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“No. But he would take you to a great dim sum place. Dynamite pot stickers. ” He moved his bulk out of the door to let me in. The room was poorly lit and sparsely populated. It looked like every other Irish, English or Scottish pub I’d ever seen. There were scarred wood tables, Guinness paraphernalia, and various football trophies and scarves adorning the walls. It felt warm inside and smelled of good ale and the best whiskey.
There were enough hushed conversations taking place I couldn’t focus on any one specific line of dialogue, and it came as a relief to not feel like I was intruding.
“Who gave you the card?” the big man asked. “I’ve never seen you before, so someone must have sent you to us,” he explained, to soften his original, abrupt question.
I was still holding the card in my hand where Fagan had placed it.
“Keats,” I said.
“Ah, the famous Mr. Keats. Did he consider himself above whatever problem you brought him?” The man smirked, and I kept my face impassive, but I was insulted on Keaty’s behalf. We were partners, after all. “Poltergeist, is it? Or a dream demon, perhaps?”
“I’m looking for Jameson,” I replied.
The condescending look disappeared from his face, and he fixed me with a hard, assessing stare.
“Well, you’ve found him. ” I had assumed as much, based on the authoritative manner he had adopted from the offset. “And who might you be, little lady?”
Keaty had said I should tell them my name, so I figured I might as well start there. “I’m Secret McQueen,” I announced, building my slight frame up as tall as I could. I’m not much to look at, size-wise, but big surprises come in little packages.
Silence fell over the room like a sudden onset of fog. Behind the bar someone dropped a glass and the sound echoed outwards in a crystalline ripple. Every pair of eyes in the room fixed on me, and I tried not to let it make me nervous, but I was itching to go for my gun.
The silence held for longer than was comfortable. I guess my reputation extended beyond the vampire community.
The large man, now confirmed to be Jameson, cleared his throat, and on cue the patrons of the bar resumed their normal activities.
“My apologies, Miss McQueen—”
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“Secret, please. ” I loathed the formality of Miss McQueen, and those who commonly used it were not the type of people I liked to correct, so whenever I had the opportunity to avoid the title, I did.
“Secret. ” He smiled. “What brings you to Bramley?”
“I need help with something and was hoping you or one of your associates might have some information. ”
He indicated a table in the back of the room, where two other patrons were already seated. He was giving us a little privacy to further discuss my situation.
I took a chair with its back against the wall so I could see the room and the entrance. Any assassin worth their salt knows you never leave your back exposed.
Jameson took the chair across from mine, clearly trusting that no one in the room meant him harm. I wish I could have felt so sure in any room. Beside Jameson was a young, somber-looking Japanese girl. I would have liked to call her pretty, with her straight black hair and flawless complexion, but her face was so rigid and tense it was difficult to judge her real level of beauty.
Beside me but out of reach was a man who appeared to be about my same age. He was of the ethnic minority I’d only ever seen in New York, which was the unique blending of Latino and African-American. He had strong features—pillowy, full lips and a jaw that looked carved out of marble. Beneath the white T-shirt he wore it was obvious he was well built and had the kind of large biceps that made me want to know what a hug from him would feel like.
His skin was a soft, honeyed brown, and his black hair had been cut so close to his scalp it was impossible to tell if it had once been curly. His eyes weren’t brown, but rather an unexpected shade of gray, and his gaze was locked on my forehead. He looked as serious as the Japanese girl, but on him the expression was less practiced. Though his build and appearance would pigeonhole him as a thug, I suspected he was naturally prone to a cheerful disposition. His eyes gave him away, because they were too warm and lacked the deadened glaze of a true killer.
I liked to think mine still had a little glimmer of life to them too.
“This is Noriko. ” Jameson indicated the girl, who nodded tightly, never lowering her gaze. “And that’s Nolan. ”
Nolan smiled and moved to offer me his hand before catching a disapproving glare from Jameson and resuming his stoic pose.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said in spite of himself. “We hear lots ’bout you ’round here. ”
Jameson sighed dramatically, and Nolan recognized his mistake. It was also my introduction to Nolan’s unique voice, which was low and smooth. He seemed unable to attach the letter A to the beginning of words and had a classic Brooklyn accent that warmed my heart.
“What kind of information are you looking for?” Jameson asked.
“I’ve been contracted to eliminate a rogue threat by the name of Holden Chancery. ” I watched them for any flicker of recognition and got nothing.
