Rory and Madelyn entered the penthouse. They remained quiet, hoping to slip past the front room unnoticed, but it wasn’t to be.

Bill was counting stacks of money but immediately looked up. “Maddy.” His voice was soft, but it carried a hint of threat. “Who was that guy talking to you at the pool? I didn’t get a good look at him.”

Madelyn shrugged. “You know who it was, and you have my word, I have nothing to do with Walter. I’m done.”

Bill scowled. “Are you certain? Because I can make sure it’s over.”

A jolt of what might have been fear briefly shone on Madelyn’s face. “I’m certain.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. I’ve already gone to a great deal of trouble and expense getting you out of his crooked contract. Be a smart girl and think with your head, not your heart.” Bill looked her over. “You can’t go out looking like a drowned rat. You need to pull yourself together fast. I want to see you looking like a ritzy dish, so get ginned up, and wear the white dress.”

“Yes, Bill.” Her chin dropped as she walked away.

Rory stood stunned. The marked difference in Madelyn and Bill’s exchange revealed the darker side of their relationship. Gone was the comfortable sense of camaraderie they’d displayed when he had first arrived and they had emptied his duffel bag and knocked him off balance as a united force. He suspected this was the true tone of their partnership. Bill demanded, and Madelyn did as she was told. In that moment he liked Bill even less.

Bill grinned at Rory. “So, what do you think of Hollywood so far? Is it living up to your expectations?” He gestured grandly toward his elegant décor.

“I haven’t seen much of it, sir.”

Bill winked. “Wait until you see this place at night. That’s when it’s the most beautiful.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” He bowed his head. Suddenly he wanted to be alone. The tension and the pretense of civility hanging in the air became tiresome, and he didn’t feel like playing along. “I’m going to rest my eyes. Wake me up when Geno has my suit ready.” He turned and walked down the hall toward his room.

“Rory!” Bill sounded peeved. “Get back here.”

He returned to the threshold of the front room.

Bill’s eyes glistened like two black pearls set deep in his head. “When you work for me, you’re on my schedule. I tell you what you are going to do and when. After we are finished talking, I will dismiss you. Understand?”

He nodded and stood at attention. Sir, you have no idea who you are talking to, do you? Bill would never be his boss. He had no intention of staying. As soon as he could figure out a way to help Madelyn, this gig was over. Was this the sort of crap Madelyn had to put up with on a day-to-day basis, heavy-handed power plays? All the more reason to take her away from this.

“You are dismissed.” Mr. Boven flicked his hand and turned his attention to the desktop cluttered with stacks of five-, ten-, and twenty-dollar bills swaddled in red rubber bands.

Rory returned to the tiny airless room at the end of the hall and threw himself facedown on the bed. What the fuck had he gotten himself into? Bill Boven was the exact sort of man to rub him the wrong way. He ground his teeth in agitation. He needed to feed. The hunger that had dogged him throughout the Pacific crossing was coming on strong and shortening the fuse on his temper. A bad temper was a terrible thing to have when paired with a sharp set of fangs. He rolled over on the mattress and stared at the plaster molding as if there were answers hidden there.

* * *

AFTER HE HAD BROKEN into the English lord’s home and stolen the gold snuffboxes, he and Jack returned to the cottage to be confronted by an irate Fanny. She was waiting in the doorway as they approached.

“Where have you two been?” Fanny’s mouth was pulled taut and her expression was not the least bit forgiving. “It’s after one in the morning. What have you to say for yourselves? That child should be abed. I come home and not see him, and my heart leaps to my throat! Do you know how worried I’ve been?”

As soon as Jack was within arm’s reach, she thumped his chest with her fist. “Shifty bastard. What mischief have you been up to that involves my boy?”

Jack snarled. “Don’t make a muck-up, Fanny, it was nothing so dire. We just took a stroll.”

Fanny looked ready to strike again. “A midnight stroll with a young one in tow? Bollocks!”

Rory stood stunned, not knowing what to say. His sense of guilt deepened. Stealing was a sin, and he had willingly stolen things of great value from a stranger who had never wronged him. His lips parted, but before he could speak, his mother’s arms were wrapped around him and she was weeping with relief.

