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“Nah. I came ’ere ’cause I wasn’t sure where else ta go. Then I saw yer…dad? I freaked. Sorry.” He turned to Sutherland. “Sorry.”
“What for?” My father blinked up, glancing to Nolan then me. “Secret, who’s your friend?”
Perhaps it was for the best not to remind him my friend had tried to kill him not two minutes earlier. “Dad, this is Nolan Tate. He and I go way back.”
“It’s a pleasure.” Sutherland returned to staring at the blank television set.
Nolan’s eyes pleaded for an explanation, but what could I say? I didn’t have the energy or desire to review the story of what had gone down in California, and was there an easy way to tell someone your absentee vampire father was a bit…unhinged?
“He’s had a hard twenty-four years,” I said.
That might be the best way to explain a lot of things.
Chapter Twenty
Nolan couldn’t stay with me. Even with Desmond out of the equation until Lucas could fix him—well hopefully not fix him—I still had Holden to contend with. Technically only Desmond lived with me, though he and Holden both had their own apartments. But now that Desmond and Holden had come to their tense agreement regarding my relationship to them both, I was seeing the vampire in my domain a lot more often.
And since he knew I was back in the city, I would surely be seeing him once I found my way back to Hell’s Kitchen.
It wasn’t that he’d view Nolan
as a threat, but I didn’t think it would be fair to put my young sidekick in such a tense situation.
He couldn’t stay with Shane, and I didn’t bother suggesting he crash on Sutherland’s couch. I’d been amazed Nolan had accepted Brigit for what she was, considering his distaste for most vampires. He wouldn’t be so flexible when it came to my dad.
So, in spite of his claim that he’d visit Keaty the next day, we found ourselves standing in front of a brownstone with Keats & McQueen painted on the front door. My one-time home beckoned with the kind of warmth one can only get from a place they don’t have to live in anymore.
“Should’ve called first,” Nolan grumbled.
“Please. You think he’s sleeping? No. Keaty doesn’t sleep.”
“’E might be mad.”
“At you?”
“Yeah.”
The truth was Keaty probably was mad. He hated unreliable people, and Nolan had been the dictionary definition of unreliable when he’d skipped town. There was no sense in playing the dead-girlfriend card, because as far as Francis Keats was concerned, vampires weren’t people. Mourning Brigit would mean the same to him emotionally as mourning a dead goldfish.
Considering he was one of the only humans in my life, Keaty was easily the most detached from his humanity. It made him a great partner, an excellent teacher, but absolute crap as a substitute father figure.
Not that my real dad was doing much better.
“He’ll be fine. Just ring the bell.”
Nolan, ever dutiful, did as I requested, and a few moments later the front door opened.
If I were to imagine the perfect sociopath, a no-nonsense killer for money, I don’t think I’d picture Keaty. I might think of a guy in full flack gear, maybe with scars from a stint in a war zone somewhere.
Keaty had no scars, at least no physical ones. His hair was dark blond and cut in a short, tidy style that would have served him equally well on a battlefield or in a boardroom. Sometimes he wore wire-rimmed glasses, but he’d removed them before coming to the door. I could make out the indent of the plastic feet where they’d been resting on his nose.
“McQueen.” He nodded at me. If he was surprised to see either myself or Nolan, it didn’t show. “Tate. You back from your vacation?”
“Uh. Yessir.”
“Good. Room’s still upstairs. Hope you don’t think I’m paying you for all those weeks you were gone. We have a case I’m expecting your full assistance on. I’ll break it down for you in the morning.” He held the door open to let a befuddled Nolan pass him. “Secret, could you please wait in my office?”
I’d known fear in my life. I’d been bruised, beaten, tortured, shoved through dimensions and made to wear uncomfortable heels while doing a lot of it. But few things could terrify me like Keaty’s we need to talk tone.
