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“It means I work for the vampire high council.” I kept my voice in the lower tonal ranges. There was a security camera in the corner, and while it was focused on the door, I had no idea if it was sound capable or not. The last thing I needed was Uncle Rhoan raiding their system and hearing me.
“So, not Directorate?”
“No.” I hesitated. “I take it they have been here, though?”
“Yes. Yesterday.” She frowned. “So are you a cop or what?”
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I lean more toward being a private investigator than something as official as a cop.”
“Meaning you don’t have the same sort of powers?”
“No.” And I could see where this was leading—me being shown the door. I glanced at Azriel. Don’t suppose you can apply a little reaper charm, could you? I know you’re not supposed to, but we need to get this case moving so we can concentrate on our own.
He raised an eyebrow, but he gave the woman a full-wattage smile and said, “We tend to be the intermediaries between the council and the Directorate. We’re used when the council does not wish a more official investigation.”
“But they are involved with whatever you are here to ask about, aren’t they?”
A woman immune to your wily ways, I said, amused. How amazing is that?
I suspect the reason is all the hair. She does not find it attractive, apparently.
Amusement bubbled through me, although I could certainly sympathize. Lots of hair wasn’t on my must-have list when it came to men, either. Can you give her a little push into accepting us?
Only if it was key related, which this is not.
I mentally sighed, then said, “Look, we just have a couple of quick questions, but if you think either James Parred or Catherine Moore would prefer to speak directly to the guardians, that can be arranged.”
She bit the bottom of her lip, her expression uncertain, then made her decision and picked up the phone. “James, there are some investigators from the vampire council here who wish to speak to you about Ms. Summer.”
“Another bloody complaint, no doubt,” he replied, voice clearly audible even from where I stood. As was his annoyance. “Send them in.”
The woman hung up and motioned to the vibrant yellow door at the far end of the desk. “Through there, green door on your left.”
“Thanks.”
We followed her directions, and a balding, middle-aged man rose from his chair and gave a welcoming—if somewhat tense—smile. “James Parred, at your service.”
I shook his offered hand. “Annie Logan and Bear Brown,” I said, grabbing at the first names that came to mind.
He glanced at Azriel, amusement briefly touching his lips. “Bear?”
“It is more a nickname,” Azriel replied, giving me a “must-you?” sort of look.
“Well, it’s certainly appropriate, if you don’t mind me saying.” He waved a hand toward the seats, then sat back down himself. “What do you wish to know about Ms. Summer?”
“We went to Hallowed Ground to talk to her this afternoon, but she disappeared—”
“Yeah, damn annoying, that was,” he cut in. “She did me out of a booking fee and annoyed a good customer.”
“Have you been in contact with her? Do you know why she ran?”
He shook his head. “I tried calling her, but she’s not answering her phone.”
“And have you had any problems like this with her before?”
“Like this? No.”
“But you have had problems?”
