Archangel's Viper

“Were you born in the 1800s?”

Battersby smiled at her question. “1812,” he said, before going to a decanter in the corner and pouring two glasses of blood. He offered one to Venom, the other to Holly.

When she demurred, he asked her if she’d like to try a “raspberry liqueur with bite” that he’d recently acquired from a collector in Bavaria. Still unable to pigeonhole this man into the category of “unscrupulous asshole,” Holly nodded, and he poured the liquid into a beautifully cut liqueur glass with a short, faceted stem.

“You must tell me how you like it,” he said after she accepted the drink. “I have a terrible addiction to all things fine and I couldn’t resist when I saw this bottle on the market . . . But that’s not why you’re here. Please sit.”

Venom took a chair that gave him a view of Walter in his leather armchair, while he’d catch any movement from the direction of the door with his peripheral vision. By contrast, Holly chose a chair that put her back to the wall but also placed her directly across from Battersby. She trusted Venom to kill any threat that came through the door, but this intelligent and cultured man, he was another kind of danger altogether.

“Five million?” she said softly, holding the clear hazel of Walter Battersby’s gaze. “I’ll get an inflated opinion of myself if you’re not careful.”

To the vampire’s credit, he didn’t attempt to pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about. “The client’s choice, I’m afraid.” He took a sip from his glass. “I did try to advise said client to lower the bounty so as not to be inundated with false reports, but . . .” An apologetic shrug. “The client was insistent.”

“Have you alerted this client that I’m currently in your apartment?” Holly asked, her eyes on him and only him. There was no view behind him, the windows blocked out by heavy blackout blinds. An interesting choice in a city where views fetched a premium. Maybe Walter Battersby didn’t like looking out and seeing the twenty-first century looking back at him.

Everything in this room, from the handwoven silk rug on the floor, to the ornaments on the mantel, to the chair in which she sat, came from another time. There was even a candelabra on the writing desk to the left, and the melted wax on the candles as well as on the metal of the candelabra itself told her Battersby used it often.

“No, no my dear.” Walter Battersby shook his head. “I would never dip my hand in the cookie jar.” Setting his glass aside on a small occasional table that was probably a valuable antique, he steepled his hands under his chin. “My job is only to facilitate certain transactions. I get paid handsomely for that. I don’t need to make enemies of mercenaries and bounty hunters by poaching their target.”

“How about the Tower?”

Venom’s silken question had Walter Battersby’s face going stone-still for an instant. It was the first time the urbane male had shown any indication of fear—and he recovered quickly.

Spreading his hands, he said, “I wasn’t aware that Holly was special at the time I accepted the commission. I knew she lived in the Tower, but word on the street was that she’d earned that room by dint of her work with the darker denizens of the city. No one high-end, so to speak.” Another look of sincere apology. “No one the Tower would miss.”

Holly knew the Tower kept track of all its people. No one was expendable. “How much did you get paid?” she asked as the unashamedly opulent scent of the liqueur rose to her nose. “How much was enough to risk going after even a small fish in the Tower pond?”

“Two million.”

That meant someone had laid out seven million to get her. Seven fucking million. Her head spun. “How much is this apartment worth?”

Battersby smiled. “Fifteen million. No, I’m not hurting for money—but one must have intellectual challenges or one fades away into ennui and that’s a waste of near-immortality, is it not?”

He leaned forward. “Now that I know of the Tower’s interest, I’ll be returning the payment to my client and pointing out the clause in our contract that says they have to warn me of any unexpected dangers. Hazard pay is extra, you see—and this hazard, I do not wish to chance. There is a difference between acceptable risk and foolish stupidity.”

Holly stared at him. “There’s a contract?”

“I’m a businessman.” Battersby rose—after glancing at Venom—and went to a sideboard where he picked up a document. “This is it.”

Holly examined it first. It was a contract and it laid out the responsibilities of both parties “in the matter of the live capture of one Holly ‘Sorrow’ Chang.” It was signed in blood on Battersby’s part—the gold-banded fountain pen she’d noticed on his writing desk suddenly took on a whole new meaning.

The client had accepted the contract via a short e-mail that was attached to the contract. “There’s no name on the e-mail,” Holly said, handing the contract to Venom.

“No, my dear.” Once more ensconced in his armchair, Battersby picked up his glass. “This client isn’t unintelligent. I don’t dig too deep, but I try not to work with distasteful types—for example, I don’t truck with those who wish to do adult things with little ones, or who want to Make a mortal unwillingly—but I couldn’t find anything on this individual. As he or she wanted to capture an adult vampire, there was nothing overtly wrong with the request.”

“Except for the fact it was a kidnapping,” Holly pointed out, the entire well-mannered conversation so surreal that she felt as if she’d fallen down the rabbit hole.

Battersby smiled at her dry tone. “Facilitating such things is part of what I do, alas.” Pausing, he said, “If I may be indelicate . . . your fangs are rather small. Was your Making unsuccessful?” He actually looked distressed. “If you’re under Tower care for medical reasons, I do apologize. I don’t work with clients who target the unfortunate.”

The unfortunate?

Holly looked at Venom, unable to believe this guy was for real.

Putting away his phone, Venom tucked the folded contract into his coat. “The Tower has accessed your technical devices. We’ll wait while they verify your story.”

Battersby leaned back in his seat, his eyes wide. “My protections are state of the art. I may have been born more than two hundred years ago and still prefer the mores of that time, but I’ve kept up with the changes in the world.”

Venom didn’t say anything, didn’t explain. Taking off his sunglasses, he just waited in an unblinking silence that had Battersby’s fingers going bone white around his glass. Holly, however, was deeply curious—and since they had the time . . . “How did you end up in this line of work?”

A touch of color returned to his cheeks. “It’s what I did before I was Made—for mortals, you understand,” the other vampire said. “After my Making, I realized immortals had a need of the same type of discreet service and began while I was yet under Contract. My angelic master at the time was intrigued by my ability to build connections and obtain information while facilitating transactions, and gave me carte blanche so long as I hid nothing from him. We are friends to this day.”

“Why don’t you live in the darker part of the city?”

“Fleshpots and pain citadels are not my drug of choice,” he replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach eyes tinged with fear so deep, it couldn’t be hidden. “As I can afford to live near the art galleries and fine wine bars that are my drugs of choice, I do.”

“But you retain your connections in the streets?”

“Yes. A man in my profession only needs a few trustworthy go-betweens to ensure the word gets out about certain matters. Such as the significant bounty on the head of a just-Holly.”

Holly smiled at his gentle mimicry of her butter-wouldn’t-melt tone at the door. “Aren’t you afraid of angering the wrong person and losing your life?”

“That, my dear, is the point.” Battersby put aside his half-empty glass. “The thrill of risk.” He turned to look at Venom. “If I may be so bold, why have you never displayed any signs of ennui?”