in his whiskey glass rattled. “Jesus Christ. Answer your fucking phone.”
Syn stepped forward so Cigar could join them in the cramped space. “I’m here, aren’t I.”
“Did you see this?” A laptop got turned around. “What the fuck is this? You’re supposed to be a fucking professional and you do this shit?”
The screen was showing the picture of a corpse that was mostly blurred out. Given the amount of pixelated red stuff, it was clear that whoever had killed the poor bastard had had butcher training.
“You were supposed to be quiet.” The man picked up a cell phone. “And you know who just called me? The fucking press. The fucking press! It’s everywhere, goddamn it.”
Syn cooled his jets and let the man blow off steam. As this was human world bullshit, he couldn’t care less—
“I’m not paying you a fucking dime.” The man waved his cell phone. “I got problems I didn’t have before you fucked it all up being a fucking show-off last night. So you’re not getting fucking paid.”
As Syn decided not to remind the man that money had not been the point, on his side at least, that laptop got spun back around and beads of sweat bloomed across that meaty, pockmarked forehead.
“What the fuck are you doing to me!” When Syn still didn’t respond, the man pounded his desk and lurched to his feet. “Do you have any idea who I am!”
“Who you are is irrelevant to me,” Syn said with utter calm.
Fleshy lids blinked as if Syn had switched up languages on the guy. Then the old man looked at his associate with total shock. “Do you get a load of this guy?”
“Unbelievable,” came the response around the cigar.
“You’re something else,” the old man muttered. “And I don’t think I’m making myself clear. Do you know who I am.”
Syn focused on the heartbeat that pulsed on the side of the man’s throat. And as his fangs tingled, he knew that the wrong question was being asked. The real question was not who, but what, and it was about Syn. But as with the whole money thing, that was hardly a course correction he felt it necessary to make.
The cell phone rang again, and when the old man looked at the screen, he muttered to himself. Then sat back down in his chair and rubbed his eyes like his head hurt.
“You know what, it’s your lucky fucking night.” Looking at Syn, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to give you a chance for redemption. As opposed to a grave.”
“Do tell,” Syn said in a bored tone.
“I want you to take care of a reporter for me.”
When Syn left the Hunt & Fish Club, he went down the back alley to a rear parking lot that had a dumpster, ten spots for cars of the narrow variety, and no exterior lighting. There was only one vehicle in the square of asphalt, a Chevy Suburban that was parked laterally across many sets of faded yellow lines. As a cigarette flared behind the wheel, it was clear the old man’s chauffeur was ever-ready, and as soon as Syn was out of sight of the driver, he dematerialized about twelve blocks up. Upon re-forming, he registered his position with the Brother Tohrment, clocking in for his shift prowling the largely-empty-of-slayers downtown.
He missed the old days. The Old Country. The way things used to be with the Band of Bastards sleeping together like a pack of dogs in the rough, the only rule being that as long as you cleaned up the messes you made, no questions were asked.
But nooooo they had to come over to the New World.
Then again, there had been even fewer lessers overseas.
For tonight’s shift, he was in the territory next to the Brother Butch’s, and he was supposed to be with his cousin, Balthazar—and the latter was a good thing. Balz didn’t mind working alone, with the pair of them covering the area assigned without walking side by side. Syn hated that grafted-at-the-hip shit. He was so not a chatter, which was a natural corollary of him not giving a shit about anyone else’s life.
Hell, he didn’t even care about his own.
Technically, the lone-wolf, on-your-own routine was a violation of protocol. But Balz was a thief with no conscience, so lying by omission was like sneezing to the guy. Plus Syn was god-awful company, and he had the sense that Balz, who was in fact a chatter,