“Like it’s a chemical spill?”
“I don’t know what it is.”
T.I.’s “About the Money” was so pumped it formed a physical presence in the air, becoming something that Trez had to fight through as they made their way past the security guy guarding the entrance to the private lounges hallway.
As with his other club, The Iron Mask, there had to be little slices of Nobody Can See for his customers. It was tricky enough running a prostitution ring in Caldwell, New York, without having people flash their slappin’ body parts out in the open.
“Back here,” Big Rob said.
Silent Tom was a wall of human in front of the closed door of the third private room down. But Trez didn’t need to have any reveal for him to put two and two together: His nose added that math up just fine.
The sickly sweet stench of a lesser permeated the hall, prevailing over the sweat and sex of the humans that were all around.
“Lemme have a look,” he said grimly.
Silent Tom stepped aside. “Still moving. Whatever the hell it is.”
Yeah, the slayer probably was. Those fuckers had to be killed in a specific way or they just kept on keepin’ on—even if they were in pieces.
“We’re going to have to call an ambulance,” Big Rob said. “I did it. I didn’t mean to—”
Trez held up his hand. “You’re fine. And hold off on the nine-one-one.”
Opening the door, he grimaced as the stench ramped up, and then stepped inside the ten-by-ten-foot room. The walls and floor were painted black, the ceiling mirrored, a single inset light glowing softly overhead. The slayer was curled up in the far corner under the built-in fuck bench, moaning and bleeding an oil slick that smelled like dead roadkill mixed with fresh-baked oatmeal cookies and Johnson & Johnson baby powder.
Nauseating. And once again, it put him off Mrs. Fields, which he did not appreciate—and children, which he didn’t care about.
He checked his watch. Midnight. Xhex, his head of security, was enjoying a rare evening off with her mate, John Matthew—and Trez had had to force the female to take the break, because it was the only time that week her hellren was off his rotation with the Black Dagger Brotherhood.
He was going to have to deal with this himself.
Trez stepped back out into the hall. “Okay, so what happened?”
Big Rob discreetly flashed a handful of small cellophane packets with powder in them as well as a wad of bills. “We found him pushing this. He got mouthy. I popped him and then he fought back—he was a fucking demon, and when he pulled the knife, I realized I was in trouble. I did what I had to do.”
Trez cursed as he recognized the symbol stamped on the heroin bags. It was nothing human—and the second time he’d seen it.
It was the vampiric Old Language—and the shit was on a lesser again? This time as a dealer?
He took the drugs and put them in his pocket. Let his bouncer keep the cash. “You were lucky you weren’t killed.”
“I’ll talk to the police. Everything’s on tape.”
Trez shook his head. “We’re not involving the CPD.”
“We can’t just leave him in there.” Big Rob glanced at his mute partner. “He’s going to die.”
It was the work of a moment to overpower the humans’ minds. Both of them. As a Shadow, Trez was like any other vampire, capable of barging into a cerebellum and rearranging thoughts and memories like they were armchairs and sofas in a living room.
Or maybe removing them from the house altogether.
Big Rob’s body instantly relaxed and he nodded. “Oh, sure. We can hang here. No problem, boss—and don’t worry, you don’t want no one in there? You got it.”
Trez clapped the man on the back. “I can always count on you.”
Heading back to his office, he kept up with the cursing. He’d gone to the Brothers months ago, when he’d first found a slayer with this shit on him. And he’d meant to follow up even more with them. But life had gotten in the way, things like the s’Hisbe coming after him, and Selena and him …
The mere thought of the Chosen female made him close his eyes and falter his feet on the stairs.