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“Pay? Donate?” Thedraugrwoman frowned. “Be your patron? What is the word?”
“For . . .”
“Cleaning up the troublesome ones.” She smiled, showing blood-stained teeth. “You are a most effectivebougie-man.” She paused, frowned again at the shortened version of bourgeois. “Not bougie. Booger-man? You are a good threat.”
I gaped at her, truly at a loss in that moment. Bougie? Booger? I was neither bourgeois or snot. I shouldn’t be amused by a corpse attempting slang either. I killed her kind, had lopped off adraugr’shand a few moments ago. Now she was offering to pay me.
“I am called Beatrice,” she pronounced. “When you have knowledge of this problem, speak my name, and they shall find me. You may not consider yourself my subject, but you are of me and I am your ally in this. I’ve brought you a gift as a token of my regard.”
“Subject?” I echoed. “Gift?”
I was fairly sure I didn’t want to ask the question at the tip of my tongue. Still, I needed confirmation. “What are you? Who?”
“Don’t be daft, Geneviève. For now, however, you may simply consider me your patron.” She looked at me with a vaguely amused look and withdrew an envelope which she tossed to me.
I let it fall to the floor. My hands were occupied with weapons. “My . . . patron.”
Then the woman, Beatrice, ripped the head off the woman, thedraugrprisoner. “Marie Chevalier. She was let loose after an unwilling transformation. Injected.”
Beatrice dropped the head next to the corpse’s body and said to the remaining draugr, “Guard my exit. Do not injure her even if she strikes you.”
I felt more than saw Beatriceflow. She was there, and then gone. The ease of her exit was like a gentle ocean current, and with it, I felt an underlying certainty that she could shift that gentle ripple into the edge of a storm. I’d once thought that the corpse that impregnated my mother was old. He was an infant next to Beatrice.
The young corpses stayed for a moment, and then turned to walk away once she was a few blocks away. I felt her pause and send a pulse of energy toward me, an energy I’d thought of as solely my maternal heritage.
And then I was standing alone in the doorway with a sword in my hand and a lot of questions in my mind.
I called dispatch. “No human injuries.” I paused. “Marie Chevalier. Recent walker. Killed a security guard at Cypress Grove a couple nights ago. I didn’t kill her.”
I disconnected. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to say. Dead lady brought me a gift? My surprise patron saint beheaded anotherdraugrfor me? I grabbed the envelope Beatrice had tossed to me, and then I stood clutching my phone.
When my phone buzzed, I stared at it and then at Eli. It rang. Buzzed again. Patrons in the bar were freaking out in general, and I heard Eli’s staff going around verifying that no pictures had been taken. Honestly, I couldn’t process the events of the last few moments.
I walked toward my friends.
“Cupcake?” Eli prompted.
A message from Tres appeared.Associate dead. At morgue in 15 min. Injection. Come?
“Geneviève?”
I held up a hand to Eli. I needed to process the mystery of Beatrice, but right now, I’d have to hold off on that.
In his recent message, Tres was all business, but I scrolled to see the other texts he’d sent. One per day. Friendly, slightly flirty, and then simply, “Grab a drink?”
I lifted my gaze to Eli. I hated to admit it, but Tres’ reaction to me was a bit beyond weird. I had no information for him. I didn’tknowhim.
“Tres texted. Again.”
“Twice in one day?” Eli said. “Do you not find it . . . strange?”
“Who’s Tres?” Sera asked.
“Son of a dead man,” Eli said.
“Client.” I stared at Eli and added, “I’m meeting him tomorrow.”
“Geneviève,” Eli started.
