Gaslight (Crossbreed #4)(51)
I chuckled. “Halle-fucking-llujah. You don’t just kidnap women and sell them to perverts, you’re a prophet.”
He drummed his fingers on the table. In my peripheral vision, I noticed his bored look. “I wish we could fast-forward through your petulant phase and have a more meaningful conversation. This is why I could never keep a youngling of my own.”
“I’m not a youngling. I’m independent.”
“Yes,” he muttered. After a quiet beat, he reached down to the floor and unzipped a rectangular case. A laptop appeared on the table, and he took his time plugging in the cords. “Our talks are always better when you like me. Under these circumstances, you’re intentionally closing yourself off, so we might as well get down to business.”
“Exactly how many times have we met?”
He stood up. “I’m going to put on something comfortable since it’s going to be a long night. If you want to do the same, there’s a change of clothes in the bathroom.”
I rose to my feet and approached the glass. “How long am I going to be staying here?”
Houdini walked away.
I pounded my hands on the glass. “How long!”
I refused to get cozy in a pair of jammies while my kidnapper was probably videotaping me. How had this happened? I replayed the entire evening in my head in search of mistakes. Boomer had been my primary target, and nothing about Houdini—and I mean nothing—made me suspect he was Breed. Vampires didn’t have strong Breed energy, and he didn’t have any Vampire characteristics. I felt easy around him, and because we’d run into each other a few times, he was so far off my radar that I’d actually trusted him enough to sit inside his car. Everyone could have been a suspect, but Christian and I came to the conclusion that our trafficker wouldn’t bother hiding his black eyes since it added to the allure. After all, these women were meeting him in hopes of becoming something supernatural.
Sneaky little fanghole.
I kicked the door, but nothing would break it down short of a battering ram. There were no vents, so the only fresh air I got was coming through the holes in the glass and the opening he used to pass over food. Even if I could make a weapon, it would be useless with the divider between us. I pressed my ear to the wall and floor, listening for anything that might hint if I was aboveground or below. It could have been a regular apartment building with the windows boarded up, but we were definitely in the Breed district. Houdini wouldn’t take unnecessary risks by keeping his victims in a location with other humans.
I searched for wire. My first thought was poking his eye out through one of the breathing holes, but maybe I could somehow pull his laptop close enough to peck out a message.
I rolled my eyes. Who did I think I was, MacGyver? Sherlock Holmes?
The bracelet continued to suppress my Mage powers. I couldn’t flash, draw energy to my fingertips, or even tell time. I couldn’t even get my fangs to punch out. What use would I be even if I could get the door open? Red marks covered my wrist from repeated attempts to remove or break the metal.
“You really should change,” he said, making me jump. “Leather pants aren’t very comfortable for long periods of time if they’re not broken in. I thought you liked sweats and tank tops?” With a red thermos in hand, he put a pastry in his mouth while he sat down. Once seated, he set the pastry on the plate and chewed while he typed, ignoring my very existence.
I sat in the oversized chair. “Can you at least turn off my light? I feel like jewelry beneath a display counter.”
Houdini licked his thumb and got out of his seat. “I wish you would make these requests when I’m already up.”
The light switched off, supplemented by the yellow lamp from inside his living room. Without all the harsh reflections, the glass melted away. He still hadn’t changed out of his leathers and tight tank top.
Houdini stood before the desk and penetrated me with his gaze, but I continued avoiding direct eye contact. “Anything else? Coffee? How about a beignet? I make them myself.”
“I’ll pass.”
When he took his seat again, the monitor illuminated his pale face. I wondered if it was his black nail polish and ear studs that made him look young, because something had changed in his expression from the man I’d met at the club. Houdini had a straight nose and a regal look that placed him out of this century. A few tiny moles; thin, almond-shaped eyes; lips slightly parted—he was neither exceedingly handsome nor ugly. He didn’t look familiar, but something about his presence felt comfortable. One thing in recent memory that seemed off was a conversation with another customer at Claude’s salon. While everything else about that day stood out in vivid detail, I only had a vague recollection of that talk. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember a thing about that person, including if they were male or female. Thinking about it gave me a stabbing pain in my temple.
How could a man so seemingly normal be trading women as bloodslaves? Worst of all, he didn’t think he was doing anything wrong.
“What do you do with all your money?” I asked, looking at his modest abode.
“Give to the poor. Is that what you want to hear?” He continued typing, never removing his eyes from the screen.
“The truth would be nice.”
“Money is a tool, but it’s also a means of security. Those who squander their fortune are doomed. How much thought have you given to your immortality? Friends don’t last; jobs come and go. Will you be able to support yourself a thousand years from now when technology has surpassed your ability to keep up? Forever is a long time.”