This Side of the Grave (Night Huntress, #5)(93)

Even though I hadn’t needed Don’s reaction to deduce that Jason Madigan was going to be a pain in my ass, years of strict farm-bred manners made it impossible for me not to offer my hand. Madigan looked at it for a fraction too long before shaking it.

Yep. Not enough calluses to come from anything other than pens, mouse pads, or phones, just like I’d thought. And his hesitancy revealed that our new “consultant” had a prejudice against women or vampires, neither of which endeared Madigan to me any further.

Bones stated his name with none of my hand-offering compulsions, but then again, his childhood had been spent begging or thieving to survive the harsh circumstances of being the bastard son of a prostitute in eighteenth-century London. Not being endlessly drilled about manners and respecting your elders like mine. He stared at Madigan without blinking, his hands resting inside the pockets of his leather coat, his half smile more challenging than courteous.

Madigan took the hint. He dropped his hand from mine and didn’t attempt extending it to Bones. The faintest expression of relief might have even crossed his face, too.

Prejudice against vampires, then. Perfect.

“You were right, weren’t you?” Madigan said to Tate with a jovialness that rang false. “He did come with her.”

For a second my gaze flicked to Don. Good God, could Madigan see him? He was human, but maybe Madigan had some psychic abilities . . .

“With vampires, if you invite one spouse, the other is automatically included as well,” Bones replied lightly. “That’s an age-old rule, but I’ll forgive you for not knowing it.”

Oh, Madigan meant Bones. I stifled my snort. What he said was true, but even if it wasn’t, Bones wouldn’t have stayed behind because some stuffy suit wanted to pull a power play.

“What’s up with the ID check on the roof?” I asked to steer things away from the staring contest between Madigan and Bones that the consultant would lose. No one could out-stare a vampire.

Madigan shifted his attention to me, his natural scent souring ever so slightly underneath its preponderance of chemical enhancement.

“One of the oversights I noted when I arrived two days ago was that no one checked my identification when I landed. This facility is too important to be compromised by something as simple as sloppy security.”

Tate bristled, hints of emerald appearing in his indigo eyes, but I just snorted.

“There are three security checkpoints on the ground, but if you’re arriving by air, they would have double-checked the identity of the aircraft, the crew, and the flight plan, so whoever’s inside is who they’re supposed to be. Besides”—another snort—“if anyone got here by air that didn’t belong, you think they’d be able to get away with their aircraft in missile range and several vampires able to track them by scent alone?”

Instead of being offended by my blunt analysis of how useless a roof ID check was, Madigan just stared at me in a thoughtful way.

“I heard you had difficulty with authority and following orders. Seems that wasn’t exaggerated.”

“Nope, that’s true,” I replied with a cheery smile. “What else did you hear?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Too many things to list. Your former team raved about you so much I simply had to meet you.”

“Yeah?” I didn’t buy that as the reason I was here, but I’d play along. “Well, whatever you do, ignore what my mom has to say about me.”

Madigan didn’t even crack a smile. Uptight prick.

“What does an operations consultant do, I wonder?” Bones asked, as if he hadn’t been busy using his mindreading skills to filch on Madigan from the moment we arrived. I’d have done the same thing myself, but my mental snooping abilities weren’t active at the moment.

“Ensures that the transfer of management in a highly sensitized Homeland Security Department is as smooth as it needs to be,” Madigan said, that smugness back in his tone. “I’ll be reviewing all records over the next few weeks. Missions, personnel, budgets, everything. This department is too critical to only hope that Sergeant Bradley is up to the task of running it.”

Tate didn’t so much as twitch a brawny muscle, even though the implied insult had to burn. For all the issues I’d had with him in the past, Tate’s competence, dedication, and work ethic had never been among them.

“You won’t find anyone more qualified to run this operation now that Don’s gone,” I said with quiet steel.

“That’s not why he’s here,” Don hissed. He’d been quiet for the past several minutes, but now he sounded more agitated than I’d ever heard him. Did becoming a ghost give my normally urbane uncle less control over his emotions, or did he and Madigan have a nasty history together?

“He’s the head of a really covert branch of the CIA, so if he’s here, he’s after something more important than auditing Tate’s job performance,” Don went on.

“I’m particularly interested in getting caught up on your records,” Madigan said to me, oblivious to the other conversation in the room.

I shrugged. “Knock yourself out. Hope you like stories about the bad guys—or girls—getting it in the end.”

“My favorite kind,” Madigan replied with a glint in his eye that I didn’t care for.