“Oh.” Jake looked bemused, the money flapping in his fist as a cold wind licked up the street.
“He’s gotta see the boss,” mustache responded to Jake’s flummoxed state.
I took my man’s arm. “Excuse us. We’ll wait over there.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The golem didn’t care, sniffing and looking up at the sky.
I hauled Jake over to the canal edge. “What was that?”
“How else are we gonna get in?”
“It’s come to bribery?” Both of my hands held a bicep.
“Yeah. It was either that or begging the knob head.”
He was right. Begging to those golems was never going to happen.
A cyclist went by, music blaring in her headphones.
“Someone’s heading for hearing problems,” I said.
“Dylan Rivers,” Jake replied. “’Electric Disco.’ Has to be played loud. Haven’t heard that in a while.”
“What?”
“The song she was listening to. You don’t play Dylan Rivers at a low volume. How are you supposed to bust moves when you can barely feel that sweet bass?”
“I thought you weren’t that keen on his music?”
“Well, no. He’s all right. I love that song. Remember that night we saw him?”
“You want to talk about that now?”
The door opened before he could answer, the golem returning.
We headed back over. “Well?” I asked. The door was still open.
“Get in before you let all the heat out.”
We followed him into a softly lit hallway, the warmth a welcome contrast to the cold outside. The door closed behind us.
Where the house should have been narrow, as it looked on the outside, it was generous in size—some sort of magic. I could smell it.
The hallway was an explosion of baroque gold and black, complete with a lavish chandelier and a staircase that wasn’t steep or anything like the Dutch design of the other houses in this street. It curved upward to a mezzanine where a maid walked past, not so much as glancing our way.
Expensive art hung on the walls.
“That piece,” I pointed to a painting of men playing cards. “I know that.”
The golem grunted. “The Card Players by Paul Cezanne.”
“That’s it. Must have cost a few million.”
“And then some.”
God knows why the golem looked so proud about that. It wasn’t his—the painting or the money to afford it.
“Fancy place,” Jake said. “Reminds me of somewhere else.”
It did, that mansion we’d once called home in Coldharbour. That gothic structure still stood, empty now, no life within its walls for a long time now.
There were three doorways in this grand hall. One of them, over on the left, opened up. Another maid stepped out, done up in the traditional black and white outfit that maids wore, hurrying over with a silver tray laden with canapés and champagne flutes.
She held the tray up. “Would you care for some refreshments?”
“What are they?” Jake asked. He didn’t drink alcohol, but he liked to eat.
“Squid and chorizo, sir,” she answered in Dutch.
Jake pulled a face. “Er, I’m good, thanks.”
Not that we’d be touching the food anyway. “No, thank you,” I added. “Is Brem ready to see us?”
The woman was pale and timid, her head bowed in subservience. A lock of black hair poked out of her cap. The tray trembled a little in her hands. Brem probably fed on her. Vampires could do that, having their own set of rules and allowances when it came to blood-sucking. Rich vamps kept a staff of servants that provided sustenance as well as domestic duties. Some vamps were in sexual relationships with humans or had some other arrangement with their personal blood banks. Killing their victims was frowned upon greatly and not above any law of the land. Unless you knew how to be a manipulating bastard like the owner of this house.
Creatures like Brem were good at hiding their deeds in shadows.
“Soon, sir,” the maid answered. She backed off, her head never lifting. I saw the wounds on her neck, though, the twin punctures from her master.
She was over by the door she’d come through when it opened again. Another woman strode through. Her gray pencil skirt, white blouse, black heels, her dark hair scraped back in a ponytail, denoted her to be on the complete opposite end of the employee spectrum. She walked with confidence, heels clicking away as she came over carrying a clipboard. Still, she had those puncture marks on her neck just like her colleague.
I tried not to judge. After all, one of our friends was a vampire. But then I’d see stuff like this while on the job, and I’d want to shake some sense into those who went willingly to get their blood sucked down.
“Hello, Mr. Tseng, Mr. Winter. How are you this evening?” the woman asked in an incredibly plummy British accent.
“Good, thank you.”
“All right,” Jake replied. “Would rather be at home with my feet up, but whatever.”
His arms were folded, his face that of a resting bitch. He had that look to him where you didn’t know if he wanted to shag you or kill you. Thankfully, it was mostly the former for me.
“Excellent.” There was zero sincerity in her tone. “It is wonderful to meet you both at last. I have heard many of the good things regarding Jake & Dean Investigations. My name is Sandra, and I would like to invite you into my master’s drawing room. I trust you were offered food and champagne?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Your hospitality is gracious, but we’re not here for that.”
Which she knew too well but was just performing her carefully constructed act.
“It is my master’s hospitality, sir. Not mine. But thank you for your kind words.”
I looked to Jake, who rolled his eyes. He was doing well to keep his mouth shut, even though I could see he wanted to tell her to cut out the bullshit.
He’d come a long way since his gung-ho days. Back then, he’d been running on rage and grief. Yes, he would still blow his top over certain things, but there was a better balance between knowing how to play the game and being hot-headed. Wasn’t always successful, but
