Page 69 of Tested
The door next to that is locked.
I come back to the bathroom. It’s large enough for a soaking tub next to the window and a separate shower. The closet between them, though, won’t open.
The closet door has a simple porcelain handle with no evidence of a locking mechanism. I tug on it a couple times, then lay my palms flat on the wood. Something is in there. Something cold and watchful. I quiet myself, trying to reach through the wood with my senses.
No luck.
This has to be the mystery closet, the one the Securitas sensors couldn’t penetrate. A vampire’s daylight refuge? I doubt it. Jacques Betancourt doesn’t seem thebathroom closettype. But the closet shares a wall with the locked bedroom, so maybe?
Or maybe the mystery closet is a special accommodation for an elven captive.
Poole’s report doesn’t say anything unusual about the room next to the mystery closet, the one with the locked door. Frustrated, I finish my inspection of the rest of the floor. One room appears to be occupied and judging by the scraps of silky fabric draped around the place, it’s probably by the two women in the pool. That’s as close as I come to finding something interesting.
The last door opens to a staircase. I jog up, but the door at the top won’t budge. My gut tells me this is the vampire’s lair, so I leave without really trying to get in.
Sneaking around Betancourt’s house is one thing, but penetrating his fortress is another level of stupid.
Back on the bottom floor, I crack open the closest door. It’s a security closet with half a dozen monitors showing different angles on the property. Plainly there’s supposed to be someone in there watching those monitors, but the room is empty.
I take a moment to check the place out. Someone’s left their laptop on, and a tap of the touch screen shows the log-in for Netflix. “For a master vampire who might be at the center of an interspecies war, you sure have shitty security.”
“And for a wanna-be cat burglar, you sure have shitty timing.”
A gruff voice speaks right in my ear and there’s a point of pressure between my shoulder blades consistent with the barrel of a gun. “I want your weapons on the floor and your hands on top of your head.”
“It’s good to want things,” I say, then drop and spin, catching the security guard behind the knee with the hunting knife. The bullet he’d intended for me strikes the office chair and sends it rolling.
I come up in a crouch, the knife in one hand and the pistol with silver bullets in the other. The security guard is an elf, and he’s not bothering with any sort of glamour. He’s got a few inches on me, though he’s slender verging on skinny so I probably outweigh him. His eyes are gold with the long narrow pupils of a cat, and his ears form elegant curves on either side of his head.
He’s crouched, too, with a bloodstained tear in the right leg of his trousers. Our gazes clash, each taking the other’s measure. I decide to probe, to see how he’ll respond. There’s something going on. The shape of his aura doesn’t quite match his physical appearance.
“There’s no good reason I can think of for an elf to be running security for a vampire.”
He grins, giving me a good look at a row of long, pointed teeth, like somebody’s Halloween dream come to life. “What can I say? The pay is good.”
I stand and so does he. Despite his injury, he’s light on his feet. We’re so close a bullet from one of us will likely hit both. I should have found some back-up. There’s no way out of this short of killing him, and a dead security guard will raise all kinds of alarms. “Nah, I don’t buy it. I bet you’re some kind of undercover agent.”
He laughs, putting those vicious teeth on display. “And what are you? A member of the Elites on a secret mission.”
I raise my pistol. He’s still laughing when I shoot.
“Damn it.” He clutches his shoulder, expression torn between laughter and rage. “You fucking shot me, motherfucker.”
I pocket my pistol. Shooting him with silver dispelled the glamour. He’s not an elf, he’s a phouka, and to an uncomfortable degree, it’s like staring in a mirror.
“That elf suit must have cost you some bucks.”
He shrugs, laughter filling his green eyes – the same green eyes that stare at me from the mirror. “The boss pays for it.”
“The boss? Jacques Betancourt?”
“Ah oui, le mort-vivant.”
Oh for Christ’s sake. “So you’re a French phouka?”
“No.” His smile is turning into a grimace. “I’m just a simple boy from Illinois who came to LaLa Land and instead of fame and fortune I found a vampire who’s willing to pay beaucoup bucks for me to keep the bad guys out. Are you a bad guy?”
“If I said no, would you believe me?”
