Page 33 of Hidden

“Chuck, are you okay?” the man asked, reaching out.

Izetta’s breath caught. “No!”

The wounded wolf’s reaction was too quick even for a vampire’s eye. With one paw, Chuck slashed, the long claws scooping out his friend’s insides with a slurp of wet flesh. Izetta sprang to her feet, but the pug-faced man was already done screaming.

Before Chuck recovered his balance, she grabbed his snout and twisted hard. Vertebrae snapped. Once the light left his eyes, she let the werewolf’s body drop into the sticky puddle that had been his friend.

Someone killed the music, leaving a deafening quiet in its wake. Chuck didn’t shift back to human, remaining a grotesque mix of species. Another effect of bacchante? Izetta sucked in a breath, steadying herself against a wave of sudden grief.

A drug—a chemical formula—had triggered this carnage. With morbid dread, Izetta tried to picture it. Was it a powder? A pill? Did it have a taste? What would happen if became easy to get?

With a whine of old hinges, the door to the back office opened. Heads snapped to attention, as if the crowd had forgotten what lay beyond beer and blood. Izetta smoothed her torn jacket, wondering if she still smelled like prey.

Roman Malatest, leader of the local vampires, strolled into the room, a shark sizing up the chum.

CHAPTER 11

Malatest turned and scanned the room, a frown of annoyance pleating his brow. The patrons stood among the upended tables like embarrassed schoolchildren, only their wide, dilated eyes hinting at barely-banked bloodlust. Someone began clattering dishes at the distant bar, as if tidiness had become a sudden priority.

His eyebrows arched when his survey reached Chuck’s crumpled body on the floor. “That’s going to leave a stain.”

No one dared to reply as the awkward silence congealed. Izetta shifted, easing wounds that had reopened during the scuffle. The movement caught Malatest’s attention. His gaze landed on her lightly, like the brush of an ink-black moth, but it stirred every nerve. Malatest was dark-eyed, dark-haired, and as chiseled as an old-fashioned matinee idol. He might have played a ruthless millionaire or swashbuckling pirate with equal ease, and his reputation was all that and a dash of crime lord, too.

Malatest planted his feet wide and folded his arms. With a scrape of feet against the wooden floor, the patrons bowed or bent a knee. Izetta followed suit. No one disrespected Roman Malatest and survived.

Izetta looked up through her lashes, studying him. She’d only met Malatest a few times before, but his type wasn’t hard to read. His stance—the way he moved, the set of his head—belonged to an apex predator. Or should have done. Malatest had been sitting in the back room while the bar had spun out of control. It wasn’t a good look for the bloodsucker in charge, and someone was going to pay for that.

With a jerk of his chin, he beckoned Izetta forward. She rose slowly, the tension in the air almost solid. The scent of blood—even shifter blood—made it hard to think. She came to a stop before him, keeping a respectful distance.

He was more than a head taller, making it easy to look down his perfectly straight nose. This close, she could see he’d died young, before life had etched character into his features. It gave him the look of a vulnerable, if wicked, angel.

Not her type, though her blood still heated at the glint of interest in his eyes. She couldn’t be blamed for a flicker of response. Immortality got lonely, but nothing about Malatest said he was worth the sacrifice. For an independent agent like her, reputation was all.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I hired you to do a job. And you’re hurt.”

That was almost an insult among vampires. Injury was weakness, and the weak were prey—and she’d heard tales of this one’s ruthless appetites.

“I’m fine. I came to tell you what I found out,” she replied, smoothing the line of her battered leather jacket. “The floor show was just an extra.”

His lips thinned at the tasteless joke, but it seemed to strike the right note of cool nonchalance. He nodded. “Did you find your mark?”

Izetta looked behind her, ensuring there was no one else within earshot. The music had started up again, but soft enough to allow for conversation. “That’s what I came here to discuss.”

He gave a satisfied grunt. “Give me a moment.”

Malatest motioned to two of his henchmen. They stepped forward instantly, their motions eerily in synch. Izetta wondered if they rehearsed.

He pointed to Chuck. “Clean that up.”

“Yes, sir,” one of them answered with a smart bow. Then the two strode to the body in a way that said this wasn’t their first time.

Malatest beckoned to Izetta. “This way.”

She followed him through the door at the back of the bar’s seating area and into Malatest’s office. The room was pretty much what she’d expected. An antique safe, probably dating from the venue’s speakeasy days, squatted in the corner. An old desk sat beside it, facing the door and a worn leather sofa.

Sadie reclined on the sofa, wearing a plum-colored slip dress and her signature string of freshwater pearls. Her long legs were bare but for silver high-heeled sandals that clearly cost more than Izetta’s entire wardrobe.

“Hey, pumpkin,” she said as Malatest entered the room.

---