Hellbent (34 page)

Southerners don’t typically receive people at the back door.

And when they do, it’s considered an insult.

A
s we followed the narrow, retreating back of Sheriden the ghoul, I made a hearty effort to observe and memorize absolutely everything. The first observation had to do with their security system: It was extensive, and part of it was new.
Very
new. It still had the smell of wires unused to warming, and in the corners I heard the digital clicks of unworn lenses shifting to watch us. At the windows I spied the telltale signals of electrical monitors, no doubt routed through some call center in which the Barringtons had the sort of friends who understood discretion in a vampire emergency; and just over the threshold, as the door had shut behind us, I’d felt the almost imperceptible give and shift of a pressure plate. Disabled, I assume. Or else, if I were feeling particularly paranoid (and I was), I’d guess that it was gathering
vitals about us newcomers—our weight, maybe height or some other indicator that would set us apart from the regular family members.

I try to keep up on the newest security technology but it moves fast, and there are always private enterprises making exciting new prototypes … the likes of which a wealthy family might pick up on a lark.

This mix of the usual stuff and exciting add-ons told me that they’d recently made some major and expensive upgrades. What had previously been satisfactory had failed them, or else some new threat looked meaty enough to warrant the trouble.

I was willing to bet it had something to do with William Renner’s untimely demise … or possibly Isabelle, if she was still hanging around making trouble. If she was anything like her brother, I wouldn’t put it past her.

Deeper into the house we went, passing by the indoor entrance to the garage. It was wide open, and someone was inside, doing something noisy to a vintage Bentley. Two other cars were parked in there—one red and shiny, one black and shiny. We buzzed past too quickly for me to pin down makes or models.

The home’s interior was posh and leaning in the direction of a televangelist’s favorite set, but again, this might be an attempt to fit in with the neighbors. The carpet was pale, silvery, and plush enough to eat my pointy black boots; the hall mirrors were surrounded with baroque gilt and the occasional sconce. The walls were done in decorator colors—muted wines, grays, and golds. It hinted at someone somewhere with taste—but whoever this someone was, he or she was given too limited a rein to make a dent in the overall Dolly Parton feng shui.

The Barrington clan had assembled in the living room—a spacious, vaulted spot immediately to the left of the front door with its two-story portico. Again I considered the insult of showing
us through the back, and I wondered if the pressure plate hadn’t been the goal, rather than a subtle nod to their own perceived superiority.

I didn’t yet have enough information to form a conclusion, so I let it go.

If Adrian had made note of the slight, he said nothing. I wanted to glance back at him, to exchange a look or just see how he was taking this, but I didn’t dare. And I could smell him, anyway—tension, but restraint. Fear tempered with curiosity.

Though I obsessed over it, I didn’t think his pheromones would set off anyone’s alarm bells. His physiological reaction was perfectly normal, in my estimation. Maybe a more seasoned ghoul wouldn’t have felt so ill at ease; but we’d worked his newness into our backstory.

The Barrington family, or those who felt like being present, lounged about the oversized room. They were scattered across a curved, elongated couch and its matching separates, and all the furniture in this particular area was the same bone-pale shade of white, which made some sort of statement, I assume.

Sheriden bobbed her head at the room in general—with a specific flinch of eye contact directed toward a man standing by a fireplace. What the hell he needed with a fireplace in Atlanta I’ll never know, but he stood beside it like Vanna White awaiting a vowel call.

My initial instinct was that this was the man in charge. My second instinct was to override that, and suspect that he was the ghoul’s master or lover. This second instinct gained traction when a woman at the crux of the couch’s arc spoke first.

“You must be Raylene Pendle, or is it Emily Benton? Max’s note was not especially clear on that point.”

“It’s Pendle,” I informed her, not wishing to have them thinking of me on a first-name basis. It’s hard to demand respect, but I
could ride on the formality. “Emily Benton is a public identity and a false one. I wouldn’t be so rude to your House as to insist upon it.”

This drew nods of approval, so it must’ve been the right answer.

