Lost Angeles (8 page)

When he gestures, I fall in step behind him, leaving Lumen to her books and her dog and her secrets with a half-wave. Roman heads toward his office, moving like the warrior he’s always been; it’s only the battlefields that have changed. He must have been at least thirty when he was turned, which is impressive considering that was when the apostles walked the earth. Tall enough that I have to look up at him, broad enough through the shoulders that I know he can handle himself in a brawl. Dark, close-cropped hair makes no effort to conceal the spear scar that runs across the left side of his skull. Private beyond measure; you’d have a better chance of digging secrets out of the Sphinx. All in all, Roman’s the kind of guy you wouldn’t bet against in a game of cards and the one you sure as hell wouldn’t want to go up against in a fight.

That was the thought I’d had when I’d first laid eyes on him, anyway, with the lamplight flickering over those eyes and that scar and the crisp white of his collar against the liquid black velvet of his dress coat. I wasn’t looking for trouble, just chasing a pretty piece of ass. Dressed head to toe in blue silk, she’d led me on a merry chase through the kaleidoscope of color that was carnivale. I was young, stupid, horny, invincible, and
human
. She’d brushed a hand over mine, smiled, and ducked down an alley…

Roman was at the end of that alley. He didn’t ask and I didn’t give permission. Mortality traded for hedonism and infamy, and I still think, for the most part, that I got the better end of that particular bargain.

“So,” he says, opening the door to his office. “I hear you’ve been busy while I was gone.”

One simple sentence and I know I don’t have to say shit about what happened with Reille. With Cas. With Matthias and the money and everything else. Roman knows, and he probably got all the stories from someone paid to be impartial. I’m annoyed, but at least it saves me the hassle of having to fill him in.

I put the brakes on the second I catch an eyeload of Matty’s raggedy ass parked on Roman’s expensive leather couch. The surprise is mutual, because I can practically see his nuts shrivel up from here. And with good reason: I fired the little fucker, and I would have been well within my rights not only to have him arrested but also to kick his fangs in.

He bounces up, every muscle in his body clenching. “Oh, shit.”

I take one step in his direction, but Roman catches me by the elbow. “Let me get you a drink. We have matters to discuss.”

“I don’t have any matters that I’m willing to discuss with
him
,” I fire back.

But Roman is already pouring out the expensive Scotch. “Those matters involve him, Xaine.”

“Oh yeah? So you wanna discuss how he ran Euro-trash euros through every international piece of commercial real estate I own?” I spit the words, eyes fixed on Matty’s face. He’s backed up against a wall of bookshelves now, gaze hopping from my face to Roman’s. “Or how he cooked my books so hard they left scorch marks on the damn desk?”

“Well, yes,” Roman says, handing me a glass. “We could discuss that. Or we could discuss
why
he did it.”

If anything, Matthias dials up the nervous-twitchy when we both cast eyes toward him.

“Ah,” I say, taking a sip of Scotch. It burns, but at least I’m not the one with my nuts to the fire. “So you think he had a motive beyond lining his own pockets?” I pause a moment, realizing there might have been another reason that I bumped into the GQ twins outside. “Wait, did
Cas
put you up to it?”

“Fuck no,” Matty says, vehement all of a sudden. “It was my own idea.” Then, as if realizing what he just admitted, he clamps his lips and clears his throat. “Nobody gives me any credit.”

“Because you’re a halfwit with a get-rich-quick scheme for every occasion.”

“It was working this time!”

“Yeah, at
my
expense,” I snap. “You let strange people funnel strange money through
my
asset pool. Now, I’m no angel, but I’m no Trick St. John either. I generally like to keep my nose out of politics and my business on the up-and-up. Keeps the feds off my ass, y’know?”

“It wasn’t hurting anything,” he insists. “It was just a bunch of rich old vamps trying to make a break for the US border.”

“Yeah, you were just breaking the law, no big deal.”

“What do you care?” Matty says. “You break the law all the damn time.”

“I care, because if they’d caught
you
smuggling cash into the country then it would have been
my
ass on the line. Do you think the IRS would have slapped me on the wrist and let me off with a warning? Not for
billions
of dollars. Not to mention the fact that you’d be in prison.”