“Rory, I thought something terrible had happened to you. I was crying my eyes out that a press gang or a drunken sailor had kidnapped you and I’d never see you again.”

Should he tell her where he’d been and what he’d been doing with Jack and Tomás? For the life of him, he’d never seen his mother so distraught. He steeled his resolve to be honest and take whatever punishment she chose to deliver. “Ma—”

Jack butted in, placing a firm hand on Rory’s shoulder and pressing down. “Hush, lad. There’s no need to spoil the surprise.”

Fanny sniffled. “What surprise?”

“The surprise.” Jack blinked rapidly. “That I want to share with you on our wedding day.” With a not-so-gentle tug, he pulled Rory away from his mother. “It’s not fair to put the lad on the spot. He’s been sworn to secrecy.”

Fanny’s eyes glistened. “So this is something good?”

Jack frowned. “Maybe I went about it the wrong way, but know the boy was never in danger. It was just a little outing to arrange something special for you.”

“For me?” Tears streamed down her face. “Thank you, Jack!”

* * *

RORY OPENED HIS EYES long before he heard the carpet-muffled footsteps walking down the hall or smelled the whiff of mentholated shaving tonic. Since becoming a vampire, he always knew when someone was approaching, no matter how light their step. Call it telepathy or a predator’s instinct; he was hard to sneak up on.

Knuckles rapped on the door. “Ravenscroft.” Geno’s gruff voice floated through a crack. “Your suit’s ready.”

He swung his feet to the floor, stood, and smoothed his hand through his hair before remembering Madelyn had cut off most of the curls and there was less to muss. Opening the door, he noticed Geno’s wary expression. “Come in.”

Geno thrust the suit and its wooden hanger into Rory’s hands. A strange spark burned in his dark eyes. “I’d rather not.”

Why the difference from earlier today when Geno had talked his ear off? He grabbed the hanger. “Suit yourself.” He smiled at his bad pun. Geno was quick to leave without further comment, and he thought it odd.

He closed the door and set the suit on the bed. The workmanship was stunning, far nicer than anything he’d worn even during his time in Paris. Geno had added many details, and now it was a real tuxedo complete with a starched white bib and black satin bow tie. He’d even meticulously sewed an inner pocket for the gun Rory didn’t own.

Should he put it on now and risk getting it wrinkled? Hell, he was supposed to be a driver, and most likely all eyes would be on Madelyn. He decided to take a quick shower and wash the lingering scent of chlorine from his skin.

He walked into the bathroom, stripped the still damp swim trucks off, and turned on the faucet. It was worth waiting for truly hot water to arrive. Aboard the Ravager, there had been a constant shortage of hot water for showers. Sailing through a tropical belt, most sailors didn’t miss it, but he did. If he stood under the warm spray long enough, his external temperature would rise and his touch could almost pass for that of a living man. By far, bathtubs were among the most luxurious things he could think of. He loved to soak in a hot tub until his skin tingled, but he’d not had regular access to a real sink-to-your-collarbones bathtub throughout the war and all the months on the Ravager, and he missed them.

When he was settled, he promised himself he’d find a little bungalow or apartment overlooking the city of Los Angeles and install the biggest bathtub he could fit through the door.

He stepped into the shower and soaped his skin. The white bar of Ivory soap had a fresh, neutral scent and thankfully not a strong floral perfume. Technically he was death walking, and smelling like a funeral wreath was overkill. The stall became so steamy he could barely see the far wall. This was one of the perks of a swanky penthouse suite: a bottomless water heater and great water pressure. Someday he’d have to settle down and get himself a comfortable home.

After a sweet eternity standing under the spray, he turned off the water, got out, wrapped a towel around his waist, and padded into the bedroom.

Madelyn stood near the bed with her arms crossed in front of her chest and a white gown clinging provocatively to her torso. With her face bare of makeup and glowing, she looked like an angelic saint awaiting rapture.

“I need a little help.” Her brow rose. She turned to reveal a sun-kissed bare back. “I just gave myself a manicure. My nails might still be wet. Could you zip me? I can’t walk into the front room and ask. The guys are busy and....”

He stepped closer. “You don’t have to say it. I wouldn’t want Hank zipping my frock either.”

