“Ah well, here we go. Waverly.”
“Last name?”
“Sorry sir, but I can’t seem to…it must be here somewhere.” He sorted through several pieces of scrap paper scattered all over his desk. “But you must know that I’m very busy…sometimes someone slips off my list. We try to get last names, but we do not require ID. If a donor chooses to withhold their last name, and they have tested and passed, demonstrating quality, there’s no questions asked. No drugs, no disease, that’s our trusted rule. Although we don’t always cater to the most distinguished palates, we run a clean place. You might not know it from the way it looks, but we’ve got some very important guests. Celebrities, even. We’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
“Yeah, sure you do,” Viktor said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Although he was the first one to enjoy a pretentious party in South Beach, hot nights with knockout models and the upper echelon of Miami, he hadn’t been in the mood for such festivities. And this clearly was not that kind of club.
Earlier, he’d craved blood. Fresh blood. Planned to get in and out quickly. No complications. No expectations. However, surfer girl had been an unexpected ripple in his evening.
“Ah, here it is,” the maître d declared, holding up a torn piece of paper. “Her name is Waverly. Waverly Pisoff.”
Viktor laughed, the right corner of his mouth ticking upward. “Piss off, you say?”
“That’s right, sir. Waverly Pisoff.”
“Do you hear what you’re saying? Come on, man.” Viktor blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Piss off?”
“Well, I suppose her last name could be…” He shrugged in confusion. “Sorry sir.”
“Last name is fake.” Viktor smiled. Clever human.
“Perhaps it was but—”
“Fake.” Viktor pinned him with a challenging stare.
“Yes, well we are very busy here. Hundreds of donors.”
“Address?”
“Sorry, no. We don’t keep records on everyone who—”
“What do you know about her?”
“I have no recollection of her being here before. That right there,” he pointed to a V next to her first name, “V. As in V for Virgin. As in first time. Not all donors are forthcoming with their donations. As you know sir, donors can request anonymity for a variety of reasons. It’s difficult to tell with certainty if they’ve donated.”
“Was she alone?” Viktor asked.
“She was alone. Persistent little bird. Kept asking about another girl. Looking for a friend and such. But of course, I told her that I couldn’t provide her with the answers she was seeking. Confidentiality and all.”
“Of course.” Viktor rolled his eyes. Jesus fucking Christ. Don’t kill him, Vik. Patience.
“But she was welcome to become a donor, to mingle with the other guests. I mean who am I to stop her from seeing who’s already here? That’s none of my business.”
“Who’s the friend?” Viktor tapped a finger on the cold marble stand.
“Teagan Rockwell. She’s a regular. She’s in at least once a week, sometimes more. She used to own a botanical shop in South Beach. I’ve heard it recently closed.”
“Witch?” Viktor guessed.
“I don’t believe so, sir. I have her categorized as human, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t dabble.”
“This Teagan Rockwell. Does she have a home address?”
“Of course, sir, but I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
“Just give me the damn address,” Viktor demanded, baring his fangs.
“No need for alarm,” the host assured, his voice wavering. His hands trembled as he reached for a pen, scrawling down the information.
Viktor snatched the paper and turned toward the door.
“Sir, please.” The maître d' held up a finger. “You cannot tell them where you got this information. We have a reputation to uphold.”
Viktor stopped cold and smiled. “I was never here.”
Within seconds, he’d released his power and dematerialized, assured that no one in the entire club would ever recall his presence.
Viktor materialized in the bright pink hallway. A devilish grin bloomed on his face as he confirmed the apartment number. Lucky 777. As he lifted his hand to knock, he noticed the lock had been forced open, splintered wood edging the doorjamb. A slice of light speared through the slightly ajar door onto the hallway floor.
Viktor’s smile faded as he nudged the door open with the tip of his bloodstained shoe. Though he’d immediately sensed other humans in the building, the silent, ransacked apartment appeared empty. Books and knick-knacks littered the floor. The upturned sofa had been shredded, a knife tossed amidst the mounds of cushion stuffing. Viktor glanced to the small efficiency kitchen. The cabinet and refrigerator doors hung open; empty food containers had been strewn about the counters.
He stepped over a toppled bookcase and headed toward the bathroom. As he caught sight of the dingy sink littered with hypodermic needles, a growl rolled through his throat. “What the hell were you into, Miss Rockwell?”
Viktor shook his head and entered into the otherwise quaint bedroom with its key lime green painted walls and white rattan furniture. The drawers had been emptied, the mattress flipped, and the sheets stripped and bunched onto the floor. Aside from torn mounds of batting, the room was completely empty. No clothes. No shoes. No humans.
He peeked into the empty closet and spied a crumpled piece of paper wedged into the back corner. He reached for it, unfolding what appeared to be an envelope addressed to Teagan Rockwell. On the upper left corner, he recognized the first name. Waverly. But now, he had a last name and an address to go with it.
Waverly LaFleur. San Diego, California.
“Found you, surfer girl.” Viktor’s lips formed a satisfied smile, entertained by his own sleuthing skills. “Ah, I do believe happy hour in La Jolla is overdue.”
As he turned to leave, a pink plastic hairbrush lodged into the mattress caught his attention. Long gray hair was twisted through its pins. As he drew closer to the object, the familiar putrid scent of sulphur registered. Demons.
Viktor’s lips tightened in consternation. Something had gone terribly wrong in this apartment, possibly with Teagan Rockwell, and while the witch wasn’t his concern, his curiosity about his blonde sprite had been piqued. Had she become intertwined in this nefarious situation? If so, what was the extent of her involvement?
The sound of shuffling feet in the hallway broke his contemplation. A black figure appeared in the hallway but as he rushed toward it, the smoky aberration quickly dissipated. Ghost? Shadow figure?
As Viktor readied to dematerialize, an elderly woman, dragging a creaking rolling cart, exited the elevator. The wheels ground to a halt and she stumbled toward her apartment door.
Viktor rushed to her side and reached for her elbow. “I’ve got you.”
“Oh goodness. Thank you.” She lifted her gaze to meet his and gave a broad smile. “My knight in shining armor.”
“Ah yes, I’ve been rescuing damsels in distress this evening.” He gently released her, careful to make sure she steadied her feet before stepping back. “Are you okay now, lovey?”