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“Because of what happened to Alicia,” Fey countered.
All the air in the room seemed to vanish at those words, and Alastair went very, very still.
“You’re going to want to think long and hard about the next words out of your mouth,” he whispered.
“You remember Alicia, don’t you?” Fey continued, ignoring the warning. “She was a bartender of yours about two years ago, before she went missing.”
Someone was growling, and the danger in that sound made the hair on Fey’s arms stand at attention. It was the bartender, Jasper.
“Keep her name out of your mouth,” Jasper snarled. Gone was the flirtatious smirk, gone were the bedroom eyes. A predator stood behind the bar, staring at her, and Fey could see the beast that lived under his skin clawing to be let out.
She didn’t care. Fey gave him a cold smile in return and let her own monster show through, just a little.
“Everyone knew she was murdered,” Fey continued, turning back to address Alastair, ignoring the snarling Wolf, ignoring everything else to address him, and only him. “Even before the body turned up. And everyone knew who did it. Her boyfriend had a history of hurting women who wouldn’t listen to him.”
Alastair was so still, so very still, as she continued.
“So no one was surprised when he disappeared a few days later. Even the Crown assumed he had run to escape justice. To escape the Blades.”
Alastair laughed, cruelly. “Like the Queen’s Blades give a shit about what happens to Fallen like us?” he sneered.
Fey ignored him. “But he didn’t run away, did he? And pieces of him started to turn up, all around the city, at every dive bar, at every seedy restaurant this asshole liked to frequent. A message from someone powerful. A message to all the abusive fucks out there that no one, no one, hurts someone under your protection. Isn’t that right?”
The growling from Jasper stopped.
“What makes you think I had anything to do with it?” Alastair asked, voice low and dangerous.
“Everyone knows who that message was from,” Fey said. It was true. The dossier she’d assembled made it very clear the Crown knew about it but didn’t care. Just trash taking care of trash. “Rumor has it that no one hurts a woman in this club if they want to live. So, yeah, I’m willing to bet the Vamp who tracked down that murdering piece of shit and cut him into pieces might be a decent guy under all the bluster. And he might be willing to hear me out.”
Alastair smiled, and for one brief moment, Fey felt hope.
“And like I said,” the Vamp purred. “You’d lose that bet.”
Hope is a dangerous thing. It fractured in Fey’s chest, and she could feel the sharp edges of it cutting her heart.
“Even if what you’re saying is true, even if I did all of that, it doesn’t mean I’ll help you,” Alastair told her. But there was something there, something in his eyes that let Fey know she had a chance.
Or… maybe that was just her desperation. Maybe that was just her hoping, beyond hope, that someone, anyone, would be willing to help.
“Please,” she said as Alastair turned away. The words sounded so weak coming out of her mouth. But he stopped. “Please, I…I don’t have anywhere else to turn right now. I’m at a dead end and I…I just… please. Please, just hear me out.”
Fey hated the weakness in her voice when she said it, hated the pleading tone to her words, but it was the truth. All of it. She was out of options, out of time. And she was willing to beg if it would help get her answers. Even if she couldn’t look at herself in the morning.
She’d do anything for Alice.
Alastair turned and stared at her, assessing. Then he sighed, long and loud, tipping his head back to do so.
“Fuck the Goddess, I must be out of my fucking mind, too,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Fuck it. You get two minutes.”
Hope, that stupid, treacherous emotion, flared to life again. Fey tried not to look too pleased, tried not to smile as she looked up at him and nodded.
“Two minutes,” she repeated.
“Meet me in my office. I’ll be right there,” he said. His eyes flicked up to hers with a dry amusement when he added, “You remember where my office is, don’t you, Witchling?”
It took effort not to bare her teeth at him. Accepting the dismissal, she stood, moving toward the stairs that led to the second floor. Behind her, Alastair leaned against the bar, speaking in a low voice to the bartender.
Chapter 15
