She frowned, not sure where this was going. “Why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t like mysteries.”
Sally paused, knowing he wasn’t being fully honest. There was some other reason for his sudden interest in the warehouse. Still, the sooner this conversation was over, the sooner he would leave. Why press for an answer he didn’t want to give?
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Let me in, Sally.”
“Fine.”
With exaggerated reluctance she stepped back, allowing him to enter the bedroom and close the door behind him. Moving past her, he glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the large bed.
“You’re comfortable?” he abruptly demanded, acting almost awkward as he turned to study her heated cheeks. “You like the room?”
Something dangerous tugged at her heart. Something she was quite ready to disguise behind a surge of annoyance. “Don’t try to be polite, Roke,” she muttered. “It doesn’t suit you.”
His lips tightened. “Do you want an apology?”
“Just say what you have to say and get out.”
There was a tense silence, as if he were battling against some inner demon. Then with a shrug, he flipped open a manila folder he’d been holding in his hand.
“The warehouse was previously owned by Lacombe Industries,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “Do you recognize the name?”
She frowned. “The cosmetic company?”
“No.” He studied the file. “They were listed as an import-export firm.”
“Never heard of them.” She stepped toward him without thought, her bare feet barely making a sound on the expensive carpet. “Why?”
“Spike worked his magic on the computer and traced ownership of the company to a”—he flipped through a number of pages—“Anya Dubkova.”
She gave a loud snort. “A vampire named Spike? Is that a joke?”
Roke shrugged. “He doesn’t seem to find it particularly funny, but the rest of us do.”
She rolled her eyes. “Leeches.”
Ignoring her brief interruption, he tapped a finger against the file. “Is the name Anya familiar?”
“Why should it be?”
“She was a powerful witch who was the head of the local coven.”
“Oh.” She felt a stab of relief. The last thing she wanted was to deal with the black magic. There was always a backlash. Not that she was going to admit her reluctance. She’d learned a long time ago never to reveal a vulnerability. “Good.”
He lifted his brows. “Good?”
“If you can get the witch who cast the spell it’s much easier for her to remove it than for me to smash my way past it.”
He grimaced. “She’s not going to be removing any spells.”
Of course not. She swallowed a sigh. “Why not?”
“She and her entire coven were slaughtered almost thirty years ago.”
Without warning he pulled out a glossy black and white photo that he shoved under her nose.
She blinked, plucking the photo from his fingers so she could focus on the image. Immediately she wished she hadn’t.
Her stomach revolted as she took in the sight of the bloody female bodies that were spread across a cement floor. The warehouse? It was impossible to know, and it didn’t really matter. Not with the gruesome tumble of corpses that had clearly been savaged.
She wasn’t an innocent.
She’d been raised by a black witch and then eventually wound up in the service of the Dark Lord. She’d witnessed things that still gave her nightmares.
But this . . .
“Oh my god,” she breathed.
“The massacre caused a panic at the time, according to the newspapers,” Roke said. “Of course, the local police didn’t realize the twelve women were witches. They assumed that a serial killer had collected them together and then murdered them in one bloody spree.”
Sally shook her head. “No serial killer could have done”—she shuddered, refusing to glance any closer at the mutilated bodies—“this. Not to a coven of witches.”
“What could?”
She shoved the picture back into his hand. “If they were caught off guard, then any number of powerful demons could have killed them.”
She deliberately didn’t use the word “vampire,” but his jaw tightened as he shoved the photo back into the file and pulled out a newspaper clipping.
“Here’s a picture of Anya Dubkova before her death.” He waited for her to take the clipping and study the picture of a middle-aged woman with silver hair pulled into a neat bun and a slender body attired in a business suit. She looked like a banker. “You’ve never seen her?” he prompted.
Sally lifted her gaze to regard him with a flare of impatience. “Do you know every vampire?”
“No.”