“Frock?” She laughed. “Clowns wear frocks. Do I look silly in this?”

Anything but. Had he ever seen a woman so breathtaking? Rory reached for the zipper, which sat low on the base of her spine, and ran the zipper foot along its lengthy, curving path that ended between her shoulders. He wished he had not noticed that she was wearing only a bit of see-through lace beneath. The snug eggshell-white dress made an exaggeration of her already womanly hourglass silhouette. His body stirred beneath the towel. “You look beautiful.” And he almost added too good for anything Bill Boven has planned. “Are you sure you don’t want to run away with me? I’ll drive us both to the train station.”

She turned and held a crimson fingertip to his lips. “Shush. Not here. Not even as a joke.” Leaning close, she whispered in his ear. “Hank is tagging along tonight. I’ll try to ditch him, but I have a feeling he’ll stick like glue. When we are doing our rounds, we’ll have a chance to talk privately. I need to tell you something, and I can’t do it here.”

He smoothed a stray strand of hair from her cheek. Madelyn gazed back at him with large green eyes as fascinating to look at and as unfathomable as a turbulent ocean. She needed his help and was biding her time asking for it; he could sense it. He fought the wave of tender feelings that rose unexpectedly. Falling in love with Madelyn, if falling in love was still a possibility for him, would be bad for him and even worse for Madelyn. Sometimes he wished the human part of his conscience that persisted to linger would just fuck off and allow the vampire in him to run the show. “Madelyn, if you want to tell me something, say it.”

Heavy footsteps stomped down the hall. Without a knock, the door burst open. Hank stuck his round face inside Rory’s room. “Maddy, hurry up! We need to leave in fifteen minutes.” His gaze settled on Rory and the towel clinging to his hips. A look of suspicion made his small, narrow-set eyes squint. “Bad idea. So stupid. You’ve been with us for less than a day, and I already have a solid reason to shoot you.”

Madelyn brushed past Hank. “It’s not what you think. I asked him to zip my dress. Let it go.”

Hank’s mouth hung slack. “And what else? This guy’s been at sea for how many months? If he’s not queer—and in my humble opinion, he’s pretty enough to be queer—my guess is he’d be damn glad to get a taste of you.”

Rory’s gaze lowered. He did want a taste of Madelyn, but not how Hank thought.

With agitated tugs, Madelyn yanked the bobby pins from her hair and unspooled the glossy black pin curls. “You’re brilliant, Hank. I love that nothing ever gets past you.” She glanced at her fingers. “Damn. I smudged a nail.”

Lifting his broad hand like a waiter holding an imaginary platter, Hank shrugged. “Maddy, before we leave, make sure you have everything you need. It’s the price you pay to stay in the game.”

Turning, Madelyn hurried down the hall. “Which game?”

Rory watched Madelyn pad away barefoot with candy-apple-red toenails showing.

With a rude poke in the shoulder, Hank caught Rory’s attention. “Irish, you need to be dressed and in the front room in ten minutes. Got it? There’s been a change of plans. Bill will bring you up to speed.”

He nodded, hating every greasy pore on Hank’s jowly face and eager to get this evening underway and find out what the hell was going on.

Hank left the room, closing the door behind him.

So, tonight was to be something of a fashion show, but why? He gazed at the tuxedo laid upon the bed as if it were ready to rise on its own minus the man inside. The cashmere suit was especially attractive, hardly something to be loaned to a hired hand, which he clearly was.

He reached for the crisp white shirt, thrust his arms through the sleeves, and buttoned it. Stepped into a pair of boxers, then drew the lightweight woolen trousers up his legs, tucked the shirt in, and fastened the waistband. The pants fit perfectly and felt like a dream to wear. It still surprised him that the sensual things of humanity never lost their power to impress. The bib and jacket came next. Did he even know how to put on a bow tie? He couldn’t remember. Maybe Madelyn could help him? The fine woven socks and shiny patent leather shoes that Geno had selected for him were a good fit, and only a bit tight.

Walking into the bathroom, he picked up a towel and wiped the steam from the mirror. Standing still, he looked at himself. Madelyn had done a good job with his haircut. It flattered him. Maybe he did look a little like Tyrone Power, at least in the eyes.

