Drink Deep - Chloe Neill [51]
We waited for her arrival in a heavy, worrisome silence. The mayor showing up unannounced at the Ombudsman’s office probably didn’t portend anything good.
She was preceded to the door by two beefy security guards. When they opened it, she walked inside and peered around. She wore a burgundy pantsuit, her hair flipped at the bottom into an odd curl, her expression disdainful. Chunky costume jewelry was draped around her neck and wrists, and there were chunky rings on her fingers.
After a moment of disdainful review of the office, she made eye contact with my grandfather. “Mr. Merit.”
“Madame Mayor,” he said in greeting.
“I hear you and your . . . staff . . . have been using the city’s resources for private helicopter rides.”
He blinked back surprise. “Ma’am, if you have budgetary concerns, we can move to my office and discuss them.”
“I’m on a bit of a schedule, Mr. Merit. I’d prefer an answer now.”
My grandfather wet his lips, then continued. “As detailed in my requisition report, we needed a ride to Bear Island. We believed its resident might have been involved with the lake.”
“And was she?”
Choose your words carefully, I thought. You don’t want to give her the ammunition and the gun, too.
“As I’m sure you’ve seen, the lake is back to normal.”
She frowned, and it wasn’t an attractive look on her. Diane Kowalczyk was the kind of person who looked good—and even then, not great—only when she was smiling with political vigor.
“Mr. Merit,” she finally said, “my job is not to waste taxpayer dollars kowtowing to supernatural boogeymen. My job is to ensure the resources of this city are used wisely.”
“My apologies, Madame Mayor,” my grandfather diplomatically said. “If you’d prefer, the cost of using the helicopter can be doubly removed from our budget for the year. As always, we’ll have a surplus, and we’ll return that money to the city.”
The mayor smiled thinly—and meanly. “That won’t be necessary. You see, Mr. Merit, effective today, you have no more budget.”
My jaw dropped, as did Catcher’s, Jeff’s, and Marjorie’s. The hallway filled with uncomfortable magic. The mayor and her guards seemed oblivious to it, and she stared us down with an evil glint of triumph in her eye.
To his credit, my grandfather’s expression stayed neutral. “And what does that mean, Madame Mayor?”
“It means the position of Ombudsman is hereby suspended. Your employees are on administrative leave, and your office will be closed until further notice.”
“You can’t just—” Jeff started, but my grandfather held up a hand, and then he made me proud.
“I have held my tongue,” he said. “Many times, over many issues, I have held my tongue. I walked the streets of this city for a long time—before you were even born into it, I’d imagine. Every man and woman who walks this earth must make his or her own way. And I see you’re trying to do what you believe is correct. But you couldn’t possibly be more wrong. The supernatural populations of this city need a friend now more than ever. Now is the time to foster mutual understanding, not leave supernatural populations adrift in a sea of hostility.”
“That hostility is their fault and their burden,” she retorted. “They made their bed.”
“Mayor Tate made their bed,” he corrected.
The mayor rolled her eyes. “This city no longer tolerates favoritism, whatever label you might put on it, and however well you sell that favoritism to the special interests that support it.”
The demagoguery in her tone and the gleam in her eyes had Future Presidential Candidate written all over them.
“And if humans attack us?” I asked her. “If they gather up their stakes and pitchforks—or their guns—and rise against the Houses, will that be tolerated? Will they be treated with impunity?”
She shifted her gaze to me, the peon who’d bothered her with a practical question. “That is the kind of exaggeration that has turned our city into a national laughingstock. This is the real world, and we have more important concerns than whether vampires deserve special treatment.”
“We’ll appeal this to the city council,” Jeff said.