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And then I noticed a chart on the wall. It was squished in between a particularly busty Amazon and some engineering diagram. I squinted, trying to focus. The symbols on the paper looked vaguely familiar and stirred up some sort of warning bell in my gut, but they were drawn in pencil and hard to read from where I was perched.
I tested the window. Unlocked. People were stupid, I thought. Or maybe they were just too trusting. Nobody ever thought an intruder would manage to sneak in an upstairs window, but I—along with others like me—Fae, Supe, and human alike—proved them wrong time and again.
As silently as I could, I slid the window up and eased myself over the sill. So far, so good. Nobody seemed to notice. The door to the hallway was closed, so I snuck over to the poster to take a closer look.
As I approached it, a wave of energy lashed out and smacked me full-on. What the fuck? The attack continued the closer I got. And then it came into focus. I recognized a few of the symbols. They were summoning runes. Specifically: demon-summoning runes.
A stir outside the room caught my attention, and right before the door opened, I dove under the bed and froze. At least I didn’t have to breathe—they wouldn’t hear me panting. My luck extended to the fact that his sheet and bedspread were hanging over the edge, giving me protection in the shadows.
I scooted as far back as I could, and it was then that I noticed just how grungy the floor beneath the bed was: dirt, a dead French fry or two, and—oh good gods. Scattered among the dust bunnies and crumbs were several used condoms. At least they’d been tied like a balloon so they weren’t leaking, but this was a new level of gross, even for me, and I knew my habits could be considered fairly nauseating by some. College boys, all right.
“Dude, I’m telling you, you gotta calm down.” Dude number one was talking and, by judicious squirming around, I could peek out to see it was the guy in the Skechers.
“But shit, man, what we did—what you did . . .” Reebok Boy countered.
“She ain’t gonna say a word, man. I spiked her drink. She was so high on Z-fen that she won’t even remember it. And don’t tell me you didn’t have fun, ’cuz man, you were right in the middle of that fuckfest. Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t enjoy it.” Skechers Dude moved enough for me to see he was wearing cargo pants and little else. “Besides,” he said, his voice shifting. He sounded threatening rather than comforting now. “You came up with the idea. You wanted to make the H-Man happy.”
There was a loud sigh, then Reebok Boy said, “Damn it. Yeah, I know. I know. I’m just having second thoughts now.”
“Well, don’t. Besides, it’s over. And if she gives us any shit, well, we can always use fresh meat for the Big Man. Now, shut that damned window, Larry. It’s your turn to keep watch over the soul stone, and you’re late for guard duty.” Skechers Dude headed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Soul stone? What the hell was a soul stone? Did he mean a soul statue? And if so, how did these two creeps get their hands on one? And why would he have to keep guard over it?
These guys were obviously living in their own demented little world, and I was itching to put them out of my misery. Rapists and I had bad chemistry. Or maybe they weren’t wacko. Maybe they were just into some role-playing game, like World of Warcraft, although after the portals had opened, the RPGs had taken a bit of a hit. Real life suddenly became a lot more interesting to a lot of people.
Larry—Reebok Boy—cleared his throat, uttered a very succinct, “Fuck you, too, Duane,” and shut the window. I was hoping that he would leave, so I could get out from under the bed, but he decided to change his clothes.
As he dropped his pants, I found myself at the perfect angle and unfortunately caught a good look at his dick, which was neither impressive nor lacking. But the sight of the used condoms was enough to squelch anything but the most analytical interest I might have in that portion of his anatomy. Larry wasn’t wearing a shirt, but apparently he worked out. At least enough to have a decent six-pack. I managed to catch a glimpse of short, shaggy hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in days and of a bizarre tattoo on his left calf. As I stared at the squiggly black ink, I suddenly realized that I was looking at an intricate bindrune, made up of demonic runes.
Shit! What the fuck?
