Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [43]
“Are you cold?” asked Shelby. “You’re shaking.”
“I don’t like workings,” I said, gesturing to the ward marks.
“Get used to it,” said Shelby as the elevator dinged and the door rolled back. “They’re everywhere.”
She didn’t lie. The crown molding in Patrick’s lobby was carved with a repeating alphabet that spelled out a protection working, managing to look decorative and sinister all at once.
A receptionist, cool and pretty as a glacier, looked me up and down while Shelby asked, “Is Patrick ready for us, Vera?”
“He’ll just be a moment,” said Vera with a perfunctory smile. I sensed the air thicken between her and Shelby and wondered what was going on there.
Behind Vera’s head, the huge O’Halloran Group logo dominated the wall. I couldn’t stare at it for too long without blinking and I figured out why—the logo itself, the symbol emblazoned on the checks at my bank, was a ward mark.
Maybe a civil-service salary wasn’t the only reason I was always broke.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Shelby at my elbow. Vera had returned to poking at her sleek silver computer.
“It’s opulent,” I said. “I imagine if I was a certain type of person I’d be pissing myself in fear.”
Vera’s head snapped up at the comment. “What?” I demanded. She flared her surgically perfected nostrils and looked away from us.
“Don’t worry about her,” Shelby whispered. “She’s some second niece twice removed of my uncle Seamus. Nepotism at its finest.”
“She seems a little high-strung,” I remarked. “Like one of those yippy dogs.”
“She’s a bitch,” said Shelby bluntly. I blinked. Shelby bit her lip and looked at her sensible shoes. I was surprised she didn’t shove a bar of soap in her perfect mouth after that comment.
I mimicked Vera and breathed deeply. Shelby smelled like tea tree oil and high-end soap mingled with that nonsmell plain humans give off. Vera smelled distinctly prickly, her blood foreign.
“I get it,” I told Shelby. “She’s a witch, you’re not. Friendly rivalry going on there?”
Vera slammed her hands down on her desk. “Must you speak? I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Vera, shut up,” said Shelby. “If you’re so bugged, go tell Patrick we’re here.” She flushed pink. It was the most emotion I’d ever seen her display.
Vera rolled her eyes and pushed a button on her elaborate desk phone. A moment later a smooth male voice instructed, “Send my favorite niece in, will you, Vera?”
The opaque glass doors to the inner workings of Patrick O’Halloran’s office slid back and Shelby marched ahead, not giving Vera a glance.
“It fits that Shelby would surround herself with your type,” she murmured as I followed. I did an about-face on the heel of my Cochran boot.
“What do you mean by ‘your type’?”
Her mouth quirked. “Merely that Shelby seems to content herself by consorting with the lower ranks of creatures to make up for her, hmm, shortcomings.”
A few years ago—hell, six months ago—I would have slapped the superior smirk off her face so hard she’d be a Picasso. But I was tired, I was Shelby’s guest, and somehow I didn’t think Patrick would be inclined to help us if I beat the snot out of his racist secretary.
Instead I indicated her pointy-shod feet and said, “Friendly word of advice: real Manolo Blahniks don’t have plastic heels that have been painted. Hope you didn’t pay full price. People might think you were, hmm, less than bright.”
She gaped, and I walked after Shelby, smiling. Shelby rubbed her hands over her face before knocking on a sleek wood door with inlaid steel. “Sorry about that. Vera—my whole family—they’re a little bit lacking with outsiders.” She looked genuinely upset, like I might suddenly decide not to sit with her at lunch.
“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?” I said. Shelby grimaced.
“Let’s say I know what it’s like to be a black sheep.”
“You and me both, partner,” I muttered as the door swung open.
Patrick O’Halloran was behind his desk, one foot propped up. He was in shirtsleeves and his salt-and-pepper hair was strategically tousled. He stood