Page 41 of Redeemed
“And this is my friend David,” he says. I don’t extend my hand. Meeting her gaze is awkward enough. At a glance, she’s taken stock of my entire person, good and bad.
I pretty much wish I’d stayed in the car.
“Okay if we sit?” Connor asks, because she hasn’t given us any indication that we’re welcome to stay.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Her expression is as bland as oatmeal, but her tone makes both of us take a step back.
“We’ve never met before, Mack, but Poole has told me about you. I don’t know who your young friend is, but the energy binding the two of you makes it hard for me to focus on anything else.”
Jesus, maybe we shouldn’t have had sex.
I edge toward the door and Melinda takes a long, slow breath. She’s about forty, her curly brown hair sparked with silver. “Pose your question,” she says, “and I will do my best to answer.”
Connor steps forward just long enough to place a manilla envelope on the table. “We’re looking for Princess Tatiana Ivanova. She’s been missing for some four years, and we have reason to believe she’s being held by the vampire Jacques Betancourt.”
He pauses, giving her time to ask a question or make a comment, but Melinda’s attention is fixed on the envelope. With a slight shrug, he continues. “We also suspect she’s being held somewhere near the ocean, close enough to hear the waves.”
That earns him a raised eyebrow. “That’s a fairly specific detail. Any chance you’ll tell me how you came up with it?”
We looked in a fake Harry Potter mirror. The thought’s there before I can stop it and the Sensitive pins me with a glare. “That doesn’t seem like a credible source.”
“We’re not sure if it’s credible or not.” Connor steps forward, drawing her attention. “I’ve brought you some photos and a list of possible addresses. If you could look those over and let me know if anything pings for you—”
“It would be better to have one of her personal possessions.”
Connor’s expression doesn’t change. “If I can find something of hers, I’ll bring it to you. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d look through the stuff in the envelope.”
He backs up a step and I’m already out the door. Sensitive Melinda has gone back to gazing at nothing. “I’ll be in touch,” she says, so faintly I wonder if I’ve imagined it. I take that as our cue to leave, so I do, Connor right behind me.
“I give you even odds that she’ll come up with something,” I say. The elevator chooses that moment to arrive and we climb aboard.
“Optimist,” Connor says. The elevator doors close, and we descend to the main floor.
“Hopefully Lydia can come up with something more concrete.”
“Hopefully.”
By the time we get to La Brea, I’ve shaken off the weird woo-woo vibes the Sensitive left me with. Connor seems to get my mood, although he doesn’t say anything. He keeps a hand on me, subtle touches that deliver comfort and possessiveness in equal measure.
The Tangle is a classic LA bistro, all hard edges and mood lighting. By the time we find Lydia, I’ve heard “my agentblah” and “my scriptla la” and “my new projectwah wah wah” more than once. LA. It’s an industry town.
Lydia’s got a table in the corner. A younger and decidedly more femme woman sits next to her. Both of them are in black leather, but where Lydia looks like she’s got nunchucks hanging from her belt, her friend’s wearing a bustier and stiletto heels.
“This is Accalia,” Lydia says, her arm draped along the back of her friend’s chair.
I introduce myself and Connor and we join them at their table. A pretty waiter minces over, his glossy black hair a perfect architectural blunt cut. I order the fussiest thing on their menu, mainly because I’m jealous of his hair, and Connor orders a beer.
At least it’s an IPA and not an uber-classy Budweiser.
We keep things safe and easy while we’re waiting for our drinks, but still manage to establish some ground rules. Lydia and I are friends, Connor’s keeping his mouth shut, and Accalia might not be Lydia’s consort yet, but she’s well on her way.
Mazel tov.
My drink is frozen layers of red, blue, and yellow, and garnished with a bright orange sugared nasturtium. Or at least that’s what the menu says. Connor mumbles something about afancy Slurpeeand takes a swallow of his beer. I ignore him and take a sip.
Okay, it tastes like a Slurpee with a kick, but whatever.
