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Oliver stopped and stared at her. “Wait a minute. What do you mean it’s real? As in . . .”
“As in the Coven has had its first real security breach in a hundred years. That’s Victoria Taylor in the video. It was taped at Jamie Kip’s apartment; he had a little get-together to celebrate his eighteenth. She’s been missing since the night of the party. We have five days to find her before they burn her alive.”
“But what do you need me for?” Oliver asked. “Don’t the Venators have this in the bag?”
“Whoever did this knows how we operate. So we have to do something else. We need you to talk to the other Conduits—find out who might have squealed, who was at the party, who holds a grudge against us.”
Oliver shook his head and raised an eyebrow. “But why should I help you?”
“You’re a Repository scribe. You work for me.”
“Not quite true,” he said, maneuvering around Mimi. It was November in New York, and the air was chilly. Oliver huddled in his thin wool jacket. “I work for the Repository, which is under Renfield’s jurisdiction.
You’re going to need to get a transfer from him to let me work for the Regent’s office. I guarantee you it’s going to take three months to get one. Renfield is very strict about
policy and procedure. He doesn’t like you vampires pushing him around.”
Mimi gritted her teeth. Oliver was right. That old human coot wouldn’t just assign her Oliver—he would make a lot of bureaucratic red tape.
“Okay, then! You should help me because there’s someone in trouble and I know you’re a good guy, and you’re not about to let a vampire die.”
“Vampires don’t die,” Oliver pointed out. “They get recycled to suck for another day. Pun definitely intended. Or don’t you know your own history?”
“Whoever this is has the Black Fire; it will burn the blood,” Mimi stressed. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Why should I care?” Oliver snapped. “It’s not my problem. I’m sorry, but the answer is no. Send the transfer request to Renfield. I’ll see you in three months.”
Mimi was a little taken aback. Clearly the Repository had overestimated the depth of his loyalty to the Coven. She couldn’t understand why he was being so antagonistic. Was it simply annoyance, a personal dislike for her, or lingering resentment over being left behind by Schuyler? Whatever it was, Mimi realized she did not care. He was being needlessly stubborn. This wasn’t about the two of them, or whatever personal animosity they shared. An immortal life was on the line.
“Good God, Perry! Do you even know what you’re saying?” Mimi cried. Her outburst caused several people in the courtyard to turn in their direction. Mimi glared at them. She wanted to stamp her feet, but she held her emotions in check. She was strong enough to lead an army of angels into battle, but she couldn’t get one foolish Red Blood to see things her way? She decided to try something completely alien to her. “Look, I know what’s going on, I know . . . that just like me, you’re hurting.” There. She’d admitted it.
Oliver continued to sulk, but Mimi pressed on. “I just think that—well, that maybe working on this will stop the pain for a bit. Give you something else to think about.” She ran her hands through her hair in exasperation. “It’s helping me, so maybe it’ll help you. Even just a little.”
Oliver fingered his jacket and sighed. “Well, it would help if you would ask once in a while. Instead of just demanding like you usually do.”
“What do you mean?” Mimi asked, her eyes narrowed.
“I mean, you could ask nicely. You know, instead of threatening and throwing your weight around like some kind of Third World dictator. All you need is the little red cap and the epaulets and the aviators,” he said, waving his hand over her. “You come across like a blond Idi Amin.”
“Who’s he? Never mind. You mean, like, ‘Please, Oliver, will you help me find the traitor?’”
“Exactly.”
Now it was Mimi’s turn to roll her eyes. “Very well. Please, Oliver, will you help me find the traitor?” She felt like a three-year-old scolded by her parents for her lack of manners.
Oliver smiled. “Was it that hard, Mimi? Don’t answer. I know it was. But of course I’d be glad to help, since you asked. What else do I have to do?”
EIGHTEEN
The Usual Suspects
As a rule, Mimi did not enjoy the company of Red Blood boys unless they were tasty. She’d had her fill of quite a few familiars to get through the stressful week. But unless she was chomping on someone’s neck and consuming their blood, she had absolutely no interest in them. So it surprised her to find she did not detest Oliver as much as she thought she would, and that working with him wasn’t the torture she had expected it to be. They had four days left before the crescent moon appeared, and Mimi was relieved to find that, as she had heard, Oliver was a thorough and apt investigator. By the next morning, he had already rounded up the Conduits who had been at Jamie Kip’s party.
Since only a handful of Blue Blood families still kept to the practice, there were only four Conduits in the city who could have attended the party without arousing suspicion from the other guests and pulled off the stunt. Oliver brought each suspect into a small room in the Repository that the Venators used for questioning, while Mimi watched from the other side of the double-sided glass.
Gemma Anderson took a seat across from Oliver. She was Christopher Anderson’s grandniece and Conduit to Stella Van Rensslaer. “What’s all this about?” she asked Oliver. “Stella said you wanted to see me as soon as possible. Have I done anything wrong? Is this about her and Corey? I told her she was draining him dry at the rate she was using. But Stella’s a vamp tramp; she’ll never learn.”
Mimi was shocked at the flippant attitude Gemma displayed toward her betters. Is this what the Conduits said behind their backs? That the Blue Bloods were just a bunch of bloodsuckers? How rude!
