SOMETIMES THERE’S A THIN LINE BETWEEN cowardice and common sense. Sean had made the mistake often enough to recognize when he’d made it again. Recognizing it before he made it would be nice but, it seemed, too much to ask for.
He looked around the small, crowded bar. The patrons were over 90 percent male, which was the only sign it catered to a specific clientele. A typically understated small-city gay bar. Or so he’d heard. His only other visit to one had been in New York City where, drunk and in a rare rebellious mood, he’d gone into a popular one…only to walk out again five minutes later.
Common sense, he told himself. If you’re a Nast Cabal prince who is desperately trying to hide his sexual orientation, you don’t go to gay bars. Yet that little voice had always gnawed at him, telling him his decision was cowardice.
“You look like you could use some company.”
Sean looked up into the slightly bloodshot eyes of a man standing by his shoulder. Midthirties. Decent enough looking in a bland, pleasant way. A nice smile. Overall, about a seven. Sean liked sevens. Easy on the eyes, but not high maintenance. Yet buried in that “nice smile” was a nervousness that, combined with the bloodshot eyes, told a story Sean had heard too often and never wanted to hear again. So he said he was waiting for someone, and the man retreated to his seat across the bar.
Sean sipped his Scotch and looked around. More than a few men caught his eye, trying to get his attention, but they were all brethren to the one who’d approached him: over thirty, in town on business, and hoping to score before driving home to the wife and kids.
Sean shuddered and stared down into his glass. He wasn’t getting what he wanted tonight; that much was obvious.
Any of the guys he was eyeing—the ones his age and here for a good time—were giving him wide berth. It wasn’t his looks—he was twenty-three, blond, physically fit, and attractive. The problem was what his last visitor had said: that he looked like he needed company. Not “a wild night of anonymous sex” company, but a shoulder to cry on. The former was exactly what he did need, but he wasn’t going to get it by staring morosely into his drink like a jilted lover on the rebound.
Sean straightened and slugged back his Scotch, wincing at the icy burn.
Not jilted, he reminded himself. He’d ended it.
Atta boy, Sean. After being lied to, betrayed, and humiliated, you ended it. Takes courage.
He slammed back the rest of his drink and motioned to the server for a refill.
He’d been a fool. He saw that now, the realization made all the harsher by knowing that if he’d had a female friend in the same situation, he’d have seen the truth right away.
He’d met Chris at his health club, almost two years ago now. It had started with a locker room conversation, Chris noticing Sean’s racket and lamenting the shortage of racquetball partners. Sean had offered to play with him. It took a few weeks to get going, both uncertain, but when it did start, everything had happened very fast. Like a slow fuse on a keg of dynamite, Chris always said, grinning in that way that—
Sean took his fresh drink from the server and downed most of it.
Chris. High school science teacher. Thirty-two years old. New to New York City. Lived with his in-laws. Yes, in-laws. Normally, Sean avoided married men, but he’d understood Chris’s predicament better than most.
Chris had been raised in a small conservative town, growing up as the son of an evangelical minister. Being gay wasn’t an option. So Chris had done what he was supposed to do. Dated a cheerleader. Married her. Had two kids.
Living up to expectations.
But now Chris was in love, and he was tired of hiding. He wanted to leave his wife for Sean. He just needed some time before he took the plunge.
How many married men say that to their mistresses? Everyone around them knows it’s bullshit. Everyone thinks the women are fools for buying it.
Yet Sean had bought it. The situation wasn’t the same, and he couldn’t fault Chris for not coming out of the closet when he was still in it himself. So Sean made a decision. If Chris was willing to risk his family for Sean, then Sean would take the same chance.
Chris had been all for it. But he wanted to wait until after the holidays, so he’d have one last family Christmas with his kids. Then his son had chicken pox, and that wasn’t a good time. Then his wife had plans for a spring break getaway, and he couldn’t tell her then….
Sean considered coming out first, both to prod Chris and to prove his commitment to the relationship. When Chris had suggested he wait, and he’d agreed, his conscience had called him a coward.
Cowardice? Or common sense?
As Easter had approached and Chris had continued to stall, Sean’s bullshit radar finally switched on. He’d hired an investigator to check a few things. To quell his suspicions.
The investigator had only needed a week to make his report. That small midwestern town Chris had grown up in? Chicago. The evangelical minister father? A United Church minister who preached acceptance of all diversity, including sexual orientation. Chris even had an openly gay uncle.