“It was perfect,” he insists. “Nobody would have ever figured it out.”

“Newsflash, asshole, someone
did
figure it out,” I say. “You’re just lucky it was my guys or you’d really be in the shit.”

He swaps out defiant for petulant. “I just wanted my own money.”

“Then go make your own money.”

“I want what you all have.” Matty pulls himself up and puffs out his chest. “Respect. Power. All of that.”

One step, two steps. Menacing, but not menacing enough for Roman to stay my hand as I get right up in Matty’s face, chest to chest with his stupid crew neck tee and leather jacket. I can see the fear, in his eyes, in the way his jaw twitches, and how he tries to avoid my gaze.

“You want respect and power, Matty?” I ask. “You have to quit trying to take every damn shortcut under the sun and
earn
it. I earned it. Cas earned it. Hell, even St. John earned it.” The eerie green of his irises finally fix on my face, but at least he has the sense to keep quiet. “These men
demand
respect. They don’t ask permission, but they also don’t walk someone else’s corner either. You want to know who built America? We did.”

“Yeah, well, America’s already built, isn’t it?” Matty frowns. “What the fuck is left for me to do?”

“Figure it out.”

“Easy for you to say,” he tells me. “You motherfuckers have all the money in the world to ‘figure it out.’”

“We watch your back, don’t we?” I ask. “We keep you out of the gutter, off the street, and generally flush. I gave you a
job
, Matty, and despite the fact that you almost royally screwed me, I’ve got no plans to toss you out into the sunlight. Trick takes care of you, although god knows why. Hell, even Cas would help you out if you asked.”

“Jesus, whatever,” he mutters, indignant. “Save your bullshit solidarity speech. You assholes hate each other.”

“You can hate a guy and still respect him,” I say. “Just like you can like a guy and still think he’s a child hell-bent on trying to run before he can even walk.”

“Fuck you,” Matty tells me. “One day I’m going to be bigger than all of you, and you will all get to eat my shit.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that.” Turning, I glance at our maker and add, “Roman, you wasted a pint of perfectly good blood turning this bottom-feeding brat.”

It’s a dare. A challenge. Apparently, planting one on Cas only whetted my appetite.

A few seconds pass. Matty even goes so far as to ball up a fist, but that’s all. It’s not even worth rubbing in, frankly, so I take my drink and throw myself onto the couch. Tired of him. Tired of the nonstop crap, first at the club, now here.

“So now that we have a really clear picture as to the why, maybe we can address the
who
,” Roman says. For a long moment, the only noise comes from the fire that he keeps burning, winter and summer. Not gas, but wood that hisses and pops, with sap bubbling on the surface. The flames are soothing. Hypnotic. I should be relaxing into the chair, but all the tension in my neck and shoulders released during the car drive is back again full-force.

I exhale hard through my nose. “Please do not tell me that he was running
mafia
money through Scion.” And then… then it’s like being clobbered in the back of the head with realization. “Except that
would
explain why a
dead body
turned up behind Scion last night.”

“It wasn’t the mafia!” Matty yelps. “Jesus, how stupid do you think I am?”

“Pretty stupid, obviously!” I counter. “So if it wasn’t the mafia, who was it?”

But I aim the question at Roman, who obviously already knows the answer. That’s why Matty is here, called to the carpet. Probably why Cas and Trick were here, come to think about it. Whatever is going on, it’s big.

“First,” Roman says, in that way he has of shutting things down, “let us discuss this body they’ve found.”

Rules of the house say I answer his questions before he answers mine. “Some asshole pulled her out of the dumpster behind Scion, but the police keep questioning me like I’m the prime suspect.”

“They should know better.” He sits down opposite me on the couch. “You’re smarter than that.”

I hope?

I hear the unspoken question in his voice and glare at him. “Yeah, I am.”
And we both know the last person I killed didn’t end up in a dumpster.
“The body smelled weird, Roman.”

“Most bodies do,” Matty says, choosing that moment to toss his last two cents on the table. “Man, I’m glad I’m not the one having to deal with that shitstorm. I bet Reille is
pissed
.” He flops into a chair near the fire, taking up a cup full of red and sipping at it like it’s a fine wine. He’s too young to stomach anything but blood, and I’m too old to stomach his post-post-adolescent rebel-neophyte bullshit.

