The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) Brad Magnarella (ink book reader txt) 📖

“Thanks?” I said.

“Mr. Thorne will see you,” Blondie said.

The other blood slave stepped over to Square Jaw, who was groaning on the pavement, and shoved him with a foot. “Let them through,” he ordered.

Vega killed the engine and peered past me to a pair of blood slaves in brass-button suits.

“Think it’s some kind of trap?” she asked.

I studied the doormen and then ran my gaze up Arnaud’s landmark skyscraper. “You can never tell with a vampire. But that we’re here at his invitation tells me no. It’s considered impolite for a vampire to tear apart his guests. That doesn’t mean we can relax our guard, though.”

“So why invite us?”

“Good question.” I began working to untie the thread I had used to secure Grandpa’s ring to the inside of my pants. “Either he wants to send a sterner warning or he wants something else entirely.”

“Like what?”

“No telling.” I freed the ring and slipped it onto my third finger. “Just stay close.”

“You think he’s going to let you in wearing that? Didn’t you say it burned him or something?”

At Vega’s question, the ring grasped the base of my finger more tightly. “Short of severing my finger, I don’t see how he’s going to get it off me. But I don’t think that’s his concern right now or else his blood slaves would’ve shaken me down back there. I think we’re good on the ring.”

“Fine, but this is still an official investigation. I’m asking the questions.”

I showed my palms—no arguments here—and we got out of the car. The copycat potion spent, I cinched my belt around my too-large pants and followed Vega toward the front entrance. As the blood slaves opened the glass doors, Grandpa’s ring began to pulse with the enchantment of the Brasov Pact, the centuries-old truce between European wizards and vampires.

“Welcome,” a lilting voice called from across the chilly lobby. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I made out the pretty face and white-blond hair of the undead receptionist. “Mr. Thorne is expecting you.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, then signaled for Vega to follow me to the elevators, where two more blood slaves stood.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said pleasantly. “Not her.”

I stopped. “What?”

The receptionist tilted her head in a show of apology. “Mr. Thorne has requested to meet with you alone, Mr. Croft.” She nodded at Detective Vega. “She can wait down here.”

Vega’s hands balled into fists as she stalked toward the desk. “Excuse me, Miss, but I’m an NYPD detective on official business. I need to speak to Mr. Thorne as part of an investigation.”

The receptionist’s smile conveyed coldness now rather than empathy. “His lawyers are off today. If you’d like to make an appointment, Mr. Thorne may agree to see you next week.”

“Listen to me, you little—”

“We understand,” I interrupted, gripping Vega’s upper arm. I whispered into her ear as I turned her away, “I’ve been through this song and dance with them before. It’s pointless. I say you let me go up there and see what I can get him to tell me about Ferguson Towers.”

“I don’t care what he is,” Vega seethed. “This is bullshit.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Vega was having a bad run, from her confrontation with Stiles to the checkpoint guards and now this. But I was relieved, to be honest. I’d seen Vega in action enough times to know she only knew one speed—full throttle. If she went into Arnaud’s office, jabbing him with questions and accusations, he would grin, fold his hands, and tell us nothing.

“Thinks he’s above the law,” Vega went on, her accent regressing to her housing-project roots. “I don’t care what City Hall says. I’ll take the pale son of a bitch down myself.”

“Now, now.” As I steered her toward a sitting area, I noted several blood slaves watching us. “Let’s keep that kind of talk to ourselves, hmm?”

Vega looked around, seeming to pick up on the attention, too. She straightened, as though to re-professionalize, and looked me straight in the eyes. “Get me a name, a location, something we can use.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Before Vega could change her mind about letting me go up alone, I hurried toward the elevators.

I shifted my weight on the swift ride up, wondering what in the hell I was getting myself into. After the St. Martin’s case, I had resolved never to return to the Financial District. And now here I was—not only in Arnaud’s territory, but en route to his executive office. I shuddered at the memory of the vampire’s fangs and cold breath against my throat.

The elevator door slid open on the top floor, and the blood slaves escorted me down a long hallway of dark carpet and oiled wood. The tantalizing scent of Arnaud’s office, a mixture of leather and musk, seemed to beckon. Arnaud’s head blood slave received me at the tall doors of the office. I recognized him by his almond-shaped eyes and short monk’s bangs.

“How nice to see you again,” Zarko said in a mocking voice.

“I can’t say the feeling’s mutual,” I replied. I wasn’t being smart. The last time we’d seen one another, his hand was wrapped around my throat, and he was holding me two feet in the air.

He opened the right door, grinning as he bowed.

The strong scent of Arnaud’s office enveloped me and penetrated my thoughts. I struggled to hold them together—I needed to be coherent to face Arnaud—but the soft carpet underfoot told me I had already entered his lair.

Through a pool of tannic brown light, I made out a lean figure, a pale mane of hair falling to his shoulders. The mane shook with soft laughter.

“Oh, my poor boy,” came Arnaud’s silky voice. “You have really gotten yourself into a pickle this time.”

11

I squinted through the distorting light, forcing Arnaud into focus. He was wearing one of his patent silk suits, light-colored, loose around the arms and legs, a scarf draping his shoulders, open shirt underneath. His dark eyes sparkled as he looked me over, a smile forking