by Jenna Barwin
“Well, it’s like this. I got bad investment advice and followed it. Now that’s on me; I own up to my mistakes. My real mistake was trusting those suits in New York.”
“You were living at the Collective?”
“No, I had permission from them to have my own place in the Financial District. I was working my way through various private equity firms—”
“What positions did you hold?”
“Ah, I meant, I was, like, hookin’ up with guys, gettin’ insider info…”
“I see.”
She tensed abruptly. “If you’re gonna to judge me for my methods, I’ll just leave.”
He waved for her to sit. “I don’t care about your sex life. I am concerned about your use of insider information. We don’t want the Securities and Exchange Commission investigating anyone on the Hill.”
“Oh, that. You don’t have to worry—I learned my lesson. I got too greedy when I thought I had the inside track. You know what they say about something being too good to be true. I had everything I owned invested in real estate derivatives. Borrowed every cent I could against my other holdings. I was overleveraged, and when the derivatives market crashed in 2008, well, I lost it all.”
Hmm. Blanche wasn’t the forgiving type. What did she do to the guy who sold her the derivatives? Probably nothing criminal, or the New York Collective would have locked her up. They wouldn’t risk an unsolved murder leading back to them.
He glanced down at her application. “At that point, you had fifteen years to join a community, yet you risked everything.” Her recklessness didn’t speak well for her. “And now you’re feeling the pressure because of the treaty deadline.”
“I’m willing to buckle down and do what it takes to earn my buy-in fee. I won’t let them brand me a renegade.”
“Tell me why you’re interested in Sierra Escondida.” She was dressed for Fifth Avenue rather than the Hill. “If you’re accustomed to a New York lifestyle, why come here?”
“It’s time I got back to my roots. I grew up on a pecan farm in Oklahoma.”
“This was during the Great Depression?”
“Yeah, and the Dust Bowl—I was seventeen when one of the worst black blizzards hit our area. I’ll never forget the dark dust cloud when it came at us. The dust overtook everything until the sun was wiped outta the sky.”
“How did it affect your family’s farm?”
“Oh, by then, Daddy had lost the farm. When the drought first started, well, it just about killed all the trees. He had to borrow against the next crop. You’ve been around long enough to know how that turned out.”
Henry crossed his arms. “I am surprised with your background you were willing to risk so much in the derivatives market.”
“In hindsight, you’d be right. But I was so close to having my buy-in amount—if I risked just a little bit more, I woulda had everything I needed to join the right community. Besides, Daddy never invested in the stock market. The 1929 market crash wasn’t the reason we were poor.”
“And in spite of your father’s experience, you still want to return to agriculture?”
“Sure, it’s what I like best.”
“Well, tell me about your business plan.”
She took a colorful portfolio out of her oversized designer purse. A photo of a vineyard was on the cover, with the words “Dystopian Wineries” printed on the cover.
“Here’s my idea’r,” she said, her voice rising a bit with her excitement, her Midwestern accent thickening.
She stood up and, in two steps, gracefully sat next to him on the couch. His eyes couldn’t help but follow her lovely legs when she moved. She handed him one side of the notebook so it was balanced between their laps, her knee touching his. He moved away, and she scooted closer until they touched knees again. If he kept sliding over, she’d soon pin him against the armrest.
“Blanche,” he said, moving the notebook so it no longer covered their knees, “this is a business meeting.”
“Oh, sorry about that.” She smiled and slid away a half-inch. Taking the notebook from him, she turned to a chart. “Women are the biggest buyers of low-priced wines—wine for everyday drinking. So we market to them using fiction as a tie-in. Right now, dystopian novels are hot. I figure our slogan is something like this: Dystopian Wines—for when you have that end-of-the-world feeling.”
He cringed inside.
“When dystopian novels tank,” she continued, “we phase out Dystopian Wines, and then it becomes Incubus Wines or Mysterium Wines or whatever. It doesn’t matter what we put in the bottle, ’cause they’ll buy it for the feeling the name gives them.”
How could she sit there and say quality didn’t matter? He hadn’t made his winery famous by deceiving people into buying cheap wine. Why would he start now?
She finished the rest of her presentation and closed the binder so it was now in his lap, her fingers lingering on his. Her sultry eyes held his for a second. “Now you,” she said, “you pride yourself on making high-quality wines. I’ll be after an entirely different market.”
He may not like the idea, but she’d put some thought into it. He wouldn’t be competing with himself if he invested in her project. “This is what you want capital for?”
Her fingers stroked his again. “I’m looking for a partner. Someone I can work closely with.”
“If you’re granted membership in our community, will you bring a mortal with you?”
She gave him a coy look. “I don’t got a boyfriend.”
“I saw you last night at the casino—the fight over Dr. Patel.”
“Oh, that. You thought I wanted her as a mate? Nah, I’m into guys. Not that I’m a picky eater, though—male, female, doesn’t matter—blood is blood.”
He raised one eyebrow. “That’s why you challenged Zeke? To feed?”
A good thing for her she didn’t have membership in a treaty community yet—the fine for public feeding would have been sizeable.
