My phone pinged that I had a new email on my way over to Ada’s house. I glanced down to see it was from a company called FindYourRelatives.com, and the summary cheerfully informed me that my DNA test—submitted more than two months ago—had finally returned some results. My heart did a somersault at the prospect. I pulled into a gas station, parked, and breathlessly opened my email.
My heart fell immediately. It said, We are delighted to tell you that you are one-eighth Norwegian fjord troll! Unfortunately, you have enough Other blood to prevent us from making human DNA connections. We are unable to connect you with any relatives you may have. We hope that in the future, technological advancements will allow us to definitively isolate the human side of mixed-blood DNA. Thank you for your patronage, and please sign up for our newsletter for future announcements!
I sighed, setting my phone down on the seat next to me and rubbing my eyes. Before a couple months ago, I’d never had even the slightest bit of luck looking for my parents. I knew I’d been sold to imps as a newborn, I knew that Ada now owned me, and that was that. But after Ferryman provided me with their names, I’d begun to look again. Unfortunately, those names were so common and my job kept me so busy that I’d only been able to do internet searches and make phone calls. I’d hoped a DNA test would narrow things down a bit. I’d hoped that my troll ancestry wasn’t so recent as to muddy the waters.
But it was, as it turned out.
Sorry, Alek, Maggie said gently. I knew you were hoping this would clarify things.
“Well, one of my great-grandparents fucked a troll. I guess I’ve got that going for me.” I read through the email again. “I didn’t know Norwegian fjord trolls were even close enough to humans to mate. I guess it gets boring up there during the long winter.” I pulled out of the gas station and headed to Ada’s, my mood sour and my thoughts drifting aimlessly.
Ada lived in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in Beachwood, Ohio. It was an understated subdivision in a rather pleasant little forest, just a few minutes off the freeway. The lots were small, but the trees and tall fences provided a lot of privacy between the big, flagstone-faced homes. If you didn’t know exactly what you were looking for, it was easy to miss the turn into the subdivision as well as the subsequent turn into Ada’s driveway. I’m pretty sure that’s by design.
I pulled my truck into the driveway and put it in park, leaning forward to stare up at the two-story home. To all appearances, it was a normal home in a normal subdivision filled with normal businesspeople and their families of two-point-five children. The fact that it was exactly what it looked like had always bothered me, as if I expected Ada to live in a gingerbread house to lure in unsuspecting children and then eat them.
I brooded for several minutes, thinking about the failed DNA test and my history in this place. “Haven’t been back for a couple years,” I finally said aloud to Maggie. “You know the last time I came by, she hadn’t changed my room? Still had my Metallica poster on the wall and my baseball glove in the top dresser drawer.”
Maggie remained silent. She could sense my moods and tell that I was talking through my own nerves rather than looking for an answer.
I have a … complicated relationship with Ada. The short of it is that she owns me illegally due to some good timing and a missing contract. She works me to the bone, pays me barely enough to live on, and is generally an asshole for ninety percent of the time.
The long of it is that she also raised me. I moved in with her when she bought me from the imps at the age of eight—a slave boy and a widow in a giant house, mostly avoiding each other but still together through circumstance. She took me to school every day, came to my baseball games, then drove me to the Valkyrie Collections HQ where we’d put in a solid four hours of work each evening and most Saturdays. She had no problem working me like a slave even as a child, but in most other ways she treated me like an adopted grandson; real education, meals together daily, even the odd work trip with vacation-like activities.
We never did have proper holidays or birthdays, though. No gifts. No celebrations. That still burns to this day.
I was early, so I let myself in through the garage. I kicked off my shoes in the mud room and hung my baseball cap on the hook, padding down the immaculate tile hallway to the kitchen. I could smell fresh-made lavender tea and hear classical music coming from Ada’s office. I looked that direction for a moment, hesitating against the urge to walk in and make my report like a kid getting off the bus from school.
Instead, I found a new tin of fancy chai mix in the cupboard and made myself some tea. The kettle soon whistled, and I poured the cup, lost in my own thoughts, waiting for it to steep. I found myself thinking about Olivia. Well, thinking about her legs, to be more accurate. They’d been very nice legs, and they were attached to someone competent enough to handle being a witch without a coven. I liked that, even if she had called me stupid.
