Page 152 of Even Vampires Bleed
“Exactly what I mean,” he says with a bit more snark. “He bet something he wasn’t willing to give with someone who was really pissed off in the first place.”
“What did he bet this time?” I can’t help the annoyance that slips in my tone.
I know worry should be the first thing on my mind, but I’m so used to my dad’s antics that I’m not even surprised to learn he didn’t know when to shut up and fold.
“I’m not sure, to be honest,” the bartender answers. “But it didn’t sound good. It mainly sounded like he didn’t have what he bet in the first place.”
That sounds like my dad. Being so sure of himself that he would win and in the process betting something he didn’t have or didn’t have yet, sounds exactly like him.
“What happened to him?” I ask.
There is no need to know what exactly he bet that he didn’t have. It was probably money, if I’m being honest. This is the exact reason why I didn’t tell him about the job I had for Léandre’s brain chip.
The man shrugs before walking to the other side of the bar. He takes a payment, serves what looks like vodka and some sort of pink soda, and then comes back to me.
It lasts less than a minute, but I’m already making scenarios in my mind of what could have happened to my dad. Did they force him to give whatever he had bet? Did they beat him? Or maybe they took him?
What if it’s all three?
“The vampire took him,” the bartender whispers, as if the bat-shifter he’s referring to might still be around to listen to him.
“Which one?” I ask. I start to be annoyed already.
Why did my dad need to tangle with the shifters? Nothing good ever comes out with trying to fool them.
I don’t hate them—far from it—but I don’t trust any of them. I stick to only working for them.
A girl won’t spit on the money that feeds her family, am I right?
“I’ve never seen him before,” the bartender answers. “I don’t know his name.”
“Describe,” I order him.
I’ve passed the “annoyed” state and I’m now on my way to “pissed off”.
But I also know a lot of bat-shifters.
I already spent too much time in Notre Dame for my taste, but there might be a chance I could recognize whoever he is talking about with enough information.
“Tall, handsome, black hair graying at the temple, green eyes, and a smile that promises he knows how to take care of things.”
Wait.
It fits only one person that I’ve met.
And if I was the betting type, I would never put my money on him being the kind to visit the sort of place that isLa poule aux oeufs d’or.
I must be mistaken.
There is only one thing that could help to know if he is the one.
“Does it look like they knew each other?” I ask, and some part of me is hoping that the man will answer no, because I want to be wrong.
“The vampire knew your father’s name.”
Well, shit.
I have no idea what went through my dad’s mind, but I have even less idea what would make that shifter be here.
