Vampire for Hire (23 page)

 
      
 
And, if I wasn’t mistaken, he bowed slightly.

 
      
 
Chapter Thirty-four

 
      
 
I almost bowed back, but stopped myself.

 
      
 
The hair along my arms was standing on end, and I saw why. A part of his crackling, frenetic, human-like essence had reached out to me. It reminded me of a white blood cell attacking a virus. I wasn’t sure what was happening, until it hit me: he was drawing energy from me.

 
      
 
Amazing.

 
      
 
He wasn’t a composed whole. A few times some of the light energy that composed his body seemed to disperse and scatter like frightened fish, only to reform again into the tall, thin man standing before me.

 
      
 
The entity tilted his head slightly to one side, and as he did so, a brief image flashed into my thoughts. The image was of a kindly old man and his wife. They were standing in front of a small building, smiling happily. I had, of course, seen pictures of this same building, especially during the past few days. It was the original 7,000 square foot site of the Wharton Museum. In the picture, was the same old couple, smiling happily.

 
      
 
The
Whartons
.

 
      
 
Next, a single word appeared in my thoughts. Honestly, I didn’t know if I thought it or heard it. Either way, it appeared just inside my eardrum:

 
      
 
“
Come.”

 
      
 
* * *

 
      
 
With that, the entity that I now thought of as Mr. Wharton drifted away. As he drifted away, he lost some of his shape and looked, more than anything, like a floating, glowing amoeba.

 
      
 
He wanted me to follow him. That much I was certain of.

 
      
 
I obliged, following the amorphous ball of energy deeper into the back room, past rows and shelves of Native American art, African art and Chinese art. In fact, dozens and dozens of rows. The majority of the shelves were filled with wooden and clay sculptures, weapons that still looked like they could seriously do some harm, and what had to be priceless jewelry. The jewelry was behind glass cases, as were some of the more delicate pieces. Not surprisingly, Mr. Wharton seemed to know his way.

 
      
 
We past the small shipping and receiving room, which was lined with metal tables and boxes of all shapes and sizes. Some looked like they were going, and no doubt some still needed to be received. What were in those boxes was anyone’s guess.

 
      
 
He led me deeper. Or, rather, the glowing ball of light led me deeper, as it had now lost all human shape. It was dimmer back here, and there was only a single security camera a few rows down. Eddie would have a hard time seeing me. No doubt he was wondering what the hell I was doing back here. I was wondering, too.

 
      
 
Mr. Wharton hung a left. And by hanging a left, I mean the ball of light that was the ghostly imprint of Mr. Wharton, went
through
some shelves and entered a side corridor. I hung the left the old-fashioned way.

 
      
 
He continued on, and so did I.

 
      
 
The camera, I saw, did not reach down this side corridor, which meant that Mr. Wharton and I were alone. And at the far end of the corridor was a massive storage freezer that looked vaguely like a coffin.

 
      
 
I wasn’t sure what the museum would need such a storage freezer for, until I remembered the shrunken heads outside. No doubt the museum kept anything biological in cold storage. At least, that’s what I would do if I had a collection of shrunken heads.

 
      
 
Crackling and spitting energy and doing his best impression of a human torch, Mr. Wharton materialized again. He stood next to the freezer.

 
      
 
As I approached, Mr. Wharton actually stepped aside to give me access.

 
      
 
Ghostly etiquette. Nice.

 
      
 
I reached down and slowly opened the lid. Cool air rushed out, and the stench of frozen meat. And when the swirling mist had subsided, a very dead face was looking up at me from the depths of the freezer. Wearing a museum guard uniform. I think I had just found Thad, the missing guard.

 
      
 
Two dead bodies in two days.

 
      
 
I was on a roll.

 
      
 
Chapter Thirty-five

 
      
 
It was late, and I was sitting in Kingsley’s spacious living room. I had spent the last few hours talking to various Santa Ana homicide detectives. When they were done asking questions and satisfied with my answers, I texted Kingsley and he invited me over.