So all Chris’s “excuses” for maintaining his heterosexual life were just that: excuses. For him, Sean was the equivalent of a hot young mistress—someone who could scratch the itch his wife couldn’t, add a little excitement to his life, and be strung along indefinitely with promises.
The server brought over a fresh glass of Scotch. Sean’s stomach churned at the sight of it.
He lifted a hand. “Had my fill.”
“It’s from the gentleman at the bar.”
The server’s lips twitched, as if to say: “Can you believe this guy, sending over drinks like you’re some pretty girl in the corner?”
“Shall I send it back, sir?” the server asked, mock-formal.
“Please.”
“Don’t blame you,” the server muttered under his breath.
Sean glanced at the man who’d sent the drink, and saw his reaction when it was refused—the confusion and dismay and embarrassment. Another thirtysomething businessman, thinking Sean looked like a tempting morsel. A pretty boy, yet respectable; someone he wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen walking down the street with.
Better take a good look, Sean, because in ten years, that will be you. Wife and kids at home, sneaking into small-town bars on business trips, looking for pretty boys.
Sean’s gut twisted, too much Scotch drunk too quickly threatening to come back up the way it’d gone down.
He pushed to his feet, tottered, and grabbed the chair for support. The room spun, suddenly too hot, and his stomach lurched.
Toilet.
A sign over the back hall pointed in the right direction. He headed toward it, as fast as he could without staggering.
The restrooms were occupied. It was a small bar, and they only had two single-occupancy bathrooms, though Sean suspected they weren’t always used for single occupants. In a town that courted business conventions, most of the people here weren’t the type who’d even walk out the front door with their date, let alone take him back to their hotel.
One couple waiting for a bathroom looked like they’d be finished needing it before one was free. Sean averted his gaze as he passed them. Farther down were two guys, separate, on cell phones, getting away from the noise of the bar. One, around Sean’s age, pulled his phone from his ear and said, “If you need to take a piss, better head out back.”
He jerked his thumb down the hall. As Sean passed, he felt the guy’s gaze on him, appraising. He considered looking back but, faced with the possibility that he might get what he came here for, he realized he no longer wanted it, and it had nothing to do with his churning stomach.
When he avoided gay bars, that little voice called him a coward. Maybe there was some cowardice in the decision, but there was a bigger dose of common sense. Why take the risk to do something he didn’t really want to do? If he’d been straight, he wouldn’t be in a bar picking up women. It just wasn’t him.
His younger brother, Bryce, called him a homebody. You can always count on Sean, he said, with that mixture of envy, pride, and derision that was pure Bryce. But it was true. Sean had never held wild parties when their dad had been away on business. Never skipped class to smoke up with his friends. Never came home puking drunk.
Making up for it now, aren’t you?
His stomach lurched, and he steadied himself with one hand on the wall as he walked.
How much longer was this hall? There was an unmarked door to the left. He didn’t want to throw up in a storage room. Maybe the exit was around that corner—
Another stomach revolt, telling him he wasn’t going to make it. He grabbed the nearest doorknob. The door was ajar, and flew open. He stumbled, then righted himself, and blinked in the darkness. A storage closet, but there was a sink across the way. He started toward it.
Always the good boy, aren’t you, Sean? Can’t puke on the floor if there’s a sink. Wouldn’t be right.
His foot hit something, and he pitched forward. He grabbed a pile of boxes. His gorge rose at the sudden movement. Then he saw what he’d tripped on. An arm, stretched out in front of him.
He followed the arm to a body. It was a man, lying on his back, eyes wide and lifeless, face unnaturally pale. On his neck were two ragged gashes. Bite marks.
PAIGE WAS ON THE TELEPHONE. NOT UNUSUAL at three o’clock on a weekday afternoon. Though she encouraged her business and volunteer contacts to communicate via e-mail, when something went wrong, her name was at the top of their call list. What was unusual was that she’d been on the phone for—I checked my watch—eleven minutes.
When it came to business, Paige was nothing if not efficient, and for even the most convoluted problem, she could take the details in minutes and end the call to begin working on the solution. A lengthy conversation meant it was a problem of another sort: personal. One of her friends or witch students or fellow council members with some crisis that needed a sympathetic ear more than a quick solution. I admired Paige’s ability to empathize, yet it was at this moment somewhat inconvenient.
