Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(66)

I meet his eyes. “No. He drank. And then he let the man go.”

“He Turned someone right in front of you?”

“I—” I look down at my lap.

“Oh, I doubt he Turned him,” Shepard says, smothering his chips in ketchup. “Vampires hate to Turn people. They either take a sip and let you go—or drain you dry and leave you dead.”

When Shepard looks up, we’re all staring at him. You could hear a gnome whisper.

“Which you already knew…” he says to me, “because you are a vampire.…”

Simon and Penelope turn back to me, speechless.

This is too much to digest. (This specific thing. Plus everything else. Plus two dozen tropical birds.) I shake my head. I shake it again. “I wouldn’t drink,” I say, picking up the thread. “I told him that I couldn’t. In public. But he didn’t believe me. He pinned me to the wall and demanded to know who I really was—what I wanted.”

“What did you say?” Bunce asks.

“I told him the truth.”

“Oh no,” she says—while Shephard is saying, “Good plan, always for the best.”

I rub my eyes. “I told him my first name, my real first name. And that I was looking for the Next Blood because they have my friend.”

“Not slick,” Bunce groans. “Not slick at all.”

“So, what’d he say?” Simon asks.

“He told me to meet him at the Lotus of Siam. Tomorrow at two o’clock.”





SIMON


He’s sitting there on a black leather armchair. He’s sitting there in blue silk with red roses, shotgun scars shining on his pale chest. His hair is wet. His teeth are sharp. His feet are bare.

He used to be mine.

Maybe he still is. A little bit. Enough that I’m allowed to look at him.

But he’s less mine than he was three hours ago, that’s for bloody sure. He’s less mine every minute we spend in this town.

“Lotus of Siam,” Shepard says. “It sounds like a temple.”

“It might be code,” Baz says.

Penny’s on her phone. “It’s a Thai restaurant … in a strip mall.”

“But not on the Strip?” Baz asks.

“No,” she says. “A few miles away. We’ll have to drive.”

“Well, he did say that vampires usually stick to the Strip.…” Baz leans back in the chair. “Maybe he wants privacy.”

I reach for another cheeseburger and the plate of mash. “We’ll all go.”

Baz shakes his head. “No. Then he really won’t trust me. He can’t know I’m a magician.”

“He won’t know you’re a magician,” Shepard says. “He’ll just know you have friends.”

Baz looks up at the ceiling, not having it. “Absolutely not.”

“We’ll go and sit at a different table,” I say. “Just in case.”

“You won’t be able to hear anything! You’re better off waiting outside and listening on the phone again.”

“I want to go in,” Penelope says, still looking at her mobile. “This says they have the best Thai food in North America.”

Shepard is slapping the bottom of a miniature bottle of ketchup, even though his chips are already swimming it. “What are you going to ask Mr. Lamb when you get him alone?”

“About the Next Blood,” Baz says. “We’re starting at zero. So any information he shares is good information.”

“Why would he tell you anything?” I ask.

“Well,” Penny says, “the man does love to talk about vampires.…”

“We’ll wait outside,” I say, “and watch the door. But you can’t leave with him this time.” I want to add, “And you can’t flirt.”

Baz looks at me and nods. He looks sorry. “I won’t.”

Then he stands up and takes his steak over to the sofa by the window.





48





PENELOPE


As much as I don’t like hiding in a hotel room from a city full of vampires, I very much do like room service. My mother never lets us order it on holiday. Too expensive. But I figure we’re in for a penny, in for a pound, re magickal credit-card fraud; I spend a king’s ransom on breakfast. “Just leave it by the door,” I shout when it arrives.

“You have to sign for it, Mrs. Pitch!”

I make a disgusted face, but the hotel employee can’t see me.

“I’ll get it,” Shepard says. “You do the thing.”

I stand back, with my amethyst clenched in my fist and a spell on my lips.

Shepard opens the door, and a man pushes a cart inside. He’s wearing a black apron over a black suit and his skin is chalky grey. “You have to sign for it,” he says flatly.

“I’ve got it,” Shepard says, reaching for the folder.

I hold my stance until the grey man is gone and the door is closed. “Why would a vampire work as a bellboy?” I whisper, tucking my gem back into my bra. (I’m dead afraid of losing it. Magickal heirlooms are scarce enough in my family. My parents had to buy my sister’s wand from a shop—it’s so new, it squeaks—and my brother got stuck with a monocle.) Shepard bolts the door. “Maybe he’s new here.”