“I wasn’t gonna bite her,” she said, averting her eyes sheepishly. “Look, I lost my temper at the casino. I’m sorry, but Leopold’s envoy broke the first rule of blackjack—don’t screw it for the rest of the table. It pissed me off. I know, I can be such a drama queen sometimes, but believe me, for the right community, I can behave myself.”
Henry stood, tucking the notebook under his arm. She couldn’t behave herself for two weeks while the community considered her application. Why did she think her promise made a difference to him? “Let me consider it,” he said. “I’ll discuss your proposal with Rolf and get back to you.”
Still seated, she raised her hand to take his. “I hope you’ll say yes.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I think we’d make great partners.”
After she left, he tossed the notebook into his briefcase, shaking his head. Her proposal belonged in the trash can.
And the envoy—should he believe Blanche’s explanation? Not a challenge for possession, just Blanche blowing off steam over gambling losses? He closed his briefcase and locked the tabs. It didn’t matter why. Neither of them belonged on the Hill.
Chapter 12
The mayor’s office—the next night
Tig watched the mayor punch in Gaea’s phone number, preferring to watch him rather than look around. She was already too familiar with every little pitiful thing in his office, right down to the most recent scratch on his credenza, which had resulted when the mayor’s ex-girlfriend threw a heavy vase at him in a jealous fit. He’d ducked, and the hardwood suffered.
Jealousy was a frequent motive for violence—particularly in this town. So strange. Maasai women could have sex with any warrior in her husband’s class—a five-year age range. If a warrior drove his spear into the ground by her hut, her husband had to wait outside until the warrior removed his spear. A husband’s jealousy might rear its head if a warrior spent too much time with one of his wives, but the possessiveness she saw on the Hill was rare among the Maasai. Then again, she had loved her sister-wi
ves more than her husband or any of the other warriors. When Phat took her away from her tribe, she’d missed her children and her sister-wives the most. The warriors were way down on her list.
Now the Hill was her tribe, and she was their warrior. Not that she’d plant her spear in front of someone else’s hut—not with Jayden in her life.
She tapped her fingers on the chair arm. The mayor sat behind his ornately carved desk in an overstuffed, ergonomically correct recliner on wheels, and she sat on a hard, narrow guest chair. If she had her way, this would be the shortest conference call on record. She had more important work to do.
Five nights since the attempt on Yacov’s life, and she had no solid leads. According to the town clerk, no applications were pending to turn a mate vampire. She expected as much. The culprit wouldn’t be stupid enough to file the application before trying to kill Yacov.
But the attempted carjacking wasn’t the reason for their conference call. Dr. Patel was the reason she sat in a chair designed to deter visitors.
“Hello, Winston,” Gaea answered, her voice coming from the speakerphone on the mayor’s desk.
“I’m going to let the chief take the lead,” the mayor said.
Tig understood why. The uneasy relationship between Winston and his maker was legendary. She had to include him on the call or she’d risk offending him. While Gaea was the oldest vampire on the Hill—and that brought with it a truckload of authority—she wasn’t on the council, nor was she part of the small group who originally founded the town. Politics!
“Hi, Gaea,” Tig said, scooting her chair closer to the phone so Gaea could hear her. “We wanted to find out what you’ve learned about Dr. Patel.”
“Well, I haven’t noticed any concerns. I’ve tried to keep Cerissa busy and out of trouble. A few nights ago she went with Blanche to the casino, and last night I held a small soirée here to introduce her to some of the less important members of our community. No real problems, although I heard there was a small, shall we say, squabble at the casino.”
Tig rolled her eyes, which brought a smile to the mayor’s frequently dour face. Everyone in town had heard about Zeke and Blanche’s little turf battle.
“Could she be a danger to us?” Tig asked.
“If I thought she was, I would have told you already.” A huffing sound emanated from the phone’s speaker. “Cerissa’s behavior is consistent with her story. She’s anxious to meet investors, but clears everything she does through me.”
The mayor pursed his lips, as if considering something. “Perhaps I should ask her out to see how she reacts. There was something appealing about the fragrance of her blood—”
“She’s not looking for a mate right now,” Gaea said. “The dear child said so on more than one occasion. She even raised the possibility of bringing someone from another community to live here.”
Now there was a motive—killing Yacov would create an opening on the Hill for another vampire to buy in.
“Who is she interested in?” Tig asked.
“She didn’t seem to have anyone in mind—it was more of a general question for the future than a specific one for the present.”
Tig tapped her fingers on the chair arm again. Still, as a motive, it was something to consider.
Wait. Blanche was looking for a community. Could that be it? But it didn’t make sense. Blanche didn’t have the money to buy in right now. If she killed Yacov, the Hill would fill the vacancy long before she could earn the buy-in fee.
“Well, you’ll have to disabuse Dr. Patel of the notion of bringing someone here,” the mayor said, punctuating his statement with a sniff. “We’re very selective.”
“I wasn’t inclined to say anything to her. We may want to learn more about her plans, unless the council has decided to reject her project and ask her to move on?”
“We haven’t discussed it.” The mayor glanced from the phone to Tig. “I want more information about her before I put it on a council agenda.”
