"Bryson being the armed fellow who is standing behind me?"
"No, that’s Ignatius. Bryson is my butler."
Which was another word for "dresser, lover, and food source," if her slight smile was anything to go by.
I cleared my throat, oddly sickened by the thought that this woman had spent centuries loving and feeding off her men. I mean, what sort of life was that for them?
"A good one," she snapped, more angrily this time. "And mind your thoughts, young woman. It is possible to push me too far."
I smothered my instinctive curse—if only because swearing wouldn’t actually get me anywhere—and said, "What about the magic that protects your elevator and apartment?"
Her surprise rippled through the air. "You felt that?"
"Azriel did, although he could not tell what sort of protection spell it was."
"It is designed to guard against ill intent."
"So why didn’t it work against whatever is responsible for these attacks?"
"Because it is flesh-sensitive. If what is attacking doesn’t wear flesh, then it will not stop them."
Which didn’t really narrow the field all that much. We’d already guessed this thing wasn’t a flesh being—both Alston and Boulanger would have sensed such an approach. "Did you set the spell?"
"Do I look like a magic user, young woman?"
Her tartness had my grin rising again. "I didn’t realize magic users had a specific look."
"Well, they do. And obviously, I am not one of them. I hired a woman to set the spell when I purchased this place."