I’d come home a day early, eager to see her, and had slipped into the house unnoticed. Now I was stuck waiting. Rather awkward, like crouching behind the sofa at a surprise party while the guest of honor chatted with a neighbor at the door.
As the call reached the fifteen-minute mark, I checked the display on the kitchen telephone and felt the odd twist of pleasure and consternation I always had on seeing Adam’s name.
While I was certain that Paige’s feelings for Adam were platonic, and probably always had been, I’d never been as positive with him. I had the sense that my relationship with Paige had come as an unwelcome shock. I suspected he’d harbored, not a great unrequited love for her, but some romantic interest and the complacent confidence that should he decide to act on those feelings, she would always be there to receive them.
I slipped across the kitchen to a chair, having realized my hopes of a quick end to the conversation were futile. When I drew close enough to pick up the conversation, I tried ignoring it…until I heard my name.
“I have to tell Lucas,” she was saying. “I know I have to. But …” A moment’s silence, then her voice dropped, barely audible. “I don’t know how I’m going to break it to him. He’s going to …” She inhaled sharply. “Oh God, I don’t want to be the one to tell him.”
My mind threw up a dozen explanations, none of them remotely related to our relationship. Of all the uncertainties in my life, our marriage was the thing I was sure of.
“No, it’s not your—” Pause. “No, you were right to tell me. If you hadn’t, and I found out you knew, there’d have been hell to pay.”
They bantered over Paige’s threat, then she said, “I guess I have twenty-four hours to figure a way to tell him.”
While Paige signed off with Adam, I laid a gift box on our tiny kitchen table. As gifts went, it was hardly worth the fancy box and bow. New spells were the exchange of choice in our marriage, but I’d been unable to find one, as often happened on shorter business trips.
My backup gift was candy or pastries, something small and rich from a specialty shop. Paige struggled, not with a serious weight issue, but with the issue of self-perception, vacillating between “I really should lose a few pounds” and “I’m healthy and comfortable, so I’m okay with it.” The candies and pastries were my way of saying “I’m more than okay with it.”
Today’s gift was a quartet of handmade truffles. I was adjusting the bow when she hung up. I darted into the back hall.
Her soft footfalls entered the kitchen, then stopped.
“Lucas?”
I glanced around the corner. Seeing me, her face lit up—so radiant that, as always, I faltered, caught in that split second of “Is this really my wife?” shock.
“When did you get in?” she asked, crossing the floor to meet me.
“Just now. It became clear that my presence at the trial—”
Her arms went around my neck.
“—while welcome, was in no way a necessity—”
“—so I decided that any further consultation could be conducted—”
She pulled me down, her lips going to mine, stopping the end of my explanation, which, I suppose, had already been sufficient.
Her kiss swallowed all thought, and I lost myself in the faintly spicy taste of her mouth, flavored by herbal tea with notes of lemon and chamomile—
Her tongue slid into my mouth, light and teasing, as the kiss deepened. As her body pressed into mine, I lifted her and set her on the edge of the table. Our kiss broke as we shifted, and when I moved in to recapture it, she pulled back, face tilting up to mine, hands moving to the sides of my face.
She gave a slight smile—half happy, half wistful—and I read her sentiments as surely as if she spoke the words. Yet she wouldn’t speak them. She used to. After my first few business trips, she’d met me at the airport or at the door with a passionate kiss and an equally fervent “I missed you.” And I’d stumbled into apologies, promising I’d be home longer, wouldn’t be gone for as long next time, would find more local work soon. Three years later, those local jobs had yet to materialize.
Portland didn’t have a Cabal office. That meant it was a city that I felt was safe for Paige and Savannah, and a place where I could escape my family name. But no Cabals meant few supernaturals, and that meant no work for a twentysomething self-employed lawyer with a spotty formal employment record. After passing the Oregon bar exam, I’d managed to secure only a few human clients. Most of my work remained in the few states, like Illinois, where I’d passed the bar and had supernatural clients.
Soon, seeing how much it pained me to be gone, Paige had stopped saying she’d missed me. But that didn’t resolve the underlying issue, which was that I was away too much and, as much as we struggled to pretend otherwise, we keenly felt the separation.
“I believe I may be able to forgo the Cleveland trip next week,” I said. “I can, instead, provide long-distance consultation with the local lawyer my client has retained to represent her in court.”
