Page 220 of The Robin on the Oak Throne

“I’m off the fucking clock.”

Laz nodded at him. He’d known that. Which was why he’d asked.

“Next time, then,” Laz told him.

He took the luggage cart and headed toward the Plaza entrance. Ten years of searching. Ten years of undercover work. Ten years, and today it would be all over.

He’d met Graves on a mission in Bucharest. In Romania,the story of Vlad the Impaler and, more specifically, how he inspired the character Dracula some couple hundred years later, was inescapable. While he might have birthed the most famous story about vampires, Laz hadn’t believed a single word of the propaganda that the Ottomans and his other enemies had written about him. Vampires were real, but Vlad certainly hadn’t been one.

Or at least that was what the CIA had drilled into their heads. And Laz had believed them, up until he shipped out on that assignment.

They’d sent him to spy on a potential uprising in the northern reaches of Romania. The details were sketchy, but an underground group was taking up in Vlad’s name and causing distress across the Romanian borders. The last thing they’d needed was problems with Ukraine. It was an election year, after all.

Bucharest had been a bust, except for a rumor Laz had sniffed out claiming the group had some mysterious artifact. They’d called it magic. Laz would believe it when he saw it.

Monsters might exist; magic certainly didn’t.

So he’d followed the trail of whispers. It had taken him into the region of Transylvania, back to Vlad’s original hometown of Sighisoara, a medieval walled citadel. He’d scaled the small wall. He’d entered the compound. He’d found the sacred ceremony. And he hadn’t been the only one.

Even disguised in one of the cult’s ritual costumes, Graves had looked out of place. The group had been too stupid to see the fox in the hen house. Laz hadn’t been stupid.

But before he could act, the magical artifact that he’dbeen certain was a fake had lit up like the Fourth of July. All of the worshippers fell to their knees as their life force wassiphonedout of them and pulled into the magic artifact. The entire sect fell over dead.

Graves walked over to the table and picked up the artifact. He sighed, resigned. “You want to take this back to your boss?”

Laz stepped out of the shadows, gun raised. “What are you?”

Graves wouldn’t have an answer for him for many years. “It’s a cheap knockoff. It isn’t supposed to kill everyone.” He tossed it to Laz, who caught it on instinct.

Curious, despite himself, he asked, “What’s it supposed to do?”

“They claimed it was an amplifier, a tracker. Supposedly, it was how Vlad destroyed so many of his enemies,” Graves said. “Couldn’t be that he was just a vicious son of a bitch clinging to power in uncertain times.”

“How were you involved with the cult?” Laz asked, gun still trained on him.

“Same as you. Infiltration.” Graves shrugged off the robes, revealing the suit beneath. He wiped his hands on the expensive material. “Though I’m not a fan of the dirty work. Looking for a job?”

“I have a job.”

“The CIA. I know.” Graves grinned at him, dangerous, powerful. “Want to work for me instead?”

Laz should have said no. There was no reason for him to risk his career for this egoist who had infiltrated a Vlad the Impaler cult for an artifact that he didn’t even believe would work. But he’d seen magic when he’d always been assuredthere was none. And by the end of the night, he’d said yes.

Graves looked exactly the same as that day in Romania all those years ago. He lounged back against his limo in his tailored suit, typing away on his phone as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Your luggage, sir,” Laz said.

“The trunk. Thank you,” Graves said. “I’ll keep the hat box up here.”

“Of course, sir.” Laz brought him the cauldron and carefully placed it on the backseat. “Kingston?”

“Occupied for now. Kierse?”

“Exiting through the back as arranged.”

“Excellent.” Graves took out a folded hundred-dollar bill and handed it to Laz. “Good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Laz said as Graves smoothly sank into the back of his limo.

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