifled a laugh. "Maybe not at this first meeting, no."
Traffic was light; the drive didn't take long. Mallory served as navigator, checking the directions we'd printed off the Web. "We're getting close," she finally said, and instructed me to turn left. When we reached the address, we gaped.
"Oh, my God."
"I know. I see it." I parallel parked in an empty slot on the street - between a Beemer and Mercedes, incidentally - and we got out of the car. The House, and it was a mansion, took up a whole block. The building was surrounded by an intricately wrought, ten-foot-high, black iron fence. The interior of the fence was lined with shrubs and hedges, so the lawns were shielded from public view. The House itself was gigantic, three pale limestone stories leading to a slate mansard roof. There was a turret on one corner and tall rectangular windows ringed the floors. Gabled dormer windows and widows' walks gave the top floor a Gothic look. But overall, while the building was imposing and the lot larger than those nearby, it looked at home beside its Hyde Park neighbors.
Well, except for the vampire thing.
Mallory squeezed my hand. "You ready?"
"No," I admitted. "But I need to do this."
We followed the sidewalk to a gap in the iron fence where two black-clad men stood, swords belted at their sides. Both were tall and lean, with long, straight dark hair, tied back tightly. They looked alike, the guards, their just-this-side-of-gaunt facial features fraternally similar.
The one on the left whispered something into his mouthpiece, then touched his earpiece, and finally nodded at me. "You can go in," he told me, then shifted his gaze to Mallory. "But she can't."
Easy decision. "She goes, or I don't."
He turned his back on us, and I heard faint whispering as he touched the headset again. When he turned back again, a nod was the only affirmation we got.
As we walked up the sidewalk, Mallory took my hand and squeezed it. "Chatty fellows. They had swords."
Not just swords, I thought, glancing back at the lean, slightly curved scabbards and long, straight handles.
"I think they're katanas." These were the swords of the samurai, a fact I'd learned while researching weaponry for my dissertation. Although I was interested in the romantic side of medieval literature - think Lancelot and Tristan - the genre was heavy on the war and weapons.
"Do you think you'll get a sword?"
"What the hell would I do with a sword?" We reached the front door, which was unguarded. The portico that covered it was arched, and four symbols, the lowest one a stylized "C," hung above the door.
"Hmm," I said. "Knock or just go in, do you think?"
We were saved the decision. The door was opened by a tall, exquisitely handsome man with caramel-colored skin. His hair was short, his eyes a pale green. He wore a black suit that was perfectly fitted to his frame, and a crisp white dress shirt beneath. He extended a hand. "Malik."
This was the second vampire. Not the one who turned me, but his colleague.
"Merit," I said, taking his hand. "And Mallory."
His nostrils flared as he looked at Mallory, and his brows lifted. "Magic?"
Mallory and I looked at each other. "I beg your pardon?" I asked. He didn't respond, but moved aside to let us enter.
The interior of the House was as impressive as the outside. Contrary to what I'd expected - black tulle, leather furniture, red candles, pentagrams - the House was very tastefully decorated. Actually, it looked like a five-star hotel. The floors were gleaming wood, the high ceilings girded by ancient beams of thick oak. The decor - lots of inlaid woods, urns of flowers, carefully selected lighting - was sophisticated and French- inspired. Malik escorted us past one parlor and into another.
"Stay here," he instructed in a tone that brooked no argument. We obeyed, Mallory and I standing shoulder to shoulder in the doorway so we could survey the room. Ten or so men and women, all dressed in trendy black suits, milled around, some with PDAs in hand, others on couches perusing laptop computers. I felt incredibly gauche in jeans and a T-shirt, especially when their gazes began to fall on Mallory and me.
"New girl," Mal whispered. "It's like your first day at school."
I nodded. "Feels like that."
"Do you think he's in here? Sullivan, I mean?"
I looked around, which was futile. "Maybe?" I offered. "I don't know what he looks like." I hadn't gotten a good look at his face when he bit me, and if he'd been there while I was recuperating, I had no memory of it. I had an inkling that he belonged to the distinctly green eyes I remembered, but that was only a hunch.
"Use your spidey sense."
I chuckled. "Even if I had a spidey sense, I wouldn't know how to use it."
A voice suddenly echoed through the parlor - louder than the quiet whispering of the working vamps. "That's fine, Celina. I appreciate your calling me."
The words belonged to a man with a cell phone at his ear who'd stepped into the doorway on the opposite side of the long room. He was tall, two or three inches over six feet, and lean like a swimmer - narrow waist, broad shoulders, long legs. His hair was straight, shoulder-length, and golden-blond. His face was chiseled - knife-edge cheekbones and a firm jaw, his brow strong, his lips worth calling home about. He was dressed in a black suit that fit his body like a glove, beneath which was an impeccably white dress shirt, top button unclasped, no tie.
"He's prettier than Beckham," Mallory breathlessly whispered. "Jesus."
