Page 67 of Bleeding for the Prince
Hyax grimaced. “Gwil, I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“Trust me on this, Hyax. I won’t hurt you, and I can give you a high that no white powder can deliver.”
There was a reason people agreed to be part of a herd. Live stockers were paid well, but there was also the sexual thrillassociated with a vampire bite, and many of his kind were more than happy to fuck and feed.
“It won’t hurt?” Hyax sounded uncertain.
“I wouldn’t have mentioned it as a possibility for our wedding night if there was a danger of me hurting you.” His fangs ached at the idea, and he had to fight to keep them sheathed.
Hyax still looked unsure. “I trust you.”
“I will take care of you. I promise.” Gwil kissed his knuckles. “You said there were a couple of things. What else is there?”
“There is another thing I’m not too happy about, but for a different reason. The potion I need to brew is rather potent, and could potentially render any lab unusable for a while after if they aren’t of the right containment level.”
“I take it Crofton Hall wasn’t up to the job.”
“The labs there aren’t qualified to the right level. They’d probably be okay, but we didn’t think the Dark Earl of Crofton would be willing, not when Simon knew of somewhere that would be up to scratch. We’d just need the permission of the owner.”
Gwil left the magic side of things, including potion brewing, to Hyax, so he hadn’t known there were different grades of lab. “Who owns it since it sounds like you don’t want to ask?”
“Solivatus.”
Gwil did his very best not to smirk, but he couldn’t stop himself. Hyax’s answering scowl spoke volumes. “I can ask him. He’s unlikely to say no, but I will need to give him a reason, but still try to respect our client confidentiality.”
“I’m sure you can tell him enough, without giving everything away. Simon would also vouch for us.”
“I’ll send him a message, but I can’t see there being a problem. I’m more concerned with DCI Dogface.”
He had to speak to Goya of Scotland Yard, and now Hyax had a proper plan and a timeline, he would have to go.
“Best get it over with.”
Gwil grabbed his jacket. “Yeah, I wonder how long the prick will make me wait to see him or one of his underlings if he’s not on duty?”
“I promise to make you feel good when you get home, no matter how long it takes.”
“That might be the only thing that gets me through.”
Gwil regularly filed reports with the police. Some of his cases were in the grey space between the police and what a private detective could do, but this was different. He used the journey over to New Scotland Yard in a cab to try to formulate the best way to speak to Goya because whichever way he spun it, the idea of a dragon under London sounded as if he’d been on the special drugs that made people have crazy dreams, and even crazier actions.
Predictably, he was told Goya was busy, but if he was willing to wait, he’d be with him as soon as possible. By the letter of the law, he could have told the desk sergeant, but the prick wouldn’t have passed on the details and he’d have been subjected to a load of accusations of being off his head or wasting police time.
The waiting room was empty, and he got himself a coffee from the vending machine. It tasted like shit, even worse than usual. He’d come prepared with his laptop and the intention to power through case-related paperwork since he knew he’d be waiting a while, and he might as well get through his backlog. He checked his emails, hot-spotting off his phone since the police weren’t about to give him the Wi-Fi code. He’d received the labresults about Ms Wainley’s hamster, and there was residue from a chemical, which would have accounted for his possessed state. Gwil had instructions to pass on about cleaning the cage and getting Ms Wainley to check what she was washing his water bottle in.
The door opened and Goya stood in the doorway. If he wasn’t a complete cunt, Gwil might have admitted Goya was attractive enough, tall and broad with a swagger. But since they barely remained civil in each other’s company, it was a moot point.
“Gwilym Hilt, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
He was surprised Goya had arrived to collect him rather than have Gwil escorted to his office. “I’ve something I need to tell you. Trust me, if I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Come on then. I sense this isn’t a conversation to be had in the open.”
“Not without mass panic.”
Goya growled under his breath. “Always the over-dramatic arsehole.”
Gwil thought he’d regret those words once Gwil was done telling him the potential scaly time bomb that could go off underneath his city. He’d been in Goya’s office more times than he cared to remember, and for a long time he wanted to rejoin the Metropolitan Police, having been an inspector before falling into the wrong side of a laudanum den in the 1840s and coming out the dead side with extra-pointy teeth. He’d blamed Goya for not letting him back in; his drug habit not being expunged from his record had been cited as the reason why he wasn’t the right calibre for the force. It turned out it hadn’t been Goya but Tobias Flume, a fucking big fang who was the original founder of the supernatural division, but had kept his involvement to only those who needed to know. Fucker.