He opened a medicine cabinet and found a bottle of hair tonic. Twisting the cap, he poured a splash of bay-rum-scented liquid into his palm and slicked it through his hair, sweeping the long forelock in front away from his face and finger combing it. Except for the slack tie that hung from his collar, after a swish of oppressively medicinal mouthwash, he was ready for whatever the evening offered.

Thrusting his hand into the jacket’s breast pocket, he found a pair of brass cuff links and snapped them into place. Geno had thought of everything. He checked the other pocket and found a note folded into quarters. Unfurling the piece of yellow onionskin paper that looked like the sort used to make clothing patterns, he read the penciled message: Beware the castle.

Beware the castle? What the hell did that mean? Was there a castle in Los Angeles, or did someone here know who and what he was? Either way, the tone was ominous. For most people castles were the stuff of fairy tales, but for him they were the subjects of nightmares. In 1915, his overtrusting human life had involuntarily ended in a castle, and his vampiric existence was born there in shame, shock, and resistance.

“Ravenscroft!” Hank bellowed in the hallway. “We’re waiting. What’s taking so fucking long? Is your manicure wet?” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Coming!” He checked all the pockets of the suit for the possibility of more notes or a clearer explanation of the first, but found none. Opening the door, he stepped into the hall and headed toward the front room. Along the way, he passed Madelyn’s bedroom. Her soft voice rolled through an almost whispered song. It pleased him that likely only he could hear it. He wanted to stop and listen, but Hank stuck his head into the hallway and, with the swipe of his bear paw of a hand, motioned that he should join them.

Rory entered the living room. Bill sat behind the desk where he’d been all day, except now the desktop was cleared of money and Bill had changed from the gray business suit to a black tux similar to the one Geno had prepared for him. Even Hank had changed out of his sweaty shirt and donned a crisp dark suit with a jacket that could actually accommodate his girth and buttons that could reach their mated buttonholes. Geno had worked a miracle. His gaze darted between them. What a cliché they all were, a bunch of gangsters dressed like gentlemen. A smile threatened to creep across his lips.

Bill unlocked and opened a desk drawer, then looked at Rory with unblinking eyes. “W-what’s so amusing? Am I missing s-something?” he stuttered.

“Nothing, sir.” He’d seen that look before. When people stared at him the way Bill was now, it usually meant something was terribly off. Perhaps they’d noticed his lengthened teeth, or even glimpsed blood on the corners of mouth. This was the bone-dry gaze of someone who’d just figured out they were staring down a mortal threat and were in the midst of deciding if their miserable life was worth fighting for.

Picking up a key ring, Bill tossed it to Hank, who snatched the clattering keys from the air like a raptor grabbing its prey. “Go to the parking garage and get the Packard ready. You’ll be tailing in the Ford.”

“Will do, boss.” Hank nodded and turned.

“Hank!” Bill shouted after him. “Stay with the car. Make sure nobody sees you with Madelyn tonight. You two don’t even know each other, got it?”

After Hank left the room, tension remained in the air.

Looking wary, Bill rummaged through the drawer. “It’s been a strange afternoon. A long call from Captain Tomlinson was followed by another phone conversation with someone who is looking forward to meeting you. What they had to say was....” His voice trembled. “Perhaps it’s better left unsaid.”

That was odd. Bill sounded and looked scared, but of what? More from habit than any sense of respect for Bill, Rory stood at attention with his hands clasped behind his back. “Who did you speak with?”

“You’ll meet him later tonight.” Bill’s reply was fast and terse and his gaze never left Rory. “Word to the wise. This man is connected. Listen to him. I have no idea what your dreams are, but I can assure you, he can arrange for a few of them to come true.”

If only. “I have some pretty big dreams.”

A shaky smile bloomed on Bills lips, and the effect was anything but joyful. “Maybe dream was the wrong word. How about convenience, safety, and all your earthly needs met?”

Except for rising bloodlust that demanded he feed soon, he was doing okay for himself. “I might not need his help. I’m an independent type.”

“But haven’t you ever wanted to belong to something grander with a purpose?”

Grander? An odd choice of words for what had to be an invitation to join a criminal ring. Where was this line of questioning going? “I’m an orphan. I don’t have anyone to look after but myself, and to be honest, I like it that way.”

