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“An emo feeds off emotion, not life force.” I frowned at the woman. “Is anyone in danger?”
“I would suspect not. She appears to be taking only a small quantity from each—it amounts to little more than minutes from their lives.”
“It shortens their lives?”
He raised an eyebrow, amusement lurking around the corners of his mouth. “Did I not just say that?”
“Apparently.” I scrubbed a hand through my short hair. “Should we try to stop her?”
“That is not why we are here; nor is it your place to do so. If she takes it too far, the Directorate will deal with her.”
“And will she? Take it too far, I mean?”
He studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowed. “That possibility is there. It always is whenever a life depends on feeding from others.”
“Huh.” I glanced over my shoulder, saw the barman coming back, and turned around.
“You have a couple of minutes,” he said. His tone held a mocking edge as he added, “Seems she’d prefer not to have Hunter after her.”
“She’s through that door?” I nodded toward the heavy wooden door.
“Yes.” He picked up a tea towel and began polishing glasses, his expression one of disdain. Hunter’s lackeys, it seemed, were not held in high regard in this place, even if the woman herself was feared.
I pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into a long, semidark corridor. Several doors led off it, all of them closed except the one down at the far end. Light flickered from within—some sort of computer screen, I thought, as I headed down. My footsteps echoed lightly, but no one came out to usher us into the room or greet us.
I paused at the doorway. The room was almost bare, with little more than a bank of security monitors and a large desk—complete with a light-screen monitor and keyboard—in the room. Behind the desk, in a chair that was larger than she was, sat a diminutive, dark-haired woman. She didn’t bother looking up from whatever it was she was reading, merely waved a hand in a “come in” motion.
Given there were no seats on our side of the desk, I stopped in front of it and waited.
And waited.
She tests you, Azriel commented.
I gather that. My reply was grouchy. Why is it that female vampires seem to be such bitches?
Perhaps they feel the need to prove themselves more.
I snorted softly. Or they just like being bitches.
That is also possible. Perhaps you should flex a little muscle. Or would you prefer me to?
She’s hardly likely to respect me more if I ask you to beat her up. By the same token, I doubted I’d actually have what it took to do that. I might be part were, but she was vampire. But then, I did have other talents I could call on—talents she wouldn’t have seen before.
“You know,” I said, keeping my voice conversational, “I came in here to ask a few polite questions about Wolfgang Schmidt, but if you’d rather do things the hard way, I’m more than happy to oblige.”
She finally looked up, her expression mocking. “Am I supposed to cower in fear? Because, let’s be honest here, a werewolf provides little threat to one such as I; nor does a man who wears the mask of death.”
She sees you as a reaper?
Yes. To her, he added, “Then you are a fool.”
“And certainly not a good judge of character.” I raised a hand and called to the Aedh, then siphoned the surge of power into my raised fingertips. They went translucent in an instant, neither flesh nor Aedh, but somewhere in between. Her gaze went wide. I added, my voice still even, “Because, you see, I’m not just a werewolf. I’m someone who can reach into your chest, wrap my fingers around your heart, and rip it beating and bloody from your flesh.”
She blinked, staring at my hand in awe and perhaps the tiniest touch of fear. And I have to admit, I liked seeing that, if only because I was getting a little sick of being on the wrong end of fear all the time.
Maybe it really was time for me to start flexing a little muscle.
“What are you?” she said after a moment.