The same woman said, without getting up, “Welcome to our home. Won’t you join us?” She gestured at a plush white seat next to the fireplace. The obsessive-compulsive in me wondered how they kept from getting ash all over it, and then remembered that this was Georgia, and it surely didn’t see a lot of use.

“Certainly.” Now I had a chance to look toward Adrian. He looked good, and not half so queasy as I felt. “However, you can see that I’ve brought an assistant.”

“Sheriden will see to your ghoul. He’ll be established downstairs, where we have a fully finished basement. It serves nicely as temporary housing, or space for guests of a certain stripe.”

“Understood. Thank you, Adrian, that will be all then.”

I shouldn’t have said it out loud; I should’ve just projected it, or made the attempt. Too late. And probably, not too big of a deal. For all the Barringtons knew, I was only trying to be polite and not “whisper” in front of them.

Somehow, watching Adrian leave this time was harder than the first time, in San Francisco. It wasn’t any great mystery. There, he only had to play along. Here, he intended to play along and investigate his sister’s … disappearance. Here, the risk was greater.

I refused to think about it and concentrated hard on the matter at hand as I took my seat in what did, in fact, turn out to be a man-eating chair of the cushy persuasion. It was virtually impossible to sit with any dignity in that thing; there was no support, only the velveteen pillowing of foam. I did my best, and tried not to feel any resentment at what was likely a deliberate—if admirably subtle—power play.

I do not think it was irrational of me to suspect it. The entering via back door, the cushy and undignified chair … I could call it a coincidence, but all I needed was a third strike to go straight to conspiracy. These people liked to make sure visitors knew their place, and I suppose it’s their House and that’s their prerogative, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.

“My name is Theresa Barrington,” the woman in charge said to me. “My husband Paul and I”—she indicated the fireplace lurker—“are chief in this House.”

As if I couldn’t have guessed.

They were dressed to match—something I didn’t notice until I’d had a chance to stare at them from my triangulated position. Not identical-clothes-matchy. More like prom-dates-matchy. She wore a blue dress that cost more than the Lexus we’d parked outside, and he wore a gray pin-striped suit with blue accents.

They didn’t sit together, like one might expect. Several others lingered between them, and beside them.

“Theresa, Paul,” I acknowledged in greeting. “And this is the rest of the House?”

“The important members,” Paul said bluntly. I took an instant dislike to him—not for his bluntness but for something else, some other weird, vague malice. Everything about him screamed bland and cruel. There was nothing good or even useful about him, I could sense it.

Theresa gave his declaration a smear of propriety by introducing the rest. She went around the room, starting with the young man to her left. “These are our children, Gibson, Raleigh, and Marie.” Gibson, at least, was no biological relation to either one of those slick brunette weirdos. He had a Nordic look to him that was so severe it almost made him appear albino. The other two shared a cornfed similarity that could’ve been family resemblance, but might’ve only been regional.

I turned my attention pointedly toward a short, heavyset man who had parked himself by the foyer entrance. “And you?” I asked, making it clear that I did not intend to speak through Theresa at any length.

He answered for himself, and I appreciated it. “Clifford O’Donnell,” he said. And since he did not specify any family relationship, I assumed he was merely an affiliate, not a relation.

Theresa cleared it up by saying, “Clifford is an associate from Macon. He often serves as our seneschal, particularly when we feel the need to send someone out of town.”

“Or when out-of-town trouble comes knocking?”

“Then too,” he said without taking his eyes off me, or even blinking. “They called me here to see about William Renner when he died, and likewise they’ve summoned me now—due to your appearance. I assume you intend to investigate the matter.”

“They dragged you all the way back here from Macon on my account?”

“I came back of my own accord.”

Paul Barrington chose this moment to interject, by way of shifting the subject or simply annoying everyone. “He’s a helpful man, our Odo is. He’s the one who mailed William Renner’s ashes. It’s a good thing, too. Heaven only knows when one of us would’ve gotten around to it.”

