Trail of Dead (Scarlett Bernard #2)(25)
“I don’t…guns just…” Words completely failed me, and I gestured helplessly. Using one very carefully in a controlled environment with an LAPD cop literally at my back was one thing. Carrying one with me in the real world was another.
Jesse saw my panic and held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, let’s drop this for the moment. Your paperwork’s not done, and I’ll be with you for a while anyway. But I do have something else for you.” He reached in the duffel and pulled out something long and black. I poked it and saw the little Kevlar logo.
“Merry Christmas.” He held it out to me.
“A bulletproof vest?” I said skeptically. “That’s completely pointless, Jess. Nothing Old World uses a gun. It’d be like…carrying a homemade machete to a British fencing match. Tacky.”
“There were plenty of guns last fall when we took down Jared Hess,” he pointed out. “They’re starting to think outside the box. Besides, Olivia is coming after you, specifically. She’s gonna know a gun’s the best way to kill you. It changes things.”
That scared me enough to consent. I slid out of my comfortable canvas jacket and let him pull the thing over my head. When he fastened the straps, though, the vest rode way too big, armholes hanging down to the sides of my breasts. The vest’s shoulders spiked out a couple of inches past the end of my own shoulders, giving me a Joan-Crawford-from-Hell look. “Jesse, I can’t raise my arms. Who does this belong to? Copzilla?”
“Hey,” he protested. “It is a woman’s vest.”
“She-Copzilla?” He snorted but let me tug the Velcro straps off. “I can’t wear this. And if we don’t go now, we’re gonna be late.”
He frowned at his watch, as if he could glare it into giving us more time, and finally shrugged. “Fine. But I’m getting you a better one tomorrow.”
“If we live that long.” I put the back of my hand mockingly against my forehead.
He took my tone as intended and gave me a light backhand on the shoulder. “Knock it off.”
Chapter 10
The freeway was already crowded when we left the shooting range, which made driving almost more dangerous. Instead of an inch-by-inch crawl, the freeway was full of *s doing that annoying swooping-between-lanes thing. I know, because Jesse was one of them. I didn’t say anything, though, just held on tight to the door handle in Jesse’s little sedan. As my father had pointed out when I was seventeen and wanted to go to the city by myself, LA driving is not for weenies. We managed to arrive at Dashiell’s Pasadena residence at five after six, which counts as on time in LA, where everyone is usually either five minutes early or twenty minutes late.
There is this conception that vampires are loners who live by themselves until they have to go out and seduce a victim to be their dinner, and afterward they come back to their solitary home to…I don’t know, brood sexily. But on the contrary, Dashiell and his wife, Beatrice, own a gorgeous Spanish colonial mansion—sort of rectangular, with a huge open courtyard in the middle—where there are always people floating around, both with and without heartbeats. There are vampire bodyguards and servants, and plenty of humans too, since when you have as much money as Dashiell does you can afford to have food delivered. Tonight Dashiell’s parking area was full, thanks to his usual entourage plus my other Old World employers.
The vampire who opened the door was new to Dashiell’s in-house posse. He was on the short side, with that kind of muscular stockiness you see in retired wrestlers, though he’d only been about forty when he was turned. He wasn’t registering much wattage on the Scarlett Bernard Power Scale. We hadn’t met, but by the way he glared at me I was pretty sure he wasn’t a fan of being human again.
“Detective Cruz, Ms. Bernard,” he said to each of us in turn. His voice was low and cold as the grave, so to speak, but he gestured for us to come in.
“Jeeves,” I replied.
He wasn’t amused. “Laurence,” he corrected stiffly.
Jesse opened his mouth and closed it again. I was betting his cop superpowers were telling him to ask for Laurence’s last name, but by now Jesse knew that vampires rarely use them. The older ones have changed their official last names so often that some of them have actually forgotten the original, and the younger ones don’t want to give away how young and inexperienced they are. One of my life dreams is to be in a room with two vampires that have the same name, but somehow it hasn’t happened yet. Maybe they add “of Pasadena” or whatever town they live in, like Robin Hood. Or maybe when they meet they have a fight to the death, Highlander-style.
“Are we out on the patio?” I asked, already half-turned in that direction.
“No, the gathering will be in the recreation room. Mr. Dashiell”—I tried not to chortle at the Mr.; I really did—“was concerned about those of you who still get cold.” He said “get cold” the way you say “wet the bed.” “Right this way,” he finished. He turned on his heel and marched down the hall without glancing back to see if we were following. Jesse shot me a grin and mouthed “the gathering,” before turning to follow. I smiled.
I’d never been in the rec room—frankly I was amused at the thought of Dashiell having a rec room—but it looked more like the lobby of one of the classier Holiday Inns than a place where you goofed around and watched television. It even smelled impersonal, like furniture polish and leather. Usually Dashiell has meetings with me out on the patio because the giant oval table is big enough for him to stay out of my radius while technically still sitting with me. Tonight, though, he was throwing caution to the wind and getting inside my personal bubble. I supposed with Olivia running around killing people, we all had bigger things to worry about.