 
      
 
Franklin, Kingsley’s butler, was noisily preparing our drinks in the kitchen. The kitchen was down the hall and around a corner and through a swinging door. Something banged loudly, or possibly even broke.

 
      
 
“I think Franklin is letting it be known that he doesn’t appreciate my late-night sojourns,” I said.

 
      
 
“Luckily, Franklin doesn’t have much say in the matter,” said Kingsley. “How’s your son doing?”

 
      
 
“Not good.”

 
      
 
“I’m sorry, Sam.”

 
      
 
I nodded and fought through the tears. It was amazing how quickly tears came these days.

 
      
 
The big defense attorney, who had been lounging in a chair-and-a-half across from me, sat forward. The chair-and-a-half was barely big enough to contain him. Kingsley, I could tell, wanted to reach out for me, but stopped himself. Our relationship had cooled noticeably a few weeks ago when I had discovered he’d worked the system to free a suspected killer. A killer who had killed again...the father of my client.

 
      
 
I had serious issues with that. I knew that Kingsley was doing his job. I get it. But it didn’t mean I had to respect it or like it.

 
      
 
To Kingsley’s credit he hadn’t pushed the issue with me. Mostly, he had sat back and waited for me to work through my issues. And to my own credit, I knew enough not to make a rash decision. Too many people act too quickly, end relationships too quickly. Better to be clear about what you want.

 
      
 
I wasn’t clear yet; I was still conflicted.

 
      
 
But now wasn’t the time for that. I had had a long day and an even longer night, and now all I wanted was a warm hug, a warm smile, and a warm body.

 
      
 
It was no surprise that Kingsley came immediately to mind, although I had flirted with the idea of contacting Fang. The idea didn’t stick. Fang was a whole new jigsaw puzzle of confusion that I still needed to piece together, and I just wasn’t up to it, not now. Not with everything else going on. Kingsley, although a bastard, was familiar and loveable and warm as hell.

 
      
 
The banging in the kitchen stopped, and a few moments later Franklin appeared in the living room with a tray of drinks. He set a goblet in front of each of us and stood back. Franklin wasn’t happy. He was also a piece of work. Literally. The man, I was certain, had been pieced together from many different men. Where Kingsley met him, I didn’t know. Why such a creature served as a werewolf’s butler, I couldn’t imagine. But there was a hell of a story here, somewhere. Kingsley had promised he would tell me the butler’s tale. Someday. And if and when I was done being pissed at Kingsley, maybe I would finally hear it.

 
      
 
“Is that all?” asked the butler. His slightly melodic accent was nearly impossible to place. It could have been British, but it wasn’t any British accent I had ever heard. The words
Old English
came to mind, too. As in old,
old
English. This, I’m certain, was a psychic hit, but I could have been wrong. Just how old Franklin was remained to be seen.

 
      
 
“Thank you, Franklin. That will be all,” said Kingsley, waving him off.

 
      
 
The butler nodded. “If you and the lady need anything else, please do not hesitate to rouse me from a deep and satisfying sleep.”

 
      
 
“We won’t, Franklin. Now, off you go!”

 
      
 
Franklin bowed and turned and loped off, his legs seemingly not quite working together. Almost as if they had been two different legs from two different bodies. A theory that I was beginning to accept.

 
      
 
Kingsley reached for his wine. “Drink up, dear.”

 
      
 
I reached for my own drink, but it wasn’t wine. It was chilled hemoglobin, and if I didn’t hurry and drink, the surface layer would coagulate.

 
      
 
I picked the cold glass up with both hands and brought it to my nose, inhaling deeply the strong coppery scent. Metallic, rich, alive. I brought the goblet to my lips and that first dribble of blood sent a shiver through me that was akin to a smoker’s high.

 
      
 
It had taken me a long, long time to actually acquire a taste for blood. To actually enjoy it. But it depended on the blood. The finer the plasma, the more I enjoyed it. The purer the hemoglobin, the better the experience. The more pleasurable the experience. The more beneficial, too. Fine blood gave me extra energy, added strength, and a better life experience.