What the hell was he doing wearing that on his body? He was an FBH, that much was obvious, so it wasn’t like he had demonic blood. At least, I couldn’t sense any. Aware that I’d stumbled on a major headache in the making, I waited while he slid into a pair of black cargo pants and a black turtleneck. He jammed a black knit hat on his head and glanced around the room, suddenly pausing. I held still, wondering if he’d seen me, but he just grabbed up what looked like a Taser and then took off out the door, shutting it behind him.
As I slid out from under the bed and dusted myself off, I debated. I really wanted to know what the hell was going on here. Something sounded screwy, and I had the sinking feeling that date rape was the least of their fuckups. But the clock was reading close to three thirty, and I needed to get home in two hours. I either had to give up the idea of contacting Roman, the vampire Sassy had wangled a meeting with for me to find out about the Clockwork Club, or I had to give up on Harold and his housemates for the night.
I hesitated.
As much as I wanted to follow Larry, I’d never be able to come up with a good explanation for why I was prowling their halls, and I wasn’t good at winging it. I could use my charm, yes, but with the hormones running wild, chances were Camille would be better suited toward a hunt-and-seek mission. I took a moment to photograph the demonic runes with my cell phone and then eased open the window, slipped out onto the roof, and closed it behind me. Within a few seconds, I was back on the sidewalk in front of the house and headed for the car. As usual, I had more questions than answers.
It was a short drive to Roman’s home, which was yet another huge house. But this was no frat boy hangout. From what Sassy told me, Roman had inherited a sizable fortune from an old “uncle.” Then she told me that the uncle had been Roman, reinventing himself, before it was safe for vamps to come out of the closet. So I expected an older man, perhaps a bit weather worn, when I rang the bell. A woman wearing a maid’s uniform let me in. She was a vampire—that much I could tell right off the bat. But she wasn’t very powerful, and she kept her eyes down as she led me into the living room.
Sassy had a mansion, but Roman’s home might as well have been a palace, although it was too gaudy for my taste. There was so much frippery that I could barely make out the exquisite antiques beneath the froufrou that overwhelmed the joint. Every chair was overstuffed, every table overflowed with draping plants and lace doilies and baskets full of—well, I wasn’t sure what they were full of, but they reminded me of a thrift store.
I cleared my throat, wondering if this was what the Clockwork Club members thought of as old money and good taste. If so, I’d never make it. Not that I really wanted to, other than to check out Claudette’s disappearance.
There was nobody in sight, so I sidled over to the nearest non-white chair and gingerly sat on the edge. Though in the dim light and clutter, no one could tell if I got it dirty.
I’d been sitting there for ten minutes when the door opened, and a shimmer slid into the room. A blur, really—faster than even I could see. A moment later, I jumped as Roman appeared by my side. He wasn’t old, after all—at least not in looks. He looked to be around thirty-five or so, and he had long, dark hair, a beard, and the grayest eyes I’d ever seen. He was silent. Totally silent. And when I stood to greet him, he looked right through me.
Shivering—power rolled off the vampire like waves on the beach—I opted for a nod instead of shaking hands.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said, managing to find my voice. I’d thought Dredge was old, but this vampire was older.
He circled me, watching me—for what, I wasn’t sure, but he was looking me over inch by inch, and I felt terribly uncomfortable. Roman’s power was too reminiscent of Dredge’s ability to command the room.
After a few moments, he retreated to the chair opposite the sofa and motioned for me to sit down again. Roman was wearing a pair of black linen trousers and a spotless white shirt, over which he had draped a jewel-toned patchwork smoking jacket, as flamboyant as his home and just as expensive. My first thought was Siegfried and Roy or Liberace, but I kept that little tidbit to myself. Don’t offend the man before you have a chance to ask him for a favor.
He waited until I was seated before speaking. “Menolly,” he said, his voice rolling over my name with a rich accent that I couldn’t place. “Sassy said you might be paying me a visit. How nice to make your acquaintance. What might I do for you?”
