A woman stood within the golden light of the doorway, her features as stern as her severe bun, and her eyes razor sharp. She nodded to me, and shut the door behind me after I entered.
“May I take your coat, Ms Tanager?”
“Yes, thank you.” I slid out of it and sighed.
I had worn my usual getup to greet clients–pencil skirt and modest blouse. But instead of heels, I'd chosen knee-high boots. It was just too cold outside to go without something covering my calves. The woman looked over my prim outfit, and nodded in approval. With my long, dark curls pinned up, I looked very professional.
“I am Mrs. Chadwick,” the woman introduced herself as she hung up my coat. “Mr. MacLaine is waiting for you in his office. I'll take you there now.”
I followed Mrs. Chadwick down a corridor much too wide to be called a hallway. It was lined with expensive artwork, and the sounds of our footsteps were muffled by a silk carpet runner that looked as if it had taken years to weave. It was nice, but I'd seen all of this before. Done better, to tell the truth. My clients were the wealthiest people in the world. They had to be in order to afford me.
“Mr. MacLaine, she's here,” Mrs. Chadwick said as she walked through an open door.
“Thank God,” a man's voice groaned.
It was a pleasant voice, and it matched the office I entered. Not nearly as pretentious as the rest of the house, this room was more personal. It held framed family photos, an old chair that must have come from a time when MacLaine wasn't so wealthy, a wide desk made for function instead of form, and several sitting areas; one before the desk, one before a picture window to the right of the desk, and one in front of a modest fireplace. That's where MacLaine had been, at the fireplace enjoying its comfort instead of working at his desk. In the crowd I normally contracted with, that said a lot.
Adam MacLaine was around forty, with a trim build that suggested he didn't spend all of his time making money. His oak-brown hair was lightly sprinkled with white at the temples, and his skin had a healthy tan, but not the sunbed tan so prevalent in Seattle. His skin had seen real sun. Blue eyes crinkled as he smiled in relief, and came to meet me halfway across the room, hand extended.
“Thank you for coming, Ms Tanager.” He shook my hand firmly. “Could you close the door on your way out, Mrs. Chadwick?”
“Of course, sir.” She smiled a little, showing a hint of affection for her employer. That said a lot too.
“Would you like something to drink?” MacLaine offered as his hand swept to a sideboard where several bottles waited. Not decanters, mind you, he had straight up liquor bottles out on display. The social elite would be shocked.
“No, thank you.”
“All right then.” He looked unnerved by my refusal. “Would you care to have a seat?”
“Yes.” I slid into the chair across from his, and he relaxed a little, coming over to join me.
“I don't know how–” he started to stammer, but I held up a hand.
“Mr. MacLaine, who wants you dead?” I cut through the pussyfooting.
“I believe it's a man named Jonah Malone.” He sighed, and sank back into his chair. “His company was failing, and I bought it at a . . . well, for a song, really.”
“Uh-huh.” I chuckled at the song reference.
With the exception of his ironic wording, my clients's stories were always so similar. Someone got the better end of a business deal. Or they were cheating on their spouse. Or cheating on their mistress. Or cheating on their taxes. No, that last one doesn't require my intervention. Not usually. But the issue was often about someone screwing someone else in some form or another.
“I assume you've compiled a dossier on him?”
“Oh, yes,” MacLaine fumbled with something on the floor beside him, and then handed me a manila folder.
“What exactly do you want me to do to Mr. Malone?” This was the line I asked all of my clients. I needed to be very clear with them. A lot of them assumed I was purely an assassin, but that wasn't the case. I thought of myself more as a fixer. I could kill when necessary, but death was the most extreme result I offered.
“I . . .” He gaped at me. “What are my options?”
Just as I'd thought. Cer hadn't told him. My old friend was having a laugh at my expense right about now. MacLaine had doubtless been referred to me by one of his friends, but he'd had to go through my friend, Cerberus Skylos, before he could arrange a meeting with me. Cerberus made sure the client was someone I'd want to work with before he passed on the info. And he usually did me the courtesy of explaining who I was, or at least, what I could do, to my potential customers.
“Do you know what I am, Mr. MacLaine?” I asked gently.
“An assassin,” he whispered, as if he might be overheard.
“No,” I shook my head. “I have killed people, but that's not who I am. Or what I am.”
“Uh.” He started to look confused. “Are you a vampire?”
“Good guess,” I chuckled, “but no.”
The mere fact that I was sitting there, facing him, meant that Adam MacLaine knew about the supernatural world that existed in the shadows of the human one. “The Beneath.”– or just plain “Beneath.” is what we, the denizens of said community, called it. So, MacLaine knew of it, but it was very doubtful that he knew the scope of the situation. He hadn't even known the correct term for a vampire–blooder. The wrong titles give away ignorance in
