composed, but I knew him well enough to know I was driving him crazy.
“You have to help me, Keaty.” I was repeating Holden’s words from last night.
“I don’t have to do anything, Secret. You know that perfectly well.” He leaned back in his leather desk chair, lacing his fingers together across his stomach. The expression on his face told me nothing. This was the man who’d saved my life when I first came to the city. The man who had trained me to be the topnotch vampire killer I was today. And here he was, telling me he wouldn’t help me in my hour of need.
“But—”
“No.”
“I—”
His face broke from its meticulous calm, setting into a deep frown, his brow furrowing and all the fake friendliness seeping from his eyes. For an instant he appeared every ounce the killer he could be, and although he was a hundred percent human, right then I was genuinely afraid of him.
I stopped arguing.
If parents knew how to give that look, teenagers would never act out.
“The only time I’ll help a vampire is if it involves killing another vampire. So if you want to let me kill Chancery for you, then by all means I’ll help you. I will not, however, dedicate time and resources to help you prove he’s innocent of some unknown vampire crime I don’t give a rat’s ass about.”
Well, he didn’t beat around the bush.
“I can’t kill someone who is innocent, Keaty. It would be immoral.”
“He’s a vampire,” he said, as if this made it okay.
“So am I.”
“It’s not the same.” For all of his bravado and posturing, Keaty had one hell of a soft spot for me. He, who hated monsters in all shapes and forms, had made a huge exception when he allowed me into his life. Not only was I part monster, I was all monster. He—and Mercedes, who knew only of the werewolf half—seemed able to rationalize their way around this fact by focusing on how much they liked me as a person.
I decided not to fight Keaty on this point. He knew all too well what I was, and I found our relationship worked better when we didn’t discuss it. He only brought it up when it benefitted us in some way.
Francis Keats, ever the pragmatist.
“I can’t do this alone.”
“Then kill him and be done with it.”
I sighed loudly and picked up a large rock with no discernable purpose off his desk. I tossed it back and forth between my hands until he held his hand out, palm up, and waited. I dropped the rock into it, and he put it on the table behind him.
“The displaced soul of a Cheyenne shaman is trapped in that stone. I don’t think he likes to be bounced around like a hacky sack.”
I continued to tap my foot on the desk, and finally he relented.
“I can’t help you personally , because I can’t afford to burn my rather rickety bridge to the Tribunal. I need to stay in their good graces, you understand?”
I did, but I didn’t want to admit it.
“I do, however, know of some people who might be able to steer you in the right direction. As much as it pains me.”
He turned and unlocked the top drawer of a file cabinet behind him, then pulled out a small address book. From inside, he withdrew a business card and handed it to me. It was black, except for a small silver inscription which read Bramley .
“Bramley?” I flipped the card over, and then back, but it told me nothing else. I didn’t know if Bramley was a person, a place or some kind of password. The font was Banknote Gothic, which told me nothing else about the mystery word except that it was pretentious.
Keaty leaned back in his chair again, looking every bit like the cat who’d gotten the cream.
“On 96th and 1st you will find an unassuming little hole-in-the-wall Irish pub. It has no sign, and it is not the most welcoming place.” Sounded like a few werewolf and vampire locales I knew of, enchanted to make them unappealing to the human population. Keaty nodded to the card in my hand. “If you have that, you’ll get past the man at the door.”
“You have to help me, Keaty.” I was repeating Holden’s words from last night.
“I don’t have to do anything, Secret. You know that perfectly well.” He leaned back in his leather desk chair, lacing his fingers together across his stomach. The expression on his face told me nothing. This was the man who’d saved my life when I first came to the city. The man who had trained me to be the topnotch vampire killer I was today. And here he was, telling me he wouldn’t help me in my hour of need.
“But—”
“No.”
“I—”
His face broke from its meticulous calm, setting into a deep frown, his brow furrowing and all the fake friendliness seeping from his eyes. For an instant he appeared every ounce the killer he could be, and although he was a hundred percent human, right then I was genuinely afraid of him.
I stopped arguing.
If parents knew how to give that look, teenagers would never act out.
“The only time I’ll help a vampire is if it involves killing another vampire. So if you want to let me kill Chancery for you, then by all means I’ll help you. I will not, however, dedicate time and resources to help you prove he’s innocent of some unknown vampire crime I don’t give a rat’s ass about.”
Well, he didn’t beat around the bush.
“I can’t kill someone who is innocent, Keaty. It would be immoral.”
“He’s a vampire,” he said, as if this made it okay.
“So am I.”
“It’s not the same.” For all of his bravado and posturing, Keaty had one hell of a soft spot for me. He, who hated monsters in all shapes and forms, had made a huge exception when he allowed me into his life. Not only was I part monster, I was all monster. He—and Mercedes, who knew only of the werewolf half—seemed able to rationalize their way around this fact by focusing on how much they liked me as a person.
I decided not to fight Keaty on this point. He knew all too well what I was, and I found our relationship worked better when we didn’t discuss it. He only brought it up when it benefitted us in some way.
Francis Keats, ever the pragmatist.
“I can’t do this alone.”
“Then kill him and be done with it.”
I sighed loudly and picked up a large rock with no discernable purpose off his desk. I tossed it back and forth between my hands until he held his hand out, palm up, and waited. I dropped the rock into it, and he put it on the table behind him.
“The displaced soul of a Cheyenne shaman is trapped in that stone. I don’t think he likes to be bounced around like a hacky sack.”
I continued to tap my foot on the desk, and finally he relented.
“I can’t help you personally , because I can’t afford to burn my rather rickety bridge to the Tribunal. I need to stay in their good graces, you understand?”
I did, but I didn’t want to admit it.
“I do, however, know of some people who might be able to steer you in the right direction. As much as it pains me.”
He turned and unlocked the top drawer of a file cabinet behind him, then pulled out a small address book. From inside, he withdrew a business card and handed it to me. It was black, except for a small silver inscription which read Bramley .
“Bramley?” I flipped the card over, and then back, but it told me nothing else. I didn’t know if Bramley was a person, a place or some kind of password. The font was Banknote Gothic, which told me nothing else about the mystery word except that it was pretentious.
Keaty leaned back in his chair again, looking every bit like the cat who’d gotten the cream.
“On 96th and 1st you will find an unassuming little hole-in-the-wall Irish pub. It has no sign, and it is not the most welcoming place.” Sounded like a few werewolf and vampire locales I knew of, enchanted to make them unappealing to the human population. Keaty nodded to the card in my hand. “If you have that, you’ll get past the man at the door.”
Similar Books
