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The vamp stole a cigarette from the blond, who was in no position to object, and took his time lighting up. He was tall, with black hair cut short to minimize a tendency to curl, judging by a few at his neck. That wasn’t so odd—a lot of the younger vamps wore their hair short, including plenty of those who belonged to Mircea. But they didn’t also have five o’clock shadow or a tribal tat decorating one bicep, or dress in jeans and tight black muscle shirts.
“We’re new—we flew in last night,” he finally said, taking a drag. He blew out a breath and regarded Pritkin through the smoke. “Mage, why would anyone follow us when they don’t know who we are?”
Pritkin thought about that for a beat and then finally released the blond. The vamp took his time straightening up, brushing out the wrinkles in his silver-gray suit. Then he looked at me. “You need him on a leash,” he said viciously.
“Would somebody please explain what is going on?” I asked.
“What is going on is that your safety depends on no one knowing where you are,” Pritkin told me, still glaring at the vamps. “And considering how we departed, no one should. We exited directly into a ley line, under cover of the hotel’s wards, and didn’t leave it until halfway across the city. No one saw us—a fact that does little good if someone leads your enemies straight to you!”
“Well, we didn’t,” the blond snapped, rubbing his neck under the pretense of adjusting a rumpled burgundy tie.
“That’s why Marco couldn’t come after you himself,” the brunet informed me, leaning back against the SUV.
“What is?” I asked.
The cigarette glowed against the night as he waved a negligent hand. “The paparazzi have marked him. He was waylaid outside the hotel a couple of days ago by a mob shouting questions, wanting photos. . . .”
“Of him?”
“Of you. You’re front-page news. Haven’t you seen the papers?”
“Not recently.” And considering what they’d been printing the last time I did look, that was probably for the best. “But I haven’t seen any reporters—”
“They’re not allowed in the hotel.”
“And you don’t exactly use the front door,” the blond added. “I’m Jules, by the way.” He extended a slim hand, which I took after a brief hesitation. If they intended to stuff me into the SUV, they could do it whether I cooperated or not. “And this is Rico and Fred.”
“Fred?” I looked at Mousy, because no way was the brunet a Fred. He smiled weakly.
“I get that a lot,” he said. “I’m thinking of changing it. What do you think about André?”
I thought I’d never seen anyone who looked less like an André.
“So Marco’s afraid of the paparazzi?” I asked skeptically.
“More the other way around.” Rico grinned.
“He threatened to do something anatomically impossible to one of their men,” Fred told me.
“Not impossible,” Rico blew out a thoughtful breath. “The camera could be made to fit, although the case—”
“What about the tripod?”
“I don’t think he was serious about the tripod.”
“The paparazzi aren’t the issue,” Jules interrupted, shooting them a look. “But if they’ve managed to figure out that Marco’s your bodyguard, more dangerous types could have done the same. He couldn’t risk leading anyone to you, so he sent us.”
“To do what?” I asked, pretty sure I already knew.
“You want it verbatim?”
“Minus the profanity.”
Sculpted lips pursed. “Well, that would shorten it a bit.”
“What. Did. He. Say?”
“To paraphrase? ‘Let her finish her pizza and then drag her back here. By the hair, if necessary.’”