Bill frowned. “Interesting. I wonder if you would do it for—”

“Hey, fellows, what’s the dope?” Madelyn walked into the room looking like a winter goddess with a sheer white shawl draped across her throat that floated in her wake like mist. The dress, prim open-toed heels, and even her handbag were ivory, and the stark palette served a strong contrast to her black hair, parted to the side and falling to her shoulders in tumbling waves, making her catlike eyes and scarlet lips stand out.

Scanning Madelyn up and down, Bill nodded with approval. “That will turn heads.”

“You can depend on me to create a memorable distraction.” She held out her hand. “Where’s the schedule?”

Bill dipped his hand into the open desk drawer and removed a black satchel the size of a camera case, and a manila envelope. “Take ’em. Your first appointment is inside the envelope, written on graph paper. There’s a pencil inside. As usual, fill in the amounts as you go. Be discreet, and remember Hank is going to double-check everything.”

“You trust Hank’s math over mine?” Madelyn pulled the flap of the envelope open and peered inside. “Can I peek? I want to see where we’re going and how many stops we’ve got.”

Bill stood and capped her hand with his, bringing her actions to a halt. “Don’t bother. The schedule could change. If all goes as planned tonight, we might only have one stop. You’ll need to find a phone booth and call in for updated instructions. Your first contact will hand you a matchbox. Take it.”

“Roger that.” Her weak smile indicated Madelyn was leery of this arrangement. “What’s the first stop? I can ask, can’t I?”

Bill rubbed his temples as if fending off a migraine. “Cocoanut Grove.”

“Beat me, daddy, eight to the bar!” Madelyn leapt in delight. “I’ve been dying to go.” She glanced at Rory. “We’ll have a blast! The bebop there is divine.”

Rory had no idea what Madelyn was talking about, but he loved the look on her face.

“Maddy!” Bill’s expression turned sour. “This isn’t a New Year’s Eve party. Be professional or—”

“Or what?” Madelyn pouted. “You’ll find another girl to do this? I thought that was the plan all along.”

“There’s not going to be another girl,” Bill said with conviction.

Alarmed, Madelyn stammered, “B-but we decided—”

Bill’s fat hand slapped the desk. “We decided nothing. I do all the deciding here!”

Her face blanched. “No. Bill, you promised that if I did this one last favor, you would help me get back into the studios. Come on, I’ve been square with you. Make some calls. I’m so ready.”

Bill stood, wandered to an end table stacked with magazines, and sorted through them. He picked up a glossy movie rag with a dramatically lit black-and-white photo of Joan Crawford on the cover, and held it in front of Madelyn’s face. “Maddy, I’m not the reason you’re not getting hired.” He fanned the pages. “The American dream belongs to the corn belt and people in little towns you never heard of. They live dull but decent lives, or at least say they do, and they all believe in God the Father. If they have skeletons in their closet, they’re smart enough to lock the door. You’re gorgeous, Maddy, you can sing, act, and dance like nobody’s business, but no one in this town is willing to risk a million-dollar movie budget on a Mexican girl with a bastard child, who earns on her back. Word’s out. Everyone knows. No freckle-faced teenager in Salt Lake City can identify with you, and the studios will never reward you. Face it, sweetheart, it’s never going to happen, so be grateful for what has come your way.” Looking sullen, Bill waved Madelyn away. “Now go to the car and wait. I need a word with Mr. Ravenscroft.”

Madelyn froze. Her voice shook. “Who told? When?”

Bill returned to his desk and sat with a graceless plop that made the leather seat cushion wheeze. “What matters is it’s already done. The problem will be dealt with. I’m just letting you know why I will not be asking any favors from studio heads. You’re untouchable now, and that can’t be changed.”

Madelyn’s lips parted in shock, but through an act of sheer will that left her hands clenched in fists, she managed to hold her tongue. Explosive tension built that threatened to detonate and shatter the windows. Tense moments passed, and a deep exhalation later, she turned and sauntered out of the room with the snowy scarf billowing behind her.

