He scratches the back of his head. “Look. As much as I want to see Nice drown in a vat of his own tears—or piss—I gave my oath to Lula to never get involved or tell anyone where she is.”
Bull!
“No.” I march through the snow and close the gap between us, pointing a finger in his face. “You look! That asshat held me hostage for over five years. I refuse to allow him to take one more thing, one more minute of my life. And if that’s not good enough for you, then think about Lula, because I guarantee he’s making her read some of the world’s worst haikus about socks and pickles while he soaks away his immortal worries in a tub filled with Cherry Coke and rainbow sprinkles. And if you’re attempting to visualize what that looks like, don’t even try. It’s a train wreck.”
Alex’s dark eyes flicker with horror.
See. I told him not to visualize it. But did he listen? Men. Dead or alive, they’re all the same. “Just tell me where she is.”
“I want to help you. I do, but—”
“But nothing, Alex. I’m the one putting my life on the line. Not you. If I fail, then your miserable hermit life doesn’t change one bit. If I succeed, then you’ll get Lula back. You two can go anywhere you want, do anything you like, and you’ll be free with the love of your life.” Everyone says he’s totally, inconsolably in love with Lula, but her loyalty to Michael has always gotten in the way. Her guilt over offering me up like a sacrificial lamb is only the latest obstacle. “I kill Nice, then her conscience is free,” I add. “She can finally let go of what she did to me.”
I can see the mulling happening behind his brown eyes, but he’s not on board.
“You have nothing to lose,” I push. “Also, Michael will be super pissed at you for helping me.”
He smiles deviously, and his eyes light up. The need to poke the bear is fierce with this one. I should’ve known.
“Last I heard,” he says, “they were in Miami, renting a house near Miami Beach. The place is pink or red or something and has a windmill out front. Or wind chimes? Not sure. I couldn’t hear her well. Nice was taking a shower and singing. But, full disclosure, it’s been over three weeks since we spoke, so I have no idea if they’re still there.”
Ugh. Showers. That vampire spends so much time conditioning his hair that by the time he finishes, it’s time to shampoo it again. “He was just in Arizona yesterday. Do you think he would return to Miami?” I ask.
“Arizona?”
“Yeah. He blew up my library.”
Alex’s brows shrug.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s just that Lula said Nice was taking some stupid course with a vampire guru and it would last three months.”
“So?”
“So it sounded pretty intense—seven days a week, twenty hours a day kind of thing. And Lula promised to tell me if they moved on to a new location.”
That is interesting, but I’m sure it was Nice who tried to kill us. He wasn’t thrilled about me leaving him.
“I guess he made a quick road trip to Phoenix,” I say. Now I’ll make a road trip to him. “Thank you, Alex.” I head toward my car.
“What do you want me to say when Michael shows?” he yells out from his back porch.
“Tell him to go home and take care of his daughter!” I slip behind the steering wheel, crank up the music to level three—vampire hearing is very sensitive—and tear out of there, taking a back road. I have never been more excited and scared out of my mind than in this very moment.
I’m coming for you, Nice.
Rule one: Never cross a librarian. Rule two: Never cross a vampire librarian.
We don’t mince words. We mince enemies.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Michael
I have heard rumors that the librarian has gone to see Alex, likely looking for a lead on Lula. Very smart. But I am smarter!
Lula worked for Clive for several years, as did I. She served as both his assistant in his detective agency and as his second-in-command at the Cincinnati Historical Society of Original Family Members, our home society. After Clive faked his death (so he could mastermind the Uprising without suspicion), I stepped in to lead, and learned that Lula was never far from her phone. Complete addict.
Point is, I have been receiving calls from an unknown number in the middle of the night for several weeks now, and despite the hang ups, I know it is Lula. Maybe she simply does not know what to say. Maybe she fears I would yell at her—which I would. Her acts during the Uprising are unforgivable. Which is why I suspect she was not ringing me to shoot the breeze. Lula knows that repeat calls from an unknown person would spark my curiosity. It did. And, as luck would have it, I had the number traced through an associate in the human government and just heard back from him a couple of days ago. I know every location that phone has been for over a month.
I’ve got you now, Mr. Nice. I have been patiently waiting for the opportunity to capture him, but unfortunately, my librarian has thrown a wrench in things by going after him on her own. I cannot allow it.
I arrive at the private airport in Miami, hopeful that the librarian (when she arrives) will look for her prey in the wrong location. According to the cellphone data I received, Lula’s signal has recently moved from a small house near the beach to a high-rise hotel. If I am lucky, the librarian will not know this yet.
One good shot is all I need, and then I am out of here.
I will wait until night and call the number my associate gave me, announcing to Lula that I am here in
