“And really, Ange,” he said, dropping her name to onesyllable, “you know you want to be here when Walter shows up with info from thebleed and read.”
Angie shot him a glare before returning her attention to the various screens. Mildly, she said, “You sound like an old man, not my much younger brother. Pretend harder that the war didn’t damage you. That, or talk about it. I’m always here.”
Outwardly, he ignored her comments, though she was right. The war had damaged something inside him. He felt old. Hewasold. And he could never tell her, or anyone (except a military therapist and they were useless), anything. For EJ, the war itself was classified.
His sister was curled in the workroom’s ratty upholstered wing-back chair, and had changed into woolen yoga pants and layers of shirts topped with a dark green C-MOCs sweatshirt from her college days at University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. She didn’t seem traumatized from last night, which he found surprising. Until the war, he’d looked up to his big sister, because she had saved his life more than once when they were kids, when enemies had found them. But then, he became the soldier, the warrior in the Witch War. She had been safe at home.
“If you go out, that leaves me here all alone,” he said, shifting individual screens around with his fingertips to align properly on the board. “I will be here to talk to Walter, to find out everything learned from thebleed and readof his prisoners, update our case-board, walk your dog, work until midnight, and maybe, at some point, go upstairs to the gym and practice with Walter for a bit. You? Will be left out.” He smiled a tinygotchagrin.
Above The Firm were more levels, for a total of nine floors with the upper four floors leased out as apartments. Angie had the second floor, EJ the third. Walter, their royal fanghead security guard, had vamp-modified quarters on the fifth floor,the steel shutters paid for by God knew who, maintaining his sunlight-free apartment. The fourth floor, between theirs and Walter’s, was the communal area with its own yoga studio, the martial arts practice room, a communal laundry, and a sitting area/kitchen/game room large enough for the renters to have parties if they wanted to pay the reservation fee and do cleanup, and a moderately luxurious multi-bathroom that had come with the building. The fourth floor had once been a commercial gym and they hadn’t modified it much when they purchased the building. They sparred there. With Walter.
In the vamp world, Walter had a rep as a swordsman. A dangerous rep. Their bodyguard and bone of royal contention, forced them to keep their fighting skills properly honed. Walter, forcing them to keep in practice, was another price for their freedom. But EJ had come to enjoy the practice sessions, not that he’d tell Walter.
EJ said, “Other than the dog walking, we’ll stay inside our shells as requested. And fight, of course.”
Angie grumbled, “Requested, my ass.Ordered. And George isyourdog, not my dog. He sleeps onyourbed. He eats inyourapartment, and he snores underyourdesk.”
“Youfilled out the adoption papers.Youbrought home a rescue dog and two cats, like a witch in a fic-vid or novel.”
“You—stop the vid. Back up. There. That guy.” Angie synced her portable tablet’s feed to the office’s wall screen and tapped the face. “Who is he?”
The guy in question was standing with Angie’s ex, and both men were watching Ivyanna flirt with the Queen’s Consort. It was the second time they had caught Angie’s ex watching Ivyanna, and her interest in the Consort made this sticky political situation more difficult. EJ pulled up the guest list and scrolled through the headshots. “Got him. He’s attendee number forty-eight, Willim Danil Yorath IV, fanghead, turned in 1740. His bio-father and bio-mother were human, of Welsh lineage. Vampire sire was his bio-uncle, who, with Willim’s parents, owned a plantation in Jamaica. And…Well, well, well. Hello there, my ol’ pal, coincidence. You show up again.”
“What?” Angie asked.
“When Willim sold his interest in the family plantation and returned to England, he brought two young slaves from Jamaica, a female and male.”
Angie sat up. “WY. The initials branded onto Walter’s face. That was his…his…owner.Torturer. Walter had to know Willim was going to be at the reception. That has to be why he declined the invitation to attend,” Angie said.
“I’ll chat with him privately, later.”
“Better you than me,” Angie said. “He’ll still be pissed at me for last night.”
“It’s after dark,” EJ said. “Ojos, is Walter on premises? And is he alone?” EJ didn’t want to bust in and find Walter in ableed and readof one of last night’s prisoners, or, worse, entertaining a blood donor.
“Walter is in his quarters,” the security system replied. It was using what EJ thought of as its nondescript UK butler voice, not quite upper class, but not southside either. “There is one human with him, Ms. Constance.”
“I’m not interrupting him,” Angie said, “wild sex or not.”
Unlike most vampires, Walter didn’t have typical blood servants who lived with him and served him. Walter contracted with blooddonors, meaning that sex was off the table, as were living arrangements. The exchange was totally transactional on his part: human blood for money, or sips of vamp blood. Vamp blood improved any human donor’s general health, provided longer life-spans, and sometimes cured some otherwiseuntreatable diseases. That didn’t stop the donors from experiencing a sexual response of some kind, and for some donors, it was intense. But Walter never capitalized on a donor’s blood-induced sexual needs.
According to his dossier—the parts that weren’t redacted—when Walter had applied to work in the queen’s household, he had stated in his video application, “Modern humans have a saying—do not defecate where you eat—which is vulgar and earthy but conveys my philosophy well. I do not take my pleasure from the same place I receive sustenance. Such foolishness results in blood servants one must feed and provide for. It results in being forced to keep a lair and uphold contracts and maintainbloodyfinancial records, of all the ridiculous things. It results inemotional and familial responsibility. Which Iabhor.”
EJ said, “Ojos, notify us when Walter walks Constance out.”
“Of course,” the system said.
EJ swiped through the information they had gathered so far on the case, part of his mind on Walter.
Constance was one of Walter’s favorites, stopping by every week or so to donate. Personally, EJ thought the woman had the hots for Walter, but that wasn’t an opinion he’d share. Walter was intensely private, and would likely be horrified that EJ had a copy of his dossier, one that included some unredacted sections. Angie had only the redacted dossier. Angie didn’t need to know the things that had been done to Walter when he was a slave. She already had full-on hatred for the man who had hurt Walter.
“Walter is escorting Ms. Constance down the stairs,”Ojossaid.
Angie brought up the live footage of the entry door cam. Walter never took the elevator, and Constance seemed finewith a five-floor walk as long as Walter was by her side. At the outer front door, Constance slid into an Agric coat, a weave of hemp and milk-based fibers, and took her pocketbook from Walter. She said, “I’ll see you next week. Take care.”
“Be well and safe, Miss Constance,” Walter said. He saw her out and secured the entrance door, watching her climb into a self-driving rental. He turned to the cam, lifted the eyebrow on the unscarred half of his face, and said, “Good evening, Evan Junior. I assume you want to know what I learned from Labaka and the man who attempted to abscond with Angelina’s friend.”
“We’re in The Firm’s workroom,” EJ said. He touched off the screen and slid his eyes to his sister. “Busted.”