“That would be nice,” she said. “But if you can’t, we’ll work it out.”
Her lips touched mine. I held back, wanting to promise that whatever arose in the Cleveland case, I would remain firm, and refuse to fly out and solve it myself. But I could make no such promise. There were always complications—emergencies and contingencies—and my cases were so specialized that there was never anyone else to handle them.
So I lost myself in her kiss again, pushing aside other thoughts as she was clearly doing herself, endeavoring to forget whatever crisis Adam had mentioned.
As the kiss deepened and she pulled me closer, I snuck a look at the microwave clock.
“Savannah’s going to a friend’s after school,” Paige murmured.
“Ah.” I pulled back and smiled. “In that case, I declare a change of venue unnecessary.”
She pulled me back into a kiss and I started unbuttoning her blouse.
Two hours later, leaving Savannah with her homework and a delivered pizza, Paige and I went out for dinner. Now sixteen, Savannah could be left on her own for an evening—a milestone that had seemed a long time coming. I’ll admit that falling for a young woman with a teenaged ward hadn’t been what I’d consider an ideal situation. I suppose, though, that if I said I’d been overjoyed to find that my life partner came with a thirteen-year-old girl in tow, that would reflect most suspiciously on me.
But I’d always known that Paige and Savannah were a package deal. Were it not for her guardianship of Savannah, we would never have met.
Four years ago, Savannah had been kidnapped, her mother killed. Before her death, Eve had told Savannah to take refuge with Ruth Winterbourne, the Coven leader. Only Ruth had died, leaving Paige to take Savannah…and fight Kristof Nast for custody.
At the time, no one, even Savannah herself, had believed Kristof was her father, so Paige had taken up the battle. I’d offered my services. Paige lost everything in that fight, but in the end, we’d won, more by default than anything—Kristof had died, and his family didn’t pursue the claim.
Tonight I’d taken Paige to her favorite bistro in Portland, a tiny place where the view was as exquisite as the food. Sitting there, watching her nibble a slice of duck confit, her eyes closed for that first bite, I heard my father’s voice, telling me that this was how she should be treated every day—not as a special occasion when I had a little extra money.
I had money, he’d remind me, and even if I refused to touch my trust fund for myself, I shouldn’t deprive Paige of the luxuries it could bring. Vying with my father’s voice, though, was Paige’s, telling me that if I ever dipped into that hated trust fund for something as frivolous as buying her fancy dinners, she’d—well, she never specified the threat, but the message was clear enough.
“That’s the first smile I’ve seen from you all evening, Cortez,” she said. “And you’ve hardly said a word.”
“I could say the same for you on both counts.”
Her smile faltered, and I upbraided myself for reminding her of Adam’s call. Now it sat on the table between us, ruining a rare private meal. Would I spoil it more by pushing the matter to a resolution? Was it not crueler to watch her suffer and feign ignorance?
I sliced through my stuffed pork tenderloin. “When I professed earlier to having ‘just’ arrived home when you entered the kitchen, I was being somewhat fallacious. I had in fact arrived sooner, when you were in conversation with Adam.”
“Oh.”
“And while I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, I did inadvertently overhear a portion of the conversation—one pertaining to myself and a problem Adam had brought to your attention.”
She sipped her wine, her fingers tight around the glass as she tried to figure out a way to salvage our peaceful meal without lying.
I forced a smile and ducked to catch her eye. “Were it not for Adam being the one bearing the news, I’d be convinced that my father was behind this problem. As that cannot be the case—” My smile turned genuine. “Well, then, it can’t be that bad, can it?”
She looked up at me, and my smile froze.
“It is my father, isn’t it? But what would Adam have to say about my—” I winced. “Graduation. Adam is preparing for graduation and seeking employment. My father has offered it to him.”
Paige nodded, and took a long drink of wine.
“Well …” I said slowly. “An Exustio half-demon is a rare prize for any Cabal. While I had hoped he’d stopped mentioning Cabal employment possibilities after Adam expressed disinterest, we all feared he was simply waiting for Adam to graduate. Disappointing and frustrating but, I’m afraid, not unexpected. Is he pushing the matter? Or is that, I suppose, a silly question?”
“He isn’t pushing yet. The problem—” Paige inhaled. “He has offered Adam a post. As head of security for a new Cabal satellite office.”
