Magic Forged (Hall of Blood and Mercy #1)(19)

I wiped my mouth off. “How long have these murders been a problem?”

“A month, maybe?” The dishwasher boy scratched his head, leaving a glob of soap bubbles in his hair. “That’s when we lost Wanda. She was a blood donor.”

“The Drake Family will handle it,” the male chef firmly said. “They care for their own, and though one could not accuse them of being fond of humans, they never shirk their duty toward us.”

I bet they didn’t. The more the staff were under the vampires’ thumbs, the easier it would be to subdue or get rid of a problematic servant or blood donor.

Don’t get me wrong. Not all vampire Families are power hungry and obsessed with influence—though the majority of them are.

Most newer vampires—like the delivery vamp—are way more chill and calmer once they make the complete transformation.

The problem is that these days it’s really hard for an old vamp to successfully sire a new vampire. Like, if there were more than ten new vampires in the Midwest per year, I’d be shocked.

This wasn’t a problem just for vamps, though. Werewolves were almost at the same level.

You’d think wizards and fae—being born—would escape this, but instead it just seemed like each new generation being born was less powerful than the previous.

Magic was…well…dying. We tried to keep it a secret from humans, but over the past two generations it had become unfailingly obvious that if we didn’t do something fast, supernaturals would die out altogether—or leave only the crazy psychos alive like the oldest of vampires and the most deranged fae kings and queens.

That was why we went public when we did. We were hoping by turning humans into our allies, we might be able to find a solution to magic’s weakening.

“If the murderer attacked you, Hazel, would you be able to fight it off?” the chattier of the two women blood donors asked.

I scratched my cheek. “Not if they killed a vampire.”

“Nick—rest his soul—was a mid-level member of the Kotov Family,” the baker said. “The Kotov Family is competent, which probably makes him roughly on par with the weakest vampire in the Drake Family.”

“Yeah, but the Drake Family is the most powerful in the Midwest,” I pointed out. “And wizards can’t take out vampires on our best day. If Nick Kotov was as strong as even the weakest Drake vampire, whoever killed him is super powerful, or really well prepared. And, as was mentioned, I don’t have strong magical abilities.”

“We’ll trust in the Drake Family,” the male blood donor decreed. “They’ll handle it.”

The dishwasher boy and the quiet female blood donor didn’t seem nearly so convinced, but they delicately changed the topic to the dinner menu, which was when the vampire strolled in.

His suit was so perfectly pressed and his tie was so snug I swear he couldn’t have looked down without breaking his neck. (Was the suit thing a dress code around here? Because matched with his slicked back, bright red hair it made him look like a model for men’s cologne.)

“Sir!” the male chef barked. “How can we help you?”

“I have no need of help.” Though his pale skin gave him a delicate, almost anemic look, his red eyes flashed with a cruel savagery that revealed his true nature. “I’m here to fetch a blood pack for the Eminence.”

One of the assistants scurried across the kitchen, throwing open the door of what I had assumed was a pantry, but was actually a walk-in cooler.

The vampire boredly looked around, leaning against a countertop with the casualness of a satisfied predator as the kitchen staff and blood donors beamed at him.

I shrank back in my seat and did my best not to be noticeable—the less vampire attention I received the better.

Of course, this meant he looked right at me instead of watching the blood donor sitting a seat down from me who was clearly trying to get his attention.

I stared at my plate and didn’t dare look up—a good defense mechanism.

Vampires didn’t have mind control powers per se. But they could dazzle a person into complacency, which was close enough for me.

The vampire narrowed his eyes and delicately tilted his head back, sniffing the air. “What’s a rat-blood doing here?”

I stayed huddled on my chair and kept my eyes on the counter. “I’m a new kitchen servant. I said my vows to Killian Drake last night.”

The vampire scoffed and took a step closer, but was fortunately blocked when the over-eager assistant zipped out of the fridge and skidded between us, holding a blood pack on a silver platter.

“Would you like me to deliver it to the Eminence, sir?” the assistant asked.

“No.” The vampire grabbed the blood pack and meandered out of the kitchen without looking back.

“That was Rupert,” the chatty woman blood donor confided to me. “He’s like Killian and drinks packaged blood—which is a real shame.”

The male blood donor rolled his eyes, but added, “You don’t need to be afraid of him.”

I squinted at him. “He’s a vampire. It’s healthy to be afraid of him—you should be afraid of him.”

“Nah,” the female blood donor said. “Not here in Drake Hall! The vampires care for us.”

There was nothing in Rupert’s manners that had hinted at that, and knowing how little Killian Drake cared for anyone not a vampire, and that he had a history of eliminating anyone who got in his way, I was not inclined to believe them.