He’d just witnessed Bill being a total bastard, and took note. The sooner he left this place, the better. After that poisonous rant, maybe it wouldn’t be so tough to convince Madelyn to come with him. He didn’t want to stay, but he waited to hear what Bill had to say.

Madelyn slammed the penthouse door on her way out.

Bill flinched and rubbed his temples with his thumbs. “I had to say it. Everyone else is. It’s time she knew. There’re no secrets in this town. That slob, Walter, her so-called manager, got drunk and told everyone her business at the RKO cantina. Now she’s damaged goods. Maybe some chorus line work here and there, but she’ll never get a lead role, not now. Maddy’s too big a risk.”

So, Madelyn had a child; all the more reason for her to leave. Somehow it was so easy to picture her as a mother; not the way she was in the penthouse, but how she had treated him so sweetly at the pool. Considering Hollywood’s general lack of morality, what made Madelyn such a commercial risk? Being part Mexican, an unwed mother, a prostitute, or all of the above? What a bunch of hypocrites these guys were.

Rocking in his big, padded boss’s chair, Bill’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t like the look on your face. This is reality. Hollywood is about making money off other people’s fantasies. If it’s not going to work, it doesn’t work. Do you have a million dollars to risk on a film that will get picketed by sign-wielding moralists and dogged with bad press? I didn’t think so. Don’t judge me. I’ll make sure Madelyn walks away with something. I’m buying that girl an avocado orchard with a nice house on it.”

“Is that what she wants?”

“Yeah, so she says. It’s a little early, she wanted it in her forties not in her twenties, but Walter has a loose mouth, and you can’t put toothpaste back in the tube. There’s life after Hollywood, you can ask my mistress in San Pedro about that. She’s a landlady now. I set her up with a swank apartment building with an ocean view. Steady income. Instead of kids, she’s got these four teeny tiny poodles that look like dirty cotton balls and yip all fucking night long if someone so much as sneezes. The spoiled bastards have gold engraved nametags on their collars and get fed from the palm of her hand. They’re a pain in ass, but she loves them.”

Rory remained at attention with his thoughts churning. “Is that all you wanted to say to me?”

“No.” Bill’s gaze snapped to focus. “I’m just starting on you. Tonight is a little test.” His hands rose. “Actually, it’s a big test. I’ve never worked with anyone....” He paused. “Like you. I’m in the process of overhauling my entire business. That means rethinking what I do and how I do it, but most important of all, who I do it with. There’s going to be a change of personnel around here, and that means some lucky soul is in for a golden opportunity.”

Where was this going?

“Ravenscroft, this is your audition, and if you handle it well, if I find I can work with your sort, this could be your big break.”

My sort? Was this a class slur against an Irish longshoreman, or did Bill suspect he was a vampire? Even as he said it, he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “What do I have to do?”

With a glimmer in his eye, Bill leaned closer. “Follow your instincts.”

What the hell did that mean? Maybe Bill did know? “You might want to be more specific.”

Another joyless smile lifted the edges of Bill’s crocodile-like mouth. “When I look in your eyes, I know what I’m looking at. When the situation arises, you’ll know exactly what to do.”

Not specific enough. This guy was going to be disappointed if he was looking for a new deputy. He had zero interest in working for someone else. This conversation was skewing to a weird angle. How could Bill possibly know he was a vampire?

“If someone gets in the way or you see someone do something wrong, I don’t care who, you have my permission to follow your instincts and do what you feel needs to be done. As long as it’s justified, it won’t harm your standing with me in the least. As I said, I’m looking to switch out some key personnel.”

What did this guy know about his instincts? “Mr. Boven, I’m unclear about what you expect.”

“I expect I’ll learn to trust you. We could be a powerful team. I demand respect, but I reward generously. Know that I have friends working at police HQ and even the city morgue; there’s a guy there named Alonso who’s always ready to help. While in my employ, if a problem should rear its ugly head, the north side of Griffith Park is a great place to dump it. Hell, I heard they might make it official and just put a huge cemetery there someday with angel statues and shit like that.”

Angel statues and shit like that. This guy was assuming he needed the money badly enough to kill, and why would he think that? “It sounds like you’re tired of someone. Instead of making me guess who you want rubbed out, why not just say it?”

