Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(33)

“Sorry.”

He tried to peer through the crack in the door behind me. “I thought I heard a scream.”

“I’m being mean to him.”

He took in my black leather jeans, bustier and cropped jacket—chosen for ease of cleanup—and a slow grin spread over his face. “I wouldn’t mind if you were mean to me.”

“You know, I really think you would.”

I ducked back inside to find the body’s hands feeling around the floor, trying to locate its missing piece. That was a no-no, as freshly severed vampire parts could often reattach. I picked the head up by its spiky black hair and tossed it in the sink.

My knife, a ten-inch bowie, had fallen to the floor in the tussle. I took my time cleaning it, giving the vamp a moment to adjust to the new state of affairs. I’d finished and tucked the head back in my duffel bag by the time he managed to spit out the towels.

“You cut off my head!” Shock and outrage warred in his pale blue eyes.

We both regarded his remains, which were still twitching. They were undeniably headless, but also strangely lacking in gore. Vampire hearts don’t pump unless the vamp is trying to appear human, so there’s nothing to cause any inconvenient spurting. I had a few drops on my jacket, but they weren’t too noticeable against the leather. Most of the rest had pooled beneath the body, leaving it looking oddly pristine.

I glanced back at the sink and found the head glaring at me. It looked like outrage had won. “You crazy bitch! You can’t just walk into my club and—”

“The name’s Dory.”

“—try this shit on! Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Of course.”

“Because when I—” Thin eyelashes fluttered in confusion. “What?”

I dragged the file out of my duffel. “It never ceases to amaze me how many people think I kill for fun.”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, not just for fun.” I bent the file’s front cover back, showing him the photo that had been paper-clipped to the inside.

His eyes crossed as they focused on the image of his own narrow face, overgrown nose and sulky expression. “This is a hit?”

“If it was, you’d be dead by now.”

“What the hell do you call this?”

“Temporarily inconvenienced. A fifth-level master can live for up to a week without a head.”

“And how do you know that’s what I am?” he asked haughtily. He’d probably been telling people he was third or something. There are rare vampires who can hide their true levels, appearing stronger or weaker than they actually are. But this joker wasn’t one of them.

“Because it’s in the report,” I told him patiently. “Not to mention that a senior master wouldn’t be glaring at me while he bled out. He’d—”

The body’s left leg abruptly jackknifed, dumping me on the floor and allowing it to get a hand around my throat. So I stuck a knife under the breastbone, pinning it to the stained linoleum. Instead of pulling my weapon back out and trying to stick it into me, the hands fell away to flap against the floor, like fish out of water.

He was so fifth-level.

I flipped open the folder. “Raymond Lu. Born in 1622, the result of a beachside union between a randy Dutch sailor and the slowest Indonesian woman in her village.”

“It was a love match!”

“Sure.” I moved back a little to keep the creeping bloodstain off my boots. “You earned a tenuous living thereafter as part of the most inept band of pirates ever to sail the seas, and only became a vamp because you robbed the wrong guy.”

The head said something, but it was indecipherable because it had slipped down the side of the bowl and ended up with its nose in the drain. I fished it out and wedged it snugly beside the faucet. It thanked me by trying to take a bite out of my thumb.

“These days, you pose as a respectable Chinese businessman despite the fact that you aren’t respectable, you aren’t Chinese and your ‘business’ consists of running errands for the undead version of the Hong Kong mafia.”

“It’s a living.”

“Not for long. You’ve been a very bad boy, Raymond. The Senate would like a word.”

“Wait. You’re working for the Senate?” He looked almost relieved. Since the Vampire Senate usually made vamps quake in their designer shoes, that was a little strange.

“I’m freelancing,” I informed him.

“But you’re a dhampir!”

“Like you said, it’s a living.”

“God! I thought . . . Never mind.”

I unzipped the roomy main compartment of the duffel. “We’re going to go see the senator in charge of fey affairs. He has some questions about that illegal portal you’ve been running to Faerie.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. People walk in and out of here all the time, and some of them leave carrying nasty fey weapons. You cough up the location to the portal, we blow it up and everybody lives happily ever after.”

“I still won’t have a head!”

“There are people who can fix that—assuming you have all the requisite parts. I’ll leave the body here; I’m sure your boys will take good care of it. And as long as you come through, you and it will be happily reunited in a couple of—”