Laws of the Blood 4: Deceptions: Deceptions (12 page)

At another time Sara might have found Bentencourt’s friendly curiosity pleasant, but her main emotion right now was annoyance with Gerry. Gerry was no loose-lipped fool, but he did have his own agenda. No doubt he’d decided that Bentencourt was a sensible, reasonable, forward-thinking person who would be equally reasonable when he was reborn as a strigoi. Gerry would want to test the waters of his theory about the need to out the vampires to see if he could find like-minded monsters. So he’d dropped a hint—and here Bentencourt was. Damn.

Sara was going to have serious words with Gerry when he got home. Right now, she smiled at the companion. “Your guess proved to be quite right.” She fought the urge to demand what he wanted, because a slave must always be polite to a companion unless given permission to be otherwise. “How nice to see you so soon,” she said instead. She gestured him toward her favorite pew. “How can I be of service?”

He declined her invitation with a wave of his hand.
“I’ve already been away from the office a bit longer than I should.”

Of course, he still had a day job. Most companions did. Despite their status in the strigoi community, for the first few years of their association with their vampire lovers a majority of companions were also people who had to deal with normal activities of the mortal world. She noticed that his raincoat was dripping onto the stones of the floor, and it sent a ripple of guilt through her that she was annoyed with someone who’d gone to the trouble of finding her in such awful weather.

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I’d hate to make you late.”

“It wouldn’t be your fault—may I call you, Sara?” He went on at her nod. “I am the one who sought you out, Sara. I’m sure you’re wondering why.”

Because Gerry wants you on his team.
She swallowed her thought and said, “Something to do with Rose, and the move?”

“Something to do with the proposed relocation, certainly,” he answered.

He put his hand on her shoulder. She wasn’t used to being touched by anyone but Olympias, and didn’t like it. He noticed and took his hand away. She couldn’t help the distaste that lingered from his gesture. How odd, that he bothered her today, when she’d rather liked him the first time they’d met. She had no reason to dislike him now; he was being polite and solicitous.

“Yes?” she asked, just to urge him to say his piece so she could get away.

“I couldn’t help but notice how the other companions treated you,” he said, with the slightest hint of disapproval in his tone and worry in his eyes.

“They can’t help their attitude.”

“I think they can, but right now is no time to attempt to lecture the other companions on their manners. Right now, the nests are up in arms, and the nest leaders are furious with your mistress. There could be trouble brewing, and the nests having to deal with a surrogate—”

“A slave.”

“—rather than the Enforcer herself, can only exacerbate the situation.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Sara blurted out before she could stop herself. Bentencourt smiled faintly, and she cleared her throat. “I think you judge the situation correctly,” she told him. “I take it this is where you come in?”

He bowed slightly, a gesture both courtly and ironic. “You are most perceptive, Sara.”

“Thank you.”

“But you are not a companion. Pity,” he added. “Because you certainly have the—” He stopped himself, and looked away from her for an instant while her heart jumped at his words and she had to fight down a gasp. She didn’t know what he meant, and he didn’t elaborate when he looked back at her. “I think I might be able to help you,” he told her. “If you’ll let me?”

“How?” she asked. “With the move?” she added after he stood and looked at her for too long with an expression of deep sadness in his eyes.

“With the move,” he said. “For now.”

When the nest relocated there would be no later. Which was just as well. Between the encounter with Andrew and this conversation with Bentencourt, she was shaken up enough. She didn’t need to be shaken up. Olympias wouldn’t like it.

If she noticed.

Sara fought off traitorous thoughts, and asked, “How?”

“I thought I could act as your liaison with the nests,” he answered. “It might be more . . . diplomatic that way.”

It would also be less humiliating and painful. She turned toward the Space Window, gazed at it while lightning backlit it again, and thought about his suggestion. There were pros, there were cons, she didn’t know what Olympias would think.

Finally, she turned back to Bentencourt and said, “I appreciate your thoughtfulness. You’re very kind.”

He gave a self-depreciating shrug. “Then you’ll let me help you?”

Sara gave him a grateful smile. “I will seriously think about it.”

“I’m glad.” He took a step back. “And I’d better be going now. I’m sure we’ll be in touch,” he added, before he turned and disappeared into a crowd of tourists milling around the wide main entrance doors of the cathedral.

“
I
DON’T WANT to go.”

“That’s not what you said last night,” Sara reminded Olympias. Honestly, there was nothing worse than a pouting vampire.

Olympias glanced toward the phone on the bedroom nightstand. “I didn’t have two emergencies last night.”

“Maggie thinks it’s important you check out this party. Are Maggie’s instincts ever wrong? Besides,” Sara pointed out, “you aren’t in Memphis or Las Vegas, you’re here. The Enforcers will do their jobs and report to you as needed. You might as well go to a party while you’re waiting. It is business.”

Sara knew that overseeing the Enforcers was really about the only part of her job Olympias enjoyed anymore. Maybe her mistress needed to get out into the field herself. She was a Hunter, after all, a scion of the Nighthawk line. Protecting the strigoi from any detection from the government and all her other administrative duties had to be wearing on instincts honed for the kill.

“Besides, you look really hot in that outfit,” she added. “Doesn’t she, Bitch?”

At the sound of her name, the hellhound glanced up from the center of the bed, where she was chewing up an old shoe. Bitch probably wasn’t impressed by the deceptively simple black dress and beaded bolero jacket, but the tall, elegant Enforcer did look stunning. Sara was an expert with makeup, and her artistry showed off Olympias’s angular jawline, high cheekbones, dark eyes, and wide mouth and covered up even the smallest hint of unnatural paleness in the vampire’s skin. It took a great deal of work to keep Olympias’s naturally curly black hair in its currently short, straight style, but Sara managed to beat it into submission. She took a great deal of pride in how her mistress looked, and tonight Olympias looked damned good.