I stopped, my fork partway to my mouth. “Security? I don’t blame Adam for being upset, then. Though it’s a prestigious position, it’s hardly what Adam envisioned when he returned to college.”
“That’s not it. The problem is the location of the new office.”
I took my bite of tenderloin and chewed as I thought. Had my father decided to go ahead with the satellite office in Anchorage? Or a new one overseas?
But if Adam wasn’t interested in the position, what difference did the location make?
“He’s putting it here,” Paige said. “In Portland.”
My head jerked up so fast the meat slid into my throat, and I started to choke.
SEAN BACKED OUT OF THE CLOSET, HIS GAZE glued to the bloodless corpse. A vampire kill? It looked like one, but here? With no serious attempt to even hide the body?
Don’t analyze it. Just get out.
He turned and smacked into the dark-haired young man with the cell phone.
“Hey,” the guy said. “I was just coming to tell you that’s not the exit—”
He looked over Sean’s shoulder. And Sean froze, brain screaming advice—close the door, stall, run—none of it useful unless he cared to be a murder suspect.
“Holy shit! Is that—?”
He pushed past Sean and crouched beside the body.
“He’s dead,” Sean said. “I was just going to call the police, but…I have to take off. I can’t— I can’t be found here.”
The guy glanced up.
“Door’s down there,” he said, pointing.
Sean blanched, seeing the same contemptuous look he’d given the businessmen who had tried picking him up, and he knew he wasn’t in danger of ending up like them—he already had. Maybe he didn’t have a wife or girlfriend at home, but was he any different otherwise? Sneaking in here on a business trip? Running from a crime scene to avoid being caught at a gay bar?
Epiphanies for another time. Right now he did need to get out of here. A Cabal son at the site of a vampire kill? Not the time to take a stand.
As the dark-haired guy reported the death, Sean turned and almost smacked into a trio of men, two older business types and a kid younger than Bryce.
“Hey, bud,” the kid said, his eyes glazed. He hooked his thumb in the direction of the storage room. “That free?”
And Sean Nast—scion of the Nast Cabal, descended from a line of men who could talk or bully their way out of any situation—stood there, mouth open, brain blank.
Sean wished his father were still alive. There were many reasons he wished that, but what he missed most often was his father’s guidance. Of all the lessons not yet imparted, this was chief among them: how to act like a Cabal son.
If Kristof Nast had been here, no one would have gotten into that storage room. He’d have bluffed and intimidated his way out of this dilemma. Then there was Sean …
“The, uh, room—? No, it, uh, it’s not free …”
One of the businessmen had already brushed past, too eager to wait for Sean’s reply. Sean reacted on instinct, reaching deep into his genetic pool, throwing up his chin, steeling his gaze, and stepping into the man’s path.
“You’ll have to move back, sir,” Sean said. “This is a crime scene.”
Even as the words left his mouth, Sean realized his error, and cringed as the cry went up.
Crime scene.
Sean wheeled, seeing the hall stretch before him, the exit somewhere at the end. But his chance had passed. Run now and he’d be chased down as a suspect.
People crowded into the storage room doorway. Gasps and cries of “Is he dead?” rose from all sides.
“Back away,” Sean heard the dark-haired young man inside say. “You heard the guy. This is a crime scene.”
Sean came to life then, mustering that air of authority to move the bystanders back. Not the way to keep a low profile, but it was the right thing to do.
“Yes, he’s dead,” Sean said, waving people back as he moved into the doorway to block it. “The police are on the way.”
“What’s wrong with him?” someone asked.
“He’s all pale,” another answered.
“Everyone, please—” Sean began.
“I saw bite marks. Fang marks, in his neck.”
“Oh my God,” the kid with the glazed eyes said. “Blood drained. Fang marks. It’s gotta be—”
Sean cut in quickly. “The cause of death has yet to be—”
“It’s El Chupacabra!” someone shouted.
El Chupacabra.
Sean had no idea what the hell that meant, but in his language, it translated into trouble.
He’d given his statement to the Middleton police. Even used his real ID, as he’d been taught. When other kids were being told how to behave if pulled over for speeding, Cabal boys were drilled on how to handle criminal investigations. If you’re not involved and the crime isn’t Cabal related, never risk using fake ID.
He’d cooperated fully, and asked that his privacy be respected. He was sure that many patrons had asked the same thing, but that didn’t make the look the officer gave him go down any easier. Just another closeted businessman on the make. Pathetic.