Tell me something I don’t know about Ada, Maggie suddenly said.
I pulled my thoughts away from Olivia’s legs, surprised by the request. Though we’d become more open and honest with each other the last couple months, Ada still felt like a closed-off subject to me. Maggie had respected that so far. I’m not sure there’s much to say, I said.
Oh, come on. She’s an insufferable old broad, but there’s got to be something endearing about her. Or interesting, at least.
I snorted. Not much.
Maggie was trying to cheer me up. Trying to distract me. She knew how much I didn’t like coming back here. She said, If you tell me something fun about Ada, I’ll tell you how I know Sting.
Sting?
You know, the rock star?
You’re joking. You know Sting?
Kind of.
My curiosity was genuinely piqued. Okay, I’ll bite. I considered again, trying to think of some fun tidbit I could share about my owner. Ada loves strip clubs.
What? The word came out as half a giggle and half a snort.
Yup. Once a month she takes her laptop down to Broadfellow’s downtown on a Saturday night, sets herself up in the corner, and spends six hours reviewing the company funds while the girls dance.
Ada’s gay?
Not as far as I know. She’s talked about her dead husband maybe three times in our entire time together. I’ve never seen her on a date. In fact, I try not to think about it. She’s old, gross, and she owns me. I’m just glad she never tried to give me the birds and the bees talk.
What a weird lady.
You’re telling me. Okay, spill the beans on Sting.
Before Maggie could answer, I heard the sound of slippered feet on tile and Ada appeared from around the corner. Ada was in her late sixties, above average height—a little under six feet—thin and proper, with lips always pursed and eyes always judging. To my surprise she was still wearing a sharp pantsuit and a blouse, big hooped earrings swinging and her hair done up. Ada had always been a “silk pajamas and robe the moment she walks in the door” sort of lady. But she was still dressed for work, which meant this meeting was serious.
“Are you drinking the new chai I brought back from Kolkata?” she demanded in her croaking voice.
I poured several spoonfuls of sugar, then a quarter cup of cream into my cup, stirred it, and took a long sip before answering her. “Yup.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That was four hundred dollars for that little tin.”
I sipped again. “It’s good, but I think you got ripped off.” I waited for another rebuke, but it didn’t come. Another sign Ada was on edge. “Boris Novak is a prick, by the way,” I told her. “Not that you care, but I don’t think he’s worth the trouble he’s going to be. I’m not just saying that because I don’t want to track down a thrall. This is my honest opinion.”
“Hmm.” She made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat.
I waited for a few moments, hoping she’d engage on some level. “Are you going to tell me what this meeting is about?” I asked, changing tactics. “I can’t remember the last time we had a meeting here instead of the office.”
She made the same noncommittal noise. “Do you have anything constructive to say about Boris?”
“He’s an arrogant old shithead,” I shrugged. I’d used a lot worse words in my head, but my initial anger had burned out after filling my stomach with a couple pounds of wings on the company credit card. “Tagged me as a troll-blood right away. Called me a rockskin—that’s a new one for me. You know the type—believes the Rules are a slight on his very existence. Thinks he’s the top dog and everyone else is food.”
“Vampires.” Ada croaked it like a swearword.
“Exactly. I know we have some good vampire clients, but why the hell would you take this guy on? He’s …” I was interrupted by the sound of a car door slamming in the driveway. I frowned at Ada. For some reason the idea that this meeting was between me, her, and a third party hadn’t even entered my mind. I’d thought that she wanted to talk about Boris. I opened my mouth to ask her about it, but she cut me off.
“Show our guest into the dining room.”
Feeling no small amount of discomfort, I headed to the front of the house, using the few moments alone to try and figure out what exactly was going on. Maggie remained quiet, deep in her own thoughts. I managed to glean nothing in those precious seconds. The doorbell rang a moment before I reached it, and when I opened the door I found a middle-aged man standing on the front step and wearing designer sunglasses with loudly yellow frames, a ball cap without a logo, and a black suit and tie. He was at least eight inches shorter than me, but he made up for it in shoulder size. He looked like an MMA fighter crammed into a suit for a press conference. His nonchalant, jockish body language did nothing to dispel the impression.
