“You’re lying.”
“Look, that bitch took the female I lo—a female I care about. If I were so fucking powerful, you think I wouldn’t be strangling her right now?”
“But back in the Old Country—”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
Tohrment glanced at the Brotherhood. “So you didn’t slaughter Zxysis. Or his guards? You didn’t do all that. You’re not a warlock.”
Protecting Rahvyn was a reflex, but there was no reason to keep up the lie anymore. He hadn’t seen her or heard anything about her in two hundred years.
“No, I’m not a warlock. And that wasn’t me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Sahvage shrugged. “I don’t give a fuck whether you believe me or not. Look, I gotta go, I have to find—”
“I’ll take you to where I found the evil,” the Brother with the accent said. “No strings.”
Sahvage crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know you. So why would you do that.”
“Damsel in distress aside?” The Brother narrowed hazel eyes. “I’m a good goddamn Irish Catholic. So demons gotta go.”
“Are you sure Catholics can talk like that?”
“If you’re from Southie, fuck yeah.”
“In return,” Tohr cut in, “you’re going to help us find what we’re looking for. You’re going to owe us, and you’ve always been a male of your word.”
“Keep telling yourself that—”
“We find the Book, and you’re off the hook.”
Sahvage leaned in sharply. “I’m sorry, what did you say you’re looking for?”
Vernon Reilly wasn’t having it. As he looked at the other security guard on duty, he was so sick of this shit.
“You gotta stop, okay? I’m over it.”
Buddy Halles seemed surprised that someone, anyone, would take exception to his bitching. “I don’t see why you’re taking her side of this.”
The security office was a box with a single door, two swivel chairs, and a bank of monitors and equipment—and they were lucky to have the space they did. The building they were responsible for was an oldie but goodie, with what had been a big stack of floors for when it had been built a century ago. Now, of course, it was an antiquated stone stub compared to the graceful, mirrored sky-spears that marked the rest of downtown.
In this respect, it was kind of like Vernon. Old school, but still useful.
At least for another two months, three weeks, and four days, in his case.
Buddy sat forward in his swivel chair and pointed to his shiny shield. “I’m busy. I got a job, I got responsibilities. She have to understand where I am. This affects me, man.”
Buddy was a twenty-seven-year-old Caldie born-and-bred who was growing out his hair anywhere there was a follicle, and who seemed to think, in the ways of the younger generation, that absolutely everything revolved around how he was feeling.
Vernon had had to listen to the trials of the kid’s internal sense of self for every eight-hour shift since Buddy had been hired back in October.
“And my mother knows how I feel.”
Who doesn’t. “Mm-hm.”
“I have a right to feel safe in my own home—”
“It’s your mama’s house. And you’re not paying rent.”
“I’m allergic to cats, though. She knows I’m allergic—”
Like a gift from God, one of the sensors started blinking on the console. As Vernon sat up to enter the diagnostic coding request into his computer, he hoped—for the only time in his professional career as a security guard—that there was an actual fire.
“Maybe your mama sending you a message,” Vernon remarked while he waited for the IT response.
“You mean . . . you think she’s doing it on purpose? To get me out of the house—”
As the assessment reading came back, Vernon got out of his chair. “It’s another malfunction. There’s no heat registering. I’ve canceled the alarm, but I’m going to go check anyway.”
“I’ll come with—”
“No.” Vernon pulled on his jacket. “You stay here. Someone has to monitor.”
Buddy was protesting the seniority factor as Vernon stepped out into the hall. As the door shut behind him, he closed his eyes and listened for the click.
Ah . . . heaven.
If he played this right, he could stretch the investigation out for an hour or more. The security office was on the first floor right next to the freight elevator, but he was no fool. He was taking the stairs. Slowly.
Down on the basement level, he whistled a tune that had no name, the same one he always fell into when the pressure was off. It was like a combination of Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September” and Smokey Robinson’s original version of “My Girl.” And chances were good he was going to be a-whistlin’ for as long as he was inclined to. Unlike the rest of the floors above, the basement didn’t have any office spaces in it, only storage areas, but more to the point, it was so damn late, all the suits were gone for the night, even the ones who liked to work the long hours on weekends.