Sean stepped from the room the police were using for interviews. Those still awaiting their turns glanced up with equal parts curiosity and trepidation. If they were checking his expression to see how well he’d fared, they found no clues there. Sean’s attention had moved on to the media gauntlet waiting outside.
He tried to remember how much money he had in his wallet. A few hundred. Would it get him out the back door? No, it would only call more attention to himself.
He picked up his pace, heading for the exit.
“—cause of death is clearly exsanguination,” boomed a voice behind him.
“You mean he bled to death,” replied a woman.
“That, my dear detective, is the definition of exsanguination.”
Sean glanced over his shoulder. A sixtyish man with gray whiskers and a pot belly was striding through the bar, a pinch-faced brunette struggling to keep up.
An officer stepped into their path.
“Detective,” he said, nodding to the woman. He turned to the man. “Doc? You might want to go out the back. What with this chubawumpa business …”
“Chupacabra,” the doctor corrected, giving the word a Spanish lilt. “And it’s not ‘business,’ young man. It is nonsense. Superstitious nonsense.”
“Okay, but you still might want to—”
“I do not fear the media,” the doctor boomed, like a general about to take on the Mongolian hordes.
Sean let the doctor and detective pass, then slid out in their wake, staying a few yards back so he wouldn’t be mistaken for one of their party.
As soon as the doors opened, the flashes and shouts began.
“Dr. Bailey! Are you aware this is the first recorded instance of a chupacabra killing a human?”
The doctor answered with a derisive snort.
“Detective, over here!”
“Doc, is it true that—”
“Detective MacLeod! Could this be the Middleton Chupacabra?”
The detective turned to the young woman who’d yelled the last question. “Sandy, you know I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. Chupacabras? Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me it was a vampire.”
A wave of laughter rolled out.
As the crowd pelted the coroner and detective with questions, Sean slid away.
The next morning, Sean sat on his hotel bed in Tacoma, and stared down at the newspaper. Even here, twenty miles from Middleton, the chupacabra story had made the front section. It was near the back, and written as tongue-in-cheek monster speculation, but it was there nonetheless.
Even after reading the article, Sean still didn’t know exactly what a chupacabra was. Obviously a beast of folklore that some people around here believed in. That was a problem. Unlike a vampire story, which no self-respecting journalist would touch, the chupacabra was news in this region, having apparently been “terrorizing” Middleton for months now.
The Cabals would find this. They’d been vigilant about vampire activity for two years now, ever since a vampire had gone on a killing spree, murdering Cabal youths. One of Sean’s cousins had been among the victims.
The Cabals would find this and they’d find Sean’s name attached, and discover where he’d been. Part of him wanted to say “Oh, well” and accept the consequences. But he wasn’t ready for that.
A rap at the door.
It was his executive assistant, Mary. Now nearing retirement, Mary had been with the Nast Cabal since Sean’s father had been a boy. When Sean had selected her from the secretarial pool, his grandfather had praised him for choosing experience over attractiveness. Truth was, Sean didn’t dare pick one of the nubile twentysomethings or there’d be office cooler talk when he didn’t at least flirt with her.
“Mr. Nast, sir?” Mary eyed his jeans and sweatshirt with disapproval. It might be Saturday, but that was no way for an executive to dress. “Shall I send the porter up for your bags?”
“No, I’m not taking the jet back. I’m driving to Portland for the weekend.”
Her disapproval solidified with a hardening of her lips. Everyone knew what Portland held for Sean—his half sister, Savannah, lived there with her guardians, Paige Winterbourne and Lucas Cortez. His family refused to acknowledge Savannah. Her name couldn’t even be mentioned in his grandfather’s hearing.
“If you’re quite certain, sir …” Mary said.
“I am,” he said firmly, then nodded a dismissal, waited for her to step back, and shut the door.
He stood there a moment, behind the closed door.
Portland. Savannah. Lucas. The solution to his dilemma had just landed in his lap.
A CORTEZ CABAL SATELLITE OFFICE IN PORTLAND.
I stared down at the untouched legal papers on my desk. I didn’t know who I was more angry with: my father for doing this or myself for not seeing it coming.
Paige had tried to convince me that this decision might be simply part of an overall expansion plan. According to Adam, my father had asked him to keep quiet only because the proposed office was still that: a proposal.
