others hors d’oeuvres. In the middle of the room is a sizable dance floor, at the back, a stage. A very retro-looking orchestra is now playing “Moonglow.”
A plaque on the wall behind me catches Zack’s eye and he steps closer to better read it.
“Did you know this?”
I’m too busy scanning the crowd for Barakov to pay attention to the plaque.
“Not a single nail was used in this room.” Zack lifts his glass toward the ceiling. My eyes don’t bother to follow. I’ve heard this little fact before. “Just pegs and glue. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Fascinating. You take this half. I’ll start my sweep from the other side,” I tell him before stepping away.
I weave my way through the sea of unfamiliar faces, pausing to sample some of the appetizers and trade the champagne in my glass for ginger ale. Safer. I love champagne, and this is a good one, but tonight I want to keep a clear head.
There’s no sign of Barakov. Yet.
“More champagne?” It’s the third time this particular young waiter has asked me. Before I can refuse again, he leans in and smiles sheepishly. “I’m under strict orders to be generous with the booze. We were reminded that happy guests are more generous with the donations. You’re making me look bad.”
His Italian accent is charming, his smile disarming. I glance at his name tag—Fabrizio. What harm could come from one more glass? “Can’t make you look bad.” I’m placing my empty glass on his tray with the intent of taking a new one when I see Barakov at the exit, a cigar in one hand, a glass half-filled with an amber-colored liquid in the other. “Sorry. I’ve got to go. Excuse me.”
I resist the urge to kick off my shoes and run to catch up with him. Instead I move as quickly as I can, cutting straight across the dance floor. Once outside the doors, I spy Barakov heading into the deserted courtyard. There’s no one with him. He’s alone. Perfect.
I watch from inside for a moment as he lights his cigar and enjoys a few leisurely puffs.
Then I take a deep breath, step outside, and let the dampening spell fall away. I say a silent prayer that Demeter isn’t watching. The air stirs around me as I approach Barakov. The power begins to build, unleashing a warm, perfumed mist, unseen but felt by anyone in its sphere of influence. My hair loosens, a strand curling over my right eye. I move closer.
The courtyard is not deserted as I first thought. There’s a young couple standing off to the side. They look at me, startled by my sudden appearance, caught up in the wake of my power. “Enjoy your drinks in your room,” I say to them as I pass.
A casual remark, delivered softly, a whisper into the air.
The suggestion, however, is anything but casual.
The couple turns, moves toward the door, and disappears inside. Instantly.
“Dr. Barakov?”
About to take a drag on the cigar, he pauses. Stares. “Agent Monroe?”
It takes no effort at all. Once our eyes lock, I have him. “Follow me.”
For a moment, his eyes go blank. Without knowing why, without even questioning, he follows. To him, it merely seems like a good idea.
I lead him to a corner where there’s a cluster of trees and shrubs.
Once he adjusts to my presence, his eyes clear. “You’re beautiful tonight, my dear.” His whisper is reverent as he reaches out and tilts my face up into the light. “What have you done? That bump, it’s—”
I push his hand away. “A little makeup can do wonders. No touching. And I’m asking the questions.”
“Whatever you want.”
The adoration in his eyes is nauseating. I could have Barakov on his knees in seconds, begging, with the way he worships beauty. Such games no longer bring me satisfaction. I barely remember when they did.
I get right to the point. “Where is Amy Patterson?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the faintest idea.” He takes another puff on his cigar.
It’s not the answer I expected. I lower the barriers further, allowing my mind to penetrate Barakov’s. The temperature around us rises. The wind subtly picks up, rustling the leaves on the trees. “A man like you, so connected, so smart. You must have some idea what happened to Amy Patterson and Isabella Mancini.” My voice is soft, slow, steady.
Barakov sets his drink down on a nearby table, then removes his coat. Sweat is beginning to bead on his forehead.
Is it from the warmth of my powers or from anxiety?
I hold my breath.
“No.” He pulls a silk handkerchief from his pocket and mops his brow. “I already answered your questions about Amy and Isabella.” The cigar falls unnoticed from his hand. His eyes glaze and his focus turns inward, as if he’s trying to understand how I can exert such influence.
He would never be able to fathom it. I push on.
“What about your wife Charlotte?”
At that question, he becomes instantly tearful. He reaches for the drink and takes a fortifying sip. “You think I had something to do with Charlotte’s disappearance?”
“Did you?”
“Of course not.”
His answer is not only truthful; it’s full of reproach. He’s shocked that I could even think such a thing.
I stir restlessly. I haven’t much more time. Using power like this always comes with risk. I could easily draw unwanted attention . . . from both innocent passersby and Demeter. She has spies everywhere.
There’s only one other angle to explore. “Do you know of Amy’s and Isabella’s nature?”
His eyes narrow. “Nature?”
“You know what I mean.”
Does he?
He looks about surreptitiously. “You know about”— Barakov swallows, then lowers his voice before finishing— “vampires?”
I avoid outright validation by ignoring his question and asking another of my own. “Why were you seeing them?”
For the first time, a smile. “So that I could give them eternal beauty.”
“How?”
His demeanor shifts immediately. Barakov now bursts with pride as he launches into an explanation. “Although I don’t know what Isabella Mancini had hoped to accomplish, Amy had inherited her father’s rather unfortunate nose. The surgery wasn’t going to be extensive. But it was going to be expensive.” He finishes off the remains in his glass. “And under the table, of course. I accept only cash from special customers who are of a special
I don’t bother to ask where. Just make a mental note to see if Zack thinks we should alert the IRS when we’re done with Barakov. “So you’re telling me that vampires get nose jobs? Why?”
“An eternity is a very long time, Agent Monroe—nose jobs, breast and cheek implants, chin implants . . .”
“Chin implants?”
“Very popular with the men. Imagine having all that strength and speed, a physique you can hone to perfection. Then the overall effect is completely undermined by a weak chin or pitiful cheekbones. I surround the implant with a little microlayer of silver, providing a casing that can’t be assimilated, and voila.”
It occurs to me grudgingly that this is a medical miracle of sorts. In some ways it explains his arrogance. Even to the immortals, he must appear a god.
“Was Evan Porter one of your patients, too?”
Puzzlement clouds his face. “The Greenleaf lawyer? Why would you ask—?” His expression clears. “You mean Evan is a vampire, too?”
Shit.
“Am I interrupting?”
