Legacy (Sociopath Series Book 2)(32)

“Right.”

“I was serious about the guesses. Go on.”

“You’re buying my loyalty,” she says dryly.

“Damn straight. And your loyalty is expensive, so it had better be worth it.” The more I ham it up as the villain, the more she’ll struggle to believe it when shit really hits the fan. That’s what I’m really buying, and money has nothing to do with it. “I expect a lot from my assistants. If I ask you to find a f*cking dragon egg, you’ll find it. If I ask you to make me an omelet with said dragon egg, it had better be the best damn omelet on the planet. And if you have to violate every shred of your moral fiber to make said omelet or get said egg, well, I won’t be shedding a tear over it. Am I making myself clear?”

Gwen steadies herself. I like the way she’s able to switch between vulnerability and bitch, please silent rage; it will come in handy. “Very clear.”

I lean in a little. “You’re aware of what happened to Tuija Klein.”

Now she shifts about, uncomfortable. “Yes. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s my belief she was murdered on the orders of my aforementioned competitors. The kind who’d put far more money on the table than what I’m offering—if they didn’t want you out of the picture.”

“I…I understand.”

“There’s no need to panic, of course. I’ll make sure you have your own security detail, just as a precaution.”

“How kind,” she mumbles.

They’ll watch every move she makes. I might as well pretend to be transparent from the very beginning.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks pointedly. “After I lied.”

“Because I have a feeling it was a bunch of crap to test me, and not the other way around.” I smile at her, all white wolf’s teeth. “Am I right?”

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Either you’re here to gather information for another company, and you want to deflect my attention to your bank balance just to check if I’ve figured out some other shit…or you’ve reached the point where your financial situation is actually making you stupid. I’ll be honest. That’s a tough choice. I mean, be more of a liar, or just be stupider? Where’s an audience when you need to ask an opinion, huh?” I smile again. “You want to phone a friend?”

“It’s making me stupider.” The words are barely audible, and they’re quickly followed by a streak of hot flush along her fine cheekbones.

“One day, you’ll thank me for pointing that out.”

“Great. I’ll mark that up on my calendar.”

Both of my news channels are still running Blood Honey commentary, and I gesture toward the dual screens, where a mostly blurred out image of Jamie Perkins spews horror into virgin daylight. “You can make jokes all you want. Look what happens to stupid girls.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Lore?”

“Yes.” The word falls out so casually; she stares at me for a moment longer than is polite, trying to work out whether the hell I’m joking. “Quite horrible, those shots. People aren’t happy we published them.”

“It surprises me,” she says.

“And why’s that?”

“You’d think people are used to the sight of blood by now. All those TV shows full of it.” She starts to count on her slender, unpainted fingers. “Sons of Anarchy. Dexter. Blood’s not just a feature on those shows—it’s a fetish.”

“The public aren’t used to the sight of blood. They’re used to the sight of corn syrup. It doesn’t dry and crust like the real deal, you know. It doesn’t turn darker, the longer it dries.” I steal another glimpse at the screen, where Blood Honey’s handwriting—yes, handwriting—is now being analysed. I wish I could tell Gwen about the majesty of real blood—the sugared iron scent, pungent in its release; the scarlet glow of the first seeping drops. “People see these images, the altered texture of real blood in various states, and they’re reminded of the difference. Blood’s supposed to be on the inside, not the outside; nobody has that problem with corn syrup. They realize this and they’re unsettled. Ashamed, maybe, if they’re the type to wallow. And then they get angry at Lore Corp for making them realize this about themselves, and I end up throwing money at shitty slander campaigns just to keep ignorant pigs happy.”

“I read some similar theories when I studied psychology.” She’s still glancing hesitantly between me and the TV screen, which now bears a close-up image of the bloodied inscription on Jamie Perkins’s lithe young inner thigh. “It’s a weird thing.”

“People complain about censorship, but sometimes they prefer us to censor the truth, as if it’s in their best interests to stay in denial about what’s going on around them. And that’s how I built up this company so fast; I figured out people wanted to be lied to, and for a while, we did that.” I shrug. “Eventually, lies stopped paying. In more ways than one.”

“Quite the wonderful world we live in.”

“No, it isn’t.” I nod once toward the door. “You can leave now.”

“Of course.” She’s still drawn to the TV in morbid curiosity. Jamie’s injury looks all the more grotesque blown up; you can see how deep the cuts are, how they segue through layers of flesh and sagging grey muscle. “Is there anything I can do for you?”