Page 11 of Stalk the Dark
I turned to Ordell, still standing by the bed, arms crossed over his powerful chest, and was once again struck by the sheer size of the man. “Is your brother going to be a problem?”
“Only if you make him one.”
I arched a brow. “Excuse me?”
He pressed his lips together for a beat, then exhaled through his nose. “Hemlock is an excellent hunter. But he doesn’t take orders, and neither do I. We’re here to help keep you safeso you can do your job. That is our only remit. Stay inside tonight. We’ll see you at noon for breakfast.” He crossed to the door, and I followed.
“You mentioned a woman? You said she was coming to a ball?”
“I mentioned the ball but nothing about a woman.”
I was sure he had, but he looked genuinely perplexed. Maybe I’d misheard? “Sorry, I…I’m wiped.”
“Ask cook to make you a plate. Get some rest. There’s a map of the house on the desk by the lamp.” He ducked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.
The map was a sketch made in ink on aging paper. They really did take the whole Gothic era seriously here.
When Micah had explained the setup, I’d honestly thought he was joking. But no, the vampires who ruled this territory were stuck in the past. A past not many people remembered. But then, if the shifters and the demons were free to rule their territories as they saw fit, then why not the vampires?
I gave the map a quick once-over, committing the schematic to memory, then tucked it into my pocket, just in case. There was no sign of my cases, which meant they either hadn’t arrived or had arrived but not been brought up to this room.
I headed off in search of the kitchens and answers, stomach rumbling.
My body was a weapon that needed fuel, and all I could do was hope that this chapter had some quality sustenance.
Chapter 5
The cook at my old chapter house had been a wizard with pastry. And even though I hadn’t lived there, desiring solitude over the hustle, bustle, and overt comradery of our base of operations, I’d made a point to have breakfast with the team, specifically for his breakfast pastries.
What would the cook here prepare? Would I have to eat food from the era the vampires wanted us to live in? Would I need to socialize often with the operatives here? The thought of making small talk made my skin itch.
The corridor was all wood paneling, and the lamps hanging from hooks on the wall were turned down low, leaving everything shrouded in gloom. I hurried down the passage, past several closed doors toward a balcony and sweeping staircase that would take me to the ground floor.
This place was a mansion—three floors, an attic space, and so many side rooms that a person could get lost in it. It was huge for a chapter house, which meant there’d be plenty of operatives to manage.
Back home in the Fringe—the territory that held no allegiance to any supernatural faction—our chapter house had been twenty strong. It needed to be because having no supernatural faction in charge meant less order; it meant that the dregs of society chose to make the Fringe their home. Still, we’d worked hard to keep the streets safe for the humans. But Dracul territory was three times larger than the Fringe, split into New Town and Old, and the chapter house was responsible for both.
I hurried down the wooden staircase, hand trailing down the varnished banister and over the intricate carvings etched into it. It would probably be magnificent to view in the daylight when the thick drapes were pulled back to let in the sunlight. Warm rays would illuminate the pattern on the floor and fill the entranceway with life.
Yes, it would be a beautiful sight in the daylight.
I took a right at the foot of the stairs and headed through an arch into a spacious living area dotted with heavy wood-framed armchairs and sofas. But with the drapes closed and only two lamps burning, it was hard to make out much else.
A door across the room led into a network of corridors. I stuck to the main one, following it aroundto a set of steps leading to a lower level where the kitchens were housed.
The delicious aroma of brownies teased my nose, and the hum of voices followed.
“You get your hands off those!” a male voice snapped.
“Aw, come on, Haiden. They’re best when they’re fresh out the oven,” another man said. But he sounded younger.
A strip of bright light spilled out from the ajar door, painting the wooden floor with rose hues.
“I let you have one and you’ll eat the lot,” the older man huffed.
“Not like there’s anyone else to appreciate them.”
Another wave of chocolate aroma hit me as I entered the kitchen. “Is that brownies I smell?”
