Predatory (Immortal Guardians #3.5)(104)

He quirked a brow. “Someone drop out?”

“More like dropped dead.”

“Dropped on her own or . . .” Vlad waggled his eyebrows in the universal “don’t-make-me-say-it” style.

“What? Are you kidding me? I had nothing to do with it. It was right next door and it looked like suicide.”

“‘Looked like’ suicide?”

“It’s a long story.”

Vlad pulled a blood bag from his duffel, pierced it with a single fang, and started to suck. He emptied the thing and burped loudly before he addressed me. “So you made it look like suicide.”

I turned to look at Vlad full in the face. “Are you seriously asking me if I had anything to do with Reginald’s death? Because I follow the strictest UDA bylaws and even if I were to stray just the slightest”—I held my thumb and forefinger a smidge apart—“tiniest bit, frankly, it wouldn’t be Reginald Fairfield that I’d off. It’d be Emerson Hawk. That woman is vile.”

Vlad’s eyes flashed.

As if on cue, there was another insistent, thundering knock on my door. “You can stay,” I told Vlad as I went to answer it. “Peace and quiet, however,” I said as I snatched open the door. “Died about a week ago.”

Emerson was standing in the hallway, hip out, arms crossed, beady eyes even beadier though they were rimmed with coal and something hideously sparkly. She had actually brushed her hair and it was in a semi-attractive swoop pinned at the base of her skull, and her black gown had an asymmetrical hemline that was so completely last year it was laughable. But still, the dress was impeccably tailored and the ruched drop waist was understated and elegant, wondrously hiding Emerson’s usual Kentucky Fried Chicken and Yoo-hoo paunch. Nicolette was behind her, back toward me as she hunched, managing two beaded purses in one hand while she struggled to lock Emerson’s door.

“Hello, Emerson.”

Her eyes raked over me, her sour expression not changing. “Aren’t you ready yet? Or is that what you’re wearing?”

“What are you talking about? What am I wearing for what?”

Nicolette, having finally gotten the door locked, rushed to Emerson’s side and handed her a heavy ecru card. My stomach sunk as I recognized it.

“The cocktail reception.”

Emerson nodded.

“Someone just died. Are they actually still holding that? Only the completely heartless and macabre could think of going through with any of the competition activities right now.”

“Everything was already booked. They couldn’t cancel at the last minute and Mr. Forbes said that everything would go forward as planned. Except of course, with one less fashion show.”

“You talked to Mr. Forbes?”

Mr. Forbes was the head of the New York Design Institute and whether or not you knew your Vera from your Versace could be overlooked if Jason Forbes was on your side.

A sly grin rolled across her face. “We may have run into each other a time or two at this quaint little coffee bar I frequent.”

I was gritting my teeth so hard I imagined them starting to powder. “You’ve only been in New York a week.”

“Anyway, Jason”—she stressed the name—“thought that the best way to honor Reginald would be to continue on as planned. So, again, are you wearing that? As far as your designs go, it is one of your better ones.”

My nostrils flared and I felt myself shrink back in my fashion-fail skinny jeans, Ugg boots, and tank top.

“Is that your date?” Emerson poked a bony finger into my apartment, aiming at Vlad.

“Nephew.”

Nicolette’s head peeked over Emerson’s shoulder. I saw her cheeks redden when her eyes met Vlad’s.

“Christ,” I groaned. “I’ll see you at the reception.”

The door had barely slammed before Vlad was at my side, smiling and licking his lips. “Who’s the girl?”

“Emerson Hawk is hardly a girl. I don’t even know if she’s human.”

“No,” Vlad groaned. “The other one.”

“That’s Emerson’s sister and A, anyone with even an ounce of Emerson Hawk blood in her is completely and totally off limits to you and your undead little friend down there,” I said as my eyes skipped over his zipper, “and B, you’re on the run from one woman and you’re running out of safe houses. So keep it zipped. I have a party to get ready for.”

The reception for the Institute for Haute Couture was at a swanky restaurant in Chelsea with low lights, polished cement, and an open bar. It was stuffed to the gills with beautiful people in one-of-a-kind dresses, white-gloved waiters wielding untouched appetizer trays, and quite possibly every hair product in the tristate area. My town car let me out in front of the restaurant at the precise time as Emerson’s let her out and even though a grimace would totally throw off the incredible vibe of my gold-threaded vintage Versace, I couldn’t help it when I saw her.

Emerson strode past me, her beaded clutch almost taking me out as she did. Nicolette, hurrying behind as usual, shot me a small, apologetic smile before she yanked open the door for Emerson. They walked into the restaurant and melted into the crowd; I stepped in and there was an audible gasp.

Scanning the room, I could see why.

Aside from the waiters, the place was a morbid sea of black. Black dresses, black suits, black hair décor that masqueraded as vintage. My gold dress stood out like a shiny beacon and I smiled, accepting my glory while Emerson glowered in the crowd, her drink practically evaporating from the waves of heat that rolled off her.