Perfectly valid explanations. And patently false.
I sighed, lifted my glasses, and pinched the bridge of my nose, struggling to focus on my work. Paige had gone shopping in preparation for a weekend visit by Savannah’s half brother Sean. I wanted to get through this work before he arrived. I didn’t want to spoil our weekend by retreating to do paperwork, particularly when we had a guest.
I picked up the top sheet. Real estate law. Closing a purchase. As dull as legal work got, but it paid well enough.
Speaking of real estate, where was my father planning to build—?
I slapped the stray thought aside and concentrated on the papers. The business property in question had sold for an astounding price, considering the neighborhood. Portland was doing well. Very well. Perhaps that was why my father—
No. I knew better. Five years ago, the Cortez board of directors had debated northwestern expansion, but they’d rejected the idea. There was no solid supernatural community in Portland. The market, while good, didn’t suit Cortez Corporation interests. And they already had a tiny office in Seattle, which had staffing problems, being so far from the Miami headquarters that employees saw it as an exile.
“Hey, Lucas,” Savannah said, walking in. “Is there a stapler in here?”
I held out mine, but she ignored it, plunked down in Paige’s chair, and started looking through the desk drawers.
At sixteen, Savannah was almost as tall as me, finally outgrowing her awkward coltish stage and maturing into a willowy young woman. She was also growing into her strong features, and starting to turn heads. But boys had yet to begin banging down our door. There was something about Savannah—an edge, a forthrightness—that I suspected frightened off many a would-be admirer. I’d heard the same said about her mother—that men had admired from afar…preferably out of spellcasting range. Having met Eve both before and after her death, I didn’t blame them.
“So,” Savannah said, continuing her drawer search. “Are you still brooding about the satellite office thing?”
“I’m not—” I stopped. Argue with Savannah and she’d only needle all the more—sharp and deep enough to draw the blood of truths more comfortably left hidden.
“Is it really such a bad idea?” She lifted her hand to ward off my argument. “Hear me out, okay? Yeah, going to Adam—especially behind your back—was a dirty trick, even for Benicio. Setting up in Portland without warning you? Really nasty, especially since you’re too settled here to move easily. I’m sure he’s counting on that. And he’s definitely going to use this to advance the whole ‘get Lucas to run the company’ master plan. It’s going to cause problems, but …” She met my gaze. “It could actually solve one big problem. A Cabal office here means more supernaturals here and more Cabal wrongs for you to right. Without ever leaving home. And Paige can help. That’s what you guys want, isn’t it? Pool your resources more often, combining your—” A dismissive hand wave. “Crusades.”
I sighed. “Our work is not a cru—”
“Whatever. Point is, it won’t be all good, but maybe it won’t be all bad either.”
“True, but the bad, I’m afraid, will significantly outweigh the good. Do you know what made us choose Portland?”
She started listing reasons on her fingers. “Escape the Cabal stuff. Give you a break from your dad’s Cabal heir crap. Keep me away from Grandpa Dearest. Protect Paige from anyone wanting to get at you. Protect Paige from anyone wanting to help the Cortezes rid themselves of a witch daughter-in-law.” She stopped. “Shit. Paige.”
“My father would try to ensure that a Cabal office here would not increase the danger Paige faces,” I said. “However, her comfort with living here, and her concerns over our comfort and safety, would grow.”
“She worries more than enough already.”
“And, in this case, it would be justifiable. An increased supernatural presence would mean increased risk—for all of us—from those outside my father’s sphere of influence. He should have considered that.”
“But then he’d have to admit there are supernaturals who aren’t afraid of Benicio Cortez.”
Paige’s car sounded in the drive.
“Go help her unpack the groceries,” I said. “And tell her I’ll be right down.”
Sean arrived just before lunch. He was the only Nast who’d formed any sort of relationship with Savannah. According to their grandfather, Thomas, Savannah was not his son’s child—it was all part of a beyond-the-grave scheme by a notorious black witch to secure a share of Nast wealth for her daughter. As for the fact that Kristof—not Eve—had been the one to proclaim his paternity, that apparently was a minor and inconsequential detail.
When Savannah came of age, the choice to pursue her birthright or let the matter lie would be hers. For now she enjoyed a growing relationship with Sean, who had also set up a trust fund for her using part of his inheritance.
