Page 16 of Ophelia's Vampire

“Perhaps,” I allow, a thread of exasperation nettling its way into the back of my mind as I consider calling the woman.

A mafia princess who might have the information I need, yes, but who’s never been anything but a pain in the ass to deal with.

“Enough for today,” I say with a sigh, standing from my desk and running a hand through my hair. “I’ll decide how I want to handle Alexandrina, and we can pick back up tomorrow.”

“Great,” Serra says with a grin, standing as well, “I’ve got a hot date with a basilisk who owes me answers about the Grecian scrolls I’ve been trying to hunt down.”

We say our goodnights, and she departs a few minutes later through the front door of the warehouse where we run our operations, no doubt off to work her magick with said basilisk or anyone else who stands between her and the treasure she’s after.

Boundless, her energy and enthusiasm.

It’s what recommended her to me in the first place, after we met during a gathering of buyers for a collection of golden adornments rumored to be from 9th century Scandinavia. The jewelry was counterfeit, but after that meeting Serra quickly became an apprentice of sorts, though our arrangement hardly has enough formality around it to warrant use of the term. She helps with the clients and cases I take, and I provide her a leg up into the work I’ve been doing for centuries.

It’s an advantageous arrangement for us both, and not a career one finds themselves in through any kind of formal education or training.

I’ve been called a treasure hunter, a spy, a thief, and those are the titles which don’t contain epithets or obscenities.

Truthfully, I’m not sure a word exists for exactly what it is I do.

It began with nothing more than the desire to amuse myself, a way to make enough money to get from one place to the next after the life I was created into was over. But I had a talent for it, a cold, callous sort of charm that served me well in opening doors and bending others to my will through sheer force of charisma and determination.

There was a time it meant more to me, this wheeling and dealing I’ve done for centuries. Trading in art and jewels and secrets. Earning more money than I could hope to spend in ten lifetimes.

But today it sits heavy on my shoulders, even this painting I’m after hardly breaks through the static that’s taken up residence in my brain ever since that day at the Bureau.

I haven’t seen Ophelia since Seattle.

I’ve been back in the city for over a month, and I haven’t heard a peep from her. Whatever it is she’s been doing here in Boston, she’s kept her head down and she hasn’t reached out. Not that I expected her to.

She made it clear enough she’s here to work alone.

Wherever she is, I hope she’s had more luck than I have.

Blair communicated a few more details about the case, and about Mayor Haverstad’s potential involvement in it, but the mayor’s office has been buttoned up tight enough that if he is involved, no hint of it has leaked. Besides the typical, bottom-feeding corruption and shady dealings I might have expected from a career politician, I haven’t been able to dig up any additional evidence to tie him to these supposed attacks.

With another sigh, I grab my suit jacket from where it’s resting on the back of my office chair and sling it over my shoulders, ready to call it a night.

After setting the security system and turning off the lights, I make my way to the back door leading into the lot shared by the industrial park’s tenants.

Only to find a vampire waiting for me on the other side.

He’s of average height and build. Brown hair, a forgettable face, though he holds himself straight and serious, hands clasped behind his back like some kind of soldier.

“Casimir,” he says in a voice that sounds affected, somehow. Like he’s trying to make it deeper or more graveled than his natural tone. “Good to see you again.”

Idly, I wonder how long he’s been waiting. It’s well into the evening, and I keep no regular schedule.

He looks vaguely familiar, and a dim memory surfaces of him being some low-level associate my sometimes-friends—more often adversaries—Philippe and Marcus keep on their payroll, though I’ll be damned if I can remember his name.

“Vernon?” I guess.

He frowns. “Vincent. We met last year when—”

“Vincent,” I say coolly, not breaking my stride toward my car. “I was just on my way out.”

He doggedly follows me through the empty lot. “Any interesting business lately?”

“None that concerns you.”

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