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“Ray!”
“Like I got a choice? You think I’d be moving in with Ms. Vamps-Are-Icky if I had a choice?”
“You’re not moving in.”
“Then where am I supposed to go? My club burnt down, and we were living on the top floor—”
“So tell Cheung to give you your money back. He can’t just take it for no reason—”
“Like hell he can’t. He says it was my fault anyways, ’cause the club wasn’t insured—”
“It wasn’t insured?”
“It was sorta insured—”
“Ray!”
“And now he wants my head and I can’t afford to lose it again! And you can’t navigate being a newly appointed senator without someone to show you the ropes.”
I rolled my eyes.
“What?” he demanded.
“You’re as much a train wreck as I am. And as soon as the war’s over, somebody else will have my seat anyway. You think they’re going to keep a dhampir on the Senate one second longer than they have to?”
“Well, not with that attitude.”
Olga knocked, then came back in with the salve. There were three in the in-need pile so far, and she and Ray started on them, while I determinedly stripped the rest. By the time we were done gooping up the sickly, wrapping them in blankets, and piling them along the walls, I needed a drink.
Thankfully, Olga had brought three glasses. Hospitality says you don’t let your guests drink alone. It also says you get water glasses full of booze, because troll ideas of a shot are a little different.
I eyed Ray. I supposed I should be worried that he’d belted his back in one go. And then slammed the glass down, wiped his lips, and looked at me. “Okay, about that deal.”
* * *
—
A couple hours later, Olga and I rolled to a stop by a sidewalk, where a seriously impressed-looking valet ran over to take our ride. He didn’t so much as glance at me, despite the nifty silver jumpsuit I was wearing, a recent gift from my fashion-conscious uncle Radu. It was one shouldered and figure hugging, with the material stretchy enough not to be binding. It also had a faint snakeskin pattern in the weave that I secretly thought was badass. And slightly flared trouser legs, although not enough to hide my usual butt-kicking boots, so I’d opted for silver sandals instead.
He also wasn’t looking at Olga, who was a vision in gold lamé, along with some troll bling in the form of a necklace that looked like it might leap off her neck and go for your jugular at any second. But it didn’t rate so much as a glance. The guy only had eyes for the car.
I couldn’t blame him. The sun was setting as we pulled up, and the shiny black surface reflected the colors in bright streamers. I was still gonna have to see my buddies—Claire wanted something less likely to get hijacked—but for the moment, Olga and I were stylin’.
Well, if you didn’t count what was following us.
We got out, I handed over the keys, and Claire’s new ride purred off around the corner. And was immediately replaced by an ominous rattle, a screech of brakes, and the scent of burning oil. And more acrid black smoke than an old-fashioned steam train.
The battered contraption that rattled to a stop by the curb was part yellow school bus, part ancient semi, and part Mad Max movie prop. And all hard-core. Like its occupants, who required a rugged ride, but had been damned cagey about what had happened to the last one.
I watched Olga’s posse pile out and frowned. Misplacing Stan’s property was no joke. He was connected, specifically to a fat-ass were named Roberto who owned half of Brooklyn and had zero chill. I mentally upped finding Stan’s truck a few notches on the priority list, and turned my attention to tonight’s errand.
The theatre we’d parked in front of had seen better days. A third of the lights were out on the old-fashioned marquee, there was peeling paint everywhere that wasn’t dirty brick, and the COMING ATTRACTIONS posters were so faded behind their yellowed plastic covers that they could have been anything. It wasn’t the sort of place you’d expect to have valet parking.
Yet, while I stood there, a Mercedes, a BMW, and a Jaguar hummed up to the curb behind Frankentruck, disgorging a stream of beautiful people headed for the theatre’s front doors. Where two neon mermaids were flicking their tails above the name Delmare. I’d never heard of the place, but apparently it was owned by an old acquaintance of Ray’s from his smuggling days.
Ray’s guy had flourished under Geminus, who’d liked the rare and exotic slaves he specialized in. Geminus had had his pick of them for the illegal arena games he was running, and in return, he’d provided the kind of ironclad protection that allowed the smuggler to stay ahead of the law. But Geminus’ death had left the guy up a creek, and he was currently looking for a new paddle.
Me.
