Wicked Soul (Ancient Blood #1)(25)
Before I could start walking to the nearest steel staircase leading up to a door I assumed hosted the office, that same door swung open and a portly man in a vest and with face stubbles squinted out into the dull November light.
“Hi! I’m Olivia Green—here to meet Billy. We spoke on the phone earlier this week,” I said, lowering my hand from my nose to not be rude. The slaughterhouse’s smell immediately overwhelmed my senses once more, and I forced myself not to gag.
The guy cracked a lopsided smile. “Ah, yes, the sausage specialist. Come on up, sugar. We’re all ready for you.”
The way he said it made something at the back of my brain perk up, a small bolt of adrenaline sparking in my blood. I hadn’t been too worried about my amateur spying, because there was no way in hell they’d ever be able to guess my ulterior motives. I’d even made sure to come during daytime hours, to ensure they didn’t mistake me for a vampire. But now, as Billy the butcher waved me up the stairs and into the gaping maw of the slaughterhouse, I suddenly found it hard to make my feet move up the steps.
Why? Why were my fight or flight instincts on high alert, just from one sentence from this guy?
I hesitated, reconsidering if this was such a good idea and if perhaps I should just hightail it out of there, when the middle-aged man let his eyes roam over my winter coat-covered body, his smile turning distinctly lecherous.
Ah. And there was the reason for my reluctance to get any closer.
Sausage specialist, my ass.
I pushed my uncomfortableness aside and ascended the stairs with a forced smile. I wasn’t going to back down from investigating this slaughterhouse and the people behind it just because its entry was guarded by a horny dude with wandering eyes and a creepy vibe.
“Great, can’t wait. So, who am I meeting?” I asked as he stepped just enough aside that I had to brush past him to get in. Yup, he was a full-on creep. No wonder my immediate instincts had been to turn tail and run.
“Just Elliot from, ah, PR,” Billy said as he led me down a short corridor that looked like it could use a renovation. The beige paint was peeling off parts of the walls, and the linoleum floor was worn with brown patches from old spillage that hadn’t been cleaned up in time. And over it all the smell of death still hung like a depressing cloud, even if it was milder than outside.
“You have a PR department?” I asked, not managing to banish the surprise from my voice as he opened a door into what turned out to be a small office in as desperate need of TLC as the hallway. The beige paint on the walls was the same, but the floor had been upgraded to a worn, orangey-brown carpet. A desk overflowing with paperwork took up about a third of the room, and three chairs had been squeezed into the remaining space. In one of them sat a lanky, black-haired man who looked to be about thirty.
“Yeah, ‘course,” Billy said. “After that incident with the lamb, we had to. Nobody was in the mood for mutton for weeks. This is Elliot—our PR guy. Elliot, this is Olivia Green—the girl who called about our blood supply.”
I wasn’t even close to asking about what ‘“amb incident” had made Chicago stop buying lamb chops for two weeks, so instead I put on my best dim homemaker smile and stretched out my hand toward the guy who’d won “slaughterhouse PR dude” in the job lottery. “Pleased to meet ya!”
“I’ll leave you two to it, then,” Billy said, giving me another once-over before he shut the door behind me, leaving me alone in the small office with Elliot.
“Likewise.” Elliot gave me a thin smile and reached for my hand for a brief handshake. His hand fell cool and clammy against mine, with no strength. A bit like I imagined holding a lukewarm dead fish would be like.
I masked my grimace with another smile.
“So, you make blood sausages?” he said as he motioned for me to take the chair next to his.
I obeyed. “Yeah. Grandma’s recipe.”
“And this is the first time you notice any difference?”
“Yes, well it’s the first time I’ve made it since moving to Chicago. It was such a disappointment,” I said, faking a saddened frown. “Disappointment” wouldn’t quite be the term I’d have used to describe Warin’s violent retching.
“Uh-huh, I can imagine. Naturally, we feel terrible if our new blood procedures have had an impact on your grandma’s recipe. I know my own nan would never forgive if one of her recipes went haywire.” He gave me a sympathetic smile that somehow didn’t reach his eyes. Not that I was surprised a PR guy had to fake sympathy for my equally fake sausage story. I probably wouldn’t have had a whole lot of empathy left over for picky consumers if my job consisted of making a slaughterhouse appealing to the masses.
“Say, why don’t you take a look at some of the formulas involved in our new process?” he asked.
I blinked. “Er… I doubt I’d understand much.”
“Let’s have a look at them, anyway. I’d like for you to see what we’re doing that’s different. I find that understanding a problem always helps when trying to find a solution.”
I highly doubted any formulas would help the whole “corpse blood” situation, but I nodded nonetheless. “Sure, I guess it couldn’t hurt.”
Elliot reached into the briefcase by his feet and pulled out a thick piece of parchment. “Here you go,” he said, holding it underneath my nose.