Free Heroes by Susan Sizemore Page B

voice even made an attempt to sound friendly. “Rumor says you have a place. The exact sort of place we need.”
    Damn. He thought he’d covered his tracks better than that. “It’s an old rumor.”
    “Of an old place, an abandoned place where my slaves can work. We’ll take him there. Show me the way.”
    It wasn’t a request. Nothing was ever a request with this woman. He didn’t even know if the building was still standing. He doubted she’d offer to pay him any rent. “I don’t remember—”
    “Yes, you do.” Now she shook him. Then she laughed, low and ugly. “Be good, light sucker, and I’ll let you play with a flashlight if you do what I say. Soon we will have physical proof. Then all we will need is the Scrolls of Silk.”
    “My, my, my,” Valentine said, and shook her head. Even skimming the surface of Eddie’s thoughts left her feeling in need of a brain shampoo. She wondered who the young vampire harassing him was, and what the conversation was about. “Something fraught, ” she complained. “The whole damn town’s full of fraught. Should have stayed in L.A.”
    Not only fraught, but the Scrolls of Silk were in the mix as well. Which meant the woman’s agenda was political, and extremely anti-Nighthawk. The scrolls were a Goddess-damned nuisance, and no matter how many times the Enforcers destroyed what was supposed to be the last existing copy of the thing, another copy eventually cropped up. Some things were best forgotten. Some books were best burned. The Scrolls ranked up there with the Protocols of the Elders of Zion as sicko propaganda best kept from the world. In the case of the Scrolls, the purpose wasn’t anti-Semitism as it was in the Protocols, but vicious accusations against the Nighthawk line.
    It was all that hotel’s fault, she decided. Call a place the Silk Road, capitalize, even indirectly, on vampire mystique, and weird things were bound to happen. Somebody ought to do something about it, she thought. Then Valentine got dressed, combed out her long black curls, carefully applied very red lipstick, and went to the party.
    “You’re pacing.”
    Haven stood still long enough to look at Char. “So are you.”
    He was wearing a suit, an expensive, well-tailored suit Char had picked out for him. She’d suggested the shoes, the shirt, and the tie as well. Haven didn’t mind her choices since he didn’t care much about clothes. Char didn’t care much about clothes either, but she looked good in what she was wearing. For once she wasn’t in black, but a floaty blue and white print dress. The spaghetti straps showed off her buff shoulders and arms. He would have liked the skirt to be shorter, to show off her legs. He guessed a certain amount of modesty was suitable for a wedding.
    The room was full of roses, lilies, and orchids arranged in tall crystal vases. The floor was shining white marble; the walls were hung with palest pink watered-silk drapes. A fountain burbled gently in the center of the room. It was all very tasteful, feminine, and romantic, Haven supposed. This wasn’t even the wedding chapel but a reception area. The chapel was through an arched doorway on the other side of the reception room. The staff was discreetly out of sight since welcoming them, and hopefully wouldn’t reappear until the happy couple put in an appearance.
    “Are we early or are they late?” he asked. “Think we should have picked them up at their hotel?”
    “I’m nervous,” she said, and went back to pacing.
    Haven wasn’t sure she’d heard his questions. Char was definitely distracted. So was he, but he made himself stay still. “Me too.”
    “You what?”
    “Nervous.”
    “Why?”
    Haven wasn’t prepared to tell her yet. Not here. Way too public. And he had to be very careful in how he told his Enforcer lover what he knew and how he knew it.
    He glanced toward a side table, where bottles chilled in ice buckets. “Maybe we should break into the