“I’ll get you what I have,” Tig said. “I’m still digging into her background.”
The mayor nodded. “For now, we don’t want anyone to invest in her project. It would only make it more difficult if we have to oust her from the Hill.”
Gaea tsked. “I don’t know if we can keep investors away. She’s quite insistent on meeting other Hill residents.”
“Find a way,” Tig said, adding “please” at the end, hoping her direct approach hadn’t offended Gaea.
“One more thing,” the mayor said. “We have a small problem I wanted to bounce off both of you. I’m getting pressure to allow mortals to vote.”
“But it’s just a small group of discontents.” Gaea’s voice carried a sense of disbelief. “Tell me you’re not taking them seriously?”
The mayor’s face looked pinched. “I appointed Yacov to meet with their representatives. A small exploratory committee.”
“You did what?” Tig demanded. “When did you appoint him? Yacov didn’t mention it to me.”
“I appointed him shortly before he was carjacked. I’ve tried to keep it on the down-low. Most mortals are afraid to say anything. They think we’ll kick them off the Hill if they complain openly. But Father Matt has heard from them in private. Many are unhappy because they don’t have a mortal representative on the council.” The mayor rubbed his bottom lip, looking pensive. “Yacov’s good at diplomacy. He should be able to fix things.”
Tig gripped the chair arm, restraining her urge to throttle someone. She couldn’t protect the Hill if everyone hid things from her.
“Who knew Yacov was in charge of your committee?” she asked.
The mayor raised his bushy eyebrows. “You think Yacov may have been attacked because he’s on the committee?”
“Mayor, there are vampires on the Hill who have no intention of sharing power with mortals. So yes, it’s a possibility.”
“Well, I reported it to the council in my weekly newsletter. It wasn’t a confidential matter, but I didn’t expect them to start blabbing about it—”
The musical tones of a distant door chime emanated from the speakerphone. “I better go see who is at my door,” Gaea said. “Winston, I’ll call you later to discuss your problem.”
Tig rose, her back stiff from the poorly designed chair. She needed to consider this new information. “I’ll be at the police station if either of you need me.”
* * *
Cerissa lingered at the kitchen table after dinner, reading the latest issue of Science magazine. She looked up when Blanche and Seaton walked out from the utility room—she hadn’t noticed another door leading to the basement, but there must be one. Gaea’s house was a labyrinth, with the below-ground sleeping rooms off-limits to mortals.
Why didn’t I leave the kitchen at dusk? The sun had set almost an hour ago; she should have gone to her room to read. Her irritation sat like sour wine on the back of her throat. She couldn’t risk another confrontation with Blanche. She stood to go, and almost cleared the door when Blanche called out, “Don’t be in such a hurry.”
“Ah,” Cerissa said, stopping in the doorway.
“Sit yourself back down. This will only take a minute.”
She really didn’t want to talk to Blanche. So why were her feet carrying her back to the table? Blanche plopped two bags of blood into heated water and, an awkward ninety seconds later, fished out a bag, snipped the corner, and poured blood into a glass. Only then did Seaton take his bag out of the water. She felt a little sorry for the maker-less vampire. She’d learned the whole sordid story from Leopold last night. Jane had been staked for turning Seaton without permission. When Gaea had told her Jane “moved on,” she thought it meant Texas, not the afterlife.
“Gosh, thanks for waiting.” Blanche plopped into a chair across from her and took a long sip of her drink. “I’m sorry about the casino. I so overreacted. Forgive me?”
“Ah, sure,” Cerissa replied, not feeling it. “I should have stuck with the basic strategy. Th
en everyone would have won.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong. It’s every girl for herself. I learned that early on. No one will watch out for you; you gotta make sure number one gets paid first.”
Yeah, right. Except for Ari, no one had watched out for her. But she never put herself first. No matter how much she wanted to, it just wasn’t done among the Lux. “I guess—” she began.
“Ya need to do more than guess. Ya need to remember the golden rule—‘he who has the gold makes the rules.’ And last night, you made the gold.” Blanche tilted up her glass again. “Yeck, stale. Why can’t we get any fresh blood around here?”
Cerissa furrowed her brow. One of the Hill residents ran a business collecting hospital discards. What did Blanche expect? Expired blood was thrown out for a reason.
The front door chime sounded. Everyone glanced in the direction of the hallway.
“I better go answer that.” She stood quickly—anything to get out of this conversation. “I haven’t seen Gaea yet.”
She hurried to the foyer and opened the front door. Zeke stood there. What was he doing here? He had promised to back off.
“Evenin’, Cerissa,” he said, with a tip of his cowboy hat. The sound of footsteps came up behind her before she could answer. “Evenin’, Gaea,” he added. “Just thought I’d stop by and see if Cerissa wanted to attend the square dance tonight.”
Shocked speechless, she stared at him. What part of “not interested” didn’t he understand?
“What do you say?” he added. “We’ll have a good time.”
“I told you at the casino,” Cerissa began sternly, and stopped. Making a scene in front of Gaea wasn’t a good idea—better to offer a friendly-sounding excuse. She took a deep, calming breath and let it out. “I told you I don’t know how to square-dance. Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”