“Yeah, thanks for that, douchebag.” I shoot him a dirty look before returning my attention to Roman, who’s watching me thoughtfully. “It was like… more than death, I mean. Not human. Not vampire, but still something Dark.”

Roman leans forward an inch. “What makes you think that?”

“There wasn’t a mark on her, but I know that girl had been tortured. Brutalized. But not… physically.” The frustration mounts, because there's no way to explain the hunches and gut feelings that run my life. Everything I’ve ever done was because of some little voice inside my head. Angel or devil or both, that voice guides me in the right direction. Right now, there are things bouncing around in my brain, circumstances and reasons, none of which I actually understand. “I don’t know, but my instincts are telling me that something’s wrong here.”

Roman’s gaze scours my face, giving me that warrior once-over that probably made grown men piss themselves back in the olden days. “Describe the smell.”

“Sweet, like syrup, but with a little bit of decay
.
”

Matty pipes up again. “Bodies—”

“Smell, I know,” I say, cutting him off, which earns me a grim expression of reproof from Roman. “But that wasn’t it, you know? Everything was too
fresh
for that.” It’s like I’m being punched in the instincts now. Blows I can’t see coming, the foe invisible but probably not unknown. There’s too much confluence: Cas and Trick here tonight; Lumen back from Italy. “What are we dealing with? Because I think you have some idea.”

Roman rubs his thumb alongside his nose before answering. “It recently came to my attention that certain people have taken strides toward, shall we say, revolution?”

“Certain people?” I ask, to clarify. “Or certain
vampires
?”

“The latter.” He leans back, as if unconcerned by the prospect of a possible rebellion. “Pockets of restless vampires making waves, frothing at the mouth for social change, rioting, breaking things. The usual, really.”

“What does that have to do with my dead body?”

Roman takes another sip of Scotch and turns his eyes toward the fire. The silence extends outward, blanketing the room with an oppressive weight that I can actually feel. Those are the sorts of emotions Roman has, the kind that permeate and transcend, and right now I’m getting a whole lot of listless ennui coming off The Sire.

“Everything and nothing,” he says eventually, cutting his attention back to me. “I’m not entirely sure how large the movement is. What I do know is, eventually, someone will rise to the top. The cream, so to speak. Things will progress, idealistic men will wrest control over this so-called revolution. Those leading the charge will need prominent and powerful allies, and they will not stop until they procure them. They will approach me. They will approach you. They will approach Caspian and Patrick and anyone who holds the reins of money, society, and fame.”

“And by ‘approach’ I assume you mean bribe, cheat, extort, maim, and blackmail?”

Roman gives a slow nod. “Small men with big ideas need bigger men with larger fortunes, both literal and figurative, and we are those men.” He goes silent for another moment before he adds, “We have
always been
those men, Xaine. Proceed with caution. It might be wise to have an alibi in case of similar incidents.”

“You could ring up Trick and get one of his girls to follow you around,” Matty suggests cheerfully. “Maybe put her on a pretty leash, Hilton-style.”

I glare at him, because the last thing I want right now is someone trailing after me, making noise, making demands. I don’t have any kind of 24-hour personal assistant for that precise reason.

For the first time this evening, there’s a twinkle of amusement from Roman. “Well now, that would be something to see. Alas, I fear Xaine might actually catch a murder charge if left to that end.”

It’s true that I don’t have an abundance of patience on a good day, and having someone perched on my nuts all day, every day sounds like a nightmare. Nope, believe it or not, I’m all about the chemistry and less about the biology. Trick St. John, though, he’s a completely different animal, one that’ll piss on any tree that’s green enough. And his girls? Not a single brain in the bunch. But speaking of girls… “What about Lumen?”

Roman turns the crystal glass in his hand, fingertips walking across the smooth surface. “What about her?”

“I know you didn’t bring her back from Italy so she could tell me she missed me.” I don’t like the idea of her caught in the crossfire, and that tends to happen to the women in my life. “What’s she got to do with all this?”

His expression shifts then. Vampires don’t age, but he suddenly looks older, weary, with an undercurrent of sadness that I haven’t seen since Elin died.