He took off his sunglasses and sized me up. “You’re Alek Fitz?”
“I am,” I replied warily.
“Good. I’m Jacques Williams. Ada should be expecting me.”
I shook his hand and was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t try to give me the tough-guy squeeze. I showed him to the dining room, where Ada was already sitting on the far side of the table, a cup of lavender tea in front of her. I rounded the table to sit down beside her, allowing Jacques to take his seat. Ada looked grumpier than usual, a clear sign that she was covering up more telling feelings. There were a few moments of silence while Jacques settled in. I took the chance to examine him closely. There was something off about his face—slightly reddened eyes, skin just a little too pale. It wasn’t until Maggie spoke up that I was able to place it.
He’s a dhampir.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. Dhampir. Half human, half vampire. I’d only met a couple in my line of work. They tended to be quiet, brooding types that ended up working as OtherOps specialists because it was a good-paying job. I wondered if Jacques worked for OtherOps, and side-eyed Ada, hoping she’d come forward with an answer sooner rather than later.
“Has he been briefed?” Jacques asked.
“He’s met Boris,” Ada replied stiffly. “I’ll leave the rest to you.”
“Ah.” Jacques clasped his hands on the table and frowned down at them momentarily. “As I said, my name is Jacques Williams. I’m the US liaison for Lord Ruthven. I trust you know who that is?”
I heard Maggie snort in the back of my head. Augustus Ruthven was one of the Vampire Lords. I didn’t know much about him, to be honest. He was supposed to be one of the more forward-thinking of the old vampires—someone who enjoyed the twenty-first century rather than hiding from it in an eastern European castle. I nodded in response to Jacques’s question. “I know who he is.”
“You understand he is your primary client on the Boris Novak job?”
I looked at Ada again. This I did not know. “I’m not sure what that means.”
“It means,” Ada responded, “that we have taken on a job from Boris Novak—but that job is a front, a farce. We’re really working for Lord Ruthven.”
I was genuinely shocked. “Does Boris know about this?”
Jacques gave me a sallow smile that had only the slightest bit of condescension behind it. He spread his hands. “Let me explain in full. Boris Novak is a hundred and thirty-seven years old. He was turned into a vampire in present-day Serbia just after World War II. His predecessor is unknown. He now lives in North Royalton, Ohio where he owns an online business buying and selling antiques—mostly World War II memorabilia. Boris is what we call a “free” vampire. He exists outside our normal chain of command—he doesn’t report to any of the Vampire Lords, or anyone at all.”
“The thing is,” Jacques continued, “vampires have a … contentious relationship with the rest of the world. We are watched closely by OtherOps and their sister organizations around the world. The Rules that apply to us are incredibly strict, and OtherOps is ready to burst through our doors at a moment’s notice. The rest of the world may see us as lustful, hungry creatures driven by our base instincts, but most vampires just want to be left alone.” He paused momentarily, as if to search for the right words. “As such, we prefer to police ourselves, rather than give OtherOps an excuse for the aforementioned door-bursting.”
A watched Jacques carefully. I have a bad feeling about the direction of this conversation, I said to Maggie. I could sense her silent watchfulness, but she did not respond. To Jacques, I said, “Boris has been a bad boy?”
“Indeed he has,” Jacques said. He paused, eyes turned upward, then corrected himself. “Rather, we think he has. Boris has refused to let us audit his accounts or his thralls. This refusal is a right, as a free vampire, but we suspect that he’s hiding something. So … we are hiring your agency to take a long, hard look at Boris. While you do your job—we won’t interfere with it, of course—you are to compile reports on Boris and inform me of anything suspicious.”
My business alarms were going off. Since when do we spy on one client for another? It was against everything our company stood for. But I’m not the boss—just the working schmuck who has to follow orders—so I bit my tongue. “What do you suspect him of doing?”
“We think he’s been killing his thralls. Part of the Rules stipulates protections for the thralls, and if he’s breaking them, he could invite the wrath of OtherOps down on us all. We suspect that Michael Pavlovich has been murdered, and he’s hired you for a dead-end job to cover his own tracks.”
