He looked at it, then lifted his gaze to me. Anger percolated now. “You didn’t tell me about this.”
“It’s not my first fan mail,” I said. “I didn’t even think about it. Do you tell me every time someone sends you underwear?”
Connor blinked, narrowed his gaze. “Do people send you underwear?”
“Only once,” I said, then shook my head. “Not the point. The person who killed Blake says they did it for me.”
“Or it has nothing to do with you, and they’re trying again to drag you into it.”
Either way, sickness and anger settled low in my belly. I didn’t know Blake, didn’t like the AAM. But I wouldn’t wish death on any of them.
“He was killed—murdered—in my name.”
“No,” Connor said, voice firm. “He was murdered because someone wanted him dead. You didn’t ask for it, and it wasn’t for you in any possible way. This is about the killer.”
I nodded, because I understood the words and the sentiment. But the killer had made it about me. And I didn’t want that. I didn’t want any of it.
“Whoever it is knows you didn’t go to Paris,” Connor said, looking over the first note. “They’ve been following your career.”
“I was on-screen,” I said. “Especially after Cardona’s Master was killed.”
“I remember. You got a lot of airtime.”
“And he was watching.” That thought put a line of sweat at the small of my back.
“There’s no postmark. There is on the first envelope,” Connor said, comparing them, “but not this one.”
“So it was hand-delivered,” I guessed.
“Yeah.”
Creep factor increasing. “I have to tell Theo.”
“Do you?” Connor’s voice had gone tight again. He was still angry.
“You know I do,” I said, softer than I might have under different circumstances. “Maybe he can use the building video to see who delivered it.”
He growled, but relented. And returned to watch the street while I sent Theo pictures of the notes and Blake’s necklace, then put them all into a plastic zip bag to be picked up by a CPD unit when we’d gotten somewhere safe.
I started when my screen buzzed, and I found Theo’s concerned face. “Have you noticed anyone following you?” he asked.
“No,” I said, squirming a little that someone might have been and I hadn’t even noticed. So much for my training.
“When did you get the first one?”
“The night of the party.”
“The night the AAM came to visit?”
“Yeah,” I said, and didn’t like that coincidence, either. I walked through the apartment, checking that the other windows were locked as discreetly as I could. No point in advertising to whoever might be watching that we were checking our security.
“No unusual calls? Contacts? Other emails? Or for Lulu?”
“I’ll ask her, but I don’t know of anything. She’d have mentioned it. We’re going to stay somewhere else for a little while.”
“That’s a good idea,” Theo said. “And I’m sorry. About all of this.”
“I know, Theo. I’m sorry, too. Let me know if you have any leads—or if there’s anyone I need to avoid.”
“Let me know if the AAM contacts you, or if you get another note. And if the AAM tries to confront you, we’ll step in.” He paused. “We’ll miss you over here.”
I’d miss them, too. But even if I understood the choice they had to make, the impartiality they had to show, it was hard not to feel a little betrayed. “Yeah,” was all I could manage.
“Be careful, Lis.”
I said goodbye, and had just put my screen away, come back into the main living area, when Connor cursed.
“They’re outside?” I asked.
“They are now.”
Glad I’d lit only the small lamp, I joined him at the window. Two black SUVs—the supernatural’s preferred vehicle—were parked across the street. Vampires emerged in dark clothes, drew swords as they looked up at our building.
“Damn,” I said. We were here because of the possibility they’d show up, take me in. But I guess I hadn’t actually thought they’d go so far. Be quite so bold. I’d been wrong, which I hated. So was it time to run, or time to fight?
At the steady knock on the door, we both looked back, then at each other. My blood began to speed, anticipating a fight.
“Wait,” Connor said. “How’d they get up here so fast?”
He had a point. I cocked my head at the door. There was magic flowing in, but not animosity.
“I’m not sure it’s them,” I said and checked the peep. My relief was instantaneous.
I opened the door. “Uncle Malik,” I said, grinning at the tall, dark-skinned man who stood in the doorway. “Come in.”
I moved out of the way and, when he was inside, closed and locked the door behind us.
And when we were secure again, he held out his arms.
“Bring it in,” he said, and I didn’t hesitate, but let him wrap me in comfort. We weren’t related by blood, but that didn’t matter to me any more than it did to him. He was family, and always had been. And he felt the same about me even after he’d left the House to start his own. He’d been close to my parents, but had enough distance that he’d played neutral arbiter and advice giver dozens of times over the years, including about my decision to go to France.
“It’s really good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” he said, stepping back to get a good look. “You seem to be healthy and whole”—he cast an angry look toward the window—“contrary to the apparent wishes of those below. Compliance Bureau?”
I nodded. “You heard Blake was killed?”
“I did.”
I offered him the plastic bag, watched his eyes go wide with horror, then anger, as he realized what it held.
“A stalker?” he asked.
I nodded. “Or made to look that way.”
“You’ll get this to the Ombuds?”
“We will. Why are you here?” I asked. “Is everything okay with the House? With Aunt Aaliyah?” Uncle Malik’s wife was a writer, a profession that seemed to work well for night-bound vampires.