“Whoa.” With a raised palm, Bill pantomimed pushing the last comment away. “Rubbed out? Look, everybody, we got the new James Cagney over here. Did I say that? I would never give an order directing anyone to break the law. I think you might have misunderstood.”

He was certain he hadn’t. What sort of game was this? Could it be Madelyn that Bill had tired of? If it was, it might give him the leverage to spirit her away from the cesspool she was trapped in.

“Like I said, if something happens and your instincts get triggered, feel free to act. That’s all I’m saying.” Bill dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a monogrammed gold key fob, with a diamond-embellished B on it, the kind displayed inside a glass case of a nice jewelry store. “It’s the blue Packard, third parking stall. That’s a custom paint job.” He lifted his hand and displayed a chunky gold pinkie ring set with a glittering square-cut sapphire the size of a penny. “I had the paint matched to my birthstone, so bring my baby home without any scratches. Got it?” The keys were handed to Rory slowly and carefully, instead of being tossed.

Rory examined the fancy key fob. What was up? He was literally being trusted with the keys to Bill’s kingdom: Madelyn and the Packard, which sounded like a damn fine car.

Bill waited until he regained Rory’s attention. “Be kind to Maddy. You’re the only one who can offer a comforting word. She won’t listen to my condolences, and she’s gotta be feeling like shit right now. Keep a close eye on her and don’t let her do anything rash.”

In Bill’s world, what was considered rash? Hope was the last thing anyone wanted to let go of, and she’d just had it snatched out of her arms and dashed to the floor. “Has she ever threatened to harm herself?”

“No,” Bill grumbled. “Maddy’s not that kind of girl. She’s a strong one, and she’ll get over it.”

She might get over it, but he doubted she’d ever forget. Resentment built. They were alone in the penthouse. If the mood struck, he could lunge across the desk, grab Bill by the throat, and snap it. So why wasn’t he acting on his instincts?

With an outstretched hand, Bill crooked his fingers and made a give-me motion. “Ravenscroft, hand me your gun. I’ll put it my safe.”

“I don’t carry a gun, sir.”

“Are you sure?” A smirk crossed Bill’s lips. “I’m asking for your own good.” He unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk and reached for a parcel wrapped in a chamois cloth. He set it on the desktop with a heavy thud, unwrapped it, and pushed a long-barreled black pistol toward Rory. “This one’s clean. Serial numbers filed off, and untraceable. If you do find yourself in need of firepower”—and he wouldn’t because his preferred form of attack involved a sharp set of fangs—“use this one and get rid of it pronto. Preferably in a large body of water. The ocean or a city reservoir, I don’t care which, just don’t hang on to it and get caught, understand?”

He eyed the gun with a sense of unease.

“What are you waiting for? Take it. I’m not asking, I’m telling. I can’t send Maddy out tonight without someone watching her back.”

For the love of all that was holy, he just got off the boat this morning and Mr. Boven knew shit about him. “You’re pushing a gun on me, and you don’t even know if I can shoot.”

With an open mouth, Bill drew a long breath and stared at Rory. “There’s coldness in your eyes. It only pops up now and then, a flash of mean, a look of calculation. I’ve seen big cats at the zoo with the same expression. They sit there all calm and collected with their tails swishing in the air as people walk back and forth in front of their cages, but you just know, the second they could get away with it, they’re ready to pounce. You’ve killed before, haven’t you, Mr. Ravenscroft? Maybe even enjoyed it?”

He certainly had. Less now than in the early days of being a vampire, but the number was large enough to be a millstone around his conscience. Rory remained at attention, but Bill said no more. He waited in awkward silence to be dismissed as part of him screamed, Why the fuck are you playing along with this bastard?

“Pick up the gun and put it in that handy little pocket Geno sewed for you.”

He reached for the pistol, checked the chambers—all were loaded—clicked the safety, and slipped it inside his jacket pocket.

Bill lifted a limp hand and shooed Rory away. “You may leave.”

He nodded and turned, still in the dark about what exactly was expected of him tonight but fearing the worst. For fuck’s sake, he’d only wanted to come ashore and feed, and now he was waist-deep in somebody else’s quagmire. It might have been better if he’d chucked Tomlinson’s suitcase into the harbor and run.