“You’re as bad as Clare with her fucking hunches,” Oliver growled, though he was unable to hide his sheepish grin. “But yes, your hunch is correct. She means everything to me. She’s insisting on continuing undercover, even though I am terrified Matteus will take her, and I won’t be able to reach her.”
“Scary thought, I know. But it is absolutely correct for her to take the lead. I consulted the runes and they back that up.”
“Hmmm. So I’m not in charge of this investigation anymore, is that what you’re saying?”
Waldo laughed. “Ah, drop your vampiric machismo, man. You were never in charge. Destiny was. Your destiny was to meet Clare, fall in love her and heal your trauma, thus releasing your formidable power. Together, your destiny is to break apart the Dark Dimension. I will help facilitate that in any way I can, but I am not the main player—you two are.”
Oliver tried to take all this in, it felt seismic. Finally, he said, “I do need your help, which is why I’m here. We need to store some of Clare’s blood. Then I will have access to it in anemergency. If she was abducted and I had not partaken of her… I’m not sure I could reach her. You get my gist…”
“I do. And yes, a very wise move. I can send one of my nurses around to take blood from her today and store it. In the event of an emergency, you must come here and I will dispense it.”
“Thank you.” Oliver gave him a relieved smile, then frowned. “Though what the fuck do I do after that? Am I supposed to just turn up and carry her away like a knight in shining armor? I mean, how does that solve this problem? How do I get the other humans out and destroy that damn place?”
He knew they were rhetorical questions, but still he looked to the mage hopefully.
“One step at a time, Oliver. Be patient.”
Oliver tskked. “I’m a planner, Waldo, you know that. I plan to the nth degree. That’s how I stayed away from my addictions, by exercising meticulous control.”
“I know I sound like a stuck record, Oliver, but you just need to trust the magick to do its work when the moment arises.”
“Gah, you all talk fluff,” Oliver said. But he knew Waldo was wise, just like Emerson, who had somehow seen the good in Oliver’s addiction-ravaged body all those years ago. But in the end, of course, it had been Oliver who had to do the work. Doubtless, this would be no different. Except this time, he had Clare to help him. And to worry about.
“I will send one of my nurses around to your house immediately,” Waldo said. “Lucia is an unfanged vampire, she will totally understand.”
“That would ease my mind somewhat,” Oliver said, standing. Then, clapping his old friend on the back and thanking him, he left to visit Dorothea Kominsky.
There was a sour taste in his mouth as he stared up at Dorothea Kominsky’s crumbling mansion. It had been built on the very edges of Old Motham, in an area that edged the barren expanse of the Wastelands. She’d moved there after her divorce from Bernard Kominsky, who had taken off with a fae heiress to live in the mountains, where he managed his drug-smuggling empire.
Dorothea had lived here, bitter and twisted, doting on her only son, Matteus, for a century or more. She no doubt survived on other creatures’ blood, since the small supply of human blood that she was awarded in the divorce settlement would not keep her going. And she drank wine. Lots of red wine. It no doubt fooled her that she was imbibing human blood.
Taking the crumbling steps to the peeling front door, Oliver rang the bell pull and waited until the door opened a crack A small, worried-looking sprite stared at him with hollow eyes. Ah, vampires had a way of getting sprites to work for them. Maybe she was a feeder, she looked as if there wasn’t much blood left in her own veins.
“Is your mistress home?”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“An old friend from the past.” He handed her his card. “On official business.”
The sprite limped off into the dark depths of the house. He wondered if Dorothea took the sprite’s blood from the large veins in her leg and had half crippled the poor being.
Finally, the sprite returned and ushered him into the drawing room.
There were cobwebs on burned-down candles. Dirty dishes sat on the stained tablecloth, along with lots of empty winebottles. There were photos on the mantelpiece. One of Dorothea, stunning in her youth, caught his eye.
The female who sat in a wheelchair in front of him was not that Dorothea.
He hid his shock.
Dorothea had gone downhill since he had last seen her, three years ago, when he’d interviewed her about Matteus’s disappearance.
She’d gloated at him then, told him he was a no-hoper compared with her son.
It seemed the roles were reversed now. There was clearly no hope for Dorothea.
She pinned her mouth into a parody of a greeting. “Ah, Oliver Hale,” she croaked. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“I think you could hazard a guess, Dorothea.”
