Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [7]
“Okay. You want to meet up? I can make that happen.”
“You’ll want someplace public, I expect. Bright lights, people milling about.” He didn’t have much of an accent, and I couldn’t place what I detected. Not southern, not urban northern, not mid-western. He could’ve been a TV anchor if he hadn’t been speaking so softly.
“This isn’t a blind date, Ian. I don’t need a room full of witnesses and a girlfriend who knows the get-me-outta-here safe word. There’s a wine bar down on Third Street called Vina. It’s dark and quiet, and it’s often busy but it’s never conspicuously crowded. Two primary entrances, easy to escape if necessary, easy to hide out in the open. Will that work for you?”
I heard a smile in his voice when he echoed, “A blind date. Funny you should put it that way.” Then he said, “Yes, that’s fine with me. Is tonight too soon?”
“Tonight is never too soon. Can you meet me there in an hour?” I checked my watch and noted that it wasn’t quite eight PM. “Wait. Let’s make it two hours. The bar doesn’t close until two in the morning, so we’ll have plenty of time to chat.”
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll see you then, Ms. Pendle.” And he hung up.
I hadn’t bothered to tell him he could call me Raylene. As a freelance contractor I like to keep things stuffy on my end. I get little enough respect as it is, since I’m not affiliated with any of the major Houses—either here in town, or anywhere else.
Vampires tend to be pack animals out of social convenience. They coagulate around one particularly old, strong, or charismatic figure and entrench themselves in legitimate enterprises in much the same way the Mafia does. More often than not, this works for them. They mostly get left alone, and when they don’t, they’re tough enough as a group to smack down any external threats.
But external threats are few and far between, and usually they come from other vampires. Did I say that we were social creatures? I might have misspoken. It’s a love–hate thing, the way we get along with one another. It’s just as well there are so few of us anymore.
I could’ve made it down to Vina in an hour, but I didn’t feel like rushing.
I felt like changing clothes, freshening up, checking my email, maybe playing a game of Internet Scrabble, and then wandering down to Third Street at my leisure.
There was method to my madness.
For one thing, it’s important to always project the appearance of control. We would operate on my terms—when I want, where I want. I always try to establish this right out of the gate, because it gets clients accustomed to the idea that I’ll be calling the shots. They pay me to achieve an objective. How I achieve that objective is up to my own discretion and no one else’s, and I will accept no restrictions. This is not to say that I’m a rabid berserker off the leash or anything. That’s bad for business and bad for the low-key, invisible vibe I struggle to maintain.
But I am the queen of situational ethics.
And for another thing, Stott had thrown me more than I would’ve cared to admit, and I needed to calm myself down. I wanted to meet him after a bath and maybe an adult beverage.
I’m not Dracula and I do drink … wine. In fact I rather enjoy it, though more than a glass at a time makes me woozy. Blame it on a semi-dead metabolism or anything else you like, but I don’t process alcohol well or quickly. I’ve never met a vampire who does. Therefore, I kept it light—just a few sips of something out of a box. It was enough to settle my nerves, but not enough to slow me down.
I dressed, but I didn’t dress up. It attracts too much attention.
I wore three shades of gray with black accents—boots, bag, et cetera. I ran a hand through my hair and called it “done.” I closed my wee, lightweight laptop and stuck it into my bag. I picked up my keys and stuffed them into my pocket. And I left the condo, locking it behind me. The locking part took a full minute. I like locks,