I was dying of curiosity. At this point I’d make the meeting happen just to see what it was about. And of course I would be there. “Am I going to regret this?”
The pause told me that yes, there was a good possibility that I would in fact regret this. “It’ll be fine.”
“Sure,” I drawled. “I won’t be able to talk to him until nightfall.”
“The sooner the better.”
“Seriously, Cormac, are you in trouble?”
“It’ll be fine. Call me when it’s set up.” He hung up.
What the hell had he gotten into, and why was I just going to dive in after him? I’d better get a good story out of this.
Rick agreed to the meeting, probably because after I told him about Cormac’s request, he was just as curious as I was. “What could he possibly be up to?” he asked.
“No idea,” I answered. “So, you’re in?”
He was in, as long as the meeting happened on his turf at Obsidian, the art gallery that served as the public face of the lair of Denver’s vampire Family. Cormac wasn’t happy about that when I called him.
“I’d hoped we could do this on neutral territory. Your place, maybe.”
“Take it or leave it,” I said. “I’ll be there, if you think it’ll help.”
He scowled. “I’d rather keep you out of this.”
“Nope, you dragged me in already, I want the story.”
I met Cormac in the alley behind the gallery. He was a tall, rugged guy with an easy manner and hard face, dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and leather jacket. After his felony conviction—he’d been out of prison for a couple of years now—he stopped carrying guns, but he still kept weapons. He usually had a couple of stakes up his sleeve. Now he carried them openly, hanging in a quiver off his belt, along with a spray bottle that was no doubt filled with holy water, and a silver cross hanging around his neck. Had Cormac ever set foot in a church in his life?
“Really?” I said, deadpan, glaring at him.
“Just making a statement,” he said. Also, he wore sunglasses to protect against vampires’ hypnotic stare.
“All right, wait here,” I said. He leaned up against the back of the building while I went down a set of concrete stairs to the basement door and knocked.
Rick himself opened the door. Any other Master would have had minions and gatekeepers, but not Rick.
“Hey,” I said, waving a little. “Thanks for doing this.”
He smiled. “And how are you this evening?”
“Good, good. Dying of curiosity.”
“Any idea what he’s up to?”
“Not at all.”
“Then let’s get this over with.” He gestured me up the stairs first.
Where Cormac was rough, Rick was elegant, his dark hair short, swept back, his gaze amused. I hadn’t gotten the whole story, but he was probably around five hundred years old. He claimed he’d been part of Coronado’s expedition into the southwest. Couldn’t guess that about him now. His accent was flat American, and while his looks and manner were refined, they didn’t seem particular to any time or place. He must have seen so much, had so many adventures. I wanted to hear all the stories, but he rarely talked about his own history.
When we reached the alley, Cormac straightened, his hand moving to his quiver of stakes. Rick lifted a brow at Cormac’s armory. I made sure to stand between the two of them. The posturing was stupid; they both knew better than this.
Rick said, “Well, Mr. Bennett?”
Cormac looked down the alley, along the roofline. Everywhere but at the vampire. His mustache shifted when he pursed his lips. I’d have thought this was the hardest thing he’d ever done.
“I’m supposed to deliver a message,” he said finally.