That was certainly a twist. I leaned back in my chair, glancing sidelong at Ada, who had remained silent through this whole thing. She looked just as irritated as she had to begin with. We did odd jobs on occasion, and those jobs always paid well. But betraying a client was beneath us. At least, it used to be. I wonder if Lord Ruthven has something he’s holding over Ada, I mused.
I was just thinking the same thing, Maggie responded. It’s not like her to be blackmailed. She’s so …
Boring?
Maggie snorted a laugh. By the book.
You say potato … I turned my attention back to Jacques. “So, I do this work for Boris Novak. If I find the kid, I report all is fine. If I don’t, then you guys sweep in and break his legs?”
“It may turn out more complicated than that,” Jacques admitted, “which is why we’re hiring you and not a private investigator of our own. For now, though, that’s a good simplification.”
I took a deep breath and let it come out slowly, staring over Jacques’s shoulder while I considered this whole mess.
I don’t like it, Maggie grumbled. There’s something he’s not telling us.
Is that your lie detector, or just a hunch? I asked. Maggie’s jinn lie detector was pretty spot on, if used against humans or the lesser Other. The more powerful the being, the harder it was for her to pin them down.
Lie detector, she responded. He’s leaving out details for sure.
Of course he is. I sighed inwardly. I don’t like it either, but it’s not like I can say no. Ada has already promised my help, and what she says goes. At least I know why she needs me to do it rather than making Jose and Karen take care of it. There was no way she was going to tell any of the other reapers that we were double-crossing a client. It was a bad precedent to set.
Ada suddenly cleared her throat. “You are at Mr. William’s disposal for the length of the Novak job. As long as you don’t work against Novak, we haven’t broken our contract with the client and my conscience is clear.”
That’s bullshit and she knows it, Maggie grunted. Even having this meeting is working against Boris.
I forced a businesslike smile on my face and directed it toward Jacques. “I suppose that means mine is as well. Leave me your card, and I’ll make sure to keep in touch.”
Jacques produced a card from his breast pocket and slid it across the table toward me. It said Commander Jacques Williams and then in smaller letters, italicized, acting on behalf of Lord Augustus Ruthven. It had mailing address, email, and phone number underneath.
“Commander of what?” I asked Jacques.
“Royal Canadian Navy,” he said. “Retired, of course. Spent a few years as a vampire liaison for OtherOps, but I’ve been with Lord Ruthven for eight years now.”
I pocketed the card, then stood up and showed Jacques to the door. After he’d left, I watched him walk to his car and leave before I returned to the dining room, where Ada was still sitting in an unhappy silence, both hands curled around her cup of tea. “What’s the deal?” I asked bluntly.
She started out of her thoughts, and her eyes focused on me. She frowned. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I repeated flatly.
“Nothing. We do both jobs, we get paid twice. Then we step aside and allow the Vampire Lords to administer whatever justice they may or may not see fit to deliver.”
I had an argument on the tip of my tongue, about how I could plainly see she was uncomfortable with this whole thing and how it was better for the business if she was honest with me right now so we could get out of whatever mess we were now in, but the argument died before I could voice it. It wasn’t often I saw her so obviously out of sorts like this. It almost made me feel sorry for her. I finally gave her a nod and returned to the kitchen, where I found my half-drunk chai had cooled. I downed it in a couple of gulps and then stepped out on the back patio, where I watched the bats flit around as dusk began to converge. I had a brief moment of nostalgia, of watching these bats as a teenager living in this very house.
She’s definitely lying about this being nothing, Maggie told me. But I can’t get a line on what else is going on.
I figured. I bit my bottom lip, irritated with this strange protective feeling I suddenly had for Ada. Knowing that you had Stockholm syndrome doesn’t make it any easier. Fuck. I guess I have to find this dumb kid. I pulled the picture out of my pocket, gazed at Michael for a few moments, then put it away again. Whatever is happening with Ada is going to affect me too. Keep your eyes peeled and your senses sharp. I may not like thralls, but I like the idea of being dicked over by a Vampire Lord’s lackey even less.