I ignored the casual rudeness inherent in his statement, and latched instead onto the nickname. It seemed safer. “Odo?”

Clifford made a face that stopped just short of an eye roll. “A ridiculous contraction, but that’s beside the point. I come when I’m needed, and I leave when I’m not.” He drew a breath like a sigh in reverse, let it out, and told me, “I try to keep the peace—something easier said than done in a climate such as this.”

He blinked, and I knew I liked him—for a relative value of liking
anyone. He was telling the veiled and toothless truth, but telling it at the Barringtons’ expense, and right under their noses.

“Fair enough,” I said, trying not to smile at him. His small insubordination made me a little bold. “I, too, am interested in peacekeeping of all sorts. However, I am here to discuss a violent matter and I hope we can discuss it openly, without delays, evasions, or games.”

The blond wonder said sharply, “Is that what you think we do here? Play games and evade questions?”

“I have no idea how you comport your House,” I lied diplomatically. “This is my first visit to your fair city, and my interest is purely on behalf of another party. If this is a situation that will require a light touch, and some ambassadorial understanding, I hope we can come to an arrangement. I have no wish whatsoever to create any conflict or confusion, so I hope you’ll agree that we should be open with one another to the fullest extent possible.”

Odo coughed. It would’ve been a better cover for a snort if vampires were more frequently congested.

Marie, who was more of a girl than a woman yet, or had been at her death, sat forward in a display of earnestness. “We’re absolutely prepared to cooperate,” she said—prematurely, as it turned out.

Her father did not bother to hide
his
snort. He said, “Cooperation implies that we’ve done something wrong, and need to account for ourselves. This is no such case. Watch what you offer, Marie.”

“I have nothing to hide,” she said stubbornly.

“
Everyone
has something to hide,” her mother murmured. “But my child’s impulsive statement of good intent will stand. Ask us anything you like, and we will attempt to be helpful. We wish no ill blood between Georgia and California, certainly not on the eve
of the convocation. We only wish to help our West Coast friends. Though perhaps I could ask
you
something first.”

“Go ahead,” I told her, not that I wanted to leave her in the interrogator’s seat, but I was willing to give a little before I started taking.

“You aren’t
part
of the San Francisco House, are you, dear? Something about your accent … I don’t know, but it doesn’t say ‘California’ to me.”

“And yours doesn’t say ‘Georgia peach’ to me, but we make our homes where we find them.” Never lie when you can misdirect. Or, um, only lie when you’re reasonably certain no one will call you on it. Take it on a case-by-case basis, that’s my advice. “Regardless of my hometown, I am here with full authority of the Renner Household, and that ought to be enough to place me in fair standing. If you’ve found some problem with the paperwork or the permissions—”

“All was in order,” Clifford—Odo, whoever—said quickly, like he was cutting off a more incriminating response, should anything blurt forth again from one of the children. “You are well within your rights to ask anyone in this House anything about Mr. Renner, whose passing came as a most unexpected and unfortunate event. We have extended our deepest condolences and regrets on the matter.”

I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume that he didn’t know such condolences and regrets had been submitted via email. “Thank you for the confirmation, Mr. O’Donnell,” I said, giving him a “mister” whereas I’d called the rest by their first names.

It could be written off as a civilized nod between family lackeys, or so I supposed. Just like coming in through the back door and being assigned a man-eating chair could be written off as incidental.

I wished he’d step inside the room and quit hanging about by the exit, as if he’d like to scram at the first possible opportunity. If I was going to meet any real cooperation in that joint, it’d almost certainly come from him—I could deduce that much already. But he stayed where he was, casually leaning his stocky self against the doorway.

“Honestly.” Theresa frowned and shook her head. “I wish I knew what all this fuss was about. There was nothing we could have done; William was a grown man in every respect, and what he did was his own decision.”

“Are you suggesting that Mr. Renner committed suicide?” I tried to keep the astonishment out of my voice. It was a bold fabrication on her part, if she intended to stick by it as a story.