Kicking It(67)

That wasn’t true, I thought. Couldn’t be true. Because if it was, I’d made a miserable mistake.

—

The sun rose and fell, and I woke just as I’d slept, fully dressed, dagger at my side. I splashed water on my face and checked my phone, which was absent of messages, even from Luc. Though that absence was completely my doing—and my choice—it still stung. I’d become used to him. His jokes. His emotions. His presence. I’d given that up for a cramped hotel room and a run at a man who was threatening my family.

I opened the door, found a bottle of Blood4You, the packaged blood that most American vampires used for convenience (and assimilation) beside it, along with a note: “Have a good night, fancy vamp.”

“And to you, too,” I murmured, popping off the top and drinking the entire bottle in a matter of seconds. I was usually more careful about drinking blood regularly, but the travel hadn’t allowed for it, and I’d been too panicked yesterday to think about it.

Panic led to bad decision making, or so Luc had taught us.

And there he was again, invading my thoughts.

The lobby was empty when I walked through, the TV still blaring sports in grainy black and white. I put the promised twenty on the counter and my key atop it, and headed for the Green Clare.

The pub was hard to miss, short and squat among the multistory buildings in the neighborhood as it was. The street in front of it was marked by a vivid green Shamrock twenty feet from edge to edge. It was the only thing in the Rookery that wasn’t dirty, scraped, or peeling.

I opened the door, letting in a fresh breeze that blew around the scents of blood, booze, and smoke. Patrons, shocked by the interruption, turned to look suspiciously at me. Most were supernaturals, but their expressions and their magic were dulled by alcohol, their emotions equally passive. Fear and sadness lingered, not helped much by a jukebox that blared Delta blues.

I ignored their stares and headed for the brass-railed bar, where a barrel-chested man in his fifties was wiping down the counter.

“Drink?” he asked over the music, without looking up.

“No, thanks. I’m looking for O’Hare.”

He stilled and looked up at me, one absent eye covered by a grisly patch of skin. “Who’s asking?”

“Rose. He’ll be expecting me.”

The bartender looked me up and down, sizing me up. His emotions were relatively flat. He probably figured me for a vampire, but not much of a threat. If Danny was looking to finish his project, this guy didn’t know much about it.

And that only made me more wary.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “He’s in his office.” He gestured toward a hallway that led away from the bar.

“Thanks,” I said, and wandered through tables and gazes.

The hallway was painted black, and it didn’t smell any better than the rest of the bar. Restrooms were located to one side and a fire exit at the end.

That left only a single open door to my left.

I felt for the dagger I’d tucked into my boot, blew out a breath, and stepped into the doorway.

Danny O’Hare was a handsome man. Broad-shouldered, with a cheeky grin and a ruddy complexion. His eyes were blue, and they twinkled at the sight of me.

He sat behind a desk in a tiny office that was crowded with papers and stacked with boxes of booze. Ironic, I thought, that all that booze was legal now, but it had probably been bought with Prohibition money.

“And who of all people should walk through my door,” he said, with Ireland in his voice, “but a wild Irish Rose.”

“I’m not Irish,” I reminded him. “And you knew I was coming.”

I dropped the coin onto his desk, where it spun for a moment before settling flat again. I set the bait, and waited for his emotions to bob to the surface. But all I could sense was vague interest and childish enthusiasm. That was very much like Danny, who’d seemed to approach life like an adolescent bully. The world was composed of what he owned and what he didn’t own yet. Anything in the second category was fair game.

“I heard through the grapevine you were alive,” he said. “And I’ve seen your face in the glossy. But wasn’t me that asked you here.”

His voice had, as before, a singsong quality that belied his enthusiasm for violence. But nothing seemed dishonest. How was that possible? If he hadn’t called me here to take me out, to finish destroying those close to Tommy DiLucca—or my family, if he couldn’t get to me fast enough—then who had?

“Who’s looking for me?” I heard the mild panic in my voice and pushed it down. I was in control of my own fate. But it was Rachel’s I was worried about.