Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(36)
“Wait, so magic is...dying?”
I shrugged. That was a question for people a hell of a lot smarter than me. “All I know is, it’s gotten a lot harder to make a baby vampire. I think they’ve mostly stopped trying.”
He thought about all that for a few minutes while I drove in silence.
“Scarlett, how did you find out about all this stuff?” Cruz finally asked. “I mean, you neutralize everything, so it’s not like you could’ve experienced any of this firsthand.”
“I had a teacher.”
“Where is she now?”
“She died,” I said shortly. “Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget about it.” I took the exit for downtown, maneuvering the van onto busy Figuoreoa Street.
“So,” Cruz said, ready to change the subject, “how will we know who these people are? I mean, you got their names, but how will we find them?”
For the first time since we’d gotten in the van, I grinned. “We’ll just ask,” I said cheerfully. “Nobody wants to mess with the bogeyman.” Even if she is just a janitor.
The LA night was cool and brisk, clear enough to see miles and miles of city lights. I rolled the windows down when we got off the freeway, and Cruz smiled and closed his eyes. For a second, I thought he was going to hang his head out the window and pant, and I had to smile.
Our first stop was a rooftop club on one of the big downtown skyscrapers.
“Wow,” Cruz said, whistling as we got off the elevator. “I was expecting...I don’t know, neon strobe lights and techno music. This is actually...nice.”
It really was. Aside from the city lights, the only light source on the roof came from paper lanterns that cast a warm glow onto the faces of the partygoers. A DJ played low orchestral music, and some people were dancing. Others sat at tables with white tablecloths, chatting and comparing scars. I noted with some satisfaction that we blended in okay. I was wearing an entire outfit that Molly had lent me—black leather pants and an emerald-green tank top under a soft-gray blazer. I had been afraid to ask her how much any of it cost, so I just promised to return it safely. Cruz, as it turned out, owned a little collection of designer clothes. He was in an Armani suit, no tie, with a dark-sapphire shirt underneath. “Sometimes my parents take me to Hollywood parties,” he’d explained sheepishly. I wanted to roll my eyes, but I had to admit, he looked amazing. Well, he’d looked amazing before; now he looked downright criminal. Pun intended.
“This building is owned by one of the vampires. He lets the human servants party here every weekend, and when he feels like it, he and his friends come up, and he’s treated like a king—a king at a really big buffet,” I said, speaking quietly as we threaded through the crowd. I didn’t see any sign of our host. Gregory was nearly three hundred, old enough to have a number of lackey vampires working for him. I’d done business with him a few times, cleaning up their messes. All I really know about Gregory himself is that he works on the international stock exchange, he doesn’t keep his own human servant, and he throws these parties. And that he’s kind of an ass, but that’s often par for the course with vampires. Sometimes I think if you live long enough, anyone will become an *.
There was an actual buffet, stocked with vitamin-rich foods. At the end of the table, there were rows of little cups, and Cruz peeked inside. Each one held a condom and an iron tablet.
“Charming,” he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “So what’s our plan?”
“You keep your mouth shut, at least until you get the lay of the land. Don’t tell anybody you’re with the police. We’ll ask around quietly until they start to recognize me. Then we go try somewhere else.”
I realized I’d just bossed around a cop about how to, essentially, be a cop. I was glad that it was dark enough to hide my blush. But Cruz only looked amused, not insulted, which was kind of nice. I seem to spend a lot of time around people who take politics and insults very seriously. Cruz was kind of refreshing.
We made our way to a table that held only one person, a very young woman in a tight black dress. She was a little overweight, but expensively made up, and someone with enviable skills had pulled her dark-blonde hair into an elaborate fishtail braid. She looked around tentatively and played with an empty water bottle, which showed off the ugly chain of bite marks clustered on each of her wrists. A lot of vampires don’t bite at the neck anymore. It’s too clichéd, even for them.
I plopped down in the seat next to her, and Cruz sat down on her other side. Her eyes widened with what I thought might be recognition.
“Hi,” I said with a smile. “Do you know who I am?”
She was nodding her head before I had finished. Her eyes were huge now.
“What’s your name?”
“Stacia Carlson.”
“Well, Stacia, do you know any of these people?” I passed her the list of the dead vampires’ respective human servants. She started to shake her head no, but then stopped and stabbed at the second name on the list with a long purple nail that matched her dress. “Um, I met this guy at a party once. He has a tattoo here.” She gestured to the right side of her neck. “It’s weird. It’s like one of those dinosaurs from that movie. A T-rex.”
Okay, that was a new one.