During lunch, Sean alternated between distracted and rushed, as if the meal was something merely to get through. So I was not surprised when, as Savannah served dessert, Sean said, “I need to talk to you about something, Lucas.” He paused, then turned Paige’s way. “And you, too, Paige, since it’s something the interracial council might want to look into.”
He related the story of how the night before, in a bar, he’d stumbled upon an exsanguinated corpse with fang marks on his neck.
“Some vampire’s getting sloppy,” Savannah said. “Bet it’s Cass. Getting senile in her old age and forgetting where she left her dinner.”
“The chance of it being a real vampire’s annual kill is slight,” I said. “However, given the Cabal’s current attitude toward vampires—”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Sean cut in, leaning forward. He stopped and eased back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but it’s true. Granddad still…well, he hasn’t forgotten what happened to my cousin.”
“Forgotten or forgiven,” Paige murmured.
I nodded. “The perpetrators may be dead, but the murders only served to exacerbate an already tense situation, giving the Cabals reason to intensify their suspicion of all vampires. However, a single case in a small city will likely pass unnoticed.”
“There’s more,” Sean said.
He explained.
When he finished, Savannah screwed up her face. “They think it’s a what?”
“Chupacabra,” Sean said.
“A cockroach?”
Paige stifled a laugh. “Better brush up on your Spanish. That’d be cucaracha. Though a giant vampiric cockroach could be interesting.”
“Fine, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong. What’s a chupa-whatever?”
“I have no idea. The literal translation would be something like goat-sucker.”
“Goat-sucker?” Savannah chortled. “Now who’s in need of remedial Spanish?”
“Paige’s translation is correct,” I said. “The nature of the creature is, at the moment, unimportant. Sean is right. If this is making statewide news, it’s unlikely to pass unnoticed. Cassandra must be notified and ready for a Cabal investigation into any vampires living near—”
“Uh, actually,” Sean said, “I was hoping it could be solved before the Cabals get involved. If you aren’t too busy, I’d be willing to hire you—both of you—to investigate.”
“Well, that’s one idea,” Paige said. “But I’m not sure it would be worth—”
“There’s something else,” Sean said. “This bar. I went there with a coworker, for him, and…well, if anyone found out what kind of bar it is…they’d jump to the wrong conclusion and…it could be embarrassing.”
“What was it?” Savannah said. “A fetish club?”
We all looked at her.
“What? He said it’d be embarrassing.”
“It was a gay bar,” Sean said.
Savannah made a rude noise. “Is that it? Geez. Big deal.”
“I’d really like to hire you,” Sean said.
I glanced at Paige. “Let us check our schedules and discuss it.”
“Well,” I said as Paige poured tea later that afternoon. “I suppose that answered that question.”
“And you owe me a spell, Cortez.”
I arched my brows. “No, you suggested the bet, but if you recall, I failed to formally accept.”
“Oh-ho, so you need to formally accept bets now? And I suppose you wouldn’t have claimed your prize if it turned out you were right about why Sean never mentions girlfriends.”
“Dating a married woman would have been a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
“He says, adroitly avoiding an answer.”
She sat across from me at the kitchen table and sipped her tea. Sean and Savannah had gone trail riding. She’d started horseback riding after we’d come to Portland, and fallen in love with the sport. When Sean began visiting, riding with Savannah had been an easy excuse to spend some time together, and it had grown into something for them to share.
Horseback riding seemed an odd choice for someone as restless and impatient as Savannah, but Paige thought Savannah simply liked having control over something bigger and stronger than herself. It was teaching Savannah patience, and her spellcasting had improved. Too much, as Paige often pointed out. Savannah was powerful enough as it was.
“I’d like to—”
“We should—”
We spoke in unison, then laughed. I waved for Paige to go first.
“I’m all for it, taking Sean’s case,” she said. “Sure, I’d like to help him. And anything vampire-related is a concern. But, being totally selfish—”
“It would be a welcome opportunity to work together.”
She smiled. “Exactly. Close enough to home to commute. Unless your schedule’s changed, you’re home next week …”
“I am.”
“Then I’ll clear some time from mine. Besides, you could use a break from thinking about this satellite office problem.”
“It’s agreed, then. Nothing stands in our way.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that. There is one obstacle. A less-than-pleasant aspect to the case that may have us both regretting our decision.”
“And that is…?”
“We’ll have to work with Cassandra.”