As Holly frowned, Arabella took another shaky breath and added, “We couldn’t hear all of the rest . . . but we’re sure the second vampire said . . . Chang.” Arabella’s eyelashes shaded her cheeks, her badly hurt body pulling her into a deep, healing sleep.
“Who,” Venom murmured in the ensuing silence, “is Walter Battersby?”
22
According to Janvier, Battersby was a broker who acquired coveted items for wealthy immortals. Janvier’s distinctive Cajun accent dark honey down the telephone line, he said, “Neither my Ashblade nor I have ever met him, but we’ve heard his name in connection with stolen antiquities and gemstones.”
Of course this mysterious broker didn’t live in the tormented, dangerous darkness that Zeph and Arabella and Brynn called home. He lived high up in an exclusive skyscraper that was all glitter and gloss. When Venom stopped his beautiful and very expensive car out front, the valet looked like he was going to have a heart attack.
Venom threw him the keys. “Don’t dent it.”
The poor young male looked caught between ecstasy and terror. He still hadn’t managed to utter a single word by the time they were out of earshot. “You enjoy doing that,” Holly said, trying for a scowl when she wanted to grin. “Making people lose their shit.”
Eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, Venom said, “It’s an amusing little hobby.” He nodded politely to the composed mortal doorman, then waited for Holly to enter the grand marble lobby before entering behind her.
Holly shivered.
His hand brushed her back over the top of the hoodie he’d called “a monstrosity that may burn my irises to blindness.” To be fair, she’d told him he looked like an Indian Ken doll in his gray shirt and black suit; he was still wearing the suit jacket, having managed to find a rag at the clinic to wipe off the worst of the dirt and blood that had gotten onto it.
Dark as the fabric was, the damage was no longer visible to the naked eye.
“You’re cold?” A low murmur of sound that sank into her bones.
“No, not really.” Holly told her hormones to cut it out . . . and heard that stealthy second pulse she’d thought had gone mercifully silent.
Her blood turned to ice. “It’s all this marble,” she somehow managed to say, “it’s cold.”
Walking over to the reception desk, Venom asked the receptionist to buzz Walter Battersby. The cool-eyed and black-haired vampire on duty, her cheekbones like razors, nodded and did as asked . . . before offering Venom a deep smile with lush lips painted a rich pink. As if to make sure he didn’t miss the silent invitation, the slinky woman leaned forward, her impressive cleavage plumping up in the deep vee of her dark blue top.
“You could lose a chicken leg in there,” Holly muttered under her breath.
She thought she’d said it quietly enough that Venom wouldn’t hear, but he shot her an amused look before thanking the receptionist. “My pleasure,” the woman said in a lightly accented voice—Welsh, maybe?—before sliding her hand forward to shake his.
Holly turned away and rolled her eyes.
Waiting until Venom joined her out of hearing distance, Holly said, “Did she slip you her number?”
He showed her the card in his hand. “Unfortunately, she didn’t pair it with a chicken leg or you could’ve had a snack.”
Holly snorted out a laugh, blocking it with the back of her hand before it could echo off the marble. Slipping the card into a pocket of his jacket, Venom nodded ahead. “That elevator—it’s coming up from the basement garage and is programmed to stop for us. Mr. Battersby has invited us up.”
“How nice.” Holly folded her arms and stared at the doors without saying a word. She wasn’t bothered he’d kept Chicken Leg Breasts’ card. “I thought you had better taste than that.”
“Really? She has big eyes, soft lips, and enough curves for a racecourse.” A shrug. “Fits the bill for pleasurable sexual release.”
Holly turned very slowly to stare at his insanely perfect profile. “You’re laughing at me.” She could feel it.
Leaning close, his lips curved, he slipped the receptionist’s card into a pocket of her hoodie. “You make it so easy, kitty.”
Holly hissed at him just as the elevator doors opened. The well-dressed matron on the other side, her skin near Venom’s brown but her eyes like Holly’s, looked taken aback. “I say, young lady. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?” was the stern question, followed by an intense second look. “You’re Daphne’s second oldest.”
Holly prayed desperately for a sinkhole to open up under her feet and swallow her whole. No such luck.
Groaning inwardly, she stepped into the elevator with a silent Venom.
How in the bejeezus did her mother know everybody? It wasn’t as if she was rich and swanky like this matron with her necklace of gleaming black pearls and a handbag that probably cost five grand. She looked like she was getting back late from an upmarket party. Daphne Chang, in contrast, ran a little deli beside the dress shop run by Holly’s dad. Yet that damn deli was like a pot of honey that drew every single nosy matron in the city.
The elevator doors closed, cutting off all avenues of escape.
“Yes,” she said, putting on her sweetest manners. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
The matron gave her a considering look up and down and just shook her head, before turning her attention to Venom. That he was a vampire—a very dangerous vampire—seemed to escape her. Or maybe she didn’t care. At a certain age, Daphne Chang’s friends seemed to stop giving a flying fuck about anything. In a very ladylike way, of course.
“Lovely suit, young man,” she said, her tone warm with approval. “So nice to see young people who care about their appearance. My Everett used to wear a suit very well.”
Her eyes landed once more on Holly’s jeans, painted canvas trainers, and hoodie. Not saying a word—loudly—the matron stepped out of the elevator two floors below their destination. “Hissing, my dear. Really.”
The doors shut.
And Venom’s shoulders began to shake. She punched him in the side but it had zero impact. “Shut up. I’m going to be getting a call from my mother at the crack of dawn.”
“The hoodie is an insult to clothing, but I like your shoes.”
“I swear I’ll stab you if you keep going.”
Laughter still lingering around his lips, Venom put his hand on her lower back as the elevator arrived on their floor. He glanced right. “There. That looks to be Mr. Battersby’s apartment.”
The door opened at that instant, the vampire who stood within the doorway a compact and dapper man of maybe fifty with short silver hair and a skin tone that fell between Holly’s and Venom’s. He was wearing an old-fashioned smoking jacket. Deep blue velvet, it boasted lapels of black satin. Below the jacket, Walter Battersby wore silk trousers in the same black, along with fancy slippers of dark gold that curled up at the tips.
Unlike Kenasha, he pulled off the flamboyant outfit with aplomb.
“I’m afraid you caught me just as I was retiring for the night,” he said genially when they reached him, holding out a hand to Venom.
The men shook before Battersby turned his cordial face to Holly. “And who might you be, my dear?”
Holly smiled her “matron smile,” dead certain he hadn’t needed to ask that question. “Just Holly.” She wasn’t quite sure what to make of Walter Battersby. He didn’t set off her creep radar, but he was dangerous, of that she had not a single doubt.
“Ah, Holly.” No surprise in the pale hazel of his eyes, his features so even and unremarkable that Holly had the thought this man could blend in anywhere, become anyone.
“I’m being rude,” he said right then. “Do come in.” He led them into a spacious apartment decorated with furniture that was a little too dark and heavy for Holly but tasteful nonetheless. Three framed black-and-white prints lined one wall, all depicting people in clothing at least a hundred and sixty or seventy years out of date. Those people stood stiff and formal . . . and one of them was a young Walter Battersby.