“No way I’m putting hours into fixing an old bag like you up and letting you stay home.”

“It would be a waste,” Olympias conceded. She cast a glance toward the full-length mirror and smiled. “Damn, I look good.” She looked back at Sara. “If the vanity ever goes away, get someone to rip out my heart, ’cause I won’t be me anymore. Thanks. You do good work.”

“This is the point where I modestly say that I have a lot to work with.”

“This would be that point. But maybe I should stay home. If—”

“No. You need to go. I have it covered.” She really, really wanted Olympias out of the house. “You want to go.”

Olympias had been complaining about leaving the house since she woke up. Sara had no news about out-of-town problems and had pointed out that no news was good news. Olympias grumbled about this, fumed about being out of the loop and her own frustration at not finishing the job she’d started last night. Despite Olympias’s grousing, Sara knew she wouldn’t have put up with having Sara fix her face and hair and putting on the dress Sara chose for her if she didn’t intend to go to the reception. That was work too, a responsibility no one but
Olympias could carry out. Often enough Olympias brought back information from these affairs that the strigoi needed to head off possible discovery. It really was getting harder to stay undercover in this day and age.

“Your cell phone is in your purse,” Sara told Olympias.

“They wouldn’t call me on that number tonight.”

“No, but I can.”

“Right. Don’t leave your office. Stick close to the landline. Get hold of me the instant you hear anything.”

Sara nodded. That wasn’t exactly how she planned to spend her evening, but she would check voice mail regularly. Olympias’s word was law, but Sara also had a date. No, not a date. What an odd thought to pass through her head. “About Andrew,” she said, not being completely able to commit even a sin of omission against her mistress.

Olympias picked up her small black evening bag. “What about him? Do I have time for a briefing now?”

Sara shook her head. “There’s not much to tell. Not yet. We didn’t talk in any great detail last night. I really don’t know if he’s serious or not.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

Sara hesitated. “I suppose I should.”

“Well, get back to me when you have an opinion.” Olympias patted the dog’s head and scratched her ears. “We’ll go for a run when I get home,” she promised Bitch, who went back to work destroying the shoe as soon as Olympias turned away. “Gotta go spy on the spies. Call me.”

“I will. Go.”
Please.
“Have a good time.”

Sara waited, tense and still, almost holding her breath until she was sure Olympias’s car was well away from the house. With her mistress gone, Sara grabbed her purse and raincoat and left Bitch alone in the house with only an old shoe for company.

•••

Grace was too quiet today. Is that a good or bad sign?
Falconer wandered through the crowded reception room with most of his thoughts on his staff because he didn’t need to keep a whole lot of his attention on the party. Waiters circulated with drinks, a string quartet played discreetly in a corner, people chatted and laughed, and he was aware of it all in much the way he was aware of distant surroundings when he Walked through them during a session.

He knew when to stop and smile, when to look attentive and nod at the right person, but most of his attention was on his staff.
I’m thinking of her as a friend. Worrying about her and not worrying about how any unsanctioned actions she might take could affect the project. Bad sign. Should never have allowed that stupid experiment. Wonder how Russ is coming along with testing the evidence? Should stay away from that, I know it. Bad feeling. Some things man’s not meant to know. Don’t they say that in horror movies—after the mad scientist lets some monster escape from the lab and destroy downtown Tokyo? I can believe in lab-created monsters—but the other sorts, those are folk legends, primitive fears of cannibal creatures left over deep in the dark part of our monkey brains.

Speaking of monkeys, that’s me. Need to pay attention.

He was here as a trained monkey in a dress uniform. It was part of the job, and he’d long ago stopped minding the necessity to be a presence at such get-togethers. He knew that he was a loon, but the important thing for the project was that he didn’t look like one. He looked like a steady, serious person. The uniform fit well on his tall, wide-shouldered frame, he was told he had a pleasant speaking voice, he still had all his hair, and the gray at his temples supposedly made him distinguished looking. His hands were huge and his nose was crooked from being broken in a long-ago fight. He was a big, ugly Mick, but such features showed him to be a manly man and not some airy fairy New Age—loon.

People weren’t supposed to know what he was, but they did. He wasn’t supposed to know the secrets of other black ops personnel, but he did. They all used their talents, mental and technological, to spy on each other, especially around this time of year when they were jockeying for funding.

There were about fifty to sixty people in the room, a larger gathering than Falconer expected, since the appropriations committee being wined, dined, and wheedled controlled funding to black ops and highly classified programs. The irony was that no one was allowed to ask anyone else “How’s business?” in such a setting, and no one was allowed to answer if they were asked. In fact, anyone who asked any such questions would be immediately escorted out and would end up having long conversations with faceless men in windowless rooms. People who needed millions of dollars were socializing with people who controlled the millions they needed, and no one was allowed to talk about it. It was all very silly, but someone had decided that putting a social face on the spooks—and loons—helped in the funding process.

“Me,” Falconer said as he reached a buffet table, “I’m here for the food.”

What I’d really like to do is kill something,
Olympias thought.
Or
—

As she took a drink from a passing tray, Olympias noticed that her nails were significantly longer than they should be, almost to the length of mating claws. This would not do, even though she knew that there were those in the room who thought—even fervently hoped—that she was a dominatrix.

If only they knew.

And she was almost tempted to show the ones who wanted her just what she could make them do. Wouldn’t that be a fun way to finish the evening? But there’d be a press conference tomorrow, and media analysis, and spin doctors as well as real doctors for these folk to deal with.
But at least I’d have some fun.